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My daily personal blog based on prompts from Blog City. |
This began as my first blog for WDC . Now, after a few weeks of being on this great site and learning my way around, I'm able to give voice to this blog. Please be kind as you read through my first attempts at making myself heard.
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| Nature walks are good for our brains. I do not believe that there should have been a research study on that one. The findings are a no brained. I am very fortunate that I live near a nature preserve. I often walk in the park. I photograph nature also. I use the photographs in my writing. The photos enhance the text. I use my photos as writing prompts. My photos and my nature walks inspire me. My best poems come from images in photographs. I use the photographs for other types of art. I create art from my photographs. |
| My parents celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary two years ago. We threw them a big outdoor party with a band and barbeque. My father died last October. I am happy that my parents, especially my mom, experienced that special time with family and friends before my dad passed away. It marked a special commitment that is not realised by many folks. Not all anniversaries need to be celebrated so lavishly though. In fact, not all anniversaries need to be celebrated. Americans look at every occasion as a party. This need to celebrate is rooted in our materialistic culture. Americans look for any excuse to spend money. This is especially prevalent among soon to be parents or young parents. These young folks have an announcement party and a gender reveal party and baby showers and couple parties. It is vulgar. Once the child gets here, the parties and celebrations grow more intense and lavish. These little royal wannabes have every milestone photographed and sent out instantly to every human on the planet. Everyone must applaud the little darling's first solid bowel movement. The children become accustomed to having their every breath celebrated that nothing is truly amazing. Milestones and anniversaries are important, but long-term relationships and truly memorable moments need to be celebrated. |
| I ain't afraid of dying. That statement is not completely true. Well, it is not true at all. I am afraid of dying. I am not even remotely ready for that life event. I sat with my dad as he was dying. One day, he asked me how long it would take to die. I answered him honestly and told him that it would take one to two weeks. He seemed content. I don't know if he was ready, but he accepted it. I hope that I can accept it when the time comes. I believe that fools are truly not afraid of dying. Dying is scary because it is a journey into the unknown. Even those who believe in heaven are not ready to die even if they look forward to going to heaven. Thinking about death makes me realize how short my life is. My life seems fragile. Mortality looms not far in the distance. I used to worry about those who are left behind. I don't worry so much about them as they are grown and can take care of themselves. I do not like the idea of not existing. My matter will simply be gone to rot, and I will only exist in memories. Burials and wakes are for the living. We hold those celebrations for ourselves. We hold those celebrations so that we can let go of the person. It is not that easy for the grieving. The memories and pain live on long after the funeral. The living have to contend themselves with picking up the broken pieces. The living have to work closely with one another to carry on. There will always be a missing spot for that person. Just this weekend, I was visiting my mom. The lawn chairs that my dad sat in outside were still arranged in the same positions that my dad left them in. The sight of those chairs around the fire pit made me miss my dad even more. I was still on the verge of tears when I got home later in the day. It was such a pervasive feeling of melancholy. We are the kind of people though who keep it inside. I will write about it, but I will not talk about it much. I don't know if that is a good thing or not. There are so many good memories and some that shame me. But the grieving is the same. The grieving consumes and changes you forever. |
| The idea of confessional poetry is interesting. I have not heard of this, but it does make sense. I immediately began searching my mental poetry file for examples. A poet who writes confessional poetry is Taylor Mali. My favorite poem by Mali is "How Much Do Teachers Make?" It is a rant on those who ridicule teachers as know nothings. Classic poets wrote poems about things. Do modern poets do that? Gary Soto wrote "Ode to Pablo's Tennis Shoes." That poem is about what you think it is...tennis shoes. It is not written in the first person. Modern poets do not subscribe to the notion of showing not telling. Modern poets shock us with their bluntness. Modern poets write confessional poetry because it is the poetry that sells. Today's prompt makes me evaluate my poetic techniques. I will analyze my poetic style and form. The idea of writing confessional poetry makes sense in the age of reality television shows. The notion is disturbing. Readers do not want to figure meaning out. Readers expect the poet to do all of the work for them. Readers do not want to do any of the work in determining meaning. I will work on my own style. |
