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For the avoidance of doubt... Yes... I definitely have an opinion... |
 Welcome to my Blog!! Having an opinion is better than not having a thought of your own. I have many of both.... Pull up a pew and grab a hot, steaming mug of your choice. |
| Prompt - There are people who live socially correct lives but become a shadow of themselves versus the people who sink themselves deeply into all levels of life, exploring their dreams fully regardless of the cost and to attain their goals. Are certain individuals predisposed to take risks and others not?"~ Lene Gammelgaard - Climbing High. What do you think? Have you chased or known someone who has chased a dream regardless of the cost? *** Let me get on my soapbox… There are too many people who tie themselves in knots over conforming to society’s or their community’s standards – standards that change over time and quite frankly need to be tested and pushed against, or obliterated, on occasions. I completely understand how this can and does kill a part of that person as they bend over backwards to be the perfect parent, spouse, child, or employee. To portray who they think they should be. To blend in and not rock the boat. Far too worried, perhaps, of other people's opinions. There is a reason that we often look at those people who throw caution to the wind in the pursuit of their dream with a level of envy. They are called selfish, childish, directionless. Attention seeking adrenaline junkies who need to grow up. Things we, perhaps, wish we could be – if we allowed ourselves to relax the constraints that we bind ourselves with a little. They appear happy... They are all things I have been called at some point in my life. I used to be affected by those labels – slightly – in the silence of my bedroom, flat, or personal sanctuary. I say slightly because I have a stubborn streak a mile long that’s forged in titanium and pure bloody mindedness – a trait passed down by my mother who is equally in awe and vexed by it. But as I grew up those labels turned into badges of honour – to be celebrated. I am stubborn. I do know my worth. I like valid recognition. I have so many opinions and I will stand by them with conviction when needed. And I love those butterflies in my stomach. The ones that come around and let me know I am on the precipice of something life changing and amazing. The ones that make me smile and then jump off the cliff with two feet and a "whoop" and a "yip". Sometimes it really is “nothing ventured, nothing gained”. If I had listened to my mother, I wouldn’t have travelled to Australia and had a two-week, whirlwind romance. The man in question wouldn’t have followed me back to the UK based on said two-week holiday romance. We wouldn’t have fallen in love, got married, and had two gorgeous children. If I hadn’t listened to those butterfly and hadn’t jumped feet first into it – I’d of missed out on the greatest adventure of my life. I would have regretted it. That was how we both knew what to do. Standing at that point where we could have turned and walked away, but instead said fcuk it lets find out… let’s not regret it. I like saying fcuk it. It’s by far my favourite saying since I turned 40… I have always had rebellious tendencies. Subtle ones – nothing major. I like going against the grain. I also have control issues. I will dig my heels in quicker than a mule at the slightest inclination of perceived control. Case in point was MY wedding, where the idea of not wearing white was outrageous… My mother had a fit when I turned up wearing bright red platform pumps, complete with black sequin skulls and navy-blue nails – a pop of colour in a wash of white… I get my eye rolling capabilities from her - how she doesn’t recognise these traits in herself I will never know – and hers were magnificent that day. I took the small victory. My own form of rebellion. I am sure my daughter will pay me back - and I will smile. We are insignificant in the grand scheme of things. We won’t be remembered in a couple of generations. Society in general doesn’t care about us – it cares about the mass, not the individual. We should be enjoying our time beneath the sun while we have it – it doesn’t last forever after all. It’s often gone far too soon. It’s never the “long” in the “long and happy life” that matters in a eulogy, it’s the happy; it’s the living, and not simply existing. |
| Prompt: "I'm not here to be perfect. I am here to be real." Lady Gaga Gaga Write about this in your Blog entry today. *** Ah wise words from the Gaga Gaga… A surprisingly frequent occurrence. It’s also a conversation I have with my kids, especially my daughter. In fact we were having it only yesterday on the way to school. My son (who is seven) announced he wished that he was rich (me too, me too). His rationale is that then he’d have more friends and people would like him. Which is kinda heartbreaking that a seven-year-old thinks that money is the root to happiness and friendship. This sparked a whole conversation on how true friends – the ones that truly mattered – don’t care if you are poor or rich. And that a lot of rich people probably feel lonely, even when they have a lot of people around them, because it's hard to know if people like them or their money. How hard it must be not to know who to trust, or to trust very few, and maybe never really being yourself because