%%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 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) |
| Happy 22nd Birthday WDC September 1st Blog reply : Why is WDC still a good writing community? It's prospered for twenty-two years and is still standing. All, including me, are welcome. WDC has maintained an address that is accessible to all. The lights are always burning, the welcome mat rests by the front door, there are no locks to discourage entrance, and its always humming with activity. There are no time restrictions, day or night, stroll on in. I'm encouraged to wander in, take a seat and participate. Don't be shy. Introduce yourself. Try something. Wander amongst the many rooms. Relax and read. Feel free to comment and ask questions. Join in the discussions. Create and attempt to write. Share. Everyone and their creative process is acceptable. Community means inclusion, cooperation, acceptance, to me. We are all neighbours that support each other. When we write we seek validation. We also seek assistance/help. There will always be someone with the needed tools and expertise to lend a hand. Word by word, brick by brick, review by review we are building a writing community. Anyone can saunter by and take a peek. Sometimes, we falter at the foundation. Sometimes, we struggle with the shape, the size, the scope of our writing. There exist so many ways to decorate and add colour, flourishes. Our creations are stored and kept safe. If we alter the plans, the originals remain to be reworked, inspected, fortified. I like that WDC is a self-serve site.If I wish to explore solo so be it. If I decide to communicate, comment, indulge I may. I can choose how, when or if I'll contribute. Like home, WDC is always available and waiting for me to return should I stray. There is no nagging, no fuss, no recriminations. With this online birthday party I can opt to stand in a quiet corner observing, or I can get out and mingle.Or I may be late to the celebration without causing a scene.(329 words) |
Bard's Hall #10 Perhaps I have too much idle time on my hands as I bake in the early summer heat and swat away the predatory, blood-sucking insects. What motivates those mosquitos? I wonder if they attend mandatory training sessions? I can envision a flight squadron with tough drill sargeant/instructors and malleable cadets. There must be a training manual, right? "Listen up you mewling wannabes. I'm only going to say this once. To acquire a target you must look for colour. If that colour moves, guaranteed it will provide your next meal. The red, peeling ones are easy pickings. They're already exposed and just asking for you to stop by. The brown, sun-ripened ones may prove more of a challenge. Their skin tends to be more leathery, tough, but still edible. No, it's not a rumour, the white, pale-as-a-ghost blood donors seem to be the sweetest. Need I remind you bare skin is your optimal target? Sure, burrow if you wish, but there's plenty of succulent, bare skin available." "Ah, excuse me sir. Some of the older skitters claim they've developed a sixth sense. They are attracted to anything with a pulse that expels CO2. Can we expect that, too?" "With enough flight time, yes, anyone may develop a blood radar. You will learn that different vintages exist. Will you like the taste of certain blood types more than another? Absolutely. A constant untapped supply awaits you. From several of my missions, I can attest that O+ abounds." "If I may sir? Could we explode if we imbibe too much?" "Nothing remotely like that has ever happened on my watch. Do not over-indulge. It will slow you down and scuttle take-offs. With added weight you experience less air buoyancy." "Ahem. Sir? I don't know if I can control my appetite? This is our flight fuel isn't it?" "I cannot stress this enough newbies. Take only what you need. I assure you the buffet never closes. You will have a choice of locally-sourced, or tourist import." "Sir, sir? I've heard whispers of distraction techniques. What is that?" "I'm pumped that you asked. An advance patrol first makes contact with a blood source. They buzz eyes, whine in ears. The rest of your squadron moves in. Do not hover, it attracts attention and telegraphs your presence. You are a stealth strike force. Get in, get out." "Um, sir? Rumours say that a great whooshing precedes the disappearance of our fellow flyers. Some mumble and tremble recalling a sudden, loud clap, too." "Risks exist, I'm not going to sugar-coat your raids. Every unit should have a scout. Their job is to shout abort, abort the moment they sense a downdraft. If you hear the clap, it's too late for some of your party. Irritate, yet remain vigilant. Avoid the whooshing." "I speak for all of us sir when I say I'm more than ready. When do we take off? I for one am famished." "It's go time, cadets. Move in, move in. Walking smorgasbord detected. Remember swarm, swoop, strike." |
| Bard's Hall # 9 I habe a summer code. Germs have struck, very bold. Oh woe is me. Why? Why? I don't get sick's my cry. Sniff, sniff. Snort. Snuffle. Sneeze. Swipe. Staunch. Repeat. The waterworks cascade non-stop. It's not a drip, or a dribble. My left eye is in danger of floating free of its socket. Flooding has not abated. The tears are streaming on tears. Was there ever a dam that crumbled? Where were the anti-cold fortifications? How did this virus slip past my defences? Did my unsuspecting immune system accept/welcome a trojan horse? Sure, come on in, make yourself at home. Stay a while and visit. My respiratory system is your respiratory system. This invader has created a munitions factory and tucked it deep within my nasal passages. Bombs disguised as sneezes explode forth at regular intervals. Bonzai scream these missiles as they hurtle from my quivering nostrils spewing their germ shrapnel.Cold clones scatter in a fine mucous spray, invisible parachutes cushioning their landings. Misfired, aborted sneezes implode in my sinuses. Shock waves reverberate. Mucous regroups and re-arms. Production intensifies. I've attempted to evict my unwanted guests. I've resorted to huffing, puffing, and blowing, but they outnumber me. Despite my vigilant efforts to trap and dispose of them with copious tissues, they continue to attack. They lurk in cavities/bunkers plotting their siege. I believe I'm shell-shocked. I habe a summer code. Sigh. Sniff, sniff. |
