Be always at war with your vices, at peace with your neighbors, and let each new year find you a better man. ~Benjamin Franklin
I think I've said this somewhere before...but I don't do New Year's Resolutions. I don't believe in them. I can't think of any good reason to resolve to change once a year. Yes, I know, you can decide to make changes at any point during the year, but people make such a big deal about it at New Year's.
I don't think Old Ben meant that you should start in January working yourself over to be a new man. Instead, I think when the new year starts, the idea is that you're better than you were when the last one did.
Year's end is neither an end nor a beginning but a going on, with all the wisdom that experience can instill in us. ~Hal Borland
There's an old prayer, rumored to be found in the Bible of a freed slave who died in battle during the Civil War.
"Lord, I ain't what I oughta be,
And I ain't what I wanna be,
And I ain't what I gonna be.
But Lord, I thank ya,
I ain't what I was."
That's what I think about during this time of year. I honestly do sit and think about how I've grown and changed during the course of a year. And where I'm heading.
On New Year's Day, my mother will ask us to share our resolutions. She's obviously never heard..
Never tell your resolution beforehand, or it's twice as onerous a duty. ~John Selden
So, even if I did really, really make New Year's resolutions, I wouldn't share them.
All that being said, I do have a change I'm going to endeavor to make. I'm gonna stop cussing. It's really gotten to be too easy for me to let those 4-letter words slip out. I tried once before, even set myself up to put a quarter in a jar every time I said one. The idea was that once I'd gone 2 weeks without paying the jar, I could take the money and go do something fun. I made it to $4, then decided it was really stupid and did away with the cup. And kept cussing. (Should I note that the first $2.50 accrued inside of about 20 minutes?).
One last thought about resolutions and change, from dear Mr. Twain...
Now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions. Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual. ~Mark Twain
For other thoughts on change, visit Sunday Scribblings.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Where I am right now
I'm not sure who this poem is about. There's a couple of front-runners.
In a situation I thought
improbable
(because I've learned 'impossible' is a laughable word)
I've fought so hard lately to be
practical.
Lock it all away,
Tell no one of pain, of joy.
Then, He surprised me.
Could be a faith issue. It's altered in the last few months. Went through some rocky stuff that surprised me--by both the suddenness and how deeply my heart was affected. I know my faith, which has been pretty strong for a long while now, deepened.
Could be about The Man. We've wandered back to each other again. It's so much nicer this time--we smile more, touch more, and are more at ease with each other. I thought I was happy and at peace with him before, but I don't think I really knew what that felt like. I do now.
To read some other inspired poetry, check out Poetry Thursday.
In a situation I thought
improbable
(because I've learned 'impossible' is a laughable word)
I've fought so hard lately to be
practical.
Lock it all away,
Tell no one of pain, of joy.
Then, He surprised me.
Could be a faith issue. It's altered in the last few months. Went through some rocky stuff that surprised me--by both the suddenness and how deeply my heart was affected. I know my faith, which has been pretty strong for a long while now, deepened.
Could be about The Man. We've wandered back to each other again. It's so much nicer this time--we smile more, touch more, and are more at ease with each other. I thought I was happy and at peace with him before, but I don't think I really knew what that felt like. I do now.
To read some other inspired poetry, check out Poetry Thursday.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Blogging Chicks
Just joined up with a great blogroll.Blogging Chicks is a women's only blogroll.
You oughta check it out.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
A poetry meme...for Poetry Thursday
Um..2 weeks ago (or something like that), the prompt offered over at Poetry Thursday was a meme. Since I didn't get around to doing it then, and I'm up at 6:30 on a DAY OFF, I'll do it now (apparently, I have time!).
Works well since this week's prompt seems to basically be a "do what you want" kind of week.
1. The first poem I remember reading/hearing/reacting to was... Shel Silverstein's "Boa Constrictor." (Find it here) I think this was the first time that I'd realized how words paint pictures and that, as that wasn't enough!, they tasted in my mouth.
2. I was forced to memorize (name of poem) in school and... Gosh, we must have been deprived at our school. I honestly can't remember ever having to memorize a poem. I remember reciting "The Fog" (Sandburg) and then doing an art project on it and writing our own "fog-like" poem, though.
3. I read/don't read poetry because... I do read poetry because it relaxes me. But I also subscribe to the notion that to write good poetry/prose/grocery lists/whatever, a person must read those things voraciously.
4. A poem I'm likely to think about when asked about a favorite poem is... Wow, Emily Dickinson comes to mind. I imagine it would be cheating to say "all of it," huh? Well, call me a cheater. It wouldn't be the first time!
5. I write/don't write poetry, but... I do write poetry, but I wish I wrote more of it.
6. My experience with reading poetry differs from my experience with reading other types of literature... It feeds my mild A.D.D. quite well--I can finish a piece and do my thinking before my wanders again. But, too, phrasing and line breaks make sense in my mind. It's how I think.
7. I find poetry... Delicious. I devour it, and sometimes bleed it. Poetry is in every step of my life, kind of like my faith.
8. The last time I heard poetry... A few days ago. One of my students read his pieces to me.
9. I think poetry is like... Visual perception through one's heart. No, not everyone feels poetry intensely, but you can't deny that it evokes the visceral.
For other answers to this meme, visit Poetry Thursday.
Works well since this week's prompt seems to basically be a "do what you want" kind of week.
1. The first poem I remember reading/hearing/reacting to was... Shel Silverstein's "Boa Constrictor." (Find it here) I think this was the first time that I'd realized how words paint pictures and that, as that wasn't enough!, they tasted in my mouth.
2. I was forced to memorize (name of poem) in school and... Gosh, we must have been deprived at our school. I honestly can't remember ever having to memorize a poem. I remember reciting "The Fog" (Sandburg) and then doing an art project on it and writing our own "fog-like" poem, though.
3. I read/don't read poetry because... I do read poetry because it relaxes me. But I also subscribe to the notion that to write good poetry/prose/grocery lists/whatever, a person must read those things voraciously.
4. A poem I'm likely to think about when asked about a favorite poem is... Wow, Emily Dickinson comes to mind. I imagine it would be cheating to say "all of it," huh? Well, call me a cheater. It wouldn't be the first time!
5. I write/don't write poetry, but... I do write poetry, but I wish I wrote more of it.
6. My experience with reading poetry differs from my experience with reading other types of literature... It feeds my mild A.D.D. quite well--I can finish a piece and do my thinking before my wanders again. But, too, phrasing and line breaks make sense in my mind. It's how I think.
7. I find poetry... Delicious. I devour it, and sometimes bleed it. Poetry is in every step of my life, kind of like my faith.
8. The last time I heard poetry... A few days ago. One of my students read his pieces to me.
9. I think poetry is like... Visual perception through one's heart. No, not everyone feels poetry intensely, but you can't deny that it evokes the visceral.
For other answers to this meme, visit Poetry Thursday.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
If these walls could talk...
Over at Poetry Thursday this week, the prompt is about talking walls. Specifically, what would walls say if they could talk. It's pretty interesting, if you think about it. Maybe a little frightening, too.
They'd say "MY GOD WOMAN, RUN!!!!"
No, really. I try not to listen to the walls, it's enough that I talk to myself, I don't need the walls to talk to.
Since I've been conspicuously not writing much lately, I was pleasantly surprised to be able to run with two (count 'em 2!) poems this week.
Hodge podge of tastes,
feelings,
words,
Soaked into the walls.
Do I dare ask what they know?
And...
Intimidation
New construction
No voices to fill the silence.
Untouched by
squeals of delight
and four-letter words of anger.
"First impressions are everything"
even to the walls.
For more talking walls, visit Poetry Thursday
They'd say "MY GOD WOMAN, RUN!!!!"
No, really. I try not to listen to the walls, it's enough that I talk to myself, I don't need the walls to talk to.
Since I've been conspicuously not writing much lately, I was pleasantly surprised to be able to run with two (count 'em 2!) poems this week.
Hodge podge of tastes,
feelings,
words,
Soaked into the walls.
Do I dare ask what they know?
And...
Intimidation
New construction
No voices to fill the silence.
Untouched by
squeals of delight
and four-letter words of anger.
"First impressions are everything"
even to the walls.
For more talking walls, visit Poetry Thursday
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Nemesis, for Sunday Scribblings
Last week's prompt at Sunday Scribblings was about heroes. This week is about your nemesis.
I'm not sure I'd be 'allowed' to write about the person I actually think of as my nemesis. Out of deference to my dear friend, I won't even try, because I wouldn't be able to keep a civil tongue in my head. But when he reads this, I'm sure he'll know what I wanted to do for this prompt.
So, instead...a bit of my brand of farce.
My arch-nemesis, renewed on a daily basis, is my alarm clock. I'm not a morning person. I think I've told you that before. I completely adore the mornings that I can wake without the alarm clock. In fact, I dream of those mornings. Let me explain.
I have to wake in stages. Three, sometimes four, attacks at the snooze button are the norm. I actually set the alarm for 30 minutes before I should get up (which is roughly 50 minutes before I have to get up). Before I found an alarm clock with a 10-minute snooze, all I'd been able to find was 9-minute snoozes. I'd actually set the alarm for twenty-seven minutes before I intended to get up.
(As an aside, why NINE minutes? What was magical about that number? Other than to incite general pissiness in my morning attitude. Which is pissiness enough, frankly.)
When the alarm goes off the first time, I grumble at it. Think troll. Pissy, blonde-headed, librarian troll.
Second time, I whine. "Mmmm......noooooooooooooo." At this point, WonderDog starts making grumble noises.
Third time, I cuss. One of those long, drawn-out expletives. "Sheeeeuuutt." Or usually, more of a "Fuuuuuuuuuck me." (Mark the calendar, that's the first time the F-word has appeard in any form in my blogs.)
If I need a fourth (or fifth) time, more whining, more cussing. Then a general scramble because I'm now running behind and the coffee and ironing fairies took the flippin' night off. DAMN IT. This doesn't happen terribly often, because WonderDog's bladder can only make it through 25 minutes of snoozing, not even the full 30.
All this really boils down to the fact that I can't think of any place nicer to be until 10 or noon than my bed. It's warm, and soft, and perfect. The only way it could be any more perfect is if I happened to have a good smelling man in bed with me, warming the other half. (I'm not being facetious. And I'm rather particular.)
Of course, as I write this, it's 7:30 am, on a Saturday, marking the 8th day in a row that I've been off (we got a week for Thanksgiving) and I'm my couch. See, the WonderDog won out this morning, and is adamant about not going back to bed. If I thought he'd entertain himself quietly while I did return to my little nest, I would do it in a heartbeat. But, since we've only just turned two a month ago, well....that's not going to happen. You'd give in, too, if eight pounds were standing on your neck.
Oh well, I think I'll take a midmorning nap in a bit. Crawling in bed and all.
I'm not sure I'd be 'allowed' to write about the person I actually think of as my nemesis. Out of deference to my dear friend, I won't even try, because I wouldn't be able to keep a civil tongue in my head. But when he reads this, I'm sure he'll know what I wanted to do for this prompt.
So, instead...a bit of my brand of farce.
My arch-nemesis, renewed on a daily basis, is my alarm clock. I'm not a morning person. I think I've told you that before. I completely adore the mornings that I can wake without the alarm clock. In fact, I dream of those mornings. Let me explain.
I have to wake in stages. Three, sometimes four, attacks at the snooze button are the norm. I actually set the alarm for 30 minutes before I should get up (which is roughly 50 minutes before I have to get up). Before I found an alarm clock with a 10-minute snooze, all I'd been able to find was 9-minute snoozes. I'd actually set the alarm for twenty-seven minutes before I intended to get up.
(As an aside, why NINE minutes? What was magical about that number? Other than to incite general pissiness in my morning attitude. Which is pissiness enough, frankly.)
When the alarm goes off the first time, I grumble at it. Think troll. Pissy, blonde-headed, librarian troll.
Second time, I whine. "Mmmm......noooooooooooooo." At this point, WonderDog starts making grumble noises.
Third time, I cuss. One of those long, drawn-out expletives. "Sheeeeuuutt." Or usually, more of a "Fuuuuuuuuuck me." (Mark the calendar, that's the first time the F-word has appeard in any form in my blogs.)
If I need a fourth (or fifth) time, more whining, more cussing. Then a general scramble because I'm now running behind and the coffee and ironing fairies took the flippin' night off. DAMN IT. This doesn't happen terribly often, because WonderDog's bladder can only make it through 25 minutes of snoozing, not even the full 30.
All this really boils down to the fact that I can't think of any place nicer to be until 10 or noon than my bed. It's warm, and soft, and perfect. The only way it could be any more perfect is if I happened to have a good smelling man in bed with me, warming the other half. (I'm not being facetious. And I'm rather particular.)
