Three hours into this, I'm sitting here at the kitchen table with coffee in one hand and yogurt in the other. How am I typing? I'll never tell! (Seriously, I do put the stuff down to type. Boring, but true.) The birds are singing, Cleo is lounging on the deck, soaking in the summer sun, Zorro is in the laundry basket in the bedroom (he's odd that way), and Fuzzy is still asleep. I think he should guest post for me at three AM, just for sleeping late, except his spelling sucks.

Anyway, I want to draw your attention to my campaign page right now, so you can see the list of all my very cool sponsors. Some of them have chosen to be anonymous. That's cool. I know who they are, at least. Well, most of them, there are a couple of names I can't match to blogs or email. But I appreciate them, just as much. (And, I confess, I'm the first Anonymous. I seeded my own pot, but didn't want to be showy about it.)

I also want to thank all the people who are supporting me by advertising my site, sending me pix of front doors (it's not too late to add YOURS – send it to scritture@gmail.com, leaving amazing comments, etc. (I'm gonna list you all later, no worries, but I'm late on this post!)

Thank you. You all ROCK.

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I have a confession. I'm peeking through your windows. I've been doing it for a long time, and I have no plans to stop.

Oh, don't worry, I'm not trying to see you naked, or case your house for future thievery – I just like to look into people's windows and see their furniture, and make up stories about who lives inside.

There's a house in my neighborhood with an impeccably groomed yard, perfect flower beds, and a quintessentially cute gas lamp post (an aside: I WANT A LAMP POST), but there's no sense of warmth despite the magazine-spread perfection. It's as if the people inside have empty lives, and the house reflects it.

I imagine that the husband and wife both work long hours. They probably have two or three children, who have unexceptional lives. They aren't a rah-rah family with “My child is an honor student” bumper stickers or a lawn penant supporting their school team, but one of those leftover-from-the-fifties displaced-in-time sorts, the kind who put plastic on the furniture.

In my imagination, they have a house, but they're not home.

And I feel just like I'm living someone else's life
It's like I just stepped outside
When everything was going right
And I know just why you could not
Come along with me
But this was not your dream
But you always believe in me

Another winter day has come
And gone away
And even Paris and Rome
And I wanna go home
Let me go home*

*”Home,” Michael Buble (writer credit to be added later.)

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I'm sittin' in the railway station

got a ticket for my destination
hm …
On a tour of one-night stands my suitcase
and guitar in hand
and every stop is neatly planned
for a poet and one-man band.

Homeward bound
I wish I was
homeward bound*

I love to travel. I love seeing new places and exploring new things, and I get a rush when I'm in a plane at take-off, just as I get a wistful pang when I'm saying goodbye to someone at the train station.

When I'm away, though, I always feel just a bit off-kilter. I don't sleep well without my piles of pillows and the warm bodies of my dogs pressing, the weight of them pressing the sheets down near my toes. If Fuzzy's not there, the bed feels huge and empty, even when it's only a twin.

Listening to some vintage Simon and Garfunkel, sounds I grew up with, I'm suddenly struck by the notion that people who enjoy travelling do so, in part, because of the joy found in coming back home.

*”Homeward Bound,” Simon and Garfunkel

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Every morning she would exit through the door with the seahorse handle, and pass beneath the tree where the iguana made his nest. Some mornings, she would pause, and leave him an offering of passion flower or bougainvillea, a taste floral treat. Most mornings, though, the dog would be yapping at her heels, urging her to get going now, please.

They would walk the beach, the woman with the golden-brown skin, and the small sand-colored dog, and they would pick up shells, discarding them if they weren't perfect. The woman would dip her toes in the salty ocean and commune with the sea, remembering schoolgirl fantasies of riding the back of a giant sea-horse, and using seaweed for a bridle.

After an hour, when the sun was just becoming uncomfortably warm, they would turn and walk back home, bringing with them the scent of sea and sand, and the dreams of magical ocean grottos.

We would be warm below the storm
In our little hideaway beneath the waves
Resting our head on the sea bed
In an octopus' garden near a cave *

*”Octopus's Garden,” The Beatles

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Home where all the mums can sing,
Back where the children don't cry,
Home where you never ask why and
Everybody has enough, and y'don't have to put on clothes
Nobody has to hide 'case everyone already knows.*

Talking with Fuzzy the other night, musing over whether we'll ever have a child now that I'm nearly 35 – 11 days, god, that's so soon! – we cast roles for future family members. His is large, and he wants his sister to be godmother to this child that doesn't exist, hasn't even been conceived, though has been considered.

