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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write. Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground. Kiya's gift. I love it!
Everyday Canvas
Kathleen-613's creation for my blog

"Failure is unimportant. It takes courage to make a fool of yourself."
CHARLIE CHAPLIN


Blog City image small

Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn
anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.

David Whyte


Marci's gift sig










This is my supplementary blog in which I will post entries written for prompts.

Previous ... -1- 2 ... Next
September 30, 2016 at 1:28pm
September 30, 2016 at 1:28pm
#893240
Prompt: Curiosity killed the cat. Write about what the cat was investigating...

=====================

The cat, Sherlock, was investigating the tiny holes drilled into upright rectangles on the wall. Those holes were twins who carried another hole on top of them. Each rectangle had at least two sets of those holes.

Had they been regular holes, Sherlock wouldn’t mind them so much because his humans loved drilling holes, but these holes were different, ominous, possibly because they were being operated by beings hiding inside the walls. Could they be the mice who wanted to tease him?

If it were so, the mice would have to pay, and pay big. If not for anything, just for the reason that when Sherlock’s human would stick a snake’s head into those holes, the normally silent beast outside that held on to the snake would wake up and roar all over the house, chasing Sherlock. If only Sherlock could find out if the being inside the wall was the gray big mouse that made fun of him while he, the great Sherlock, was being hunted by the beast holding the snake that took its orders from inside the wall.

This wasn’t a very easy feat, really. It took days and days of undercover work when the human wasn’t watching. To prepare for action, Sherlock, carrying his favorite catnip-filled toy, settled near the most unsteady looking rectangle. Then he acted as if he were playing with the toy because this was the best undercover idea he could come up with. Even if it weren’t the best, after a while, his humans got used to him sitting there and let him alone.

Sherlock first loosened the hold of the rectangle on the wall, making the screws jiggle in their places. If he could make the rectangle fall off the drywall, it would be a great success, but alas, this was impossible; however, after a good while of attacking it from one side or the other, the rectangle had slackened enough for Sherlock to stick his paw inside a corner of it.

Lucky! he thought. My humans both went to work. How could I accomplish this if humans didn’t have a work to go to?

With great care and excitement, he stuck his paw and hooked his claws at something that screeched and pulled. It is the gray mouse’s tail! he thought from the feel of the thing in his claws and pulled harder and harder. Through the loosened corner of the rectangle, Sherlock yanked out the thin wiry tail that snapped at him. Maybe it wasn’t the mouse, but another alien being. I’ll show you to snap at me! And Sherlock bit hard through the covering of the wire.

When the electricity went through Sherlock and kept shaking him, he still fought it with all his might. He just would not let go. He had gotten the alien, hadn’t he!
September 29, 2016 at 2:24pm
September 29, 2016 at 2:24pm
#893173
Prompt: What is your best recipe for a fall weekend outing?

==============

If you’re asking about food and it is a picnic with no refrigeration possible, I’d have to say PJ or cheese sandwiches with pumpkin bread and pumpkin cupcakes and cider or hot chocolate in a thermos. If there is some way of keeping the food fresh, the options are endless.

If you mean where to go, I'd think of going sailing, hiking, beach barbecue, or a party. You can even have a raking-the-leaves party and put your guests to work.

Where I live we don’t have four seasons. The weather may change on the same day from hot, to warm, to cool, so anything goes.
September 28, 2016 at 2:06pm
September 28, 2016 at 2:06pm
#893109
Prompt: Do you remember your first car? What kind of car was it? Did you give it a name?

=============

City life doesn’t ask or need driving skills, and I didn’t learn to drive until I was married and we moved to the suburbs. I was in the first half of my twenties, then.

My first car, at that time, was a huge 1966, two-door, red Chevy Impala sedan with a black top. We saw it first in the showroom in Smithtown, LI, and I was smitten. It had no air-conditioning, but in those days, very few cars did. What it had was an eight-cylinder, 395 horsepower engine, which some young guy had specially ordered and then couldn’t pay for it. The price on it was $3300 and it was hubby’s gift.

It somehow didn’t run well. When we took it back, since it had a warranty, they changed the carburetor, plugs, and possibly a few other things. Obviously, the nutty guy who had ordered it wanted the power but had skimped on the other parts that should fit its powerful engine.

I didn’t give my first car any specific name. We just called it the Red Car. Calling our cars with their colors became the norm after that. Even our kids, years later, referred to our cars as the gray car and the green car or Daddy’s car and Mommy’s car.

This prompt gave me the idea of undertones because my first car seems to be the midpoint (or the undertone) in the crossroads of my life as it reminded me of many other things that happened in connection with it. Undertones idea I can use in an essay or even maybe in a drama editorial. Undertones--such as the feelings of one character toward some people or some things--can be what the writer can layer underneath a scene.

Funny isn’t it, the way my mind works in many directions all at the same time! *Laugh*
September 27, 2016 at 7:50pm
September 27, 2016 at 7:50pm
#893056
Prompt: Jane Austen was one of the first authors to examine the effects of socioeconomic pressure on personal relationships. Do you think the same socioeconomic pressure may still mess up personal relationships in our day?

