With the cleansing of spring, everyone has a sense of joy about them. Even on the gloomiest days, we listen to the perforated silence as the rain splatters against a shudder not quite fastened. That’s when you see her. For some unknown reason, you know to look. You stare in silence as the cool mist caresses your face. You remember that section of the park when the beauty and the path she walks weren’t born yet. You close your eyes, partaking in its wonder. You whisper a spell to the beauty, hoping it will last.
For the past few months, I have been looking over how I handle things, and they totally screwed up. What upsets me is that they have broken for quite some time. Things that should not have broken in the first place. First, I must acknowledge that despite my best efforts, I am still just human. I used to think I was a cybernetic being, but then I went through the part-dragon phase. Alas, I’m just human. The last year’s health issues taught me that lesson tenfold.
I’ve never felt weakness like this before. It’s hard to wrap my head around it. Being in this state blows, to say the least. There were times when I wasn’t sure how things would turn out. I had to rely on the strength of my brothers as well as my own. I’m not used to this, but my people reminded me that my fight isn’t over. I will do well to pay more attention to that.
How long will my words echo in an empty hall? How long will I sway to its melody alone? How will silence swallow my cries? How long will my essence seep from the cracks of my shattered shells?
Oh, how I long to be deafened by the screams How I long to be drenched in their pain To feel the passion of the tale, so eloquently crafted To soak the page with tears of a depicted sorrow
I yearn for the warmth of the lover’s flame To be memorized by its dance To be enchanted by its unscripted ballad The uncontrollable churn of my soul to its mythic rhythm
To feel the surge from the heartfelt turning into a pound The sensation of my chest tightening, the pause of that breathless gasp just before the pant The anticipation of the splash from the bead forged in the embers of the moment The feel of slickness on my palms right as I turn the page to the next chapter of my life
To be filled with pride from your look of approval To be filled with passion from the same eyes but a different glance To know love to the core, standing firm in its goodness, as well as un-wavered by its pain To understand by knowing it, I will be the better for it
For any man experiencing these and so many more… Of that man, I am envious. To feel any of these things, in that instant, I will cease being
PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS/REFLECTION – THE STATE OF THINGS
Hello everyone,
You may have noticed that things here at the Memoirs of Madness have been a little spotty. I apologize for that; I really do. It’s been a rough year for me health-wise, and though I’m much better, I’ve been dealing with the emotional side of things. I’ve been wondering how the hell I made it through all this and other questions that arise when dealing with health issues as one ages.
So, in the next few weeks, I will be making some changes to the blog. More precisely, I will focus on cleaning up dead links, adding new pages, removing old pages, and such. This is an attempt to improve the blog’s UI/UX. I will announce the changes as they happen; please let me know if I muck something up. Any suggestions are welcome. Until next time … wish me luck.
Once upon a time, in a country other than my own, a few of us decided we were going to cook an American Thanksgiving dinner. There were six of us, four men and two women. I must admit the women tried to talk us out of this idea of ours but weren’t hearing any of that nonsense. All six of us were experts in several fields. How hard could preparing a meal be? The women quickly declared they wouldn’t have anything to do with the pending disaster. Intelligent women, I always liked them.
We started cooking a few days before Thanksgiving, and things seemed to be going well. We knocked out almost all the side dishes and started on the desserts. However, a few things occurred that started to make me nervous. We had begun improvising when we ran out of spices and stuff. However, we forged forward. In the back of my mind, I secretly hoped our female counterparts would ride in and save the day. However, they were a no-show.
The meal was complete, and the phone calls were made for people to join us. No one showed. I know this seems sad but this was, actually a good thing. The food was horrible. We were just about order pizzas when the doorbell rang. Our female counterparts had made dinner for us. That was a close one.
I’m not sure if I know what the word really means. I know the definition and how it’s used, but I haven’t been able to relax for most of my life. I’ve always had a vivid imagination, so I tend to retreat inside my mind when I need to take a break. However, you can probably see the problem with this technique. As a writer, I think of various scenes in my mind. I can tell you many of them aren’t rather relaxing. I discussed the concept of relaxation with my editor, and she laughed. When she regained her composure, she provided me some advice. She talked about the avenues of my creative expression and how I should not create content for my blog, portfolio, or anything else I’m into. So, I thought about the places that make me happy.
Here’s what I came up with:
I’ve always found gardening really relaxing, so I can imagine my idea of relaxation involving some sort of garden. I’d have to keep my brain out of it, though. I can see myself trying to figure out the soil composition to plan which flowers grew best in my region.
I’ve also felt at home in the mountains.
However, the activity requiring the least amount of preparation is reading.
Within the pages of a book, I imagine different lands, worlds, and periods of time. After which, a nap is appropriate.
I don’t remember ever having an ear infection when I was young. I’ve dealt with them in regard to the children and grandchildren. Imagine my surprise when my doctor told me I had infections in both ears. Of course, I looked at her as if she had lost her mind, but she held her ground, and I walked out of the office, pouting a little. You see, I’m supposed to be at a concert at this very moment, but no, I’m at home dealing with this imaginary spike in both my ears. I say imaginary because when I look into the mirror, I don’t see anything. So, excuse me while I spray stuff in my nose and take my other meds. Ear infections suck!
I’m secure with my current lexicon. Typically, I don’t use any word or phrase more than necessary. However, people may find several phrases or words a bit abrasive. I keep that in mind when I talk to them. Now, I promised my late Madre that I would be a good boy, but there are times when I slip up. So, I’m not comfortable removing any words or phrases from rotation.
I suppose I could come up with a proper list, but do I have to?
This story isn’t about the furthest I’ve been from home but about a story that rocked my idea of how the world worked. Being raised in the Midwest, wildlife consisted of deer and such—everything we read about in books or saw on television. As I got older, I ran into wolves, bears, and mountain lions. How cool is that? It was pretty cool as a kid who grew up around asphalt and concrete.
One of my road trips involved driving a semi through the Northwest, Wyoming, and Montana. I had never seen such open space and beauty combined. It was absolutely breathtaking. There was good food, pleasant people, and fresh air. The silence was disturbing at first. I adjusted and enjoyed the drive. I caught a glance of my passenger window to see wild horses running. It freaked me out. I might even been a little giddy.
I spent some time in Montana, during which I had an opportunity to drive through Lulu Pass, Montana. The winding road made the drive challenging. I noticed an animal in the road, and I honked at it so it would clear the road. However, no one had told me that the air horn could piss off the wildlife. I didn’t find that out until later. So, I was on the road watching an enormous animal walk toward my truck. I was driving a cab over, so I sat higher than a typical semi. As the animal got closer, it looked like a moose, but later, I was told it was probably a Yak or Caribou or something.
The damn was tall enough to look into the cab of my truck. This animal stopped and looked directly at me. I’ve seen some hairy things in my day, but this unnerved me a bit. So, I sat there until the animal decided to move along. I waited for this moment for about an hour. Later, I was eating at a local diner and told the story; the locals told me I was lucky I didn’t get rammed and gave me a piece of pecan pie.
Lately, I’ve gotten into the habit of overthinking each of the challenges I usually participate in here on WordPress. So, when I read this challenge, I decided to explore all the television programs I could remember from my youth. I used AI to assist with this project, and of course, AI started repeating television shows. So, I had to rely on my memory. So, here are the television shows I can remember watching as a kid. This list only includes only the television shows that I enjoyed.
1. All in the Family (1971–1979)
2. M*A*S*H (1972–1983)
3. Hawaii Five-O (1968–1980)
4. Happy Days (1974–1984)
5. Laverne & Shirley (1976–1983)
6. The White Shadow (1978–1981)
7. Sanford and Son (1972–1977)
8. The Streets of San Francisco (1972–1977)
9. Charlie’s Angels (1976–1981)
10. The Love Boat (1977–1987)
11. The Six Million Dollar Man (1974–1978)
12. The Bionic Woman (1976–1978)
13. Columbo (1971–2003)
14. The Jeffersons (1975–1985)
15. Good Times (1974–1979)
16. Kojak (1973–1978)
17. Starsky & Hutch (1975–1979)
18. Wonder Woman (1975–1979)
19. Taxi (1978–1983)
20. What’s Happening!! (1976 – 1979)
21. WKRP in Cincinnati (1978–1982)
22. Welcome Back, Kotter (1975–1979)
23. Fantasy Island (1977–1984)
24. Barnaby Jones (1973–1980)
25. Three’s Company (1977 – 1984)
26. Barney Miller (1975–1982)
27. The Rockford Files (1974–1980)
28. Chico and the Man (1974–1978)
29. Get Smart (1965–1970)
30. Soap (1977–1981)
31. Quincy, M.E. (1976–1983)
32. The Mod Squad (1968–1973)
33. McMillan & Wife (1971–1977)
34. Bonanza (1959–1973)
35. The Beverly Hillbillies (1962–1971)
36. The Night Stalker (1974–1975)
37. Maude (1972–1978)
38. Police Woman (1974–1978)
39. One Day at a Time (1975–1984)
40. Room 222 (1969–1974)
41. Ironside (1967–1975)
42. Mission: Impossible (1966–1973)
43. Gunsmoke (1955–1975)
44. S.W.A.T. (1975–1976)
45. Rhoda (1974–1978)
46. Baretta (1975–1978)
47. The Paper Chase (1978–1979)
48. Rawhide (1959 – 1965)
49. Magnum P.I. (1980 – 1988)
50. Airwolf (1984 – 1987)
I only listed 50 shows; I figured that was enough. I actually got close to nearly 75 shows. I think this is as much a memory exercise as anything else. It was fun reminiscing about my youth. One thing that occurred to me was that I watched too much television.
