I've been rather melancholy and introspective lately and I figure if I'm annoying myself (which I am), I'm likely annoying anyone who's reading, too, so I decided to lighten things up this evening.
I was talking to a friend recently about planning a trip to London. I haven't been in ages, I miss my peeps there, and though I have no traveling money at all right now, just thinking about a trip makes me feel better. While pricing flights in a wishful-thinking sort of way, I was reminded of the many hops over the Atlantic I took several years ago... and thought I'd relay the story of one of the more memorable ones...
For those of you who have never taken an overnight flight, they're not pleasant in general. Unless, of course, you can afford to fly First Class or in one of those nifty planes that have those cool bed-seats. Yeah. I fly Last Class. No fun. Especially since I simply cannot sleep on a plane. I've tried. I've even stayed up all night before the flight, thinking I'd be utterly exhausted and crash... er... pass out upon take-off. Yeah. No. I just wound up even more exhausted when I arrived than when I left.
Anyway, prior to this particular flight, which I took from Charlotte instead of Dulles for some reason I can't quite recall, I'd been running errands and feeling fine. I went back to my best friend's house, where I'd stayed the night before, to soak in the tub and relax before leaving for the airport. It was all good.
Until...
You know how the flu comes on really quickly, slamming into you like a freight train, leaving you fevered and in pain, curled into a fetal position, crying for your mommy? Yeah. That happened. Have you ever flown with the flu? Lordy. It's not pleasant. Not that doing anything with the flu is pleasant. But feeling like death or not, I wasn't going to miss the flight, so I loaded up on all kinds of extra-strength stuff and left for the airport.
The guy at the ticket desk checked me in and told me I must be excited, as I was glowing. I was reasonably certain my "excitement" was more about my "102 fever," but I thanked him anyway. By then, the meds were kicking in, so I had started to feel semi-human again and I was grateful.
It didn't last.
Upon boarding, I found out that my requested bulkhead seats had been given to a family with two small children. Damned children. But since the flight wasn't full, I was allowed to switch from my assigned seat to a row all by myself. I was happy about that, as my original seatmate had a rather peculiar odor about him. He smelled the way I used to smell after a long shift at the fast food place I worked at when I was in high school... and my mother wouldn't let me sit on the furniture until I'd changed out of my uniform. Anyway, even though my new seat wasn't bulkhead, it helped. As I say, I was happy enough.
That didn't last either.
You know that family with the two small children? Well, the littlest didn't like to fly. It hurt his ears. So he hurt everyone else's ears. Now, don't get me wrong, I felt for the little guy. I once flew with an ear infection and it was hell. I thought my head was going to split in two and I completely lost my hearing for a couple of days. It was awful. But by the end of this flight, I have to admit that I wanted to hang that tyke off the airplane wing by his little ears. And I was not the only one.
The rest of my flight mates left a wee bit to be desired as well. Take, for instance, they guy in front of me. We'll call him Mr. Stinky. He was, apparently, suffering from some pretty severe gastrointestinal distress. He sat, enveloped in an airy cloud of pure funk and quite happily shared his little gift with the rest of us. The woman across the aisle from me, who looked quite a bit like Lily Tomlin, kept looking over at me and mouthing, "OH MY GOD," while holding her nose. Even the flight attendant, after stopping in a particularly pungent patch of pong to deliver our drinks, whispered an, "Oh my" under her breath (which I'm sure she was holding at that point). It was bad.
The guy behind me, however, likely wasn't affected by Mr. Stinky, as I'm reasonably certain he couldn't smell. It wasn't for lack of trying, though, as he attempted (in vain) to clear his sinuses over and over and over, from the time we took off until we landed. Eight hours later. You all know the sound I'm talking about -- it's that utterly disgusting, wet, snorty sound people make when they suck big loads of snot back into their throats, only to hock it all back up seconds later. Sorry. I'm just trying to share the experience in all its... richness...
Bear in mind that the smells and sounds are hitting me when I'm feeling like holy hell. I just wanted to sleep. And after Mr. Stinky reclined his seat, which must have been broken, as it nearly landed my television in my lap (and I've never had a seat recline that far... or I likely would have slept on a plane before), I decided to move to the other seat in my empty row and recline. Sort of. I put my head on the armrest closest to the aisle and a foot on either side of the window. It was, actually, the exact position I was in when I gave birth to Ryan. Except I was more comfortable. During childbirth.
After dozing on and off for about an hour, I sat back up. Lily Tomlin (of the OH MY GOD Tomlins) had also fallen asleep. Now, when I see someone sound asleep on a plane when I desperately want to be sound asleep but can't make it happen, I usually just get pissed off. But not this time. This time I laughed. Out loud. You see, Ms. Tomlin apparently wore a wig. And as she napped, it... shifted... so that the part of the wig that should have been 'round her left ear was covering her face and the left side of her head was left quite exposed. At this point, Mr. Full-of-Snot, on his way back from the bathroom, noticed her little hair dilemma and he laughed out loud, too. That made me laugh even harder and we both caught a case of the giggles, which was not good, as laughing creates more phlegm, and Mr. Full-of-Snot did not need that, let me assure you. All the chortling woke Ms. Tomlin up, though. It took her moment to figure out what was happening, as she appeared to be a bit disoriented (as one would be if one's hair was not where it should be), and then she quickly tried to right her mop. I nearly peed in my seat.
Needless to say, I have never been so glad to reach my destination as I was to arrive at Gatwick. And I've been on flights with so much turbulence that I literally bounced off the ceiling... and flights where people have thrown up around me. This one was worse.
Thankfully, the flu didn't last long and I had a great time. The flight back was not completely unpleasant, as it was during the day, and I sat next to a lovely, funny guy, who kept me entertained. Well, I was entertained when I could hear him over the snoring from the Hagrid-like creature in front of us and the hard-of-hearing French woman who yelled at her traveling companion from London to Charlotte (not in an angry way... just loudly).
Remind me again why I like to travel?
Oh, hell. You don't need to remind me. Put me on a plane, going almost anywhere, and I'm happy. As long as I remember my noseplug, earplugs, sleep mask, and personal fan, it's all good.
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Monday, January 20, 2014
The Continuing Adventures of Christopher J.: Part 4
Here we have the continuing story of Christopher J. Arachington, of the Red Shed Arachingtons...
For those who don't know, Christopher J. is a lovely little spider I met some time ago. Full of the wanderlust, he began the adventure of a lifetime in the forsythia bush in my front yard. I didn't expect to ever see him again, but he came back, with a very big story to tell. I thought you might like to hear it, too...
If you haven't read the first few installments of the story, you can find them here:
First Installment
Second Installment
Third Installment
If you remember correctly, at the end of the last installment, Christopher J. was just about to share how his new friend, Julius P. Crickman, saved his life... for the first time...
For those who don't know, Christopher J. is a lovely little spider I met some time ago. Full of the wanderlust, he began the adventure of a lifetime in the forsythia bush in my front yard. I didn't expect to ever see him again, but he came back, with a very big story to tell. I thought you might like to hear it, too...
