tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89701174620563807862024-03-21T06:44:49.279-07:00Different ViewsAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06536025999840364625noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970117462056380786.post-24611317545404082812016-11-24T19:34:00.002-08:002016-11-24T19:44:09.437-08:00Change<br />
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Hello! I know it's been a while but life and all that, you know. I would like to share a piece with you that I wrote several years ago. It was a flight of fancy during an autumn storm. I hope you enjoy.<br />
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Adieu! Until next time.....<br />
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CHANGE<o:p></o:p></div>
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The land is nestling in for winter. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Earth, moist from new rain, permeates<o:p></o:p></div>
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The brisk air with heady, acrid smells.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Nature’s labor of summer bears fruit.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A royal cache of gold leaves, red apples, purple berries;<o:p></o:p></div>
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Field and wood, burdened with bounty.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A cerulean sky filled with puffy white clouds<o:p></o:p></div>
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That scurries quickly by on a rapidly swelling wind.<o:p></o:p></div>
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They know what’s coming.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The trees sway gently then suddenly,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Winds of imposing strength<o:p></o:p></div>
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Push and shove them into a fevered dance.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The brightness scowls into darkness, winds howl and whip.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Summer’s bounty falls to earth as a bruised sky weeps;<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sad at the loss of autumn’s glorious embellishments.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Gone as abruptly as it came, the dark sky grows blue.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The air, brisk with chill, hurries winter gatherers to
pillage<o:p></o:p></div>
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The spoils of disasters spill.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The earth draws closer in, she whispers to her charges,<o:p></o:p></div>
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“It is coming, fall
deeper into rest,</div>
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Time now for sleep, time
to refresh.”<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06536025999840364625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970117462056380786.post-2142206859191216572016-09-25T17:24:00.001-07:002016-09-25T17:24:21.013-07:00Different Views: 10/27/2013I live in the great Northwest. Sadly,...<a href="http://countymayo.blogspot.com/2013/10/10272013-i-live-in-great-northwest.html?spref=bl">Different Views: 10/27/2013<br />
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I live in the great Northwest. Sadly,...</a>: 10/27/2013 I live in the great Northwest. Sadly, it is not in pungent fir forests filled with babbling brooks or tumbling streams. What...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06536025999840364625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970117462056380786.post-62941637198003830362016-09-22T21:29:00.002-07:002016-09-22T21:29:49.620-07:00World View<br />
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The Press is on.<br />
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Not the media press, The Press.<br />
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Imagine you are viewing the world from space. Imagine you have the ability to see the whole world at once, the sphere in totality; you would be awed, amazed at it's beauty. Certainly, I would. In your amazement you draw closer, you wish to see this globe suspended in space. Soon you see the moon and then the earth itself, the haze of it's atmosphere, the slight tug of its gravitational pull. Soon there are clouds whirling in violent masses over the surface of the planet, you feel the unseen wind as you break into air. (Please do not interject logic here. Of course you would burn. We are imagining.) However, as you draw closer to the surface you see that it looks as if it is boiling. Picture this planet coated in a thick, viscous substance dotted with huge gaseous bubbles erupting with immeasurable violence, millions of them exploding around the globe creating fires, famine, sickness and fear all seething under earths' crust, rolling, exploding, destroying. What is this thing?<br />
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It is The Press.<br />
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Let us come back now to the real and the present. Our space travel was certainly imaginary. The Press however, is not. Everyone feels it even if they are unaware of it. No one escapes. Stress, strain, tension; they are not The Press. They are results of it. Fear, terror, anxiety, uneasiness, worry, annoyance, exasperation, irritation; these are not The Press. They are by products of it.<br />
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The population of this world, as well as the world itself, are under the crushing, destroying power of The Press. That real, unseen yet felt, ethereal presence that whips frenzy to its' peak, twists minds, warps emotions and blotches the soul; that is The Press and its' menace has invaded. We are under attack. Well, in saying that I open myself up to much criticism. But I do not speak of beliefs, religious or otherwise. I see it as a practical fact that some thing is gaining control over the peoples of our planet. It may be nothing more than our rotten dispositions taking reign, our greediness pushing for more, our lusts gone unabated, it could be just that. Yet, isn't that more than reason enough?Something cannot run wild and be leashed at the same time. What monsters grow from within ourselves?<br />
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There is the comforting description of a diamond from coal, a beautiful result of pressure. However, that is a specifically applied pressure, one that is ingrained in the design of the earth. Man can manufacture diamonds, but I think that, in a sense, they are forgeries. The two diamonds will appear the same but one has endured for thousands of years and the other perhaps only a few months. The press exerted upon a piece of coal that results in a diamond is a productive press. The Press upon our world and ourselves is not. We shall harden, or shatter.<br />
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I do not think that The Press is of a benevolent nature. As I said before, I see it as destructive. So, we find ourselves in a fix. The Press is here. It will not leave until it accomplishes whatever a thing like this wishes to. Think on it. You feel it, you know it is real and true. Our communal existence depends on recognizing this specter and our personal existence is already in the gravest danger for not noticing it sooner! Examine yourself, survey your life, your world and find the weaknesses, for it is there that The Press pushes in to break you, defeat you. It's time to raise our eyes and see our world and where we are, not bend our necks to technology and individualism; for in doing that, looking up and out, you will have some power in the fight with this intangible, invisible thing. Do not discount this out right, take time to consider it.<br />
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Just watch your back. We are at war.<br />
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Adieu! Until Next Time......<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06536025999840364625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970117462056380786.post-39834516307594509682015-08-11T17:51:00.000-07:002015-08-11T17:54:36.361-07:00 To Cry Or Not To Cry<br />
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I cry. Not so much anymore. I suppose I cried enough as a child that I worked it out!? Now, my inner voice tells me how long I may cry. Sometimes it's not long enough to wash out the........ <br />
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Cry baby, hmm. Babies cry but why are you a baby if you cry often? It takes maturity to realize it's time to cry, and time to move on. <br />
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I offer up to you several quotes on the subject of crying. Ruminate please.<br />
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Adieu Till Next Time<br />
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"To weep is to make less the depth of grief."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcNu1GJG_g8wFtoUBVBHCOatUiDY3OewFTh6dtiwvZiDMt2oejQ0rRYCuv2VENC4oiu8Pdc_quTPA_mdZetnlRwHQEXLLB2zaB6N-yaVpkb1XtPYbxKvqViAAlIHUlwvynWzVjmG_oyQ1b/s1600/552007_337203319703537_75361316_n+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcNu1GJG_g8wFtoUBVBHCOatUiDY3OewFTh6dtiwvZiDMt2oejQ0rRYCuv2VENC4oiu8Pdc_quTPA_mdZetnlRwHQEXLLB2zaB6N-yaVpkb1XtPYbxKvqViAAlIHUlwvynWzVjmG_oyQ1b/s400/552007_337203319703537_75361316_n+%25281%2529.jpg" width="193" /></a> William Shakespeare<br />
