%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |   A place where everybody can feel easily offended - my head! |
|
I'm gathering quite a collection of blogs. "Invalid Item"  is a bit-of-a-rant. I've got a big gob, and it would be a shame not to use it. "Invalid Item" is just that. It's the product of the bits of me mentioned above  filtered through my subconscious."Invalid Item" dealing with all things to do with battling sexes, especially exes.Want to know something trivial or obscure? Not really bothered about whether it's right or wrong, as long as it's believable? ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** WELCOME TO THE HUMAN GOOGLE!  I may never have mastered the art of tying shoelaces, but I win every time I play Trivial Persuit. Friends place bets on how many people I can, unintentionally, upset on a night out. I am the place where boundless enthusiasm meets embarrassing arrogance. Important Information - Please Read I realise some folk do not get Satire. I love a little baffoonery and believe, rather like the jesters of old, you can say quite a lot more than kings when people think you are an idiot. If you are literal minded, best not read on. If you can tell your arse from your elbow, and recognise when an attack isn't an attack then please read:
Heck, even if you can't tell your appendages from one another, read it anyway: who am I to tell you what you can do and what to take from my writing?  The XGC rating is due to the unknown content of many minds - it may be fluffy bunnies or....not! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED Welcome to my world! Acme  ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** http://twitter.com/acmetweet Skype me at acmetoo template thing-a-ma-bob: {c:green}Write{/c}: {c:green}Edit{/c}: {c:green}Kids{/c}: {c:green}Relationships{/c}: {c:green}Physical{/c}: {c:green}FFF{/c}: |
| If my twin and I had been born male, I would have been called Morris, Victoria would have been called Austin. Why? Well, with a last name like Carr, it was bound to be funny for at least a decade. Thank heavens we only proved to have well endowed umbilical cords There are a lot of reasons why I love my sister. Most of them revolve around envy. Some of them most certainly don't! She was born with a massive fod (forehead), that would have been akin to a cartoon rendering of a boffin, were it not for the fact that she had big, blue, doe-eyes, and whisps of white blonde hair. Instead, this made her look cute and earned her the affectionate nickname of 'Tweety-Pie.' It was her second nickname in half as many years. Her fist was 'two-ounce-Annie,' because she was a dainty, wee thing, who couldn't possible manage another sip of her bottle... Apparently, the nurses would give me the rest of her bottle to polish off after my own was razed to the foam. Thus, I earned my first, delightful, nickname 'Sludge Pump,' in honour of the Blackpool sewage work's pipes that noisily spewed waste into the ocean. My second was 'Stig,' after Stig of the Dump. She seemed to repel dirt, and I attracted it. You may already have guessed, but Victoria and I were far from similar. These differences were apparent from day one. I was sturdy, she was fey. I donned a mop of black, curly hair, while she would make Rapunzel jealous. I had dark, brown, muddy pools for eyes and a nose full of freckles, Victoria had the complexion of a winter rose with sapphire sparkling gaze. I was oddly protective of her, she seemed too ethereal to last long on Earth, but she did. She really was a tough nut to crack. Boys would ask me out... well, boys would ask me to ask her out on their behalf  Relatives, at family dos, thought they were most original when they said, "I guess you got the brains, then!" I cannot count the number of times we were marched in front of teacher/parent/priest/policeman and all guilt for any offense was placed at my demonic doorstep, in the face of her angelic countenance.Is it any wonder I brained her with a candlestick holder when she said that ITV was better than anything on the BBC? Those were the days. She could get away with murder, but I couldn't even successfully execute my murderous intentions. I saw this as a sign to appreciate her more. And I did. And I do. She's a formidable woman, who is a smashing mum1, great cook 2, constant support 3, and damn loving and kind too. The thing I will love her for the most is letting me have the role of 'Evil Twin.' The world was my lobster, without having to worry about falling off a pedestal. I was like Hal from Henry IV PtII - I only just survived my debaucheries. I lived a life where the only way to go was up, and I did. I love my introduction to the typical, through my sister's traditionalism, and I hope she appreciates the delights of oddness that can pop out of the universe in strangely shaped packages. She rocks -- well, actually she doesn't, because it looks a little seedy, unhygienic and the dance moves could lead to whiplash. But, she rocks, nonetheless. I think she sometimes feels sorry for me because I got the curly hair, but that just makes me love her even more. My 'fro and I have had a wonderfully symbiotic relationship for all our lives, and one day it will come back in fashion... oh, yes... Until then, she remains the light in my darkness, and I the shadow that gives her depth. Footnotes |
