%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |   Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland |
|
Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland  Welcome to the place were I chronicle my own falls down dark holes and adventures chasing white rabbits! Come on In, Take a Bite, You Never Know What You May Find... "Curiouser and curiouser." Alice in Wonderland    |
| 30-Day Blog Challenge Nov 7th Wednesdays are the days I get to pull a prompt from the “Challenge War Chest!” These are prompts that have been suggested by bloggers over the years. Today’s prompt is: The color green. What do you associate with the color green and how does it make you feel? Green is a color of dichotomy for me. It represents the new, bright growth of new grass and the daffodils that break from the soil in early Spring, their green tips a harbinger of warmer weather to come. It is also the color I associate with greed and envy. Green has a connection to dirty money, to jealous rumblings in the gut and to the creeping excess of the obscenely wealthy. The color reminds of Kermit the Frog. I grew up watching the Muppet Show and was a huge fan of Kermit's sweet nature and flailing arms. I had a stuffed doll that accompanied me most places in the way some children carry around a security blanket. It is also the signature color of Wicked's famed Elphaba, another character that captured my fascination. I saw the Broadway production of Wicked at the Gershwin in New York City with Idina Menzel playing Elphaba against Kristin Chenoweth's Glinda. Menzel's rendition of "Deflying Gravity" brought me to actual tears. Green is a problematic color when picking exterior paint for the aircraft we sell. Green, in all its variations, does not have a wide appeal to potential aircraft owners and using it in any scheme tends to translate into an aircraft overstaying it's time in inventory. It makes the list of colors we steer very clear from when designing aircraft paint schemes. Perhaps buyer's subconsciously associate the color green with nausea? We can't sure sure but we play it safe and avoid it. Overall the color green reminds me of my daughter's eyes. Her eyes are a sea-change shade of green, somewhere between a deep Jade and a smoky gray. There is no relative alive or in recent memory, who has possessed such eyes. My husband and I are convinced that somewhere along one of our bloodlines resides an ancestor who is responsible for those unusual peepers. |
| "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 2179: November 6, 2018 Prompt: Write about Emptiness Emptiness can be a dangerous and isolating feeling. There are times when life seems devoid of the kinds of joy and activity that keeps the wheels in motion. If you give in to the feeling, it can pull you down. I've been fortunate to never know the battle with chronic depression. I get depressed and overwhelmed but I can typically work through it either by writing or forcing myself into an activity to distract me from feeling catastrophic about things. I can understand the struggle so many people face however who are unable to pull themselves free of that bleakness. I have such empathy for people who feel themselves to be trapped in the dark and empty spaces of this life. I tell my daughter that it is so important to always be kind, to default to kindness because we can never know the battles someone is waging inside. "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 1786--November 6, 2018 Prompt: Information Do you like being informed about everything there is, and what do people mean by “too-much-information”? And how much Information Is too much information? I am a typical type A personality and by default I feel compelled to "know" everything. Closed door meetings of which I am not included, give me anxiety. Finding out the details after the fact, or just a bit too late, is a huge frustration for me at work. I make it my business to know all the information I can, it is the best defense against things going wrong or out of one's control. The phrase "too much information" in my opinion refers to strictly personal things. My sister, though I love her to pieces, is sometimes a too-much-information type person. I can't tell you how many times I had to listen to her description of some gross detail she had to deal with at her doggie daycare, or self-surgery she participated in. There are many things I would be inclined to keep to myself on a personal level for sure. If something makes me feel queasy or uncomfortable, I would definitely label it "too much information". |
| 30 Day Blogging Challenge PROMPT November 6th Talk Tuesdays are an opportunity for bloggers to share their opinions and engage in meaningful dialog with those you may not agree with. It is especially important to remember to comment! The judges are checking! Today, share your opinion on cloning (animal or human). What about if human tissue is used to create artificial organs for transplant? Share your thoughts! I have to sit with this one a bit longer...I'm torn on the issue. The part of my heart that is bound to science and all it's potential says why not? That is what scientific and technological advancements are for, it is one of the many benefits of scientific research. If cloning can save someone on the transplant list, why wouldn't we develop the tools to make it possible? However, the other half of me says that this kind of power could easily be abused and corrupted. If you follow the natural thread of human nature, how often does it lead to someone with impure intentions, someone who would exploit such technology for their own gain? If collective human nature could be trusted to be purely altruistic, then something like cloning could serve the population in innumerably valuable ways. However, there are enough examples in history to prove that there is always the risk of corruption and greed taking over, turning this into another way to divide us across our diversity. The topic on the whole makes me sad, perhaps because today is election day and I'm already feeling the divisions in the country so acutely at all levels. |