Of course, as I write this, it's 7:30 am, on a Saturday, marking the 8th day in a row that I've been off (we got a week for Thanksgiving) and I'm my couch. See, the WonderDog won out this morning, and is adamant about not going back to bed. If I thought he'd entertain himself quietly while I did return to my little nest, I would do it in a heartbeat. But, since we've only just turned two a month ago, well....that's not going to happen. You'd give in, too, if eight pounds were standing on your neck.
Oh well, I think I'll take a midmorning nap in a bit. Crawling in bed and all.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
I've no title for this post...it happens.
I wasn't crazy about the prompt for Poetry Thursday this week.
this week's (completely and totally optional) idea -- attend a reading
I've been to readings, even participated in a couple with the creative group that I used to sponsor at work. I enjoy them (not the smoke-filled bar, everybody snapping, variety. Just a simple coffeehouse appreciation gathering). I think they're important.
I wish I could find decent ones in my immediate area, but that might require more people be literate. Oo..yeah, sorry. That wasn't very nice. Pardon me, I'm writing this LOOONG before my coffee has kicked in. Of course, we'd also have to have a decent place to have them, somehow those places never last around here.
I will do this, I will visit some readings in the weeks/months to come. Now that I don't ever work weekends, I can certainly manage this without being a bear the next morning.
So..even though I haven't really, really written for this prompt..I did do this:
Texas Poetry Calendar Hosted at Poetz.com, it certainly can't be an exhaustive listing, but a really nice place to start.
Houston Poetry Fest It's passed for this year, but there's some info on the First Friday Readings.
I know there are others, this is just where I'm starting.
this week's (completely and totally optional) idea -- attend a reading
I've been to readings, even participated in a couple with the creative group that I used to sponsor at work. I enjoy them (not the smoke-filled bar, everybody snapping, variety. Just a simple coffeehouse appreciation gathering). I think they're important.
I wish I could find decent ones in my immediate area, but that might require more people be literate. Oo..yeah, sorry. That wasn't very nice. Pardon me, I'm writing this LOOONG before my coffee has kicked in. Of course, we'd also have to have a decent place to have them, somehow those places never last around here.
I will do this, I will visit some readings in the weeks/months to come. Now that I don't ever work weekends, I can certainly manage this without being a bear the next morning.
So..even though I haven't really, really written for this prompt..I did do this:
Texas Poetry Calendar Hosted at Poetz.com, it certainly can't be an exhaustive listing, but a really nice place to start.
Houston Poetry Fest It's passed for this year, but there's some info on the First Friday Readings.
I know there are others, this is just where I'm starting.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Lies, damn lies, and statistics
Last week's Poetry Thursday prompt was about lies. I could insert one here and give a fabulous excuse as to why I'm just now getting around to writing on it. Truth is, I got lazy last week and didn't even look. And aliens abducted me. No really..they did. *grin*
Anyway, in the description for the 'day of posting' (Poetry Thursday: the dog ate it and other lies), one line caught me. I've been walking around with it for 2 days now, knowing something's brewing.
Dana wrote "But I write to get at the truth."
Whoa. Yeah, that's part of why I write, that and cartharsis. I write to keep from exploding and to ease my body. I write to cope, to come to terms or understanding with the pain and the joy that happens in my life. (I might be a little too analytical about myself.) Truth happens, somehow, but it's never the main goal.
So, after brewing for a couple days, here's where I wound up.
The truth is Words set me free.
The truth is I am Nothing
without them.
The truth is what makes the Page
is the Lie.
The truth is Honesty is
Colored
Covered
in roses, Thorns and all
So that I may find the Beauty.
Hm...okay. After rereading that...I need to chill a bit. Literally--I need to relax. I just got all angsty (by my own estimation). Oh well. it happens.
Oh..and my title come from my favorite 'attributed to Mark Twain" quote.
Check out last week's Poetry Thursday: the dog ate it and other lies for more thoughts on lies, and the people who tell them.
Anyway, in the description for the 'day of posting' (Poetry Thursday: the dog ate it and other lies), one line caught me. I've been walking around with it for 2 days now, knowing something's brewing.
Dana wrote "But I write to get at the truth."
Whoa. Yeah, that's part of why I write, that and cartharsis. I write to keep from exploding and to ease my body. I write to cope, to come to terms or understanding with the pain and the joy that happens in my life. (I might be a little too analytical about myself.) Truth happens, somehow, but it's never the main goal.
So, after brewing for a couple days, here's where I wound up.
The truth is Words set me free.
The truth is I am Nothing
without them.
The truth is what makes the Page
is the Lie.
The truth is Honesty is
Colored
Covered
in roses, Thorns and all
So that I may find the Beauty.
Hm...okay. After rereading that...I need to chill a bit. Literally--I need to relax. I just got all angsty (by my own estimation). Oh well. it happens.
Oh..and my title come from my favorite 'attributed to Mark Twain" quote.
Check out last week's Poetry Thursday: the dog ate it and other lies for more thoughts on lies, and the people who tell them.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Heroes (for Sunday Scribblings)
This week's prompt is centered around the word 'Hero.' You can choose any of these variations: hero, heroine, my hero, my heroine, or you can just use the word as you like.
Dictionary.com Unabridged
he - ro
1. a man of distinguished courage or ability, admired for his brave deeds and noble qualities.
2. a person who, in the opinion of others, has heroic qualities or has performed a heroic act and is regarded as a model or ideal: He was a local hero when he saved the drowning child.
3. the principal male character in a story, play, film, etc.
4. Classical Mythology.
a. a being of godlike prowess and beneficence who often came to be honored as a divinity.
b. (in the Homeric period) a warrior-chieftain of special strength, courage, or ability.
c. (in later antiquity) an immortal being; demigod.
5. the bread or roll used in making a hero sandwich.
I've had trouble with the word "hero" the last several years. Really, since I started teaching. My students have all had heroes. It's always, a sports figure or a wrestler or a racer or an actor. A few have even put Bill Gates on a pedestal.
This bothers me.
Yes, I can appreciate the things those men and women have done. And yes, I admire them for those things. I'd love to have Lance Armstrong's ability (only cuter), Michael Jordan's skills (only cuter), be able to sing like Leeann Rimes (only cuter), or Bill Gates's money (only WAAAY cuter).
But I don't believe those people to be heroes. They're driven, they're ambitious, intelligent, strong, awesome people. But they aren't heroes. They're people with a job that they do every day. Yes, it's an amazing job that, because of they're determination, has put them in the spotlight. But they're still just people like you and me.
My heroes may not have super powers or ridiculously amazing skills, or even money. But they do have honorable qualities that last far longer than those things.
So, here's my short list...
1) Daddy. Now, as a "daddy's girl" this is probably to be expected. However, my dad is a noble person (without the nobility bit). He has never sat idly by when there's something he could do or say to stop or prevent wrongs. His heart is of the purest sort and he has an honest and real love of "right."
2) Ryan White. I've never head of a teenager more courageous and noble. Yes, many (too many) deal with horrible diseases, but few would stand taller under international attention the way he did. He didn't give up. AIDS can be crippling for the people who have it and those that love them. Ryan his family were never crippled by it. They thrived.
3) My students. I listen to them talk everyday. I learn about what they bring to school with them--family lives I can't dream up, pain and sorrow. Hell, just teenage drama and angst. It amazes me that they get up everyday and do their thing. Sometimes they break my heart, sometimes they make me wish I was more than I am.
Dictionary.com Unabridged
he - ro
1. a man of distinguished courage or ability, admired for his brave deeds and noble qualities.
2. a person who, in the opinion of others, has heroic qualities or has performed a heroic act and is regarded as a model or ideal: He was a local hero when he saved the drowning child.
3. the principal male character in a story, play, film, etc.
4. Classical Mythology.
a. a being of godlike prowess and beneficence who often came to be honored as a divinity.
b. (in the Homeric period) a warrior-chieftain of special strength, courage, or ability.
c. (in later antiquity) an immortal being; demigod.
5. the bread or roll used in making a hero sandwich.
I've had trouble with the word "hero" the last several years. Really, since I started teaching. My students have all had heroes. It's always, a sports figure or a wrestler or a racer or an actor. A few have even put Bill Gates on a pedestal.
This bothers me.
Yes, I can appreciate the things those men and women have done. And yes, I admire them for those things. I'd love to have Lance Armstrong's ability (only cuter), Michael Jordan's skills (only cuter), be able to sing like Leeann Rimes (only cuter), or Bill Gates's money (only WAAAY cuter).
But I don't believe those people to be heroes. They're driven, they're ambitious, intelligent, strong, awesome people. But they aren't heroes. They're people with a job that they do every day. Yes, it's an amazing job that, because of they're determination, has put them in the spotlight. But they're still just people like you and me.
My heroes may not have super powers or ridiculously amazing skills, or even money. But they do have honorable qualities that last far longer than those things.
So, here's my short list...
1) Daddy. Now, as a "daddy's girl" this is probably to be expected. However, my dad is a noble person (without the nobility bit). He has never sat idly by when there's something he could do or say to stop or prevent wrongs. His heart is of the purest sort and he has an honest and real love of "right."
2) Ryan White. I've never head of a teenager more courageous and noble. Yes, many (too many) deal with horrible diseases, but few would stand taller under international attention the way he did. He didn't give up. AIDS can be crippling for the people who have it and those that love them. Ryan his family were never crippled by it. They thrived.
3) My students. I listen to them talk everyday. I learn about what they bring to school with them--family lives I can't dream up, pain and sorrow. Hell, just teenage drama and angst. It amazes me that they get up everyday and do their thing. Sometimes they break my heart, sometimes they make me wish I was more than I am.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Along for the ride
The prompt this week at Sunday Scribblings is
"I don't want to be a passenger in my own life." (Diane Ackerman)
I'm at odds with this one. It's got me thinking about choices. Particularly the choices I make in my own life.
When you speak to my dad, his pat answer to "How are you?" is "Wonderful, wonderful." Lately, he mixes things up with "Just ginger peachy." Mother's answer is always "pretty good."
I've been thinking about the differences in their personalities.
Dad's a 'wonderful-wonderful' personality. Mom's a 'pretty good' one. Got it? Dad's positive, Mom's mostly positive. Daddy is the one who is attractive to me when I need a parent--or even when I don't. Mom grates on me, because being 'pretty good' seems to correlate with being a bit tactless. I don't know want to be that person. (Tact hasn't been an issue, but it's close cousin pessimism is.)
I've listened to myself this week. I never say I'm 'wonderful-wonderful.' I'm always 'not bad' or 'pretty good.' And I think that's a hindrance
I've pretty much been along for the ride the last few years. Occasionally I make some navigatory remarks, but for the most part, I just sit quietly in the passenger seat. Not always a bad thing. But, it's left me 'pretty good.'
I want to be 'wonderful-wonderful.' (I'd shoot for 'ginger peachy' but I think I need to take it slowly--ginger peachy sounds like a bit much for me aim for just yet.) And I think that being wonderful-wonderful is a conscious decision. A decision to be made daily.
Okay..so keep me honest, kids. No more 'pretty goods.' Only wonderful-wonderfuls, please.
For other thoughts on this prompt, check out this week's Sunday Scribblings
"I don't want to be a passenger in my own life." (Diane Ackerman)
I'm at odds with this one. It's got me thinking about choices. Particularly the choices I make in my own life.
When you speak to my dad, his pat answer to "How are you?" is "Wonderful, wonderful." Lately, he mixes things up with "Just ginger peachy." Mother's answer is always "pretty good."
I've been thinking about the differences in their personalities.
Dad's a 'wonderful-wonderful' personality. Mom's a 'pretty good' one. Got it? Dad's positive, Mom's mostly positive. Daddy is the one who is attractive to me when I need a parent--or even when I don't. Mom grates on me, because being 'pretty good' seems to correlate with being a bit tactless. I don't know want to be that person. (Tact hasn't been an issue, but it's close cousin pessimism is.)
I've listened to myself this week. I never say I'm 'wonderful-wonderful.' I'm always 'not bad' or 'pretty good.' And I think that's a hindrance
I've pretty much been along for the ride the last few years. Occasionally I make some navigatory remarks, but for the most part, I just sit quietly in the passenger seat. Not always a bad thing. But, it's left me 'pretty good.'
I want to be 'wonderful-wonderful.' (I'd shoot for 'ginger peachy' but I think I need to take it slowly--ginger peachy sounds like a bit much for me aim for just yet.) And I think that being wonderful-wonderful is a conscious decision. A decision to be made daily.
Okay..so keep me honest, kids. No more 'pretty goods.' Only wonderful-wonderfuls, please.
For other thoughts on this prompt, check out this week's Sunday Scribblings
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Safety in numbers.
