%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |    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. |
September 4th,2023 Blog Week Birthday Bastion Prompt: Choose a photo and start a blog. I opted for the turtle   It's fate and who am I to ignore fate? The following is a true story and occurred this past Labour Day Weekend. Picture if you will a mother and daughter driving away from a pleasant, fun family reunion of intense nattering disguised as a baby shower. Okay, the mother is me and the driver is my eldest daughter. Basking in the afterglow only the togetherness sprinkled with newborn baby cuddles can inspire we travelled along a dirt-covered backroad. "What's that on the road?" queried Carrie,"Is it a turtle? I've never seen one on a road like this. I'm going to help it." Carrie braked her car and shifted it into park leaving the engine idling. Not taking her eyes off the creature beyond the vehicle's front end we both remarked on its impressive bulk. Reaching for a fleece blanket on the back seat Carrie swung open the door. I couldn't agree with her choice of turtle transport gear. "No, not that. You won't be able to feel the turtle. It's too long and floppy." "Okay," she replied abandoning her initial plan to instead root around in the hatchback for a pair of leather gloves. Did I mention I'd already warned her that the turtle might react to her intervention by biting and scratching? He had no idea he was about to be rescued and his saunter across the road interrupted for his own safety. Pulling on the gloves my daughter the newbie turtle-transplanter approached her endangered target. I remained sitting in the front passenger seat and thus enjoyed an unobstructed view of the rescue attempt. An SUV arrived from the opposite direction and braked to take in the unexpected show. Inhaling deeply and planting her feet behind the turtle's rear end, Carrie executed the stoop and scoop method of animal retrieval. Grinning, she turned to me with the rescuee held hig h and then dropped him. "Oops, I panicked. He wiggled. My bad." That poor creature out for a stroll minding his own turtle business. What could he be thinking? Did the sudden lift and loss of footing startle him? Did his stomach lurch like mine does when hurtling through space on a roller coaster? Determined to carry out her good deed my daughter again grabbed and hoisted. Intent on keeping her grip she began to walk towards the shoulder of the road. With her destination within reach Carrie's shoulders relaxed. Operation escort-the-turtle-off-the-road-for-his-own-good seemed destined for success. Carrie stepped as quickly as one can holding a shelled animal at arm's length. As I held my breath and noted Carrie's progress the entire rescue skewed sideways. With what she later described as "I screamed like a girl", Carrie threw her arms up in a sudden, dramatic, devastating move. I'm sure my mouth dropped open in disbelief as the turtle launched like a missile into the air. His body hurled in an airborne arc and disappeared in the ditch. Carrie's empty hands swung back to her side. She stumbled back towards her car shaking her head. "He didn't turtle, he didn't turtle," she muttered. "He wiggled again. I couldn't help it. He'll be okay. He's off the road now." I replied, "Not if he landed on his back. He'll be stuck." "What do you mean? Can't he roll over?" I shook my head and stated I didn't think he could, but perhaps if he landed on a slope he might right himself. Carrie strode to the ditch, but could not see her recent rescuee in the tangle of overgrown weeds and young trees. I attempted to bring a bit of brevity to this unexpected outcome. "The poor fella didn't wear a helmet and I don't remember him strapped into a parachute, but perhaps he tucked and rolled." I confess when Carrie first tossed the turtle we both reacted by laughing and so too did the witness-driver. It was absurd and not something we had ever experienced before. As we sobered Carrie lamented that she'd saved the turtle from a probable crushing death by car and had most likely killed him instead. Did she kill him with kindness?Later that evening as she shared this mishap Carrie again said, "He didn't turtle." Not that she professes to be an expert, but my daughter intent on performing a good deed expected the turtle to retract his head and limbs when she hoisted him up to his eventual doom. We can only hope her next well-intentioned turtle relocation goes off without a hitch, or the rescuee is an experienced frequent flyer.775 words |