If you haven't read the first few installments of the story, you can find them here:
First Installment
Second Installment
Third Installment
If you remember correctly, at the end of the last installment, Christopher J. was just about to share how his new friend, Julius P. Crickman, saved his life... for the first time...
“My goodness! What on earth happened?”
Christopher J. stood up, balancing
carefully on five legs. He took off his bowler hat, wiped his brow with a hanky
from his vest pocket, and replaced his hat. “It was really quite harrowing, I
have to say. I still find the memory rather stressful.”
“I can imagine. Do you need a moment?”
“No, no. I’m fine.” He began to pace the
length of the nightstand drawer, took a deep breath, and started. “As I
mentioned, I met Julius P. for the first time under the forsythia bush. We
chatted for a while, waiting for the temperature to drop, as it was so terribly hot. Having just decided
to start our journey in the lush garden across the Great Dark Divide (Narrator's note: I determined quickly that the Great Dark Divide is the street in
front of the house), we were planning our route, when we heard a tremendous
rustling in the forsythia!”
I leaned forward, anxious to learn what
might have caused the rustling.
“Suddenly, we heard a frightful squawk
and were very nearly trampled by a rather… portly… sparrow. Julius P. knocked
me out of the way, or that bird would have surely used me as a stepping stone and
squashed me flat!”
“Ah, is that how Julius P. saved your
life?”
Christopher J. shook his head solemnly,
his eyes wide. “Oh, no. It got worse. Ever so much worse. It wasn’t long before
we were to discover just why the sparrow was squawking and trying to make his
way through the forsythia.”
Our spider friend sat back down on his
Kleenex bed and fanned himself before going on. “We were completely discombobulated, as I’m
sure you can imagine, and I was just about to ask Julius P. what on earth he
suspected was going on, when his eyes got wide and he pointed to something
behind me. And then… and then… I felt it.”
“Felt what, Christopher J.? Felt what?!”
I was on the edge of my seat.
Poor Christopher J. was sweating, clearly
distraught at the memory. “It was a paw! A great, heavy paw! Upon my back! My
legs went out from under me and I was suddenly flat upon the ground, unable to
move! It was terrifying! I craned my neck and turned my head to see what had me…
what was, I was certain, going to eat me!”
“And? What was it?”
“It was the Beast of the Garden! The fiercest
creature to prowl our corner of the world! The monster of which legends are born!”
Christopher J. had clearly given this “creature” a fair amount of thought.
“But, what sort of creature, exactly, is
The Beast of the Garden, Christopher J.?”
Our 7-legged pal leaned forward, looked
left and then right, as if to make sure The Beast was not within earshot, as if
simply speaking about him could summon him right into my bedroom, and he
whispered, “A cat.”
“A cat? Oh. Oh. I see. What does this cat
look like?”
“He’s huge! And orange and white, with
beady eyes and enormous paws! Have you seen him?”
I nodded slowly (and possibly a bit guiltily, I have to admit). “Um, well, yes. He’s,
you know, sort of, um, my cat.”
“Your cat?!” Christopher J. squeaked in
alarm and disbelief. “Your cat?! But how? How can you – you, a kind and caring
soul – be associated such a creature? Such a beast?!”
“Well, he’s actually quite nice,
Christopher J. His name is Pedo.”
“Pedo?! No. No. That’s simply far too
benign, too gentle a name for this beast!”
“It means fart in Spanish,” I offered up
helpfully.
Christopher J. snorted derisively. “While
I don’t find it completely inappropriate that he’s named for flatulence, I do
believe the name the birds have given him is far more appropriate.”
“What’s that?”
He whispered, somewhat reverently, I
thought, “they call him El Diablo! The Devil!”
“Oh, dear. That seems a bit extreme… a
bit, well, hyperbolic… don’t you think?”
“Hyperbolic?!” Our little spider friend threw
up his arms, clearly beside himself, and knocked his bowler hat clean off. He
watched as it sailed across the nightstand drawer. “Oh, dear me,” he said, shaking his head. Taking a deep
breath, he picked his hat up, put it back on, and said, more quietly and calmly this time,
“have you seen the carnage? Have you witnessed the bodies he leaves in his wake?”
I nodded sadly. “I have, actually.
Sometimes right on the front porch. But it’s his nature, you see. Cats are
hunters.”
“But he does it for sport!” Christopher
J. spat the word out disgustedly.
I really could not blame him for being
upset. While I certainly love my cat, I have to admit that I’m not so keen on
the whole concept of the ‘Circle of Life’ when it comes full circle on my
doorstep.
“I understand, Christopher J. I do. But
please do go on. What happened when you realized it was The Beast, er, Pedo,
who had you flattened?”
Christopher J. took a deep breath, eyeing
me with clear doubt on his little face. I could tell he was wondering if he could
trust me now, given my connection to The Beast of the Garden. I was afraid he
wouldn’t go on after all. Thankfully he did.
“Well, I was terrified, as I said.
Certain The Beast was going to eat me, I cried out for Julius P. to run! I
thought that if my travels were over, at least my friend could go on in my
memory.”
“That was very gallant of you,
Christopher J. And did he?”
“No! That brilliant cricket saved me! He leapt
right into The Beast’s face, landing squarely on his nose! The Beast was so
startled that he lifted his paw, allowing me to wriggle loose. He slammed it
down again on my leg but I was able to pull free.”
“Was that how… um…” I pointed to the
stump where his 8th leg had been, not wanting to ask the question
out loud.
“How I lost my leg? Oh, no. That was a
different situation altogether.” He stood up and began pacing again, as he went
on with the story. “The Beast swatted at Julius P., knocking him to the ground.
The poor chap was stunned, so before the paw came down again, I wrapped 4 of my
legs around him, intending to drag him deeper into the forsythia, away from The Beast's reach. And then?!
You’ll never guess what happened!”
My heart was racing now, worried for my
little friend and his little friend. “What? What happened?!”
“Remember that sparrow? The one who nearly trampled us, trying to get out of The Beast’s path?”
I nodded.
Christopher J. began gesturing wildly. “Well,
he swooped in just as The Beast was about to capture both Julius P. and me! He
closed in on the collar of my vest with his claw and he flew us right out of
the forsythia! Julius P. was wrapped in all 8 of my legs and I held on for dear
life, terrified I was going to drop him! It was spectacular! And let me tell you, I was ever so glad Mum had made sure all my vest buttons were secure before I left for my travels, as if they'd popped, we would have been goners for certain! The Beast was, for
once, not quick enough to pull us out of the sky, which is odd, really, when
you consider how rather chubby Spiro is, and that he was carrying both a spider
and a cricket, weighing him down even more.”
“Spiro?”
Christopher J. smiled. “Yes, Spiro T.
Winger, of the Great Maple Wingers. He became the third in our traveling trio." A little giggle escaped the spider and he continued, "though we weren’t certain at first that he hadn’t rescued us only to make a
meal of us later!”
“Oh, my! Where did he fly you to after
the rescue from The Beast, er, Pedo?”
“Straight to his nest in the Great Maple.
And that? Is a story all unto itself. My goodness, it is.”