==========

Possibly a similar socioeconomic pressure exists. At least, more or less so.

In Austen’s novels, the harsh economic reality of a young woman’s value in the marriage market is what preoccupies most of the characters. Today’s values of evaluating a woman’s marriageability may be somewhat different and more left to chance before the knot is tied, but afterwards, similar economic realities may have an effect on the preservation of the marriage.

In Jane Austen’s time, social class was somewhat tied to family backgrounds and riches. In today’s society, even when couples jump over that hurdle of class differences, they still need to be economically independent within their own family unit, which may provide extra stress for the partner in the marriage who came from the richer class.

In Austen’s time and today, the family’s encouragement and society’s expectations do play a role, but in both cases, as Austen liked to stress on the fact, women’s choices are their own, even if they may be under pressure.

What differs is the age. Women married at a much younger age then, somewhere between 15 and 19, which possibly added to the pressure on the young brides who possibly weren’t quite ready for the so-called marital bliss and taking care of a household and raising children. In Pride and Prejudice, Mr. Bennet married Mrs. Bennet because her youth and beauty captivated him. There is also the referral to Mr. Bennet’s marrying beneath his class. Later, however, when he discovered her true irrational personality, he was disappointed, and not being able to undo his mistake, he kept away from her and became involved in the country and his books. I’m quite sure Mrs. Bennet wasn’t too crazy about him either, for her husband was treating her without respect.

In some circles, today, similar attitudes can be found in marriages between peoples from different classes since family and society pressures still exist, although divorce is a possibility or a certainty.

Another difference is the option of marrying or not. Today, a woman or a man may opt to stay single and not have any children, which is mostly acceptable. I doubt that could have been the case in Austen’s time without having wagging tongues behind people’s backs. This, too, is somehow tied to family and class.



September 26, 2016 at 4:34pm
September 26, 2016 at 4:34pm
#892992
Prompt: Cryptomnesia is a certain type of a memory bias where a memory is mistaken for imagination. It is said that this happens to writers quite often. What do you think about this memory quirk? Have you ever written something that you didn’t know at first if it was a memory or a derivative of it or totally your imagination?

===================

According to neuroscientists, the brain stores memory and imagination in its different sections, but then, no scientific finding is clear cut and newer findings do away with the older ones. This finding, therefore, must be taken with a grain of salt.

Now that I've sent the neuroscientists away on their merry way, I have to take on wishful thinking. I think sometimes our wishes for something is so strong that we think we did have that something in our hands or around our proximity. Still, because we are mostly realistic beings, we sooner or later realize what that wishful thinking created is imagination.

So good-bye to wishful thinking as well. Now, I have to take on cryptomnesia itself. Let’s start with reality. We writers frequently draw upon existing sources in a conscious way, from quotations, other people’s writings, experiences, and ideas, and our own experiences. Talking about our own experiences, what if an experience is a forgotten one? I have found myself, for example, writing similar pieces without recalling I have written the first one or using phrases I deemed original and then found the same phrase in an earlier story or poem. Can this practice be called unintentional auto-plagiarism? If so, why can’t I do the same thing with the memories stored in my brain?

I think this is possible. Anyhow, there are some events in my life that I remember differently from my husband or other people or I don't remember them at all, but if I were to write about those events, thinking I am imagining them, wouldn’t the storage part of my brain come to my rescue? I think this, too, is highly possible.

I don’t exactly remember imagining something and then somehow knowing it that it was a memory, but as in any other writer’s work, I have recurring themes, feelings, settings, and scenes inside my stories and poems. Are my feelings taking a long-ago experience and presenting it to me in its different forms? This idea somehow feels uncomfortable, but is this feeling of discomfort, also, a result of cryptomnesia? If so, cryptomnesia seems to be a pathological condition, and I know, in my chewing the fat over this memory bias, I asked more questions than I came up with answers. As Andre Dubus III said, “I think the deeper you go into questions, the deeper or more interesting the questions get. And I think that’s the job of art.”

Maybe, some things are better left unsaid or unsolved and kept as questions because, if cryptomnesia really exists, it seems to help us, writers. *Smile*
September 25, 2016 at 7:05pm
September 25, 2016 at 7:05pm
#892916
We had lunch at Barnes &Noble’s bookstore cafe, today. It was the cheapest lunch to eat out and the most fun. Well, the lunch was cheap but the money I spent on other purchases made up for the food. Bookstores and libraries are my kind of places, my natural habitat.

We sat at a small corner table with the view of the center service station which had large panels of writer portraits painted on top of it. From where I sat I could see Hemingway, Asimov, Mark Twain and the likes of them looking down at us from the panels attached to the ceiling.

My husband pointed to Emily Dickinson and said, “She doesn’t look well. Was she sickly or depressed?”

“She was a recluse,” I said, “but she’s one of my favorites.”