| September 3rd, 2023 Blog Week Birthday Bastion Prompt: Is Artificial Intelligence a burden for writers? What are your thoughts on AI in general? At a first quick glance I read 'A1' and thought to myself isn't that a steak sauce? Then I tried again and read 'Al'. This could be a reasonable, plausible blog prompt after all the internet provider modem I adopted urged me to address him as Steve. Maybe I could write about Al and how he's a burden to writers. Perhaps Steve and Al have a relationship, I dunno. Don't worry I got a grip and finally understood the assignment. I consulted good ol' Google's infinite wisdom re AI. The following quotes caught my eye. "ChatGPT is an AI-powered language model developed by open AI capable of generating human-like text based on context and past conversations." "ChatGPT is an AI chatbot that uses natural language processing to create humanlike conversational dialogue. The language model can respond to questions and compose various written content including articles, social media posts, essays, code and emails." Phew! Those are bold claims. Do I wish to communicate with a bot? No. Something that exists in the realm of virtual reality doesn't strike me as interesting. What experiences, successes, failures, judgements has a bot endured? Humanlike is no substitute for a genuine, flawed human. As is anything manmade AI has some serious limitations. Incorrect and biased answers abound. If one is seeking an authoritative source of information one may be disappointed. It lacks common sense and access to the internet. Translations could be inaccurate. Not the stuff expected of a reliable learning tool. Like the developers that created it AI is only as good as its coding. A lack of human insight exists. Data breaches are possible. Conversations with AI are not confidential and most likely are used for training purposes. In other words it's a new technology yet to stand the test of time. At the moment and for the forseeable future I will not entertain the use of AI. I disabled autocorrect and spellchecker from my devices. I do not need a program second-guessing my word choices, or arbitrarily substituting random words that make no sense. Predictive text, bah! Granted the second-string words are often hilarious and ridiculous. It was annoying to type two or three letters before autocorrect presumed to know better. As for correcting my spelling, thanks but no thanks. I am a proud Canadian and spellcheck enforces American spelling. If I doubt my abilities I can and will consult a dictionary. If spelling faux pas exist in this blog they do so because my fingers erred typing.I also insist upon proof-reading what I write. I don't believe I need to apologize to AI, but as I mentioned I am Canadian. It's in my blood and in my social conditioning. We tend to apologize, so, sorry, AI. I will not be conversing with you. It's not you, it's me. If a warm- blooded, breathing person is not nearby to speak with, I often blurt and burble to myself. Me, myself and I can verify our information sources and we will not blab or share confidences. |
| SEPTEMBER 2nd 23 Blog Week Birthday Bastion Prompt: The world is in turmoil. It's hard to be optimistic. Choose one crisis that bothers you and think about possible solutions or ways to deal with it. What bothers me? A pet peeve is the thoughtless, careless, don't-give-a-damn tossing of garbage along country roads. What about a scenic thoroughfare attracts litterers? Do the green, flourishing trees, abundant wildflowers and thick shrubbery scream to be affronted/defiled by refuse? There's nothing as jarring as glass bottles, plastic jugs, plastic bags,tin cans, cardboard,rubber vehicle tires, plastic containers of various sizes, soiled diapers and more heaped in a ditch, or snagged in the roots of trees. Yes, the outdoors isn't always a neat and tidy place. Broken branches, decaying leaves, dirt, rocks , and the like do exist. They serve a fundamental purpose and support an eco system. What does manmade garbage benefit? All communities have garbage pick-up and designated garbage sites. Many initiated recycling schemes that require but a wee bit of time for sorting to be successful. Glass, plastic, tin and paper products need not end up amongst other disposables. Discarded fruit, vegetable and garden clippings become compost. All of this need only require a commitment to care about the environment. I do not understand the not-in-my- backyard out-of-sight-out-of-mind mentality of litterers. They clearly wish to get rid of their garbage, but they do not feel at all compelled to do so responsibly. Meh, if it's tossed into a ditch it is no longer my problem. Do they only consider something on the spur of the moment? Is an out of the way roadside convenient? Are they avoiding witnesses ? Wonderful initiatives