of that. We all decided we would rather be poor and have friends, than rich and lonely – thank goodness I must be doing something right! This led on to my daughter announcing that she wanted to be perfect at x, y, z – there was a list - and how frustrating it was when she isn’t. When she cannot do something that her friends can. When she makes a mistake or messes up (especially in front of her peers). She takes it so hard. Part of it is embarrassment and part of it is because she thinks there is a perfect image of who she should be and what she should be able to do. It’s an “image” that her and her friends discuss at length – this person is popular because of this, she has friends because of this – seriously she is never going near IG or social media. She is nine – NINE! She has very little idea of who she is yet. She’s only just started that journey. She cannot see how freaking amazing she is. It’s something we, as her parents, constantly remind her of. That it is ok not to be like everyone else. That it’s more important to be herself. To be real. Honest. Genuine. Not take everything so seriously. That mistakes are ok. They are how we learn. And that she never has to hid from us. We are ok if she falls - we'll just help her stand back up and dust herself off. We tell her that she is perfect to us. That we couldn’t and don’t want her any other way - though I do tell her it would be nice if she didn't take the micky out of me for my accent quite so much... I'm British and sound very southern English and I am surrounded by Australian (it happens we live in Melbourne...). She listens. She smiles. She forgets and then needs to be reminded. Especially about laughing at the way I say, "bottle of water" - honestly her impression is decidedly more Cockney than the reality. This is going to be a never-ending circle for the next couple of years. What’s funny is that she can’t see the looks others give her. The admiration from her friends. That fact that they trust her with their secrets. The way people stare at her when she instinctively reaches out to help people – when they fall, or drop things, or knock things over – she doesn’t think twice about it, she just reacts. The stunned silence and reaction from those around us as they watch her like and endangered species, makes me smile - because yep that's my baby and she's amazing. She also cannot see all these 9, 10, 11-year-old boys that pop up around her randomly to say “hi” with puppy and moon eyes… which I am incredibly grateful for. I am glad that there are artists like Lady Gaga Gaga – that help people remember the importance of being honest and true to themselves. |
| Prompt: Use these words in your Blog entry today. Shopping, Lake, Tote, Picnic, Lighthouse, Beach. Have fun with this *** I live by a lake. My garden backs out on to it. I can see it from the dining table, the sofa, and even when I cook dinner in the kitchen. It’s a very pretty view and I often watch the swans, duck, and pelicans glide passed. When the weather is nice, we take the paddleboard and kayak out with the kids. My husband is very competitive and always makes it a race – I always lose. The house itself is on an island that is shaped like a butterfly – we are on one of its wings. Across the road at the front of the house, and over the small bridge that connects us to the rest of the area, is park and beach that we often take the kids to help them burn of some energy, and being Australia it has BBQs units and picnic tables set out under the awning. We probably don’t spend enough time there. The lake is man-made or repurposed saltmarsh. A community built around it. A sanctuary… You can see the Melbourne skyline and Port Philips Bay on the horizon from the back bridge of the lake and the cycle track that connects us to another estate. You can see container ships and yachts. Hear jet skis and speedboats. During covid it was nice to walk out to the edges of the bay for a paddle; tote bag packed with flip-flops, sunnies, sunscreen and towels. It was quiet… no tourists… only locals. This was my introduction to Australia – a 5km limit for shopping… adventuring… living… no socialising. Although, we used to have BBQs in the front yard/driveway. Our neighbours doing the same thing. Making friends. Keeping our sanity. Maintaining social distancing. Melbourne was tough during the pandemic and in many ways our neighbours were our lighthouse during those stormy times. |
| Prompt: Childhood Memories “I feel as if I had opened a book and found roses of yesterday sweet and fragrant, between its leaves.” L.M. Montgomery, Anne of the Island Write about this quote, which is about the author's childhood, and/or share with us an innocent, possibly fun-loving instances from your childhood that bring a smile to your lips. *** Childhood is a simpler, more innocent time in most people lives (if we are lucky). We don’t fully understand the complication, responsibilities, and hardships of adult life because we don’t have to. My parents and older siblings would often remark that I shouldn’t “wish my childhood way” when I was adamant that I “couldn’t wait to grow up/be an adult”. The very naive idea was mostly driven by not wanting to be told what to do. I wanted control of my life. Ironically now I get fed up with always having to make decisions - especially what is for dinner/tea. Things are also seen in black and white more. Things are good or bad. There is little grey or nuances, or we didn’t understand them. When things are fun – they are amazing. When things are bad – they really suck. But they have to be REALLY bad to still feel crappy 10, 20, 30 years down the line. It’s easy to get caught up in “rose coloured glasses” of the past. Things rarely look or feel as bad or hard when there has been time to put it all into perspective – and that is what I think L.M. Montgomery was doing. Reminiscing. Looking back. Seeing only the good. Seeing a time that was simpler. |