Today, I got a wild hair up my buttocks and decided to reorganize my office. I didn’t want to reorganize; I needed to relabel all my containers and plastic bins. Plastic bins are evil, just in case you didn’t know. Putting something in a large bin to store somewhere is probably a good sign that you don’t need it. However, we need to have a bunch of stuff we don’t need. I’m sure some therapists would have some fancy word for this behavior. I’m sure they could tell you exactly what it is, right after they find their notes tucked away in one of those bins from medical school.
As I continue to clean up my office and get things in order, I discover I’m making more of a mess. So, I sit here amused as I write this post. I’m a little worn out as well, but as look around and it looks like I haven’t done a damn thing. I’m just amused with myself.
Since I retired, I’ve been trying to figure out what I’m doing with myself most days. However, I have developed a few new habits. For some reason, I suddenly felt it was important to do self-care. When I was a young man, you were supposed to be based on the principle of good single malt and bad decisions. However, I try to eat better and enjoy the things I didn’t do when I was young.
Recently, I returned to creating art. I figured that part of my life was over since I hadn’t explored it in decades. So, every day, I brew a pot of coffee and start working on creating something. It doesn’t matter to me which avenue I decide to explore. Lately, I have been sketching out ideas for the creations I’m trying to render. Frequently, I start with character development and work on their backstories. I work until I get worn out and then nap. Napping is a new daily habit.
At the end of the day, I feel good if I have created something.
I’ve always enjoyed the part of the day when it seems the world is still asleep. Nothing is stirring; it is just quiet. Today, silence is a commodity. We need to have something going all the time. We can’t seem to be still. I’m no better; I have something going on all the time. Yet, sometimes, right before dawn, I sit outside and listen to the soundscape. The crickets chirping. The rustle of the grass as a stray cat moves to its next hiding place. I feel them watching me. It’s okay because watching them. Sometimes, they come to visit. They lay on the porch, taking in the morning.
I was raised in the city, so I didn’t understand what it meant to be still. I’ve spent time in the desert and the woods. I know there are things that go bump in the night. They’re protecting themselves from our clumsiness, our rudeness, our carelessness, and our obliviousness. They have so much to say without uttering a word. I wonder what it would be like if we were just silent?
I looked up my name once; you know, our obsession with googling ourselves. Perhaps we find the things we have forgotten about to be nifty. More likely, we find things that we wish we could forget about. You know, like a video of a drunken you dancing ungracefully to Rod Stewart’s Do Ya Think I’m Sexy or perhaps a blog post about a soulful rendition, though sung off-key, and is remarkably similar to an experience you’ve done. Yes, the names are withheld, but there couldn’t be two jackasses commenting the same during the period.
As far as the origin of my name, I don’t have a clue. I suppose I could spin a yarn about a maiden by a brook reading a book while a doe gently drank from the brook or something. Yeah, I got nothing …
I’ve watched thousands of hours of video content throughout my lifetime, so it would be difficult to compile a list of my favorite movies. If I’m honest, the list changes from time to time. I get into moods where I watch a particular genre until I run out of movies. So, I will list a few movies that stand out.
The first five films on my list feature the legend of Sidney Poitier, and I’m a definite fan of the legend. My personal favorite is The Simple Life of Noah Dearborn. It wasn’t one of his many masterpieces, but its message is refreshing.
Blackboard Jungle (1955)
Defiant Ones (1958)
In the Heat of the Night (1967)
Piece of the Action (1977)
Simple Life of Noah Dearborn (1999)
These next five aren’t in any order, but I enjoy them each time I watch them. I don’t have a particular reason; I just like them.
Bait (2012)
The Conversation (1973)
King Arthur (2004)
The Shawshank Redemption (1994)
The Green Mile (1999)
These are some of the films that come to mind immediately. I’m sure if I thought about them a little longer, I could come up with a proper list and reasons for each film.
Here are some honorable mentions:
Cool Hand Luke (1967)
The Jacket (2005)
Silverado (1985)
The Natural (1984)
The Way of the Gun (2000)
Well, here is my list. Perhaps you have seen some of these and enjoyed them. There are maybe some you want to check out.
This prompt is too rich to answer with a quick response. As fiction writer, this prompt opens the possibility of all kinds of nifty stuff. I have to make a decision whether or not to make life better or worse. Perhaps, I could make myself charming with a wonderful sense of humor. Perhaps, I could be dashing or something. Whichever way … STAY TUNED
All I knew about flowers was that you gave them to a girl you were sweet on. So, when I met my future wife, I had much to learn. Now, I had no idea that I was going to marry her at the time, but strangest things, right? I spent a great deal of time in her flower garden while we were dating. I don’t know the names of flowers, but I know how deep to plant them or whether they grow in the sun or the shade. As well as how much to water them. You may be wondering what this story has to do with improving my community. Let me explain.
Throughout our marriage, my wife and I planted numerous gardens, indoor and outdoor. The indoor gardens were a challenge, but we pulled it off. Our last garden was our biggest and most challenging garden. In this garden, we planted both vegetables and flowers. Typically, we did either one or the other. However, that’s not what made this garden special. What made this garden stand out was its effect on the neighborhood.
We lived in the shady part of town and there all kinds of madness going on 24 hours a day. The people were decent enough, but no one seemed to care about anything outside their world. We were no different. It was about surviving our circumstances best way we could. My wife’s had begun to progress and one day she said she wanted a garden. I looked at her like she had finally lost her mind. There really wasn’t any place to put the garden she described. She didn’t let it go
Our backyard was nearly completely asphalt, so one morning I stood out there looking at it wondering how we were going to pull this off. I grabbed my pickaxe and went to work. It took me a week to clear the area by hand. It didn’t occur to me to rent a tiller. I just swinging that pickaxe. I tilled the soul with a rack then planted a flower right in the middle of the clearing. I went inside and took a nap in my chair. My wife woke me up and took me to the back and it started.
Over the next few weeks, I had the whole filled with flowers. Here is the interesting part, we went around town and asked people if we could get piece of their flowers. I was surprised when nearly everyone said yes. We did this every year for three years. There were a few ladies who would set aside seedlings for my wife. Others called her when they got something new. I shook my head at this, but would get into the truck and pick stuff up. My wife even nurseries on her rolodex. They’d call each year and donate a plant or two.
One night, one of my dogs alerted me to activity outside. I noticed that a few of the neighborhood yahoos were sitting in the garden. Immediately, I was ready to kick off the property. However, something strange happened. Some trash had blown in the garden, and I watched them get up and clear it up. They kept our garden free of trash. My wife passed and I moved, but for three years they maintained the garden. I received phone calls from my wife’s flower network wondering if I was going to keep things going. I declined and they understood.
Sometimes the littlest things mean so much. I guess that’s what happens when you marry the woman in the house with the pretty flowers.
I don’t do dinner parties, so the prompt doesn’t apply. However, I’ll play along for the sake of something. I’m unsure what, but I’ll play anyway.
If, I do mean if I were to consider hosting a dinner party, it would have to be for some special people. So, since we are in fantasy land, I would invite some of my favorite authors. The guest list is featured below.
Alice MunroAmiri BarakaAnton ChekhovDavid Foster Wallace Edgar Allan Poe Elmore Leonard Flannery O’Connor Gwendolyn Brooks James BaldwinKurt VonnegutOctavia Butler Walter Mosley Ralph Ellison
So, the guest list are some of my favorite authors. You probably have noticed that all of them are deceased except for one. They said they wanted a guest list. Nobody said I had to play fair
Most people I meet think my favorite genre of music is rock and roll. Based on the music I play on this blog, those reading this may be inclined to agree with that assessment. The truth is there is entirely too much music out there to be narrowed down or pigeonholed.
However, there are a few genres in which I have a soft spot: jazz, Blues, and old-school R&B. These are the music I grew up listening to. My first concert was a jazz concert. My Madre dragged me to see George Benson. I can’t remember the show, but I’ve spent my life listening to his music. The jazz record I remember listening to was Ramsey Lewis’s Sun Goddess. I didn’t know it was jazz, but I still loved it.