“Her poems sound like riddles to me,” he said, biting into his Philly Cheesesteak sandwich.

I wasn’t about to get into a long argument or explanation on the subject, so I too bit into my turkey and Brie sandwich instead and pointed to a shelf where the Fox commentator O’Reilly’s ‘killing’ books were on display. Killing the Rising Sun is a book we both wanted to read, not for O'Reilly's pretty face but for the book's historical context.

“Oh, I didn’t see that display,” Hubby said excitedly. “I’ll check it out.” Then he asked me, “How’s your sandwich?”

I grinned. “Put Brie on anything and watch me devour it.” And I took a big sip out of my tea. Since the café serves Starbucks coffee, which is never to my taste, I always drink tea.

“You didn’t get anything to read,” he said. “And you always read at home.”

“I’m people watching,” I said.

In fact, there was a lot to watch. There was a man at the next table talking to himself, which at first, I thought he was on his cell, but no, his cell phone had to be an invisible one or else he was really talking to himself. I took out my pen and note paper, starting taking notes on his personal conversation with himself.

Then, in the middle of the store where they had the Nooks on display, there was this young couple who were kind of hugging and playacting or something. “Foreplay…” hubby diagnosed. Sure enough, they rushed out of the store in a hurry. I hope their vehicle was a van with dark panels. It had better be.

Just when I had finished devouring my sandwich, a little girl about eight came through one of the aisles carrying a big box of something with difficulty; it could be a board game or even a play station, I thought. A woman who had to be her mother ran to her from the opposite direction, and their following argument had to be something for the comedic minds.

This is their conversation; well, approximately.

Little Girl: “I am taking this.”

Mother: “No, you’re not. It’s too expensive.”

Little Girl: “You said I could get just one thing. This is the just one thing I want.”

Mother: “I meant a book. Why isn’t it a book?”

Little Girl: “I can’t play with a book. Can I?”

If I were alone, I would have stood and followed them, but hubby must already think I’m not all there. So I kept on sitting and watched them walk back into the aisle to disappear among the shelves.

In addition, the store was crowded and many people, mostly alone and a good number of them possibly over 50, were walking among the shelves and gathering books and other items, with each one looking serious and involved in what they were doing. I spent a good while attaching imagined backstories to each one of them, but I was so involved with my people-watching that I didn’t notice my husband’s disappearance.

In a little while, his highness showed up with several magazines in his hand. “I brought you something, too,” he said, handing me a copy of the Writer’s Digest.

Holding back my laughter, I reached for the magazine, and said, “Thanks,” and flipped through its pages as if it were the most interesting reading material in the entire store. Who am I to burst anyone’s good-will-and-kindness bubble!

I already have a subscription to Writer’s Digest, which comes in the snail mail every few months. Men! *Laugh*


September 24, 2016 at 5:22pm
September 24, 2016 at 5:22pm
#892864
Prompt: In Washington Irving's story "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," Ichabod Crane attends an autumnal harvest feast, where he listens to local townspeople recounting ghost stories. Later that night, on his fateful ride home, he encounters the Headless Horseman. The ending of the story is left open to interpretation: Is the Headless Horseman a ghoulish spirit, or is it actually Crane's rival in love, dressed in disguise and further exaggerated by Crane's haunted, overactive imagination? It's your blog; have fun.

====================



I could say, “Who cares!” but my lit teacher in seventh grade would have my head for it. Also, I have no idea why we were made to read that story at such an impressionable age because I remember being hesitant to turn off the light in my room and possibly having a nightmare or two. *Laugh* But lo and behold! After many decades, I meet Ichabod again, in cyberspace…

Ichabod Crane, the eccentric, who is educated but not too clever and not much to look at, makes me sympathize with him. Yet, doesn’t the way he runs off from the headless horseman make him a comedic entity? It has to be that Washington Irving as a realistic author was poking fun at the beliefs of his time. I have to give it to the author that the way he exaggerated the atmosphere of the story was probably what had scared me during my dinosaur time.

As to the main character, here, did Ichabod Crane with his positive and negative assets nurture an impossible hope of getting a pretty girl who already had a beau in Brom Bones? If so, should we look down upon and sneer at every ugly person? I don't think so because some of the uglies can end up with handsome or pretty ones since beauty is in the eyes of the beholder.

It is certain to me that Brom Bones did do the prank. Just look at the name Irving chose for him. It was common practice among the authors of the time to make names hint at the actions and mental and emotional traits of the story characters. Then, there was the characterization of Brom Bones who told his own scary story to scare the impressionable Ichabod earlier in the night.

The pumpkin that was hurled at Ichabod the last minute was probably hurled by Brom Jones, and the rest of the story makes sense with Ichabod disappearing and years later reappearing as a judge in New York, which makes me wonder if this story points to some NewYorkers who have turned out to be educated, yet, eccentric and judgmental people who flee from hardships. If so, it explains our two front-runner presidential candidates, both seriously tied to NewYork. *Wink* *Laugh*

Should we be scared? *Shock2*
September 23, 2016 at 12:00pm
September 23, 2016 at 12:00pm
#892784
Prompt: "Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts."~ Winston Churchill
Agree or Disagree? Discuss a recent success or failure in your own life. How did you handle it?


