From the Inkwell, From the Vein.....

In clear and lucid moments, while the world is raging round, I find the calm of day spent, with my head upon the ground. The tearing haste, the panicked rush, would all but take my breath, I often seek the solemn hush, though when I'd least expect, The world for all its fervor, reminds with just a glance, that life is quickly over, we get no second chance. Why spend the seconds counting, every bauble, jewel and coin, when the wealth of your amounting, can't be assessed in what you own.

I am not a "people person"--  (ironic when you consider I'm a bookstore manager who has to deal with people on a daily basis) yet, every time I say I am not a "people person', I am met with the same response, and eerily even the same wording... "you're better with people than you think you are." No I'm not, I can just make it look that way.... Okay, so today, after hearing the same line AGAIN, I really began to wonder why people weren't getting what I was saying--- then it hit me, they've all been "hearing" one definition of the phrase, while I was using the phrase's other definition. Apparently, what I took as a phrase that meant -- "someone who likes interacting with people", can also mean "someone with good communication skills" (which is what everybody felt the need to reassure about me). So, what's the word/phrase for a person who has good communication skills but doesn't like interact...

The sea is such a savage thing, unkempt and wild and dark, it swells and hurls within its rising, and crashes deep within its heart. As life is borne on waves to shore, each breath bubbling at its crest, so too, the life is snuffed before, its light has tasted breath. The cold and dark at bottom's depth, cries loud of trapped, forgotten souls, the surface warmth atop the cleft, belies the safe embrace within its rolls. It would be hard, to not feel awe, while standing at its breadth, when glimpsed within a single drop, the tangled curse of life and death.

What makes a writer? The easiest and most straight-forward answer is: A writer is a writer because he/she writes... The real truth is, there is no answer--- at least not an answer that could comfortably fit in the space of a single blog post, or that could hold the attention span of anyone reading this. There's no magic formula, no magic pill, no magic anything that will make you or anybody a writer... a writer just is. Period. 'How do I know if I'm a writer?' one might ask.... if you have to ask this question, then you aren't a writer. As a child, I was always awestruck by the idea of being a writer. There was something mysterious about being a writer. In my eager, curious and developing mind, being a writer was akin to being a master magician (this was before I realized there was no magic writer formula/pill). I believed that the books we read, the books we held in our hands, were priceless treasures and that the writers of these books were the gods of t...

Feet.....necessary for walking, running, sprinting, standing, skipping, jumping, leaning, etc. The most strained part of our bodies...what most of us use to get from one place to another, from one room to another. They are key in a person's pursuit of something, or vital in their flight from something else. They carry our weight on a daily basis and by turning on heel or toe, can be used to get us out of trouble, or at least out of the way before trouble starts. But, what do you do if it's your feet that's getting you into trouble? A boy in Port Orchard, Washington and a man in Fort Walton Beach, Florida, never expected their feet to get them in trouble--- though perhaps it was less what was on their feet and more what was missing from between their ears that put them is such predicaments. Our Washington lad found himself suspended from the last part of school, all because of a challenge issued by his mother. He was certain that wearing high heels was no problem and...

Strange things have been happening lately to the cremated remains of some folks. Granted, there's probably been stranger things happen to people's remains, but, you don't often hear of it. About a week ago, I came across an article concerning a box labeled "Grandma's Urn" left at a Goodwill Store near Flint, Michigan. Now, I know Goodwill is apt to take most anything. The whole "one man's trash is another man's treasure" is often taken literally by patrons eager to empty their back closets, broom closets, skeleton-stuffed cupboards, etc.... but, an urn? More specifically, grandma's urn???  Who'd even think of dropping off their relative at a charity shop? Is it perhaps someone's hope that another unfortunate soul might want a little portable grandma to keep them company? Tonight, I came across a slightly more disturbing article concerning the cremated remains of someone's father. Jennie Spooner, of Amityville (we'll le...

Whatever you do, don't go home, you won't like what you find. Whatever you do, don't look back, there's nothing for you there. Whatever you do, don't turn around, you'll never find what you lost. Whatever you do, don't forget, it's more painful to not remember.

We live in interesting times..... and the internet does make the world a much smaller place in which to live. We use the internet for everything-- socializing, education, networking, business, etc. In fact, there isn't much that exists that can't be made more convenient by the internet. Yet, does this extra convenience, and our ability to have the knowledge of the universe at our fingertips, somehow prevent common sense or even the most basic level of intelligence? I don't like to think that the more advanced our society becomes, the more ignorant its inhabitants will be. But, I have little evidence to the contrary-- especially when I hear of someone as ignorant as the 20-yr old woman who has been accused of hiring a hit-man to kill the father of her child via her Facebook account. "I will pay somebody a stack to kill my baby father."--- Her Facebook status, displayed for the world to see, in all its glory. Apparently, she'd had an argument with said ...