There's been another schism4!  Whoa! I feel like I'm on the cutting edge of the universe... well, as cutting edge as I can get without a cutting edge finding my neck, or anything. And I only mean universe in the term of universality5 It's bloody weird being a priest during the reformation. My best mate's a Lutheran, and the rest of the rugby team consist of Calvinists, Presbyterians, Puritans, Reformed, Congregationalists, Zwinglians, Anabaptists, Baptists, Charismatics, Liberals and Unitratians. Oh, and John Dee6 (he's a right laugh with a flagon of ale and a sausage, I tell you!). Honestly, I don't know if I'm coming or going. Dr John says it doesn't pay to loose your head in times like these, but that's alright for him, because he's well in with Her Maj, creating a new calendar, and summoning all sorts with a pinch of salt and funny dance. What about me, huh? I've been hiding in a bloody gardarobe since Scary Mary lost the plot. I know I took up the yoke of Christ, but I didn't expect to get on the wrong side of some fiery red head who probably just needs a good shag to loosen her ruffles. 'cor I don't half miss shagging  Prior John dressed up as a washer woman and dropped a little light reading off at the priest hole: Big Geoff's comic books Historia Regum Britanniae7, and the Venerable Bede's Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum (so I could look a little more intellectual and closer to God if the men with pointy sticks came to prod me. The only trouble is, I think if the do find me, they'll think of more inventive ways, other than literature, to bring me closer to my maker  )Still, not to worry. I'm sure they'll all burn in hell. Right-oh! I'm off to spread the Word . . . very quietly! . . . and I have to go through two chimneys, a pig pen and a kennel to get there. Pray on and take care, Fr Acme Footnotes |
| Cappucine's FtL entry was, sadly, not much of a surprise. Swearing is so much fun that it kills me when people (and being a kid is no excuse) aren't more imaginative in their expletives. As I miss the point completely, I would like to leave you a list of the preferred swears currently on offer at Casa Acme (erm, I'm upping the rating on my blog until the fun and japes are over): As an term of derision to another Fuckwit Knob Jockey!10 Twit!11 Wanker Kiddie Fiddler shit for brains Arsewipe12 When miffed Pants Christ on a bike Piss flaps Wanky fuck How rude  My favourite is definitely funt, because of the delightful anticipation it builds in the listener as you open yer gob . It also feels satisfying because you get to bite your lower lip on the F, grunt Neanderthal like on the UN and spit out your derision on the T; it's a whole mouth delight, nudging the slightly longer wanky fuck into second place.What's your favourite swear? ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Footnotes |
| We all need to reconnect with our own lives after spending large amounts of time with relatives during the holiday season. Pia's right when she says that friends are the ones you share all sorts of daftness with, without worrying about the necessity of watching your Ps and Qs. It sounds like it was a good party, especially when she was joined by her muse. I love her description of it, "The Muse flutters along the ceiling, her leathery wings disturbing two lady bugs who huddled near the light." That one comment got me to wondering what my muse looks like. My new one, I mean. My old one was tragically killed off in 1992, in a freak electrical accident (Vauxhall/Carlsberg Amplifier incident). He was a right nice bloke, too. Thad. That was his name. I didn't worry about the fact that most muses were chicks. Thad was Thad, and that was that. He would rumble up from behind me, like a thunderstorm; all fat, black clouds, billowing sails, groaning skies and nightmares. He was lovely. There I would be, minding my own business and muddling through the mundane. I'd look at something ordinary and he would point out the extraordinary in it. His gentle nudge left me with that precious glee of knowing something that maybe other people did not know. I did wonder, at one time, if I had a crush on him, but soon came to the conclusion that was a nonsense; he was Thad, and some of his darkness