Wrapping Up NaBloPoMo

It was fun being a part of National Blog Posting Month in November.  I had fun reading tons of blogs and meeting new people.  I did learn a few things about myself, not all of them good. But hey, exploring different aspects of your personality is all part of the process of growing up, right?

I want to read everything. However, trying to read tons of blogs, work a full time job, and take care of a family means that I was unable to devote the time needed to any of those things.  My brain went on overload.   Just when I had delved into a great story, my son was interrupting me to ask for crazy things like food or water.  It just got nuts.

I don't like "have to".   So much of adult life is "have to".  We have to work, we have to pay bills, we have to follow the rules.  I stopped worrying about posting every day because it got to be a chore, yet another "have to".   Some of my writing felt forced as a result, and weren't my best.  I could have cheated and thrown in tons of pictures, but I didn't.  Maybe I should have.  I will be happy to go back to unscheduling my blog, and not worrying if I miss a day.  At least until April, when they do the A to Z thing.

I intensely dislike captcha.  I understand that there are evil people out there who get their jollies by spamming blogs or spreading malware to the masses.  I get that people want to make sure that they avoid those evil people.  But when I've struggled through the tiny print on my phone(I read most blogs while standing in line or other times) and hit the comment button, it's extra punishment to see that window with the even tinier numbers and letters pop up.  Also, when I get a message saying that "your comment is too short!" after I've typed a comment, it makes me want to just turn my computer off and not comment at all.  And sometimes that's exactly what I do.

So, dear readers, what do you guys think?

 

And here is a precious kitty for you to look at.  Maybe you can convince her to get off of the Christmas stocking she has been sitting on for the last five hours, so we can finish decorating for Christmas.

Therapy

mysteries abound

here are dark spots

shadows inside

ready for the light

put the words on paper

say them aloud

if they make sense

go back

erase a few

so that they don't

The Ten Best Things About Being A Kid

Being a kid is wonderful. Oh, there's some things about being a kid that aren't great, like curfews and tuna casserole, but there's so very much to love about childhood.  It's taken on a mythical status in my mind, since for me, childhood was long ago and far away, but I'm reliving some parts as I watch my son grow.  Kids have some things that adults don't get to keep.


1. You get to be invisible.  Adults tend to forget that kids are in the vicinity, especially if they think that the kids are not paying attention to them.  Newsflash:  Kids are always paying attention!  Kids hear everything, and kids tend to remember what they hear.  The perfect spies! The NSA doesn't need to secretly monitor emails and online usage.  All they need is a pack of five year olds and a translator.

2. Everything is brand new.  For adults, there's nothing new under the sun.  We've been there, done that, bought the t-shirt.  There's a tendency to become jaded about the world, just from overexposure. For a kid, however, everything is brand-spanking new in their world, and they look at everything with a wonder and excitement that I envy.  The closest that I come is that hour before the newest episode of Game of Thrones airs.

3. Kids still believe.  There's an innocence about childhood.  Children still believe in people, still believe that people are good.  I sometimes wish I still had that belief,  but I know what is out there. However, I will move heaven and earth to see that my son believes as long as possible.

4. The world is a magical place.  Santa is real.  The tooth fairy really does visit to exchange a tooth for a coin.  Pixies live in the cow pastures, and fireflies carry wishes to heaven. Anything is possible to a child, and miracles are just a fact.  Of course, reality intrudes, and the dreams die hard, but while it lasts, the world is a little more wondrous.

5. It's a free ride.  Kids don't worry about whether the rent's paid.  They don't worry about the car being reposessed, or whether there's money in the bank. They know that Mom and Dad will be there to make sure that they get fed and are clothed and warm, even on a shoestring budget.  No matter what, someone will take care of them. I am an adult, and I still occasionally wish that someone would take care of me!

6. The imagination is on full blast.  Kids imagine all sorts of worlds, stretching over and under this one.  One word, one sound, and off their minds go, a journey of a thousand miles in an instant.  Sit a kid in a room with a box and a pencil and they're perfectly happy, because their imaginations provide the entertainment. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could keep that spur of the moment imagination?  It would be perfect for last minute blog posts!