I love geese, from a distance. These guys look like they're waiting on something. I got all excited when this picture popped up today. It's the total opposite of how I'm feeling this week. (I know, I know..makes little sense.)
This week, I'm feeling overwhelmed, emotionally. Work's not a problem, neither is home stuff. But, the personal stuff is all over the place. Some is beautiful, some is messy. Some(one) is a beautiful mess.
Expectant.
A good bet something's out there.
Safety in numbers--
another good bet.
For other poetry snapshots, check out this week's Poetry Thursday.
Oh! And the picture came from here.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Dancing girls... oops, I mean words
I love words. Always have. But obviously, as a writer, that makes sense, right?
On of my favorite pieces of poetry is from Emily Dickinson.
Tell all the Truth but tell it slant---
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightening to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind---
On of my favorite pieces of poetry is from Emily Dickinson.
Tell all the Truth but tell it slant---
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightening to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind---
Isn't this the truth? Oh man..just caught what I said.
She did 'dazzle gradually' didn't she. Took a few lines to get to her point, wonder if that was planned?
Hm..I'll be coming back to this. I know I wrote a poem years ago after first reading this one. If I can't find it, I'll just redo it...I'll be back!
For more thoughts on words, check out Poetry Thursday this week.
Morning
Lose an hour in the morning, and you will be all day hunting for it. ~Richard Whately
But I ask you, is it really lost?
There is no snooze button on a cat who wants breakfast. ~Author Unknown
Or a WonderDog who needs to go outside. Dear Lord...if I could get him to walk himself, mornings would be easier.
There is no hope for a civilization which starts each day to the sound of an alarm clock. ~Author Unknown
I agree. All it does for me is make me want to cuss. If I start the day cussing, oh we're all doomed.
Luxury is an ancient notion. There was once a Chinese mandarin who had himself wakened three times every morning simply for the pleasure of being told it was not yet time to get up. ~Argosy
Haha--SWEET! I want this too! Can I wear my tiara at the same time?
Early morning cheerfulness can be extremely obnoxious. ~William Feather
This is why I can handle Katie Couric better as an evening news anchor.
Okay, seriously...
I'm not a morning person. At all. Let me repeat that....AT ALL. Don't look at me, don't talk to me, don't touch me. Let me get my coffee and a shower, then I can face you. After another cup of coffee, we can discuss leaving the house and facing the world. No, maybe I'm not that bad. But I do come by my morning issues naturally.
My mother used to wake us in song. She'd turn on the overhead light, singing stupid songs and then pick at me when I'd be vaguely ogre-esque. Little did I know...
Apparently, my dad very rarely gets up when she does. In 30 years of marriage, he'd never watched her morning routine, at least not the part before the coffee. For some reason, he was up one morning and followed her into the kitchen. She never spoke while getting the coffee pot ready. He's chatting a little, talking to the dog, whatever. She started the coffee and stood there, staring at it. He suddenly realized that not only was she not talking, she wasn't moving, just waiting on the carafe to have enough in it to pour the first cup before it finished the cycle. He asked if she was like this every morning and she very quietly, very slowly shushed him.
THIS IS ME. Every morning. The world's greatest innovation is the coffee pot that starts up on its own. Mine died and I miss having coffee ready before I crawled out of bed. I'd set everything up before bed, and then fall asleep, knowing the day would start positively. Mm...Until I get coffee in my system, functioning isn't a possibility.
Geez..I've already been through one (small) pot of coffee. I think it's time for another.
For other thoughts on mornings, check out Sunday Scribblings this week.
But I ask you, is it really lost?
There is no snooze button on a cat who wants breakfast. ~Author Unknown
Or a WonderDog who needs to go outside. Dear Lord...if I could get him to walk himself, mornings would be easier.
There is no hope for a civilization which starts each day to the sound of an alarm clock. ~Author Unknown
I agree. All it does for me is make me want to cuss. If I start the day cussing, oh we're all doomed.
Luxury is an ancient notion. There was once a Chinese mandarin who had himself wakened three times every morning simply for the pleasure of being told it was not yet time to get up. ~Argosy
Haha--SWEET! I want this too! Can I wear my tiara at the same time?
Early morning cheerfulness can be extremely obnoxious. ~William Feather
This is why I can handle Katie Couric better as an evening news anchor.
Okay, seriously...
I'm not a morning person. At all. Let me repeat that....AT ALL. Don't look at me, don't talk to me, don't touch me. Let me get my coffee and a shower, then I can face you. After another cup of coffee, we can discuss leaving the house and facing the world. No, maybe I'm not that bad. But I do come by my morning issues naturally.
My mother used to wake us in song. She'd turn on the overhead light, singing stupid songs and then pick at me when I'd be vaguely ogre-esque. Little did I know...
Apparently, my dad very rarely gets up when she does. In 30 years of marriage, he'd never watched her morning routine, at least not the part before the coffee. For some reason, he was up one morning and followed her into the kitchen. She never spoke while getting the coffee pot ready. He's chatting a little, talking to the dog, whatever. She started the coffee and stood there, staring at it. He suddenly realized that not only was she not talking, she wasn't moving, just waiting on the carafe to have enough in it to pour the first cup before it finished the cycle. He asked if she was like this every morning and she very quietly, very slowly shushed him.
THIS IS ME. Every morning. The world's greatest innovation is the coffee pot that starts up on its own. Mine died and I miss having coffee ready before I crawled out of bed. I'd set everything up before bed, and then fall asleep, knowing the day would start positively. Mm...Until I get coffee in my system, functioning isn't a possibility.
Geez..I've already been through one (small) pot of coffee. I think it's time for another.
For other thoughts on mornings, check out Sunday Scribblings this week.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Repeating, but this time with a different focus
**This post feels very disjointed to me. It's the first honest writing I've done in a few weeks and I'm feeling rusty. So, bear with me.
Back in July, I posted this haiku:
Things are not as they
teach us--the Earth is hollow;
I have touched the sky.
I wrote then about it being a 17 syllable catharsis. Lately, it's come to represent mystery for me.
This week's prompt at One Deep Breath is about mystery, specifically the unseen. And so, I'm thinking on it.
I don't do well with the unseen, with being in the dark. I tried to explain this to someone recently, when in the midst of a non-argument argument (which we were so good at), and was told that I was being selfish. I never imagined it as being selfish, more a method of self-preservation, protection. And from him, at the moment, I felt like I needed protection (yes, I mean from him, but not physically.). There are so many things out there that I can't see. Some actually give me comfort (God in my life), others terrify me (the future). Not knowing what was coming prompted the defensive maneuvers.
I need to become more comfortable with the unseen, the unknowable.
But how the hell does one do that?
Okay, so this is my least favorite offering EVER. To see some better stuff, that maybe isn't so disjointed, visit One Deep Breath
Back in July, I posted this haiku:
Things are not as they
teach us--the Earth is hollow;
I have touched the sky.
I wrote then about it being a 17 syllable catharsis. Lately, it's come to represent mystery for me.
This week's prompt at One Deep Breath is about mystery, specifically the unseen. And so, I'm thinking on it.
I don't do well with the unseen, with being in the dark. I tried to explain this to someone recently, when in the midst of a non-argument argument (which we were so good at), and was told that I was being selfish. I never imagined it as being selfish, more a method of self-preservation, protection. And from him, at the moment, I felt like I needed protection (yes, I mean from him, but not physically.). There are so many things out there that I can't see. Some actually give me comfort (God in my life), others terrify me (the future). Not knowing what was coming prompted the defensive maneuvers.
I need to become more comfortable with the unseen, the unknowable.
But how the hell does one do that?
Okay, so this is my least favorite offering EVER. To see some better stuff, that maybe isn't so disjointed, visit One Deep Breath
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Avoidance
I've been AWOL for a couple of weeks. Well, maybe MIA. Life got in the way again, and my writing took a hit. Unfortunately. But, when it came down to choosing between getting a couple of hours of much-needed sleep and writing, sleep will win every time.
But, I should be getting back to this stuff soon. Sleep isn't being elusive anymore--for a variety of reasons.
So, over at Poetry Thursday, the theme this week was 'avoidance.' Particularly, it's poetry that we avoid--poets, time periods, genres, whatever. We all have things we avoid--I tend to avoid Chaucer, because, frankly, it hurts my head. I avoid Poe because all the poetry that was taught in my English classes was his dark stuff, similar to his dark short stories. I adore his short stories, I hate his dark poetry. I realize that not all of his poetry is dark, but what I was introduced to is, and I just won't read the rest of it.
I also avoid rhyming poetry. Ugh. I realize that to follow a particular rhyming pattern is much more difficult than to just write, but I feel so stifled when asked to rhyme. Like I'm being boxed in. And I'm claustrophobic.
So, I've no poetry to share this week...still recuperating from some other things and the creative juices are focussed there...just wanted to share.
To see more on the poetry we avoid, visit Poetry Thursday.
But, I should be getting back to this stuff soon. Sleep isn't being elusive anymore--for a variety of reasons.
So, over at Poetry Thursday, the theme this week was 'avoidance.' Particularly, it's poetry that we avoid--poets, time periods, genres, whatever. We all have things we avoid--I tend to avoid Chaucer, because, frankly, it hurts my head. I avoid Poe because all the poetry that was taught in my English classes was his dark stuff, similar to his dark short stories. I adore his short stories, I hate his dark poetry. I realize that not all of his poetry is dark, but what I was introduced to is, and I just won't read the rest of it.
I also avoid rhyming poetry. Ugh. I realize that to follow a particular rhyming pattern is much more difficult than to just write, but I feel so stifled when asked to rhyme. Like I'm being boxed in. And I'm claustrophobic.
So, I've no poetry to share this week...still recuperating from some other things and the creative juices are focussed there...just wanted to share.
To see more on the poetry we avoid, visit Poetry Thursday.
Friday, October 06, 2006
On reading....(for One Deep Breath)
In my literature classes (as in "here's how to choose literature for children and young adults"), we learned about the different levels of reading maturity.
My professor had several she listed, there's generally 4. The 'lowest' level is supposed to be 'unconscious delight'--when someone, usually a young reader, gets caught up in a series like Nancy Drew or Hardy Boys and is just reading because they've gotten excited about reading. The 'highest' is aesthetic reading--reading to enjoy the beauty of the prose.
But I disagree, I get caught up in unconscious delight all the time--I read for the sheer joy of reading, because it excites me. I inhale books...and yes, I'm an aesthetic reader at times, a lot of times.
And so...
Unconscious delight--
simple joy in the words
lost--no, found!--in dreams
For more thoughts on reading, visit this week's One Deep Breath.
My professor had several she listed, there's generally 4. The 'lowest' level is supposed to be 'unconscious delight'--when someone, usually a young reader, gets caught up in a series like Nancy Drew or Hardy Boys and is just reading because they've gotten excited about reading. The 'highest' is aesthetic reading--reading to enjoy the beauty of the prose.
But I disagree, I get caught up in unconscious delight all the time--I read for the sheer joy of reading, because it excites me. I inhale books...and yes, I'm an aesthetic reader at times, a lot of times.
And so...
Unconscious delight--
simple joy in the words
lost--no, found!--in dreams
For more thoughts on reading, visit this week's One Deep Breath.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
S(k)inful thoughts
Start with this post over at Pocket Myriad. It's what jump-started this particular musing. The first paragraph set my mind to wandering.
Okay, now that you've read it, let's begin. And if you didn't, go back..you need to or this may not make much sense.
PocketMyriad's reminder of the fact that the skin is the largest organ of the human body set me to thinking about the way I (physically) feel some emotions on my skin. I wrote in my previous post about how I feel my writing in my skin, like electricity. That's not the only thing I feel on my skin.
When I'm upset or angry, my skin feels physically raw. I remember taking a friend with me to pick up things from the house of an ex-boyfriend who had ended the relationship very harshly. When this friend leaned over to touch my shoulder to comfort me, I jerked away, the way you might if someone touches a burn...I literally hurt to the touch.
Happiness feels like soft cool grass in my parents' backyard. I love to lay (lie?) in the grass and doze on a not-too-warm day. Usually, I start out reading out there, but I always wind up with the book on my chest, or my face on the book.
I'm discovering what love really feels like, on my skin. It's an interesting process because the feeling changes on me and it's honestly very new to me. Sometimes, it feels like...well...you know those boxes with the pins in them and you can press something into the pins and leave the shaped impression? You know..everyone does their face or their hand...it's "desk junk." If I could find a picture, I'd show you. (Take that as an open invitation to help me, if you can, please!) Anyway, sometimes it feels like I'm in a human-body size one of those boxes. Other times, it feels like the velvety leaves of my violets--soft and safe, and comforting (I inherited the violets from my grandmother). Lately, I've noticed a new feeling--it feels like the tingle I get on my tongue when I smoke a menthol clove cigarette (which is a favorite new--occasional--vice, thanks to The Man.). It feels cool and a little exciting. Hm..and it's touched with a bit of that skin-prickly feeling that I'm doing something naughty. Like I still sometimes feel when I have a cigarette, even though I used to smoke a pack and a half a day. Normally, not being able to "name" one sensation to go with an emotion would drive me crazy...but I'm enjoying this evolution for a multitude of reasons.