“Only,” I tell him, “If Jeremy is godfather. ” I don't point out that I've never had any such conversation with Jeremy. I think, but don't state, that it has nothing to do with one's organic, pagan beliefs serving as a balance to the other's conservative Christianity. It's just, there are some people with totally warm, comforting souls, who have a core of protection and strength even when their tempers are flaring.

Some people who know, without it needing to be said, whether you need a mocha or a hug, a dish of raspberries, or a totally irrational giggle-producing conversation .

Someone who you would totally trust with a small child, because he has never, and will never, lose touch with the child inside him.

Some things, I explain. Just feel right.

So, no we're NOT pregnant yet (for the record), but if we ever are, hey Jeremy, you're gonna get a phone call.

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When I think of home
I think of a place where there's love overflowing
I wish I was home
I wish I was back there with the things I been knowing.*

The last time I saw The Wiz, Michael Jackson was only mildly weird, and I was all of twelve years old. I remember sitting in the living room of a house that never quite felt like ours, a rented cabin (and I use that to mean “3 bedrooms, 2 stories, but built of logs”) in Mariposa, California, sipping Orelia (a tart fruit soda – grapefruit, I think), and hearing the song “Home.”

Even though I was surrounded by my own things, my own family, I knew that that building was not home. We might have lived there for a while, but there was no connection to the house, the land, the town, the people.

The thing is, it's possible to long for a sense of home, even when you're technically AT home. Why? Because it's as much a feeling as a place.

My mother was – ishere

*”Home,” from The Wiz

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I'm goan' to move
From place to place
To find a house
With a golden stair
And if that house is red
And has a big brass bed
I'm liiiivin' there.

Those lyrics, from one of the songs in the musical The Unsinkable Molly Brown have been with me since I first saw the show on tv, in childhood. Debbie Reynolds played Molly, of course, the Colorado hick who somehow became a wealthy woman, and later survived the sinking of the Titanic, but somehow, it's not her legendary activities that I remember, it's the line about the red house with golden stair.

The other thing that keeps her rattling around in my brain is that my grandfather used to tell me all the time about how she had small hands, like mine. “She would wear gloves and put her rings on over the gloves,” he said, “to show off how tiny her hands were.”

I'm not so sure about that, but it was a nice image when I needed it. (To this day, my hands are tiny, and no amount of stretching my fingers makes certain cello positions even remotely comfortable.)

In any case, I share other things with Molly – I've been instilled with a sort of bi-annual wanderlust. After two years ANYWHERE, I'm ready to try something new – it's been a pattern since I was a kid, and I'm fighting hard to control it as an adult.

It's funny, but until I looked up the lyrics this morning, I remembered them as talking about a red door not a whole red house, and I was excited because I have a red door. But then I looked them up. Still, while I don't have a golden stair, and our bed is a funky wooden thing with built in reading lights, my house is technically red. I mean, it's brick and all.

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* * *

This is a sticky post, that will remain at the top of my blog until the first Blogathon post tomorrow morning. Later tonight, there may be fresh content, but you'll have to scroll down for it.

Tomorrow, I'll be posting to this page, which synchs to LiveJournal, and will be cc'd to Open Diary, every half hour, beginning at 8 AM CDT. I'll be doing this until 8 AM Sunday, and I'm doing it on behalf of Habitat for Humanity – Women Build. If you haven't pledged yet, please consider doing so, and asking your friends on my behalf. Even a dollar helps.

1. Register: Go here. and register a username, name, and email address.
2. Find my Campagin: I'm listed as Melissa A. Bartell MissMeliss: Scritture / Habitat for Humanity – Women Build (Currently, I'm on page 8 of the campaign list. )
3. Sign In: Use the username and password you created in step one, and log in, using the boxes in the upper right-hand corner. After logging in, you should still be on my campagin page.
4. Make Your Pledge: If you want to pledge a certain amount per hour, just multiply by 24, and type in the total. If you don't want to be publically identified, be sure to click the box to hide your identity. (Only I will see it.) DO NOT make your donation yet. If I don't meet my commmitment to posting every 30 minutes for 24 hours, you're off the hook. Right now, just pledge.
5. Leave a Note: I don't get notified of new pledges. Please leave a note at my blog, live journal or open diary account, so I can thank you. Or send email. (You can also send email if these steps confuse you – just give me your name as you want it to be on the sponsor list, the amount of your pledge, and an email address, and I'll do the registration for you.)

So, what's this Blogathon you speak of?
Many of us grew up participating in read-a-thons. You'd promise to read x number of books, and your family and friends would pledge x amount of money per book. At the end of your allotted time, the money would be collected, and shipped off to the charity you were sponsoring. A blogathon is like that, but not.