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"There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition and of unspeakable love."<br />
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Washington Irving<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWxFYqlyFF9TDsXZAgliSrwfr3PAbtVFWEa5-f_i2_f36kCSTwjbGuf6CDUMw7sO9b87GqIVbBO783X0v9S3sV7JjC47GKT-NdONpN0l7CTJ5C5iCpwBuP2F8EGA0k6xG4PLmyTOONsDKc/s1600/_D700476x2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWxFYqlyFF9TDsXZAgliSrwfr3PAbtVFWEa5-f_i2_f36kCSTwjbGuf6CDUMw7sO9b87GqIVbBO783X0v9S3sV7JjC47GKT-NdONpN0l7CTJ5C5iCpwBuP2F8EGA0k6xG4PLmyTOONsDKc/s320/_D700476x2.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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"No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader" Robert Frost<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVxUZH1gp_DvpQ1pxr6eNeBum9_Bn40xojkJWmQn5HFfJOS7OB3I9NjNliSsUI-qZ5NLPnPTk3aPDf1g6W46iZ4OcUZ-Y0BfQeAAz5pB2opF1lT9glI-aYSLd1NKvsGVsq0Y9FSMu7Z4Mp/s1600/9ff584dcf852c8d4b36e7f215f730882.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVxUZH1gp_DvpQ1pxr6eNeBum9_Bn40xojkJWmQn5HFfJOS7OB3I9NjNliSsUI-qZ5NLPnPTk3aPDf1g6W46iZ4OcUZ-Y0BfQeAAz5pB2opF1lT9glI-aYSLd1NKvsGVsq0Y9FSMu7Z4Mp/s320/9ff584dcf852c8d4b36e7f215f730882.jpg" width="216" /></a></div>
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"I cry very easily. It can be a movie, a phone conversation, a sunset-tears are words waiting to be written" Paulo Coelho<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06536025999840364625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970117462056380786.post-79407292535571357222015-01-24T01:30:00.001-08:002015-01-24T01:53:14.895-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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1/24/15 <br />
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loss<br />
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I have been gifted, I have tasted the sweetness of life.. <br />
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I have seen the sharp clarity of trees flowers, faces.<br />
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I have felt the transcendence of caressing voice and music.<br />
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In my hollow heart, the giant beast of loss.<br />
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A raging surge of anger in argument, alive, vital.<br />
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The bitter sweet bite of emotional blood;<br />
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leaving the raw taste of iron.<br />
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The heat of life screaming through veins found lazy,<br />
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an unfocused vision lost to the mundane.<br />
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Beauty ablaze, the fine edge of pain sharpening all senses.<br />
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Grief will not win. I will rise and soar once more;<br />
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Banner above, head held high, pain now passion.<br />
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Never really gone.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3PKBN-K6vAQbJSCzna-ioOROpeD59mxhssbPhR0qxvdDrI5IPU7F4YWww4WPS2C2nGaHlmzOfIzeAWMPss12fCbvNenIqVteFsPTXeRM6dVPSwUSfPnvO9TgZpBlxgCi5dt7WJ3HFnuz8/s1600/100_0099.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3PKBN-K6vAQbJSCzna-ioOROpeD59mxhssbPhR0qxvdDrI5IPU7F4YWww4WPS2C2nGaHlmzOfIzeAWMPss12fCbvNenIqVteFsPTXeRM6dVPSwUSfPnvO9TgZpBlxgCi5dt7WJ3HFnuz8/s1600/100_0099.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06536025999840364625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970117462056380786.post-29140455630606961442014-10-26T18:23:00.000-07:002014-10-26T18:23:31.732-07:00Musing<h2 class="entry-title">
<a href="http://anotherdifferentview.wordpress.com/2014/10/27/musing/" rel="bookmark">Musing</a></h2>
<div class="entry-meta">
<span class="meta-prep meta-prep-author">Posted on</span> <a href="http://anotherdifferentview.wordpress.com/2014/10/27/musing/" rel="bookmark" title="1:04 am"><span class="entry-date">October 27, 2014</span></a> <span class="by-author"><span class="sep">by</span> Mary Colleen Nico</span> </div>
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I was going through my journal today and found several quotes that I would like to share. Some are anonymous, some not. I try to memorize them but I am not having much luck at that. Good thing I write them down!<br />
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<a href="https://anotherdifferentview.files.wordpress.com/2014/10/9_1_1.jpg"><img alt="_9_1_~1" class="alignnone size-medium wp-image-61" height="300" src="https://anotherdifferentview.files.wordpress.com/2014/10/9_1_1.jpg?w=199&h=300" width="199" /></a><br />
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A “soft” day. The Irish use the expression to describe a day that is misty and grey. What a beautiful way to use the word.<br />
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“If you cheat, may you cheat death.”<br />
“If you steal, may you steal a woman’s’ heart.”<br />
“If you fight, may you fight for a brother.”<br />
“And If you drink, may you drink with me.” Anonymous<br />
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“The less you talk, the more people think about your words.” Anonymous<br />
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“The soul is born old but grows young. That is the comedy of life. The body is born young and grows old. That is the tragedy of life.” Oscar Wilde<br />
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<a href="https://anotherdifferentview.files.wordpress.com/2014/10/644517_4348797914825_1942895200_n.jpg"><img alt="644517_4348797914825_1942895200_n" class="alignnone size-medium wp-image-62" height="201" src="https://anotherdifferentview.files.wordpress.com/2014/10/644517_4348797914825_1942895200_n.jpg?w=300&h=201" width="300" /></a><br />
“I like you. Your eyes are full of language.” Anne Sexton<br />
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“Sometimes you have to kind of die inside in order to rise from the ashes and believe in yourself, and love yourself, to become a new person.” Gerard Way<br />
<a href="https://anotherdifferentview.files.wordpress.com/2014/10/firetornado.jpg"><img alt="firetornado" class="alignnone size-medium wp-image-68" height="169" src="https://anotherdifferentview.files.wordpress.com/2014/10/firetornado.jpg?w=300&h=169" width="300" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
“I will either terrify you or amuse you.” Random Writer<br />
<br />
<br />
” To be too large for worry, too noble for anger, too strong for fear, and too happy to permit the presence of trouble.” Christian D. Larsen<br />
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<br />
<a href="https://anotherdifferentview.files.wordpress.com/2014/10/10426704_10201169431718431_6293093173166635919_n.jpg"><img alt="10426704_10201169431718431_6293093173166635919_n" class="alignnone size-medium wp-image-65" height="166" src="https://anotherdifferentview.files.wordpress.com/2014/10/10426704_10201169431718431_6293093173166635919_n.jpg?w=300&h=166" width="300" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
“Light is not always innocent nor dark always wrong in heart.” Anonymous<br />
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<a href="https://anotherdifferentview.files.wordpress.com/2014/10/305015_490655567614251_1302788848_n.jpg"><img alt="305015_490655567614251_1302788848_n" class="alignnone size-medium wp-image-66" height="300" src="https://anotherdifferentview.files.wordpress.com/2014/10/305015_490655567614251_1302788848_n.jpg?w=300&h=300" width="300" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
“Submitted for your approval…….” Rod Serling, The Twilight Zone<br />
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adieu….until next time<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06536025999840364625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970117462056380786.post-51684235176233221652014-10-17T10:28:00.000-07:002014-10-17T10:28:16.183-07:00<br />
<br />
Excerpt from The Oracle Ophelia<br />
<br />
Do blogs always have to be about something real? I was wondering because I would like to share a short piece of my book. It just went on the market at the end of June. So far sales are p-o-o-r! but, I have faith. <br />
<br />
It's a fantasy, or is it? Dark and light battling out as they have since time began, since Cain killed Abel. Darkness resides in all of us as does light. Which rules you? The darkness is strong right now. We need the light for if not, the consequences are dire. Look up, look inside, look around and fill yourself with the light awaiting to help you sustain.<br />
<br />
adieu<br />
***<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtGpo2BWiM0bH8BqWKVxu_EkjktlfGXFDv6Xa3ng-TQ-oild8lrkKswXQ6s_isavhq7_XQB3WLjqQq2Sy8y5FuJc13fC9D-_Wj7P2GKvaJoxtU-6B_V7sxmTicBdqIqMyUKbJM6SWohmrI/s1600/29f6511884af280ba8623f67dedcc1fe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtGpo2BWiM0bH8BqWKVxu_EkjktlfGXFDv6Xa3ng-TQ-oild8lrkKswXQ6s_isavhq7_XQB3WLjqQq2Sy8y5FuJc13fC9D-_Wj7P2GKvaJoxtU-6B_V7sxmTicBdqIqMyUKbJM6SWohmrI/s1600/29f6511884af280ba8623f67dedcc1fe.jpg" height="320" width="244" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black;">
<br />
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 190.6pt;">
<span style="color: black;">The wind began to
rise and dark clouds<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>covered the moon.
