%%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. |
| PROMPT November 7th Today's prompt is taken from a book I own. "Great Quotes From Great Leaders", published by Motorola, my employer. This one is from Norman Vincent Peale. "The trouble with most of us, is that we would rather be ruined by praise than saved by criticism." Do you feel this is a valid statement? Tell us why you feel the way you do. Is this a spare the rod spoil the child philosophy? Are children coddled and then likewise their adult selves? Like all statements, quotes, declarations this is shared as a broad perception. Of course, it cannot and does not apply to everyone at all times and in all circumstances. Nothing is that black and white. Children and child-rearing are complicated. People are nothing if not complex. Ol' Peale assumes we will fall apart and fail without praise. He assumes all of us care what others think. He assumes we never make a decision, a choice without outside approval. We cannot succeed, or be satisfied without a nod, or a pat on the back. I'd be willing to admit that sometimes a little praise boosts my ego, but that ego is not so fragile and easily bruised that I fail to function without it. I am self-aware enough to know if I did, or did not harness all my skills and exert all of my effort in the pursuit of a goal. I don't want false flattery. I accepted long ago that I am not and never will be an expert of everything. As a kid, I participated in team sports, but I never dreamed of being a star. I did it for the fun and camaraderie. I never expected to receive an M.V.P. trophy, or quit playing because it was denied me. I was not rewarded with a participation trophy either. I made an effort and that's all my coaches and team mates wanted from me. My mother on the other hand lamented that a klutz such as myself should not be running around all willy-nilly just asking to be injured. I suppose this could be interpreted as a type of criticism. It certainly was a negative position, but I brushed it off. I simply wanted to be one of the kids who did not worry about their uncooperative knees. Mom never praised me for this decision. She'd sigh, purse her lips and bandage me when I returned home. My three children enjoyed competing in team sports and it was their choice. They did not always win medals, or trophies, yet at times they did. They never pitched a fit and refused to continue if their efforts were not acknowledged, or rewarded. They understood the reality that one team wins and one team loses. No one wins all the time. They were encouraged to try again and not throw in the towel. Criticism is a harsh word. Too much of it could be detrimental. Who wishes to be nitpicked, demeaned, corrected constantly? Do not most people respond more favourably to constructive reinforcement? A thanks for your contribution is better received than a rebuke. What happened to hearing it's okay to fall, everyone does, get up and try again. Granted too much praise isn't ideal either. It can be empty and insubstantial. Lack of effort may be rewarded. The it's -good -enough philosophy doesn't encourage anyone to better themselves. Why praise mediocrity? ( This is where I'll insert a rant, a pet peeve if you will. Children are being taught English in a far cry from the methods I learned. Phonetics is considered outdated, passe. No need to learn what letter combinations create which sounds and thus learn to sound out words. Okay, some of this involves memorization, too. Now children are taught to take a stab at the word by looking at the first two, or three letters. Do you know how many words in the English language begin with the same two, or three letter combo? Today's students are also taught to express themselves without the preconceived ideals of grammar and spelling. They just need to get across the 'gist' of what they're attempting to write. So, misunderstandings and confusion are accepted? 'Close enough' is the motto. Are kids supposed to somehow grasp the finer points of grammar and spelling later? Yes, English is complicated and any rules that exist are constantly broken, but to write and be understood the basics still must be followed. A few of the local teachers that have taught my grandgiggles have no grasp of English, but they 'teach.' ACK!) Of course there will always be exceptions. Circumstances such as intelligence and mental health play a key role. My autistic cousin who lacks an awareness of social graces and empathy demands attention from his parents. Woe betide them if he perceives a slight, or believes he is due rewards. If he senses criticism, he shuts down and refuses to engage, listen , learn. He on the other hand is free to find and express fault. Is this a learned behaviour? Did his parents overdo the praise masking it as encouragement when he was a child? Is this his autism, inexplicable and uncomprehending? |