Madre also played Motown, the Philly sound, and other R&B artists, such as Billy Paul, Barry White, and Teddy Pendergrass. My Mother also introduced me to rock and roll. She played Doobie Brothers, Steely Dan, Linda Ronstadt, and others. So, it would seem that I was destined to be eclectic with my music choices.
There are many types of food that provide me comfort, but there is nothing like a good ole fashioned ice cream sandwich. That’s all I got to say about that.
When I was young, I was taught about altruism. I watched my MiMi practice this principle consistently. So, discussing random acts of kindness I’ve done is against my code. However, I can’t deny the power of random acts of kindness. They can shape one’s day or have lasting effects throughout an entire lifetime. I will discuss a few ideas I have watched emerge over the years that complement my code.
In 2000, a film called Pay It Forward was released. It was a delightful little film that I enjoyed immensely. In short, the film discusses the principle that if someone does you a kindness, you pay that kindness forward to another person. I still hear people uttering the Pay It Forward mantra. I love it. What I love about it is the fact nothing is expected in return. This makes the act altruistic in nature.
While dealing with my late wife’s health issues, I ran into a family who believed in a concept called God Winks. I had never heard of this concept and immediately dismissed it as hokum. Yet, one of the elders of the family sat down and explained the idea to me. Then, I realized it wasn’t hokum. We all have experienced seemingly unexplained acts of kindness throughout our lives, and this family called them God Winks. I still smile when I remember that conversation.
Lastly, in my studies, I came across a gentleman named Alan Watts. He had a concept I found rather refreshing that fit my code. This concept was called Clear as the Morning. Basically, the concept goes like this: When you wake up in the morning, envision your ideal morning, and whatever happens that day will be easier to handle. I have used this principle since I discovered it.
Usually, I would discuss my backpack and its contents. However, as they say, I will be short and sweet today. The most important thing I carry is my integrity. Possessing come and go, but your integrity can be forever.
I eat a lot of chicken and fish. So, I would like to learn several recipes to expand my palette. However, I do enjoy making anything that requires the use of an oven. However, I’ve been known to make some rather delightful applesauce. I can’t quite recall how that happened. I mean, I don’t remember any passed down recipes or anything, but I like applesauce, so I kind of figured out how to make it. I took it to my office on several occasions and it seemed to disappear. I’ve had similar experiences with my baked salmon.
Initially, I figured some knucklehead was throwing away my lunch. One day, I slipped out of my office and caught the thieves. Some of the ladies from another department were feasting on my lunch. When I confronted them, they simply responded by telling me that I should have brought more. So, in response, I got a lunchbox and used ice packs. Their response was that I was being mean and that I should share.
I also make some decent cakes. Well, at least my grandson seems to destroy each one I make. I took some into the office as a test, along with a blend of coffee I make at home, and before the break, it was gone. Now, several disasters occurred over the years before I perfected a few items. You know, a couple of them even suggested I open a restaurant. My response…
I’ve spent ridiculous amounts of money on this supposedly fine cuisine. More times than not, I’ve been severely disappointed with the outcome. I took my late wife to a fancy steakhouse that she had going on about for months. In the hope of some sanity, I took her to the restaurant. She made me get dressed up and everything.
The restaurant’s atmosphere was majestic, but the food was mediocre. My wife put on a smile as she ate her dinner. I wanted to ask for a refund, but I sat there with her, watching her enjoy her meal. After she finished, we sat and chatted a bit, enjoying the atmosphere. When we returned home, she went to the refrigerator and pulled out some ground beef. She stood there in her fancy dress cooking the ground beef.
She toasted a couple of buns with butter and garlic, then sat down at the table with her famous cheeseburgers for the both of us.
She took a bite of her burger and sighed, “That place was sure nice, but the food was horrible.”
I laughed as I ate my burger.
“We spent all that money and ended up eating cheeseburgers to get filled.”, she mused while smoking a cigarette.
“Yeah, but you’re sure wearing that dress,” I said deadpan. She chuckled and smiled mischievously.
The fancy restaurant wasn’t worth it, but sitting in our kitchen and spending time together was.
“You can’t use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have.” — Maya Angelou
I remember my mother saying, “Boy, you’re in your own little world … ain’t you?” She said this with an amused and proud expression. Later, I learned my mother had been an artist in her youth, and I guess she remembered what it was like to be on another plane of existence. Other than life, I believe passing on her creative mojo was one of the greatest she gave me. Thanks, Mom!
Lately, I’ve been enthralled with the world of artificial intelligence, specifically image generation. Somehow, this artistic expression has woken up something I considered a thing of the past. I sketched long ago, and I started telling stories. I remember using my Big Chief notebook and filling it with random drawings. My teachers would scold me because I had no paper to do my lesson. After all, I had drawn all over them. However, the teacher called my mother and suggested she get a sketchbook. Mom brought me a Mead unruled pad, and the rest was history.
It seemed like everyone was an artist in those days. We tried everything; crayons, colored pencils, watercolors, etc. You named it, and we tried it. Quickly, I discovered I didn’t have a knack for anything color. So, I stuck to sketching. I listened to the accolades my friend’s parents would bestow on their creations. My Mom would simply shrug and go back to what she was doing. It may seem like she wasn’t interested in what I was doing, but that wasn’t the case. I never had to ask for a new pad or notebook. My supplies never seemed to run out. Even when I started stories, there was always plenty of paper and writing instruments.
It seems so long ago, yet I still return to this plane after a good session. Ever since my wife passed, my episodes have gotten worse. No mystery sandwich appeared on my desk, flickering lights letting me know it was time for bed, or my favorite, the warm blanket I nestled under while falling asleep in my chair, scribbling my latest stint into madness. However, I try my best to return in a reasonable amount of time.
Perhaps in enough time to post a story, picture, or photo. Who knows? Because most of the time, I’m in my own world.
As a kid, my idea of fresh fruit came from the market on a white tray wrapped in Saran Wrap. Of course, I ate apples from apple trees and stuff. However, I ran into many apples that needed to be ripe more or were too ripe. So, to solve this problem, the stuff on the tray was always right—well, at least of the time.
I married a southern woman, where dinner was a specific time and all that. I always looked at her strangely because I was hungry when I was hungry. One day, we were at her mother’s for dinner. Of course, my wife and her sisters had to show up early to assist in preparing the meal. The “men folk” had to sit on the carport until they sent for us. I was the youngest and the newest in the group. I sat there listening to garbage that older men sling at younger ones.
Suddenly, I was starving, so I went to tell my wife I would get something to eat while waiting for them to finish. You would think I had committed a cardinal sin or something. All my sister-inlaws started having a conniption about what I just said. Now, I was newly married, and my sister – inlaw’s had absolutely no sway. However, my mother-in-law made a sound in a tone that I recognized from my own mother. Quickly, I prepared myself for an exit. However, I came to my rescue, seeing my death was imminent. I didn’t know. I swear. How dare I walk into a kitchen of southern women cooking dinner and announce I was getting food from someplace. I want to point out here that making this announcement in any kitchen, anywhere in the world, most likely will have the same effect. Let’s just chalk this mistake to youthful ignorance.
My wife matched right outside, past the “men folk” laughing about something. I was hungry, and I got mean when I got hungry. There was a peach tree at the end of the driveway. My wife suggested I eat a few peaches to hold me over.
“From where?” I asked, looking confused and worried at once.
My wife returned my look. “The tree babe,” she said, pointing at the tree with several peaches on the ground around the trunk. I looked at my wife sternly. “I’m not eating those,” I said firmly and began walking away, muttering over my shoulder, ” I only eat fresh peaches, you know, the ones on the white tray!” I had the classic duh expression on my face. It was something I used regularly back then.
My wife stood shaking her head and started laughing. She was holding her side and everything. I know I could occasionally be the source of extreme levity, and I didn’t feel this was one of those moments.
“They don’t get any fresher than these, hun, right off the tree,” she continued as she walked away. So, I tasted a peach. I was fully prepared to render I proper, “Woman, I told you.” However, I needed to be corrected. Those peaches were the best thing I had ever tasted. I ate one, then another, and another. Suddenly, I snapped out of my euphoric bliss.
“Boy, get down from there!” I hear a voice shout as I’m continuing stuffing more peaches down my throat.
“Girl, get your husband!” my mother-in-law told her daughter and looked back up at me. Boy, you part squirrel?”
I always liked it when MiMi called me Mister. It made me feel grown-up or something. Maybe special would be a better word. However, this excitement was only temporary. For the word Mister meant trouble. It wasn’t like she had every minute planned or anything, but you weren’t going to be sitting on your butt while she was working; no, sir!