do exist. Service clubs organize clean-ups along highways and major roads. It is beyond shameful that a few care enough to tidy up after so many. Those observing dumping should feel compelled to report it and feel sure it will be acknowledged with hefty monetary fines. Could there be more signage with slogans? Don't dump chump. Stop, and consider. Your garbage is litter. Would you like this mess in your nest? When I was a child, I could purchase a glass bottle of soda and return the empty bottle to the store in exchange for money which I then spent on candy. I had an incentive to recycle. That has not existed for years where I live. Beer stores accept empty bottles and cans which earn a bit of a cash return for imbibers, but other similar containers do not warrant such a program. Why not? Perhaps the promise of some money might prove to be advantageous. I hold no illusions that littering will be completely eradicated. The lazy, inconsiderate walk amongst us. I will continue to carry a bag with me during my walk-abouts and retrieve the garbage I discover. It's the least I can do since it's my pet peeve. |
| SEPTEMBER 1st, 2023 Prompt: Create an original quote re WDC's 23rd birthday and expand to any topic. Hmm, create a quote. How's this one? Never belabour another birthday. Birthdays are inevitable for many of us. Each year another one rolls around ideally with a scrumptious cake. There's no better excuse to indulge in sweet calorie intake than an occasion that celebrates another trip around the sun. I appreciate a confection that transforms the humble egg, flour, butter and sugar into a delight for my taste buds. It's nothing short of magic. This is a wondrous alchemy. Any flavour, any combination of ingredients harmonizes to produce an acceptable birthday cake, or as the chic French like to purr 'gateau.' A slice of lemon custard is comparable to banana, or pineapple, or chocolate, or cocoanut, or carrot, or zucchini. The fact that something delicious may be created from veggies and/or fruit is mind-boggling. They all tempt me to the point of drooling, or as the ungauch French would properly claim 'salivating.' I like cake. I do not deny it. Be it upside down, or inside out, square, or round, or layered a cake is a cake. I would never turn away a slice of cake. It can be warm, fresh from the oven, or chilled, plain or smothered in icing. I am not fussy. Never under any circumstances would I refuse cake. Over the years I've had the pleasure of numerous birthday cakes. As a lady I am duty-bound by the universal book of etiquette not to reveal my age and thus the number of said cakes. Who doesn't appreciate a bit of mystery? Am I being coy? Of course I'm not. My age is nobody's business.Am I at long last old enough to know better? I cannot admit that I am. What exactly am I supposed to know better anyway? I just know I like birthday cake, but I seem to have belaboured that point. May I recommend that WDCers treat themselves to the cake of their choosing to celebrate 23 marvelous years of WDC. |
| September 7th Prompt: "Passion is an energy. Feel the power that comes from focusing on what excites you." Oprah Winfrey Write about something that fuels your heart at the moment. At the moment and in recent days family fueled my heart. It's been a whirlwind summer season of family get-togethers. My youngest postponed her wedding because of Covid. The wedding gown, the rings and the bridesmaid dresses have been shoved into closets waiting to awe us all for two years. That's a long time to anticipate a ceremony and that bride-wannabe has never been a patient person. To complicate, or rather stretch my eldest daughter's seamstress abilities, the bride designate decided to pursue fertility options. As she fretted she's not getting any younger. For this pregnancy she needed a bit of specialty assistance that required her participation back in the early summer. That offer had a time limit. One child already arrived on the scene because of that concern and she wanted another. Yes, she'd always dreamed of a house, a marriage and a child in that specific order, but, hey, life had other plans. Anywho, for the wedding that finally happened in late August she was pregnant and this meant extensive alterations to her gown. Eldest child worked her magic and her sister glowed in her new and improved regalia. Weddings especially the do-it-yourself variety are exhausting! Preparing and sending invitations is the least stressful activity. Sodding the couple's entire yard so they'd have lush, green grass to walk upon proved to be back-breaking labour. Rebuilding and extending their deck gobbled up several weekends. Creating a lakeside deck