| 30-Day Blogging Challenge PROMPT November 5th Bust those Monday blues with Motivational Monday! Share a motivational quote and why it inspires you. If you do not have a specific quote, share a story about a person, object, or place that inspires you. As a mother raising a daughter, my favorite inspiration quote is one that honors that important responsibility. "Here's to Strong Women, May We Know Them, May We Be Them, May We Raise Them." I've never seen an author assigned to the quote but I imagine she is a strong woman of substantial character herself. The words inspire me to remember the strong women in my life as I pay it forward by raising my daughter with the same ideals. The world she will inherit is going to be different from mine and she will need all my lessons as well as tools of her own forging to succeed in it. She will to know all the wonderful women in our line and understand what made them the artists, the explorers, the teachers and the business women that she should always seek to emulate in her own ways. I have tried to introduce her to some of my personal heroes, the women who inspired me growing up. Women like, Dr. Eugene Clark - the Shark Lady, who was one of the first female scientists to gain accolades in the largely male dominated field of marine biology. She was a fearless explorer who made many discoveries and tirelessly used to passion to launch awareness and conservation efforts for sharks and for marine habitats all over the world. My daughter has several books about Dr. Clark on her bookshelf and has been fascinated by her story and her work. Dr. Clark is a real world example but I have also tried to introduce her to literary characters and works that champion the female heroine. We've begun reading Scott O'Dell's "Island of the Blue Dolphin" that tells the true story of a 12 year old girl left alone on San Nicolas Island to survive on her own for 18 years. Then of course, there is Alice, of Wonderland fame. She is a character who is unafraid to question her world, examine her opinions and find herself through the cause of effect of her actions. She believes in impossible things and packs all the bravery it takes to slay the Jabberwocky all by herself. I notice that my daughter is quick to attach herself to the strong women in her life. She recognizes the virtues of strength and independence. She appreciates the authority they command and the knowledge they possess about their professions. It makes me proud to hear her regurgitate some advice or piece of husbandry knowledge she learned from her riding teacher Courtney or her Aunt Becky. I've seen her employee some artistic trick my grandmother taught her. She is readily open to trying things I like, interested in the things that interest me. I'd like to believe it is because she also sees her mother as a strong woman too, one she looks up too. |
| "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 2175 November 2, 2018 "You are home alone when a young monster knocks on your door saying “Hey, can I borrow you? I need to bring something cool for show-and-tell.” Stella looked down at her son. He'd smeared most of the blue face paint off one cheek already. She reached out an adjusted his lopsided horns. "You can't take Momma to show and tell, " she said, smiling with delight that her six year old deemed her "cool" enough. Steven hung his head, the childish pout exaggerated by the monster makeup. "Why me? Why not take Mr. Bear or one of your action figures?" She offered. Steven looked up at her, his eyes suddenly bright. "Because your skin is painted with cool stories," her son reached out and pointed to a small tattoo on her forearm, "like this one." Stella was temporarily stunned. Her son was referring to her tattoos, of which she had many, colorful ribbons of artwork that traveled down both arms and ended at her wrists like sleeves. Steven laid a finger on the heart tattoo, the one she'd had done after she lost her sister in the 911 terror attacks. Then he ran his fingertip up to the pair of cutting shears on her bicep that got when she finished putting herself through school. Her son moved to the other arm. He pulled her closer to examine the band of blue sky and rainbow that marked the memory of giving birth to him after she'd had a miscarriage the year before. His eyes crawled upward, following the sleet, black back of the panther that occupied the space from her elbow to her shoulder. The panther was her design, the first tattoo she'd ever drawn for herself, drawn in the darkened room of the safe house she'd fled to with her infant son when her ex's abusive rage threatened both their lives. How could Stella tell her young son that these pieces of art were more than pictures? That the stories behind them were not stories for kindergartners? Her body was a canvas of her triumphs and her tragedies. These were bigger stories, ones her own son was still too young to hear. She had an idea then, a compromise of sorts. Stella went to her closet and took down a battered spiral notebook. She handed it to her son. "This is momma's sketchbook from when I was a teenager. There are lots of pictures in here that tell stories." Stella reached out and flipped through several pages of ink drawings of mermaids and dragons, skulls and castles. She told him that many of the drawings became tattoos for other people. When she placed her designs on their skin, it brought the stories to life. It was very special and she was trusting him to take care of it. Steven's face was blazing with interest and with pride. He solemnly promised to keep it in his bag until show and tell, and to put it right back in after his turn. Stella kissed her blue-horned monster right above his third eye. |