So, I wondered how she would feel about sitting around and wondering how I would spend my day. I recently retired and haven’t gotten the hang of these as of yet. I still feel I need to be doing something. I’ve worked since I was 13, so sitting on my butt isn’t how I’m built. So, I suppose I waste most of my time these days figuring out what I will do.
You know, things like, what story am I working on? What kind of image should I create?
AI-Generated with Vivago.AI by author MK
I’m constantly pestered with my choices to the endless questions that arise arbitrarily. For example, “Does that flower look real enough?” Should I grab my camera and go take some photos of real flowers? So, much time and so many different things to do. I would call my brother and ask him about my dilemma, but he isn’t retired yet. He makes a face when my other friend and I mention we are.
If I’m writing …
As I stood in what I now know to be the regions of my mind, the pathways guided me to the stories; vibrant globes were precious memories. I took a step, and I was frisked into a story. The whirl came into focus, and I was upon a horse galloping down a dirt path.
Does this opening have enough punch? I shake my head and go back to playing with images.
AI-Generated with Vivago.AI by author MK
Is she who I envisioned when I created her?
So, you see, I spend most of my time wondering about stuff. Were there female pirates? If so, what did they really look like? Because Hollywood gets everything wrong. As I finish this post, I’ll leave you with MiMi’s immortal words.
“Boy, if you have time to wonder about all that, [pause] Whew! You need a job!”
When it comes to historical figures, there are too many people to name. That’s just the people we know all about. This doesn’t include the people who conveniently wrote out the annuals of history. I once met a man who worked as an engineer at NASA during the space race. I’ve never heard or read his name anywhere, but he was there. I saw the pictures and remembered the stories. Stories that were confirmed years later in books and motion pictures. But to ask someone about their favorite historical figure? Oh, come on, ask me a real question.
Who decided who is historic anyway? Who makes that determination? I don’t know them, do you know them? You pick up five different history books and have five different accounts of an event or person. Who knows the real truth. However, I love the journey of discovering more information about a person or a topic. There is nothing better for me. Well, until I incorporate that information into one of my stories and sit back, waiting for a local know-it-all to tell me I got my facts wrong. It’s always a pleasure to watch their forehead crinkle and their bunk. Then, they clear their throat to inform me of my error. Followed by this now historical line of conjecture.
“Hmm… this isn’t really historically accurate, but since it’s fiction, I’ll give it a pass.”
Like I give a flying f_ [beep]!
The history taught in schools makes me shudder. I remember asking one of my granddaughters about the history of the computer. Their response “Why does that matter?” I thought I was going to blow a gasket. Neither my children nor grandchildren understood my reaction. Which just increased my fury. They certainly didn’t have a problem. “Peepaw, I need a new laptop.”, “Peepaw, my laptop broke. Can you fix it?” How could something so instrumental to our existence not be taught in schools? They were still teaching Colonial America and the people who shaped it but weren’t teaching about the people who created the instrument they used to teach it.
Ada Lovelace isn’t taught in the history books. If it wasn’t for figuring out that computers could be used for more than calculations, we as a society wouldn’t be where we are now. Lovelace algorithm was built by countless inventors. So when I tell Alexa to play a playlist or ask Siri to set a reminder, perhaps they should have been Ada. Why not? I’m listening to a lecture on physics as I write this post on a pair of Bluetooth headphones. Thank god for Bluetooth; I could never find a pair of headphones with a long enough cord. Well, you can thank Hedy Lamarr for the algorithm. Yep, the beauty queen and movie star from back in the day.
Lamarr co-invented a frequency-hopping torpedo for the Allied forces during WWII, but it was never used. However, Lamarr’s frequency-hopping technology was later used throughout the U.S. military. I had used the tech for years before I knew Lamarr had a hand in its development. I was researching the Olympic games for a post and discovered something interesting. We have heard of Jesse Owens’s legendary exploits during the 1936 Olympics. He won four gold medals during the event and pissed off Hilter for good measure. So, he is always a cool person in history. However, have you heard of Cornelius Johnson?
Cornelius Johnson won the gold medal in the high jump, setting the record. Johnson was 23 years old when he accomplished this feat. Unfortunately, Johnson died in 1946, six months before his 33rd birthday. The United States did a podium sweep that day, meaning the gold, silver, and bronze were won by U.S. athletes. Dave Albritton, silver medalist, and Delos Thurber, bronze medalist, both outlived Johnson but were also left out of the history books.
We are who we are because of history, whether it be good, bad, or ugly. Each known or unknown event has helped you develop, no matter where you form. We need to appreciate what we can and learn from all of it.
My editor threatened to quit if I didn’t stop playing around with AI imagery. Normally, I don’t respond well to threats, but in her case, I’d be a good boy and start writing again. So long, lovely people who reside in the splinters of my mind. Well, not really so long, but your visualization will have to wait for a bit. Now, don’t pout. Hey, missy, why are you looking at me in that tone of voice? That goes double for you, mister!
Sorry about that. Can you believe these people? Trying to get out of my head any way they can, the nerve! As I was saying, I’m going to do a little for the next couple of days. Is that alright with you folks?
I hear the fluttering of its wings, my breathing quickens, and my heart begins to pound. My fingers inch their way to my inkwell. My quill and inkwell shun me.
“Come on, now don’t be like that!” I plead
My quill gives me a quick look, but my inkwell is not having any of it. He has been fooled before. I pause for a moment, thinking. Then, it occurs to me.
“Alexa! Oh, Alexa, Prince, please!”
“Playing Prince from Spotify playlist “They funky Sh**!” She replies as her blue lights lit the room. I watch the Inkwell begin to groove.
“Don’t hurt yourself, now!” I tease
“Shut up and write!” The Inkwell replies
So, the inkwell, quill, and Sophie continue grooving. I chuckle as I pick up the laptop and begin to do my thing.
What’s the oldest thing you own that you still use daily?
DAILY CHALLENGE RESPONSE
For whatever reason, AI has something against generating an image of a Dodge Ram, but whatever. I drive an old Dodge Ram that’s 19 years old. She needs some loving, but she still gets me where I need to go. I will start repairs sometime in the next few weeks. Hopefully, if the issues aren’t too severe.
To defend poetry effectively, we must first address a fundamental question: what is poetry? Only by answering this can we adequately defend it. My initial observation is that poetry itself requires no defense; it is the expression of poetry that sometimes needs defending. This notion may be provocative to some poets and poetry lovers, but I aim to clarify my point.
Poetry embodies the life we live; it surrounds us in every moment, from the warmth of a smile to the pain of loss. All of this is poetry. Humanity tends to categorize and label things, trying to define them to understand them better. This is a natural part of our daily lives. As we sort things into their rightful places, we find that some things fit effortlessly—poetry is one of those things. To me, poetry is like a butterfly that flutters unpredictably. We chase it, knowing we might never catch it, but the pursuit itself is joyful.
Suppose we do catch the butterfly. We place it in a jar with holes in the lid, displaying it for all to see. We admire its beauty daily, its vibrant colors that lie somewhere between soft and crisp. However, we often forget the most enchanting aspect of the butterfly: its flight. With the wings no longer spreading and the butterfly immobilized, it becomes a lifeless specimen on display—a reflection on a painted wall, devoid of the life that once captivated us.
The challenge arises in the expression of poetry. People start using words like “hate” or even stronger terms because, while they understand the essence of poetry as part of their lived experience, they feel alienated by its formal expressions. Terms like sonnet, haiku, and other forms can make us cringe or shy away, burdened by preconceived notions about what we will read or refuse to read. What we need is poetry—life—written in a way that people can appreciate, understand, and perhaps even come to love.
Thus, poetry doesn’t need defending; it needs to be set free. We should all have the chance to chase butterflies. I know I would love to.
A waitress stands outside, grabbing a smoke. She was three pats and a wink away from paying her light bill, but if that red fat-faced fuck touched her one more time, she’d scream.
She sips her coffee, thinking about her first great love—that love she could never talk about—the love that fills her with joy and pain all at once. The joy is knowing what love truly is, not that stuff you read in romance novels or movies. Pain, well, if you know love, you know pain.
There were throwaways—well, that’s what folks called them back then. It meant no one wanted them. She felt that way until she met the woman who changed her life. She also fell in love with a boy who lived with the woman. He was like her, a throwaway. She knew she shouldn’t love him but couldn’t help herself. They spent one night together before he left for the war, and the war took him.
She’ll never forget how she felt the next morning. It felt like she was glowing from the inside. For it was the first day she felt whole.
Good Morning …Dawn is coming, and birds chirp a ballad about the people you don’t capture in verse. Those blessed & cursed Those looked upon with disgust. Without question, they fight for us. Tell their story today … its 4am
Though they may never admit it, all a man needs in his mate is a safe place to cry. No tear ever needs to plummet, but the sure fact he can, if desired, means everything.