for the ceremony strained time and muscles. The day of the long sought union turned out to be a non-stop blur. Whew, I need to stop and breathe just recounting/reliving it. In the morning I cut out arrows from neon green bristol board to create directional arrows. The couple reside at the end of a long dirt road that extends off yet another long secondary road. I wanted to give attendees a fighting chance to find us. I wrote 'D & Y Wedding' on one arrow with a black Sharpie. Hubby, wishing to help, wrote on the rest. His version seemed a bit unclear because he'd used a '@' or a scribbled combination of an 'a' and a '&'. He attempted a fix and added 'and.' Our son laughed and noticed the arrows now read 'D and Y Wedding', or 'Dandy Wedding." We sure hoped it would be! We were blessed with a gorgeous, sunny day so at least the weather accommodated us. Of course, there were to be other snafus or glitches. A temporarty panic ensued when the wedding rings could not be found. The photographer had snapped pics and then placed them into an open bag in the bedroom. The child of the soon-to-be-married couple, my three-year old grandgiggle had her own ideas of what she should do. She seemed to love her 'princess' dress, but she wasn't keen, or inclined to'keep'it on. She seemed to resent a wee guest who dared to not only touch, but play with her toys. She did like that Mommy's attention leaned towards hair and make-up. For the bride's grand entrance the daughter clung to her and had to be bribed and held tight by her aunt, the maid-of-honour's hand. We all heard her displeasure. During the ceremony she insisted upon being held by her Mommy in her own 'princess' dress. Oh, and the lovely, lush grass proved to still be quite wet and squishy in the afternoon. Did I mention all the decorating? The day before the big event we drove forty-five minutes to beautify the chosen reception hall and then we returned to the house to decorate the lakeside deck. All of us repeated that trip the next day.Oh, and the morning of the wedding my eldest stopped her own primping for emergency tailoring of the best man's tuxedo which was a rental and still hung on him. Whew! I suppose childbirth isn't an easy 'thing', so why should that child's wedding ceremony be without a wee bit of effort? Two down and possibly one more to go? ( 694 words ) |
| September 5th Prompt: Is blogging a true writing/art form? Why do you blog? Red light flashing 'indignation.' I just might be sputtering nonsensical words. My hands are trembling and it's difficult to type. As if! As if! Yes, I repeated myself. Is blogging a true writing/art form? Who claims it isn't? Why is this a topic question? Of course and without a niggling doubt blogging is real, authentic writing. Although it seems inconceivable to me I suppose there are some, a minority some, who believe blogging to be unworthy. Here, I'll repeat myself. As if! As if! Like all forms of writing, blogging utilizes a sequence of words to convey a message, a point of view, an anecdote, a short story, a few lines of verse, and sometimes an argument. The words are not random. They are not thrown willy-nilly to collapse where they may. Blogging words are composed. They are corralled. They are herded. Why do I blog? Simple answer, because I can and I like it. I like challenging myself to address a random topic with what I hope others perceive as a creative flair. There is no right or wrong blog. Each one is personal. Each one is unique. Each one represents ideas, thoughts and perceptions. I believe blogging to be quick, impulsive, write-by-the-seat-of-your-pants writing here. Usually on this WDC site blog prompts are presented with a twenty-four hour deadline. Think of it as a dare, a challenge. What can you compose in a set time? What can you pull out of thin air? Is a story stuffed in the unvisited, oft ignored cellar of your brain? Does it crave a bit of light and recognition? Has a memory resurfaced to clamor for an official rendering? Commit me to paper. Share me. Sharing. I like that about blogging. My humble bit of writing is offered to other like-minded, creative sorts to accept or dismiss. Either one depends upon recognition. Comments are always welcome and encouraged. I enjoy reading blogs and I am continually amazed at the various viewpoints. We all play with words, but we manipulate them in our own voices.( 354 words ) |