was mine. We did great together. We changed the world -- well, our world, anyway. Then I got pregnant and there were one too many entities in my body to sustain. Something had to give. It was Thad. I was seven months pregnant and still trying to disguise my bump on stage (my guitar was good to hide behind, but not that good -- I already looked like I was trying to copy Hendrix by playing it with my teeth, but that was just because I couldn't adjust the strap... )I realised I couldn't carry on being the bestest ever guitarist in the universe. I would have to be a bit grown up, and make being a mum my priority. I didn't even get to say goodbye -- Thad just wasn't there anymore. It's weird, but when I started writing again, I kind of expected him to show up. No. He's still gone, and now my muse has a different smell and is a different colour. She is also a she, and feels spiky. I've never spoken to her and she never points things out. Don't get me wrong, she's driven, prolific, and introduced me to the concept of finishing things that I start, but she ain't Thad. Do you have a muse? And if so, what are they like? |
| My star doesn't shine either, but that's because I don't like the idea of a shiny one; I might fall off it (shiny = slippy). Why the flip would you fall off it? erm, because I'm still an urban astronaut until NASA get around to tailoring a space programme to meet my needs. I love the stuff that swirls around MLs head, but some of it makes by brain curl. Take this, for example: I am reading about how relinquishing "pipe dreams" can give some people peace and contentment, but also how other people desperately need to hold on to their "pipe dreams" in order to keep themselves physically alive. What the funt is a "pipe dream" ? Is it like the caterpillar in Alice, smoking waccy baccy and getting all philosophical? If so, wouldn't that make the majority of pipe dreams revolve around late night snacking munchies? At least a peanut-butter and ketchup omelet sounds as if it could become a reality... a strange, unsettling reality, but reality nonetheless.Or maybe it's Shamanic, or something, where you look into your inner universe to discover your needs to gain personal insight. If that's the case then these dreams should be pretty easy to fulfill too, as my own experience of a sweat lodge illuminated my personal need for fresh air and a beer. Perhaps deep spiritual journeys are best taken in the country of origin, with some kind of bona fide Shaman, and not down the local community centre with a bloke called Paul who lived on a Kibbutz for seven months. Or maybe it goes back to those crazy industrialists who invented copying the romans. Maybe Sir Thomas Crapper dreamed of pipes that would carry rivers of human waste beyond the estuaries of human industry. The biggest pipe dream of all: to make shit disappear. I like history. You may know this. You may also know that I like to know a lot of crap, and while I take Sir Thomas' name in vain, I should nod knowingly that, of course, these pipe dreams go back to Alice. Well, drugs anyway: http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/283700.html I can honestly say, that I have never visited an opium den. Therefore, my dreams are pretty solid and can not be considered pipe dreams. Sooooooo, if you take that reasoning one step further then it stands to reason that NASA will be calling any day, now. Any day... |
** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** What a delightful gift to find in my mail Its creation as an illustration also now means that my portfolio has 607 items -- I really need to spring clean I've popped in my community folder with another of my favourite community pictures (can you spot the connection, Sarah?)  ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** So, while the lead entry, "Invalid Entry" , was about personal growth, and while I am aware that I have a humourous knobbly bit of a spot on my chest that I could go on about, I think that I shall write about that most deadly of growths, writeritus.Like most forms of artistic tumor, the urge to create lies dormant in writers until activated. No one trigger can be identified as a catalyst for this disease, but literary experts the world over all agree that there are contributing factors that can make you more vulnerable to becoming riddled with writeritus. Here are a few tips to avoid obsession:  Avoid reading. You may be tempted to use your imagination. Worse, you may learn something. Avoid reviewing. Reviewing is still writing, and what you may not realise is, doing so will make you appreciate the finer nuances of what makes good writing. Knowledge is a dangerous thing, and you may be tempted to try and improve your own writing. This behaviour is likely to lead to spell checks, second