Soon the curtains were tangling in the howling wind as lightning crashed and thunder
boomed. The sleeping Ophelia made no effort to rise while her spirit watched with
intense, unemotional eyes. A void without light appeared suddenly at the foot of
her bed. Her mind’s eye watched it slowly take form. Emerging from the tempest,
his darkness visible and foul, was Ophedius. He did not know she watched him step
next to her sleeping figure. She had never spoken to or seen the Lord of Darkness,
but her spirit recoiled at the depravity emanating from the pulsing void. She hesitated
to acknowledge his presence, fearing it would only increase his power, but as she
watched the vile creature reach to touch her sleeping face, she could hold her voice
no longer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 190.6pt;">
<o:p> "</o:p>Do not dare to touch
me.” Her voice was frozen, throaty, hanging heavy in the air. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 190.6pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 190.6pt;">
The black lord stopped
mid-movement, looking to find the source of the disembodied voice. His expression
became quizzical when he could find none. “Well, your strength grows, my dear. To
what do I owe the honor of you addressing me?” He peered around the room as he spoke,
watching the sleeping Ophelia closely, making sure it was not a bit of trickery.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 190.6pt;">
“I have no fear of
you, Ophedius. Leave me. There is no place for you here.” She watched the confusion
on the doughy face grow more complex. The storm was subsiding and the clouds began
to pull away from the moon, allowing silver light to pierce the gloom. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 190.6pt;">
The essence of darkness
wavered. He did not have the power to sustain on Abysmal. “I will leave you, my
dear, but with a reminder that I was here.” Slowly, he bent and placed a kiss upon
her breast, where her heart lay beneath.<o:p></o:p></div>
</span><br />
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<br />
available at Amazon and BarnesandNoble - online only<br />
<a href="https://anotherdifferentview.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post-new.php">https://anotherdifferentview.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post-new.php</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06536025999840364625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970117462056380786.post-50116357781878454442014-09-20T19:37:00.000-07:002014-09-20T19:37:36.210-07:00Gram and Grid Kids Football<div style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 24px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
I have two daughters. I have no sons but yet I do. I have two grandsons with whom I have a <nobr><a class="FAtxtL" href="http://anotherdifferentview.wordpress.com/2014/09/21/gram-and-grid-kids-football/#" id="FALINK_2_0_1" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent !important; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border-bottom-color: rgb(243, 91, 0) !important; border-bottom-style: solid !important; border-width: 0px 0px 1px !important; color: rgb(243, 91, 0) !important; display: inline !important; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 1px !important; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">wonderful relationship</a></nobr>. They are funny, clever, excited about life and learning. However, suddenly I find them on scooters, bicycles, skateboards, and of course, <nobr><a class="FAtxtL" href="http://anotherdifferentview.wordpress.com/2014/09/21/gram-and-grid-kids-football/#" id="FALINK_1_0_0" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent !important; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border-bottom-color: rgb(243, 91, 0) !important; border-bottom-style: solid !important; border-width: 0px 0px 1px !important; color: rgb(243, 91, 0) !important; display: inline !important; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 1px !important; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">video</a></nobr> games. When did this happen? What happened to binkies?</div>
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Today I watched my baby grandsons play their third football game of the season. I enjoy football. I understand the game and its quirks. However with the little ones it is different, somewhat. I have heard stories of parents yelling at coaches, spittle flying from their rage, over <nobr><a class="FAtxtL" href="http://anotherdifferentview.wordpress.com/2014/09/21/gram-and-grid-kids-football/#" id="FALINK_3_0_2" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent !important; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border-bottom-color: rgb(243, 91, 0) !important; border-bottom-style: solid !important; border-width: 0px 0px 1px !important; color: rgb(243, 91, 0) !important; display: inline !important; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 1px !important; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">a play</a></nobr> or penalty they disagreed with. I think that’s foolish and childish. That said, I have found myself yelling from the stands various epitaphs about the plays. I hold my breath at the end of <nobr><a class="FAtxtL" href="http://anotherdifferentview.wordpress.com/2014/09/21/gram-and-grid-kids-football/#" id="FALINK_6_0_5" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent !important; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border-bottom-color: rgb(243, 91, 0) !important; border-bottom-style: solid !important; border-width: 0px 0px 1px !important; color: rgb(243, 91, 0) !important; display: inline !important; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 1px !important; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">the play</a></nobr> for fear that one of “my” boys have been hurt. So far, so good, but Gram is going to get in trouble if she doesn’t quit yelling, “holding!” “fumble!” and so forth. I’m not sure if the passion is the game or whose <nobr><a class="FAtxtL" href="http://anotherdifferentview.wordpress.com/2014/09/21/gram-and-grid-kids-football/#" id="FALINK_4_0_3" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent !important; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border-bottom-color: rgb(243, 91, 0) !important; border-bottom-style: solid !important; border-width: 0px 0px 1px !important; color: rgb(243, 91, 0) !important; display: inline !important; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 1px !important; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">playing</a></nobr> it. Don’t be silly, of course I know that the passion is for my grandsons.</div>
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Grid Kids needs to be acknowledged for their diligence and dedication to these small boys and their personal growth. There biggest concern is safety, the second team cohesiveness with winning coming somewhere behind. My grandsons are no longer babies. They are young boys who will soon be young men. Their raising has been exceptional. I can say this freely for the coach told my daughters that the boys were not “mean” enough. They are to kind the coach said. Hmmm….. Well, they are getting the game down after a month of<nobr><a class="FAtxtL" href="http://anotherdifferentview.wordpress.com/2014/09/21/gram-and-grid-kids-football/#" id="FALINK_5_0_4" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent !important; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border-bottom-color: rgb(243, 91, 0) !important; border-bottom-style: solid !important; border-width: 0px 0px 1px !important; color: rgb(243, 91, 0) !important; display: inline !important; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 1px !important; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">practice</a></nobr> and three games. They are 2-1 and frankly I am quite proud.</div>
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I am working on my yelling during the game. It’s not because I don’t want to, it’s because I don’t want to embarrass my grandchildren in front of their team or undermine the authority of the coach. It doesn’t keep me from mumbling under my breath, “false start”, “facemask” etc. You can, however, expect me to be at every game supporting the boys. Who knows? They may excel and become pro’s. But then again, they may not. Although they will come away with a sense of self-worth, improved self-esteem, self-pride and hopefully a love of teamwork. If this be so, they will be successful in all they do. I probably will yell about that too!</div>
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adieu</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06536025999840364625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970117462056380786.post-47571394662515104622014-09-12T01:12:00.001-07:002014-09-12T01:12:55.229-07:00Do You Hear Me?<br />
<br />
do you?........really hear? does anybody realy hear......or listen. Dream....mine or yours....do we care? do we care or is it a pastime....so we can say we're doing something..<br />
<br />
do I want my space?...would it be empty without you or to full when you're here? Perhaps you feel the same of me.<br />
<br />
no youthful lust.....no passion, no purpose just posts that lean on each other. if one falls, well.........<br />
<br />
tick goes the passing of time. why do i feel young in a body that won't respond, that has a face i do not know, whose hair is much lighter than the brown i've always known?<br />
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life is too lonely...too many people don't care....except the one whose been here for more of my life than not. who treats me as a queen....who i try not to take advantage of.<br />
<br />
too many years with to think of being without.<br />
<br />
until next time.......Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06536025999840364625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970117462056380786.post-2556230925458497842014-08-27T23:17:00.000-07:002014-08-27T23:17:22.162-07:00<br />
<br />
Finally<br />
<br />
<br />
I must apologize for being so long in writing. It seems I have developed a deep aversion to the written word. That is certainly not something a writer likes to experience.<br />
<br />
I have had a book published and am in the process of marketing it. I can tell you that writing the darn thing was the easiest part. Now I have to promote it. It's frustrating, exasperating, futile. At least from this view.<br />
<br />
The copies have arrived. I started reading it as an actual book, skipped through a good portion of it and went to the end. I couldn't finish it. Found it elementary with too many errors. I see now why some actors never watch there own work. It is inevitable it will be found lacking. That said, I have no idea if it is a good book or not. During the writing process I was sure it was. Now that assurance is on shaky ground.<br />
<br />
I did not write the story expecting to become rich. I did not write it for fame. I wrote it because I wanted to. When it was done I was adrift. My fantasy friends had gone, their mission accomplished. Nothing to occupy the mind or hands. I fell into depression and did mindless things on the computer. I decided the only cure was to continue the story. Well, that sounds easy enough, but it's not.<br />
<br />
I have discard several general plots, keeping parts of this and that. Looking at new things and reacquainting myself with some old ones in the hopes of sparking an idea. Thinking, always thinking of what could happen, what could be said. My depression left, my purpose was back.<br />
<br />