Switch gears...I promise the rest of this is connected.
I had a date with a guy a couple years ago who seemed great. Then the date happened. Oh my. His choice of dinner conversation was...awful.
Sex. And not just sex in a general way, though he did manage to talk about it academically for a bit. No, he proceeded to give me a run-down of how great his former girlfriends thought he was, how no one ever left unsatisfied, and "trust me..never had to fake it." I got details---"and then I'd..."---and was asked personal questions---"so if I touched you..."---that I didn't answer. Not because I refused to answer, but because he wouldn't give me a chance. I'm shy and don't particularly like confrontation, and often do just bear a situation rather than speak up. So, I sat there very interested in my food and silently willing the waiter to come back by so I could order another margarita and maybe drown my disgust.
Finally, he took a deep breath and said "So..tell me what you like." I let him have it. I assumed a husky, throaty voice, looked him in the eyes and said, "Well, what I really, really like is....a man who really understands how a woman's body works." He was nodding enthusiastically already. Puh-lease. "I'm gonna do you a favor, honey, and let you in on a little secret...and please think of this as a Public Service Announcement. I really love a man who understands that the largest sexual organ in a woman's body is between her ears, not her legs. And if you ever hope to really satisfy a woman's needs, you've got to get inside her head first." I then excused myself to the restroom before I could get too tacky. When I returned, he was gone. Oh darn.
Anyway, that PSA I gave him is SO true, and not just for me. Women tend to be less visceral about sex and men tend to have a hard time understanding that. It's why lots of women are more likely to read erotica than watch porn. Don't get me wrong, the physical aspects are wonderful, but women often find themselves needing more than just the physical, they need the intellectual side of it, the brainy sex, the feeling that we're here because you want the total package, not just the sex. It's not just about the skin.
So, with all that said...and thinking about synaesthesia, and skin, and...hmm...I better stop. Some things I just can't share, even with the relative anonymity of this blog. Sorry. *grin*
For other thoughts and feelings about skin, visit this week's Sunday Scribblings.
Okay, now that you've read it, let's begin. And if you didn't, go back..you need to or this may not make much sense.
PocketMyriad's reminder of the fact that the skin is the largest organ of the human body set me to thinking about the way I (physically) feel some emotions on my skin. I wrote in my previous post about how I feel my writing in my skin, like electricity. That's not the only thing I feel on my skin.
When I'm upset or angry, my skin feels physically raw. I remember taking a friend with me to pick up things from the house of an ex-boyfriend who had ended the relationship very harshly. When this friend leaned over to touch my shoulder to comfort me, I jerked away, the way you might if someone touches a burn...I literally hurt to the touch.
Happiness feels like soft cool grass in my parents' backyard. I love to lay (lie?) in the grass and doze on a not-too-warm day. Usually, I start out reading out there, but I always wind up with the book on my chest, or my face on the book.
I'm discovering what love really feels like, on my skin. It's an interesting process because the feeling changes on me and it's honestly very new to me. Sometimes, it feels like...well...you know those boxes with the pins in them and you can press something into the pins and leave the shaped impression? You know..everyone does their face or their hand...it's "desk junk." If I could find a picture, I'd show you. (Take that as an open invitation to help me, if you can, please!) Anyway, sometimes it feels like I'm in a human-body size one of those boxes. Other times, it feels like the velvety leaves of my violets--soft and safe, and comforting (I inherited the violets from my grandmother). Lately, I've noticed a new feeling--it feels like the tingle I get on my tongue when I smoke a menthol clove cigarette (which is a favorite new--occasional--vice, thanks to The Man.). It feels cool and a little exciting. Hm..and it's touched with a bit of that skin-prickly feeling that I'm doing something naughty. Like I still sometimes feel when I have a cigarette, even though I used to smoke a pack and a half a day. Normally, not being able to "name" one sensation to go with an emotion would drive me crazy...but I'm enjoying this evolution for a multitude of reasons.
Switch gears...I promise the rest of this is connected.
I had a date with a guy a couple years ago who seemed great. Then the date happened. Oh my. His choice of dinner conversation was...awful.
Sex. And not just sex in a general way, though he did manage to talk about it academically for a bit. No, he proceeded to give me a run-down of how great his former girlfriends thought he was, how no one ever left unsatisfied, and "trust me..never had to fake it." I got details---"and then I'd..."---and was asked personal questions---"so if I touched you..."---that I didn't answer. Not because I refused to answer, but because he wouldn't give me a chance. I'm shy and don't particularly like confrontation, and often do just bear a situation rather than speak up. So, I sat there very interested in my food and silently willing the waiter to come back by so I could order another margarita and maybe drown my disgust.
Finally, he took a deep breath and said "So..tell me what you like." I let him have it. I assumed a husky, throaty voice, looked him in the eyes and said, "Well, what I really, really like is....a man who really understands how a woman's body works." He was nodding enthusiastically already. Puh-lease. "I'm gonna do you a favor, honey, and let you in on a little secret...and please think of this as a Public Service Announcement. I really love a man who understands that the largest sexual organ in a woman's body is between her ears, not her legs. And if you ever hope to really satisfy a woman's needs, you've got to get inside her head first." I then excused myself to the restroom before I could get too tacky. When I returned, he was gone. Oh darn.
Anyway, that PSA I gave him is SO true, and not just for me. Women tend to be less visceral about sex and men tend to have a hard time understanding that. It's why lots of women are more likely to read erotica than watch porn. Don't get me wrong, the physical aspects are wonderful, but women often find themselves needing more than just the physical, they need the intellectual side of it, the brainy sex, the feeling that we're here because you want the total package, not just the sex. It's not just about the skin.
So, with all that said...and thinking about synaesthesia, and skin, and...hmm...I better stop. Some things I just can't share, even with the relative anonymity of this blog. Sorry. *grin*
For other thoughts and feelings about skin, visit this week's Sunday Scribblings.
Synaesthesia
The prompt at Poetry Thursday this week was about bringing synaesthesia into poetry. In short, synaesthesia is a neurological condition in which the senses are coupled--so that one a person's perception of something with one sense is always connected with another sense. Hm..I'm not sure I got that down clearly. Check out this 'article.'
Anyway, I really thought I could run with this one. I read a book this summer called Blue Cats and Chartreuse Kittens which was about synaesthesia, particularly one woman's experience. It's fascinating.
I played with stuff all week..all week. I honestly think I've got a touch of synaesthesia, so I thought this would be so much easier for me than it has been. I think I'm just too focused on some other things that are distinctly not poetic this week.
So, I'm thinking about my writing. It's gotten better, more prolific the last few months. I thank the creative writing blogs and prompts that I've run across for inspiring me. I also attribute it to the people who have positively commented on what I have dared to post--wow, it's amazing what a little ego-stroking will inspire. Of course, at least some of the blame for my recent surge of writing can be placed on The Man--happiness will do that to a girl, you know?
But this post is supposed to be about synaesthesia. Allegedly. In thinking of my writing...one thing comes to mind.
When I write, really write, I feel the words on my skin. But I feel the words long before I "get" them. It's like static electricity. You know, when you get that little bit of a tingle on your skin and the hairs on your arm stand up a little bit--that feeling the kids giggle about when you do the balloon trick. It's how I know something's cooking, something's stirring.
When the words come, it's more intense. You know the feeling of the electricity in the air during a lightning storm? When the air is charged and you get the feeling that lightning could literally strike at any second, right near you? You can hear and feel the buzz and almost taste something a little coppery in the air. (Well, I can). I get that feeling when the words come at me. Sometimes, it's easy, like a slow-building rain storm. Other times, it's like it hits me...like those huge crashes of thunder your aren't expecting and shake the house, setting you off-balance for just a few seconds. Sometimes those nearly violent ones are God-sends, other times I want to run and hide.
For other thoughts about synaesthesia, visit this week's Poetry Thursday: a feast of the senses
Anyway, I really thought I could run with this one. I read a book this summer called Blue Cats and Chartreuse Kittens which was about synaesthesia, particularly one woman's experience. It's fascinating.
I played with stuff all week..all week. I honestly think I've got a touch of synaesthesia, so I thought this would be so much easier for me than it has been. I think I'm just too focused on some other things that are distinctly not poetic this week.
So, I'm thinking about my writing. It's gotten better, more prolific the last few months. I thank the creative writing blogs and prompts that I've run across for inspiring me. I also attribute it to the people who have positively commented on what I have dared to post--wow, it's amazing what a little ego-stroking will inspire. Of course, at least some of the blame for my recent surge of writing can be placed on The Man--happiness will do that to a girl, you know?
But this post is supposed to be about synaesthesia. Allegedly. In thinking of my writing...one thing comes to mind.
When I write, really write, I feel the words on my skin. But I feel the words long before I "get" them. It's like static electricity. You know, when you get that little bit of a tingle on your skin and the hairs on your arm stand up a little bit--that feeling the kids giggle about when you do the balloon trick. It's how I know something's cooking, something's stirring.
When the words come, it's more intense. You know the feeling of the electricity in the air during a lightning storm? When the air is charged and you get the feeling that lightning could literally strike at any second, right near you? You can hear and feel the buzz and almost taste something a little coppery in the air. (Well, I can). I get that feeling when the words come at me. Sometimes, it's easy, like a slow-building rain storm. Other times, it's like it hits me...like those huge crashes of thunder your aren't expecting and shake the house, setting you off-balance for just a few seconds. Sometimes those nearly violent ones are God-sends, other times I want to run and hide.
For other thoughts about synaesthesia, visit this week's Poetry Thursday: a feast of the senses
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Windows & Doorways
This is my favorite picture of The WonderDog. My mother took it and he's actually staring out the door I just left through and crying.
I guess at this point, I'd had him about a year, maybe a little more and we were in hopeless "puppy-mommy" love. I've always been a dog person and can't imagine any home of mine without a dog (it was so hard those years before WonderDog!).
All of this to set up a poem that has nothing to do with WonderDog or dogs in general. *Grin*
Eyes out the window
running through dreams far more grand
than the day inside.
The last couple of days have been pretty, and I've been stuck inside. I have windows...that look out over a beautiful...hallway crowded with students.
Check out other poetry at One Deep Breath.
Instructions....
The prompt at Sunday Scribblings (which I'm doing on a Tuesday) is about writing instructions. The first thing that's come to mind everytime I read the prompt since it was posted (on Friday) is the song by The Fray "How to Save a Life." The lyrics are here It's haunting, for reasons I can't explain or understand.
I have a hard time with instructions. I don't always follow them. I don't know why. If I'm putting something together, or dealing with a difficult recipe, then sure I follow them. But when it comes to other things, I have a hard time with it.
Maybe I don't like the constraints.
Ok, I know I don't like constraints. A friend used to tell me "you can tell me to do something or how to do something, but not both." Hehe...I can't manage that either. If I ask you to do something for me, I'm likely to do the back seat driver bit as well. I try to hold my tongue, but yeah...that don't always work.
There's a fine line between instructions and parameters, I think. Tell me something I'm supposed to do and what the box the finished product should be in looks like but don't tell me how to get it in the box. (ooo, wordy). I'll get ya there, my way, in my time. Just wait.
For other thoughts on instructions, check out Sunday Scribblings.
I have a hard time with instructions. I don't always follow them. I don't know why. If I'm putting something together, or dealing with a difficult recipe, then sure I follow them. But when it comes to other things, I have a hard time with it.
Maybe I don't like the constraints.
Ok, I know I don't like constraints. A friend used to tell me "you can tell me to do something or how to do something, but not both." Hehe...I can't manage that either. If I ask you to do something for me, I'm likely to do the back seat driver bit as well. I try to hold my tongue, but yeah...that don't always work.
There's a fine line between instructions and parameters, I think. Tell me something I'm supposed to do and what the box the finished product should be in looks like but don't tell me how to get it in the box. (ooo, wordy). I'll get ya there, my way, in my time. Just wait.
For other thoughts on instructions, check out Sunday Scribblings.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
'Delicious Autumn?' What're you thinkin'?
I live on the Gulf Coast of Texas. We joke that we only have 2 seasons around here--summer and something that's not summer OR one of the other 3 recognized seasons. It doesn't really cool off around here until December, and sometimes not even then. I've got pictures of me riding my bike on Christmas Day in two different years. One year, I'm bundled head to toe. The other, I'm in shorts.
That leads me to...
