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 |   Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland |
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Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland  Welcome to the place were I chronicle my own falls down dark holes and adventures chasing white rabbits! Come on In, Take a Bite, You Never Know What You May Find... "Curiouser and curiouser." Alice in Wonderland    |
| Vacation is over. Monday brought brought both a return to heels and an overloaded inbox. It was nice to get away but my type A personality began to ramp up about 48 hours to boarding my return flight home as I anticipated everything waiting for me back at work. Today I have to remember to breath and fit in my daily dose of blogging to keep my right brain/left brain in harmonious balance. So on that note...I tackle the prompts for today. "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1321: June 27, 2016 Prompt: Write about something you lost. What seems like several lifetimes ago I lost my best friend to a long, brutal battle with addiction. At the time of his death, our relationship had gone full circle from friends to lovers to back to friends - and it had been every shade of difficult in between the two over the course of five years. Regardless of what my dreams may have once been, I had reconciled myself to the knowledge that not only were we not meant to be, but he would not survive his demons and his loss was imminent and tragic. Even with my understanding, even with having had the time to prepare for it, that call still came as a shock. The knowledge that my friend was gone reverberated through me in waves of grief and anger. It was "my friend" that I missed most and not "my ex". The romantic love we had for each other had been a casualty of his addiction but the fondness I had for him as my best friend survived the grave. The last meeting we had was terribly sad but I'm forever grateful for the chance to say goodbye. There were no hard feelings over broken promises or heartache over what could have been - there was only a terrible grief and loss. "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 841 June 27, 2016 Prompt: We all think we know what truth is; however, what if truth is really a collection of feelings and attitudes? Or do the emotions and attitudes affect truth in some way? What are your thoughts on this? I believe that most truth is relative in life. Truth is something you feel certain of in your mind and your heart - it personal and intimate. Facts are universal truths but even facts can be corrupted by personal interpretations sometimes. |
| "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1309: June 15, 2016 Open Prompt My daughter open her sleep tired eyes this morning and told me, with a furrowed brow, that she had a bad dream. It was only 6am and since school is out for the summer, it was very early for her to be awake. I pulled her close and felt her little arms encircle my neck, felt her slide one leg over my hip, drawing our bodies even closer. In a few minutes, she drifted off to sleep again, feeling secure and safe from whatever had chased her in her dreams. I gave myself an extra thirty minutes on my alarm and settled in with her, feeling secure and safe myself. At 6, my daughter is more than capable to sleep in her own bed, on her own. She does, on occasion, spend entire nights there. More often then not, I wake up to her presence in our bed, waking to find she's wriggled between our sleeping bodies in wee hours of morning. The truth is, I don't mind. These moments of comfort and cuddling will be sweet but brief. She won't always want to sleep in our bed. She won't always need my reassurance after a bad dream. I won't wake up with her arms or legs wrapped possessively around me, or open my eyes to find her and her father entangled, face to face and snoring happily. Fleeting are the sweetest moments of motherhood. I cherish these little moments - treasure our sun-filled Sunday mornings, our family walks, our lazy afternoons.... "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 829 June 15, 2016 Prompt: What was your worst summer job? What was your best summer job? The best summer job I ever had, was oddly enough, also the worst. I'm not sure it would even qualify as a "job" in that I didn't even get paid. It was a volunteer stint, meant to garner my resume and expand on my experience, as a Sea Urchin at my local aquarium. The job lasted approximately three months and provided many rich experiences for an aspiring marine scientist. Not all those experiences were wonderful however. The work was tough some days. Messy. I spent lots of hours pressing meds into the gills of freshly gutted mackerel or blending the odious mixture of "fish chum" that comprised a major part of our exhibit's diets. I also cleaned tanks, scrubbing stubborn deposit stains off the glass until my fingers ached. One time, while cleaning a bi-level exhibit featuring a trout stream, I slid down the artificial hill and into the "stream". The thigh high waders I was wearing quickly filled with the cold water and the trout. I struggled to find my footing and my dignity while an excited family laughed and took pictures on the other side of the glass. The worst day of that summer job however came at the hands of our aquarium's residence Pacific octopus. I loathed cleaning that dark tank and had to lean way over the edge to scoop out the strands of feces at the bottom, my eyes constantly darting back to the blurry pink blob pressed into the far corner. This one particular day, as my luck would have it, the octopus made his move. He grabbed my pole and used it to lever most of his body up and over the edge of the tank. I'll never forget the cold, fleshy feel of his tentacles sliding over my arms or how quickly it moved. My heart racketed with alarm and I fought to drive him back into the depths. I've never quite gotten past the experience and I never cleaned that tank again, begging off each time it appeared on my roster. |