| PROMPT November 6th You work alone from home, logged on to your work PC. One day you log on, and start your routine. You look at the clock on your desktop and eight hours have passed, but you have no memory of getting any tasks done. Tell us what might have happened to you during those eight hours. Is this an episode from The Twilight Zone, or did little green men whisk me away in broad daylight for some sort of convention of body-snatchers? Did they need a 'fresh' victim sample to parade around? Were they hoping to impress their colleagues? I'm no prize to hold up for scrutiny. "With this exhibit we present to you a semi-recluse often alone with her own company for days at a time. Notice the paler than pale complexion, the blood-shot eyes, and the dark under eye circles. We believe she sustains herself on a steady diet of cookies and copious cups of tea. We discovered her dwelling amongst the largest, fuzziest dust bunnies we have ever laid eyes on. It's as if she ignored their existence. To our disappointment she failed to struggle. Is she that desperate for a close encounter? All we could understand from her mumbling is that she just wants to get out of the house." Naw, this is not a likely scenario at all. Come on, it's too far fetched. It's much more of a possibility that I blacked out from a binge of some kind. Cookies have never affected me in such a drastic manner before though and my tea is only spiked with a dribble of milk. I've heard of sugar spikes , but not sugar amnesia. Okay, that's another theory put to bed. That's it. Perhaps I wandered off to bed and enjoyed a good, long, extended daytime nap. I have no recollection of doing this, but the completely-relax-and-forget-everything-naps are without a doubt the most restorative, or so I've been told. I've never experienced such a rest break, but a girl can dream, right? Just to test this I checked my bed and alas it does not bear so much as a wrinkle. Nothing happened in, or on it. No muss, or fuss occurred. I do admit to indulging in a spot of daydreaming now and again. You know how it is, one random thought floats into another and then meanders into a second one which bounces off a third and so on. The entire chain reaction process effortlessly chews up time. But for a continuous eight hours? Within that time frame I'm certain I'd assuage a craving ,or two for some sort of sustenance. All that rambling burns calories. I'm also certain at least one of the extended family would've contacted me with a request, a fresh pic ,a frantic medical consult, an amusing meme, a burning question re their childhood, a memory confirmation, or an invigorating natter. No mother on earth has ever managed such a ginormous block of uninterrupted time to herself. If by some miracle, or mystical realigning of the stars this had ever materialized, the rare event would've been met with outright skepticism. It boggles the mind. This is the stuff of wishful thinking, fantasy. Did I trip and tumble down a deep dark hole like Alice? Again, I fail to see this. Oh, I have tripped and stumbled. I misstep and stagger on a regular basis. Despite residing in this same home for years I continue to injure myself upon / against the unchanged furniture, the walls, the doors and the sneaky nooks and crannies. Familiarity breeds accidents. Not that I've consciously made it my mission to discover and experience every conceivable means to fracturing toes, but I've tumbled upon a surprising variety of ways to do so. Also I have yet to find an actual hole in my abode. Could I have fallen and struck my head rendering me unconscious for eight whole hours? Did I slide unbidden into an abyss of darkness? While unawares did I fail to record anything in my environment? I poked and prodded my skull. No new lumps, lacerations, or bruises are apparent. My ears are not ringing nor is my head pounding. None of the furniture is freshly marred, or dented. The dust bunnies have not scattered. I should think a great jarring thud would disturb them. I am stumped. The only activity that causes me to lose blocks of time is reading. I've always been grateful that breathing is a reflex. While immersed in a book everything else falls away. The story becomes my focus. Usually, I finish a novel in two hours. But being so absorbed, so lost in a book for eight straight hours? Without my undivided attention for that exorbitant amount of time the earth would spin off its axis. Has anyone witnessed what three unsupervised, exuberant children can unleash in eight minutes let alone eight hours? |