Wish it would cool off,
leaves would change, be nice out, but
no such luck 'round here.
and
In Texas, leaves do change.
From bright green to dirty brown
No reds, or oranges here.
Check out other posts about Autumn at One Deep Breath.
That leads me to...
Wish it would cool off,
leaves would change, be nice out, but
no such luck 'round here.
and
In Texas, leaves do change.
From bright green to dirty brown
No reds, or oranges here.
Check out other posts about Autumn at One Deep Breath.
In my own head...
Okay, so this week, I'm cheating a bit..again. (I call it cheating if I never manage a poem for the prompt.) I wrote the post here last week, in a response to a conversation I had with someone important to me.
For other offerings about a poet's voice, check out Poetry Thursday.
For other offerings about a poet's voice, check out Poetry Thursday.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Easy Bake Oven
This week over at Sunday Scribblings, the prompt is to write about something we've researched. I've spent all week coming up blank. This morning, I was still at a loss.
So, I've been rereading some things on my blogs, looking at some other things, thinking about the evening I had with The Man last night (mmm), and cuddling with the WonderDog, thinking about my upcoming birthday. And it's come to me.
Easy Bake Ovens.
(I'm sure The Man is thrilled that thoughts of last night have led me to thinking about Easy Bake Ovens. I don't think there's really a connection, I'm just a little more A.D.D. this morning than usual.)
The one I played with when I was little looked like this, except I think it was more yellow. I got it as a hand me down from a neighbor girl. I can remember making peanut butter cookies in it ALL THE TIME. I loved it.
I've been thinking about it again. They're so cool now! Like the Oven and Snack Center and the Real Meal Oven. Way neater than what I had when I was little.
And there's even gourment cookbooks to use with your Easy Bake. Like this one with a recipe from Bobby Flay (they're right..I didn't know my Easy Bake could make food like this!), or the official one from Hasbro.
Websites are posting Easy Bake recipes, too. Take a look at cake mix replacement recipes at The FUN Place.
There's also The Cooking Inn recipes
Gluten-free recipes on this site.
I still think this would be an awesome gift to get. I can only imagine how much fun I'd have. teehee.
For more writings, that are probably more intellectual, check out Sunday Scribblings.
So, I've been rereading some things on my blogs, looking at some other things, thinking about the evening I had with The Man last night (mmm), and cuddling with the WonderDog, thinking about my upcoming birthday. And it's come to me.
Easy Bake Ovens.
(I'm sure The Man is thrilled that thoughts of last night have led me to thinking about Easy Bake Ovens. I don't think there's really a connection, I'm just a little more A.D.D. this morning than usual.)
The one I played with when I was little looked like this, except I think it was more yellow. I got it as a hand me down from a neighbor girl. I can remember making peanut butter cookies in it ALL THE TIME. I loved it.
I've been thinking about it again. They're so cool now! Like the Oven and Snack Center and the Real Meal Oven. Way neater than what I had when I was little.
And there's even gourment cookbooks to use with your Easy Bake. Like this one with a recipe from Bobby Flay (they're right..I didn't know my Easy Bake could make food like this!), or the official one from Hasbro.
Websites are posting Easy Bake recipes, too. Take a look at cake mix replacement recipes at The FUN Place.
There's also The Cooking Inn recipes
Gluten-free recipes on this site.
I still think this would be an awesome gift to get. I can only imagine how much fun I'd have. teehee.
For more writings, that are probably more intellectual, check out Sunday Scribblings.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Why I must write
I read something tonight that just defined my writing life.
I didn't write it. But I wish I had. I wish I'd been able to voice the need the way this writer did.
Read it here....3am Scribblings.
I didn't write it. But I wish I had. I wish I'd been able to voice the need the way this writer did.
Read it here....3am Scribblings.
And here's my comment.
Wow. Beautiful poem, or mantra, or whatever. For the record, poetry is defined only by the writer--if you think it is, then it is. Worry about form some other time. *grin*
LOVE this line..."...if sanity is to be achieved..."
I started writing, seriously in high school. Then stopped at 20 (during that 'blank' spot in my memory). I came back to it about 4 years ago. And even more so, seriously so, since May. I'd realized that I was avoiding myself, and doing so, for me, incited insanity.
This is how I release the pent up anger, pain, love (since I can't yet say that to The Man). Your mantra captured why I must write. Thank you.
Tanka
Over at One Deep Breath this week, the prompt is to write tanka, which is...
A Japanese verse form in five lines, the first and third composed of five syllables and the rest of seven.[Japanese.] (That means a 5-7-5-7-7 structure.) American Heritage Dictionary
I lurve playing with form. Like other writers I imagine, my writing notebooks/spirals/journals/grocery store receipts are full of bits that have the same words in various arrangements. I rearrange and rearrange until the breaking mimic my thoughts. And sometimes, until the shape on the page feels right.
Several of you, dear readers, may have noticed I don't follow directions very well...but when it comes to physical poetic structure (like syllables on a line), I'm excited by the challenge. I may still run amok with the rules of content, but I can't follow all the rules, now can I? (I love that word--"amok.")
Anyway, here's my offering. This one came way easier than anything I've written for any of these prompts lately.
Smiling local girl
big dreams in a small, small world,
faith in the future.
Waiting on the spin to stop.
Waiting on the spin to stop, for her.
A Japanese verse form in five lines, the first and third composed of five syllables and the rest of seven.[Japanese.] (That means a 5-7-5-7-7 structure.) American Heritage Dictionary
I lurve playing with form. Like other writers I imagine, my writing notebooks/spirals/journals/grocery store receipts are full of bits that have the same words in various arrangements. I rearrange and rearrange until the breaking mimic my thoughts. And sometimes, until the shape on the page feels right.
Several of you, dear readers, may have noticed I don't follow directions very well...but when it comes to physical poetic structure (like syllables on a line), I'm excited by the challenge. I may still run amok with the rules of content, but I can't follow all the rules, now can I? (I love that word--"amok.")
Anyway, here's my offering. This one came way easier than anything I've written for any of these prompts lately.
Smiling local girl
big dreams in a small, small world,
faith in the future.
Waiting on the spin to stop.
Waiting on the spin to stop, for her.
Check out more tanka, and other poetry, at One Deep Breath.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Solitude
From the American Heritage Dictionary:
sol·i·tude n.
1. The state or quality of being alone or remote from others.
2. A lonely or secluded place.
No one may visit
the navy moments. Quiet--
hear, feel, the silence.
(I suggest reading a couple of posts down to catch the 'navy' reference.)
And...
Solitude.....pull me
out of solitary dark,
back to light, to life.
For more thoughts on solitude, visit One Deep Breath.
Well I never!
I never thought I'd write non-fiction. Well, not anything more than the training/semi-technical lessons I write for work or these blog posts. Non-fiction isn't my preferred reading material, unless it's a good biography or from some part of history I'm particularly taken with (right now, that would be royal Tudor England and the Salem Witch Trials). Non-fiction to me seems to take so much work. Checking facts, researching, organizing...ugh. Yes, I'm a librarian and researching really is my shtick, but that's work. Yes, I realize fiction writers put in a lot of research hours, depending on their story line.
Writing for me is has always been about release, escape. I don't want it to feel like work. I've never been drawn to writing something so involved that I have to do a lot of research to get the settings, situations, or details right.
But then, I started reading pieces of creative non-fiction. Oh this is so me. So...here's the first bit of what I've been working on. I've posted it before..a few weeks back. But since I've gained all kinds of new connections (readers), let's see what you think of it now...
Anywhere else wouldn't make sense.
I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. My parents still live there.
My mother would kill me if she knew I'd told you that.
Maybe I should explain. In my hometown, there is no "wrong" side of the tracks. There's the side where everything is—grocery stores, banks, fast food joints—and the side where everything isn't. It just happened that way, no particular reason. I grew up on the empty side.
When I was little, and the world consisted of school and the neighborhood, I didn't notice or care. Kids are like that. Sixteen year olds are not. Suddenly, upon reaching that magic freedom age, the world multiplies in size. And living on the wrong side crimps your style. Inevitably, the people you want to pass your time with aren't over "here." No, they're over "there" - with stuff to do and knowing glances.
Life lesson number one--you need to figure out on which side the world says you're supposed to be. You don't have to agree, of course.
For more things people never thought they'd write, visit this week's offerings at Sunday Scribblings.
Writing for me is has always been about release, escape. I don't want it to feel like work. I've never been drawn to writing something so involved that I have to do a lot of research to get the settings, situations, or details right.
But then, I started reading pieces of creative non-fiction. Oh this is so me. So...here's the first bit of what I've been working on. I've posted it before..a few weeks back. But since I've gained all kinds of new connections (readers), let's see what you think of it now...
Anywhere else wouldn't make sense.
I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. My parents still live there.
My mother would kill me if she knew I'd told you that.
Maybe I should explain. In my hometown, there is no "wrong" side of the tracks. There's the side where everything is—grocery stores, banks, fast food joints—and the side where everything isn't. It just happened that way, no particular reason. I grew up on the empty side.
When I was little, and the world consisted of school and the neighborhood, I didn't notice or care. Kids are like that. Sixteen year olds are not. Suddenly, upon reaching that magic freedom age, the world multiplies in size. And living on the wrong side crimps your style. Inevitably, the people you want to pass your time with aren't over "here." No, they're over "there" - with stuff to do and knowing glances.
Life lesson number one--you need to figure out on which side the world says you're supposed to be. You don't have to agree, of course.
For more things people never thought they'd write, visit this week's offerings at Sunday Scribblings.
Blue?
The Poetry Thursday prompt this week was "blue." I danced around it all week. I thought about the implied meanings in the color blue---sadness, calm (well, some shades), water, sky.
I looked at the sky Wednesday night and thought about how it perfectly matched the color my brother's eyes--this amazing midnight blue crayon color. He has this stained glass look to his eyes, but all in midnight blue.
I thought about my own emotions, and how I can't remember ever thinking of any one of them as anything but a shade of blue. From periwinkle to midnight to electric to cadet (yes, I know my crayon box very well).
I looked around my house, at all the blue in my furniture and decorations, and how, though I love other colors more than blue, blue is the one I seek for comfort.
So, I got around to this. I've never titled a poem before, but this one I thought needed something.
All My World
Needing the world to stop~~navy
Looking for escape~~wild blue yonder
Creature comforts...connection with my family~~midnight
What I feel with him~~blue violet
Day in, day out drudgery~~cadet
At peace~~robin's egg
Check out the colors I mentioned, and others at the Crayola site.
For more blue poetry, visit Poetry Thursday.
I looked at the sky Wednesday night and thought about how it perfectly matched the color my brother's eyes--this amazing midnight blue crayon color. He has this stained glass look to his eyes, but all in midnight blue.
I thought about my own emotions, and how I can't remember ever thinking of any one of them as anything but a shade of blue. From periwinkle to midnight to electric to cadet (yes, I know my crayon box very well).
I looked around my house, at all the blue in my furniture and decorations, and how, though I love other colors more than blue, blue is the one I seek for comfort.
So, I got around to this. I've never titled a poem before, but this one I thought needed something.
All My World
Needing the world to stop~~navy
Looking for escape~~wild blue yonder
Creature comforts...connection with my family~~midnight
What I feel with him~~blue violet
Day in, day out drudgery~~cadet
At peace~~robin's egg
Check out the colors I mentioned, and others at the Crayola site.
For more blue poetry, visit Poetry Thursday.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Anti-wisdom
Over the summer, I went to lunch with my mother a few times. Almost always Chinese food. That boggles my mind--when I was growing up, she flat refused to ever eat Chinese food. I don't know what happened.
Once, as we argued over the check, we cracked open our fortune cookies. Hers was something appropriately fortune-like.
Mine said "You will be successful."
I thought I was. Well, am. Anyway, I didn't think it was a "future" event. I mean, yes, I'd like to be successful in my future (in those things that are important to me), but I'd like for it to be a continuation of my current success. Not something new that I haven't experienced before.
Success is a personal thing, for me. A very large part of me doesn't care one bit if anyone else ever notices it. I don't need someone praising me for all I've done/accomplished.
That doesn't mean I don't want it now and again. There's a part of me (like in every human) that wants everyone to see it and acknowledge it. I want someone tell me they're proud of me, that whatever wonderful thing I've been granted is "great." There's nothing wrong with that.
I put my whole self into the things I do, and I like that be noticed sometimes. I guess, for as self-sufficient as I like to think I am (success-wise, at least), I'm not. That's okay, though. Humans weren't meant to do it all on their own, were they?
For more fortune cookie thoughts, visit Sunday Scribblings.
Once, as we argued over the check, we cracked open our fortune cookies. Hers was something appropriately fortune-like.
Mine said "You will be successful."