| I've taken a few days off from writing, afraid maybe of what I might shake lose should I attempt to express myself in electronic ink in my current under the devastating news stories. I've avoided listening to the opinions and commentary from our abysmal choices for candidates in the wake of yet another hate-fueled attack on American soil. Instead, I've tried, as I often have, to find the humanity at work in the chaos and place my faith there. It is easy at times to believe this country has become so divided, so crippled by political agendas that we have mortally wounded ourselves and have stalled our evolution as human beings. As humans we are endowed with these amazing abilities to think and feel, to design and engineer, to philosophize, to create beauty, to heal, to become champions of innovations, to evolve. Despite all our abilities and potential, we are so easily distracted by the insipid, captivated by the fear, lead astray by false prophets and their empty promises. I refuse to accept that all our fates are left in the hands of a cultivated and practiced liar who doesn't deserve our trust or an obnoxious and small-minded egotist who can not change his bigoted nature for the good of uniting an ailing nation. I refuse to accept that, as a nation build on the ideals of diversity and tolerance, that we would build walls or let the acts of a few poisoned extremists corrupt our perceptions of our fellow citizens. I refuse to believe we have failed our children by creating a sense of entitlement rather than rewarding them for excellence and achievement. I refuse to accept that we are a nation who would neglect our veterans or condemn others on the basis of their gender or sexual preference. I refuse to believe that as humans we can not appreciate that the love for God, for our each other, not only comes in many forms but originates from a place of peace and respect for all those who believe. I refuse to accept that hate has become a defining feature of our genetic makeup. I have more faith in us as humans. I refuse to accept those who falsely claim to be our champions and instead look for those quietly doing good, promoting the positive, evolving into the best versions of themselves they can be and encouraging the same in others. “If you don't choose heroes, heroes will be chosen for you, and they will not represent values that empower you, they will represent powers that will enslave you”― Russell Brand "Blogging Circle of Friends " Day 1308 June 14, 2016 Let's talk about first impressions. I read an article in Family Circle about the importance of your front door on your home. They say that your front door gives an impression and says a lot about you the resident. Do you agree or disagree on it's importance? Do you feel it matters what the outside shows or is it more important to you what the inside reflects? I hope my front door doesn't tell my story since its been adorned by a Christmas wreath and we are already in June. It my front door where to make a statement, it might be an unflattering one unfortunately. In general, I think outward appearances are far less important that what is inside. These days with social media, it is so easy to perpetrate one's life as being something it is not just by posting beautiful images and giving the impression of perfection and contentment. In much the same way, I believe a person's actions speak louder than mere words. "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 828 June 14, 2016 Prompt: “A perfect life makes horrible art.” -- Chris Rock, comedian If you had a perfect life, would you give it up to create brilliant artwork of any kind? I don't believe in the concept of a perfect life. No one's life is perfect because that's a very relative term. For me, my writing often comes from a place of turmoil, a place of extreme emotion so I welcome the dips and curves of an eventful life. It helps keep me creative, keeps me honest in my chosen "art". |
| "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 822 June 8, 2016 "I heard an angel speak last night and she said: "Write!" Elizabeth Barrett Browning Do you ever feel like an angel has talked to you?" This was an interesting prompt because while I believe in celestial beings, I don't think they've ever spoken to me, and certainly never commanded me to write. I tend to be at my most creative in times of trial and stress, writing has always helped me cope - so perhaps in a way, that is a sign of some spiritual intervention after all! "Blogging Circle of Friends " Day 1302: June 8, 2016: Prompt write a story or poem about The Happy Crow. I had to google "Happy Crow" - because it seemed like an actual thing...what I found was a morality tale about a Crow and a Peacock. So here is my version/retelling of this old fable... Crow was perched high up in her tree, enjoying the sunshine on her glossy black feathers and feeling at peace. Crow was content. Her forest home was wide and welcoming. One