“Well, I want to hear it! But first, I
need another cup of tea. Would you like some?”
“Oh, dear me, yes. Thank you. All this
storytelling has me parched!”
Christopher J. sat back down on his
Kleenex bed, clearly spent from reliving his ordeal, and I made my way quickly
to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
To be continued...
Monday, January 13, 2014
The Adventures of Christopher J.: Installment 3
If you remember, we ended the last installment of the Adventures of Christopher J. Arachington, of the Red Shed Arachingtons, with me heading out to make both a cup of tea and a mental note to email my friend Todd, whose spare room, I believe, was the original Arachington homestead.
If you missed the first installment of Christopher J.'s story, you can read it right here... and if you missed the second installment, you can read it right here...)
And so we continue...
I returned with my tea, curled up in the wicker chair near my nightstand, and bid Christopher J. to begin his tale. He took a deep breath and started…
“If you remember rightly, it was very warm last July 3rd. When you set me down in the forsythia near the street, I had to catch my breath and wipe my brow. I was deciding whether to be on my way or wait until the evening cooled a bit when I happened upon the lovely chap who would become my traveling companion for some time – Julius P. Crickman.”
“And Julius P. is a… cricket?”
“Exactly! And a jolly good mate as well!
He was off on his own adventure, you see, as, sadly, he’d been involved in a
little altercation with several other crickets. He decided simply to leave the
lilac bush just down the way from the Red Shed, so as not to wind up in any
real trouble, you understand.”
“An altercation? What about?” Insect altercations seem rather interesting, don’t you think?
Christopher J. continued, “Well, I don’t know how much you know about crickets, but I assume you know they chirp?”
“Of course. And loudly, too.”
“Yes, indeed. Well, only the males chirp. Did you know that? It’s true. However, Julius P. doesn’t.”
“He doesn’t chirp? Why?”
“Well, he doesn’t know why. It’s the way he is; the way he was born. But those bullies teased him unmercifully about it! They called him extremely unflattering names and called into question his… male-ness.”
“Oh, I see. Poor Julius P. For the record? Things like that happen in the human world, too.”
Yes, in the spider world, too! I, myself, had an horrific experience when two of my loutish cousins, Bubba and Jim-Bob humilia…”
“Wait," I put my hand up to stop him. "I’m sorry to interrupt you, Christopher J., but Bubba? And Jim-Bob?”
Christopher J. sighed. “Yes. Their mum, Crystal Mae Weaver, of the Brown Shed Weavers, married my Uncle Jonathan Q. Arachington.”
“The Brown Shed?” I had to know.
Christopher J. looked a bit disgusted. “Yes. You know the one… on wrong side of the garden… paint peeling… a smelly groundhog lives underneath…?” He peered at me for signs of recognition.
I realized which shed he meant. “Ohhhh. Yes. I know the one. Please go on…”
Well, the whole family knew that Crystal Mae was a gold-digger. My Granda even tried to forbid the marriage, but Uncle Jonathan was always the headstrong sort. In fact, it was being headstrong that landed him right in a woodpecker’s flight path!”
“Oh, dear!”
“Yes. And without anyone else at home to help with Bubba and Jim-Bob, Crystal Mae moved them all into the Red Shed. Much to MY chagrin, let me tell you.”
“I understand. So what did they do to you that upset you so?”
Our little friend’s face filled with such righteous indignation! “Oh! Oh! Wait until I tell you! My whole life they called me “Nancy-Boy” because I preferred to be tidy and well-dressed and spoke properly. As if using ‘ain’t’ and wearing dirty baseball caps makes one better than anyone else!”
I nodded in complete understanding (I know a couple of Bubbas and Jim-Bobs).
He went on, breathlessly, clearly reliving his ordeal, “Well, one night, while I was sleeping, they took tree sap and they smeared it over… over…” he stopped, his face reddening in embarrassment.
“Over what, Christopher J.?”
He mumbled something, “My spinner…”
“I’m sorry, your what?”
“My Spinneret,” he declared in exasperation. I must have looked perplexed because he went on, “You know, don’t you? It’s the… hole… in my… bum… from which I spin my webs.”
“Oh! Oh, dear! That must have been awful for you, Christopher J.! I’m so sorry.”
He nodded, the wind out of his sails. “It was. It was beyond awful. It took days to sort out. So much… discomfort! And those two brutes and their friends laughing at me all the while." Christopher J. swallowed hard. "I’ve never forgiven them. And poor Julius P. suffered in a similar way. It was completely unacceptable, it was! Julius P. is a grand chap, whether he chirps or not, and it was my great good fortune that he decided to find his own way, as he wound up saving my spider-skin on not one, but two occasions!”
“He saved your life?”
“He did. And the first time was on that very night…”
To be continued...
If you missed the first installment of Christopher J.'s story, you can read it right here... and if you missed the second installment, you can read it right here...)
And so we continue...
I returned with my tea, curled up in the wicker chair near my nightstand, and bid Christopher J. to begin his tale. He took a deep breath and started…
“If you remember rightly, it was very warm last July 3rd. When you set me down in the forsythia near the street, I had to catch my breath and wipe my brow. I was deciding whether to be on my way or wait until the evening cooled a bit when I happened upon the lovely chap who would become my traveling companion for some time – Julius P. Crickman.”
“And Julius P. is a… cricket?”
“An altercation? What about?” Insect altercations seem rather interesting, don’t you think?
Christopher J. continued, “Well, I don’t know how much you know about crickets, but I assume you know they chirp?”
“Of course. And loudly, too.”
“Yes, indeed. Well, only the males chirp. Did you know that? It’s true. However, Julius P. doesn’t.”
“He doesn’t chirp? Why?”
“Well, he doesn’t know why. It’s the way he is; the way he was born. But those bullies teased him unmercifully about it! They called him extremely unflattering names and called into question his… male-ness.”
“Oh, I see. Poor Julius P. For the record? Things like that happen in the human world, too.”
Yes, in the spider world, too! I, myself, had an horrific experience when two of my loutish cousins, Bubba and Jim-Bob humilia…”
“Wait," I put my hand up to stop him. "I’m sorry to interrupt you, Christopher J., but Bubba? And Jim-Bob?”
Christopher J. sighed. “Yes. Their mum, Crystal Mae Weaver, of the Brown Shed Weavers, married my Uncle Jonathan Q. Arachington.”
“The Brown Shed?” I had to know.
Christopher J. looked a bit disgusted. “Yes. You know the one… on wrong side of the garden… paint peeling… a smelly groundhog lives underneath…?” He peered at me for signs of recognition.
I realized which shed he meant. “Ohhhh. Yes. I know the one. Please go on…”
Well, the whole family knew that Crystal Mae was a gold-digger. My Granda even tried to forbid the marriage, but Uncle Jonathan was always the headstrong sort. In fact, it was being headstrong that landed him right in a woodpecker’s flight path!”
“Oh, dear!”
“Yes. And without anyone else at home to help with Bubba and Jim-Bob, Crystal Mae moved them all into the Red Shed. Much to MY chagrin, let me tell you.”
“I understand. So what did they do to you that upset you so?”