I thought I was. Well, am. Anyway, I didn't think it was a "future" event. I mean, yes, I'd like to be successful in my future (in those things that are important to me), but I'd like for it to be a continuation of my current success. Not something new that I haven't experienced before.
Success is a personal thing, for me. A very large part of me doesn't care one bit if anyone else ever notices it. I don't need someone praising me for all I've done/accomplished.
That doesn't mean I don't want it now and again. There's a part of me (like in every human) that wants everyone to see it and acknowledge it. I want someone tell me they're proud of me, that whatever wonderful thing I've been granted is "great." There's nothing wrong with that.
I put my whole self into the things I do, and I like that be noticed sometimes. I guess, for as self-sufficient as I like to think I am (success-wise, at least), I'm not. That's okay, though. Humans weren't meant to do it all on their own, were they?
For more fortune cookie thoughts, visit Sunday Scribblings.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
A steady beat
Music is essential in my life. A song brings back everything--memories, perspective, smiles, pain. When asked if I'd rather give up my sight or my hearing (if I had to choose), I pick sight every time. I know I could get by, and though it would hurt to not physically see the people I love, I think I'd be driven insane if I couldn't hear music. Oh, and the voices of the people I love, of course.
That's why I love music ring tones. I like having a fun thought of the person attached to the ringer when he or she calls. For my mother, I hear Merle Haggard's "Mama Tried." It used to be Ozzy's "Mama, I'm ComingHome." Teehee...my mother finds Ozzy deplorable.
For The Man, I have Christina Aguilera's new one "Ain't No Other Man." Early last Saturday, he sent me a text. I woke to his song, crying before I registered I was awake. It was the first time in just over a week he'd contacted me. I'd thought he was gone and I'd been sick with hurting. When the music started, my heart caught and I couldn't pick up the phone.
Phone rings--rockin' beat
wakes me, brings on tears. Release.
Sobbing, but hope springs.
You couldn't know. 'Ain't
no other man' hurt like you.
Better loving, now.
We're better now..still testing waters, tasting at love. But it's so much better this week.
The prompt this week for One Deep Breath was about the sound of music. Read more offerings here.
That's why I love music ring tones. I like having a fun thought of the person attached to the ringer when he or she calls. For my mother, I hear Merle Haggard's "Mama Tried." It used to be Ozzy's "Mama, I'm ComingHome." Teehee...my mother finds Ozzy deplorable.
For The Man, I have Christina Aguilera's new one "Ain't No Other Man." Early last Saturday, he sent me a text. I woke to his song, crying before I registered I was awake. It was the first time in just over a week he'd contacted me. I'd thought he was gone and I'd been sick with hurting. When the music started, my heart caught and I couldn't pick up the phone.
Phone rings--rockin' beat
wakes me, brings on tears. Release.
Sobbing, but hope springs.
You couldn't know. 'Ain't
no other man' hurt like you.
Better loving, now.
We're better now..still testing waters, tasting at love. But it's so much better this week.
The prompt this week for One Deep Breath was about the sound of music. Read more offerings here.
The Monster...
Hi. My name is Jayne, and I'm afraid of the dark.
Really. This isn't just a matter of not being all that comfortable in dark spaces. It's a fear.
I have night lights in my bedroom. And a small lamp that's on all night.
I can't sleep if the closet or bathroom door is open.
I never, ever, get into or out of my bed when the lights are off. Even then, I tend to avoid the space under the bed.
When I do crawl in bed, there are rules: 1) Sleep only happens in the middle of the bed. 2)My ears must be covered. 3) At no point should any of my body not be on the bed.
There are flashlights and candles within easy reach in every room of my apartment.
I guess, thinking about it now, it's really a fear of being alone in the dark. If someone else is around, I'm better. Not nearly as bothered by it. If curled up with The Man, I'll even sleep in the pitch black of his bedroom. If I were alone in his room, I wouldn't sleep at all.
I don't remember it being this bad after I was about 8. I've never particularly liked the dark, but I was no more uneasy than any other normal person. But I dealt.
Then, when I was 20, the only time in my life I can't recall anything about happened. I won't go into the details, because frankly I don't know them. I know what happened because of what I was told and dealt with later, but the specifics of the actual event are encapsulated in my memory. Completely walled off from the rest of my conscious mind. When I try to recall that time, there's a hole. I liken it to blacking out. Time passes, you might even be involved in the activities, but you register nothing.
So, for me, being afraid of the dark is a manifestation of my fears of that time. I know what happened that night, but only from what others told me. I have no working knowledge or memory of my own. It's a dark space in my mind. It's my monster in the corner.
Visit Sunday Scribblings for more offerings about monsters.
Really. This isn't just a matter of not being all that comfortable in dark spaces. It's a fear.
I have night lights in my bedroom. And a small lamp that's on all night.
I can't sleep if the closet or bathroom door is open.
I never, ever, get into or out of my bed when the lights are off. Even then, I tend to avoid the space under the bed.
When I do crawl in bed, there are rules: 1) Sleep only happens in the middle of the bed. 2)My ears must be covered. 3) At no point should any of my body not be on the bed.
There are flashlights and candles within easy reach in every room of my apartment.
I guess, thinking about it now, it's really a fear of being alone in the dark. If someone else is around, I'm better. Not nearly as bothered by it. If curled up with The Man, I'll even sleep in the pitch black of his bedroom. If I were alone in his room, I wouldn't sleep at all.
I don't remember it being this bad after I was about 8. I've never particularly liked the dark, but I was no more uneasy than any other normal person. But I dealt.
Then, when I was 20, the only time in my life I can't recall anything about happened. I won't go into the details, because frankly I don't know them. I know what happened because of what I was told and dealt with later, but the specifics of the actual event are encapsulated in my memory. Completely walled off from the rest of my conscious mind. When I try to recall that time, there's a hole. I liken it to blacking out. Time passes, you might even be involved in the activities, but you register nothing.
So, for me, being afraid of the dark is a manifestation of my fears of that time. I know what happened that night, but only from what others told me. I have no working knowledge or memory of my own. It's a dark space in my mind. It's my monster in the corner.
Visit Sunday Scribblings for more offerings about monsters.
Listening for the tock
I wrote this earlier in the summer, when I looked at my summer schedule and realized I had exactly 11 days I hadn't scheduled anything on. For those of you that don't know, I'm a public school librarian. I'm not required to work all summer long, or even into the summer. Until this year, I did make it a point to go in every couple of weeks and sort the mail (which piles high in a week's time). This summer, I taught 2 sessions of summer school speech, went on a trip for church, visited the various and sundry doctors, and was at school quite a few days going over the renovation work in my library. I'd actually scheduled away my whole summer break.
Tick....tick....tick.....
goes the clock.
Ain't there supposed to be a 'tock' somewhere?
Seems like I learned that once
before.
But who has time to listen for it?
My other blog is "The Clock is Ticking." I tell people that I don't mean that clock--the one my mother claims should be getting louder for me by now. And really, I don't. I mean time is passing. And I've been letting it race by while I've packed my days. "Downtime is wasted time."
It's only been in the six weeks or so that I've been selfish with my time. I blame it on The Man (who, if you're following our story--which I'll admit I don't keep updated well--is back in the picture. Thank God.). Never before have I found myself sitting still, when I knew I had other things that needed doing.
I catch myself listening for the tock.
For other thoughts and ideas on the idea of time, visit Poetry Thursday.
Tick....tick....tick.....
goes the clock.
Ain't there supposed to be a 'tock' somewhere?
Seems like I learned that once
before.
But who has time to listen for it?
My other blog is "The Clock is Ticking." I tell people that I don't mean that clock--the one my mother claims should be getting louder for me by now. And really, I don't. I mean time is passing. And I've been letting it race by while I've packed my days. "Downtime is wasted time."
It's only been in the six weeks or so that I've been selfish with my time. I blame it on The Man (who, if you're following our story--which I'll admit I don't keep updated well--is back in the picture. Thank God.). Never before have I found myself sitting still, when I knew I had other things that needed doing.
I catch myself listening for the tock.
For other thoughts and ideas on the idea of time, visit Poetry Thursday.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Words in the rough
Hmm...I don't know how much I like that particular title. It just feels to me like my writing is always in the rough. My words come at me in a wild attack. Sometimes they hurt---like the utterly angry things I wrote this weekend about The Man (note to self--screw men. No, really, screw 'em all. Who the hell needs 'em?). Sometimes, they bowl me over in a rush of love and laughter, like when The WonderDog barrels down the stairs into my arms. On the rarest of occasions, they whisper-step up to me and calm me. I love words.
Over at Poetry Thursday, the prompt this week is whatever you want. I've never liked open-ended assignments. Even when it comes to writing. Give me some guidelines--a page, theme, single word or idea I'm supposed to state or allude to...HELP! Don't just throw me to the wolves---um...out into the wild. Hm.
But here is what I want to share. My new friend Jason is quickly becoming one of my favorite people. He's even stepped up the last few days and given me an ear, a shoulder...whatever. A few weeks ago he shared some of his writing with me. One of them sent images to attack me. The opening lines are:
Clutching the broken fragments of glass
I bleed through my scattered faces
I could see it. The whole poem, stretched out in a black and white photograph before me. I loved it. The image I had in my head took my breath away, captured so many things. I wrote and told him he needed to illustrate some of his poetry with his original photographs (which are beautiful). I do wish he would.
I've requested permission to share the whole poem, should he give it, I'll update this post. It's...ugh...amazing.
UPDATE: Mere minutes after the initial posting of this, permission came through. Bless you, Jason.
(no title)
Clutching the broken fragments of glass
I bleed through my scattered faces
a handful of eyes looking back at me -
more imposing than the pair I so recently destroyed.
It was a weakness, a panic,
a fear of my own self-worth.
I could have turned out the light
or simply walked away, but
I stayed to fight.
I chose to kill,
and now my reflection
sits back and laughs
as I soak in defeat.
Over at Poetry Thursday, the prompt this week is whatever you want. I've never liked open-ended assignments. Even when it comes to writing. Give me some guidelines--a page, theme, single word or idea I'm supposed to state or allude to...HELP! Don't just throw me to the wolves---um...out into the wild. Hm.
But here is what I want to share. My new friend Jason is quickly becoming one of my favorite people. He's even stepped up the last few days and given me an ear, a shoulder...whatever. A few weeks ago he shared some of his writing with me. One of them sent images to attack me. The opening lines are:
Clutching the broken fragments of glass
I bleed through my scattered faces
I could see it. The whole poem, stretched out in a black and white photograph before me. I loved it. The image I had in my head took my breath away, captured so many things. I wrote and told him he needed to illustrate some of his poetry with his original photographs (which are beautiful). I do wish he would.
I've requested permission to share the whole poem, should he give it, I'll update this post. It's...ugh...amazing.
UPDATE: Mere minutes after the initial posting of this, permission came through. Bless you, Jason.
(no title)
Clutching the broken fragments of glass
I bleed through my scattered faces
a handful of eyes looking back at me -
more imposing than the pair I so recently destroyed.
It was a weakness, a panic,
a fear of my own self-worth.
I could have turned out the light
or simply walked away, but
I stayed to fight.
I chose to kill,
and now my reflection
sits back and laughs
as I soak in defeat.
aaahhh
Hm...playing today with a haiku prompt at One Deep Breath. This week, it's "Coffee & Tea."
Warmth and peace, steeping
in a quiet cup at home.
Recharge, refresh...aaaah.
Warmth and peace, steeping
in a quiet cup at home.
Recharge, refresh...aaaah.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Soundtrack
Music has been a huge part of my life. It's a refuge for me, an escape, and to some extent a magic elixir. It's brought on much needed tears, and chased them away.
This week's Poetry Thursday prompt was about songs. As silly as it sounds in my head--songs really do sing to us. Rather than write about any one particular song, I thought I'd share with you the soundtrack for my life right now. (Each of these links points to the video. Sorry they're a bit convoluted. The javascript links didn't want to work.)
Rascal Flatts - Bless The Broken Road
Okay, so I've been down some rough roads the last several years. Life's very sweet these days and I'm feeling so happy and blessed. Obviously, this has a lot to do with The Man right now. We've both been down some less than stellar roads in our lives. But it's smoothing out.
Pussycat Dolls - Buttons F/ Snoop Dogg
I'm really lovin' this song right now. It's H-O-T. (geez..I just said that, huh? Ugh. I've been around high school boys too long). Honestly, though, I wish I was this brave sometimes (read "not shy"). And I wouldn't be hurt one bit if I had the body of any one of those girls.
Rob Thomas - Ever The Same
This one is about R--my closest friend the last few years. Out of necessity, our relationship has changed. I don't think either of us is very happy about it. But, we'll always be important to the other. This song reminds me of that.