How is a blogathon like a read-a-thon?
I'll be blogging in support of a charity. Rather than reading books, I'll be posting to my blog every half hour for twenty-four consecutive hours, beginning at 8:00 AM CDT, on August 6 2005. I've chosen Habitat for Humanity – Women Build. I'll be soliciting pledges from family, friends, and readers. This means you!.

How does it differ from a read-a-thon?
First, while many bloggers are participating, each of us selects a charity that is important to us. Second, neither we bloggers nor the nice people who are coordinating all this at Blogathon.org handle any cash. Sponsors are required to register an email address and their pledge amount for tracking and reminder purposes only. Bloggers are required to blog. Beyond that, it's all on the honor system.

What exactly does Sponsorship entail?
As soon as the registration site at Blogathon.org goes live, I'll be offering a link. You will follow the link, and provide your email address and pledge amount. When the Blogathon is over, you'll receive an email reminding you of your pledge, and providing the web and snailmail addresses of my chosen charity. You'll then be responsible for sending off a check, or providing your credit card info directly to the charity.

What about my privacy?
The only information you're required to provide to anyone is the amount of your pledge and an email address where you can be contacted for payment reminders. Beyond that, all transactions remain confidential between you and the charity. I AM offering an incentive for large donors that will require a snailmail address, but the only one who will see that is ME, and I'll promise to lose it, afterward, if you like.

What do you get out of it?
I get the knowledge that I've joined with the blogging community to do something good. Bloggers are so often characterized as being self-absorbed ranters and whiners. There's a lot of satisfaction in using our words for GOOD.

What do I (the Sponsor) get out of it?
Well, you ALSO get the knowledge that you've joined with the blogging community to do something good. But I'm adding a couple of incentives:
Individual pledges of at least $24 – will get “this post sponsored by” credits at the end of my blogathon posts.
Individual pledges of at least $50 – will have 10% of their pledge matched by me (to a max of $500, total) (Yes, that's only $5 for your 50, but we're a single-income family just now, and there's only ONE of me.)
Individual pledges of at least $100 or more. – will still be getting a 10% match from me (to a max of $500, total.) You'll also receive a small thank-you gift directly from me (no, I won't tell you what it is.)

And of course ALL sponsors will get a personal note, email, or comment from me, thanking them for their support.

Is there a minimum amount I can pledge?
No. But it's suggested that $5 is a reasonable amount for most people.

And what was that Charity you mentioned?
The charity I'm blogging for is Habitat for Humanity – Women Build. You can follow the link for more info, but basically, it's a branch of Habitat for Humanity that encourages women and girls to develop leadership and construction skills while addressing issues of housing and family welfare. I've chosen this program, specifically, because I think it's important for women to take an active role in addressing these things that are so often labelled as “women's issues” when really, housing is a human issue. I also chose it because, in terms of the amound of funds that make it to the people being helped, Habitat for Humanity is extremely well rated.

I live in the UK, or some other country that has Habitat for Humanity but not the Women Build program. Can I donate to my local branch?
Obviously, I'd prefer that your funds go to the specific program I've chosen, and the rules at Blogathon.org say we can only support ONE charity. If it's really a problem for you, and you want to donate, please contact me here, or via email.

If you'd really like to support me in the blogathon, but you just don't have the cash, or don't feel strongly enough about Habitat for Humanity to give up cash (which is valid, we all have different beliefs and priorities, after all), I'd love for you to stop by and leave comments during the actual event, because answering comments will help keep me awake.

Also, I'm still looking for pictures of FRONT DOORS to be used (without identification) in my posts. Please send .gifs or .jpgs to the email listed below.

My email address is email, but you can also leave comments here. If you'd prefer a private response, please be sure to include a valid email so I can answer. Otherwise, be sure to check back.

To all the people who've pledged so far, offered encouragement, plugged me and/or my blog, and sent pictures – thank you. Every single one of you has put a smile on my face, and I appreciate all your efforts.

Make it a great day!

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Seven inches of dark brown hair landed on the floor of the salon, falling from the scissors in tattered clumps.

Seven inches of stress and split ends made my head and heart feel lighter, once removed.

My new cut isn't really short; it's just that the ends graze my shoulders and not my nipples. The color has been refreshed as well, a warm deep chocolatey brown with bittersweet reddish highlights, the latter not by design, but because of natural variations in my 'real' hair color that work with the dye. I like it. It reminds me of all those Italian women in leather jackets riding mopeds through the streets of Venice and Rome.

Seven inches of hair cut off, and I'm seven times happier.

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Today, after I came home with my spiffy new red and black computer glasses, I turned to Fuzzy, and asked, “Do they make me look really geeky?”

He said, purring in my ear. “No, they make me want to drag you to the bedroom.”

Alas, he had to go to work.

Well, there's time.

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