Our little friend’s face filled with such righteous indignation! “Oh! Oh! Wait until I tell you! My whole life they called me “Nancy-Boy” because I preferred to be tidy and well-dressed and spoke properly. As if using ‘ain’t’ and wearing dirty baseball caps makes one better than anyone else!”
I nodded in complete understanding (I know a couple of Bubbas and Jim-Bobs).
He went on, breathlessly, clearly reliving his ordeal, “Well, one night, while I was sleeping, they took tree sap and they smeared it over… over…” he stopped, his face reddening in embarrassment.
“Over what, Christopher J.?”
He mumbled something, “My spinner…”
“I’m sorry, your what?”
“My Spinneret,” he declared in exasperation. I must have looked perplexed because he went on, “You know, don’t you? It’s the… hole… in my… bum… from which I spin my webs.”
“Oh! Oh, dear! That must have been awful for you, Christopher J.! I’m so sorry.”
He nodded, the wind out of his sails. “It was. It was beyond awful. It took days to sort out. So much… discomfort! And those two brutes and their friends laughing at me all the while." Christopher J. swallowed hard. "I’ve never forgiven them. And poor Julius P. suffered in a similar way. It was completely unacceptable, it was! Julius P. is a grand chap, whether he chirps or not, and it was my great good fortune that he decided to find his own way, as he wound up saving my spider-skin on not one, but two occasions!”
“He saved your life?”
“He did. And the first time was on that very night…”
To be continued...
Thursday, January 9, 2014
The Spider Story Continues...
And here we have another installment of the adventures of our pal, Christopher J. Arachington, of the Red Shed Arachingtons. If you missed the first installment, you can read it right here...
“Christopher J.? May I ask you a question?”
“But of course!”
“Have you ever been to England? The reason I ask is that there is an affect to your speech that is very British. And, quite frankly, that seems rather odd, coming from a spider from Pigsknuckle.”
Christopher J. nodded. “Yes, I can see how that might be confusing. I, sadly, have never been to England, though I do consider it my homeland. You see, my grandfather, Sheldon P. Arachinton, was from London. He raised me you understand, as my own father, Clarence D. Arachington, lost his life in a terrible accident involving a,” Christopher J. swallowed hard and went on, “involving a… lawnmower.” He bowed his head for a moment, and I did as well, out of respect, you know. “So, it is only fitting that I sound a bit like my Granda.”
“Of course. You say he was from London? Do you know what part?”
“Yes. Wgate.”
“Wgate? Hmmm… I don’t know that part of London, I’m afraid. Do you know anything more about it?”
“Only that it’s quite leafy and green. My Granda came from the Red Room in Wgate. In fact, the color red plays quite a significant role in our family history. You see, Granda lived in the Red Room, he traveled from Wgate to here in a great red valise, and he moved into the Red Shed. Quite interesting, don’t you think?”
I nodded. “Quite. A red valise, you say?”
“Yes. Quite a big one I’m told.”
“And do you know anything more of the Red Room?”
“Well, I hesitate to say this, as it makes my Granda sound rather… peculiar… but he would often speak of two moons.”
“Two moons? Really…”
“Yes. To tell the truth, I’ve often wondered if perhaps my Granda dipped into the sherry a bit too often in his youth, but he was quite adamant about it. He said there was a moon outside the Red Room and a moon inside, as well.”
“That’s very curious.”
“Indeed. Oh, and the Red Room was also an ogre’s lair,” Christopher J. mentioned, rather nonchalantly, I thought, for such a significant statement.
“An ogre?”
“Oh, yes. He was quite fearsome, really, and heavy-footed, always chasing Granda about with a shoe or a book. But my Granda was terribly cunning and quick,” Christopher J. glowed with pride. “He used to tell us the funniest story about how he stole onto the ogre’s bed one night while he was sleeping and tickled his nose. The ogre awoke with a start and when he saw my Granda , just inches from his face, he screamed like a little girl and flailed about like a madman. Granda laughed and laughed until he saw the ogre crying in fear. Then he felt terrible. Granda was really very kind, you see, and only liked to tease the ogre. He said that after that incident, he did his best to keep out of the ogre’s way.”
“That’s all very interesting, Christopher J. I’m sorry I never got to meet your Granda. I think I would have liked him.”
“Oh, I expect you would have. He would have liked you as well.”
I smiled and excused myself to make a cup of tea. And as I was going to the kitchen, I made a mental note to email my friend Todd… Todd, who hates spiders… Todd, who lives on Barrowgate, in leafy, green West London… and whose spare room is painted red… the same room which has a light fixture that looks like a moon… the same room in which I stay when I visit… with my big red suitcase…
To be continued...
So, I know you’re all waiting to hear about Christopher J.’s adventures but I
have to admit that I interrupted him before he really got a chance to start.
“Christopher J.? May I ask you a question?”
“But of course!”
“Have you ever been to England? The reason I ask is that there is an affect to your speech that is very British. And, quite frankly, that seems rather odd, coming from a spider from Pigsknuckle.”
Christopher J. nodded. “Yes, I can see how that might be confusing. I, sadly, have never been to England, though I do consider it my homeland. You see, my grandfather, Sheldon P. Arachinton, was from London. He raised me you understand, as my own father, Clarence D. Arachington, lost his life in a terrible accident involving a,” Christopher J. swallowed hard and went on, “involving a… lawnmower.” He bowed his head for a moment, and I did as well, out of respect, you know. “So, it is only fitting that I sound a bit like my Granda.”
“Of course. You say he was from London? Do you know what part?”
“Yes. Wgate.”
“Wgate? Hmmm… I don’t know that part of London, I’m afraid. Do you know anything more about it?”
“Only that it’s quite leafy and green. My Granda came from the Red Room in Wgate. In fact, the color red plays quite a significant role in our family history. You see, Granda lived in the Red Room, he traveled from Wgate to here in a great red valise, and he moved into the Red Shed. Quite interesting, don’t you think?”
I nodded. “Quite. A red valise, you say?”
“Yes. Quite a big one I’m told.”
“And do you know anything more of the Red Room?”
“Well, I hesitate to say this, as it makes my Granda sound rather… peculiar… but he would often speak of two moons.”
“Two moons? Really…”
“Yes. To tell the truth, I’ve often wondered if perhaps my Granda dipped into the sherry a bit too often in his youth, but he was quite adamant about it. He said there was a moon outside the Red Room and a moon inside, as well.”
“That’s very curious.”
“Indeed. Oh, and the Red Room was also an ogre’s lair,” Christopher J. mentioned, rather nonchalantly, I thought, for such a significant statement.
“An ogre?”
“Oh, yes. He was quite fearsome, really, and heavy-footed, always chasing Granda about with a shoe or a book. But my Granda was terribly cunning and quick,” Christopher J. glowed with pride. “He used to tell us the funniest story about how he stole onto the ogre’s bed one night while he was sleeping and tickled his nose. The ogre awoke with a start and when he saw my Granda , just inches from his face, he screamed like a little girl and flailed about like a madman. Granda laughed and laughed until he saw the ogre crying in fear. Then he felt terrible. Granda was really very kind, you see, and only liked to tease the ogre. He said that after that incident, he did his best to keep out of the ogre’s way.”