| PROMPT November 5th: You arrive at work with 5 coffees and 5 doughnuts, but you discover that there are now six of you. You all love coffee and doughnuts. How do you resolve this? So, I now have an extra, new co-worker? Did I miss the memo? Where was the head's-up management? Of course, I'm not denying we could use the additional help. Six heads are better than five, right? How awkward that we face this coffee / doughnut dilemma on the newbie's first shift. Welcome and do you like / expect a treat? Oh by the way, we take turns bringing in the morning sustenance, we'll add you to the rotation, okay? Don't worry we'll apprise you of our favourites. You won't be forced to guess. Our many and varied mandatory seminars over the years did not prepare me for today.I suppose we could be creative. If we each shared half of a doughnut we'd have....two and a half doughnuts to offer. No, wait,that's not a solution at all. Apparently, I zoned out during the improved math tutorials. Okay, I've got this. If we each donate a quarter of a doughnut we'd have one and a quarter doughnuts plus a variety of flavours for the novice worker. Yay, this could reflect our combined problem solving skills. This sure beats arm wrestling, or a mini thumb war tournament. I'd have lost without a doubt. Two broken thumbs in the past make me a non-contender. Besides,I'm all for a bit of office revelry, but fighting in any form does nothing for morale. I've never been lucky enough to win draws, so I cannot fathom a coin toss could've ended in my favour either. I believe we would've laughed at the idea of drawing straws. Who likes that idea of the short stick? Now what about the lack of a sixth cup of coffee? As long as no one has yet doctored their brew we can rustle up a spare mug and divvy it up. We're not so caffeine deprived that we're suffering withdrawal and have the shakes. No one wants to spill even a precious drop. A few sips is still better than no coffee at all. I believe I'm the sole no-sugar- added drinker. There's always a coffee break later in the morning, so we'll survive. Perhaps we should invest in a coffee maker and a super-duper box of cookies. Be prepared is a great plan. |
| PROMPT November 4th We've all heard of people who mysteriously 'go missing'. Tonight, write about a person who 'goes missing'. Someone that you read about in the newspaper or online, but nobody seems to know them, or remember them. I shiver and pull my windbreaker tighter across my body. Maybe I shoulda opted for a winter jacket, but it's only September and this cold snap surprised me. At least it isn't snowing yet. I step a little quicker and admire the stillness of the early morning street. Not much traffic after midnight. I hoist the bag containing the ingredients for Grandma's cake into a hug. I'm not far from home, but this stuff is growing heavier. I suppose Jessie will want to help me bake the cake. I can't believe she's five already. Just thinking of her licking out the bowl brings a smile to my face. At The Armstrong Bridge I stop, just for a moment, to rest the heavy package on the rail and catch my breath. The theme music from the movie I just watched with my friends floats around in my head. I had fun. We promised to do it again soon. Sigh, I guess I won't be getting much sleep tonight, or should I say morning. As usual, I've volunteered to open the day care tomorrow. Mom won't be in until later. How do those kids come in so full of energy? I'm only fifteen, but man they are little energizer bunnies. As I flex my arms and clutch the plastic bag, I turn my head seeking the source of a sudden noise. Was that a car stopping? Did a door creak open? I don't remember anything after this. I'm drawing a blank. I can only sense a void. I don't feel present, grounded. Am I floating, drifting? Where am I? Strange, but I can see Mom and Jessie crying. I tried to hug them. I shouted at them. Can't they see, or hear me? Why are there police cars and uniformed officers in my house, in my room? What are they looking for? I have no idea what day it is, or what month, or year it is. My sense of time has disappeared. I wander through town and notice posters with my picture. What's that about? Out next to the highway a giant billboard displays my last high school i.d. photo. Am I lost? Am I missing? On September 29th, 1996 fifteen-year old Melanie Ethier vanished walking home in New Liskeard, Ontario, Canada. To this day, no one seems to know what happened to her. I cannot begin to fathom what her mother feels. I have a daughter born the same year as Melanie. I wish answers for that bereft woman. |