| September 5th Prompt: Do writers have obligations towards their readers? If, so what can they be? If not, why not? Anything to tell about your readers? Am I responsible for my readers? That's to say do I fret about them? Should I worry about their comprehension skills? Are their responses and interpretations my doing? Am I attempting to teach my audience, or sway their opinions? I don't believe I've ever deliberately created something to push my agenda. I write and if I've evoked a smile or laughter when I'm presenting my idea of humour then I've succeeded. If that same presentation falls flat so be it. Words can only convey so much and I cannot beat the reader over the head with it. Not everyone appreciates funny. I believe I'm obligated to adhere to grammar guidelines. Sure, I may bend them. It's my perogative. Writing needs a foundation. I believe in the sanctity of correct spelling, but that differs from country to country. Words are important and in the English language their spellings may be similar, or sound alike, but a replaced letter often alters the entire meaning/intent/nuance of a piece. Bones and beds both 'creak' they do not 'creek.' Vehicles 'brake' but they may also 'break.' Many believe 'angels' reside in heaven, but do 'right angles' exist there as well? As a writer I attempt to create something that flows, makes sense, paints a picture, conveys a plot. I will admit I may not always succeed. Sometimes, my excuse is the word limit imposed on a contest entry. Occasionally I peter out, or exercise a self-imposed brevity. Of course, I may belabor my descriptions and flounder in too much spewing. All I can do is stumble along as I trip over my clumsy attempts to write. I should warn any brave enough to read my offerings. I am no expert. I am an amateur. Please make comments and yes, I am not immune, or indifferent to praise.( 328 words ) |
| The grinning birthday girl straightened her lopsided polka-dotted party hat and presented her cheek for a kiss. "I never turn down affection from a handsome man," she crooned. Gladys cackled as the young man blushed. She grabbed his hands hanging limply at his side and squeezed. "Oh, honey you should see the expression on your face! I don't bite." With one last pat, she freed the deer-in -the -headlight well wisher and waved him off. "I've still got it. I make men quake in their boots." Ensconced in her balloon-decorated easy chair Gladys greeted her'subjects' one by one. A giggle would escape every few minutes. Imagine people lined up to say hello to her. She never tired of hearing she looked good for her age. Flattery never lost its appeal. A girl could still appreciate that others took notice of her primping. Dress to impress had never failed her. "Girl you don't look a day over twenty-two. How do you do it?" "Gladys Dave is here. He's asking for you." One hand reached for her hair smoothing imaginary strays and the other rearranged the folds of her dress. A few of the balloons obscured her view of the crowded room and they were pushed aside. Somebody caressed her gnarled hand and Gladys looked up to see Dave smiling at her. Without prompting he bussed her on the cheek and whispered in her ear. "It's wonderful to see you here in your home. I can wait for as long as it takes before you show up at my place. You've got several more years in you, right?" Gladys beamed and nodded. That Dave always knew what to say. As he wandered away to speak with familiar faces, she blurted. "I've always liked Dave. It's a shame he's going to see me naked one day. I wouldn't wish that horror on anyone. I suppose I won't notice, or care. Oh, is it time for cake?" Many voices blended to sing 'Happy Birthday' to the eighty-eight year old birthday girl. Dave, the local undertaker, carried the glowing, smoking two-tiered cake to Gladys encouraging her to blow out the candles. ( 356 words ) |
| Do I admit to a 'hidden' character quirk? Would it be considered peculiar? Shall I confess all here in a WDC blog? Could that oddity be my penchant for answering a query with a question? Okay, enough of the stalling tactics. Okay, I admit I like to watch people. I don't consider myself a creepy stalker. No harm is intended. I've yet to disturb anyone, or cross the line into voyeurism. Nothing is criminal, but then again I haven't consulted a legal expert. I prefer the term keen observer for my proclivity. The beauty and simplicity of it is that it requires no special gear and can be executed anywhere. All I need is my eyesight and a comfortable spot to perch upon. I am never hidden, yet most of the time I blend into the background.Unobtrusive is my motto. Stare, watch,observe, but never ogle, or leer. Perhaps I should qualify my actions. Stare may be too strong a word and misconstrued. I glance. I notice. Maybe I study? I remember nothing creepy. The point is to see people in their natural habitats going about their business, not spook them into unpleasant retaliatory encounters. So