7. No fear  My son would climb the tallest piece of furniture in a place and leap off...just because.  He'd probably love skydiving, which he would do by himself, because his mother is terrified of heights.  Kids aren't the least bit afraid to take a risk or to leap into the unknown.  Sometimes I yearn for that fearless time.

8. Everybody is a friend.  My son is a goodwill ambassador.  He has no problem approaching people and talking to them or asking them questions.  He doesn't care if the person he's talking to doesn't have legs because they stepped on an IED.  Kids don't care if the person can't see, or hear, or has autism, or any other thing that might give adults pause.  They learn that from their parents.

9. Kids get over things fast.  Kids cry. They pout. They glare. Then they get over it, usually after a brief nap.  Kids don't ever seem to hold grudges, and today's fight over the sandbox disappears when they close their eyes.  That resilience is enviable; it's impossible for me to remember that I was ever able to let go and move on so easily.   

10. No matter what, Mama loves you.  That's right.  Kids aren't always on their best behavior, they don't always say the right thing, they can be little terrorists.  But at the end of the day, their Mamas tuck them into bed and kiss them good night, and all is right with the world.  That is how it should be, and Lord willing, one day it will be so for all children.


Have a happy and safe Thanksgiving.  May a little of the magic of childhood be yours!

10 best things about being a kid.

Pluck

"And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee..."  The minister droned on, and Cassie barely restrained herself from screaming, If only someone would pluck me from this never ending sermon!  Four hours they'd all been sitting here, and all the minister wanted to discuss was what filthy sinners they all were! 

Cassie glanced at her mother.  After Cassie's father passed away last year, she had worried that her mother would fall away into the darkness of depression.  Instead, Cassie's mother had begun attending this new church, and these days she seemed more serene and happy than ever.  That was the entire reason that Cassie was sitting here today; she wanted to know exactly what was going on in this church.  As far as she could tell, most of the people in her mother's congregation were good people.  They fed the poor, her mother said, and cared for the sick.  That counted. Cassie wasn't very religious, but she recognized that right actions were more powerful than a few good words in this world today.  So why did the minister felt the need to rant about hell and damnation for four plus hours? 

The door behind the altar opened, and the ministered stopped in mid rant. He moved quietly to a small seat behind the podium, the rustle of his robes the only sound.  Every eye zeroed in as a man walked in front of the altar and stood.  Cassie stared.  His hair was dark, his eyes the blue of a tropical sea. His lips were made for sin, and her face felt flushed.  Her head spun; she realized that she had been holding her breath.  As Cassie exhaled, the man's head turned toward her.  Their eyes met, and she saw bright red flames burning in his eyes. Her heart fluttered.

"That's the Reverend," her mother whispered loudly.



The prompt is the third definition of  PLUCK.  The word always makes me think of that bible verse.  And Puritans.  But never chickens.  Go figure.

From the Great Book

"May Gratitude
Be an unending 
verse in
the Everyday song
of our lives,
not only this single day.

It is right
that we daily
sing our thanks
in the Quiet between
Day and Night.
It is right
that great gusts
of thanksgiving
should
pour unceasingly
from our lips
in appreciation,
and that this
should be
a daily libation
for parched souls.

We pray for all
who have forgotten
the tribute owed
the deity, their
ungrateful blood
crying for release
from the darkness,
the muck
of their sorrows
that they may
forever
speak thankfully
to the skies
upon their release.
Amen."




The prompt is 100 words of fiction or nonfiction.  Strange what comes to mind in the quiet of the night, when you have a cat sleeping next to your monitor. 

Lollygagging

I am decisive about many things in my life.  It helps that most of the time, an answer is immediately apparent.  Child is sick?  Go to doctor.  Rip in pants?  Don't wear those pants.   Coffee or tea?  Coffee, followed by tea.  $47.50 for a pair of flip flops?  Hell no.   But some decisions that are easy for most people are difficult for me.  I waffle, completely indecisive, about the silliest things, and it may take me weeks to make a decision one way or another, and then another six months to decide whether I am actually happy with my decision.  It drives me nuts, but I cannot seem to help myself.