| PROMPT November 3rd You live in a tourist town. There's always an 'interesting' mix of visitors. But this year they are especially... different. In what way? The rumble of several hundred engines reverberated through the lakeside village and announced their arrival. Strollers on the main street stopped and stared open-mouthed as a parade of Hell's Angels bikers disturbed the sunny afternoon. Motorcycle after motorcycle rolled to a halt crowding the scant stretch of businesses. A sea of chrome blinded the gawkers. Black leather clad beings gathered to slap each other on the back and shout greetings. Most of these interlopers were men, men with frazzled hair tied back in one tail, men bristling with all manner of beards and moustaches, men flaunting full arm tattoos. Their raucous appearance and army like numbers marked them as outsiders. To the locals these bikers stuck out like a sore thumb. To the villagers' dismay, the unexpected bikers were not the only invaders to ratchet up the tension and set tongues a'wagging. Earlier that morning curious residents had made note of an unusually large police presence. Squad cars with their roof racks of red and blue lights plus squawking radios were parked at each intersection and along the shoulder of the nearby highway. Uniformed officers patrolled the area on foot. Even a leashed canine , or two accompanied them. Citizens gathered in whispering clusters to exchange theories. Their number one question asked what was going on? This had never happened before and why now? With the arrival of a sleek black limousine in front of the one church's open doors people began to nod in understanding. As a white-gowned bride stepped from the car the rough bikers formed an honour guard which she traversed with a smile. The alert officers raised cameras and clicked away. Every person entering and later exiting that house of worship endured a gauntlet of flashes. This particular and peculiar anomaly had stunned a hamlet that boasted year round residents of about one-thousand bodies. Biker nuptials here? Surely this was a one off. This spectacle could not ever reoccur, right? Years later a similar scenario once again played out in their urban village. Hundreds of thunderous bikes piloted by Hell's Angels in black leather descended upon the serene streets and they congregated again at the same church. This time one motorcycle towed a glass-sided coffin in which lay a woman's still form. The radiant bride had died. Her friends had decided to see her off in the only manner they knew. As they had years before for her wedding, the bikers formed themselves into an honour guard as her coffin was carried in and out of the church. |
| PROMPT November 2nd You are curator of a museum. This museum has an area of interest to you. Take us on a guided tour of your latest exhibition. As I settle myself before the keyboard I notice the unmistakable dust motes swirling around me and waiting to settle upon the keys. They're not hovering because my rapid-fire key strokes are dissuading them, no, not at all. They are lurking in the certainty that I shall soon lose interest and focus upon my blog response. The dust has never feared my presence. It blankets everything in this apartment. It has created a community right under my nose and it breeds rather large dust bunnies. A bright dagger of sunlight has exposed a colony of these furry buggers under the very desk I sit at. As I marvel at their appearance I agree with that old adage that rabbits propagate quietly and quickly. I never heard so much as a snuffle and I do not recall seeing them before. Most of these creatures burrow under the love seat safe from discovery and the occasional reach of a hurried broom. If I could muster the wherewithal to lift a bureau, or shift a bed frame I don't doubt I'd reveal more of them. Of course they flourish because the live-in maid lolls about with a laissez-faire attitude. Despite the generous bribes, pay package with bonus incentives she ignores the teeming dust. Obviously the dust does not offend her and an allergy does not plague her. I, er, I mean she does not suffer from watery, itchy eyes, or bouts of uncontrollable sneezing. As far as I am aware she possesses the requisite strength to wield a rag and flourish a feather duster. She definitely turns a blind eye and I know for a fact that I she has 20/20 vision. Perhaps she lacks focus, commitment. Focus, yes, back to the topic du jour. So, what in the world would, or could I display in a museum? Paintings have been showcased. Dinosaurs have been resurrected. Clothing has been covered. I do house an extensive collection of knick knacks, or bric-a-brac, but in the haughtier establishments they are curated as objets d'art, statuary, historical artifacts. My books are worthy of admiration, but to be fully appreciated they must be browsed not just viewed as eye candy. Museums maintain strict no touch policies. What do all of these things have in common? They attract dust. It's inevitable. It's unavoidable. Dust never discriminates. It will smother anything and everything. It refuses to vacate any of the premises it haunts. Dust is impervious to temperature extremes. Mysteriously, it reproduces, regenerates, reincarnates, whatever. It respects no boundaries and