=========

I do agree. Those who are the real winners are the ones who keep at it, regardless of the results. Whatever we keep at, we’ll get some results. Those results may not be what we wish for or what is deemed to be acceptable by the common understanding, but we may be winners for trying it and can benefit from the side advantages of our work.

Talking about failure, most of the time, not the failure itself but our fear of it keeps us back. We have to realize that failure is only a delay but not defeat, and no great success was ever achieved without some failure somewhere. That failure may be epic or small, but it is a necessary stepping stone to achieving our goals. If failure won’t work, it is because of the stubbornness of a person against change. It takes backbone to work toward what we want regardless of a string of failures because failure is a teacher and our real mistake could be not learning from it.

As to success, we all want it somehow, but it is not the key to happiness. Also, it is the end of the line. It is the end of the action. Haven’t most of us felt empty, not knowing what to do next, after reaching a goal and basking in its glory? Luckily for those of us who are writers, each writing project is a beginning from scratch. Even when we are successful, we spring into action from the first step all over again, akin to the movie The Groundhog Day.

I had some successes and some failures in my life, but the failures came about because either I didn’t apply myself fully or I was forced into doing something I didn’t want to do wholeheartedly. Any success that came my way came about because I was fully immersed in the project and enjoyed the ride while doing it. I think I handle failures better than successes because I usually look back and analyze where I went wrong or where the project didn’t work out. With successes, some people who like hero worship may thwart a person’s self-image and too much of adoration. Then, even if that result of the success strokes the ego, it can become annoying in the long run.


September 22, 2016 at 7:36pm
September 22, 2016 at 7:36pm
#892734
Prompt: You go to an antique store and find items that belonged to a famous person. What are the items and who did they belong to? Do you buy them? Do you feel a connection to them? Write about this.

==================

I don’t believe in bad luck. I swear I don’t, but today was weird, far-out, unreal as if I stepped into something I can’t clean up. It happened after this morning, only because I purchased something I thought would be fun from an antique store, out of curiosity and not because I am an antique collector, which I am not. In the first place, I didn’t go to that store on my own. I was dragged there by Joan, my so-called friend.

The fact is, while Joan was pursuing her hobby of collecting knickknacks, I stood by the door and started watching the beautiful sunny day outside, until I had to move to the side when two guys brought in a heavy chestnut trunk, obviously with junk in it. To let them through, I moved in between two tables. On one of the tables, a yellowed newspaper edition under glass caught my attention. In closer scrutiny, I saw that it was THE NEW YORK TIMES of August 29, 1928. It was a notice with a discreet heading of "Miss Earhart on Magazine Staff," which informed the buyer of Amelia Earhart becoming aviation editor for the Cosmopolitan magazine.

“How interesting!” I murmured.

“It is, isn’t it?” I turned around to the person who uttered those words. She was fiftyish, wore a fancy lace collar on a black dress that covered her knees, and despite the pleasant smile, she looked weary. Smoothing back her unruly graying hair, she added, “If you are interested in Emilia Earhart, I can show you her bathing suit and her red suitcase.”

“You have those? Are they real?”

She drew her matronly chest up with indignation. “Yes, of course,” she said with genuine dismay. “We have certificates of authenticity for everything we carry.”

When we left the story, Joan had purchased a tiny demitasse cup, which supposedly belonged to Emperor Hirohito and I was lugging around a red valise with a black bathing suit and the August 29, 1928 copy of the NY Times tucked inside it.

“I see you caught the bug.” Joan glanced mockingly at me and giggled. Before I could answer her, I slipped and fell and bruised my forearm, but that was only the beginning.

So far today, my neighbor’s dog tore into our sliding mesh door and knocked out its rollers, breaking the mesh. Then, my car had a flat tire. Right after I had it fixed, my card company’s fraud division called telling me someone had put three unusual purchases on it. The purchases were from California, Ohio, and Pennsylvania, none of them made by me. The card company canceled the card and said they’d send a new one in the mail within a month.

Then, before I could pull myself together, my fridge died and while I was trying to save what I can save of the perishables, I received three calls from AFL-CIO and several others from the two parties who had the front-runner candidates, each call making me knock something around in my now deranged kitchen.

Right after that, Walgreens called saying that they cannot refill my blood pressure medication I have been using for more than a decade. This was because of the Congressional investigation into Mylan executives. The furious Mylan CEOs ordered the stoppage of manufacturing the generics and a few other medications, and for me to get another medication, I had to see the doctor again. I called the doctor’s office and found out that he was on vacation. I was so flustered, I spilled a whole pot of soup on the kitchen floor.