“That’s all very interesting, Christopher J. I’m sorry I never got to meet your Granda. I think I would have liked him.”
“Oh, I expect you would have. He would have liked you as well.”
I smiled and excused myself to make a cup of tea. And as I was going to the kitchen, I made a mental note to email my friend Todd… Todd, who hates spiders… Todd, who lives on Barrowgate, in leafy, green West London… and whose spare room is painted red… the same room which has a light fixture that looks like a moon… the same room in which I stay when I visit… with my big red suitcase…
To be continued...
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Let Me Tell You a Story About a Spider...
It's, like, 652 degrees below zero outside and I'm as sick as the proverbial dog (though my real dog is quite fine, snoring beside me). My brain is all frozen and fuzzy and I've had difficulty articulating coherent thoughts all day.
So, instead of slapping down some NyQuil-induced gibberish, I'm going to give you some gibberish I came up with when it was about 652 degrees above zero outside, in the way of several recycled Facebook posts.
Last summer, I started a story on Facebook that just trailed off after several installments, but I've been meaning to pick it back up, as several people enjoyed it and I had fun writing it. I'll give you the back-story today, as well as several of the original posts, and then, hopefully, I'll continue it periodically, until it's finished.
So, as I say, let me tell you a story about a spider...
It all began two summers ago, actually, when Ryan went into my bedroom for something... she came back into the living room and stated (rather matter-of-factly, I thought), "There was a spider on your pillow."
"Um... a spider? On my pillow?"
"Yeah. A big one."
"Did you get it?"
"Uh, no. It was a big one."
Lovely. I went to bed that night with some trepidation. I'm not afraid of spiders, mind you (like several people I know), and I "rescue" them quite often, but the idea of one crawling on me in my sleep? That gave me the heebie-jeebies.
Turns out? I had little to worry about. I became convinced, in fact, that the spider was friendly, and that he'd taken it upon himself to turn off my alarm the next morning.
Two days after Ryan's initial spotting (July 3, 2012, to be specific), I posted this on Facebook...
I will admit, many people who read that Facebook post thought I was a little... well... screwy. Whatevs. Wouldn't be the first time. Won't be the last.
It would be more than a year before I would hear from Christopher J. again. It was, in fact, this past August that he re-appeared. Here is the post from August 16, 2013...
Last night, exhausted, I dragged myself to my room, ready to sleep for days. Sundance hopped onto the bed, barked once, and then snuffled about my pillow. How surprised I was to see our very own Christopher J. Arachington, of the Red Shed Arachingtons, holding onto the corner of my pillowcase for dear life, to avoid being sucked up Sunny’s nose! He looked decidedly bedraggled, his vest torn, his bowler hat (did I mention he wears a bowler hat?) askew, and he was (gasp!) missing a leg!
“Christopher J.” I exclaimed, pulling my curious dog away. “You startled me. Are you alright? What are you doing here?”
Poor Christopher J. collapsed, prone on my pillow, clearly exhausted and possibly even in shock. “I’m… sorry. I… need… a… place… to… stay… tonight…”
Given his state, I decided it was best not to press him for more information. “Of course,” I nodded, “no worries.” I lifted him gently, opened my nightstand drawer, and placed him onto an open pack of Kleenex (a soft bed for certain). He sighed, closed his eyes, and dropped immediately off to sleep. He’s still sleeping, in fact, poor little guy. His story will have to wait until later…
Now, understandably, some people were curious about what on earth Christopher J. had been doing for a whole year and I know I wanted to find out how he lost an appendage! It would be the next day before the little guy woke up, though...
I stole quietly into my room and crept over to the nightstand. The drawer was open a smidge, so as not to suffocate poor Christopher J. Arachington , of the Red Shed Arachingtons, and to keep nosy canines and felines from injuring him further (or worse!). I slid the drawer open to find our friendly arachnid pal reclining on his Kleenex bed.
“Christopher J.! How are you? I’ve been thinking of you all day!"
He smiled and tipped his bowler hat at me, “I’m well, thank you. Much better than last night, certainly. I slept longer and more deeply than I have in a year. I don’t know how to thank you for your hospitality.”
“Aw, it was nothing, really. I have to say, though, I’m very curious to hear about what’s happened in your life since the last time we spoke.”
Christopher J. straightened up and cleared his throat, “I would love to regale you with tales of my adventures. But first, might I impose upon you a wee bit more? I haven’t had a proper meal in a few days and, well, the truth is, a bath is really in order, as I’m rather, shall we say, ripe.”
“Of course! How rude of me not to offer. But, um, I’m not sure what to prepare. I mean, I don’t really have a supply of, you know,” I dropped my voice to a whisper,”… insects... hanging about.”
“Oh, dear me, no!” Christopher J. exclaimed. “I’m a vegetarian. Some sort of salad would be lovely.”
“A vegetarian? Really?”
He looked a bit defensive, as if, perhaps, he’s had to explain this often. “Don’t get me wrong, I used to love a good, juicy fly as much as the next spider. But then I met my friend, Spencer C. Flyby (‘Specs’ for short) and, well, as you can imagine, I was faced with a moral dilemma the likes of which I’ve never encountered! It changed my philosophy regarding ‘the circle of life’ altogether.”
I nodded, understanding completely (I felt the same way about a cow I knew as a child) and ran about fetching something for Christopher J. to bathe in (a jar lid) and dry off with (a neatly trimmed piece of thick, absorbent paper towel). When his bath was ready, I set off to find salad fixings fit for a spider, leaving Christopher J. to sort himself out (he seemed a bit reluctant to remove his vest in front of me).
As I left the room, he called out, “And perhaps, if it’s not too much trouble, a spot of tea? Earl Grey if you have it. With cream and sugar? If you please.”
I do so love a spider with good manners. Don’t you?
After his bath, dinner (finely chopped spinach, tomato, and a wee bit of grated cheese [for protein]), and his tea (Earl Grey, sipped from the lid of a honey container), Christopher J. thanked me profusely, settled back onto his Kleenex bed, patted his tummy in a satisfied manner, and rummaged in his valise. Bringing out a tiny pipe, he asked, “Do you mind?”
“Well, I do, actually. But if you’d like to sit on the window sill and blow the smoke outside, that would be fine.”
At the mention of the sill, his eyes widened in fear and he quickly put the pipe away. “No, no, really. I should quit anyway. Nasty habit, it is. Alright then, where should I begin? At the beginning, I suppose… on the evening of July 3, 2012, when you kindly set me out in the front yard, off for the adventure of a lifetime…”
And so it began -- the story of Christopher J. Arachington, of the Red Shed Arachingtons…
I'll leave off there for now... but there is more to come. Soon...
So, instead of slapping down some NyQuil-induced gibberish, I'm going to give you some gibberish I came up with when it was about 652 degrees above zero outside, in the way of several recycled Facebook posts.
