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 |    My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| Motivational Monday! Author William Faulkner , born on this day in 1897, once said "Always dream and shoot higher than you know you can do. Do not bother just to be better than your contemporaries or predecessors. Try to be better than yourself." I often try to give people similar advice when they start comparing their work to some of their friends here at WDC...how important is it to you to be aware of what your contemporaries are up to or how they've fared recently when crafting your own items? I believe and hope that I strive to improve my writing. I want to attempt new things, and not just write the same old same old. I don't think I've ever thought to compare myself to others. I'm aware of the vast, talented writing here at WDC. I read it. Sometimes, I even stop to critique it. No, it's not important to me. I prefer to write blissfully unaware of what others are doing. I suppose I do not wish to be affected, or copy other writing. I don't want to rewrite, or rehash other ideas. I wish success for my fellow writers. |
| The Sunday News! Ok, I know this is a satirical news piece, but I really don't feel like looking at the news anymore today because it just sucks, so my pain has become your pain and my healing will be in the form of your entries about this photograph from The Onion: Theresa May Puts On Headphones To Hear English Translation Of Trump’s Address Let's all imagine she's actually listening to music, or a podcast, or a movie on an iPad, or (if you wanna be a daredevil) you can give us your own version of whatever speech she's listening to. Ah, Theresa May, the Prime Minister of England. How she must wince and bite her tongue when accosted by all things Donald Trump. She probably has learned to tune him out. His buzzwords trigger antipathy. Too often, he drones, Twitter and tweets, false news, terrorists, immigrants, illegal aliens, wall, and blah, blah, blah. Undeniably, she enjoys diplomatic immunity that protects her private opinions such as believing Trump to be a tweeting twat. How she must struggle with the impulse to roll her eyes. Succeeding in politics requires a careful cultivation of a cool, calm, and collected façade. Theresa displays the British stiff upper lip demeanour. The Donald may well find her inscrutable. He would more likely understand the British sports fans, rowdy supporters of cricket, rugby, and football. I choose to believe that Ms. May is a closet hockey fan. She gravitates to the pulse-quickening, blood-pounding excitement. The attraction to Ice Gladiators is irresistible. She admires their lack of détente and stifling diplomacy. When the gloves come off and the sticks are thrown, differences are settled with a brawl. Her headphones are tuned to a live broadcast of a hockey game. No one knows she is listening to a play-by-play. The commentator creates a pounding wave of anticipation. His voice reaches a high-pitched crescendo as he follows the precipitous path of a puck on the ice. He describes the spectators, some on their feet chanting, and others holding their breath afraid to blink. The frenzied words pick up speed to match the stick-handling of the puck. The goalie readjusts his face mask as he tenses, and focuses on the path of the black projectile. He leaps and stretches as the puck hurtles at him like a heat-seeking missile locked on its target. Theresa hears the expectation and the excitement. The wave rises only to crash and break. Thwack! The rocket/puck hits the net's post and ricochets away. There is no goal, and the crowd roars, a mix of disappointment and vindication. She moans silently with them. Theresa knows the heartbreak of being a Toronto Maple Leaf fan. The motto of a hockey player sustains her, keep your stick on the ice. |
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