day, she looked down to see a graceful swan moving across the still waters of a pond. Crow was transfixed by the soft downy white of her feathers, so different from her own. Crow thought, this fine Swan with her lovely snow white color must be the happiest bird in all the land. She flew down to ask him if he was. Swan told Crow that he believed he had been the happiest bird in the world until he had met a Parrot. The Parrot had vivid feathers of blue and green that were stunning to behold. Swan knew then that Parrot, not Swan, must be the happiest bird in all the land. Crow set off to find Parrot. Crow found Parrot soaring above the jungle canopy. Parrot was indeed beautiful. Crow thought, this surely must be the happiest bird. She asked the Parrot and he solemnly replied... "I once believed I could not be happier, that I had all I could ever want with my beautiful multicolored frock. Then I met Peacock. I only have two colors and Peacock has so many more. Her Feathers are magnificent. I knew then that I could never be the happiest bird in all the land." Crow set off to find Peacock. She had to travel far and wide until at least she found him in a tiny zoo in the center of a large city. Crow approached Peacock and said, "Peacock, I am in such awe of your beauty! Surely you, with your lovely feathers in all the colors of the rainbow, must be the happiest bird in all the land." Peacock gazed at the Crow for a long time. He finally bent his beautiful long neck and the delicate crown of yellow gold feathers on his head caught the fading light. Crow thought that Peacock did not look happy. He looked quite sad. Then Peacock spoke, "Dear Crow, I once believed I was the most beautiful and most happiest bird in all the land. My feathers rivaled all others but because of my beauty, I am trapped in this zoo. People come from all over to gaze at my feathers but I am not free to leave. There are many birds here, some are white like the Swan, some are multicolored like the Parrot. We are all colorful and we are all confined but you Crow, you are free. I think that must make you the happiest bird in all the land. Crow looked at the Peacock, then up at the blue sky above, and knew he was right. Crow spread her glossy black wings and caught the currents and headed for home. Link to the story that inspired this retelling...http://www.moralstories.org/happy-peacock-crow/ |
| Feeling some parental anxiety today thinking about my daughter's first ever piano recital this weekend. She's extremely shy so this performance will be particularly hard for her...trying to focus on the rest of the work day ahead and keep things positive for her so she can make this milestone...and now...I'll to try to focus on today's prompts.... Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 816 June 2, 2016 Prompt: "Truth is a rare thing. It is delightful to tell it." Emily Dickinson Do you agree? I'm not sure all truth is "delightful" to tell. Some truths are downright difficult to tell. Some truths, when told, alter relationships and change things for the future. I recently "told" some of my own truths and as a result, found myself on the receiving end of considerable backlash. I would say as bad as things were, my unburdening and offers for resolutions, were met with even more resistance. The best advice I have on telling truths is simply this..be sure you are telling truths for yourself alone. If it feels right for you, then the consequences won't matter. I do think truth is a rare thing. I think far too many people prefer to live in a perpetually phony universe instead of being honest and attempting to make a real go of life for themselves. "Blogging Circle of Friends " Day 1296: June 2, 2016 prompt:It is often said that you should never judge another person until you walk in his or her shoes. Tell about an experience that enabled you to better understand another person. It is human nature to judge. I think the recent case of the toddler who fell in the gorilla enclosure is very telling of the way we are so quick to rush to judgment as a society. I saw a meme the other day that read: "I never knew so many of my friends on Facebook were animal behaviorists and parental experts - lucky me" - I thought it was very funny, and pretty spot-on. It is hard to resist the knee jerk reaction to comment on things that go viral in this world, especially when social media gives us a hunger and engaged audience. I try to remember that one can never really know what someone else is dealing with, what their lives are really like and you can't take everything you see at face value. Being a mother is tough. Kids don't often play by the rules and accidents happen. I'm surprised there is so much anger toward this mother and relatively much less directed at the parents who dropped their son off in bear infested woods...on purpose...as punishment. For me its hard not to look some of the generalized reaction to the gorilla story and not be completely disheartened that a child's life doesn't automatically trump an animal's life. I read one woman's post who shared that sentiment beautifully - stating that while it was tragic that such a majestic wonderful animal had to die...it was in the interest of saving a child's life. That should happen 100% of the time. Its a child. Life is relative to some I guess and so much of our lives are sensationalized in stories like these. I hate feeling judged myself, and its happened to be more than once by people I trusted, let alone strangers. I try to remember that feeling when I feel like I'm judging someone else. Empathy is always harder than sympathy. |