It's a good shot that I will remain obscure and end my days with a monumental collection of poems, prose, and a couple of books. I suppose that's not to bad a legacy. Maybe in a hundred years I will be considered a master. Who's to know? All I know is that I must continue to write this blog, no matter how many people read it. I must continue to work on my poetry and prose. I must continue to journal and look at the world with the wonder of a child. I must not forget to see the sprites, the spirits, those fantastical creatures created in the mind.<br />
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Life hurts. It's hard and toilsome. Everyone alive needs something to call there own:; something they created. I am fortunate to have found my niche. Some never do.<br />
<br />
Thank you. Until next time.............................<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFq_9COsdh4E-o3khvahVctqcbkpfflXjLw18gflfbhY4CbnV_Z-9xi8rS0R5qmXrL1Iw7ELB8CKRM_C7aqURNEdT2c99kOsax13oKKsQPCAM3DykcP7V4Fk22TAniEr_5RT0KGMxK6twu/s1600/978-1-62516-103-1-MCarneyCover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="display: inline !important; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFq_9COsdh4E-o3khvahVctqcbkpfflXjLw18gflfbhY4CbnV_Z-9xi8rS0R5qmXrL1Iw7ELB8CKRM_C7aqURNEdT2c99kOsax13oKKsQPCAM3DykcP7V4Fk22TAniEr_5RT0KGMxK6twu/s1600/978-1-62516-103-1-MCarneyCover.jpg" height="320" width="211" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
If you are interested in my book, it is available on Amazon and Barnes and Nobles. There is more information about the book on the websites and Amazon lets you read the first couple chapters to see if you like it. I thank you in advance for your attention. I do ask that you make a comment about the story on the above websites. It helps to move the book along a very long line.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06536025999840364625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970117462056380786.post-73493630815155388212014-05-30T20:07:00.001-07:002014-05-30T20:07:57.784-07:00TodayI was in the garden when the ambulance pulled up. <br />
<br />
I had seen the elderly woman across the way. The one living in the blue trailer with the brown shutters. She's probably lived there for a long time. There's a poor excuse for a rose bush at the trailers end showing sometime, someone had cared. I'm sure it was her.<br />
<br />
In the fall, on those warm days with brilliant blue skies, I would see her with her walker going to the mailbox. Her back was bowed, her body small. Her hands gripping the handles firmly exposing her long, long fingers, still elegant. Her face full of determination, her head held high. Proper, raised in an age gone by. My husband spoke to her several times and her statement was always, "the weather is beautiful."<br />
<br />
The paramedics went in then quickly returned to their carriage of horrors. They pulled out their gurney. I was sure she had died then I saw them carrying her down the bare wood steps in what appeared to be a chair. So small she was. Her hair splayed, her skin pale, she held her head up straight. <br />
<br />
After a time of seeing no one at her home their appeared several cars. They seemed to come and go quickly although I did not see anyone take in anything or bring anything out. An odd experience, to be sure. Activity has died at the rusty blue trailer across the way. I don't know about the lady. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06536025999840364625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970117462056380786.post-72041754813398389002014-03-27T15:01:00.002-07:002014-03-27T15:08:10.404-07:00<br />
<br />
We all know that someday we too shall pass away. It's unavoidable. To have someone, especially a loved one, leave this world with no way to stop it is terrible. The effects ripple throughout all who know like a pebble in a pond. One ripple has gone as far as 3000 miles. Makes you feel small. <br />
<br />
Openly or secretly we all have a desire to leave a legacy. A worthwhile essence left of you that spurns people on to be better. Wisdom remembered, wisdom shown, wisdom learned. <br />
<br />
My immediate family, who cannot be with you face to face, as well as myself, gathered together on the evening of his leavin' and paid tribute to a great man. We celebrated E. Carney, SFC-E6. We talked, we laughed, we cried. Those of us of age raised a shot of good Irish whiskey to his name. We danced. We lit candles and played soft Celtic music, we sang, we remembered, we grieved for Papa, grandpa, great grandpa.<br />
<br />
I believe that sometimes important things are denied in a real way. Unmovable objects. However, the awareness of events thousands of miles away are touching and moving me. In my grief I am seeing as I have never seen before. Life is short.<br />
<br />
Websters states:<br />
<br />
Legacy: <span class="main-fl"><em>noun </em>something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor, as from the past. </span><br />
<span class="main-fl"></span><br />
<span class="main-fl">Emmett Carney, my Papa, left an indelible legacy. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
The toast we made to Papa.:<br />
<br />
An Irish Toast<br />
<br />
If ye cheat, may ye cheat death.<br />
<br />
If ye steal, may ye steal a woman's heart.<br />
<br />
If ye fight, may ye fight for your brother,<br />
<br />
And if ye drink, may ye drink with me. <br />
<br />
Slainte'<br />
(health)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06536025999840364625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970117462056380786.post-83091770851876050892013-10-27T19:25:00.002-07:002013-10-27T19:25:41.122-07:00<br />
<br />
10/27/2013<br />
<br />
<br />
I live in the great Northwest. Sadly, it is not in pungent fir forests filled with babbling brooks or tumbling streams. What tumbles where I live, is tumbleweed. Most people think of snow capped, alpine images when they think of Washington state or Oregon. It is to my sorrow that I must tell you that a very small portion of the area is like that. Approximately 2/3 of Washington, Oregon, and Idaho are desert.<br />
<br />
Now mind you, it's not Death Valley; but it's dry, lots of scrub and yes, tumbleweeds. The weather is extreme. Blistering summers, frigid winters, but spring and fall are glorious. The only trees we have are those that have been planted. None are indigenous to this area as far as I know, however, there are lots of trees around and they bloom vigorously in spring and go ablaze in fall. There is a reason for all this, be patient. <br />
<br />
One fall I was daydreaming out the sliding glass doors, admiring the view filled with apple trees, pear trees, the thick green grass, the swaying golden leaves on the white birch. The birds were going wild at the feeders, the sky was brilliant blue. All this was set against the backdrop of tan, dead scrub and a pasture filled with beautiful cattle. (This is cowboy country. No really, true cowboy country. Agriculture and beef, that's us.)<br />
<br />
Back to my picture. Anyway, I began to notice that the clouds were getting a little dark on the bottom and the wind was picking up. In less than fifteen minutes it was a full blown storm. By the time it was over it was as if someone had picked up the ground and then dropped it. Most of the leaves were off the trees, small branches were everywhere, fruit covered the ground accompanied by a definite drop in temperature. Being November I knew the weather was going to change soon but it usually does it at a little slower pace. Not this year. We went from fall to winter in about an hour. Two days later, it snowed. Such is the Northwest. <br />
<br />
Why tell you this? I was so taken with the ferocity and swiftness of that particular storm and its consequences that I had to put pen to paper. I saw through those plates of glass a living, breathing thing that changed my world. Nature had exposed herself to me and I blushed. Voluptuous, sensual, glorious, cunning and cruel, in all her feminine ways and wiles I had seen the invisible. Mother earth had heaved a sigh and nature heard. I can still conjure up that scene and it still takes my breath away. I have attempted to put the life force I felt that day into the words I wrote. I hope you will be able to catch a particle of my experience. Till next time.............<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>CHANGE<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The land is nestling in for winter.<o:p></o:p></div>
Earth, moist from new rain, permeates<o:p></o:p><br />
The biting air with heady, acrid smells.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Nature’s labor of summer bears fruit,<o:p></o:p></div>
A royal cache of gold leaves, red apples, purple berries;<o:p></o:p><br />
Field and wood lay burdened with bounty.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
A cerulean sky is filled with puffy white clouds<o:p></o:p><br />
That scurries quickly by<o:p></o:p><br />
on rapidly swelling winds.<br />
They know what’s coming.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The trees sway gently when suddenly,<o:p></o:p></div>
Winds of imposing strength<o:p></o:p><br />
Push and shove them into a fevered dance.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The brightness scowls into darkness, winds howl and whip.<o:p></o:p></div>
Summer’s bounty falls to earth as a bruised sky weeps,<o:p></o:p><br />
Sad at the loss of autumn’s glorious embellishments.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Gone as abruptly as it came, the dark sky grows blue.<o:p></o:p></div>
The air, brisk with chill, hurries winter gatherers to
pillage<o:p></o:p><br />
The spoils of disasters spill.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The earth draws closer in, she whispers to her charges,<o:p></o:p></div>
“It is coming, fall
deeper into rest,<o:p></o:p><br />
Time now for sleep, time
to refresh.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4LFSbmdF06aUAB-o6JZ4GO3I75BYYnnhBXEEQsMWtgYLfubcA0cLvLqfncRTgc4pnGzP0-Q8zlJwrC5K1k-VqbRcrnuE6QE65inoVoB3IoQ0XtUa6EIfDAAhChJ4z51WQ20Wd5ChnVoOd/s1600/Colors+of+Autumn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4LFSbmdF06aUAB-o6JZ4GO3I75BYYnnhBXEEQsMWtgYLfubcA0cLvLqfncRTgc4pnGzP0-Q8zlJwrC5K1k-VqbRcrnuE6QE65inoVoB3IoQ0XtUa6EIfDAAhChJ4z51WQ20Wd5ChnVoOd/s1600/Colors+of+Autumn.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06536025999840364625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970117462056380786.post-47866102206199041832013-10-01T20:32:00.000-07:002016-09-25T17:25:23.142-07:00Below is a short story I wrote from an actual dream. The dialect I have chosen for the people of color means no offense. Having lived a large portion of my life in the South; I can attest to this colorful speech, finding within it a beauty of its own. Much of the story was actually in the dream. I have embellished, of course, for the sake of continuity. I did wake to a soft rain and an aching for that lost childhood place. Hope you enjoy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihAYT5lDnroGpxjRwP0gzLeDg_G_N2FEBkQySSeYwF0Znldg9qL40rOsrFykACDKWI8vO_puyud46nyOpQP4x_dCziF8jNlkwup5KZMQDTXpXL2qdIL2GFRG9Yv1660znLESXX21KZze9D/s1600/253006_10151126856136839_2072035830_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihAYT5lDnroGpxjRwP0gzLeDg_G_N2FEBkQySSeYwF0Znldg9qL40rOsrFykACDKWI8vO_puyud46nyOpQP4x_dCziF8jNlkwup5KZMQDTXpXL2qdIL2GFRG9Yv1660znLESXX21KZze9D/s1600/253006_10151126856136839_2072035830_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Dream<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
Short Story by Mary Nico<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
</div>
<o:p> </o:p><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stylish manor houses and the
cobblestone road disappear as my daughters and I step onto the <br />
<br />
soft dirt road.
