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 |   Now a residence for BC and BCOF items. Random bloggisness wil apear in POTPOURRI. |
Hello!? Is anyone there?? Knock if you want in!   ** Image ID #1975123 Unavailable ** ~~Image #1500358 Sharing Restricted~~ ** Image ID #1646857 Unavailable **  This blog contains only items derived from specific prompts. I'm too stubborn to take the time to post the prompt that the entry is based on. So if you don't understand whats going on - well, I dunno - I guess that just means you don't understand. I would also like to invite you to take a look at my other blog:
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| Blog City: Yes I believe in curses, and yes I believe the efficacy of curses resides in both the imagination of the witch and of the accursed. BCOF: Tonight I will be sitting on my porch at Terlingua Ranch Lodge, and laughing at the javelina, dressed as pigs, as they scurry after their Halloween treats. |
| BCOF: Babbling is boring. Terseness tightens the muscles. Quiet! Shush! Relax. Blog City: The tall tales told me in my youth are short, compared to the way things turned out. Treking 'cross tundra. Caribou are my fellows. Feet crunching lichen. |
| Blog City: My non-writing time serves my writing by giving me a life, dreams, and imagination to write about. BCOF: River Stories Caleb walked down the dusty county road, all of his belongings tied up in the bundle on his back. The road was much different from the road in his memory. Now it was a sad road, a cold road of ruts and dying weeds. If he squinted he could just make out the the same Rail Road Crossing sign - it was still there - and maybe the path to the right. When he got there he took the overgrown path down to the river. He continued down the river to the falls, then climbed down to the beautiful pool beneath the tumbling river waters - his spot. It was little changed from when he was a boy, back when his Gran told him to be careful of the rocks, back when she couldn't get him away from his spot for days at a time. He set up his meager camp right where his old one use to be, so many years ago. He soaked his old feet in The River's waters and felt the delicious, cold numbness soak into his toes. He remembered when he was a boy. |
| BCOF: Think about something normal that happened to me, then exaggerate it into a tall tale? I don't think I can do that. Everything that happens to me is just so darned stupendous in the first place that if I tried to exaggerate it into an even taller tale, the tale would be far to tall to be believed by even the shortest squirrel! Blog City: Where I live, in my universe, I can't help but take "One Day At A Time". In my view of reality there is only today. Time does not exist as mind believes it sees time. Spontaneity is the only feasible action. Planning is setting up an expectation of a future action, but the future never comes. Today is beautiful. Enjoy today, for today is your life. Dream today, only of today, because every time you awake its going to be today. |
| A Walk In My Backyard Woodland The day before yesterday I was taking a stroll through my five acre back-yard woods, meandering along the sheltered trails which wind back and forth, hither and thither, between screens of vegetation which I have established and carefully maintain, in order to make a walk in the five acre wood appear to be a hike through the endless mountains, when what did I espy, but a lovely Strangulated Aminitopsis. Its fragile beauty was breathtaking so I squatted astride a moldering log and meditated on this marvelously hyphaenated-miracle. Along came a spider and sat down beside it. All the while, in the background, A pollywoggishly lumbering toad was approaching, apparently bent on tasting this arachnic morsel. ( I say pollywoggishly because sir toad was quite obese and obviously elderly, but the twinkle in his eye indicated to me that he was remembering his larva-hood.) By the time this Bufo reached his toad-stool, the spider had made her way off, sir toad, however, in his near-sightedness didn't notice and with a lurch, took a large bite out of the fragrant-fungus. I was sitting, mesmerized by this little drama taking place before my wondering eye, while the other eye wandered. Although toads do not usually eat mushrooms, this toad was apparently enjoying this unexpected morsel, for his eyes began to brighten and swirl in his warty head as he munched. I got on my hands and knees and peered into sir toads eyes with one eye while the wandering eye looked at Master Aminitopsis. Why not? I ate the remaining shroom. Momentarily my eyes began to kaliedoscope and I began to shrink, or sir toad began to grow, I never did determine which, sir toad turned out to be a mademoiselle toad, and, then, hand in hand we continued our hoping through the woodland. Later I awoke in my bed and didn't remember a bit of this. For the life of me, I can't imagine how I have managed to write it down. |