No wonder Amelia Earhart’s plane disappeared. The woman was a harbinger of ill luck. I think something is fooling around with my life, too, right after I bought her things. I called Joan to ask her if anything went haywire with Hirohito’s demitasse cup. She said she was sipping from it at the moment, and plus, she had some good news. She had won $50,000 from the lotto.

I think I’ll be returning my purchases to the antique shop first thing tomorrow morning---if I can live that long.

Why me!


 
 ~
September 21, 2016 at 1:53pm
September 21, 2016 at 1:53pm
#892665
Prompt: "October, the extravagant sister, has ordered an immense amount of the most gorgeous forest tapestry for her grand reception." Oliver Wendell Holmes
Autumn is beautiful. What are your thoughts on this?


=============

When people talk of autumn, I automatically think of October because the best leaf colors can be seen around mid-October in New England. When we lived in Long Island, we always took a drive toward upstate, and when we could take time off, to New Hampshire somewhere just to watch the beauty of it all. Unfortunately, Autumn is also the time for the ragweed and other weeds to do their numbers on people like me with allergies and asthma. During the earlier years before I got asthma, we did enjoy our drives greatly, though.

October is a month with many other attributes, other than weed allergies and leaves. With two astrological signs, Libra and Scorpio, crisscrossing the month, the birthstone opal, gemstone Jaspar, the flower calendula, and its harvest moon, October also means raking those fallen leaves, which is a chore especially if you live in one of the New England states and you have a large garden of tall trees. The end of the month signals pumpkins and Halloween, first frost, planting of the spring bulbs, and the chimneys blowing smoke from the fireplaces.

October is also the apple time in New England. I remember the apple farm in Northport, LI, where we used to frequent for apples and cider, in addition to the seven apple trees we had in our backyard. Apples are considered to be the fruit of the gods in Celtic lore, and the apple tree has many associations with magical creatures such as unicorns that live under them. My earthling eyes, however, never beheld any such creature under our trees. Yet, I have seen many and carved myself a few jack-o-lanterns of the Irish lore, especially before Halloween.

In India, the homes welcome Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth and prosperity, with the orange glow from certain earthen lamps. Maybe those magical creatures wanted to see such a lamp in my window. Maybe they needed me to play that Van Morrison song. Whatever they needed, I think I must have missed, and they didn't appear when I was around.

'Neath the cover of October skies
And all the leaves on the trees are falling
To the sound of the breezes that blow
And I'm trying to please to the calling
Of your heart-strings that play soft and low
And all the night's magic seems to whisper and hush
And all the soft moonlight seems to shine in your blush."


Van Morrison, Moondance




September 20, 2016 at 1:50pm
September 20, 2016 at 1:50pm
#892598
Prompt: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow liked the month of September. Does any part of the year feel more inspiring to you for your writing?

===============

When I was young I, too, found September touching if not inspirational. I don’t think the inspirational part had anything to do with the month but with all the September songs, or autumn songs in general, that circled inside my brain like a merry-go-round.

I recall some Italian lady crooning Il Septembre, but I neither recall the song nor the singer’s name. And, there are others from long ago, really long ago, like Georges Brassens’ "Le 22 septembre" and another song sung by a variety of singers, C'est en septembre. The only line I remember from the latter is, "La grande foire aux illusions" meaning 'the grand sham of illusions.' Also in existence was Les Feuilles Mortes sung by Yves Montand, which still is sung in all languages as Autumn Leaves. Then Sinatra, Tony Bennet and their cronies singing the September Song came about, and after about a decade plus, Earth Wind and Fire’s “Do you remember the 21st night of September? Love was changing the minds of pretenders // While chasing the clouds away…” And the September songs scratching inside my brain, I think, stopped with that one.

Other than the September songs and autumn that did a number on me in my youth, I am not really inspired by the time of the year, at all. I am more inspired by people, nature, and things that happen, but it was fun to read about Longfellow liking the month of September and finding it inspirational.

“Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall”


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

September 19, 2016 at 10:57am
September 19, 2016 at 10:57am
#892525
Prompt: “Miracles are thoughts. Thoughts can represent the lower or bodily level of experience or the higher or spiritual level of experience. One makes the physical, and the other creates the spiritual.” The Course of Miracles
What are your views on thoughts being miracles?


=============================

The power of positive thinking is unbelievably powerful, and yes, it can create miracles. Most anything can be accomplished as long as one believes it can be done and truly lets herself be enveloped with her thoughts and feelings. Not just The Course of Miracles but many others have said smart things on thoughts leading to achievement and other miracles in life. One of those people is Mahatma Gandhi, who said: “A man is but the product of his thoughts - what he thinks, he becomes.”

Some believe thoughts are powerful because they produce cosmic waves. In 2007, some Silicon Valley people launched a computer game to play just by using thoughts. I haven’t seen the game nor do I know if it worked. However, whether we believe that or not, we can easily see the effects of thoughts on us on a day-to-day basis.