| "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 815 June 1, 2016 Prompt: "I knew who was when I got up when I got up this morning but I must have changed several times since then." Alice Through The Looking Glass Do you ever feel like this? There was a time, during the darker times of my life, when I would have said I often felt like this. It wasn't uncommon for me to spend many a sleepless night making decisions and coming to reasonable conclusions only to wake up in the wee hours of morning, plagued by second thoughts and doubting my nocturnal convictions. It was a time when my heart was misaligned with my head. I wanted something so badly I was able to defer reality and sound reasoning...but only for so long. I remember feeling trapped in this impossible place, locked in love with an addict was determined to find the bottom - with or without me. I was lost, looking for hope and promise in corner of every sad, empty room in our broken house. I am thankful for that one horrible, heartbreaking day when I finally saw that it had become him or me. I chose me. I look back at the time now with some measure of pride. I ultimately did make the right decisions for my life and my wonderful little family is my reward for getting my heart and head on the same page. "Blogging Circle of Friends " Day 1295: June 1, 2016 June 1 is Dare Day. I dare you to take the challenge and write something using these words: dice, provoke, fluffy, wind, dare, purring, nuts, aid. Write a story or poem about something daring or challenging. Have fun. It had been a stupid dare that brought him to precarious point. Tyson turned his face into the wind and tried not to look down. They had called him chicken shit, each of them hurling the insult back over their shoulders as they launched their summer browned bodies over the edge. They had meant to provoke him but instead of stoking the fire of pride in his gut, their chiding had only serve to cement his fears. He heard their raucous laughter. He could see them splashing about in the dark, still waters below each time he dared to glance down from the lip of the quarry. Tyson knew, to the very core of his soul, that this would not end well. His knees began to knock as he felt the heat of the July afternoon bearing down on his bare shoulders. All at once there was a soft voice at his ear, a sound like warm honey. "You don't have to listen to them Tyson. I was scared to jump the first time too." Tyson turned to stare at Myra Wilson. She was a vision. She had a smattering of cinnamon colored freckles on her smooth, pale shoulders and her long red hair was pulled back and piled high on her head showing off her lovely, long neck. Her suit was bright yellow with white polka dots and had fluffy ruffles on both hips. She stood, looking at him kindly, as she so often did. Tyson swallowed. He hadn't even know she was there that day. Tyson felt the heat rise into his cheeks, felt a pleasant, purring vibration in his center. Now what? Could he really tempt fate? Should he risk his life or risk looking like a baby in front of the girl he'd been in love with since the first grade? On the other hand, he was only twelve...he had not lived nearly long enough and Tyson thought he only had a 50/50 chance of surviving the jump. He looked at Myra, then down at the water. He tossed the mental dice, ended up with snake eyes. Tyson launched himself out into the atmosphere, instinctively cupping both hands around his delicate nuts as gravity claimed him and dragged him down toward the depths below. Tyson prayed for only two things as he impacted the water's surface...that his joker friends would be quick to respond with the necessary first aid and that on the off chance he survived, he'd get to kiss Myra's beautiful face before the day was over. |
| "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" DAY 803 May 20, 2016 What is more important what you say or how you say it? This morning is a perfect example of why I think the answer to this question is "both". Sometimes I have a moment when I understand why I've always been driven to write...why it has been always been such a huge part of how I define myself. This morning my husband sent me a link to a blog entry I had made years ago when my daughter was just about 17 months old. The date/time stamp reads May 20th, 2011 12:42pm. I took a moment to read over my words from that time and I was instantly transported back there, to that shining and wonderful moment when I was still a new mother. It makes me realize and remember that I write first and foremost for me, because having this testimony feels like the best gift I can give myself on this journey of life. My words give me the vehicle to look back, and experience those moments again in living color. I love this entry so much because I see myself as that new mother just taking in all the joy and wonder of raising a daughter. It is such a bright and sweet snapshot of our amazing journey as a family. Jaden, My Crazy Love... May 20th, 2011 12:42pm Jaden is feeling better. There is still a slight rumbling sound when she breathes but her eyes are bright and her laughter and smiles are again effortless and joyful. She bounced around the house this morning leaving a narrow swath of destruction in her wake. She kicked over the dog's food bowl, scattering pieces across the floor, tossed my neatly folded laundry all around the