Sunday, January 25, 2015

NEW POEM . . ."Beach House Dream"

I have been busy doing design work, and my post-it notes with thoughts for stories and poems have reached critical mass.  Let's not talk about what's on the micro-recorder!

I can mark one off the list now. That collection of stuck together post-its which I transcribed today to a single sheet of notepaper before I lost any of the thoughts.  This was a dream I had.  I woke up knowing it was a poem.

I have been told that dreams with water indicate great emotions.  This one was ultra vivid: the driftwood natural gray of the beach house, the vibrant carpet of pebbles, the amazing variety of waves. I wonder what this one meant, with its great rushes of water in and out of the cove?

Beach House Dream
By Judith Cullen
(c) 2015

Eyes blinking shut, in the cool
Silent, grey quiet of a Sunday.
Mists cradling a mind, morning
Drifting into solace.

A cove, fringed with beach houses
A place we’ve never been before.
In a house fully steeped in 
My grandfather’s craft.

Sunday, January 4, 2015

NEW HABITS - Starting 2015 On the "Write" Path

Well, here we are.  It's a new year and the air is thick with good intentions!

I spent time leading up to January 1 reading articles and posts on creativity and writing rituals.  It all can sound very mystic, but I understand the truth of this.  For years, when I design, there are certain things I must do before I begin.  The drafting table must be clean (not just cleared) and all my templates and rules must also likewise be ritually bathed.  Yes, I still use a pencil!  Sue me!

I found this post by picture book writer Marcie Colleen to be among the most interesting that I read, and I am definitely going to look into Twyla Tharp's book The Creative Habit.

So, I got a candle (shown above with my new minion Stuart) and I began to craft my own ritual.  An odd coincidence, I got a book of inspirational word-finds in my stocking at Christmas.  I thought it was a mistake. Word-finds are my Mom's province.  On a whim I started lighting the candle and doing the word-find for ten minutes before I began writing.  It seems to work really well at focusing my brain.  So, we'll see how it goes - this might just be the start of a pattern.

Here is the first found fruit on this new path.  I am not sure what the form is, except it is the form this needed to be in.  It is TOTALLY inspired by the act of lighting the candle, which also ignited memories of trying to learn meditation.  It is something I have yet to master - I always end up putting myself to sleep.  So much for the power of the conscious mind!  Enjoy and Happy New Year:

Learning to Meditate – Hymn to a desired spirituality
By Judith Cullen
(c) 2015

Focus on the inner flame
Breathe deep and capture, exhale, release.
Clear your thoughts and simply be.
Wisdom of creation, waiting for me.

Sunday, December 28, 2014

WELCOMING THE NEW YEAR with Notes to Myself

To Thine Own Self 
By Judith Cullen
© 2014

I came into the possession of a literary journal recently.  I took it home, excited to turn its pages and enjoy the work of fellow scribes.  That I would consider myself a peer with people recognized as “Literary Fellows” as these were, is a major step in confidence in itself.  I may be a humble self-published writer of fiction and essays, but I felt I deserved to belong simply because I do consider myself a writer.  By the same token, after years of qualifying my stage design work with the word “craftsman,” I now do regard myself as an artist.

I began to read the first essay.  I stopped.  I couldn’t read it.  The form was so self-conscious that I was distracted from the words.  “Maybe it is just this author” I thought and turned the page to another story.  Same thing, another composition so wrapped in its form and its own erudition.  “I’m not stupid,” I thought.  But these works made me feel so, because there was an “it” to be got, and I just didn’t.  I realized that I was waiting for someone to tell me a story, to transport me into a world of their imagination and thoughts.  Note to self: I love stories.

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

"FIVE VIEWS OF A CHRISTMAS TREE: ~ View Five (The Conclusion)

Five Views of a Christmas Tree
By Judith Cullen
(c) 2014

View Five

It was the year of facing facts.  Facts can save you, and facts can challenge you profoundly.  This instance was the latter.  I was a rigid devotee in the “fresh Christmas tree” camp, ignoring the arguments about sustainable practices and thinking “green.”  I clung to the memories of my childhood and the delights of the smell and feel of a real tree, at least until it got dry and prickly. 