Negative thoughts make our day unhappy. If you have a negative person in your life, it is a given that he or she will penetrate into your mind or well-being. You have two options to save yourself, then. You either run for the hills or try to influence that person to think more positively. The third option will make you a negative person just like the one who could impact your thoughts. Thus, it is better to rule your own thoughts and not let anyone sway them into negativity. As it has been said,

“• Watch your thoughts, they become words.

• Watch your words, they become actions.

• Watch your actions, they become habits.

• Watch your habits, they become your character.

• Watch your character, it becomes your destiny.”

September 17, 2016 at 11:30pm
September 17, 2016 at 11:30pm
#892433
Prompt: I'm a huge fan of creative Saturday, so here goes- She stared at me for a moment, then grimaced and with a sigh, she put away.... Well, it's your blog so have some fun weaving away! *Bigsmile*


===

Socks


She stared at me for a moment, then grimaced and with a sigh, she put away her knitting. “Sock-knitting is mindless work, anyway!” Grandma glared at her knitting basket.

“Not true,” I said, eyeing the half-knitted work with the needles still on it holding the loops. “Writers and poets love knitting, or at least, appreciate those who do the knitting. They knit words together and stuff.”

“You’re only saying this to confuse me…”

I closed my eyes and recited:

“Maru Mori brought me
a pair of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder's hands,
two socks as soft as rabbits.
I slipped my feet into them
as if they were two cases
knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin,
Violent socks,
my feet were two fish made of wool,
two long sharks
sea blue, shot through
by one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,
two cannons,
my feet were honored in this way
by these heavenly socks.

Pablo Neruda’s poem, Grandma, but it is longer than this. This is all I have in my memory.”

“Fish made of wool? What’s that! Feet? You waste your time with silly poems. Learn how to cook. Men like women who can cook.”

Here we go again! Her preferred domain was the kitchen and attached to it was all she could think of; getting me to hook a husband. I shook my head. “I am never going to get married,” I said. “And if I do, I’ll never cook.”

Grandma grimaced and picked up her knitting again. “Maybe you’re right. Some men deserve being starved.” She looked at me through the corner of her eye and giggled. "Especially who you'll probably pick..."


At the end, I did learn to cook and I do have a husband, but still I like poetry and Neruda. I even studied lit and all that. Come to think of it, in some way or other, we were both right, and after a few decades, I think fate favored us both.


September 16, 2016 at 3:03pm
September 16, 2016 at 3:03pm
#892359
Prompt: "A well-developed sense of humor is the pole that adds balance to your steps as you walk the tightrope of life."~ William Ward. Do you agree? If you disagree do you think it is more important to have other characteristics than humor in this balancing act? Like what?

-----------------------

Yes, I agree; however, let’s just say my agreement is only partial so I can answer the second part of the prompt, too. *Laugh*

A good sense of humor is a positive in dealing with our personal everyday dramas and even the larger monthly, yearly, or lifetime ones. This quote reminded of another one I have in my quotes folder that says, ““If fate doesn't make you laugh, you just don't get the joke.” I haven’t noted who said it or if it’s anonymous, but here it is.

Still, I can’t see life or fate or what happens to us as a joke. There may always be some meaning behind everything that may be unknown to us. I am not arguing here if there’s a fate or not. I am just saying, ‘if there is.’ As part of my modus operandi, I always leave the unknown to the unknown.

Then, even if that sense of humor came in handy in most instances, there are always some situations, a sense of humor could be used as something vulgar or tasteless. Take 9/11 for instance. I cannot see how a sense of humor could deal with that.

It may well be that, alongside with a sense of humor, a list of certain qualities tailored to each person’s needs can help us through life. Off the top of my head, I am going to list them below, but I may omit some important ones. If you think of extras, add them in the comments, please. *Smile*

Responsibility and accountability for one’s own actions

Being independent, organized (in thinking), and self-reliant

Being authentic, sincere, ethical, truthful, adaptable, and flexible

Acting calmly and with compassion in the face of danger or difficult situations

Showing empathy, friendliness, and generosity to others

Being supportive, tactful, nurturing, patient, logical, and open-minded

Having integrity, positive imagination, good intentions


• note-- These listed attributes are not instead of a well-developed sense of humor but they are needed in addition to it.
September 15, 2016 at 2:57pm
September 15, 2016 at 2:57pm
#892302
Prompt: Jon Benet Ramsey Murder. 9-11. What are some tragic events you think about and wish you could have done something to make a difference?

=====

I really don’t like to think or talk about the tragedy of Jon Benet Ramsey. First, it is past history. Second, an entire family was destroyed, and it doesn’t matter whether the murderer is the brother, parents, or an outsider.

What matters is the existence of beauty pageants for children. I think they shouldn’t be allowed in the first place. They give the little contestants the wrong idea about life and themselves. They open the children up to public view and especially to that of perverts. Whether it is the exploitation of little girls or their parents seeking validation through their children’s successes, the entire idea behind the whole thing is hurtful.

What is right is the encouragement of inner beauty in little people. If families want to secure their children’s future, they should pay more importance to their education and their behaviors.