Last summer, I started a story on Facebook that just trailed off after several installments, but I've been meaning to pick it back up, as several people enjoyed it and I had fun writing it. I'll give you the back-story today, as well as several of the original posts, and then, hopefully, I'll continue it periodically, until it's finished.
So, as I say, let me tell you a story about a spider...
It all began two summers ago, actually, when Ryan went into my bedroom for something... she came back into the living room and stated (rather matter-of-factly, I thought), "There was a spider on your pillow."
"Um... a spider? On my pillow?"
"Yeah. A big one."
"Did you get it?"
"Uh, no. It was a big one."
Lovely. I went to bed that night with some trepidation. I'm not afraid of spiders, mind you (like several people I know), and I "rescue" them quite often, but the idea of one crawling on me in my sleep? That gave me the heebie-jeebies.
Turns out? I had little to worry about. I became convinced, in fact, that the spider was friendly, and that he'd taken it upon himself to turn off my alarm the next morning.
Two days after Ryan's initial spotting (July 3, 2012, to be specific), I posted this on Facebook...
I will admit, many people who read that Facebook post thought I was a little... well... screwy. Whatevs. Wouldn't be the first time. Won't be the last.
It would be more than a year before I would hear from Christopher J. again. It was, in fact, this past August that he re-appeared. Here is the post from August 16, 2013...
Last night, exhausted, I dragged myself to my room, ready to sleep for days. Sundance hopped onto the bed, barked once, and then snuffled about my pillow. How surprised I was to see our very own Christopher J. Arachington, of the Red Shed Arachingtons, holding onto the corner of my pillowcase for dear life, to avoid being sucked up Sunny’s nose! He looked decidedly bedraggled, his vest torn, his bowler hat (did I mention he wears a bowler hat?) askew, and he was (gasp!) missing a leg!
“Christopher J.” I exclaimed, pulling my curious dog away. “You startled me. Are you alright? What are you doing here?”
Poor Christopher J. collapsed, prone on my pillow, clearly exhausted and possibly even in shock. “I’m… sorry. I… need… a… place… to… stay… tonight…”
Given his state, I decided it was best not to press him for more information. “Of course,” I nodded, “no worries.” I lifted him gently, opened my nightstand drawer, and placed him onto an open pack of Kleenex (a soft bed for certain). He sighed, closed his eyes, and dropped immediately off to sleep. He’s still sleeping, in fact, poor little guy. His story will have to wait until later…
Now, understandably, some people were curious about what on earth Christopher J. had been doing for a whole year and I know I wanted to find out how he lost an appendage! It would be the next day before the little guy woke up, though...
I stole quietly into my room and crept over to the nightstand. The drawer was open a smidge, so as not to suffocate poor Christopher J. Arachington , of the Red Shed Arachingtons, and to keep nosy canines and felines from injuring him further (or worse!). I slid the drawer open to find our friendly arachnid pal reclining on his Kleenex bed.
“Christopher J.! How are you? I’ve been thinking of you all day!"
He smiled and tipped his bowler hat at me, “I’m well, thank you. Much better than last night, certainly. I slept longer and more deeply than I have in a year. I don’t know how to thank you for your hospitality.”
“Aw, it was nothing, really. I have to say, though, I’m very curious to hear about what’s happened in your life since the last time we spoke.”
Christopher J. straightened up and cleared his throat, “I would love to regale you with tales of my adventures. But first, might I impose upon you a wee bit more? I haven’t had a proper meal in a few days and, well, the truth is, a bath is really in order, as I’m rather, shall we say, ripe.”
“Of course! How rude of me not to offer. But, um, I’m not sure what to prepare. I mean, I don’t really have a supply of, you know,” I dropped my voice to a whisper,”… insects... hanging about.”
“Oh, dear me, no!” Christopher J. exclaimed. “I’m a vegetarian. Some sort of salad would be lovely.”
“A vegetarian? Really?”
He looked a bit defensive, as if, perhaps, he’s had to explain this often. “Don’t get me wrong, I used to love a good, juicy fly as much as the next spider. But then I met my friend, Spencer C. Flyby (‘Specs’ for short) and, well, as you can imagine, I was faced with a moral dilemma the likes of which I’ve never encountered! It changed my philosophy regarding ‘the circle of life’ altogether.”
I nodded, understanding completely (I felt the same way about a cow I knew as a child) and ran about fetching something for Christopher J. to bathe in (a jar lid) and dry off with (a neatly trimmed piece of thick, absorbent paper towel). When his bath was ready, I set off to find salad fixings fit for a spider, leaving Christopher J. to sort himself out (he seemed a bit reluctant to remove his vest in front of me).
As I left the room, he called out, “And perhaps, if it’s not too much trouble, a spot of tea? Earl Grey if you have it. With cream and sugar? If you please.”
I do so love a spider with good manners. Don’t you?
After his bath, dinner (finely chopped spinach, tomato, and a wee bit of grated cheese [for protein]), and his tea (Earl Grey, sipped from the lid of a honey container), Christopher J. thanked me profusely, settled back onto his Kleenex bed, patted his tummy in a satisfied manner, and rummaged in his valise. Bringing out a tiny pipe, he asked, “Do you mind?”
“Well, I do, actually. But if you’d like to sit on the window sill and blow the smoke outside, that would be fine.”
At the mention of the sill, his eyes widened in fear and he quickly put the pipe away. “No, no, really. I should quit anyway. Nasty habit, it is. Alright then, where should I begin? At the beginning, I suppose… on the evening of July 3, 2012, when you kindly set me out in the front yard, off for the adventure of a lifetime…”
And so it began -- the story of Christopher J. Arachington, of the Red Shed Arachingtons…
I'll leave off there for now... but there is more to come. Soon...
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Oh Dear...
A couple of years ago, when I was really active in Blogland, most of my posts would generate a fair number of comments... from 10 to 50, depending on the topic... and that meant that many more people were actually reading, as only a small percentage comments. Now, this was the result, not of great writing, but of me being an extremely active participant in this fabulous little world. I read a lot of blogs... I commented on a lot of blogs... and people commented here, at The Ramblings.
Good blogging is, most certainly, a reciprocal activity.
But since I've started back up, I haven't had the time I used to have to hop around and read. I wish I did, as there are some amazing writers out there, not to mention people for whom I feel genuine affection, even if I've never met them in person.
So I've had to get used to writing for a smaller audience than before. And that's actually been fine. I'm trying to get back into the habit of writing every day... to find things to write about, even when I'm not inspired... to not worry about whether or not what I'm putting down is good enough for anyone else to see...
I'm writing for me this time around.
I do mention each post on my Facebook page and a number of my friends (many of whom are bloggy friends who became FB friends) read from there. I like that. It's nice.
So I still keep an eye on my feed. Feedjit isn't as effective as it was, as it doesn't capture cities/countries if the reader comes from a device other than a computer (so I can't always tell where people are coming from), but it does record all direct hits to a post, regardless of the device used to access it.
That's kind of cool.
Most of my posts, in the first week or so, get anywhere from 50 to 100 hits. That's not including the people who come to the main page of the blog, without clicking onto a specific post. And I'm really happy with that. That's a lot of people. Some posts lately have gotten has many 350, 400, and nearly 500 hits. That? Is very cool. Very cool.