If my editor knew I was responding to this post, I can envision her holding her breath, hoping I didn’t dive right into a full-on uncensored rant about book adaptations. Lord knows, she has endured more than her share over the years. Partly, I can’t seem to understand the cuts or changes they make. It’s like they never actually read the book, not to mention understood the author’s message. Breathe, Mangus, breathe!
1…2…3…4 … 5..0…7…6 [exhales sharply]
Screenwriting was a part of my training as a cinematographer. So, in theory, I understand the necessity of removing portions of the book as long as it doesn’t sacrifice the story. If it can’t be filmed, then it needs to be cut from the script, was the rule of thumb in class. So, I get it. However, there are still times when things just don’t make sense.
In graduate school, we task to adapt a novel into a full length motion picture. Finally, my chance to show these folks how it’s done. I was determined to get this right.
My determined look
Let me explain screenwriting first. This explanation is simple overview, but you get the point. For every page of script, equals one minute of film. Put simply, 2 and half hour movie is a 150 page script. What? Write an 150 pages? That’s nothing! [scoffs].
So, I sat at my desk and pumped myself up with all the necessary bravado one would need on any given occasion.
“I got this!”
“I’ve written all kinds of stuff, please!”
and so on! This is about the time my brothers would look at me, shaking their heads, and uttering in unison, “Jackass!” I often wondered if they were in a barbershop quartet in previous life. The dissonance of their voices blends together harmoniously. Despite their chiding, I would look continue to display “my determined look,” I will not bow to adversity!
My determined look – 6 months later
Yes, my hair grew out and I rearranged my office, but I was still determined to write the masterpiece. A friend called and needed a favor, so I packed my gear and went and shot a short film, then a commercial, and then another short film. Then the pandemic arrived and the world changed. I never finished my masterpiece. Incidentally, I was adapting Ellison’s Invisible Man, which if adapted uncut would equal a 9 1/2 film. Yeah, I was definitely what my brother’s called me for tackling such a major work of literature on my first stab at full length screenplay. There’s a good reason its never been done before. However, I did learn something.
For motion pictures, novellas, short stories, and stuff work great. It is much easier to say closer to the book. Examples, of this working on well areShawshank Redemption, Inventing the Abbotts, and Stand by Me.Each of these examples were based on shorter fiction. Two of these films are considered classics.
For novels, it’s better to adapt them for television, if sticking close to the source material is a goal. You have the time to tell a more complete story. In other words, you can put some meat on those bones. However, you have to keep in my mind, if you can’t film it, cut it.
Last thing about screenplays. Screenplays, are basically the movie written on paper. It’s the blueprint to the entire project. The cuts, fades in and out, and those things you think about while you are watching a movie are written in the screenplay. Yes, adjustments will be made, but the screenplay is where it all starts.
Now to the question:
Above, I answered the question from the point of view of a writer. Now I will talk to you as a fan. I was fan long before I ever thought about making movies or writing them. As a fan, I chose TV. Over time and throughout the years, they have done a better job with the adaptations. With the improvement of production quality of television programming, further solidifies my opinion.
Some of my favorite adaptations for television are Bosch, Justified, Dublin Murders, and Lincoln Rhyme: The Hunt for Bone Collector. With Bosch we really get to see who Harry Bosch is as a person. The script has made changes, but Michael Connelly has hand in the show so the character integrity is present. Justified is a adaption of Elmore Leonard’s short story “Fire In The Hole.” However, there are several Raylan Givens novels that pulled elements from for the series. Timothy Olyphant’s portrayal of Raylen Givens is excellent. He brings to the screen that you couldn’t write.
In the Bone Collector (TV series), we really for the first time were introduced to the Lincoln Rhyme of the Jeffrey Deaver series. Lincoln Rhyme is a brilliant, exetremely difficult man with tremendous chip on his shoulder. To say, he was bitter about his circumstances is a understatement. We get a hint of Lincoln’s character in the Denzel protrayal, but it shows through in the series with Russell Hornby protraying Lincoln Rhyme.
Most important of about the Bone Collector (TV Series), this is the first time Amelia Sachs appears in a live action role. Now, in the feature film, Angelina Jolie, protrays a character based on Amelia Sachs, whose first name was Amelia, but she wasn’t Amelia Sachs from the books. Arielle Kebbel protrays Amelia Sachs in the series. We witness Sachs battling her own demons while developing a relationship with Rhyme. She challenges him. This is the Amelia Sachs from the novels.
Here’s my response to Glyn’s Mixed Music Bag. It’s been awhile since I have participated, so let’s jump right into it. I was stuck in traffic a few years ago, a song on the radio caught my attention. I had never heard before, but it stuck with me. I assumed it was going to be another time where you here a song and don’t hear the artist, but I got lucky. The artist was K’s Choice and the track was Not an Addict
Sarah and Gert Bettens
K’s Choice, a Belgian rock band formed in the early 1990s, has captivated audiences worldwide with their deeply emotional lyrics and haunting melodies. Founded by siblings Sarah and Gert Bettens, the band has navigated the complexities of the music industry with a unique sound that blends rock, folk, and alternative elements.
K’s Choice originated in Antwerp, Belgium, with the Bettens siblings at its core. Their musical journey began in the local music scene, where they quickly gained attention for their distinctive sound and lyrical depth. The band’s breakthrough came with releasing their second album, “Paradise in Me,” in 1995. The album featured the hit single “Not an Addict,” which brought them international recognition. With its powerful lyrics and compelling melody, this song became an anthem for many and solidified K’s Choice as a formidable presence in the alternative rock genre.
After being raised by a single mom, I’m fully aware of the capabilities of women. I watched my mother face the challenges of raising an oddball son and never seemed to miss a beat. Even as a child, I wondered why they weren’t listed in the annuals of history. Surely, there had to be tough women like my mother throughout history? Of course, there were. I’m glad we have access to the information about these feats done by these amazing women. Will we be able to list them all or discover all the things women had a hand in? Probably not. However, I will use my platform to celebrate the courage of these women.
Beryl Markham’s life reads like an adventure novel, filled with groundbreaking achievements, thrilling exploits, and a legacy that transcends time. As the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic from east to west, Markham shattered the glass ceiling in aviation. Her memoir, “West with the Night,” offers a mesmerizing account of her experiences in early 20th-century Africa and her daring flights, showcasing her indomitable spirit. This blog post seeks to explore the remarkable journey of Beryl Markham, celebrating her contributions to aviation and literature.
Early Life in Kenya
Born in England in 1902, Beryl Clutterbuck moved to Kenya with her family at a young age, igniting her lifelong love affair with Africa. Growing up on her father’s horse farm, she developed an early passion for horses, which later translated into a pioneering career in horse training. Her fascination with flying began in Kenya, where she met Tom Campbell Black, a notable figure in her aviation journey, fostering her aspiration to take to the skies.
Pioneering Aviation Career
Markham’s aviation career was marked by a series of remarkable achievements. She became the first woman to obtain a commercial pilot’s license in Kenya. In 1936, she made history by flying solo across the Atlantic from east to west, facing harsh weather conditions and navigating by stars. This monumental flight secured her place in aviation history, showcasing her courage and skill as a pilot.
Adventures and Challenges
Markham’s life was replete with adventures that stretched beyond the cockpit. Her personal life, marked by several marriages and notable friendships with prominent figures like Denys Finch Hatton and Karen Blixen, added layers to her already complex character. Despite the challenges she faced, including financial struggles and societal constraints on women of her time, Markham’s resilience never waned, driving her to pursue her passions relentlessly.
Literary Contributions
Though primarily known for her aviation feats, Markham was also an accomplished author. Her memoir West with the Night, published in 1942, was praised for its lyrical prose and vivid descriptions of colonial Africa. Despite its initial lukewarm reception, the book was rediscovered and celebrated in the 1980s, heralded as a masterpiece of 20th-century literature and providing a nuanced perspective on Markham’s extraordinary life.
Legacy and Recognition
Beryl Markham’s legacy is multifaceted, influencing the aviation and literary worlds. Her daring spirit and groundbreaking achievements in aviation paved the way for future generations of female pilots. Meanwhile, her literary contributions offer a unique glimpse into a woman’s life who refused to be defined by the era she lived in. Today, Markham is remembered for her historical flights and as a symbol of courage, resilience, and the pursuit of one’s passions against all odds.
Embarking on this detailed exploration of Beryl Markham’s life will allow us to paint a comprehensive picture of her impact on aviation and literature. Starting with her early life in Kenya, we’ll weave through her many accomplishments, adventures, and the legacy she leaves behind.
As the sun began to set, the world, usually at 1000 mph, seemed quiet. The hustle and bustle of life, the constant noise, and chatter fade. It was as if the earth had taken a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Then, it repeated it. At that moment, everything was calm; everything was still. It was a moment of perfect pause.