living room, crushed a graham cracker under her shoe in the kitchen and left a trail of cherry puffs down the walkway. I followed after her, amazed by her energy and enchanted by her gleeful giggle. There was a moment this morning, when I was so captivated by the beauty in her little face, that the world stopped for me. There was only the morning light and the perfection of her tiny profile, still so much her father's yet still so exceptionally unique at the same time. If she would let me, I'd love to cup her little face in my hands and just study her, every inch, so I could memorize her features before they change again, before she grows up - growing ever closer to the girl, the teenager, the woman she will one day become. When Fatih and I got married, we played Van Morrison's "Crazy Love" for our dance with our wedding party. I always loved the song. I always wanted to be loved like that, have a love that was that powerful, consuming, unconditional. Dancing with my new husband, I had felt like I had found it at last. This morning, that song came on the radio and as I listened, I found a whole new meaning in it, a new connection in my life. That feeling I get with Jaden, the desire to hold time still and just watch her, take her all in until my heart aches with the impossible fullness of it...that's my Crazy Love. She is the thing that "brightens up my day", "takes away my troubles, takes away my grief" The heavens really do seem to "open up every time she smiles" and I feel as if I could, without any effort at all, "hear her heartbeat for a thousand miles", that same sweet sound that pulsed inside me for nine months. But nothing is more true about this Crazy Love, than the fact that her very existence makes me complete in a way I never imagined was possible... "Yes it makes me righteous, yes it makes me whole, yes it makes me mellow down into my soul.." "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1283 May 20, 2016 Do you believe inspiration comes from unresolved tensions? I believe that inspiration can come from unresolved tensions, from rage, from joy, from a confrontation...I think as writers we can draw inspiration from any pure emotion or emotional situation. I think I have always been a more authentic writer when I write from a place of joy, or anger or grief...I think those emotions give me a clarity of self that allows me to be the most honest. I think when we write from the places we know best, we produce writing that is wonderful and engaging and has the potential to touch people most. |
| "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" DAY 803 May 20, 2016 What is more important what you say or how you say it? This morning is a perfect example of why I think the answer to this question is "both". Sometimes I have a moment when I understand why I've always been driven to write...why it has been always been such a huge part of how I define myself. This morning my husband sent me a link to a blog entry I had made years ago when my daughter was just about 17 months old. The date/time stamp reads May 20th, 2011 12:42pm. I took a moment to read over my words from that time and I was instantly transported back there, to that shining and wonderful moment when I was still a new mother. It makes me realize and remember that I write first and foremost for me, because having this testimony feels like the best gift I can give myself on this journey of life. My words give me the vehicle to look back, and experience those moments again in living color. I love this entry so much because I see myself as that new mother just taking in all the joy and wonder of raising a daughter. It is such a bright and sweet snapshot of our amazing journey as a family. Jaden, My Crazy Love... May 20th, 2011 12:42pm Jaden is feeling better. There is still a slight rumbling sound when she breathes but her eyes are bright and her laughter and smiles are again effortless and joyful. She bounced around the house this morning leaving a narrow swath of destruction in her wake. She kicked over the dog's food bowl, scattering pieces across the floor, tossed my neatly folded laundry all around the living room, crushed a graham cracker under her shoe in the kitchen and left a trail of cherry puffs down the walkway. I followed after her, amazed by her energy and enchanted by her gleeful giggle. There was a moment this morning, when I was so captivated by the beauty in her little face, that the world stopped for me. There was only the morning light and the perfection of her tiny profile, still so much her father's yet still so exceptionally unique at the same time. If she would let me, I'd love to cup her little face in my hands and just study her, every inch, so I could memorize her features before they change again, before she grows up - growing ever closer to the girl, the teenager, the woman she will one day become. When Fatih and I got married, we played Van Morrison's "Crazy Love" for our dance with our wedding party. I always loved the song. I always wanted to be loved like that, have a love that was that powerful, consuming, unconditional. Dancing with my new husband, I had felt like I had found it at last. This morning, that song came on the radio and as I listened, I found a whole new meaning in it, a new connection in my life. That feeling I get with Jaden, the desire to hold time still and just watch her, take her all in until my heart aches with the impossible fullness of it...that's my Crazy Love. She is the thing that "brightens up