drafts and proof reading. Do not Blog. Blogging encourages free style writing, narrative voice, tone and pace. You may get in with a bad crowd of fellow addicts and start feeding each other's addictions, leading to early onset writeritus. NaNoNoNo. What can I say? This is akin to letting an alcoholic have the keys to the brewery. Don't. Looking good, feeling good. Writers tend to sit in dark rooms and do little exercise. If you find yourself lured by the laptop, why not go for a jog instead. Fresh air and fitness are much more beneficial to physical and social health, increasing your ability to get a shag, than playing bots in scroll and hanging around in Chat while your cellulite oozes into a new position on your swivel chair.If all else fails, and nothing can save you, then try to cut down gradually (books to short stories, or infrequent blogging etc), or ask your local library about writing replacement therapy programmes and support groups. In Manchester, a group of poets successfully quit sonnets by moving to tirolets and, eventually, shopping lists  While no current cure for writeritus exists, there have been astounding advances in prevention; don't read to kids, don't take them to the theatre. If you catch them using their imaginations, beat it out of them with a derogatory comment, or by encouraging them to participate in sports. |
| I daydream all the time, even when someone is telling me off and I have to be a grown up. It makes me dread the day that I lose where the reality line is and get lost in my very own matrix. I always try to have one item of clothing near me/on me at all times. This is from an early age when I first saw a Tim White picture13 (fantasy art work) and realised that I was probably only one wrong thought away from being pulled into anther dimension, and, knowing my luck, I was bound to wind up in the middle of some kind of social gathering clutching only a loofa. I hate washing my hair in the shower, because I have to close my eyes, and in that elongated minute Tim Curry (no, I haven't got a 'Tim' thing), could be dressed up in his IT costume and want me to look into his floaty lights. While clowns don't scare me, the big lips do. I think WDC have modeled these   on Tim Curry's kisses.When picking up coffee mugs from the draining board, I forgo drying their rims with a tea towel, as the good Lord gave me a perfect pair of rim-drying breasts (now you know what Britney Spears is doing in the Toxic video  ). When I was at secondary school, I expressed a desire to become an Architect, and take 'technical drawing class'. I was laughed at; tech drawing was a boy's subject. I decided to go back to an earlier dream and work towards becoming an Archaeologist. This decision was met with nodding of heads. Why was this? Was it due to my detailed care and attention, or my love of history? No, the majority of people assumed it was because I liked being mucky and covered in filth. I decided to work on a different Arch and become an Arch Bishop. This was pooh-poohed too, as the good Lord gave me a perfect pair of rim-drying breasts (now you know why the Pope never makes coffee). Left with the possibility of trans-dimensional, trans-mutation into either the Arch de Triumph, or an Arch Villain, I chose the latter. Unfortunately, try as I might, I'm rather nice. In 2013 I'm going to run away to Carnival in Brazil to be with the love of my life. I shall be wearing a fetching, spandex, lime-green number. Hubby seems fine with this. Apparently, he's going to run off with Mylene Klass. I don't think he takes my mardi gras moment of madness very seriously. New Year's honours list be damned, in our house we have a New Year's celebrity death list. I'm currently being ribbed because I have yet to score (we pick 12 each. Although they don't have to die in a particular month, that does earn you extra points). I'm in my thirties and have no tooth cavities. This I put down to preferring seconds to pudding, and having a pickle tooth, rather than a sweet one. There may also be some truth to the cruel jibe that my mouth seldom closes for long enough for plaque to build. I love tomatoes and cheese. Any way, any variety, any time. I actually crave tomatoes if I haven't had them for 24 hours. I don't like ketchup. I like HP, Worcester, and Mayonnaise. But when I'm not using those, I have Tabasco on everything. Footnotes |