I need a haircut.

My hair is now so long that it only does one thing well.  Unfortunately, that one thing is to hang flatly as close to my head as possible.  Since I have a moon-pie face(which I think means that my face is as round as the moon, and I like pie, both very true),  the very last thing that all the fashion magazines advise is that my hair hang flatly anywhere.  Those fashionista-types insist that all hair be shiny, silky, and luxuriously full at all times. I am on board with those concepts, as long as I don't actually have to work at it, which is where the fashion magazines and I part ways.

Who hired these people to tell us what to do again?  Nobody has hours to spend on their hair!  If they do, that person is obviously single and childless. When I was single and childless, I often did spend weeks getting my hair to look perfect, but now? Pfft! I get approximately twenty minutes to myself in the morning to shower, dress, and do my hair, with a minute or two to slap on some eye shadow.  I just have one child; I am sure that the time allotted for grooming is reduced for multiple children.

My hair is longer than it needs to be, and I need to get it cut.

I am not sure what I want.  I know what I don't want--a bob.  As far as I've seen, everyone and her grandmother has that haircut.  And why not?  It's an easy to care for haircut, and it looks fetching on most people.  Except I don't want to pay someone to cut my hair like every other person out there.  I want to look like myself.

So my hair is longer than it needs to be and I want to get a haircut, but I don't know what kind of haircut I want, except not a bob.

And not too short.  I know those damn fashion magazines say that women with fine hair should keep it cut short, and that women with moon-pie faces should wear their hair short, and fat chicks should wear their hair short, etc.  I don't like how I look in short hair.  Anything shorter than chin length, and I look like that Alfred P. Neuman guy from Mad. I am scary enough, thank you!

I want a haircut that is not a bob, that is not shorter than chin length, that does not make me look like Alfred P. Neuman or scary in any way.  I'll settle for not scaring small children.  And this haircut must take less than five minutes to fix up in the morning, including the drying. 

I will likely make a decision about all this somewhere around the end of 2015.  Maybe.

 

Jack

I don't hunt animals

Nor hunt the four-legged trails

through the dark wood.

A boring pastime, that.

I hunt two-legged prey

in dark alleys--

their blood is divine.

I am what I eat.



The prompt is to choose a word and use it three times in your 33-word passage.

Writing Can Be Wacky

WWFT?  What would Freud think?  What did Freud ALWAYS think?

I think this is upside down. 

You never know with  modern art, do you?  The eye of the beholder and all that.  The actual person who painted the art might know which end is up.  Did Jackson Pollock ever flip out in a gallery because one of his paintings was displayed upside down?  How could he tell?  I'll be he cheated a bit and put one little dot right on the bottom of the canvas so he could orient his work properly. 

That's what I would do, if I were a painter.  I would also tell people that they had my work upside down, just to be contrary.  I hear that artists are supposed to be that way, but it's really only the painters and sculptors who get away with that.  Painters and sculptors can fling poop at people, or cut off an ear, and nobody even raises an eyebrow.  It's part of their genius to be whacky and mysterious and unpredictable like that.  They can be eccentric and we love that passion. 

Writers don't get to have all that fun with their audience. Writing is an introverted activity, and involves the painting of a picture in the reader's mind.  I think that is a more difficult task.  A writer can never throw a fit about people reading his book upside down, because that's not how books work.  Maybe a writer might demand that his book be read while hanging upside down, but that's about it.  No one would do that, of course, because it's impossible to read while all the blood rushes to your head.

But writers pour their personalities into their works just as much as a painter does.  It may not be instantly visible as it is in a painting, but by the end of a book, a reader often has strong feelings about what they've just read, and that's a reflection of the passions of the author, as much as it is for a painter.

What do you think? 

8 Books Everyone Should Read

I've mentioned before that I am a voracious reader.  I get that from my mother, who is never far from a book if she can help it.  Most of my childhood memories involving my mother have her reading, and the habit rubbed off on me.  I read just about everything.  I'm a serial reader; if I like a particular author, I will read everything they've ever written.  My point is that I've read a lot of books, and rarely will I read one more than once.