my day", "takes away my troubles, takes away my grief" The heavens really do seem to "open up every time she smiles" and I feel as if I could, without any effort at all, "hear her heartbeat for a thousand miles", that same sweet sound that pulsed inside me for nine months. But nothing is more true about this Crazy Love, than the fact that her very existence makes me complete in a way I never imagined was possible... "Yes it makes me righteous, yes it makes me whole, yes it makes me mellow down into my soul.." "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1283 May 20, 2016 Do you believe inspiration comes from unresolved tensions? I believe that inspiration can come from unresolved tensions, from rage, from joy, from a confrontation...I think as writers we can draw inspiration from any pure emotion or emotional situation. I think I have always been a more authentic writer when I write from a place of joy, or anger or grief...I think those emotions give me a clarity of self that allows me to be the most honest. I think when we write from the places we know best, we produce writing that is wonderful and engaging and has the potential to touch people most. |
| "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 801 May 17th, 2016 Prompt: How strong is your taste imagination? Have you ever felt the taste of any food inside your mouth just by thinking about it? Write about this.  I've had the opportunity to travel. One of the best part of going anywhere is to sample the locate cuisine, especially if its another country. International travel becomes some what of a food odyssey with certain dishes and tastes become as much as part of the memory of a place as the sights and sounds. I spent a lot of time in Mexico and my favorite tastes have been from all corners of that country. I had been warned about eating "street food" but the best things I've ever eaten where prepared on the streets Mexico City, in the zucalos of Oaxaca and sold from vendors at aromatic, if questionable, open markets. There is nothing in the world like the taste of tacos el pastor at 2am in the heart of the zona rosa after a night of dancing and tequila. The meat is savory and a bit briny, the spices straining it a terracotta red. The vendors cut it off from the vertical machine that slowing spins, cooking the mass of dripping meat, slowly, crisping the edges to perfection. They wrap the chunks of greasy pastor in fresh, warm corn tortillas that are topped with fresh cut cilantro, onion and lime. The combinations are so well balanced, and the taste sensation explodes on your tongue and settles in your stomach with a deeply satisfying heat. It was during the La noche de los rábanos (Festival of Radishes) in Oaxaca that I first tasted blue corn tortillas stuffed with the bright orange pumpkin squash flowers and Oaxacan string cheese. It was an exotic combination, sweet and savory on the tongue. The colors contrasting, beautifully vibrant. Washed down with lukewarm coca cola in those little glass bottles, these quesadillas would rival any gourmet creation anywhere. The old woman grilling the tortilla crisp on her wide iron skillet was as much a part of the night as the oddly beautiful sculptures of radishes lined up around the town center. The sights, sounds and tastes of that evening in Oaxaca will stay with me always. If I had to pick one dish from Mexico that stood out as my favorite among so many, it would easily be Elotes. Elotes are great ears of large kernel corn, about a long as a human forearm. They are sold in alleys, from carts in village streets, from vendors outside busy nightclubs and ruta stations. They are speared on wooden sticks, roasted to perfection and covered with crema, cilantro, chile pepper, lime juice and spices. They are messy and visually chaotic but they are in a word...spectacular. The first time you bite into one, the kernels pop from the cob and fill your mouth with flavors of the culture around you. The taste is all at once buttery, spicy and sweet. You can taste every element on your tongue, uniquely blended, somewhat familiar but amplified somehow in their combination. Elotes are simply the best thing I've ever tasted, ever. I did do a lot more than just eat in my travels but clearly eating was as much a part of my experience abroad as visiting the ancient historical sites, touring the towns and villages of coastal Mexico and dancing in the streets of Veracruz. "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1280 May 17, 2016 Let's talk books : What's the last one that you made cry? What's the last one that made you laugh? What's the last one that made you furious? Do/ can books give you all of these emotions in one story? Regrettably I do not get as much time to read as I used to. My literary exploration these days is limited to listening to audio books on my way to work most mornings. I miss the habit of crawling in bed to end each day with a chapter or two of whatever volume I've borrowed from the library that week. The last book that made me cry was a classic, "Of Love and Other Demons" by the great Gabriel Garcia Marquez. This passionate, moving book tells the story of a young girl who is sequestered away in a convent, isolated and marginalized after being bite by a rabid dog. Tragic and moving, Marquez's story is about a love and longing that left me aching and sad. I'm currently listening to the "Summer of Night" by Dan Simmons. Simmons writes about a small town in 1970 and the band of boyhood friends during the