| Bard's Hall # 8 Am I the only one who dislikes the program, or whatever it is that attempts to guess what word I'd like to type? You know autocorrect, or is it predictive text? Who was the genius that unleashed this on the world? I know the words I wish to use to express myself and I do not need a computer program second-guessing me. Why would an unseen force compelled by computer code replace my text with random gibberish and then think I'd accept it? No, this is not okay. I've learned to turn off this offensive option to save myself editing grief. Do not put words in my mouth at my finger tips. Predictive, sure... There are so many possible words in the English language and many share the initial letters. Texting I am excited could be twisted to I am excellent, or I am expelled or, I am expired or I am experienced. They all have quite different meanings. What is the writer's intention? Jack is bored. Jack is borrowed. Jack is borderline. Clear as mud, right? I will admit that the substitution of words is often humorous. In an online discussion about mice-repellent methods someone posted street wool and the other contributors carried on accepting the intent had been to suggest stuffing holes with steel wool. I'm not adverse to the idea of street wool. Most Canadian citizens own and wear some form of wool garments when they're strolling on our streets in the chilly winter. I fail to see though how toques, scarves and mitts will deter a mouse invasion. Take that you vermin! Just try and chew your way through our street wool. Recently citizens were sharing their disparate views re the trucker occupation in Ottawa. One person waded into the fray and expressed the following. Protestors ride on the fridge of the left. Imagine an irate, flag-waving mob swooping in to our country's capital city astride bucking, snorting, ill-tempered fridges. Silly? I believe the intended word had to be fringe. There is a marked difference, n'est-ce pas? I cannot fathom ordering a seizure salad, but a diner raved about one. Yes waitress, please bring me the starter that causes uncontrollable tremors. I do love a good seizure. The caesar salad is so passe. I do accept that texters/ posters occasionally create typos. The letter keys sit in close proximity and fingers often act with a stubborn mind of their own. We know what we intended to type and presume our digits did as we expected them to do. I myself seem to strike the o when I really wish to utilize an i. Sometimes an l sneaks in to subvert a p, or a k. I'm in the habit of proof-reading with due diligence, not due dipilence. Finally, I must mention this unfortunate public post left to bewilder us all."The shit's the balm." Ewww! Say it isn't so! A balm is a salve, something intended to be soothing, healing, restorative as in lip balm. Would anyone agree that sh*t is any of these things? Yes, yes, of course the sender meant to express themselves with the word bomb. Right? Didn't they? Or does the poster believe that an explosive device is spelled the same as a cosmetic/health product? English already has a reputation for being difficult, puzzling, nonsensical, frustrating, confusing. Predictive text and autocorrect do little to clear the water. |
| Bard's Hall #7 Names are personal. Whether we like our monikers or not they identify us. They give people something to call us besides hey you. My soon-to-be son-in-law detests the name he's been saddled with and curses his mother for her choice. She defends that fateful decision, but she doesn't have to live with it. When our daughter first told us the name of her beau my hubby asked, "Is he Asian?" Nope. The suitor is an over six-feet tall weightlifter, Caucasian and French Canadian. I've been with him when he's had to repeat his name and then been urged to spell it for clarification. He begins by stating, "Y," and then he draws the wrath of whomever made the request. There may be a loud sigh, or a glare, or a snippy comeback. "Because," they snap, "don't be rude." Yan shrugs and attempts to spell out his name again. "Y-a-n." "Is that it, er, um, Ian?" He corrects them. "No, it's Yan." My aunt who will officiate at the wedding this summer refers to the pending groom as Yawn. To me this sounds like a Scandinavian name. "That's right. My name is Jan pronounced Yawn." Too many times my daughter has texted me, mentioning her partner, and her cellphone has autocorrected his name to yam, or yak.Imagine having a name not recognized in predictive text. You may wonder if Yan has other names, middle names, to use instead. Why yes he does, but again his mother didn't do him any favours. He is Yan Nichole Raymond. His first middle name looks like a girl's name, Nicole. His Mom only brings out his full label when she wishes to startle him and gain his full attention. She pronounces it knee-cull. As for Raymond, it's okay, but still not what Yan prefers. My daughter has a lovely French name, Danielle. All her life she's corrected people to not call her Daniel which she considers insulting because she is not male. Her French-Canadian future mother-in-law who should pronounce this name the accepted French way instead calls her Daniel. It's frustrating, but this woman has an excuse. Her daughter insisted that a grandson's name be pronounced in the English form as Daniel and over the space of twenty-five years this has become a habit. Sometimes, my fellow grandma slips and refers to our mutual granddaughter as Alexandria instead of her actual name Alexandra. It may only be the difference of one vowel, but this irks my Danielle. Odds are that my daughter will wed a Yawn in August and giggles will be stifled. |
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