Except that some books grabbed me, got my attention. Made me think about life and my place in the world. Made me visit dusty cattle trails, consider politics as a profession, and avoid clowns in storm drains. This is my list of books that I think everyone should read, and it's a bit different, I know.  I've read most of these books twice, sometimes more. Some of my copies have passages underlined, or have been read so many times that they are falling apart.  They're old friends, in other words.

Lonesome Dove  Almost anything by Larry McMurtry is pure gold; that man knows how to spin an epic.  Lonesome Dove is the adventures of two very different men who happen to be the best of friends.  They set out on a cattle drive from Texas, and their story is the stuff of legends.  Don't be turned off by the idea that this is a Western; there is so very much more.  These characters are old friends, and I never get tired of visiting.

True Women  There was a lady in Texas who was researching her family tree, and she decided to write a novel using her family as characters.  It just so happened that her family was in Texas at the very beginning, when Texians(Yes, that's what they called themselves. I know it's lame, but apparently it made sense at the time) fought for independence from Mexico.  But Janice Woods Windall didn't write about the men in her family.  She wrote about the women left behind who kept the farms and ranches going.  This is a book about strong, independent women and their adventures in the founding of a nation/state, and for that, it is worth reading.

Good Omens  Off the beaten path, this book.  Neil Gaiman helped write it, which should give an indication that things will be topsy-turvy.  Some people might become upset after reading this book, which involves an accidental switch at birth.  I expected a horror story, and instead found something else. It definitely made me laugh, but it also made me think.

Mrs. Dalloway  I'm not a big Virginia Woolf fan.  She could be a bit of a downer.  But this book isn't the least bit depressing; it's a bit like a manic phase where everything is impossibly happy.  In fact, when I finished the book I was in a better mood than when I started. Not many books leave you blissful at the end, but this did it for me.  Sort of like Mrs. Dalloway herself.

A Game of Thrones  I hated this book the first time I read it. Hated. It was a completely visceral response; given the story, and I threw the book in a corner and left it there for days while I sulked about it.  Then my husband found it in a box, abandoned, and decided to read it.  And he loved it, and demanded that I read the book again.  So I did. And while I was still extremely angry about the same things that got me riled the first time, it became obvious that George R.R. Martin is a freakin' genius.

Howards End  I wasn't prepared to like this novel as much as I did.  It was a class assignment in college, an afterthought, following weeks of D.H. Lawrence novels.  Yet it struck a chord with me; I found myself a member of a family of eccentrics and intellectuals attempting to interact with their world as Britain was changing from a rural to an industrial nation.  Something was lost in the translation, of course, since we are all still fascinated that time. 

Lord Foul's Bane  Another off the beaten path story, about a modern man diagnosed with leprosy who gets knocked out and finds himself in a strange land where people think that he is a messiah, of sorts.  Thomas Covenant has to remember his humanity somehow, while refusing to believe that anything he sees or hears is real.  Some people insist that the tale is derivative of Tolkien; I have an answer to that. Every fantasy written since Tolkien is derivative of Tolkien. Get over it, and enjoy the story!

It   Stephen King is the master of American horror for a reason.  He knows how to scare the bejesus out of people.  He's responsible for my fear of closets, my fear of women stalkers, my fear of spiders, and my fear of clowns.  It is a tale of childhood, of bravery, of good and evil, and redemption.  The characters are drawn in pencil and the reader fills in the lines and makes them family.  You cringe when they cringe, you scream when they do.  It's impossible not to.  There are a great many people who rabidly insist that The Stand is King's best book, and maybe they are right.  But It is scarier.

What are your favorite books?  Share in the comments!



I borrowed this prompt from Mamakat.  Thank you, Ma'am!
5.) List 8 books you’ve read that you think everyone should read in their lifetime
Go visit Mamakat's website.  There are many other bloggers who wrote about their favorite books, too--lots of new reading ideas!

Lights Out--Fiction

“Then the lights went out.” 