| Blog City: My blog is a mirror. I gaze into the mirror and reflect. What is it all about? I see a reflection of my face. Is that what I look like? I didn't use to look like that. I reflect on thoughts. My blog is a metaphor. A mirror is a metaphor for a reflection of mind. What more can I say? BCOF: Poetry speaks. Color speaks. Blending of idioms is a language of art. My house is drab. I'll paint it as a poem. |
| Blog City: I have often thought about how I would react in various terrifying situations. I have come to the conclusion that no matter how much I think about it I would never really know until I was in the situation. I have been in some, and I have reacted satisfactorily. Working in hospitals' emergency rooms has given me the opportunity to see my reactions in life or death situations, but I suspect I might react differently if it was my own life or death. BCOF: If I could be a fly on the wall, What kind of fly would I be? I have many known choices, Due to my study of entomology. I guess not a Syrphid Fly. Oh no not me. Syrphid Flies are entirely too jumpy. For the comfort of one like me. Perhaps a Giant Horsefly? Now let me see. Think, think, think. No, entirely to lugubrious, For a cute little fly like me. I've got it! A blue Bottle Fly. To perfectly match the blue of my eye. Any wall could be my home. As long as no swatters were nearby. |
Fear Of Failure I usually like to say as much as possible in as few words as possible. I could write volumes on this prompt, from both personal experience and opinion. Nobody is going to be able to understand exactly what I am trying to say, because nobody will have exactly the same definition of the terms which I am going to use. I believe fear of failure, is basically the individual's fear of not being perfect in her or his own eyes. Then, of course, there is the difference between perfection of "being" and the perfection of "doing". Many people define the fear of failure as not doing something well enough in the eyes of others. There are many different views of perfection and definitions of failure. Many of these representations of psychological states can be viewed as either healthy or pathological. As far as where fear of failure comes from, well, there are just as many opinions and true answers. At this moment, in my opinion, I would say that pathological fear of failure is learned, usually from our parents, whereas healthy fear of failure is instinctive, inherited from our distant ancestors; success, rather than failure in survival techniques being an essential component of evolution. Now, rather than writing a textbook on the topic I will give my personal experiences. Fear of failure, or more precisely, the feeling that I was required to be perfect in every way, has been one of the essential controlling factors in my life,(perhaps the main factor). It is a common occurrence, but it was overwhelming in my case; my mother thought I was perfect and required that I behave perfectly, not so much in the moral sense, but intellectually and physically. So I tried to be perfect, and in most areas I did excel. My mother would use guilt if she thought I wasn't doing quite as well as she thought I should be doing, so I would continue to try harder, sometimes moving a little higher in her perfection scale; but she was never satisfied. As I grew up, I never had a fear of failure, because I was always successful in my opinion; the club over my head was the fear that my mother might not agree. This continued into adulthood. I was successful at everything I did, but the anxiety was crippling. Fear of being not good enough in the eyes of others, most significantly, my dreaded mother. It got to the point where I started to purposely sabotage my own success in a revolt against life. Then all the usual things - Depression, Alcoholism, Drug Addiction, Mental Hospitals, Jails - but finally I have still come out near the top. I just decided I am the most perfect me I can be. |
| Blog City: I sit and peer through the fenestration, better known as the window of my mind. The condensation caused opacity is gently defoliated by the light brushing of the breeze blown leaves of the tree who is looking back in at me. BCOF: The frail faerie was fain to perch on the tiniest of branches, for the wee-ness of her legs prevented a stouter branch. Tomorrow she hoped to be able to straddle a slightly plumper portion of the tree. Oh how she looked forward to these little daily miracles. |
| BCOF: NEW GENRE A couple of months ago I created a new genre of writing, or, as I like to think, I defined it. It always existed, it's just that no one knew about it except for me. I have discussed it previously in several places. I was always perplexed by genres and could never decide what genre I was writing in. When I thought about it more, I found that I was writing in the Situational Existential genre. Situational Existentialist literature is defined as: Literature which you cannot truly understand unless you can imagine that you wrote the piece yourself, and then try to imagine what you must have been thinking when you wrote it. In other words, unlike many other genres, you actually have to use your brain to think about it. |
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