| I've been reading up on you... http://www.catholic.org/saints/saint.php?saint_id=371 Santa Claus, Saint Nicholas. Patron saint of sailors, Greeks, children, prisoners & captives, bakers and pawnbrokers. He was also known to slap the odd bloke, and was a bishop -- ace. I like him because we have an image of him at our church, and he has a chapel there, in one of the transepts. Our church is 240 years-old next year (the site, that is -- I think the current church is only 130 years-old), it looks wonderfully old, because the mad Victorians who built it went to town with the whole pomp and circumstance thing. It's fab, honestly. I know I joke about being Miss Marple, but if she turned up for Mass I shouldn't be surprised. Anyway, S. Nicholas is one of my favourite statues because he is down with us in the pews. He hasn't got a fancy position up in one of the chapels, or sits there, knowingly, on a dais. Nope, S. Nicholas smiles, holds a ship under his arm, and looks down on a couple of kids at his knee. He does this at eye line with the congregation and right in the middle of the children's crèche; exactly where he ought to be. When I first started attending my church, and I found out who he was, my mind rioted. There's something incredibly sensible about the coca~cola santa: he wears boots and pants. My S. Nick wears holy robes of office, a mitre (pointy hat), and when he isn't carrying a ship, he's holding a crook. It doesn't take a genius to work out which one has the better chance of fitting down a chimney. But I like S. Nicholas' story best. He seems just the type to lob bags of coins through a worried family's window. And I've worked out that the sleigh bells are probably ship bells, and the baubles on my Christmas tree are pawnbroker balls. Ooh, and we probably give him a mince pie because of the connection to bakers. Oh, yes, it all starts making sense when you put the pieces of the puzzle together. Although, I'm still a little confused as where the reindeer come into the equation. I love being a catholic, but sometimes my eyeballs sweat. I could really do with someone creating a website called http://www.confusedcatholic.com/ (don't click it -- I tried and it doesn't exist yet). So... Dear S. Nicholas, I have been a good girl14. I have brushed my teeth every night and most mornings15, and have eaten all my vegetables16. This year, I would love to increase my understanding of my faith, with a greater knowledge of the catholic liturgy17. To this end, please can I have the following for Christmas: Someone to create http://www.confusedcatholic.com/ to answer all those questions I feel a bit daft in asking (but ask anyway, to much rolling of eyeballs!) Kerplunk. I've been asking for this game every year since I was six, and I swear I will not stop until I get it. A signed photograph of Roy Schneider, with or without, Amity Island poster background. Dallas. Pppplllllllllleeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaassssssssssseeeeeeeeeeeee bring it back. I know that I have a little something up my shoulder pads for the lovely members of WDC, but oh, boy! Do I miss those crazy Ewings. Whorl Peas... hang on ... hubby's shouting this one (not sure why I have to put it on my list  ) Oh! World Peace! Yes. I'll have that too. Let's face it, it's a lot more likely than a Dallas remake.Hugs, Acme There ya go. Not a bad list, if I say so myself. Footnotes |
| "Invalid Entry" has to be one of the most fascinating things I've ever read. Fascinating, but I have no further idea of how to classify it. In other words, I'm sat here with a raised eyebrow that would beat Spock's on a good day, and a strange sensation of feeling sorry for the folks who really wanted to get off so bad that they didn't really care how, why, or who with . What is in a name? Well, even if a rose smelled as sweet, I doubt I'd be taking a whiff if were called the Shit Flower. Quite a lot is in a name, actually. For instance, I find it hard not to pat any Britney's I meet on the head, or smile at Billy's. I once met a Veronica, and so was very well behaved. I like being Acme. Acme is roadrunners, not-quite-acne, and alphabetically superior to at least 25 other names. I lie all the time. It's a hobby. The wilder and more extravagant the better. I find it very hard to do little lies (does my bum look big in this?), but have no problem with the gargantuan (yes, I once sued NASA for making me wear big shoes; I tripped me on my way to the launch pad and lost my chance to go into space. Bastards.) |