summer following their graduation from 5th grade. They are typically boys, roaming the streets and woods, patrolling with their bike brigade. They are a charming if motley crew, and I've found myself laughing out loud at their antics numerous times. Of course, all is not mirth and sunshine and as with other such tales like "Stand by Me" or "It", danger looms and evil lurks. Something dark and ominous waits in the shadows to test this group of friends beyond their limits. I think its possible for certain books to evoke a range of emotions in me. I recently read James Lee Burke's "Wayfaring Stranger" and there were days when I experienced anger, joy and sadness over a span of chapters in that beautiful saga that began with one boy's chance encounter with the infamous Bonnie and Clyde. Books can deliver the goods. They can take us places. They can make us feel in many ways on a deeper level than watching something on the screen. |
| "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 795 May 11, 2016 Have you ever wanted to run a B&B? Write a poem, short story or what ever you want about it. Some days, when the strain and stress of my day job gets to me, I entertain a fantasy of moving away to run a small B&B somewhere down in the keys. It's a lovely thought, running a business like that. I like the idea of having a part in building someones vacation, of providing a place of escape and relaxation. I see an main house with a wide, wraparound porch, bordered by quaint little seaside cottages. There would be a small, bright beach dotted with white and blue umbrellas with soft sand and turquoise surf. Nice, tranquil. Dreamy. "Blogging Circle of Friends " Day 1274: May 11, 2016 Prompt: May 11 is Twilight Zone Day . Write something that is weird, surreal, mysterious, and/or scary in celebration of this day. Have fun. Something weird and surreal I'm currently working on...loosely titled, "The Legacy of Madness" Alexia peered down the dark shaft at her feet. It was an inky black chasm, not much wider than the span of her thin hips. She strained, her ears listening for the music that had seemed so prominent before. It was silent. The music had come floating across the yard, a chorus of voices, right through the window of her bedroom. It was so distinctive, her eyes could almost follow the notes as they floated in the air. It drew her out of her house and into the yard. Alexia had followed the sound all the way to the back of her yard, behind the big maple that marked the outer boundary of her family's property. There, just beyond the old tree, she'd found the hole. Alexia was fairly certain it had not been there before. As she stared down into the darkness, the toes of her keds resting at the edge of the hole, the music had abruptly stopped. Alexia looked back over her shoulder at the house. She could hear her grandmother talking on the phone, animated and distracted. She quickly dropped to her knees and leaned into the shaft, trying to see anything. A pungent odor filled her nostrils, something sweet and fermented, like the apple tobacco her grandfather sometimes smoked in his pipe. She debated running back to house to get her grandmother, to tell her about what she had found. Alexia dismissed the idea immediately. Her grandmother was a serious woman who did not traipse into the back yard to look at holes that spewed music and smoke. Alexia's grandmother did not subscribe to anything that did not involve church or school or anything but the mundane routines of life. She had lost a daughter, Alexia's mother, to madness and folly and had no tolerance for such things. Alexia knew very little about her mother Alice. She had gone to live with her grandmother at the age of eighteen months after her mother had been institutionalized. Shortly after her daughter's birth, Alice began suffering from hallucinations and insomnia so severe that she would go without sleep for weeks at a time. She became obsessed with keeping time, wearing watches on both her arms and constantly asking the orderlies if their clocks were set correctly. Alice had slowly deteriorated until she had dissolved almost entirely into a raving lunacy, screaming about the red queen and covering her room with charcoal drawings of terrible winged creatures and misshapen dwarfs. Alexia had been sleeping peacefully in her grandmother's arms when her mother had, desperate to free herself of the madness griping her mind, had barrelled through several sets of orderlies to throw herself off the balcony of the mess hall. Seconds before her death plunge, witnesses had reported hearing her mother talking about the blue butterfly and being "out of time". Her grandmother had told Alexia more than once, that as a young girl Alice had let madness it and it had never let her go. In her grief, Alexia's grandmother had crafted a safe and practical world for her granddaughter to grow up in. There would be no fairy tales, no princess, no red queens...and no holes that appeared as if by magic in the back yard. Alexia thought she saw a sudden flicker of light in the darkness, something flashing bright in the depths. She craned her neck to peer down, leaned over the shaft just a little more. All at once, the ground under her knees gave way and she felt herself dragged forward into the hole. Her hands scrambled for purchase in the earth above but gravity took over and she fell down, the hole eagerly swallowing her as she dropped. To be continued... |
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