Christina Aguilera - Ain't No Other Man
This the ringtone on my cell for The Man. Teehee. (Please let me know if this young love crap gets sickening)
Hoobastank - If I Were You
I'm not really sure what it is about Hoobastank's song that gets me. I really like it though. Makes me think about all the things I should be doing--like appreciating some things more.
Panic! At The Disco - I Write Sins Not Tragedies
I'm not a huge Panic fan, but I like this one. The video's fabulous, visually, but I love the line "I'd chime in with a "Haven't you people ever heard of closing the g** damn door?!" There's a life lesson if I ever heard one.
Dixie Chicks - Not Ready To Make Nice
I think the jist here for me is that I'm tired of backing down and playing along. I've not been selfish with myself often enough. I've probably pissed a few people off, but oh well.
LeAnn Rimes - Something's Gotta Give
This is my life for the last couple of years. Except for the cat named Jake. *wink*
Pink - Stupid Girls
I work in a high school. It's not the girls who have good heads on their shoulders that worry me. It's the "stupid" ones.
Nickelback - Far Away
Warm fuzzies
Switchfoot - Stars
In this whole 'discovering' myself phase I'm in, this song reminds me of my place in the mystery of the world.
Gretchen Wilson - California Girls
Remember, it's okay to be yourself. Especially if that self is a little bit redneck. *wink*
For more Poetry Thursday offerings this week, click here.
This week's Poetry Thursday prompt was about songs. As silly as it sounds in my head--songs really do sing to us. Rather than write about any one particular song, I thought I'd share with you the soundtrack for my life right now. (Each of these links points to the video. Sorry they're a bit convoluted. The javascript links didn't want to work.)
Rascal Flatts - Bless The Broken Road
Okay, so I've been down some rough roads the last several years. Life's very sweet these days and I'm feeling so happy and blessed. Obviously, this has a lot to do with The Man right now. We've both been down some less than stellar roads in our lives. But it's smoothing out.
Pussycat Dolls - Buttons F/ Snoop Dogg
I'm really lovin' this song right now. It's H-O-T. (geez..I just said that, huh? Ugh. I've been around high school boys too long). Honestly, though, I wish I was this brave sometimes (read "not shy"). And I wouldn't be hurt one bit if I had the body of any one of those girls.
Rob Thomas - Ever The Same
This one is about R--my closest friend the last few years. Out of necessity, our relationship has changed. I don't think either of us is very happy about it. But, we'll always be important to the other. This song reminds me of that.
Christina Aguilera - Ain't No Other Man
This the ringtone on my cell for The Man. Teehee. (Please let me know if this young love crap gets sickening)
Hoobastank - If I Were You
I'm not really sure what it is about Hoobastank's song that gets me. I really like it though. Makes me think about all the things I should be doing--like appreciating some things more.
Panic! At The Disco - I Write Sins Not Tragedies
I'm not a huge Panic fan, but I like this one. The video's fabulous, visually, but I love the line "I'd chime in with a "Haven't you people ever heard of closing the g** damn door?!" There's a life lesson if I ever heard one.
Dixie Chicks - Not Ready To Make Nice
I think the jist here for me is that I'm tired of backing down and playing along. I've not been selfish with myself often enough. I've probably pissed a few people off, but oh well.
LeAnn Rimes - Something's Gotta Give
This is my life for the last couple of years. Except for the cat named Jake. *wink*
Pink - Stupid Girls
I work in a high school. It's not the girls who have good heads on their shoulders that worry me. It's the "stupid" ones.
Nickelback - Far Away
Warm fuzzies
Switchfoot - Stars
In this whole 'discovering' myself phase I'm in, this song reminds me of my place in the mystery of the world.
Gretchen Wilson - California Girls
Remember, it's okay to be yourself. Especially if that self is a little bit redneck. *wink*
For more Poetry Thursday offerings this week, click here.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Playing Ball
Okay, I got reminded to do something this week. I've been in Tulsa most of the week for a church conference. At one point, I ended up with free time in the (fabulous) youth area. They had one of those semi-portable basketball hoops set up in one corner and two teenagers were shooting baskets. Both boys appeared to have Downs Syndrome. Both were having the best time, coaching and cheering each other with every shot.
I was watching them, getting a lot of joy from just watching them have fun. Soon, they were casting shy glances at me. After several minutes, they invited me to join them. Now, I suck at shooting baskets. I told them I wasn't very good at all, that I'd probably be in the way. They told me it was okay, they'd help me.
I was instantly humbled. And as we played there in the youth room, so many different things happened. My tension that had hit me rather suddenly at the start of the week melted away. As I said, I was humbled being coached on the best way to shoot the ball. And we laughed and had such a good time. It was awesome.
And then, when we sat down for a break, before going back to our respective posts for the conference, I wrote for them.
Unabashed smiles, eyes
watching the ball -- swissssshhhh--REBOUND!
Reminds me to play.
I didn't manage to get their names. It wasn't important, you know? But they did so much for me.
I was watching them, getting a lot of joy from just watching them have fun. Soon, they were casting shy glances at me. After several minutes, they invited me to join them. Now, I suck at shooting baskets. I told them I wasn't very good at all, that I'd probably be in the way. They told me it was okay, they'd help me.
I was instantly humbled. And as we played there in the youth room, so many different things happened. My tension that had hit me rather suddenly at the start of the week melted away. As I said, I was humbled being coached on the best way to shoot the ball. And we laughed and had such a good time. It was awesome.
And then, when we sat down for a break, before going back to our respective posts for the conference, I wrote for them.
Unabashed smiles, eyes
watching the ball -- swissssshhhh--REBOUND!
Reminds me to play.
I didn't manage to get their names. It wasn't important, you know? But they did so much for me.
Thievin'
The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is "Thief," which can go just about anywhere.
I've been thinking a lot about stealing things the last few days, even before seeing this prompt. The last few weeks have been crazy, I can describe several things that have happened and thoughts I've had as stealing.
Wow, that last sentence is awful. Maybe I'll go back to it. Probably not.
Anyway, I need to give a run-down. I'm big into listing things right now, and have made dozens of lists for everything. I migh as well continue it here.
I've been thinking a lot about stealing things the last few days, even before seeing this prompt. The last few weeks have been crazy, I can describe several things that have happened and thoughts I've had as stealing.
Wow, that last sentence is awful. Maybe I'll go back to it. Probably not.
Anyway, I need to give a run-down. I'm big into listing things right now, and have made dozens of lists for everything. I migh as well continue it here.
- I work through the summer. I teach summer school, professional development classes, and do a bunch for my church job. I realized that this summer I've packed too much in. I've stolen my own time away. Away from deadlines, working. Time to relax. I figured it out, the first week of summer was the only full week I was not required to do anything or be anywhere.
- I've met a guy--I've commented on him in other posts. He's 'The Man.' He's amazing. I really don't have other words to describe him. It's been a long time since my attention has been drawn to a guy like this--and I don't mean just paying attention to him, I mean my thoughts are drawn to him. I think he's definitely starting to steal my heart...he's already managed to steal my mind.
- Earlier this week, my peace was stolen. I don't want to go into details for several reasons. Stealing my peace...I just don't know how to wrap my head around it. It happened so suddenly, so violently that it took me a couple days to sort it out for myself. But you know who's managing to help restore it? The Man, whether he knows that's what he's doing or not.
Hm..maybe that's all, then. I guess it just feels like so much more.
I realize it doesn't really fit the prompt. Oh well, I don't tend to follow the rules well anyway.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Angels and Devils
It's a bit ironic that this week's prompt at Poetry Thursday is sex.. The Man (read "the man in my life"), and I had a playful conversation last week that produced this gem of a line (hope he doesn't mind me sharing!):
I think your naughty little devil and my innocent little angel need to have a meeting of the minds.
A few days, some twisting and turning...and then the prompt showing up, brought me from there to here.
“Girl, what you doin’?”
Damn the angel.
Ignore her, close my mind.
Wander.
Need your breath on my neck.
“Girl, you’re delicious,”
The devil speaks.
Touch you, lose myself.
Revel.
Steal the warmth from your touch.
“Please, don’t stop.”
Quiet words for
a devil from his angel.
Hunger.
Taste your kiss, and give in.
I've never written any poetry that even hints at sex. I don't really know why, possibly lack of inspiration.
Teehee..The Man should take that statement as a compliment.
I commented last week that not everything we write has to be visceral. I think sometimes I have to be reminded that visceral doesn't have to mean 'gut wrenching.' It can simply refer to the butterflies that swarm with a touch. Ooh, there's an image--butterflies swarming. Hm...
Check out Poetry Thursday for other poetry contributions.
I think your naughty little devil and my innocent little angel need to have a meeting of the minds.
A few days, some twisting and turning...and then the prompt showing up, brought me from there to here.
“Girl, what you doin’?”
Damn the angel.
Ignore her, close my mind.
Wander.
Need your breath on my neck.
“Girl, you’re delicious,”
The devil speaks.
Touch you, lose myself.
Revel.
Steal the warmth from your touch.
“Please, don’t stop.”
Quiet words for
a devil from his angel.
Hunger.
Taste your kiss, and give in.
I've never written any poetry that even hints at sex. I don't really know why, possibly lack of inspiration.
Teehee..The Man should take that statement as a compliment.
I commented last week that not everything we write has to be visceral. I think sometimes I have to be reminded that visceral doesn't have to mean 'gut wrenching.' It can simply refer to the butterflies that swarm with a touch. Ooh, there's an image--butterflies swarming. Hm...
Check out Poetry Thursday for other poetry contributions.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Teehee
So this week, we're supposed to find humor (according to the--totally optional--prompt at Poetry Thursday).
I don't write humorous poetry. Well, not any for public consumption (Don't we all play with limericks now and again? Or is that just me? Don't answer that.). And, in thinking about this prompt, I struggled. I can't think of any particularly humorous poetry--that was meant to be funny--I've read in years. There's my lame excuse for finally getting around to posting this week.
So, I got to thinking about the poetry I used when I taught elementary school. When working with third graders, one doesn't use Poe or Dickinson to teach poetry. Instead, you find Shel Silverstein (see link below) or Jack Prelutsky and you let them giggle their little heads clean off. Then you can do silly things like sharing some Frost or Whitman--the lighter stuff, of course.
I remember being introduced to Shel Silverstein's poetry. It was second grade and we read "I'm Being Eaten by a Boa Constrictor." It chronicles being eaten alive by a massive snake, starting with the toes and ending with the nose. It's hilarious! And it's the only poem I've ever memorized for school that I can still recite perfectly--and that was, ugh, almost 23 years ago. I use it now to show new interpers in my speech classes how to own the poetry they are reading.
And it was that poem, 10 years later that I thought about when my high school creative writing teacher told us to quit writing about our imagined angst and have fun with what we were doing. She pointed out that yes, words should speak to you in ways other than just mere language, but not everything we write has to be so visceral. Some things can appeal to just your funny bone.
I think that's probably also when I made the connection between poetry and music. I'd always known that, in essence, lyrics are just poetry, but I'd never really connected that the effect words-put-to-music had on me could be found in words on paper. It opened up a whole new world for me and my writing.
Sure, I still don't write funny poetry. But I stopped being so caught up in my perceived distress (which I can tell you now was really non-existent) and just wrote.
I never would've thought a rhyme about a kid being eaten by a constrictor could have such an effect on my writing self. I mean, come 'on, it's aimed at kids, right????
See some neat things and hear some audio recordings of a few poems.
Shel Silverstein
I about flipped when I did a search for this site. In the site engine blurb, the main link says "Shel Silverstein - the Official Site for Kids - Choose Speed." I did a doubletake and quickly clicked on it--it wanted the viewer to choose high or low bandwidth. That was NOT my first thought!
And to see this week's other offerings, visit Poetry Thursday.
I don't write humorous poetry. Well, not any for public consumption (Don't we all play with limericks now and again? Or is that just me? Don't answer that.). And, in thinking about this prompt, I struggled. I can't think of any particularly humorous poetry--that was meant to be funny--I've read in years. There's my lame excuse for finally getting around to posting this week.
So, I got to thinking about the poetry I used when I taught elementary school. When working with third graders, one doesn't use Poe or Dickinson to teach poetry. Instead, you find Shel Silverstein (see link below) or Jack Prelutsky and you let them giggle their little heads clean off. Then you can do silly things like sharing some Frost or Whitman--the lighter stuff, of course.
I remember being introduced to Shel Silverstein's poetry. It was second grade and we read "I'm Being Eaten by a Boa Constrictor." It chronicles being eaten alive by a massive snake, starting with the toes and ending with the nose. It's hilarious! And it's the only poem I've ever memorized for school that I can still recite perfectly--and that was, ugh, almost 23 years ago. I use it now to show new interpers in my speech classes how to own the poetry they are reading.