As for other tragedies in our present day history, I wish someone could have stopped 9/11, but I am not saying that I could. I have no such powers. To even think that I can stop anything from happening would be a ridiculous idea. Surely if I could stop any tragedy, I would, but I doubt I can ever do that or that I'd even have a chance to do so.

Free clip art


Now a few bon mots extracted from Writer’s Digest’s August 2016 issue, since NaNo is just around the corner *Wink* :

• A major mistake a lot of writers make is thinking that all a first line has to do is to be cool or shocking. That’s effective, but what makes a first line truly great is that it makes readers want to read the next line.

• No matter how compelling your characters are or how tight your plot, the first chapter must hold to an even higher standard.

• Your first chapter is itself a promise you make to your readers. Your first pages set the tone and ground rules for how you will tell the story.

• The key to using backstory wisely, from Chapter One onward, is showing how inner life and outer action are inseparable.

• Every time you flip to a new POV, reorient readers. Don’t leave them wondering.

• [ (For the main character) After changing a POV ] Delve into her current mindset every time you return to her POV.


September 14, 2016 at 12:44pm
September 14, 2016 at 12:44pm
#892231
Prompt: Happiness is our birthright. It is a sacred gift. What are your thoughts on this?

---

I don’t think happiness is a birthright or else we would all be born with silver spoons in our mouths and to perfect parents and environments. I also don’t think there is anything sacred about it. Although sects and certain belief systems adhere to the sacred birthright idea, they cannot effectively explain why some children are born with birth defects, into drug addicted parents, or inside war zones.

What is our birthright is our ability and efforts to search for and earn happiness; most of the time, happiness is sown and cultivated by the person because authentic happiness comes from inner peace, wisdom, and experience. This is never an immediate process.

Authentic happiness can be knowing or learning that the potential for happiness is not based on outer things, but what the inner workings of one’s psyche may prescribe. Sometimes, happiness comes from minute things and other times from larger ones. Sometimes, it comes from what happens to a person, and other times, it comes from helping and healing others or rejoicing with them for their successes.

Not everyone is born with a happy disposition, but it is my understanding that we can all be trained to be happy or at least happier than the way we feel when faced with stressful events. Working toward happiness is a never-ending process; still, as in most things, the process means more than the result.



Mixed flowers in a basket


Prompt: “Permission to Begin. Courage to Continue. Forgiveness to Try Again.” In your opinion, how do these phrases relate to the creative writing process?

===

I believe creative writing is a private affair and it should be kept private, at least not before coming up with a first draft and a simple edit, no matter how long or short the piece is supposed to be.

Giving oneself the permission to begin means looking at a blank page or screen and finding in oneself the courage to think of an idea and to put down the first word, first sentence, or first paragraph. Most of the time, for most of us, this is all it takes to continue.

Yet, continuing is a bit more complicated than the initial attempt. This is when the arranging of ideas and analytical activity are in motion. This is where the writer needs to keep the work private until the finish line. Asking someone else to review or look at the work in the middle of it usually ends in writer’s losing the enthusiasm or, worse yet, discouragement. At this stage, dark and personal subjects and specific ideas will come into play and they will twist, change shape, and insert surprises into the work until the end of it. To do this, a writer needs to be alone with his thoughts and creativity.

Imagine doing all that and ending up with something that one is sure is not good or not good enough. Here enters the forgiveness for one’s earlier failed efforts that may result in editing, rewriting, or beginning again from scratch.

Only after all this, the feedback on one’s work from a community of other writers will help the writer to perfect his or her work.


September 12, 2016 at 1:05pm
September 12, 2016 at 1:05pm
#892076
Prompt: Sanskrit word Muditā means the pleasure that comes from finding delight in other people's well-being. In what ways, do you think, muditā could help a person’s enjoyment of life?

===

We can either tear down another person’s success or be inspired by their example. So, why not take the higher road?

Our joy in another person’s well-being makes for a positive relationship and turns us into better and nicer people. When we find delight in other people’s well-being and successes, we also find some confidence inside us that things are peaceful, positive, and to our advantage; plus, the people we rejoice with realize that we are not competing with them or are envious of them.

Celebrating another’s successes promotes better understanding, validation, and caring for them. In addition, how we celebrate each other shows the strength of our relationships. These celebrations, however, should not be confined only to empty words and polite smiles, but they should express active and true enthusiasm.

Unfortunately, in most relationships, romantic or otherwise, positivity for the successes of the other is usually overlooked or even minimized if not slapped with a derogatory response. This is really a shame because most relationships can break up for this lack of appreciation.

When our celebration of the well-being of others is applied to everyone we come in contact with rather than the selective few, we sow the seeds of worldwide peace abundant in intimacy, trust, appreciation and commitment. In short, when we celebrate each other’s successes we, too, prosper because of the bonds we create with other human beings.