| Prompt: Memorial Day - Waterloo, NY was the town. which first celebrated the Memorial day on May 5, 1866. It was chosen because it hosted an annual, community-wide event, during which businesses closed and residents decorated the graves of soldiers with flowers and flags. What is the picture that comes to your mind when you think of a soldier fighting in the front lines for his country? *** Non-American here, so Memorial Day doesn’t mean much to me in terms of its celebration, but I suspect it is a lot like Anzac Day in Australia, or Remembrance Day in the UK – which I can certainly appreciate. It’s when we take time to remember those that fell in the line of duty and for the freedoms and protection of our country and citizens - and that of our allies. For the lives lost far too soon. Being from the UK, we learn about WWI and WWII in both history and English lessons in the equivalent of middle school (I think, school systems still confuse me – around the age of 12 onwards). They are a significant topic in our teenage years – particular in GCSEs (school leavers diploma/qualification). Sigfred Sasson and Wilfred Owen in particular are poets I remember studying in English – I think they are synonymous with WWI, though I could be wrong. We were challenged to write poems ourselves based on these poets and on these battles. The battle of Le Somme featured in one of mine – “on the fields of Le Somme, their bodies did lie.” I think was the last line of it – it’s the only line I remember writing. I also remember watching Black Adder goes forth (satire based on the first world war with Rowan Atkinson – also known as Mr Bean) where in the final scene/episode they went “over the top”; the poem by Baldrick – BOOM BOOM – also stayed with me for its comedic value. We watched it in history because the adaptation was very good, surprisingly realistic, and perhaps palatable for school children. It’s that imagery I think of when I initially think of a soldier fighting in the front lines – trench war fare, mustard gas, and WWI. Not something that is necessarily true in today’s front lines. And in reality it shouldn’t be. Warfare has evolved. My brother fought in the front lines of the first Gulf war and in Bosnia – neither of which are similar to WWI or WWII in term of battle tactic or environments. I have friends and school mates that have fought in conflicts much more recently – who have lost lives, limbs, and been definitively changed by the experience. Though at the core, I suspect the human experience remains the same for the soldier in question – haunting. Now, with the advancement of technology and media we see the cost of war in a much more brutal manner, from the comfort of our sofas and armchairs. Still diluted from the harsh reality, but much more affronting than the past. Perhaps, I should be picturing those soldiers in Ukraine, the ones I see on the news, when I think of a soldier fighting on the front lines – because that is the reality now. Maybe picturing Wildfred Owen (or the grandfather I never met) in a grey scale photo is my mind’s way of separating/protecting myself from the scary reality that current warfare is on our doorsteps, and not 100 years in the past. |
| Prompt: Roses - “Roses have thorns. Those are like flower fangs. Roses are the vampires of the plant world.” Jarod Kintz, A Memoir of Memories and Memes *** Roses have many meaning in floriography (the language of flowers that I was aware of but am becoming more and more immersed in due to a current writing project). Nearly all of the cryptic message about roses are linked to love, passion, and relationship. Each colour represents a different aspect or type of love. Even the numbers in an arrangement denote different imagery. It’s fascinating. Are roses the Vampire Flower? I don’t think so. They can spill blood, but it’s not usually deadly, it doesn’t drain your blood – which is more in line with the whole vampiric genre. Though some horror movies have created some interesting, modified flowers/roses. Roses don't have fangs - but they have claws or daggers. Maybe that is why I think roses are aligned more to the “beautiful but dangerous” trope. You could make the argument that they are closer linked to werewolves than vampires; claws that could tear skin apart. Or maybe the femme fatale - compelling and beautiful to look at but needs to be handled with care or you can get hurt. A perfect imagery for love, perhaps? But it is the story of evolving, ever changing love that the rose represents/illustrates to me. It’s often the young, innocent girl who pricks her finger on the single stem after all – a broke heart. Or the delicate white petaled roses with slashes of red pigmentation that allude to the loss of life or innocence. It’s interesting that within floriography this evolution in love and passion can be seen through the colour palate of roses as they morph from white, beige, and pale pinks to the deeper reds. There are many other flowers that I associate more with the gothic tones of vampires; usually those with deep burgundy or purple (almost black) hues. Prefect example is the Dragon Lilly – a must at any Halloween party decor. Or the deadly nightshade or black henbane - truly beautiful, but equally deadly. |