I have no idea why a duck would say that, but hey, if it floats its boat, it's all good. It does remind me of my husband's favourite joke (I make no apologies for it, because it ain't mine  )A duck walks into a chippy... "Hey, mister! Got any grapes?" "No -- we're a chippy. We stock chips, pies, puddings, mushy peas and gravy. If you don't want any of those then waddle off." The duck leaves. A few minutes later the duck walks back into the chippy... "Hey, mister! Got any grapes?" "No -- I've chuffin' told you already, we're a chippy. We stock chips, pies, puddings, mushy peas and gravy. If you don't want any of those then waddle off. And if you ask for flippin' grapes again, I'll nail your duckin' webbed feet to the floor." The duck leaves. A few minutes later the duck walks back into the chippy... "Hey, mister! Got any nails?" "No." "Great. Got any grapes?" What can I say? I shall take me mother's advice and say ought. All that said, I am celebrating a little. Blood, sweat, tears and more adverbs than the universe should allow, I've finished NaNoWriMo  Thanks to all who gave me a nudge when I needed one, or a laugh! All cheerleading was gratefully received  ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| What goes around, comes around. I think it's cosmic karma, or something. I took the proverbial out of middle-aged/old ladies, and now I am one. I took the mickey out of incontinence pads, but after having two kids I discovered that trampolining is a thing of the past without 'em Snob that I am, I stopped bouncing, rather than queue up in Asda for a pack of lady-pee-pee-pads. If youth is wasted on the young, then cynicism is curse of old age. I used to be so wonderfully right about everything, and now I can't be bothered. I'm a regressive teen with salt and pepper hair. I even caught myself walking like a stompy owd twit, as I stalked past a high street window. Was I complaining about the prices in the shop? Good guess, but no -- I was whinging about pigeons. Crap. It's official. I'm a prostate shy of being a grumpy old man |
| Not one to blow me own trumpet, I do like to get it out and polish it, once in a while Hang on . . . I'm a bit uncomfortable . . . it's all these lights under me bushel. Right-oh! That's enough of that. Why am I so whooty? I WON A CONTEST! Yes, as you can guess by my reaction, this is not a common occurrence  Don't get me wrong, I am a dab hand at being a bridesmaid, and am well and truly thankful for the runners up prizes that don my trophy cabinet, but to win? Whoa! There's only one direction to go from there. With money being tight at the moment, and my desire to have fun on the site I took the WDC currency prize and it will help pay for my upgrade, my contests, and a bit of season fun It was also a pretty good boost to my confidence at the moment. NaNo has me thinking that, as a writer, I make a pretty good Astronaut Excerpt: It was had that could be for been as they were them." - Yes, that was an actual line from my masterpiece. What does it mean? Who can tell. I should not NaNo after wine. |
I swear, I wanna eat the planet, never mind run the place. Newsletter day is a favourite of mine, but today all anyone could do was tickle my taste-buds. Joy wrote about food engaging the senses in her newsletter and I nearly caused a laptop melt-down by drooling all over the keyboard. Then came the poetry newsletter, Ah-ha!, thought I (no not 80s Norwegian pop totty, but the exclamatory phrase), this will be serious, informative and professional... well, it was. It was darn useful and insightful, but DONUTS  I have to look for donut holes in poems... slurp, slurp, drool, droolFINE! I'll get a dose of good rock-chic lovin' from me Brandi, I decided. So, off I pop to the rock-goddess port and jump in her blog, only to find she's had EGG CASSEROLE for tea. What the flip is egg casserole? I have an image of Paul Newman looking down from heaven and screaming, "No more frickin eggs, Brandi! Use the ranch style dressing, for the love of Herbie Hancock!" As for an imagined recipe (until I stand corrected, I'll sit crooked), here's what I think this strange culinary masterpiece might involve18: 50 x eggs 2 x pints of chicken stock 1 x juice of a lime salt and pepper to taste 1 dst spoon x cornflour to thicken 1. Boil eggs 2. Peel 'em and pop 'em in the stock 3. Add cornflour paste and bring to boil 4. Add lime juice and season to taste 5. Eat and record for YouTube Paul Newman appreciation society 6. Stay alive Ta-flippin-da... I'm so bloomin' hungry Footnotes |
   Autumn is death to me. Don't get me wrong, it is actually my favourite season, but there is something close to the knuckle about all it represents to me. I see nature's fat harvest start to rot down for the spring. Trees burn out, whilst my roses fade away. Then there are other seasonal celebrations, festivals and observances that remind me of bones, blood and leaving. The clocks go back. Darkness creeps in and so does Hallowe'en. Anyone who knows me knows my love for this particular holiday. Perhaps it's because I'm allowed a fascination with the unseen, whether that unseen is ghosties, goulies, and spooks galore, or whether it is the catholic in me nudged to thinking of all those saints who have gone before -- I've gotta say, some of the deaths and martyrdoms are scarier to me than any Hollywood frightnight Remember . . . Either way, we come into November in darkness, with death hanging around our hearts and the first Mass after All Saints