If you had to change your name, what would your new name be?
DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE
When i think of this question it reminds me of this ridiculous scene from back in the day.
If had to change my name … it just wouldn’t be me. I’ve gotten used to my crusty self. I’m frayed around a few edges and plump tattered around the rest. But, I’m me. My creaky bones sound off louder than ever. That’s because I’ve used them. I’ve laughed, cried and fought.
Typically, when comes to film adaptations, we got two categories:
“Oh my god that was horrible! The book is so much better!”
“Can you believe they did that? That’s not in the book!”
The majority of the film adaptation I’ve seen into these categories. I’m a huge Shawshank Redemption fan. I was a fan of the movie, before I knew it was an adaptation. I found it was based on a Stephen King novella, immediately I was turned off. Have you seen some of film adaptations of Stephen King’s stuff? I’m not talking about the recent adaptations or reboots. There were horrible. I’ve read several King books before seeing this film and enjoyed them. However, for some reason, King fell out of favor with me until I read his book about writing. Single malt scotch rained from the heavens, and all was right in the world again. I was back to being a fan.
So, I read Rita Haywood and the Shawshank Redemption, one of four novellas in Different Seasons collection. I fell in love with the movie even more. They did an amazing job with this adaptation. The casting of Morgan Freeman was a stroke of genius. I saw the picture above online somewhere and had to write something about what I could describe as my favorite movie. 30 years can you believe it!
Shopping Sprees? I’m bold, daring, and a tad bit reckless. Slinging money left and right. Yep, that’s me. Three places I make it rain at. Amazon, local used bookstore, and local used record shop. I know it’s crazy, and I need to contain myself. Yes, I’ve thought about therapy. Perhaps, even joining some sort of support group. You know, stand up there sharing my tales of how I spent my money on a first-edition Poe. Perhaps I tell them about the thingamajig I got on the lighting deal. I saved so much I can’t believe I got it. What a bargain. You know, “that deal” sitting in the junk drawer, and you can’t even know what it is, not to mention why you brought it? Tell this to a perfect stranger? I don’t think so!
But I’ll go anyway because I have nothing to do on Fridays at 6:00 p.m. St. John’s has a lovely meeting room, and they spare no expense on the refreshments. However, the guy who leads the Thursday meeting at St. Agnes has a booming voice and stares at you with penetrating eyes. I find myself sliding down in my chair by the time he’s done. I’m thinking my shopping sprees aren’t diddlysquat compared to him. I’m just a cute little furry kitten.
This post has been over 30 years in the making. Let me explain with a little back story. So, in 1987, a guy I knew in high school suggested three albums. Over a period of several months, this guy and I had drunken conversations about heavy metal. During this time, I knew hardly anything about the genre beyond the typical bands everyone listened to at the time, Van Halen, Motley Crue, and alike. Plus, I had one huge disadvantage. I was Black.
Today, no one gives two shakes about what music you like, but back then, in my region of the world, it was a big deal. I recall getting flack for my taste in music. However, this one guy would come up to me, and we’d rap about metal and drink beer. So, the last album he suggested I buy was King Diamond’s Abigail. He gave me the rundown on how King Diamond used to be with Mercyful Fate and all that. So, I bought the album without reservations because his previous recommendations were solid. In fact, I still listen to those artists.
I put on this album and was immediately thrown. Yeah, I was mindfucked. There was no one there telling me they loved me. No foreplay or heavy petting. Just take this, and you’re gonna like it; I did. Abigail was nothing like any music I had heard before. I sat for hours trying to figure out what I was listening to. All I knew was that I was drawn to it. None of my friends listened to this style of music, so I couldn’t discuss the album. For years, I’ve tried to find someone I could talk to about this album. Either they couldn’t stand King Diamond or never heard of him. I even had people question why a Black guy was listening to heavy metal. Without further ado or hyperbole, I present King Diamond’s Abigail. This entire album is some eerie shit!
Narrative and Concept
“Abigail” is a concept album that tells a gothic horror story set in 1845. The narrative follows a young couple, Jonathan and Miriam La’Fey, who inherit a mansion. Seven mysterious horsemen warn them about a terrible fate awaiting them if they stay in the house. Ignoring the warning, they encounter the spirit of Abigail, a stillborn child whose spirit possesses Miriam, leading to a tragic and gruesome series of events.
The album’s storytelling is a standout feature, with each song advancing the plot while creating a vivid, eerie atmosphere. The lyrics, written by King Diamond, are rich in detail and character development, immersing the listener in the dark tale. Songs like “Arrival,” “The Family Ghost,” and “Black Horsemen” are essential pieces of the narrative puzzle, each contributing to the unfolding horror.
Musical Composition and Style
Musically, “Abigail” blends heavy metal, speed metal, and progressive elements. Its complex arrangements, technical proficiency, and King Diamond’s distinctive falsetto vocals characterize it. The album showcases the exceptional musicianship of the band members: Andy LaRocque and Michael Denner on guitars, Timi Hansen on bass, and Mikkey Dee on drums.
The guitar work on “Abigail” is particularly noteworthy. It features intricate riffs, harmonized solos, and melodic passages, enhancing the album’s dramatic effect. Andy LaRocque and Michael Denner’s dual guitar interplay is a highlight, providing both aggression and melodic depth. Tracks like “A Mansion in Darkness” and “The 7th Day of July 1777” display their technical prowess and ability to convey the album’s ominous mood.
The rhythm section, with Timi Hansen on bass and Mikkey Dee on drums, provides a solid foundation for the album’s intensity. Dee’s drumming is dynamic and precise, adding to the album’s relentless energy, while Hansen’s bass lines add depth and complexity to the compositions.
Thematic Elements and Atmosphere
“Abigail” is steeped in themes of horror, possession, and the supernatural, drawing heavily from gothic fiction and classic horror films. The album’s lyrics are filled with vivid imagery, creating a cinematic experience for the listener. King Diamond’s theatrical vocal techniques, including his famous high-pitched falsetto and menacing growls, bring the characters and story to life.
The atmosphere of “Abigail” is dark and foreboding, achieved through the music and the production. The album was produced by King Diamond and Roberto Falcao, who crafted a sound that balances clarity with a raw, menacing edge. The production emphasizes the album’s dramatic dynamics, from the quiet, suspenseful moments to the explosive, intense sections.
Keyboards and sound effects further enhance the album’s eerie ambiance. These elements are used sparingly but effectively, adding to the overall sense of dread and tension. For instance, the haunting intro of “The Possession” and the chilling conclusion of “Black Horsemen” feature atmospheric sounds that contribute to the storytelling.
Impact and Legacy
“Abigail” is widely regarded as one of the greatest concept albums in metal history and a defining work in King Diamond’s career. Its success helped establish King Diamond as a solo artist and set a high standard for narrative-driven metal albums. The album’s blend of horror themes, theatricality, and musical complexity has influenced countless metal bands and artists.
The impact of “Abigail” extends beyond its initial release. Many metal musicians have cited it as influencing numerous tribute performances and covers. The album’s storytelling approach has also paved the way for other concept albums in metal, encouraging artists to explore ambitious, narrative-driven projects.
King Diamond’s ability to create a cohesive and compelling story through music is a significant achievement, demonstrating the potential of the concept album format. “Abigail” remains a testament to his creativity and vision, showcasing his unique blend of horror and metal in a way that continues to resonate with fans.
Conclusion
“Abigail” by King Diamond is a masterful album that combines intricate storytelling, exceptional musicianship, and a haunting atmosphere to create a landmark in the metal genre. Its gothic horror narrative, driven by King Diamond’s distinctive vocals and the band’s technical prowess, has left an indelible mark on the world of heavy metal. More than three decades after its release, “Abigail” continues to be celebrated as a classic, influencing new generations of metal artists and captivating listeners with its dark, compelling tale.
Abigail, I know you’re in control of her brain, Abigail And I know that you’re the one that’s speaking through her, Abigail Miriam, can you hear me?
I am alive inside your wife Miriam’s dead, I am her head
I am alive inside your wife Miriam’s dead, I am her head
Abigail, don’t you think I know what you’ve done, Abigail I’ll get a priest He will know how to get her soul back
Oh, Jonathan, this is Miriam Our time is out Remember the stairs, the only way
Abigail, nothing I can do but give in, Abigail Follow me to the crypt Abigail, you aught to be reborn where you died, Abigail Jonathan, I agree, yes, I do
I am alive inside your wife Miriam’s dead, I am her head Soon I’ll be free
Songwriters: Kim Bendix Petersen.
Thanks, Jim and Di, for coming up and hosting this theme.