Giggling, Conrad gave Mrs. Hardy one more whack with his hammer before he paused for a breath.   His crisp white Oxford shirt was spattered and stained with blood, but he found a clean portion of his sleeve and wiped some of the gore off of his face.  Conrad felt a little sad that this shirt was ruined; he was having so much fun, and he wanted to preserve the moment somehow. 

He danced around the room, twirling and laughing, the hammer in his hand flicking bits of brain onto the leather furniture of Mr. Farnsworth's office.  He had never felt so free!  All of his burdens, all of his stress, had vanished the moment that hammer had cracked Mr. Farnsworth's temple.  The old man never saw it coming; he was too busy firing Conrad for complaining about his wages.  But Mrs. Hardy saw everything.  Mrs. Hardy screamed and screamed, but Conrad was sure that was only because her perfectly fake face was covering in the remains of Mr. Farnsworth's head. Girls were silly about things like blood spatter, Conrad knew.  He hit her with the hammer to shut her up, and was delighted when her skull exploded like a ripe cantaloupe. He hit her again and again, giggling and laughing with sheer joy, a child long denied splashing around in a puddle.

Conrad knew that his euphoria wouldn't last.  He knew that he was going to prison, probably to the gas chamber.

"And then the lights went out!" he cackled.

He had not one excuse for what he had done, was doing. It wasn't even his hammer--he'd grabbed it off of Bob's bench on his way to see Farnsworth. It was entirely possible that maybe he had gone crazy.  But while this feeling lasted, Conrad was determined to enjoy himself.  Carpe diem, as they say. Humming, he picked up the phone, dialed an extension.

"Mr. Crosby? Mr. Farnsworth would like to see you immediately in his office." Conrad hung up the phone, plopping down in Mr. Farnsworth's chair and spinning about.

"Then the lights will go out for you, Mr. Crosby!"




Yeah, I don't know where this came from, but the Muse said write it down, and you do what the Muse says or else.

Death's Companion--Fiction

It's hard to watch your parents grow old, Carl thought. He sighed, and wiped the drool from his mother's chin. He moved her chair closer to the window, so she could see outside.  He stood next to her, his hand on her shoulder to keep her from slumping forward, and stared out the window.

"Mr. Smith?"

Carl turned, transfixed.  A young woman stood before him. Her eyes were an intense shade of blue, her hair black as pitch.  Her skin was pale, almost white, as though she were an animated corpse or made of a fine china.  He managed to nod.

"I am Elise Canter." She smiled politely. "The agency selected me to be a companion to your mother on her journey,"

"Aren't you--damn!" Carl stared at Elise. "You're awfully young. I thought the agency would send someone older."

"There was no one else available, sir. Will I suffice?"

Carl bit his lip. He looked at his mother, a trail of drool making its way down her front.  Young or not, his mother would be unable to go on her own, and he had promised her a companion.

"Yes."

"The priests are coming." Carl moved a chair from the hallway and placed it next to his mother's chair.  He picked up the knife from the tray table next to her bed. Elise sat in the chair offered by Carl, and took the hand of her charge.  She looked up at Carl, leaning back to expose her throat.

"It is so," Carl fell easily into the formal language of the old country, and picked up the knife.  "Elise Canter, I bind your soul to the soul of my mother, Alexandra Clifton Smith.  You are to be her companion in death, and have agreed to serve her faithfully.  Is this so?"

"It is so. I will be faithful." Elise closed her eyes, but Carl winced as the blade cut into that fine white skin.



The prompt is the third definition of COMPANION.

The Hooligan In Our Family

Soccer is an extremely emotional sport, at least for its fans.  Especially for its fans.  We've all heard stories about the soccer hooligans in other countries, yelling racist comments and throwing things onto the field, fighting in the stands, stampeding, etc. The United States is not immune from such behavior, if the recent assault on a referee in Utah is any indication.  In the younger soccer leagues, the fans are the parents of the children playing.  We all say that we want our children just to have a good time, to learn good sportsmanship, a valuable life skill.  But secretly, we all harbor a fervent wish for our child to be the very best athlete out there, which is completely understandable. College scholarships are gold, and nobody ever says that they wished that their child were more average.  Soccer at that age, however, is ultimately played for fun.