| Would you rather have twelve published paperback books or five published hardback novels? I would prefer to have ten ebooks. Most avid readers read on devices. Honestly, I have not seen anyone with a traditional book except in schools. Ebooks generate more profit in the long haul for both author and publisher. Non-readers are more likely to purchase an ebook than a traditional book. Everyone has a device for reading; it is just more convenient. I know folks who say that there is nothing like the smell and feeling of a traditional book. Those folks are either not real readers, or those folks have not read or browsed the books that are online. I find that I read about three books per week versus the one book per week that I used to read when I read traditional books. I love the selection. I now read books that I would never have read before the advent of ebooks. Also, add to that all of the other pieces of online text that I read. I read so much more than I used to. Publishing is so much better and easier than it used to be. If there had been such a thing as online self-publishing when I was growing up, I would have written more than I did. No, I would rather publish online nowadays. |
| We were heading home after a weekend in Baja. Dodge loved participating in the rallies. He said that they gave him an adrenaline rush. It was better than drugs he said. I wouldn't know, I replied. The Pancake Pantry was just off the Interstate. The advertised all-you-can-eat for $4.99. That sounded like a bargain to me; besides, I was famished. Hangovers always left me hungry. The place was on of the old dingy diner joints. The kind with the Formica table tops and metal seats with ripped and cracked plastic seat covers. As I said, I was starving. Dodge didn't care; he was bummed that he didn't qualify at the rally, and he busted two of his Ridged lights. He'd bitched and moaned all morning about how much rallies cost. I couldn't understand why he continued to do it if it was so expensive. Dodge just told me to shut my trap because I just didn't understand. He said it was better than sex. Thanks, Dodge, I said. The sign just inside the door was old, and some of the little plastic letters were missing. It read, "_eat your_elf." I giggled and poked Dodge. He read it and rolled his eyes. Any other time and he would have made some crude jokes about it. I guess that he really was pissed off about those Ridged lights. Dodge wanted to keep an eye on the truck and trailer. He thought someone might steal his trailer with the buggy inside. He didn't care that it was in the blistering sun. He told me to quit bitching because I just didn't understand. He said that thieves could make a lot of money selling the buggy parts on the Black Market. Except for the lights, I said; those are busted. Dodge just rolled his eyes and said that I just didn't understand. No, I said, I just don't care. The waitress wore a tan blouse that was too tight across her boobs. The spot where it gathered in front was gaping open. I bet she would eat her elf. I ordered the all-you-can-eat plate of pancakes with blueberry syrup. It still sounded like a bargain, and I was ravenous. Dodge ordered a glass of lemonade with no ice. That's it, I asked. Yeah, he said, I'm not hungry. Besides, he said, I gotta save my money cause new Ridged lights were gonna cost a f***in' fortune. I said you should get water then. It's free. The pancakes tasted surprisingly goo. Dodge said that the lemonade tasted like goat piss. See, I said, you should've gotten the free water. Dodge rolled his eyes and drank his lemonade. When we left the Pancake Pantry, there was an old man who looked like one of those gnarly old walnut dolls. He was wearing a Kansas State Bluejays cap over long gray hair. There was a dog with him. One of those kinds who herd sheep. I stooped to pet him, and he wagged his tail. The old man giggled and said that Bob likes beautiful girls, especially when they smell like pancakes. Dodge was already at the truck. Come on, he said, we got another three hours to Malibu, and he had to get to the parts store before they closed to order those Ridged lights. I smiled at the old man and got in the truck. I looked in the mirror as we drove away. Bob was still wagging his tail, and the old man was still smiling. |