I came up with potential responses to this prompt. Either would have been fine. However, I spent most of the night and a good part of the wee hours working. As a multi-genre artist, work could mean anything. Well, last night, I worked on character descriptions for my fiction. It’s nothing to conjure up a person and make them do stuff. However, sometimes I don’t have a clear picture of their appearance. If I don’t have a clear idea of how I can expect the reader to have one, so I worked on my descriptions.
I fed these descriptions into AI to see what it would render. First, I had to find an image generator that provided realistic renderings. I wasn’t looking for photo quality or anything, just potential mock-ups of the characters. After hours of tweaking, I don’t care how good your chair is; your body will tell you enough is enough. So, I called it quits and went to bed.
I realized something this morning while I had coffee. I truly enjoyed myself last night, but my realization didn’t stop there. It occurred to me that creating art is my jam. It’s the one simple thing that brings me joy.
Here are a few examples of the concepts I worked on last night
Leroy Grime
Female Private Investigator
Surrogate Daughter (take 1)
Surrogate Daughter (take 2)
None of these renderings are final, but they provide direction as I continue to develop the appearance of these characters.
The sun through the 4th floor glass felt good, It was partly on my shoulder and partly on my face. It was good to the feel the warmth. I’d been so cold lately. Nothing, I did made me warm enough. Even when AC went out and it was 90’s degrees in the house, I was okay everyone was else, but they kept their complaints out of earshot. I appreciated that.
I’m sitting thinking about the one who got away. The one who was supposed to make things better and all that. I never knew if they really happened or was it something said we believed in publicly, but thought was a crock of shit privately. “The One” worked at Aunt Peg’s candy shop in the local mall. I must have spent hundreds of dollars on soft peppermint sticks that summer.
The neighborhood paperboy loved me. He made a dollar for every trip to the candy shop. You see, I never could muster up enough courage to actually go up to the counter and ask for the candy.
“Do you even like peppermint?” Maynard, the paperboy asked
I didn’t answer. I did my best to give him an evil leer. Although, I don’t think it was working very well.
“Look, if this is all about the girl? She’s right there. Just talk to her.” Maynard took his dollar and left. That was the last day of summer and I never said a word to the girl.
I still eat soft peppermint sticks when I can find them. Those puff balls seem to have cornered the market. Some marketing genius started this whole mess.
Yep, Aunt Peg’s soft peppermint sticks were the best!
I surveyed my kingdom and the lush gardens before me from my perch on the railing. There’s a sign by the gate with a picture of me. It says something below it. They call me Stanley. I wonder which one came up with that name. The humans often walked these paths, marveling at the beauty of nature, but none could truly appreciate it as I did. I am the peacock, the jewel of this realm, and my feathers are the crown jewels.
I strut through the gardens daily, tail feathers trailing behind me like a royal train. The sun catches the iridescent blues and greens, making them shimmer like the waters of a hidden lagoon. Today, I decided to take a break and observe my domain from this higher vantage point.
The air was fresh with the scent of blooming flowers, and the trees whispered secrets to each other in the gentle breeze. I watched as a family strolled by, their eyes widening in awe as they noticed me. The little ones pointed and gasped, tugging at their parents’ sleeves to share their discovery. I preened, feeling a surge of pride. Even the youngest humans recognized my magnificence.
Beyond the garden’s edge, the world seemed a distant dream. Within the bounds of my green paradise, life moved peacefully. Birds flitted from tree to tree, and the occasional squirrel scurried past, always keeping a respectful distance. They knew, without a doubt, who reigned here.
The sun began to dip lower in the sky as the day wore on, casting a golden glow over the garden. I could hear the murmurs of the visitors growing softer as they made their way to the exits, reluctant to leave this haven of beauty. Soon, the garden would be mine again, a quiet sanctuary where I could rest and dream of new ways to dazzle my audience come morning.
For now, I stood still, a statue of elegance and grace, soaking in the admiration of those who lingered. I am the peacock, guardian of this garden, and in my feathers, the world sees the magic of nature.
This is sort of a tricky question. It’s tricky because a version of the internet has been around since the 60’s. However, this version of the internet, wasn’t available to the public. To be honest, only the select few even knew of it existence. Now, the version that this prompt is properly referring to became public in late 80’s. I already a working adult, so I remember the beginning of the transition well.
I also remember life prior to this transition. In the age of technical ignorance, things were quite simple, but very time consuming. We did things by hand. In the 80’s we had computers, but we did not have hard drives or cloud storage. Instead of carrying a flash drive in my pocket. I carried a library card, bus pass, and a floppy disk stuffed between the pages of my notebook with my stories in it.
Search Engines
In the pictures below represent what we used for research before the internet. We had ideas scribbled in our notebooks or index cards. We spent hours going through these drawers of cards sorted by subject and author. We would read passages from several books trying to narrow down the subject matter.
We would spend time in these shelves trying to find the perfect passage for your research. It usually ended up learning something that you never intended to learn. Often, it reshaped your entire direction of your research. So much time spent going into the new direction, only to scrape it because it just became too big for the parameters of your paper. Your notebooks are filled with information to be researched another time.
My Uncle taught me a coding system for notes that I still use today. I found an old notebook from high school and it had so many notations on various subjects it was crazy the stuff I researched back then. There were theories in there that were so far off, but there were a few that I wished I had the notebook during developing a few theorems. It would have saved me some time.
Streaming Services & Cloud Storage – YouTube, Netflix, and alike
We went to the movie theater and watched matinee because they were cheaper. Face it everyone was poor as hell back then. Well, at least everyone I knew. We had negatives from the photos we took nearly organized in boxes. No one got hacked and private information wasn’t exposed. At least, not by a stranger on the other side of the world.
We sat at uncomfortable desks watching dudes that talked funny telling us how we supposed to think about what we just read written by a dude that his last breath three centuries prior. We had talking ponies named “Patch” telling us not to take candy from stranger. We passed notes under the desk and scribbled the names of our crushes on our notebooks.
We read actual books until our eyes burned. Bookbags filled with pens, pencils, and erasers. Plastic bags with zippers held our sanity and security. It nothing like your pen running in the middle of drafting a paper. Your hands start to ache, and your stomach is growling. Your nowhere close to being to finding what your were looking for. We expressed our thoughts within the pages of these notebooks. For aspiring writers stories begin to blossom from the words of others. It funny how that happens sometimes.
It’s almost like its a part of the writer’s job is to inspire other writers. I don’t think this thoughtful gift is intentional. I think it happens somewhere in the act of telling the story. Often, I wonder if my work has done this for another writer. Then, I decide it’s not important. It’s not something I need to worry about. It will only get in the way.
There was a certain freedom to writing before the internet. Just you, your thoughts, and your aspirations confined in the binds of the notebook of the time. You hope you have written something people want to read. You hope you wrote something that will make a difference for at least reader, even if that reader is you. Sometimes we write something that absolutely doesn’t belong in the thing we are writing. That sentence that appears out of nowhere, but man you know you have something special. I miss writing before the internet. I miss portions of life before the web.
Yes, I remember life before the internet. I recognize how much it has helped so many people, but I’m cognizant of the fact it has also destroyed so many.
Sometimes, it seems like we addicts are trying to duplicate the euphoria from the first fix. It may not last more than a moment, but you never forget how it felt and desperately try to regain that feeling. Yet, we become lost in searching for something we were only supposed to experience once. Perhaps we meant to simply capture these moments and stitch them into a quilt of sanctuary our mothers used to make. Each square represents a euphoric memory.
However, it never seems to work out that way. We waste so much time chasing the dragon we eventually feel cheated. We wind up facing ultimatums concerning the things we have unintentionally neglected. We try to rally but end up a headline below the fold or caption scrolling across the bottom screen with the volume on mute.
Is this what has become my life?
Is this the madness I’ve created?
I have faith that my brothers will hold me up until I can stand on my own. The battle against my demons is real. I sit here in the churn of madness, thinking of everything I was supposed to be—a stranger to myself, a shadow of yesterday. On my soul is a tattoo of the ghost of who I used to be. Memories of yesterday fill the present with fear, and a map to nowhere will be upon my face.
Is this what become of my life?
In the madness I created …
I pray to God to help me find my strength within. I pray to God for the patience that day to begin. I pray to God to help me find myself again.
I’ve seen evil. Hell, I’ve been evil. We are so intimate that we can be found slow dancing by candlelight to the melody of the whispering darkness. Can you hear it?
Peering out from under the crevasses of my splintered psyche, Still riding a euphoric high from about That Night, Collaborative expressions have put my hypothalamus into overdrive. My serotonin overflowing
Yeah… swaying to that lyrical grove, high on 1000cc of that poetic shit…
Leaning back in my chair Pulling up my sleeve, Applying the tourniquet Tap, tap, tap, and then rub
My vein is ready…
Opening my works, a quill and a hypodermic I pull back the plunger slowly. Their ink seeps in
Tap…Tap…tap… No bubbles …
Just a quick push to fill in the gaps A squirt, then a single drop oozes… My mouth salivates in anticipation So close; it won’t be long now
I feel the cold metal against my skin A quick prick and a sharp pain, Slowly, I push the plunger part of the way The ink is warm as it travels through my bloodstream.