Soccer parents are normally friendly, generous, pleasant.  But put some of them on the sidelines of their child's soccer game, and these same lovely people begin to behave in a manner that would frighten hardcore prison inmates. Sometimes things get ugly. The poor referees tend to get the brunt of the ugliness. My husband, a youth soccer commissioner as well as a coach, has gone to great lengths to emphasize proper behavior for the parents who attend the games. And he's emphasized to the players that the referees are to be respected, no matter what.  It's worked very well, and our son's games have been much more pleasant.

We decided to go to an older kid's soccer game a few weeks ago. It was a very competitive game, and the players were giving their all.  The parents from both teams were sitting along the sidelines. There was clapping and yelling of encouragement to the players, their teenaged children. There was one guy sitting near us, however, who spent most of the game yelling at the refs.  He felt that the referees were not officiating the match as well as they should, and he screamed his annoyance at them.  Every time it appeared that a call should have been made, this man hollered, made gestures, and suggested that the refs do things that are no anatomically possible.  We were appalled. Larry and I gave the man many nonverbal cues regarding his behavior, frowning at him and rolling our eyes.  Other people who knew him were doing the same thing, and a couple of them told the man to knock it off.  Finally, a coach walked from the other side of the field walked over, and he pulled my brother aside for a little chat. My brother was politely told that if he didn't stop his behavior he would be asked to leave. That finally did the trick.  The man sat down and didn't yell anything else for the rest of the game, while the rest of the family pretended that we didn't know him.

My brother isn't normally so verbally aggressive.  He is one of the more laid back people I know, and he's usually the calm one when there's a family crisis.  Something about watching his children play sports just causes him to go nuts. He's been thrown out of many of his boys' games because of his behavior. His kids are embarrassed.  His wife won't go to the games with him anymore.  People won't sit near him.  He knows that it's wrong, and that he should just shut up, and he does try to sit quietly and watch the game.  It never lasts.

My brother is a soccer hooligan.  I will just have to sit on the other side of the field from now on.

My Son Is Not Amused

I have difficulty taking pictures, especially with my phone.  I have tremors, and the harder I try to hold still, the more I tremble, and the blurrier the photo.  So I take about 47 pictures for every one that looks fairly decent.  Unfortunately, my son's patience lasts about 35 pictures.  Then I get "The Look". 

I can't be too upset with the boy over this expression, because he got it from me.  I think that I would spend a good chunk of my day with this expression on my face, if I were independently wealthy and didn't need gainful employment.  And who could blame any child for getting this expression after having to sit through 47 attempts at a picture for his mother, just so she has something to blog about on November 1st? 

This look is but a taste of what the teen years will be like, I've heard.  I may need professional help. 

Making Connections

I'd like to say that I am social, but the truth is that I have very few actual friends.  Maybe if I had been born into a family that put down roots in one place, if I'd had a dad who had a regular 9-5 job someplace, then perhaps I'd have grown up more social.  Maybe I'd have become a cheerleader or the president of the senior class or something, and everyone would have been my friend.  I'd probably hang out with the same group of kids my entire life, from Pre-K to twelfth grade, and we'd all continue to hang out together after college, meeting up at games or for dinners once a week. 

But that's not what happened.  What happened was that I moved 17 times before I graduated from high school.  I'd make friends, get comfortable, then we'd move.  I would write, but out of sight, out of mind--very few people ever wrote back.  That got old, so I stopped trying.  My requirements for friendship are therefore probably a little different than most people's.  If I am going to the trouble of putting my heart out there, of opening myself up to another person, I need something in return.   Loyalty is what I value most in a friend--someone who is going to stick around, no matter how the dynamics of the relationship change.