| 30-Day Blogging Challenge - Nov 2nd Do you think taste is an under-utilized sense in writing? Reflect on how taste can be better utilized in your writing to enhance a scene. I have read and written a fair amount of erotica over the years so, at least in that genre, I feel the most talented authors make deliberate use of all the senses most effectively. Touch and taste are certainly the most tactile and are incredibly important when crafting a story that is sensual in nature. It is certainly easier to describe how something looks or sounds but that is far less intimate than how something tastes or feels, that is a more personal experience. I published a piece of erotica once that was completely devoid of any sexual act at all. Instead, it was a tactile journey that involved chocolate body tattoos and rare, rich truffles that tasted both bitter and sweet on the tongue. I used taste and touch very heavily throughout that piece and I hope, to good effect. It remains one of my favorite pieces that I have written in that genre. Taste and touch are wonderful tools for writers. Some of my favorite authors are masters at invoking them in their work. I have come away from passages in which a dish of food is described so effectively, that I can almost taste the remnants of it myself. Likewise, the feeling of warm sand flowing across the arches of my feet, or the way the autumn wind feels on my bare shoulders are the kind of sensations writers can use to transport you into the moment, into the space of their stories. |
| 30 Day Blogging Challenge - Nov 1st He stands in my doorway, the glare of perpetual disappointment etched across his narrow face. I feel the smile. I pull it methodically from my repertoire of canned responses and hope the artificial grin masks my growing rage. I surprise myself with how breezily I manage to answer the question he has asked me a dozen times already today. I ignore his unimpressed reaction, and marvel at how openly he doubts my abilities. Twenty years I have been locked in this labyrinth. It has been almost two decades that I have wandered the landscape of the business, teaching myself about the nuances and developing the unique skill set the work requires. I know the job inside and out. And while, no one is perfect, my mistakes have been few and far between in my long tenure here. My co-worker has no appreciation for that fact, nor of what my years of experience have taught me. He still harbors the belief that I need to be mini-managed and that the degrading way in which he second guesses my decisions, is not meant to be insulting and serves only to assure we avoid any "hiccups". "Hiccups" ...he uses the word again now, and I feel myself rankle. I drop my eyes and survey my desk. I indulge a delightful fantasy in which I suddenly chuck something at his head. My eyes find my son's toy truck, a brick red fire engine he insisted I take to work with me that first day of kindergarten. I think it looks heavy, that it might do the trick. My fingers creep toward it before I reclaim my senses. No, no. Don't go there. He's not worth the jail time. Instead I turn up the wattage on my Cheshire cat grin and give him the answer he's waiting for. The same one I've given him thirteen times before since 6am. He saunters off and I settle for an aggressive eye roll. I open my most disturbing playlist and crank Saliva up enough to just drown out the classical jazz streaming from his office. I fish in my desk and find the chocolate chip cookie I saved from lunch. I plan to eat it savagely, while I indulge another fantasy about stabbing him in the eye with a paperclip.  ** Image ID #1774840 Unavailable **  |
| 30-Day Blogging Challenge Oct 30th Start your entry with this sentence: You might not believe in ghost stories, but… You might not believe in ghost stories, but there are other things that haunt and hunt from the shadows. The horror of the things I have seen make me long for those tamer phantoms. Ghosts are bound by laws of the spirit realm. They can not possess a corporal form and their presence is a delicate balance biased in a large part, on the muscle memory of their loved ones still anchored to life. The other things, the crawling, snarling masses that share our space, have no such limitations. I have been a demon hunter since I was seventeen. The profession was unceremoniously thrust upon me after I watched one drive my Uncle straight into Hell. He took six other souls with him that day. At the end, his face was a mask of darkened rage. There was nothing left of the man who had raised me. If I gazed into his wide, dark eyes I could almost see the unthinkable thing with claws and blackened skin perching there, tearing ribbons into his tormented soul. Later, when my uncle gave his last, rattled breathe of life, it flew from his distended jaws with ragged wings flapping, leaving a sulfur-stained wake behind it. Demons freely move among us, through us. They shed their forms and camouflage themselves in our weaker flesh. They are skilled manipulators and trade in sin and in shame. I have killed five to date. Each time I dispatch one back to Hell, they turn to look at me with empty eye sockets and hurl curses at my back in their wicked ancient languages. Each time I kill a demon, I die a little more inside. My book and my cross weigh ever heavier in my pack and I feel the fatigue of an infinite war wearing on my tired bones. Take my advice, start believing in ghost stories... "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 2172: October 30, 2018 Prompt: Start your entry with "In the midnight hours..." In the midnight hours I listen to rain, to the creaking of my old home, to the gentle breathing of my sleeping daughter. I think about the world at my door and the fragile state of my life. In the midnight hours I try to find peace but the questions and the doubts are my constant companions, made ever bolder by late hour. In the midnight hours, sleep eludes me. "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 179--Oct. 30, 2018 Prompt: “The real hero is always a hero by mistake; he dreams of being an honest coward like everybody else.” ― Umberto Eco, Travels in Hyperreality- Are heroes cowards inside? What do you think? I don't believe a true hero is a coward but I think most heroes experience fear. Fear doesn't make one a coward and bravery never happens by mistake. I believe most people could never image their capacity for heroism until the need for bravery is thrust upon them. True heroes rise to the call in spite of their fear. |