| Prompt: On this day in 1964 The Beatles' made their 4th appearance on "The Ed Sullivan Show", which featured an interview and a pre-recorded performance of "You Can't Do That". Did you ever watch The Ed Sullivan Show? What's your favourite Beatles song? If not, the Beatles what was your favorite performance? *** I don't mind the Beatles, but I'm not a huge fan of them either. I know a few of their songs - because who doesn't, but it's hard to have a favourite - Probably Hey Jude - because I think I heard that Paul McCartney wrote it for John Lennon's son. I know half the rock bands wouldn't be around without their influence - especially those from the UK. They are still heroes in Liverpool. There are even statues - I think. My mother was a teenager in the 60's and remembers Beatlemania. She said it was madness - I don't think she was a fan. My dad was more of an Elvis fan. And Tom Jones. I didn't grow up listening to them. And, my sister is a lot older than me, so I grew up listen to 80's rock and metal... very different to the Beatles. I do know that the Beatles were the first boy band - except they could play instruments and write their own songs... not many boybands can do that these days. I have never watched, or heard of, the Ed Sullivan Show. It must be an American thing. Maybe a talk-show/variety thing? An early Jimmy Kimmel?!? I'm sure it was groundbreaking like the Beatles. |
| Prompt: Begin your entry today with: The Heart Won't Lie. *** “The heart won’t lie”…. is a romantic idea. It made a good song (if it you like Reba McEntire – I’m not a huge fan of country music), but time and time again it does in fact lie, or doesn’t tell us the whole truth – at least in the metaphorical sense. The heart often overrides the mind, even when we know logic should prevail. I’d actually say the heart, on times, is an idiot!! At least mine is… The amount of times I stayed in toxic, damaging relationships (not just romantic) because “my heart” kept telling me it would be ok, that this was just part of the course, is not funny. My heart would have me sit there and bare all the pain. Bleeding all over my psyche. I sometimes wonder if I was masochistic in my youth purely because I seemed incapable of walking away when I knew I should. I had lengthy conversations with friends (and myself) about ending relationships and then… nope, I'd jump right back into the loop. Or maybe I’m being unfair to my heart, because it didn’t really know what love was. It was young and naïve. It learnt what love was not time and time again – we have the scars to prove it. Sometimes I picture it pasted back together like a piece of kintsugi pottery – shattered, but mended and beautiful in its fragility. It often put others before itself – like it hadn’t quite figured out the concept of self-love and acceptance. It took a long time to grow up and realise what love should be. What is could be. Maybe it's a lesson it had to learn... I still have it on a leash. It's the unstable part of my personality that has slight kamikaze tendencies. Though it has learnt not to be quite so much of a muppet. Thank goodness my logic centre is stubborn and doesn’t like to be ignored. It eventually gets fed up and tells my heart to get back in its box so it can take over. However, the physical sense might be different. Can the heart lie? Or would it give our immediate/primitive feelings away? Can we actually control it enough to change it? When we are scared, or worried, or excited it beats faster and erratically… It’s hard to slow it down. It’s hard not to feed into the panic and control the rest of our body’s response to it. We blush when we are embarrassed. Sweat when we are nervous. Each time it’s our heart pumping the blood around our bodies. Yes, there are those that can influence the way it reacts - freedivers can slow their heart rate, special forces are trained to withstand interrogation and lie detection (though this may come from reading waaay too many Jack Reach-esk novels) but is that the heart lying or is it the mind taking over and forcing control. Either way, I can't do it. So, I get in that sense my heart doesn't lie... not because it won't... because it can't. |
| Prompt: Beyond The Gates. Use this as your opening line for your Blog entry today. It spiralled from a micro fiction to a short story.... “Beyond the gates lies the outside world. It’s dangerous! You must promise me that you’ll stay in the safety of the garden. Do not wander off!” Those were the last words my mother ever said to me. I often wonder if she tempted fate that day. If fate actually exists that is; the series of unusual events that led me to this desolate part of the forbidden forest, to stand before this peculiar looking tree, makes me think it does. That, or the world is even stranger than my mother's warning. That day the suns had been high in the sky. Second noon had already passed and the parched earth that wound pathways through the garden scorched the soles my feet. I danced my way to the shade of the large muddleberry