The sun beats down from a sapphire sky and moisture covers our skin in a
blanket of <br />
<br />
sweat. <br />
<br />
We talk softly amongst ourselves as we traverse the road.
What lace should we put on my <br />
<br />
youngest’ new dress? What new gloves would my
oldest like for church? Simple stuff, yet important. <br />
<br />
The dust puffs up from
under our feet, dusting the girls’ shoes and my laced up boots with a soft red
<br />
<br />
shell. Even our legs will be red by the time we reach the gathering.<br />
<br />
“Let’s
stop under that oak tree and have some water,” I suggest. “There’s a creek
running behind that<br />
<br />
hill.” I point to the huge oak standing sentinel
over the road, sitting court on his throne of green <br />
<br />
grass and crickets.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The shade is cool and a soft breeze comes
up from the water trickling quietly behind us. We remove our shoes and
stockings’, sighing as the cool air dries the sweat from our toes. We walk to
the bank of the small creek and dip our feet in the icy water, splashing our faces,
red from the sun, and quench our parched tongues. I smile as the girls giggle
at the minnows nipping at their toes. We rest quietly for a while under the
huge oak, listening in silence to the raucous of insects, birds and bees. Slowly
I rise, “Best put our shoes on and be going if we want to make it by supper
girls.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
Obediently they obey and our trek down the red dirt road continues.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
smells reach us before we turn our last bend in the road. Laughter tinkles on
the air followed by the smells of down home food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ham and greens, butterbeans and pinto’s,
cornbread and biscuits, sweet pies and cakes, their smells assault our senses topped with the
pungent scent of cantaloupe and fresh tomatoes, all drawing us in like fish to
a fly. Reticent smiles and gentle waves greet us as we approach, the chatter so loud there is no reason to speak.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> “Betsy lost
her dad,” I hear. “Might not see her for a while; we should take her some food
before it gets late.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
A woman with a shiny black face, eyes white with jet
black centers, lips full and glossy pink shakes her head in a
sad gesture. “Um hmm, we should do that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The group of women seems young, although their not; yet their spirits
fill the place with joy and youth. They sing their hymns, their songs of a life
gone by as they cook and gossip. Their smooth skin, polished and unwrinkled, is
in direct opposition to the men who sit on large wooden stumps, smiling with teeth
yellowed from age and the sweet smelling tobacco they chew. Their bodies are worn down to
rails, their bones crooked and jutting, but their hearts are as sweet as the big
women who cook and sing for them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My children have deserted me, finding
their way amongst this familiar foreign place. I hear their squeals as they
meet friends and the thud of their feet as they run into the field of tall
sweetgrass behind the gathering tent. The heavy scent of pine mixes with the
sweet scent of the grass while the chirp of crickets lends their tune to the
cacophony of the crowd. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A small wrinkled man sits upon the stump of
a tree long gone, its seat shiny from the polishing of many a bottom that has
shifted upon it. The spirit of life oozes from him, contagious and viral. There
is no fear, no: just a joyous welcome and an offering of sweet ripe berries as
big as my thumb. The juice flows down my chin, staining my mouth and hands
along with my white dress. He laughs, as do I, parts of me now as dark as he. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My youngest runs by and he claims her to
himself; she smudged with dirt and berry stains, her eyes shiny and wild, her
spirit intoxicated with the freedom of this place. An ironic gift from this
coffee colored people so long bound.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
A bony hand clasps the plump fingers of my girl and
places a stone, a tiny diamond in her sweaty palm. He then closes her fingers
tightly with a wink and a half smile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
“Keep it safe, one day you will need and
you should remember my face.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
Her brilliant green eyes peer into mine as I
slowly nod approval. She slips the gift into the pocket of my dress, looking
back to the withered old man with a wisdom in her gleaming eyes too old for one
so young. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
She gives him her biggest smile then dashes away.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“That little one gonna be the humbling of
that woman,” a coffee and cream colored woman with toffee eyes declares.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
“No
more than her oldest!” replies the woman beside her as she stirs the greens and
checks the breads. “She may be quiet but she’s trouble brewing. That’s all I’m
saying.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
I smile softly behind my hand. All
children are doomed to lives of despair according to the multitude of cooks,
their heads adorned in brightly colored kerchiefs, the edges soaked with their
sweat. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From somewhere in the fray, my oldest has
found an old slip she’s wearing as a gown. Slender stems with leaves
gleaming in the hot southern sun have been woven into a crown that sits askew
atop her tousled curls. The old man on the wooden seat laughs, motioning her
over. She skips freely, jumping on his knee as he wraps withered arms around
her tiny waist. Her hair curls at her temples, her cheeks glow in the heat. The
wizened old man smiles gently, his eyes black puddles, red veined and yellow orbed.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
“Open your hand, honey,” he tells her softly. She spreads open her hand, his
palm as white as hers; and with blackened, withered fingers he places a pearl
in the center of her palm, closing her fingers as he did her sister’s.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
“This
here pearl comes from the wood. Everything comes from the wood. We cut down
these trees with our own hands. Built your house, my house, the town, it all comes
from the wood. Never forget that. These pines, they died to give us life. Every one we take, we plant one. You gotta give to get."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
Here
he paused and gazed up at the tall trees, creaking as they slowly dance in the
wind. He looks at my oldest with sad eyes and a soft grin. “One day you
will need, and when you do, remember my face.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
She lifts her eyes to the tall,
thin pine trees swaying in the wind, whispering unintelligible tales. She
kisses the old mans cheek, hands me the jewel, then runs to play.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Here miss, you come eat. We got more than
we need; you take some home with you. Take this for those girls, they too
skinny,” the beautiful ebony woman smiles, her brilliant white teeth gleaming
as she hands me a basket full of food. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
“Thank you, mam,” I say as I bob my
head.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
Our lives are a world apart but oh, how I wish I could find the joy and
peace that they exude. She slips a piece of coconut cake into the basket,
golden on the inside, white as angel’s wings on the outside.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
“This here’s for
you. You enjoy it tonight on your porch swing while the rain falls. My knee is
telling me it’s so.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
“You are too kind,” I say.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
“Nah,” she says. “It’s just the
right thing to do, that’s all. We all God’s children and all God’s children got
to eat!” Her gold flecked eyes twinkle in the fading light.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
“Girls, time to go.