many sites exist for my people-watching. In the hustle and bustle of an airport I sit with my head on a swivel only blinking when absolutely necessary. Airport denizens, crawlers, scrabblers fascinate me. All manner of nationalities and clothing parade past me. It seems almost exotic with the rainbow colours blurring and the different scents wafting through the air. I marvel at the heads regally supporting turbans and the figures swishing, gliding in flowing robes. I whince at the women teetering atop tap-tapping heels. I wonder about those rushing with a cell phone glued to their ears oblivious to their surroundings. I gape at a man sauntering in a torn, scruffy pair of jeans with his rear assets exposed to everyone. There's a thrum that never dims. Voices rise and fall. Snatches of conversation swirl and entangle. Footsteps pitter, patter, clomp, and stomp.Garbled intercom messages intrude with buzzing static. For real action in motion I often plunk my derriere on a beach. Not everyone passes their time broiling in the sun. It's entertaining to observe the grandmas' attempts to keep pace with their grandchildren.Without excusing their 'advanced' years, stubborn grammies gamely splash in the water, or thrash as needs must. They flail and teeter aboard paddle boards, or struggle valiantly to pull themselves into giant inflatables risking life and limb in the process. The many ways children choose to move their bodies amazes me. They skip. They hop. They shuffle. They stomp. They twirl. They tip-toe. Their boundless energy is effortless. On a sandy beach next to a sparkling lake kids radiate joy. They soak up the sun, roll in the dirt, and absorb water while screeching, whooping and shouting.It's a people-watcher's paradise. Quirk? Shmirk. I suppose I'm easily amused.( 485 words ) |
| I must admit I've never thought about, or approached writing as Elizabeth Gilbert does. I mean to say I 've never examined it, or attempted to explore why I write, or excused it, or explained the writing process. I just write. I don't believe I agonize over every word I choose. I commit something to paper. Choices swirl in my brain and most of them could be viable. Sure, words and phrasing may be altered at any time, but I do not sweat about it. If I worried and fretted what would actually be created? Ms. Gilbert speaks of fear and the creative process. The number one fear seems to be rejection. My attitude is take it, or leave it. If my writing doesn't appeal to someone, I will survive. I will not lose sleep, or waste away from a lack of attention, or acceptance. I found Ms. Gilbert's presentation thought-provoking. She suggests that non-creative persons consider artisans to be mentally unhinged. Those same people sit in judgement and believe artists should be suffering for their art. I agree with the speaker, this is an "odious, dangerous assumption." We as writers need to live and enjoy that living. Words should set us free not imprison us. This author mentions muses as assistants, drill sergeants ordering us about, teasing us with tantalizing story lines, scolding our indolence, praising our meager efforts. What does prod/encourage me to write? Is there a mirror me existing within my brain? Is that other me the creative one who wishes to be heard and hijacks my thinking, my reactions, my physical output? I do know something, someone visits me when I am attempting to turn off my brain for a night's sleep. In that nether world between unconciousness and awakefulness, I struggle to clear my mind. I am not distracted by other people and their conversations. I am not entertained by a television program, or a movie. Music is not forcing me to listen. I am alone and winding down. Perhaps that is when I am most receptive to suggestion, creative sparks. It's as if the ideas themselves think finally we have your undivided attention, so listen to this. You cannot ignore us now. You are a captive audience. Snippets of dialogue may dance through my mind. A story arc may introduce itself. Characters may stop and say hello. Of course, they know I will be forced to rise, turn on a blinding light, search for paper and pen, and proceed to document all that has delayed my slumber. Is that a muse? Is this simply my overworked brain delivering ideas which were put on the back burner during the day, but must now be delivered/acknowledged? Before you retire for the night these important matters must be brought to your attention. I respect Ms. Gilbert's advice. "Don't be afraid. Don't be daunted." Like the Nike ads, just do it. Writing is a process, an outlet. Try not to lose any sleep.(495 words) |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