is All Souls, where the souls of the faithful departed are remembered in a Solemn Mass, with liturgical colours of black all over the church and priest. Remember . . . Then it's the 5th of November and out come the fireworks, bonfires, and the burning effigy of Guy Fawkes sat atop. All children are reminded that terrorism isn't a recent invention as we chant the didactic poem: Remember, remember, the fifth of November, with gunpowder, treason, and plot. I see no reason, why gunpowder treason should ever be forgot. We went to an organised display this year. I meant to take photographs, but had my hands full with black peas and treacle toffee Remember . . . While we celebrate Armistice Day on the 11th of the 11th, the Sunday before (today) is Remembrance Sunday. Church was packed today. The sermon reminded us of the importance of remembering those who gave so much for our freedom. I don't like war; I don't suppose anyone does, but the very least I can do is remember the soldiers who fell, and continue to do so, to safeguard my country, my lifestyle and my loved ones. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** I took this picture on Thursday evening. It's at the private opening of the Borderlands Exhibition at Oldham Art Gallery. http://documentoldham.blogspot.com/ I was invited because one of my stories is being used in the artist's book that accompanies the show. Apparently there's a hold up with the books being ready because they're getting shipped from the states. Fair enough! I ain't complaining, because I'm over the moon that someone likes my stuff enough to put it next to one of their pictures !Today was an ace day too. We had a guest speaker at the Writing Cafe. Rev. Steve Dixon, children's author, came to visit us. We all had a great time listening to tales of his journey in publishing. He also gave us some great insights into how he approached his writing, how he worked with his publisher, and how he built his writing style. He was a lovely guest; very friendly, open to lots of questions and read us excerpts from his own writing. Lovely. I also have a shiny new copy of his latest novel signed for my daughter http://www.scriptureunion.org.uk/ProductFolder/TheSlavesofAlmus/9616.id If anything, his visit couldn't have been more timely, as I've just hit my NaNo wall! I'm up to over 13,000 words -- all of which are drivel -- and his visit has encouraged me to Write On |
There are a lot of things that I like about Writing.Com, but one of my best distractions is Scroll. Scroll feels so intimate and chatty, but 3.5 Million on the Island of Crete log on and lurk there every day Anyhoo, I was chatting to the beautiful ⭐Princette♥PengthuluWrites  about our fishy love and thought that one day the great poets would write sonnets about it. Imagine my surprise when that day turned out to be today Movie star, novelist and international, Olympic javelin star, Maugh  has just written that poem:The gleam of scales so green and blue and wet, It shines so bright and gives off such a smell, That drives my thoughts and now my heart is set, On seafood nights and hunger yet to quell, For fish I love and fish does loveth me. A match of fate that's served both hot and cold, And though they speak such lies of mercury, I never will abandon tastes so bold. Alas, such tragic twist and turns of heart, Of tartar tang and salty seafood bliss, For our sad love is love that's bound to part, And fatal is our sweet and salty kiss. I know that such a courtship must be rude, But after all a fish is fishy food. |
| I've just received the great news that Oldham's Artists in residence, Liz Lock and Mishka Henner, have chosen one of my stories to be used as part of a new exhibition of theirs. I've been invited to a private viewing of their Borderland Exhibition on the 6th of November and I'm over the moon Here's a link of some of their work:http://documentoldham.blogspot.com/ ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| I don't know what it is about real life that makes me balk at the idea of being perceived as a writer, but I find it really hard to think of myself that way, away from WDC. I started the Writing Café so I could be a facilitator for the real writers out there; a bit like the SM is here. Imagine my shock at finding out that a couple of genuine, flesh and blood, artists, might want to use one of my stories in a publication of their work I'll let you know if they go ahead, but I'm still waiting for the moment that they turn around and go, "Oh, not her! We meant the real writer, stood behind her." At least, I could give a sigh of relief, roll my eyes and go back to not being a writer again.The group of writers I'm working with at the local Library are going to start a project next month with the Art Gallery. We have to go into the