tree that grew in the corner next to the pealing white picket fence and then climbed up into the branches that leaned over the boundary of my home. This was not cheating. My feet had not touched the ground beyond the gates. I reached for the purple berries that hung heavy amongst the leaves. They were my favourite. This early in the season they still had a tart, sour taste them. They would be sweeter in a few weeks. Perfect for when Mother and I made the first batch of jams to sell at market. But even now they were hard to resist. As I stretched to reach the berries I heard a loud crunch. The branch bearing my weight juddered and dropped as a crack formed along its length and it began to break away from the trunk. I was too far along it to go back, and the branches below were too spindly to take my weight. I closed my eyes and braced for impact. The branch cracked again, and gravity pulled me downwards. I landed on the ground in a heap of limbs, but nothing was broken. Bruised. Scraped. Slightly bloody. But not broken. I should have gone back. I should have turned and rush towards the gates, but I was already on the other side. I would be grounded for the foreseeable future regardless of how long I stayed beyond the perimeter. With the suns still beating down on my neck and the absence of any sensible supplies I started off down the hill toward the tree line on my first adventure. The air was cooler in the forest. It made the ground damp to the touch. My toes wriggled in the mud. Everywhere I looked there were vibrant colours that pulled me deeper into the forest’s embrace. Flowers with large velvety petals and long tongue-like pistils, and tall peduncles with puff of white along their stalks that resembled clouds or cottonwool. I had never seen plants like this. They weren’t like the ones in the garden. As the temperature fell further, and the light began to fade between the canopy I realised how far I had travelled. There was no sign of the meadow. I could no longer hear the soft rushing of water from the stream that neighboured it. The trees here were tall and straight. Their bark was dark and coated in tiny, mirrored shards that overlayed each other like a snake’s scales. They were impossible to climb. I studied the trail of footprints that meandered in different directions. My footprints. Thousands of them. They circled in on themselves, crisscrossing at multiple intersections. I must have walked for longer than I realised. I was lost and night was setting in. I sat at the base of a tree and pulled my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms tight around me to retain some heat. I closed my eyes. When dawn broke, I picked a path and set off at a steady pace. If I kept going in a single direction, I would eventually leave the forest and be able to find my bearings. Dirt and debris clung to the frayed hem of my dress. My feet and ankles were caked in dried mud that cracked as I moved. I had a lot of explaining to do. Mother would be furious. I reached the edge of the treeline just as first noon was breaking. The heat of the day was steadily climbing, and sweat was trickling across my brow, making my hair stick to my face. On the horizon I saw our small, family cottage. It lay eerily silent. The chimney stack void of smoke. My mother had usually set a pot on the open flames by now to prepare for our evening meal. A shiver rippled down my spine. I crossed the field and climbed the hill, swinging the gates wide open with a rusted squeak that grated against my ears. The garden was overgrown. The bushes unkempt. I entered the cottage and surveyed the bare stone floor. No furniture. No Coverings. No mother. Empty. The thick dust and established cobwebs denoted a cottage that had been long abandoned. In the space of a night the world had changed, and I was alone. The forest was forbidden for a reason, even time stayed away. |
| Prompt: China Hutch, Roses, Rain, Pearls, and Crystal. Use these words in your Blog entry today. Story time: My grandmother’s china hutch stood on the back wall and housed her best bone china dinner set. The one that only came out on special occasions. It was still as imposing as I remembered, though not as tall. It had been passed down through the generations and was finally mine. Although, I would swap it for one more conversation with the family matriarch in a heartbeat. I ran my hand across the buffet’s marble surface. It had seen better days and needed some care, but the wooden inlays remained intact – the carved roses clearly defined – nothing some bees wax and a good buff could not fix. The rain had started an hour ago, followed by the hail, which was now ricocheting off the patio, through the open sash window, littering the dinning room floor like a carpet of white pearls. “Water will warp the wood!” I heard my grandmother say in my mind. It brought a smile to my face to remember how much she loved this wooden monstrosity. I placed the packing boxes on the floor and started to pack the contents of the hutch; carefully wrapping each lead crystal champagne flute individually with sheets of tissue paper so they would survive the trip. The packers would be here shortly to move the last of the furniture into storage, but the hutch and its contents was coming home with me. Another generation taking care of it. Just like my grandmother had wanted. |
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