Don’t forget your shoes. I can’t afford new.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wake on warm sheets, rain falling
quietly outside. I blink, shake my head and sigh. How sweet the dream.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 139.45pt;">
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06536025999840364625noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970117462056380786.post-31366933492612420912013-03-25T17:36:00.000-07:002013-03-25T17:36:01.920-07:00Dangerous<br />
I have read that a good rule of thumb for blogging is to write about what you know. For me that's problematic. I don't think I know enough about any one thing for it to be blog worthy. As my mother says, "Colleen, you know a little bit about everything." I'm sure she means well but isn't it said that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing? If that be true, I am extremely dangerous, and not in a black cat suit ninja kinda way. It would be cool if I was, maybe. <br />
<br />
My brother works for a company called "Rotor Blade." The first time he told me I thought he said "Rent A Blade." I was jazzed, told him it sounded like an assassins guild. I felt somewhat foolish when he corrected me but still thought that an assassins guild might be cool, especially if you could just join and not have to actually be an assassin. Of course, as far as I know, there are no assassin guilds around except in movies and video games. Just think how awesome you could dress for a job like that. Capes with hoods, lots of leather, (protects better than cotton, not as heavy as Kevlar), pockets for knives, vials of poison around your neck, maybe even a razor thin sword in a hand tooled leather sheath, or a broadsword worn on your back. How about a bow and a quiver of poisoned arrows? A sword or bow would be rather obvious though. I would get caught or killed, maybe. I just don't know enough about stealth and weapons to do the work. I have only a little knowledge, very dangerous.<br />
<br />
I have had some music training. I am blessed with a decent voice. I believe that the shower is indeed the best place to sing. The acoustics are awesome. It doesn't hurt that the water drowns out much of my attempt. In my head I am convinced I could sing for a living but would probably faint dead away if I stepped onto a stage to sing solo. That or throw up, maybe both. Maybe my ego isn't big enough or my confidence strong enough. Maybe I just don't know enough about it. Dangerous, very, very. Oh, I don't do karaoke. The audience is just too tough. <br />
<br />
I read a lot. I can tell you about vampires, dragons, wizards, famous battles, the plague, The Dark Ages, the history of the Catholic Church and their beliefs, to which I do not belong, voodoo, exotic places, pirates, kings, queens, generals, the Druids and the Irish, which I am; Irish, not Druid. I like books. I like words. I have to bite my tongue to keep from correcting other people's grammar. I write poems, short stories, I have even written a book. I use too many commas, have difficulty keeping tense, there and their bewitch me, have no idea about who and whom, require a serious thesaurus and dictionary, and still stumble with to and too. Not enough knowledge......again with the dangerous.<br />
<br />
I am a kitchen table therapist. I won't even go there. Let's leave it that I am yet to lose a client or be paid by one. So, I am just a bundle of little bits of information about so many things. I keep gathering, hoping that one day I might excel at one thing. Maybe quantum physics. Until then I will walk lightly, watch my back and gather as much information as my brain will allow. Keep to the shadows if you hear my name for remember, I am very dangerous, very dangerous indeed.<br />
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06536025999840364625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970117462056380786.post-33326128143396754162012-11-11T15:44:00.001-08:002012-11-11T15:44:47.911-08:00To Laugh or Not<br />
<br />
My children are asking me to write something "funny." They tell me that I am too dark and <br />
<br />
brooding and that I should lighten things up a bit. I don't know if I know how to do that. <br />
<br />
I can be a funny person face to face but my writing has always been a way for me to let out the<br />
<br />
monsters. I'm not sure if I'm funny or just eccentric, although they seem to derive a great deal of <br />
<br />
pleasure from my one liners. I just don't know how to write about them.<br />
<br />
Now, my girls, they are funny. They can make me laugh so hard it hurts. They are witty and <br />
<br />
clever in a way I could never be. Maybe it's their youth, it's certainly not genetic. Let me put it this <br />
<br />
way, I can see humor in many things, I can be witty and a wise ass. I just can't write humor. Comic <br />
<br />
writers of the world have no need to fear. Here is something written a long time ago out of cynical <br />
<br />
frustration with my allergies. Is it funny? Maybe. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 169.1pt;">
<strong>Fluff<o:p> </o:p></strong></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 169.1pt;">
<strong>I hear the cottonwoods coming
after me.<o:p></o:p></strong></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 169.1pt;">
<strong>Silent, little puffs of fluff searching
me out,<o:p></o:p></strong></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 169.1pt;">
<strong><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>– they have no sympathy.</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 169.1pt;">
<o:p><strong> </strong></o:p></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 169.1pt;">
<strong>My eyes swell shut. <o:p></o:p></strong></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 169.1pt;">
<strong>My nose closes; it is attempting
to run off my face.<o:p></o:p></strong></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 169.1pt;">
<strong>I cannot swallow, cannot taste,
coughing, wheezing,<o:p></o:p></strong></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 169.1pt;">
<strong>there’s lead in my veins.</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 169.1pt;">
<o:p><strong> </strong></o:p></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 169.1pt;">
<strong>A David and Goliath match if one I
have ever seen.<o:p></o:p></strong></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 169.1pt;">
<strong>Goliath’s going down, again;<o:p></o:p></strong></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 169.1pt;">
<strong>taken out by something so very
hard to see.</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 169.1pt;">
<o:p><strong> </strong></o:p></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 169.1pt;">
<strong>How much would the story change if
it went this way instead?<o:p></o:p></strong></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 169.1pt;">
<strong>Goliath died from allergies, not a
rock to the head.<o:p></o:p></strong></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 169.1pt;">
<strong>He did not see it coming; he had
closed his eyes to sneeze.</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 169.1pt;">
<o:p><strong></strong></o:p> </div>
<strong>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">A tiny little puff of fluff brought him to his knees.</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">So, maybe it's cute. Let's try another.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>The Cat in the Chinese Hat, and the Consequences</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>Came out the door, stepped out of my flat, what should I
see, but a cat, </strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>in a Chinese hat.<o:p> </o:p></strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><o:p></o:p></strong> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>
</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>I walked quickly away, trying not to look back; I really
didn’t know what to</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>think of that.<o:p> </o:p></strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><o:p></o:p></strong> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>
</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>I moved down the street as I picked up my feet, mumbling
aloud, afraid of</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>what else I might see.</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><o:p></o:p></strong> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>
</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>I thought to myself as I ambled along about other things
that could have</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>gone wrong.<o:p> </o:p></strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><o:p></o:p></strong> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>
</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>If all you meet at the start of the day, is a cat on the
steps – probably a</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>stray – wearing a hat from a country far away –<o:p> </o:p></strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><o:p></o:p></strong> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>
</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>Tickle his chin and rub his back, what does it matter he’s
wearing a hat?<o:p> </o:p></strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><o:p></o:p></strong> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>
</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>Smile smugly as you look around your street, how lucky for you
that you both should meet.</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><o:p></o:p></strong> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>
</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>Pray tell my friends, how many have you met, that could tell
the same tale without embellishment?<o:p> </o:p></strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><o:p></o:p></strong> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>
</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>You are lucky; fate has smiled behind your back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know few others who have met the Chinese
Hatted Cat.<o:p> </o:p></strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><o:p></o:p></strong> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>
</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>So, hatted or not, give him some milk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You will probably never meet another of his
ilk.<o:p> </o:p></strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><o:p></o:p></strong> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>
</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>When he leaves and goes wherever hatted cats go – you my
friend, will smile and glow – <o:p> </o:p></strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><o:p></o:p></strong> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>
</strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong>For having met this Chinese cat, you now hold the secret to the
facts of his hat.<o:p></o:p></strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
Is it funny? Maybe, guess it's open to interpretation. Till next time.........<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06536025999840364625noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970117462056380786.post-71163869553407267312012-10-21T17:13:00.000-07:002012-10-21T17:13:45.280-07:00An Indifferent State of Mind<br />
An Indifferent State of Mind<br />
<br />
I am bipolar. Simple statement, not so simple to live with, but that is not the topic of my post. I merely wish for you to understand part of what makes me, me.<br />
<br />
I have been reviewing some writings from several years ago, when my mental illness was ablaze and alive. I'm sure it's not gone, but for now it's quiet, doesn't bother me much. Because of that stillness, I am able to read my writings through different eyes. Oh, I remember the emotions and the circumstances, but the pain, although still present, is tempered. <br />
<br />
In the review of these turbulent writings I am able to work them into a more literal style, one not quite so rambling and obscure. What shocks me is the emotion that radiates from these written <br />
words. I remember, but where has it gone? Don't confuse my curiosity for wishfullness, I do not want that rage, confusion, or pain to engulf me, yet I do not wish to stay in this state of calculated detachment. It's as miserable, if not more so, than the alternative. At least when I rage I feel alive. Now I merely take up space.<br />
<br />
Ah, you say. She's depressed. Perhaps, but obviously not much so or I would be despondent. As it is I am not even that. Numbness is the best way to describe it. Perhaps this is why so many mentally ill individuals refuse medication. They do not wish to be numb. I do not have the luxury of experimenting with my medicines. I am sane enough to know the damage that can be done if I do not take them, although I must confess to "forgetting" them occasionally. My responsible side will not allow me to walk to close to the edge, although it is a sirens call. <br />
<br />
I am not suicidal. I have examined it like a jeweler exams a diamond, like a sommelier savors wine. I have looked into the depths of its substance and find it lacking. I do not fear death, I just want more of life and how can that be done in this state of numbness? Do I need to draw blood to feel? Do I need to imbibe to find something hidden within me? I can't just wait for things to change, I must change things, but again I ask, how can that be done while numb? I must confess to being at a loss over it all. I am well aware that my thoughts and feelings are not exclusive to me. I regret my inability to answer my own questions. It seems I am caught on a tide of indifference. But wait, isn't indifference an emotion, or is it a state of mind? Their is something for this fuddled mind to chew on. Keep it busy lest it rise up and rebel. <br />
<br />
I have attached a few of the aforementioned pieces for your perusal. Comments would be more than welcome. I do hope you find something within them that makes you feel. It's hell to be numb. Till next time.......<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 138.8pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An Illicit Affair<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 138.8pt;">
Passion springs from my hearts’
desire,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 138.8pt;">
wrested into subjectivity only to
be fueled<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 138.8pt;">
again by whispered words of
seduction.<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 138.8pt;">
<o:p> </o:p><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Think
of me, come to me, call forth<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 138.8pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>the
vision that entwines us. Ponder the taste.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 138.8pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Savor
the pain; exquisite, extinguishing pain.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 252.95pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 252.95pt;">
I must not, I cannot. My spirit
screams for<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 252.95pt;">
you, my spirit screams at you.