flourishes worldwide. I envision a stunning display of dust bunnies in my vaulted museum. No two will look alike. Perhaps a few could be persuaded to recreate the iconic masterpieces of the great painters as a tableau. Imagine The Mona Lisa dust bunny smiling as if harbouring a savoury secret, or Whistler's Mother as a stern, no nonsense dust bunny. No doubt the Picasso dust bunnies will be a sight no one could forget. It goes without saying, but people being who they are and unable to control their impulse to touch, I shall impose a look with your eyes and not with your hands visitor policy. Dust bunnies are inherently delicate. Some might describe them as wispy, or ethereal. I also will promote a kinetic display of dust. Watching it drift, swirl, dance and cavort is akin to witnessing a snowfall. Dust purveyors / aficionados will be encouraged to restrain from entering the premises with cleaning supplies. Alteration of any kind to the exhibitions will not be tolerated. But of course I shall accept donations of dust from those who have displaced / evicted it from their domiciles. Dust is not for everyone. |
| PROMPT November 1st We all have possessions of some type. Tell us five possessions you can’t live without, and why they are on this list. This prompt has me 'acapellaing' to a couple of catchy songs and I find it difficult to compose my blog response with the screeching assaulting my ears. "Living in a material world" is echoing 'round me and sorry, Madonna, I am not doing your song justice. Strangely, the lyrics to The Sound of Music's My Favorite Things is burbling in the background of my synapses. too. Why am I mangling another tune when I should be writing? What do "round paper packages tied up with string" and" kittens / mittens" have to do with my thought process? Focus. I need to plan like the passengers of the SS Minnow did when they set forth on a three-hour cruise. What would I stuff into a duffle bag in the unforeseen chance I'd be stranded on an island? What items spoke to Lovey, aka Mrs. Howell and Ginger? What did Mary Ann think to pack? Of course, I am interpreting "you can't live without" as meaning life-altering, or survivalist. Hmmm, I am just realizing that I do not own a swiss army knife. Drat, I no longer have an old compass lying about collecting dust either. Now, I'm certain a few of the paper, folding-type maps are crammed into a drawer somewhere probably sharing space with a box of matches and a flashlight. But wait, I'm not really being asked to consider these things am I? "Live without" is simply a turn of phrase. What have I become attached to? What would I grab and clutch to my breast in the event of a fire? So, it's only five cherished and not necessarily indispensable possessions that are granted mention today. What are my must haves? What items would be missed if I no longer had them? I'm loathe to mention this possession only because it has wheedled and charmed its way into my life as if it has always been with me. For most of my life, I survived and carried on without this device. Accidents occurred. Calamity vexed me. Appointments were arranged without its influence. I could and did move about without a care, without anyone tracking those movements, or worrying about my whereabouts. I accepted I could not always communicate immediately with anyone. No one could reach out and instantly 'touch me.' I am speaking of my cellular device, my cellphone. Memories of my life B.C, before cellphone, are hazy, muted, almost ethereal. Did I really once sit within close proximity of a wall phone awaiting a call and threatening my younger siblings with grievous bodily harm if they even thought of eavesdropping? How could they be expected to not hear what I said? Oh, and that one phone was not mine alone. It had to be shared with the family. Long distance calls were not an everyday indulgence. If, gasp, I dialed a number and the other party did not answer for whatever reason, I was forced to try again later. No one I knew had an answering machine, or a secretary. Yep, my cellphone has become an integral part of my life. Chats occur anywhere at any time. With the marvelous advent of bluetooth and hands'-free technology I can talk while driving, or hiking, or shopping. I am not at the mercy of a tethered phone. Most of my chat mates also choose to carry phones with them. Not many people still use landlines. We also communicate via texts, e-mails, instant messages and shared photos. All of my contacts are stored safely. If absolutely necessary, I can leave a message. I do not store music, or games on my cellphone, but I do admit to toting a sizeable photo library in the palm of my hand. I enjoy the ease of snapping a new pic whenever the whim tickles me. After all, I must strive to attain my honourary title of Nannarazzi. Could I live without