Because all relationships go through change. The tide goes in and out.  I grow or don't, the other person grows or doesn't, but real friendships are never static.  Those relationships that are static, such as that with a coworker, may not continue after one person changes jobs, because the entire reason the relationship existed(work) is no longer there.  Many people don't seem to understand this, and there are feelings of abandonment.  As a child, I was all too familiar with these feelings.  I don't necessarily like it, but I understand that when a coworker leaves a job, they are not likely to continue calling or texting or meeting for lunch.  After a while I just forget about them.



The tide goes in and out. There has to be more to a relationship for it to become a friendship.  There has to be a give and a take established, where each person takes what they need and gives back.  A sharing of both joy and pain.  Not just in the good times, when the marriages are sound, and the children are happy, and everyone is healthy.  It is easy to be friends with people under those circumstances, but the tide goes in and out. Things change.

The true test comes in the bad times, when divorce is inevitable(hypothetically), or someone is dealing with illness.  That's when I tend to corral the wagons and take on a siege mentality.  I get downright cranky, snapping at everything. I am not easy to like. I am ready to fight.  That is just when I need someone to offer me a box of tissue, a bottle of wine, and a hug. Or just listen--that works, too. The very few brave people who have done that for me, well, those people are rare gems indeed.  Those people always have a direct connection to my heart, no matter how many times the tide goes in and out.

What do you cherish most in a friend?

Humanity

Here is a poem I wrote, since NaBloPoMo's theme is Poem:

Lonely flotsam, floating

on the sea, surging 

along the streets,

bobbing on the surface of the crowd;

the debris is both static and fluid, 

fighting to remain unchanged

yet inevitably drawn along in the flow 

'til at last

the tide must slow,

a moment

before the entire teeming, streaming mass

is inexorably pulled toward the drain.

Diamante: Phoenix

Diamante poems are poems in the shape of a diamond, and I like to try new things.  What do you think?

Fire

Destructive, Consuming
Distilling, Melting, Melding
From our pain, we peel away what we were

Cleansing, Strengthening, Creating

Forging, Rising;

Rebirth

Source: google.com via Tina on Pinterest

The Pen is Mightier

The original picture of the nerd, at least from my wonder years, was of a person surrounded by books and in possession of a pocket full of pens. I am a nerd, old school, and proud of it. My house contains many towers of books and my completely awesome pen collection that no one is allowed to touch. I adore my pens.

When I was in junior high, I spent many blissful hours creating and perfecting my own version of the cursive alphabet, just so my writing would look more visually appealing. I wrote in my journal every night about some cute boy or another. I wrote notes to my friends and letters to my pen pal. I scribbled notes in class, and drew pictures in the margins. All with the magic of a pen flowing effortlessly along the smoothness of the paper. The act of placing a pen to paper to record my thoughts was bliss.

I took a typing class in high school and learned to type on an ACTUAL TYPEWRITER. It was not even electric, because that hadn't been discovered yet. I learned to whack the keys really hard with my fingers in a fast pattern that created words, even if I kept stopping to correct my spelling. The typewriter never took the place of my beloved pens, however. I just could not fit a Smith-Corona into my purse, and the correcting fluid kept leaking out of the bottle. I went back to my pens.

When I was in college, computers were becoming popular. It was all about BASIC, Fortran, and COBOL, which turned out to have nothing to do with Battlestar Galactica. I was intrigued by these new programming languages, and they used the same QWERTY keyboard that I was already used to pecking at. The benefit of the computer was that it sped up the writing; you could churn out a decent research paper in half the time it would take to write it or type it. I do a passable job at using a computer these days.

But though it speeds up the heart rate, and provides hours of cardiovascular support, the 'clack-clackety' of the basic keyboard is rather banal. A computer ultimately does not support my creative process. You can't thoughtfully chew on your keyboard. You can't put your keyboard behind your ear to demonstrate that you are thinking very hard. In case anyone is looking.

My family is pretty tech-savvy, thanks to the efforts of my husband. We have all kinds of tech stuff. At the end of the day, however, when I have an idea or a list or a 'to-do', I reach for a pen. I reach for simplicity. For in the comfort of that tripod grip, of letting my fingers feel the vibrations of the paper as the ink flows over it in the act of creation, I sometimes find the self I want to be.