I lived on the top floor of a three story apartment building, all the way at the end of the hall.  You couldn’t live much father away from the entrance and still be in the building.  Not only that, the area where the dumpster was and the place we discarded trees was far away at the other end of the lot.  I used to have a friend who also lived there, who would haul my tree down to the other end of the lot every year.  Then he moved away.  What followed was a series of years in which the tree went out on the deck sometime in January and could stay there as late as March before I would saw off the crackling limbs and haul them away, saving the trunk to cut up for firewood.  By this particular year, I had gained a nice collection of denuded tree trunks.

Monday, December 22, 2014


Five Views of a Christmas Tree
By Judith Cullen

(c) 2014

View Four

It would eventually be about cats.  My love of furry companionship and the opportunities for feline fun that
the holidays bring would eventually find their confluence. This was inevitable. I was lucky enough to have fairly easy experiences with cats and Christmas trees.  I was lucky. That is, I was lucky until December 1991.

We had finally returned to the Pacific Northwest.  Three year’s earlier, when I had loaded all my worldly goods into a rental truck and moved to Omaha, “we” had been myself and a cat named Sparkle.  On our return, taking up residence near Portland’s industrial district, “we” were now myself plus two: Sparkle and Salem. A short haired black, Salem had been one of a litter of kittens that had taken up residence in a decaying loading dock along the alley behind the studio where I worked.  Through out the summer we had the front and back doors of the studio open to take advantage of what little breezes there were, and the kittens came in to play.  One day, in the weeks just before Labor Day, this little black kitten came hobbling in crying.  She had been hit by a bicycle or an opening car door and had a fractured leg.  I took her home; saw that she had proper veterinary care.  In less than two months we were moving from Nebraska to Oregon: Sparkle, me, and kitten makes three. I had named her “Salem” since she was black and I had gone to college in the City of that same name in Oregon.

Thursday, December 18, 2014


Five Views of a Christmas Tree
By Judith Cullen

(c) 2014

View Three

“There’s no way I am paying good money for a tree that looks like that!”  When you grow up in the Evergreen State and you move to the heartland of America, trying to buy a Christmas tree can be disappointing.  They are shipped in from whence you came, and I know what I felt like after three days in a truck and I was still fully alive.  No offense is intended to the good people who purvey holiday tree joy to the residents of the Midwest or to the aesthetic tastes of those same good folk.  To me, the color just wasn’t right, the limbs seemed weak.  I didn’t even have to take a close look.  I could see that they were “lacking” from the parking area. 

There were also a lot of “shirred” trees.  That’s were they trim a trees branches with a hedge trimmer so that they fit some sort of pre-determined notion of symmetry and perfection.  I hate those trees.  When you come from a land brimming with “the real deal” these all seem fake.  I felt the same way about the puny apples I saw in the grocery, waxed to within an inch of their lives to increase their visual appeal.  “I know how long you’ve been in the packing case,” I would think as I passed them by.  To me, a good apple should rival a softball in diameter, not a wiffle ball.

Tuesday, December 16, 2014


Image courtesy of  Ts88Rm at
Five Views of a Christmas Tree
By Judith Cullen
(c) 2014

View Two

I had not yet reached the first legal portal of “majority” yet.  That would come in May of the next year.  This was, however, my first “adult” Christmas.  Perhaps it was actually the final Christmas of an era.  The tree had come out with the regiment of long tradition, and stood proudly in its place before the front windows, alight and sparkling.

As was also traditional, we brought the presents down and placed them under the tree on Christmas Eve.  This ritual had very defined steps which we never deviated from.  As youngest, I always went first.  There was the Santa hat to be worn, and the string of jingle bells on its crocheted red string.  Everyone but the “present-er” closed their eyes, munched on a Christmas cookie while the stereo played holiday music, and the gift delivering member of the family Ho-ho-ho’d their way into the living room and placed their presents under the tree.  If you had a lot of packages to deliver, it could be a challenge to “ho-ho” that long.  Mom always went last, and Dad had to sometimes stage her stuff in the adjacent front hall.  Since she wrapped for both herself and Dad, she always had the most packages to place.  Dad’s presents to her were wrapped by kid-assist.  We’d open our eyes after each family member had done their placing, and were appropriately impressed, with much “Oooo-ing” and “Aaahh-ing.”