| When do I lose the most control? What is my drug? Wine takes me over the waterfall extremely rapidly. Wine has floated me down s*** Creek and left me stranded. I most regret the times in my life when wine had me in her clutches. Yes, wine is a bitch. She is seductive in her bottle that harkens from exotic places only to leave you puking in the gutter. It doesn't matter how sophisticated you feel drinking that expensive s***. That little vixen will turn your life into a living hell. Do I have a problem with wine? Oh yes, I do have a problem. I avoid it now. I get my high from writing. Writing doesn't leave me stranded. Writing is also a drug. It is an addictive drug, but in a good way. I abdicated some very important responsibilities while under the influence of wine. I don't begrudge anyone a glass of wine. I wish that I could drink it in moderation, but it consumes me. There were times when I thought it was going to destroy my marriage. It nearly destroyed my life. I could go on like this forever, so I will stop on this note. |
| Do dreams show us what is repressed? This question made me think of the poem "Harlem" by Langston Hughes: What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up Like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore-- And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over-- Like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags Like a heavy load. Or does it explode? Langston Hughes was first recognized as an important literary figure during the 1920s, a period known as the Harlem Renaissance. The Harlem Renaissance was the name given to the cultural, social, and artistic movement that took place in Harlem, New York after World War I and the middle of the 1930s. This movement kindled a new black identity. Black people chose a new form of expression through art and literature. However, the Harlem Renaissance did not include the emergence of Jazz. Once riding in old Baltimore, Heart filled; head filled with glee, I saw a Baltimorean Keep looking straight at me. Now, I was eight and slight, And he was no whit bigger, And so I smiled, but he poked out His tongue and called me nigger. I saw the whole of Baltimore From May until December; Of all the things that happened there That's all that I remember. ~Countee Cullen Countee Cullen is perhaps the most representative of the Harlem Renaissance. His was a star that flared brightly then melted into the horizon. Cullen believed that poetry could transcend race. He often encouraged black poets to adopt some of the rhythms and languages of English and American poets. He chastised Hughes for putting jazz rhythms in his poetry. In his poem "Heritage", Cullen reflects the urge to reclaim African arts. What is Africa to me? Copper sun or scarlet sea, Jungle star or jungle track, Strong bronzed men, or regal black Women from whose loins I sprang When the birds of Eden sang? This poem by Cullen is written in trochaic tetrameter, which is a meter in poetry. It is based on a stressed syllable. In the case of "heritage," it is the last syllable of the line that is stressed. Probably the most famous poem written in this meter is "The Song of Hiawatha" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. |
| Good evening from Pascagoula, Mississippi. I have not written in a few nights as the hubster and I have been away for an extended weekend. We left home last Thursday, spent the night in Montgomery, Alabama, and then traveled on down to Mississippi. It is hot as the dickens here. The humidity is unbelievably high around here. On Thursday, we ate lunch at Dreamland Barbeque. It is classic Alabama barbeque, which is not my favorite. I prefer North Carolina style barbeque, but it is nice to try other styles. We then drove on down to Montgomery. We spent the night at the Hampton Inn downtown. It is a nice place to stay. We had drinks in a bar in The Alley then did some sightseeing. We ended up eating at a restaurant called Central, which was highly rated. It was not as good as we thought it would be. We got up fairly early on Friday morning and headed to Mobile where we ate hot dogs at a place called Dew Drop Inn. It was quite crowded, but it was delicious. We made it to Pascagoula in the afternoon. We ate supper at Bozos Seafood, which was a special kind of restaurant. You didn't sit and order. You have to go to the owner to place your order. |
| When I was growing up, special education students were not taught in the regular school system. I don't really know where they were taught or if they even were taught. I am sure that during Helen Keller's time, children with special needs were not sent to public school. How would her life be different? She would not have had an Anne Sullivan. Her parents would have sent her off to public school where she would have been marginally educated. She would have been mainstreamed, but not educated. That is what we do in public schools. We accept everyone, but we educate no one. This part of my blog is not related to the prompt. I have been extremely busy today, but I did get so much completed. I wrote two articles, did the grocery shopping, made my packing list, balanced the check book, and cooked a big supper. I do feel productive. The kids are going to be on their own for a few days while the hubster and I go away for a few days. We rarely go anywhere without the kids. We are heading to Alabama and Mississippi for a few days. |
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