Come, whisper<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 252.95pt;">
lies into my mind to justify this
act. Go!<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 252.95pt;">
Before I fall and believe you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 162.15pt 252.95pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 144.65pt 150.5pt 162.15pt 252.95pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Your
skin so cool, so soft, so white.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 252.95pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your lips,
cherry red, that cannot yet<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 252.95pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>be kissed. Let us sway to the <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>mournful notes<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 252.95pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>you sing and dance away to never or forever.<o:p></o:p></div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 252.95pt;">
Do not touch me, nor whisper your
deceit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 252.95pt;">
Today I am of strength enough to
turn you away.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 252.95pt;">
You will come again, I know, but
not to my call.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 252.95pt;">
You must wait until your time, no
matter how long.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 252.95pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will wait. I will entice you with <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 252.95pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>words
that float in your head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 252.95pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Release, peace, quiet, the dark. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 149.2pt 154.4pt 252.95pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You
will think them your own until the<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 154.4pt 252.95pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>final hour. Then you shall see my <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 150.5pt 252.95pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>face, angel or
devil. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 151.15pt 252.95pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Your final dance
with me, glorious, <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 154.4pt 252.95pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>elating, transcending, will take you<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 152.45pt 156.95pt 252.95pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>from
this place.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 252.95pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 252.95pt;">
True words indeed, for in the
end, death takes<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 252.95pt;">
what it will. Nevertheless, it
will not be something I give,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 252.95pt;">
no matter how sweet the kiss.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 252.95pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 252.95pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<st1:date day="29" month="3" w:st="on" year="2011">3-29-2011</st1:date>
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Questions<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
What good does it do to question the stars?<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Arguments of old, debate of the ages,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Yet still, no true answers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p>What good does it do to reach for those same said stars?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Unreachable, forever eluding the grasp and comprehension,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
While fueling wonder and imagination.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Yet still, no true answers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p>Where is the good in taming the sea?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Where is the wisdom in attempting it?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Where is the good in helping when your help is not wanted?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Where is the good in the pain of that, and why does it
matter?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Yet still, no true answers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p>Where is the wisdom of courage, where is the fear in
bravery?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Where went the passion of standards and ideals?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Where went honor, integrity, substance, and soul?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Where did they go when they crawled off to die?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Perhaps to lick their wounds, heal, and then return once
more?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Yet still, no true answers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Be careful of seeking answers for lies abound, and truth is
evasive.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
What would you do after your attempted quest?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
What if truth be found and you are hated for it?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Where is the good in all that?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Yet still, no true answers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06536025999840364625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970117462056380786.post-26055556793990116592012-10-02T22:38:00.000-07:002012-10-02T22:47:58.752-07:00History of a Revelation10-2-2012<br />
<br />
<br />
This is written with the presupposed idea that everyone has a father. You may not know him for several reasons. Physical or emotional abandonment, death, fear. Perhaps you did not like your father or he you. Regardless, everyone has a father. <br />
<br />
My relationship with my father has been volatile at least, heart wrenching at times, bittersweet at best. He is a hard person to know therefore a hard person to love, yet, not unlovable. As a child I feared him. Feared his discipline, his sharp tongue, his biting cynicism. I think he feared those things within himself. As a teenager, I rebelled as teenagers do. I defied him, pushed his cynicism and fears to breaking, yet he never left me. As emotionally hindered as he was, he truly never left me. I would not know this for years. Fortunately, I know it now. <br />
<br />
As a young adult I was tired of being "fatherless". I determined I wanted a relationship with him, that he was worth knowing and learning about, that I wanted his love. I was determined to dig it out of him, make him say he loved me, make him say he cared. The dilemma I faced was how do you break stone facades? How do you tear down self imposed walls, his as well as my own, and the cages of others? How could I reach my hand and touch this fearful mans' heart? I resorted to the only thing I knew.....words.<br />
<br />
Since a verbal relationship with my father was practically impossible, we always ended at odds, I began a written relationship with him through letters.. I do not know if he still has them and it really is no matter. What matters is that he could not avoid them and had no need for reply. It made him hear me without any responsibility on his part. I wrote him periodically for a couple of years. When on my 28th, or 29th birthday, odd I don't remember which, I knew the wall was cracking when the phone range and it was my father singing happy birthday to me. That was the gist of it, not much conversation, but the dam had begun to leak. I cried.<br />
<br />
Over the course of many years I would send him the occasional post card for no reason. Call him to say I love you, just because, talk to him when I visited and slowly the man emerged and one day the words I had so long for came. I love you. It was at a time when my marriage was rocky, I was without confidence, fearful of the future with two children. His words filled me with courage I did not know I had. Three words so impactive, so strong. When I was moving into a trailer with just my children, working in a dry cleaners for a pittance, I told my father I was frightened and did not know if I could do what needed done. We bounced together in the seat of the U-Haul we had rented together, him driving me to the future, me supplicant and feeling five again. He looked at me with genuine surprise then turned his eyes to the road. His words have echoed in my heart for years. "Well, I don't see why you can't. You can make it if you want to." I sat silent for half a minute, stunned by the outward display of unknown confidence in me. "I guess your right, Dad. I can if I want to." It was the only reply I could think of. What can you say to that? For once, words escaped me.<br />
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Many years have passed since that time and my relationship with my dad is quiet, peaceful, full of understanding that goes unspoken. I have learned much about him, this child-man, this brave man who faced a frightened future with four children and no idea how to parent. We do not say much but he tells me he loves me every time he sees me. He tells me all the time. I regret the loss of those years past but feel blessed with the years we retrieved for the sake of each other. He accepted my offering and offered up in return. <br />
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Today my father is fading. He has Alzheimer's and slowly as the clock turns he is slipping away from us. Such is life. We all have a path to trod and have no choice in what manner it will take. He is taking it humbly yet with dignity. He forgets what he said a minute ago but still knows all his children, even on the phone, and knows his grandchildren if prodded, sometimes on his own. Sometimes he even knows his great grandchildren. In his eyes you can see that he knows what is happening, that sometimes he is scared and silently calls for help. He has retained his personal pride, his manners, his southern gentile way. He has lost his anger. He has been humbled, along with us all. I pray that when my time comes I will have the grace that he is teaching. No matter what has passed, no matter what is, I know now that he has always loved me, he knows I have always loved him, and the thing that broke the barrier, words, are no longer necessary between us. I wish him peace. <br />
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The writing that follows is of some length. I appreciate your patience if you choose to read it. It bloomed from my visit that allowed me to see his physical failing for the first time, his frailty, his dependence and trust. It was the first time I say the true man, the man I knew hid behind such bravado for so long. I fell deeper in love with him that visit, grew prouder, and allowed my heart to break for this child-man who lost his father so young.<br />
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We all have fathers. This is about mine. Till next time......<br />
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<br />