But one in particular? Has hit the ball out of the park. Way out of the park...
About three weeks ago, I did a post called That Boy-Girl Thing. It was about how my teenaged daughter views her first "real" boyfriend relationship.
Sweet, right?
That post has gotten... are you ready for it?
1800 hits
In just over three weeks.
I could not figure out for the life of me why.
Then I noticed that a few people came to it from Google... by searching for...
Girls
And I realized...
That somewhere in the neighborhood of 1500 people came to my blog, looking for...
Porn.
Oh dear.
And then I laughed and laughed, thinking how disappointed they must have been.
Good blogging is, most certainly, a reciprocal activity.
But since I've started back up, I haven't had the time I used to have to hop around and read. I wish I did, as there are some amazing writers out there, not to mention people for whom I feel genuine affection, even if I've never met them in person.
So I've had to get used to writing for a smaller audience than before. And that's actually been fine. I'm trying to get back into the habit of writing every day... to find things to write about, even when I'm not inspired... to not worry about whether or not what I'm putting down is good enough for anyone else to see...
I'm writing for me this time around.
I do mention each post on my Facebook page and a number of my friends (many of whom are bloggy friends who became FB friends) read from there. I like that. It's nice.
So I still keep an eye on my feed. Feedjit isn't as effective as it was, as it doesn't capture cities/countries if the reader comes from a device other than a computer (so I can't always tell where people are coming from), but it does record all direct hits to a post, regardless of the device used to access it.
That's kind of cool.
Most of my posts, in the first week or so, get anywhere from 50 to 100 hits. That's not including the people who come to the main page of the blog, without clicking onto a specific post. And I'm really happy with that. That's a lot of people. Some posts lately have gotten has many 350, 400, and nearly 500 hits. That? Is very cool. Very cool.
But one in particular? Has hit the ball out of the park. Way out of the park...
About three weeks ago, I did a post called That Boy-Girl Thing. It was about how my teenaged daughter views her first "real" boyfriend relationship.
Sweet, right?
That post has gotten... are you ready for it?
1800 hits
In just over three weeks.
I could not figure out for the life of me why.
Then I noticed that a few people came to it from Google... by searching for...
Girls
And I realized...
That somewhere in the neighborhood of 1500 people came to my blog, looking for...
Porn.
Oh dear.
And then I laughed and laughed, thinking how disappointed they must have been.
Monday, November 18, 2013
If I Had a Nickel...
... for every time someone said to me, "You should write a book," I'd have... well... I'd have a bunch of nickels.
I've tried.
I have!
But I get stuck, usually a few chapters in. Also? I edit as I go. And I'm starting think that's a terrible practice. I get so caught up in perfecting (as it were) the minutest details, I lose sight of the bigger picture... which really ought to involve, you know, actually finishing the damned thing.
When I start a project (of which there are somewhere in the neighborhood of 84 [unfinished] saved on my hard drive and flash drives all over my house), I usually have a fairly abstract idea of the direction I want the story to go.
An abstract idea.
Don't get me wrong, ideas are good... it's the abstract part that's a problem. If you can't turn 'abstract' into 'concrete,' you wind up with something that looks like the word version of a Picasso painting... some people will get it, but most will just scratch their heads in bewilderment.
But...
I've had a new idea.
And it's more Monet than Picasso (i.e. a little watery and unclear, but no one's got an eyeball stuck in an armpit or anything).
So, I've done the outline. I've written background for the main characters and I'm working on the secondary characters now. I have direction. I can see the beginning, the middle, and even the end.
And that? Is new.
I expect I'm going to get hung up along the way. As I do. But I'm going to try hard not to sweat the small stuff until all the big stuff is down.
And that? Is new, too.
I'll keep you posted.
But just to be safe?
Start saving up those nickels.
I've tried.
I have!
But I get stuck, usually a few chapters in. Also? I edit as I go. And I'm starting think that's a terrible practice. I get so caught up in perfecting (as it were) the minutest details, I lose sight of the bigger picture... which really ought to involve, you know, actually finishing the damned thing.
When I start a project (of which there are somewhere in the neighborhood of 84 [unfinished] saved on my hard drive and flash drives all over my house), I usually have a fairly abstract idea of the direction I want the story to go.
An abstract idea.
Don't get me wrong, ideas are good... it's the abstract part that's a problem. If you can't turn 'abstract' into 'concrete,' you wind up with something that looks like the word version of a Picasso painting... some people will get it, but most will just scratch their heads in bewilderment.
But...
I've had a new idea.
And it's more Monet than Picasso (i.e. a little watery and unclear, but no one's got an eyeball stuck in an armpit or anything).
So, I've done the outline. I've written background for the main characters and I'm working on the secondary characters now. I have direction. I can see the beginning, the middle, and even the end.
And that? Is new.
I expect I'm going to get hung up along the way. As I do. But I'm going to try hard not to sweat the small stuff until all the big stuff is down.
And that? Is new, too.
I'll keep you posted.
But just to be safe?
Start saving up those nickels.
Saturday, November 16, 2013
Rambling Toward Clarity
I've thought about changing the name of this blog for a long time. Diane's Addled Ramblings is not at all the name I would have chosen had I realized what this place, this project, this piece of me would become. But Blogger forced me to pick a name before I could do any actual writing, and because I only intended to jot down notes for friends and family in a centralized location, I didn't think too hard about what to call it. Truth be told, I've never liked the name (even if it has been appropriate a lot of the time).
So, as I say, I've toyed, several times, with changing my rambling title to something else -- something more sophisticated or witty or charming. But over time, I developed a nice little following and I didn't want to lose anyone. I'm also not the most tech-savvy person in the world and I wasn't sure how to jump from one URL to another without causing confusion or a big mess. And I didn't want to make searching difficult.
Also? I simply didn't know what to change the name to (though I considered 'The Dangling Preposition').
After a while, as seems to happen to many people who camp out for any length of time in Bloggy Land, I changed my focus to other things (Facebook mainly) and moved away from my ramblings. Oh, I still rambled (make no mistake)... I just did it elsewhere. And many of my bloggy friends joined me in FB Land, which has been ever so nice.
But every now and then, I'd come back here. I'd jot a few words down and leave again. Every so often, I'd check my feed to see if anyone was still visiting. Strangely enough, several people came consistently, even when I wasn't writing at all. I'd recognize familiar city and country names in Feedjit and it gave me great comfort (and validation) to know that a few people were still looking at and for my words.
So I came back.
And here I am. Writing again. Hoping people are still reading. But doing it for me instead of for comments or followers (though comments and followers are mighty nice!). Doing it to regain a piece of myself I seem to have lost. Doing it to improve my skill and craft. Looking for some sense of purpose.
Looking for some clarity.
And still not liking the name, Diane's Addled Ramblings (even if it's still appropriate a lot of the time).
I brainstormed for a few hours the other day and came up with several potential new names... none of which felt right. I played around with my header, plugging in possibilities... none of which felt right. I was all set to just give up and resign myself to rambling addled for the foreseeable future, when it hit me...