my cellphone? Sure, I could, I guess, if I had to, but thankfully I don't need to make that sacrifice. Campfires would never be the same if one of us could not consult Siri, or Google with one of our earth-shattering queries. With the tiny, but powerful computer I stuff into a pocket, I always have instant access to my writing files. If I so choose, that device can become an electronic notebook, too. I've lived long enough to utilize the Jetson technology of a face-to-face long distance conversation. Nothing brings a smile to my face quite like Facetime with my youngest grandgiggle , Alexandra. A two-year old appreciates the facial expressions that accompany the verbal exchange. Viewing the brightly coloured bandages she applies to her body just because she can is much more amusing than being told about it. Another possession I cannot imagine living without is a black and white photo collage my baby sister gifted to me the first Mother's Day after our Mom's demise. These pics are priceless and irreplaceable because they are from a pre-digital era. They are not saved on an unseen computer cloud waiting to be retrieved. Mom grew up in a time when photos were not shot at the drop of a hat. Every moment of her life is not memorialized, but the handful of photos we have depict her at varying ages. This reminds me my mother was not always a parent. She had a tangible past. What else? I admit to supporting a considerable addiction to books. In an ideal world all of them would accompany me on my travels, but I do comprehend the enormous juggling this would entail. One book in particular could best be described as sentimental. Reflections On a Gift Of Watermelon Pickle and other modern verse contains a collection of poetry that whetted my writing appetite. A Grade Six teacher gifted it to me with a heartfelt, encouraging inscription. "Congratulations on an outstanding year. I only hope that you will enjoy the poems in this book as much as I have enjoyed your creative stories and poems during the year." That nod from an adult not related to me is priceless. Someone believed in me when I was twelve. This tome has earned a place of honour on a book shelf and I never fail to find it tucked in amongst the others. One poem in particular has stayed with me, easily memorized. Four Little Foxes describes the struggle of newborn orphaned foxes to survive. Nature is beautiful, relentless, and cruel. Tucked into a small wooden chest are two silver charm bracelets. One belonged to my mother and one belonged to my mother-in-law. Each of the charms represents a special moment in their lives. Some were accepted as gifts, tokens of love. A few charms were purchased as souvenirs to remember specific adventures. Several commemorated special events such as marriages and births. This jewellery represents two strong, unforgettable women in my life. They were born an ocean apart, but their lives were not dissimilar. My fifth possession of merit is actually a bundle, a bundle of letters my Nanny mailed to me as I carried on years of correspondence with her as my number one penpal. In those bits of paper, I shared what was happening in my life. I mentioned my family. I wrote about school. I bounced ideas for stories off of her. In return, Nanny shared with me. I printed on whatever scraps of paper I could find. She responded in her elegant cursive handwriting on actual note paper. Not once did she chastise my scrawl, or belittle my flights of fancy. Questions were raised and answered. We continued this until I moved to her village when I was a young mother myself. There's nothing quite like the thrill of receiving a letter in the post addressed to yourself. Nanny acted as one of my first readers. Ah, great memories. Five possessions of infinite value to me, four of them incomparable. |
| Ah, Michael Jackson's Thriller. That catchy distinctive beat is now an ear worm, but not in the least annoying. Listening to it once again has called pleasant memories to the surface. I recall the fun of the video, basing it on a date at a movie theatre watching a horror film, and the fantastic dancing of the resultant zombies. It is playful and toys with a young woman's perception. Is her boyfriend a zombie, or did she dream of their frightening encounter? After all, he assured her "I'm not like other guys, I'm different." She anticipated a nice kind of different.What creative genius to use Vincent Price's unmistakable spooky voice as a narrator! He could produce a maniacal cackle / laugh, too. I love the nod to this famous horror movie actor with the marquee reading ' Vincent Price Thriller.' I wonder if he was aware of this homage? This song and its special effects video came out when my three kids were verifiable youngsters. They loved to sing and dance along with MJ. Over and over they attempted to recreate