3-9-2012 Journal entry<br />
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Well, what a crashing reality to my world. How could I not cry? He's half the man I knew and becoming less every day. Oh God, is this your mercy? To him or to us?<br />
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I know not what fills his mind. Memories? Visions? Visions of heaven, the ethereal, or just nothingness? I cannot believe that. Minds may stop but the conscience, the soul, does not. Something has to fill that void. Let us pray it is sweet and tender, dreams of youth and vigor, dreams of hope that have come to pass in his failing mind. I wish I have never feared him. I'm sure he wished he never gave me cause, if he remembers. Probably not now, but once before I'm sure.<br />
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How obedient the defiant one has become. Does God bring us low in order to lift us up? Or does He press his thumb upon our fierce independence, some say humble us. Or is more a dissolution of human character. Is it painful? Is it peaceful? Is it precious, poignant, forgiving, exalting?<br />
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The doctors can only tell us the physical. They cannot tell us the interactions of our soul. I would not want to know.<br />
<br />
My mother works herself to her death in a frantic attempt to bring back the life she knew which will never be again, for any of us. I wish I could give her peace. I can only give her help. My heart breaks and I don't know who for more. This frenzied grasping for life, her unwillingness to accept and begin letting go. Will it bring her peace, or insufferable loneliness? She cannot exist without a purpose and he is her purpose. She told me once she married him because he was the cutest thing she had ever seen. Somewhere along the way, love planted its seed and oh, how deep it has grown, how wide it has flourished. One will not be able to sustain without the other. They are bone of the same bone, flesh of the same flesh. They are one.<br />
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The guard is changing and we must ask our self if we can find dignity enough to equal theirs. We must ask if our love is deep enough to give as the have given to each other, even when they did not know, even when they did not know how. We must ask ourselves if we can forgive the humanity of those we have chosen and embrace the spirit within them, that which we loved first before life revealed their frailties. <br />
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If we run away, if we let anger lead and broken dreams prevail, we will rob ourselves of the beauty of our flourished growth. We will never be bone of bone or flesh of flesh to anyone. Our Independence, our selfishness, our self-righteousness will destroy the seed that was planted so long ago. <br />
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May it not be so.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06536025999840364625noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970117462056380786.post-22226502999492007072012-09-30T18:58:00.000-07:002012-09-30T18:58:38.061-07:00Author Unknown<br />
9-30-2012<br />
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<br />
There is a particular author who has been a great inspiration to me. I will not name this author, the name is not necessary, but for the sake of form we will call this author, he. This does not imply that the author is male, nor does it imply he is not. <br />
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The brilliance of his writing has been debated by many. I am inclined to believe he is, in fact, brilliant. Otherwise, where would the motivation lie? His descriptive abilities, his vocabulary, his uncanny ability to make you feel inside the world he has created improved my writing skills tenfold. I consumed his works over and over. Oh, I knew his stories, but I did not know the art.<br />
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Perhaps the author I speak of would not move you . You might find his works outrageous, cumbersome, boring. You might find my work the same. Such is the delight of the written word. One can always close the book, minimize the computer page, trash the whole works. There are numerous author's who have added to my knowledge of the written word. My psyche grows fat on the mental gluttony yet I starve, insatiable in my passion for words.<br />
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I would like to thank him, this author who has inspired me to push the limits of my abilities. I would like to thank him for motivating me to higher standards. In doing so I thank every author whose words have blown over the dieing embers of my confidence, their breath fueling a flame.<br />
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The following piece was provoked by several different works of his, this author. It is a weak attempt at a style not my own. It was a self-imposed exercise to push myself, to step into the shoes of a fellow wordsmith. If you have read his works, the title may tip you off as to who it is. If you know, I hope you find this piece a tribute to his work. If you do not know him, I hope you find this piece intriguing enough to make you wonder. Till next time....<br />
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Savage Eden<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>They met face to face on a moonless
night, their eternal desire for confrontation arising again. Eternal foes scrying the mind, one of the other, anger flaring
and hatred burning within the belly of providence newly aroused.<o:p> </o:p></div>
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The dark haired one strutted around
his nemesis. Cynically eyeing the glowing golden creature, he laughed a laugh
of mockery that echoed through space and time. “You with the crystalline eyes
what strengths do you possess that could vanquish me? What knowledge have you
gained as you moved through time that will raise you to the pinnacles you seek?
You in your ancient, tattered wardrobe, a vision from another time; what words
can you say to make me bend the knee? I have no fear of your yesterdays. What
can you tell me of my tomorrows?”<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Casually indifferent the golden one
reclined; arms crossed at the chest, unmarred boots cocked at the ankle, eyeing the
darker with amused disdain. A wicked smile lay upon his ruby lips spitting venomous
words in a whispered caress. “What do you know of tomorrow when all your days are
today's, when yesterdays are never remembered and all you know is now. Why
should I fear you? My tattered clothes are of no consequence. My strengths run
deep and if you are wise, you will fear them. As for pinnacles, they are for
falling from. You, dressed as an undertaker, smelling of decay freshly pulled
from the ground, dare to criticize me? The paths I have followed have enlightened
me and left you to the devil, or yourself.<o:p> </o:p></div>
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The two beheld each other for the
longest while. Suns came and went, civilizations rose and fell, yet they stood
at impasse. The winds of eternity howled through the annals of time yet dark
would give no leeway to light, and light would not dim for the dark. <o:p> </o:p></div>
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The battle rages still.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06536025999840364625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970117462056380786.post-55139754166738611832012-09-18T19:30:00.000-07:002012-09-18T19:31:48.425-07:00I knew It!<br />
<br />
Well, I did know it.....I knew that if I started a blog, somewhere along the way I was going to mess the whole thing up! I consider deleting not only the post I was working on, but the former post as well, messing up. <br />
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Fortunately, messing up is something we all do, especially people who write. If pressed I would have to say that most authors rewrite their books, novels, poems etc at least three times. And if you edit your own, well that's a long time, that's all I can say. So, big deal, I mess up. Hope you got to read the first one and if not, here's another for your perusal.<br />
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Why write? I write because no one will sit still long enough to listen to me ramble. I write because I am bipolar and my mind never shuts up so I have to have some sort of outlet or bad things happen. I write because I live in a world that does not exist, that changes moment by moment with heroes and villains, dragons and magic. Watching the sun shine through my crystal candle holder can send me to another dimension. I write to stay stable. I write the words of my soul. Some of you will understand, some will thing it rubbish. That's ok. <br />
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I would like to share a piece with you that I wrote about a year ago. It is about writing and other things Let me preface that when I put pen to paper I never really know what the ink will say. Truly, no jest. The words flow from my soul, to my mind, to my hand, through the pen and onto the page. It;s part of my other world......till next time.<br />
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Sweet Dreamer<br />
8-23-11<br />
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My dream is to write professionally. I have been playing at it for years but in the past decade a torch has been set. Profit would be nice, fame not necessary, notoriety delightful. I keep looking but cannot seem to find a way into the ever sprawling field. I'm an ok writer, sometimes good, potentially great. I persevere, all the while fearing it will go the way of most of my dreams. Why does the desire still burn so hot if God does not wish it for me? The request, made so many years ago, to lower the burn, has been declined. Perhaps not only will my body turn to ash but my spirit as well. <br />
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Where is the way? Novels so cleverly lead their antagonists forward providing insight and clues. Although thwarted and diverted, it seems the results are always, or mostly, the fulfillment of the goal. Love and passion co-exist, lies lead to honesty, faults forgiven, old woulds heal, and bonds grow tighter. A sound reason for calling it fiction. It doesn't work that way.<br />
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Lies are compounded by more lies, honesty is a myth. Forgiveness is conditional and love and passion never join. Love is dependence, eating away at personal sovereignty while passion turns to anxiety as dreams quiver in death. Destruction has many faces and the destroyer many masks. I may be helpless to control others but not myself. I cannot bring or give purpose to someone else, they must find it on their own. One need not force the willing yet the unwilling will not be moved.<br />
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I will not quit. I will preserver even when others do not. I will not walk away or turn my back but I will step aside and leave others to their choices. I will follow the barely visible deer trail and find sustenance and shelter there. I will make my way and those who wish are welcome to come. Only time will tell who will choose. <br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06536025999840364625noreply@blogger.com2