store rooms (social history, art & design and natural history collections), hand pick and object and write a piece on it. The piece could be factual, personal, prose or poem; what ever floats our boat. I'm looking forward to that ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Had a lovely night with WDCs very own Mavis Moog We went to China town in Manchester and had a veritable feast of delights. I've got no chance in remembering them all, but they were divine! Savoury pastries, dumplings and OSTRICH! Only a quickie, because I don't like blogging while under the influence. Night all ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| I find writing helps me to evaluate. So, bear with me -- this is one of those evaluation type blog entries A month ago I launched my real life version of WDC. A community of writers who can meet like minded people with a common interest, over a never-ending river of coffee, and a sloppy josé nachos. Oh, and there would be all the fun stuff in the off line writing community that you would find in the on line writing community. The main idea was to run the cafe side of things to gain revenue to pay for the venue, and to fund a future literary prize in our town. The writing side was a kind of interpretation of the best parts of writing.com; reading, reviewing, workshops, reference tools, information etc. One month in and, while numbers aren't great (5 regulars, but 10 on a good day), I think it's a success. Those regulars have encouraged friends and family to come along. And we're all settling into the idea of it all (especially me!). Prep I have my Food Hygiene certificates so, I make 16, morning fresh, deli wraps and buy cakes and pastries (I can cook savoury food for fun, but sweet stuff eludes me). I turn up half an hour before opening and get the coffee machine brewing. I set out tables and chairs and set up the two computers we have as an info centre/writing resource. Then I put all the latest information and research material on the info table (newsletters, contest/festival news, style guides and reference books etc) The first hour ~ Chat and Chow The first hour is concentrated on the cafe. Food is cooked & served. Coffee is sloshed about, and cakes displayed. Each week I have typed up a writing exercise with blank text box, for those writers who want to write while they are there. This means that people can busy themselves while I'm cooking/making coffee. They can write, surf the web, read what's going on, check out a grammar point, or just 'chat and chow'. The second hour ~ Read, Review, Recognise Once the cafe closes down (only the never-ending coffee supply stays active!). We all group together to listen to anyone's work they have brought in, or what they've done with that week's writing challenge (the writing exercise I take in each week), and offer constructive feedback. We then discuss what we can focus on in our writing in the week ahead. Having recognised what our next 'mini' assignment is, we go our separate ways until the next session. There have been some things which I've tried to introduced and they have failed; we only need one computer terminal, because no one apart from me uses it. Sure, people are interested in the contests and info I can get off it, but are not really bothered about the virtual world -- fair enough! We are chatting and interacting with each other. I will only use one from now on In the spirit of a 'skill sharing community', I have created a sign up sheet. This sheet is simply designed with date, person, workshop so that the poets among us can give us their insight, as can the journalists, historians, children's writers, etc... I put my own name down first and ran a workshop, but no one else seems interested in doing so. It's like they are looking at me to come up with all the ideas, newsletters, challenges, workshops etc. I really don't mind doing so, for now. After all, this is my vision that people are buying into, but I do hope that there will a shared sense of ownership can be developed, over time. It looks like one person is already attracted to helping in the kitchen, so maybe the other stuff will come with time  I hope so, because everybody has a talent; a different way of looking at the world, that we can all learn from.So, that's my little evaluation of where we are. I think it's a success, and I just need other people to recognise the joy of writing within a supportive community with no other fixed agenda. We're not council run/ funded, so are our own masters. Much like WDC, people will get out of it, that which they are prepared to put into it. I've set the diary for it up to December. I'll evaluate those areas which are successful against those which are not, and see where we go from there |
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