his signature moves and that iconic zombie shuffle. Stiff arms raised, bodies slouched, heads held tight to one side in a loll they squirmed and perfected their own zombie dance. Sometimes in their zeal furniture would be over turned, knees bruised, dogs' tails trampled. They never could look scary though. I'd bet they'd instantly assume those poses and shuffle today if they heard Thriller. They'd recognize the music as a reflex. Rewatching this video I noticed the lyrics more than I did at its release. I think it's safe to say MJ was a wordsmith. He painted vivid pictures with his lyrics. I'm singing these words as I type them. "You try to scream, but terror takes the sound before you make it." Yes, that describes extreme fright. This song and dance belongs to Hallowe'en lovers worldwide. Who doesn't recognize it and entertain those nearby with their own zombie shuffle? What's not to like about make believe, dress-up, costumes, make-up and dancing? Mwaaahaha! ( 345 words ) |
| PROMPT September 30th Wow, it's the end of the month! It's time for our last prompt, and to ask you for any input you may have for future prompts. Here's the prompt for tonight. Where do you want to go on your next road trip? Who would you like to have by your side as you experience this? Most of my travelling has been in the form of road trips. Sometimes I was a willing passenger riding shot gun and other times I acted as the chauffeur. I suppose it could accurately be said that I have a lot of miles under my belt and accumulated on my vehicles' odometers. My wheels have been a pick-up truck, a transport truck, a full-sized sedan, a mini van, a compact and more. I recall travelling and navigating with actual paper maps encased in a road atlas. Now GPS and Google digital maps point me in the right direction. A voice advises me when and where to turn. If I fail to follow directions , or I ignore the explicit instructions I will hear, "Recalculating, recalculating." My past explorations have routed me all over North America, but there's still one destination to access by car, Newfoundland. To be accurate, I'd have to drive onto a ferry to reach this island. Prince Edward Island may now have a bridge making it vehicle-accessible, but The Rock is still surrounded by ocean. I'd like to see for myself if the island moose are as impressive as the Ontario variety. I'd like to enjoy the seaside vistas, explore historical sites, imbibe screech, kiss a cod, attempt to speak and understand the local unique patois, hike and whatever else tickles my fancy. While in the area I also plan to visit two tiny islands to the south that consider themselves to be French territory, Saint-Pierre and Miquelon. Again, I would sail via a ferry. As a Canadian citizen I do not need a passport and despite the Euro being the official form of money my Canadian currency is acceptable. Hmmm, now who would accompany me on this adventure? Hubby wants to visit in the summertime while my sister, Sherry is curious about a wintertime escape. No reason I cannot undertake this road trip twice. I'm flexible and keen. Both of my would-be sidekicks possess a driver's licence. Both could be game for endless hours of chit chat and car karaoke. Ah, someday soon... ( I enjoyed replying to this month's varied prompts. As always I found myself with a 24-hour deadline to satisfy and that challenge forced me to write, for better or worst. Once again I was amazed by the variety of responses and the thoughtful comments from my fellow bloggers. It was a pleasure, thank you! Do I have any prompt ideas ? Here goes: 1. Imagine you are someone's shadow for a day. 2. What a ____ does in a day. ) |
| PROMPT September 29th A different kind of prompt tonight. "Speak soft my name" Tell us your thoughts about it. You don't need to write a review of this poem, read it, tell us what you think. Well, this is a first, reading and dissecting another WDCer's piece of poetry. I am familiar with some of Kåre Enga in Udon Thani  's creative writing, his blog posts, and his remarks about other blogs. He always has a considered often thoughtful comment. This is a first reading for me of this particular poem. My initial impression is of strong , fierce, powerful imagery. I can both see and feel the strength of the waves as they surge, as they pummel, as they recede. They are a life force not to be denied. They have a purpose, a mission. The mighty waves act as a wielder of retribution. They serve to wipe out, to destroy, but they also herald a new beginning. The water cleanses, purifies, creates a fresh landscape. A tsunami demands respect and admiration. It strikes with a practiced and lethal hand. It is the stuff of legend and as such unparalleled. Yes, 'speak soft my name" lest you awaken that devastating force. |
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