It's amazing, the little bits of family history that one stumbles upon-- especially when one isn't even looking for them. I wish it was common practice (or, I wish it was a MORE common practice), to tell children the stories of where their family came from-- what they did, and how they came to be who they were... I feel this modern life, with its instant gratification and its forward thinking, has done a disservice to those who came before us, as well as a disservice to those of us that must continue on-- it's like our existence is just this fleeting, present moment, with nothing to tie us to anything or anyone else. Case in point--- today, I found out, for the first time, that my Great-Aunt Lucy was a riveter who worked in a Wichita, Kansas airplane factory during World War II. And, that she'd even earned the nickname-- Lucy the Riveter. How is it that such a historic part of her life was never mentioned before? My great-aunt was a "Rosie", though I...

And, so I turn from you, and so it seems, You've held me tightly in your iron grasp, Ripped from my sleep, the peaceful realm within, The solace, sweet in solitude I ask: What means your manner vicious, cold and brusque, How can your words run honey, sweet and pure, Though in your hands the words run course and rough, And falsely fall where dreams had held them true. Return me now to slumbers' peaceful realm, Where held by Morpheus, soft the night's caress, Will soothe the pains where waking days o'erwhelm, There, finding in his arms, the hope of rest. For waking little sheilds the heart from pain, Though dreaming never finds the heart again.

I was saddened to hear of the passing of Roy Skelton, 79, yesterday. For those unfamiliar with him, he was a British actor and voice artist, remembered (at least by me) as the voice of Doctor Who 's Daleks and Cybermen. He did the voice work for the Doctor Who series from 1967-1988.  His death comes just 2 short months after the passing of Elisabeth Sladen, companion (and in my opinion, the only companion) Sarah Jane, also from the Doctor Who series. Some of my earliest teenage summers were spent watching episodes of Doctor Who in the wee hours of the morning, as the Public Broadcasting station in my hometown saw fit to only air the rerun episodes at 2am. My efforts to watch every episode probably explains why I had no regular sleeping pattern as a child. My geekness developed early and of its own free will. The summer days spent sleeping in so I'd be fully awake in the middle of the night to watch another Tom Baker (the only Doctor, in my opinion) episode, prepared me...

Storm's coming, war's brewing, rolling clouds choke the light, Cannon's rumble, bodies tumble, exploding stars steal the night. The heavens clap, the battle's snap, sinking deep the wounded fall, The lightning's spark, the thunder's hawk, drinking in the warring pall. Soldiers crawl, the ranks sprawl, beneath the wall of death, Eyes clenched tight, in teeth-bared fight, bequeathed their final breath.

Where do we go when we've lost our way.... How do we find our path again.... Somewhere, a few months ago, before I started these blog challenges, I left behind a manuscript that was barely halfway finished. Now I want, nay need, to finish it, but, the distance created by the challenges and other 'life stuff' getting in the way, have made it difficult to jump back into the story. It was already a complicated piece to start with, now the added distance is making the return to my story unbearably difficult.... I know I scattered a breadcrumb trail somewhere around here, but, it looks like some hungry birds may have decided to gobble up that trail *sigh* Who do you stop and ask directions of when it's your own mind you're lost in? And, how do you get the stupid birds to leave your breadcrumbs alone?? Wait.... looks like somebody's lurking in the distance.... maybe she'll know where I left my story in this mess of a forest....

The taste of worn dust rubs the back of his throat, rough Memories of a day without sweat fade, dim A hard trail, cut through wilderness, tough The only life he’s known, his time running, slim The last of the unmarked paths, discovered Dry eyes catch their last sunset, ending Where are the treasures once lost, uncovered His own story, he holds worth knowing, remembering.

Day 2 since my 2-month escapade into the world of challenge writing ended... day 2 without a specific deadline hanging over my head----- annnnnnnnnd, now??? hello?? anybody?? *sigh* Suddenly I realize why I was so desperate to jump into the Story A Day challenge right after the A-Z challenge ended--- I needed the challenge to focus my energies. I needed the guillotine hanging over my head. Now I have all the energy (manic at times) but, none of the focus. So, I sit here.... drumming my fingers across my laptop, fingernails bitten down to the quicks, struggling to create the kind of funnel for my energies that these challenges provided for me. The beauty of these challenges was that they only lasted a month (long enough for results, not long for me to get discouraged) and they were completely different from anything I'd ever done before--- (novelty does wonders for relieving boredom.) Now I'm back to where I was before the beginning of the April A-Z Challenge--- A mill...

As the new month starts, another challenge ends. This time, though, I can honestly say I am glad. And, after 2 solid months of blogging/writing challenges, I'm relieved to have a break. April's "A-Z Blogging Challenge" introduced me to a world of new friends and honed my creative skill by severely restricting my scope. When I first started A-Z, I underestimated the effort that would be needed to write a blog centered around a letter of the alphabet-- as I am one to attempt the "not-so-normal" when selecting a prospective word, the challenge began to tax my creative energies mid-way through the alphabet. But, with the help and encouragement of my new friends, I survived. And, because I could feel the onset of anxiety at the prospect of A-Z being over, I charged head-long into May's "Story A Day". The concept of this challenge centers around writing 31 'stories' during the month of May, though it is relatively flexible as you set the ...