September 11, 2016 at 4:07pm
September 11, 2016 at 4:07pm
#891999
9/11 is a sad date, and I have written about it many times. At this time, I feel like focusing on other things, even if my heart is still bleeding.
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Through a very slow process, I am reading Julian Barnes’s Book of essays Through the Window. In the chapter titled The Profile of Félix Fénéon, the author talks about the cantankerous art critic Félix Fénéon, who finally agreed to have his portrait painted by Paul Signac, after several proddings by Signac. He wanted his portrait to be full-face but Signac painted him from the profile, which better emphasizes the characteristics of Fénéon.

Fénéon coined the term “Neo-Impressionism” to identify the painters like Seurat. Fénéon was an elusive man. Having been accused of anarchism, he was tried and released, but that made him more elusive and refused to write again. When urged to do so, he answered, “I aspire only to silence.” Yet, he went to work in a newspaper producing only filler articles.

Fénéon’s pose in the portrait made people think of Uncle Sam, Abraham Lincoln, and Lautrec’s Moulin Rouge dancing figure Valentin le désossé. Although Fénéon himself hated the portrait to the point of not being friendly to Signac, most people think the portrait brings out the most important characteristics of the man.

The reason I am mentioning Fénéon here is because of his portrait and how looking at him from the profile brought out who he is better than a flat full-face rendition. We writers do the same thing with our characters. When we show a character’s personality, we see images of that character and start to feel a connection. We pick and choose the most prominent features of his personality, his quirks, and his mannerisms. We pick instances of his actions that best illustrate who he is. It is like showing a person from the profile.

Anyhow, I think I learn or discover something new each time I read anything by Julian Barnes. *Smile*

Here is the copy of signac's painting of Félix Fénéon.

 
 ~
September 10, 2016 at 2:43pm
September 10, 2016 at 2:43pm
#891922
Write a short story in which a character encounters a work of art that changes his life in a similarly noteworthy way. What resonates with the character to have such a lasting impression? How does his life change post-that-picture?

---Note: This is a great prompt which deserves a longer time to think over, but here’s what I could come up with while in a hurry. --


BLUES



“This is new!” Jan exclaimed, spotting the painting on the wall and suddenly feeling elated as soon as she entered her friend Carol’s place.

Jan had come to visit Carol because she needed her warmth and her friendship. She had been feeling blue all morning because nothing was going as planned in her life and she felt she was aging by the minute. That could be why she was so attracted to this new painting on her friend Carol’s wall.

The painting had the viewpoint of looking at a sea filled with sailboats from the shore. The top four-fifths of the canvas was rendered in almost monochrome blue with a touch of ochre at the bottom one-fifth. Some brown lines and tiny shapes were on the ochre, possibly depicting the sand and the shore. Still, light and shade played catch with each other giving the art a glassy feeling.

“A birthday gift,” Carol said, looking at the painting with doubtful eyes. “I don’t know if I like it. Maybe it is the silver finish frame that’s putting me off.”

“The frame is what makes the blues come alive,” said Jan.

“You think?” Carol’s eyes sparkled although she sounded doubtful.

“Yeah,” Jan said, “You’re lucky to be given such a gift. It is a beautiful painting with subtlety. True, it doesn’t strike the eye with many bright colors, but the blues and the way the artist played with them are magnificent.”

“Now, that you said it…maybe I’ll think differently of it,” said Carol with a happy grin.

Jan approached the painting to take another close-up look, at where the signature was. Scribbled almost illegibly at the bottom of the painting were these lines. “Commissioned for Jan, Carol’s friend, on her birthday.” Next to it, was the artist’s signature.

Jan turned to Carol, her eyes full of tears.

“It is for you,” said Carol. “I didn’t know if you’d like it, but I suspected you would. I’ll have it sent to your place immediately. Happy Birthday, Jan!”

Jan would never feel blue again since she knew she would always have Carol’s precious friendship, and in the painting, the way the artist had played with light had done away with her sadness today and probably for good.

September 9, 2016 at 8:59pm
September 9, 2016 at 8:59pm
#891891
Prompt: While at Omi International Arts Center in Ghent, New York, artists Alex Schweder and Ward Shelley built a house that spins and tilts in agreement with the wind, and the shifting weight of its inhabitants. Then they resided in the structure for five days, and will spend another several days living there this fall. Write a poem or story inspired by the image or idea of living in a structure that is constantly spinning, and which tilts up or down as you walk through it. What kind of vocabulary or pacing might mimic or reflect the sensation of spinning? How can you play with emotional weight or levity to create shifting feelings throughout your work?


============


Tiles in the House of Wind

Tempestuous tiles heaving, weaving
slippery with vertigo
shift inward, outward
gyrating with gusts and surges,
their darkening swells strike
accusingly at my human eyes
and while those demented squares pulsate,
I'd better not jump off the earth
to defeat
my many imaginary dooms.

“Instead, focus on the immediate,”
I tell myself, “Then, look at yourself
from a distance, at your various ills,
at your thin skin thickened on the outside,
unused teeth and nails,
and things that torture you…
for your history will count
all skeletons one by one
and they will draw near and sway away
alternately--strange, uncertain,
just like the ground
teetering under your feet.”

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