I'm rambling, yes. Still. Maybe always. But I'm rambling with purpose. I'm rambling, not just to ramble, but to get to something, however indirect the route. I ramble, yes. I start at Point A and then I get sidetracked and sidelined and more than a little lost at times, but I'm still moving toward Point B (even if I go by way of Points C, D, R, and Y along the way). And my Point B?
Clarity.
I'm rambling toward clarity -- clarity in my thinking, in my life, in my heart, and in my soul. I want to be understood... I want to understand... I want to be clear and to see clearly. I want to live Life in a brilliant, bright, lucid, sharp, clear way.
I'm Rambling Toward Clarity. And I figure if I ramble long enough, I'll get there.
So there you have it. I'm still rambling. And I'm still easy to find. I'm definitely still addled, much of the time.
I'm still me. Always.
Would you like to ramble on with me? I'd love to have you come along...
So, as I say, I've toyed, several times, with changing my rambling title to something else -- something more sophisticated or witty or charming. But over time, I developed a nice little following and I didn't want to lose anyone. I'm also not the most tech-savvy person in the world and I wasn't sure how to jump from one URL to another without causing confusion or a big mess. And I didn't want to make searching difficult.
Also? I simply didn't know what to change the name to (though I considered 'The Dangling Preposition').
After a while, as seems to happen to many people who camp out for any length of time in Bloggy Land, I changed my focus to other things (Facebook mainly) and moved away from my ramblings. Oh, I still rambled (make no mistake)... I just did it elsewhere. And many of my bloggy friends joined me in FB Land, which has been ever so nice.
But every now and then, I'd come back here. I'd jot a few words down and leave again. Every so often, I'd check my feed to see if anyone was still visiting. Strangely enough, several people came consistently, even when I wasn't writing at all. I'd recognize familiar city and country names in Feedjit and it gave me great comfort (and validation) to know that a few people were still looking at and for my words.
So I came back.
And here I am. Writing again. Hoping people are still reading. But doing it for me instead of for comments or followers (though comments and followers are mighty nice!). Doing it to regain a piece of myself I seem to have lost. Doing it to improve my skill and craft. Looking for some sense of purpose.
Looking for some clarity.
And still not liking the name, Diane's Addled Ramblings (even if it's still appropriate a lot of the time).
I brainstormed for a few hours the other day and came up with several potential new names... none of which felt right. I played around with my header, plugging in possibilities... none of which felt right. I was all set to just give up and resign myself to rambling addled for the foreseeable future, when it hit me...
I'm rambling, yes. Still. Maybe always. But I'm rambling with purpose. I'm rambling, not just to ramble, but to get to something, however indirect the route. I ramble, yes. I start at Point A and then I get sidetracked and sidelined and more than a little lost at times, but I'm still moving toward Point B (even if I go by way of Points C, D, R, and Y along the way). And my Point B?
Clarity.
I'm rambling toward clarity -- clarity in my thinking, in my life, in my heart, and in my soul. I want to be understood... I want to understand... I want to be clear and to see clearly. I want to live Life in a brilliant, bright, lucid, sharp, clear way.
I'm Rambling Toward Clarity. And I figure if I ramble long enough, I'll get there.
So there you have it. I'm still rambling. And I'm still easy to find. I'm definitely still addled, much of the time.
I'm still me. Always.
Would you like to ramble on with me? I'd love to have you come along...
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Past, Present, Future Lives
There is a theory regarding reincarnation, which states that anyone significant to a person in this life has been significant to him in all his previous lives as well. And each person will hold the same sort of role in every life -- a lover will always be a lover; a friend always a friend.
I think that's pretty cool. It means we find each other, against all odds, because we need to. And we need to without even realizing it. We're drawn to each other over and over again because we simply cannot live without each other.
While I don't know if I believe in reincarnation, I'm certainly open to the idea of it. And this theory explains how we can meet people and simply know, at our core, that they are meant to be a part of our lives. That's happened to me on a few occasions. Each time, it astounds me... and it makes me grateful to be found. Again.
Immortal Souls
On planes that came before
Bands of brilliance - color and light
Reflected in your eyes
You told me I would always know
When joined came from apart
Our future written in the past
Walk with me through the door
I think that's pretty cool. It means we find each other, against all odds, because we need to. And we need to without even realizing it. We're drawn to each other over and over again because we simply cannot live without each other.
While I don't know if I believe in reincarnation, I'm certainly open to the idea of it. And this theory explains how we can meet people and simply know, at our core, that they are meant to be a part of our lives. That's happened to me on a few occasions. Each time, it astounds me... and it makes me grateful to be found. Again.
Immortal Souls
I've known you for a hundred years
And still one hundred more
In lives lived through a looking glassAnd still one hundred more
On planes that came before
On rocky shores of wild grey seas
We gazed to northern skiesBands of brilliance - color and light
Reflected in your eyes
In time long gone you touched my cheek
Spoke words that seared my heartYou told me I would always know
When joined came from apart
Our souls entwined, safe, immortal
Tethered to solid ground
I saw your face and heard your words
And knew that I'd been found
On the threshold, past and present
Reach for one another
Bold, instinctive, sure, familiar
Lover, friend, or brother
I've known you for a hundred years
And still one hundred moreOur future written in the past
Walk with me through the door
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
I Write Because... (Kathy tells me to!)
Yup... it's that time of the week. Kathy at Mama's Losin' It issued her writing prompts and I chose, 'I write because...'
I write because I believe in the infinite and unassailable power of words – to connect, to affect, to express, to entertain, to disturb, to discover, to educate, to enlighten, to excite, to incite, to soothe, to solve, to illuminate, to inspire.
I write because I have things to say and the words which flow from my brain to my fingers are usually more eloquent and clear than the words which flow from my brain to my mouth.
I write because I have an instinctive need to express myself creatively and writing is the only creative endeavor at which I have any inherent ability.
I write because I inherited the role of ‘storyteller’ from my father and my words are how I honor his memory.
I write because it keeps me connected to the people in my life.
I write because it keeps me connected to me.
I write because I love, because I loathe, because I’m joyful, because I’m angry, because I hurt, because I heal, because I’m confused, because I understand, because I think… because I live.
I write because I can.
I write because I must.
I write because I breathe.
I write because I believe in the infinite and unassailable power of words – to connect, to affect, to express, to entertain, to disturb, to discover, to educate, to enlighten, to excite, to incite, to soothe, to solve, to illuminate, to inspire.
I write because I have things to say and the words which flow from my brain to my fingers are usually more eloquent and clear than the words which flow from my brain to my mouth.
I write because I have an instinctive need to express myself creatively and writing is the only creative endeavor at which I have any inherent ability.
I write because I inherited the role of ‘storyteller’ from my father and my words are how I honor his memory.
I write because it keeps me connected to the people in my life.
I write because it keeps me connected to me.
I write because I love, because I loathe, because I’m joyful, because I’m angry, because I hurt, because I heal, because I’m confused, because I understand, because I think… because I live.
I write because I can.
I write because I must.
I write because I breathe.
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