| "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 2171: October 29, 2018 Prompt: Work in Progress This is an excerpt from my favorite work in progress, the working title is "Voices in the Water": The man in front of me looked to be sinking a pool of anguish. His body was so weighed down by grief that he seemed to be melting in the soft rain. He clutched a teddy bear made of faded blue gingham with brown button eyes. I tossed aside my fedora and removed my jacket. The rain was light, the drops barely discernible as they fell over my bare shoulders and back. I reached for the bear and pulled in it against my chest, hoping there was enough water. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the voices. I don’t remember the first time I drowned. My mother refused to speak of it. The trauma from my near demise was so deeply rooted that even the mere mention of the incident would drive her into a fury after which she would retreat into a migraine-fueled gloom for days. Over the years I have managed to gather the details through family members and a handful of reluctant witness who were at that lake on that fateful day. From all accounts, I was raven-haired toddler full of frantic energy playing with my gaggle of older cousins at the water’s edge. Suddenly my mother stood up from her deck chair, perched higher up on the beach, the tall Tom Collins glass slipping from her hand, her pretty features evolving into a mask of sheer terror. She was already running and weeping, already screaming my name before anyone else even realized something was wrong. “Rina!” she screamed, plunging into the cold lake water, her eyes frantically searching the surface for some sign of her baby girl. It was my older cousin Ryan who found me, underwater, about eight yards off shore. My mother dropped to her knees wailing as he laid my limp body on the beach. He gave me mouth to mouth until my breath returned and I vomited ribbons of dark lake water into the sand. I was saved. It wasn’t until much later that I would realize something else had come back with me from the depths. My name is Nerina, named for my great grandmother. It means “water” in Greek. I find it ironic since that summer was the last time we went to the lake. It was the last time my mother ever let me near the water. |
| 30-Day Blogging Challenge Your Prompt for Oct 29th: Start your entry with this sentence: As I looked at the Jack-o-Lantern, it seemed to be looking back at me. Then… As I looked at the Jack-o-Lantern, it seemed to be looking back at me. Then the ground seemed to suddenly shift under my boots and I staggered with the effort not to fall down. A arm shot out and gripped my elbow, steadying me. "Whoa, you okay? Sure that is coffee in that travel mug?" my neighbor Shelly joked, her eyes sparking in the glow of our lanterns. I laughed, and blamed it on my poor choice of footwear. "Only I wear heels to take the kids trick or treating right?" I covered my embarrassment with a big gulp of bitter coffee. I searched the dark lawns for my daughter, running with the pack of neighbor kids. I felt a sharp stab of panic as I located her. They had reached the porch with that creepy Jack-o-lantern. She ran past it without stopping, her fuzzy raccoon tail trailing out behind her. The kids rang the doorbell and chorused their greeting when it swung open, the sudden light from within setting the kids faces ablaze. The old man shuffled forward, a large bowl wrapped in his arms. "Do you know this neighbor?" I asked Shelly, without taking my eyes of the kids. We had moved to town the summer past and we'd only met a handful of neighbors so far. "Yeah, that's Mr. Willis. He lives with his daughter Marcella. Nice girl, bit of a strange bird but she moved in with him after he had a stroke last year." We moved off, keeping pace with the gaggle of kids as they crisscrossed the wide street. I turned back, sneaking another look at the intricately carved pumpkin flickering in the darkness. I noticed a movement in the big bay window, as if someone stepped quickly out of view. The Jack-o-lantern seemed to turn toward my gaze, it was as if I could feel its eye holes boring into my back as I walked up the street. The next morning on the way to school, I deliberately passed by the Willis house. I slowly as much as I could without drawing my daughter's attention. The jack-o-lantern was still there but it had collapsed into a pool of decay. The face had melted in on itself and it was oozing blackened flesh down the steps. Odd. It had looked freshly carved for the trick or treaters last night. As I drove off I registered an uneasiness in my stomach, a sense that last night hadn't merely been spooky jitters inspired by the nocturnal holiday. There was something about that house. I made a mental note to formally introduce myself to the occupants...as soon as they managed to clear that rotted jack-o-lantern off their porch of course. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