And it was that poem, 10 years later that I thought about when my high school creative writing teacher told us to quit writing about our imagined angst and have fun with what we were doing. She pointed out that yes, words should speak to you in ways other than just mere language, but not everything we write has to be so visceral. Some things can appeal to just your funny bone.
I think that's probably also when I made the connection between poetry and music. I'd always known that, in essence, lyrics are just poetry, but I'd never really connected that the effect words-put-to-music had on me could be found in words on paper. It opened up a whole new world for me and my writing.
Sure, I still don't write funny poetry. But I stopped being so caught up in my perceived distress (which I can tell you now was really non-existent) and just wrote.
I never would've thought a rhyme about a kid being eaten by a constrictor could have such an effect on my writing self. I mean, come 'on, it's aimed at kids, right????
See some neat things and hear some audio recordings of a few poems.
Shel Silverstein
I about flipped when I did a search for this site. In the site engine blurb, the main link says "Shel Silverstein - the Official Site for Kids - Choose Speed." I did a doubletake and quickly clicked on it--it wanted the viewer to choose high or low bandwidth. That was NOT my first thought!
And to see this week's other offerings, visit Poetry Thursday.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Just one requirement
Hotels. They're a necessary evils. Obviously, I have to have somewhere to stay when I leave town, hence the necessary part.
Evil because they 'rub' at all kinds of things that bother me. Showers are goofy--too hot, too cold, and the shower curtains try to envelope you. Two few channels on the TV and a remote that rarely makes sense. An alarm clock it takes a 6 year old to set. Never enough towels, etc.
Ugh.
I do like to stay in nice ones. When I need a base to decompress in, it's nice to come back to a well-apportioned room and relax. Tough for me to do that in the local motel.
I spent all last week in a pretty good hotel. Nice pillows, microwave and minifridge in the room. Starbuck's coffee packs for the in-room coffee maker. (That rocked). Free internet access and everything. It was so nice.
Last night, I stayed at a hotel in Austin. Great location, really nice place...view of the driveway. Internet access was available in every room, for an additional $10. Parking was available, for an additional $10. $18 if you used valet parking. The room wasn't ready when I tried to check in (granted, I was 2 hours before check in time, but I'd called ahead for the
But the bed was awesome. There was a little decorative pillow that said "Sweet Dreams," and they were. That's the best hotel bed I've ever slept in and I'm a bed connoisseur. It had just the right amount of support, great pillows, mmm..wonderful. I drifted right off. It was amazing.
So...that's my one requirement. I'll deal with anything else, but gimme a great bed.
Read some more offerings at Sunday Scribblings.
Evil because they 'rub' at all kinds of things that bother me. Showers are goofy--too hot, too cold, and the shower curtains try to envelope you. Two few channels on the TV and a remote that rarely makes sense. An alarm clock it takes a 6 year old to set. Never enough towels, etc.
Ugh.
I do like to stay in nice ones. When I need a base to decompress in, it's nice to come back to a well-apportioned room and relax. Tough for me to do that in the local motel.
I spent all last week in a pretty good hotel. Nice pillows, microwave and minifridge in the room. Starbuck's coffee packs for the in-room coffee maker. (That rocked). Free internet access and everything. It was so nice.
Last night, I stayed at a hotel in Austin. Great location, really nice place...view of the driveway. Internet access was available in every room, for an additional $10. Parking was available, for an additional $10. $18 if you used valet parking. The room wasn't ready when I tried to check in (granted, I was 2 hours before check in time, but I'd called ahead for the
But the bed was awesome. There was a little decorative pillow that said "Sweet Dreams," and they were. That's the best hotel bed I've ever slept in and I'm a bed connoisseur. It had just the right amount of support, great pillows, mmm..wonderful. I drifted right off. It was amazing.
So...that's my one requirement. I'll deal with anything else, but gimme a great bed.
Read some more offerings at Sunday Scribblings.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Confession or Catharsis?
Things are not as they
teach us--the Earth is hollow;
I have touched the sky.
I wrote the above haiku after a very difficult few months in my life. My world was topsy-turvy, and I was discovering that my perfect little bubble had popped. Nothing I had done, intentionally or otherwise, had initiated the chain of events, but I was left feeling hollow.
I'd come to the realization that everything my parents had taught me was a little tainted by a pseudo-perfection. Well, maybe not everything, but quite a bit was now questionable. The haiku was not so much confessional, as putting my state of mind down on paper.
It took me 6 months to get those 17 syllables worked out. Took me almost that long to admit I was hurting.
For more (completely optional) prompts, visit Poetry Thursday.
teach us--the Earth is hollow;
I have touched the sky.
I wrote the above haiku after a very difficult few months in my life. My world was topsy-turvy, and I was discovering that my perfect little bubble had popped. Nothing I had done, intentionally or otherwise, had initiated the chain of events, but I was left feeling hollow.
I'd come to the realization that everything my parents had taught me was a little tainted by a pseudo-perfection. Well, maybe not everything, but quite a bit was now questionable. The haiku was not so much confessional, as putting my state of mind down on paper.
It took me 6 months to get those 17 syllables worked out. Took me almost that long to admit I was hurting.
For more (completely optional) prompts, visit Poetry Thursday.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Two Peas in a Pod? Let's not. (my 'Sunday Scribblings')
I can remember, rather vividly, when I was in high school being told that a friend and I were "two peas in a pod." I was offended. It was the first time that the phrase had ever incited anger in me. Now, please understand, I love this friend dearly. I admire her for some things she's done in her life. I don't particularly like some of the choices she made while we were growing up. Shortly before someone unknowingly offended me, she'd made a choice I neither agreed with nor supported (there is a difference between agreeing and supporting you know.). We were actually in an argument about the decision she'd made and so, taking offense was likely to be the response anyway. But I was incredibly upset that someone thought that we were truly cut of the same cloth, so to speak. I was nothing like her and didn't want to be thought of that way.
Ever since, I haven't liked that phrase--"two peas in a pod." It may have something to do with me not being enthusiastic about peas. Or the memories of hours spent shelling peas with my grandmother. Or maybe, just maybe, because those pods seem so cramped.
Actually, I think it's because I'd rather be an original. Being just like some other "pea in a pod" implies being just like someone else and that bothers me. I want to think I'm unique, and by golly I want everyone else to think so, too! I know, I know. Inherently, we are all unique. And, for that matter, all peas would be, too. But when was the last time you saw a bowl full of peas, identified one, and then later could indentify the exact same one. Come on, friends, it ain't possible. Unless you mark the pea, but that's cheating.
So, anyway, I don't want to be seen as a pea in a pod, either on my own or in comparison with someone else. Sometimes this desire gets my big mouth in trouble, other times, it endears me to someone worth loving.
To do a little scribbling of your own, and read those of others, click here.
Ever since, I haven't liked that phrase--"two peas in a pod." It may have something to do with me not being enthusiastic about peas. Or the memories of hours spent shelling peas with my grandmother. Or maybe, just maybe, because those pods seem so cramped.
Actually, I think it's because I'd rather be an original. Being just like some other "pea in a pod" implies being just like someone else and that bothers me. I want to think I'm unique, and by golly I want everyone else to think so, too! I know, I know. Inherently, we are all unique. And, for that matter, all peas would be, too. But when was the last time you saw a bowl full of peas, identified one, and then later could indentify the exact same one. Come on, friends, it ain't possible. Unless you mark the pea, but that's cheating.
So, anyway, I don't want to be seen as a pea in a pod, either on my own or in comparison with someone else. Sometimes this desire gets my big mouth in trouble, other times, it endears me to someone worth loving.
To do a little scribbling of your own, and read those of others, click here.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Ten Minutes Down the Road
My friend over at In the interest of... put up a post the other day that's been making me think. Damn, I kinda hate it when people do that to me. But, if anyone was going to do it, he makes the short list of those I don't mind so much.
All this thinking has stuck two things right smack in the middle of all my other thoughts. First, this Nickelback song Photograph. I like this song a lot, so it's okay that it's been running through my head non stop since Saturday. And I think it's funny that a lot of my students--I teach high school--don't like it at all. In fact, it's "stupid." I tell 'em everytime "you're just not old enough yet to appreciate it. They didn't write the song for your age group, it's for mine."
It's also sparked some (nonfiction) writing. So...here it is. Be honest--but be polite. I don't share my writing with just anyone.
I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. My parents still live there.
My mother would kill me if she knew I’d told you that.
Maybe I should explain. In my hometown, there is no “wrong” side of the tracks. There’s the side where everything is—grocery stores, banks, fast food joints—and the side where everything isn’t. It just happened that way, no particular reason. I grew up on the empty side.
When I was little, and the world consisted of school and the neighborhood, I didn’t notice or care. Kids are like that. Sixteen year olds are not. Suddenly, upon reaching that magic freedom age, the world multiplies in size. And living on the “wrong” side crimps your style. Inevitably, the people you want to pass your time with aren’t over “here.” No, they’re over “there” - with stuff to do and knowing glances.
Life lesson number one—you need to figure out on which side the world says you’re supposed to be. You don't have to agree, of course.
All this thinking has stuck two things right smack in the middle of all my other thoughts. First, this Nickelback song Photograph. I like this song a lot, so it's okay that it's been running through my head non stop since Saturday. And I think it's funny that a lot of my students--I teach high school--don't like it at all. In fact, it's "stupid." I tell 'em everytime "you're just not old enough yet to appreciate it. They didn't write the song for your age group, it's for mine."
It's also sparked some (nonfiction) writing. So...here it is. Be honest--but be polite. I don't share my writing with just anyone.
I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. My parents still live there.
My mother would kill me if she knew I’d told you that.
Maybe I should explain. In my hometown, there is no “wrong” side of the tracks. There’s the side where everything is—grocery stores, banks, fast food joints—and the side where everything isn’t. It just happened that way, no particular reason. I grew up on the empty side.
When I was little, and the world consisted of school and the neighborhood, I didn’t notice or care. Kids are like that. Sixteen year olds are not. Suddenly, upon reaching that magic freedom age, the world multiplies in size. And living on the “wrong” side crimps your style. Inevitably, the people you want to pass your time with aren’t over “here.” No, they’re over “there” - with stuff to do and knowing glances.
Life lesson number one—you need to figure out on which side the world says you’re supposed to be. You don't have to agree, of course.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Time to get serious
Ack...It's been almost 4 months since I posted anything here. Since I'm really, truly, very serious about writing...damn it, I've got to do it.
So..here we go.
Found a neat blog site. Poetry Thursday. It's a site that is dedicated to encouraging people to read and share poetry. Could be an original piece or someone else's published work (with copyright concerns being addressed, of course). I'll be participating every week by writing. I used to write poetry constantly, some of it was even pretty good. Let's see if I can accomplish that again.
Ha.
So..here we go.
Found a neat blog site. Poetry Thursday. It's a site that is dedicated to encouraging people to read and share poetry. Could be an original piece or someone else's published work (with copyright concerns being addressed, of course). I'll be participating every week by writing. I used to write poetry constantly, some of it was even pretty good. Let's see if I can accomplish that again.
Ha.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Piemonade
One of my students wrote an oration about making the best out of any situation--you know making lemonade. Of course, being him, he couldn't just make lemonade. I forget how he got around to it, but he wound up making "piemonade." I would presume that it has much more to do with him liking to eat than anything else.
I was thinking about it today. It's a Tuesday, and I don't like Tuesdays. So, I decided to do as much as I could so the day would at least feel productive. Kinda nice, actually. Really did get a lot accomplished.
In the back of my mind was "piemonade." Obviously (I hope), it's a made up word. How come we don't do things like this more often--create words out of necessity of the context we're working in? It seems so silly that so many people lock themselves into the accepted language/vocabulary. Children do this all the time..they make the word fit the moment, not hunt the pre-existing words that don't really do the moment justice like adults do.
That's what is supposed to be fun about language--that you can play with it. You shouldn't have to master it in order to screw with it a bit. Feeling and being should be prerequisite enough for making the language fit you, not vice versa.
Aw, hell...have fun. And eat some piemonade.
I was thinking about it today. It's a Tuesday, and I don't like Tuesdays. So, I decided to do as much as I could so the day would at least feel productive. Kinda nice, actually. Really did get a lot accomplished.
In the back of my mind was "piemonade." Obviously (I hope), it's a made up word. How come we don't do things like this more often--create words out of necessity of the context we're working in? It seems so silly that so many people lock themselves into the accepted language/vocabulary. Children do this all the time..they make the word fit the moment, not hunt the pre-existing words that don't really do the moment justice like adults do.
That's what is supposed to be fun about language--that you can play with it. You shouldn't have to master it in order to screw with it a bit. Feeling and being should be prerequisite enough for making the language fit you, not vice versa.
Aw, hell...have fun. And eat some piemonade.
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