Shadows surround me As my head spins, A single drop of drool falls from my shuddering lips Yes…I feel it in my leg now…
I shake from the chill. The bathroom floor tile is so cold. It is as if life is spilling out of me, but the floor is dry My body feels empty and hollow, like my heart
If I am to live in loneliness There is no need to live anymore
I push the plunger in a little further…
I am warmth from the sight of the glistening sweat that painted her body I mimic her labored breathing The rigidness of her bosom tells the tale Her crossed legs and popping toes echo the sentiment.
Her body trembles though she cannot see me But her quivering whimpers Her flow of nectar Confirms that I am near
She swallows hard and then gasps. As I whisper the words she needs,
I push the plunger to the hilt…
Standing in front of a mirror I wonder who it is before me Baffled, for I am submerged in silence Closing my eyes for a moment
Only to open to an image that hasn’t changed A single tear falls from my swollen eyes Realizing I didn’t recognize myself, Knowing I have stripped away my identity,
The single tear is now a stream. Through my sadness, I find the courage to breathe my name.
My health has improved, but my writing is struggling for some reason. Just give me a moment. I will come up with something. It may not be my best work, but it will probably do in a pinch. My cat keeps finding new places to nap. I admit I’m jealous because she can plop her butt anywhere and sleep. I’ve been considered a large fellow, so my plopping is limited. This meme sums up my feelings about my writing as of late.
For a long time, I fought for humor, integrity, and truth. I was steadfast in my duty. Then, for a moment, I fought for glory. This was the moment of corruption.
How can this be?
After years of devotion, it only takes a moment to lose everything. Corruption festers, chipping away at who you are.
So today, with each breath, I fight to protect what is most dear …
We all make sacrifices. It’s just a fact of life. Some make more than others, but we all make them. There is one sacrifice that stands out more than others: the moment I sacrificed my innocence. I didn’t know what was happening, but now I understand completely. Now, I mourn the loss of the bliss of ignorance.
I have several collections of various things that captured my interest over the years. I could go on about my book, music, or my hard drives filled with unsorted data to be used at some unspecified time. No data is bad data. However, I have a collection that may be a tad unusual. To the point of interesting in a peculiar way.
Unintentionally, I began to collect unused journals. There are of various sizes and types. This collection started by accident. One of those collections that just appear, and you don’t realize you started until you do.
If you ask me there something with each of these journals. Either it’s the binding, the paper, the size, or a combination of everything. I’ve actually found a few of these journals that could work in a pinch, but they didn’t work with my pen rotation. Now, I when hear a writer begin discussing pen and paper combinations, they have a became a pretentious dick. I’m fully aware that I fit this category. I’m okay with it. I’ve even this excuse for not writing. Yep, I’m that guy.
However, because of my oddity, I learned how to make own journals. Just when you think it can’t get any worse. I can’t write on anything lighter than 24lbs paper. Don’t let me get started on the proper pen rotation. We don’t have enough time for the rant that ensue from my dissatisfaction of inferior writing instruments of today. I find myself pondering with the following query “why?”
Enough of that, I have another collection I’d like to share this evening. I’ve been painstakingly assembling for decades. It’s my annuals of “Weak Ass Excuses for not Writing.” I assure you it is quite impressive. There are several volumes of horseshit. I thump through from time to time for giggles.
What’s one small improvement you can make in your life?
DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE
I suppose when you reach a certain age, you wonder about trying to make a change or improvement—old dogs and alike. Yet, hopefully, with that age comes a bit of wisdom. I know for years I’ve banged my head against the wall for various reasons, all of them valid at the time. However, looking back, I struggle to find the logic. Over the years, I discovered the simplest strategy.
I need to accept that I cannot control everything. Some life events have nothing to do with me or my actions. Yes, I realize I sound a bit like a narcissist; however, this is not my intent. I’m trying to have an honest moment with myself. Can you at least wait until I finish to call horseshit? Seriously, I’m doing my level best to make a change.
As child, I watched the elders of my community banned together and brave the elements for their chance to be heard. I remember the rumbling of the younger generations about elections being rigged and didn’t matter if they voted or not. The elders wouldn’t hear this foolishness. We have sacrificed so much for this right. How dare you belittle our efforts. This stance changed the minds of some, but others continued in protest. However, they did so silently, because no one wanted to incur the wrath of the elders. I listened to stories of separate bathrooms and drinking fountains. They were hard to believe because it was so different from the world I knew. Unfortunately, the injustice remained vigilant. The methods changed, but the theme remained the same. So, I couldn’t wait to do my part. For years, I waited for my chance to vote. I participated in the voting process in all the school elections. I felt it was civic duty to make a choice. Although I had pledged my devotion to the process, I didn’t really understand why the elders were so committed. So, I looked into it at my grandmother’s request. She never wanted us to do something just because everyone else did it. One of her frequent sayings “If someone jumped off a bridge, you gonna jump too?” “You have the right to do whatever you want, but understand what hell you’re doing. Don’t be a dumbass.” As my research continued, I quickly discovered that the level of injustice ran deeper than I initially thought. Now, I vote at most opportunities. I know this wouldn’t be good enough for the elders, but their legacy is intact. I provided a brief overview of the injustice concerning the right to vote.
The Right to Vote: A Cornerstone of Democracy
The right to vote is often hailed as one of the most fundamental aspects of a democratic society. It is the mechanism through which citizens exercise their sovereignty, choose leaders, and shape the laws that govern them. This right, however, has not always been universally accessible. Its evolution has been marked by struggle, activism, and significant legal reforms. Today, as we strive for more inclusive and fair electoral systems, it is crucial to reflect on the history, importance, and contemporary challenges associated with the right to vote.
Historical Evolution of the Right to Vote
The journey toward universal suffrage has been long and arduous. In the early days of democracy, voting rights were typically restricted to a privileged few. In ancient Athens, often cited as the cradle of democracy, only male citizens with property could vote. Women, slaves, and non-property owners were excluded. Similarly, in the early years of the United States, voting was predominantly a right reserved for white, land-owning men.
The first significant wave of expansion in voting rights came in the 19th century with the abolition of property requirements. This change was driven by a growing belief in the principle that all men, regardless of wealth, should have a say in governance. The 15th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, ratified in 1870, marked another crucial milestone by prohibiting denying the right to vote based on race, color, or previous condition of servitude. Despite this amendment, African Americans, particularly in the Southern states, faced discriminatory practices like literacy tests, poll taxes, and violent intimidation aimed at disenfranchising them.
Women’s suffrage was another significant battle in the history of voting rights. The movement gained momentum in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, culminating in the ratification of the 19th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution in 1920, which granted women the right to vote. This victory was a pivotal moment in the fight for gender equality and marked the beginning of a broader struggle for women’s rights.
In the mid-20th century, the civil rights movement brought renewed focus to the disenfranchisement of African Americans. The Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965 were landmark pieces of legislation that sought to eliminate racial discrimination in voting. These laws prohibited practices like literacy tests and provided federal oversight of voter registration in areas with a history of discriminatory practices.
The Importance of Voting
Voting is more than just a right; it is a powerful tool for enacting change and holding governments accountable. Through the ballot, citizens can influence policy decisions on issues ranging from healthcare and education to climate change and social justice. It is a means of expressing consent and dissent, giving voice to diverse perspectives within a society.
Moreover, voting is a critical component of political legitimacy. Governments derive their authority from the consent of the governed, and regular, free, and fair elections are the primary mechanism through which this consent is gauged. When citizens participate in elections, they validate the democratic process and reinforce the principle that political power is derived from the will of the people.
Voting also plays a vital role in promoting social cohesion and civic engagement. It encourages individuals to become informed about political issues, candidates, and policies. This engagement fosters a more educated and active citizenry, which is essential for the health and vibrancy of a democracy.
Contemporary Challenges
Despite the progress made over the centuries, the right to vote faces numerous challenges in the contemporary era. Voter suppression, electoral fraud, gerrymandering, and disenfranchisement of marginalized groups are issues that continue to undermine the integrity of democratic systems.
Voter Suppression: Voter suppression refers to tactics aimed at discouraging or preventing certain groups of people from voting. These tactics can include strict voter ID laws, purging of voter rolls, limited polling places in certain areas, and misinformation campaigns. Such practices disproportionately affect minority communities, the elderly, and low-income individuals, thereby perpetuating social inequalities.
Electoral Fraud: While less common than voter suppression, electoral fraud poses a significant threat to the legitimacy of elections. This can take the form of tampering with ballot boxes, falsifying voter registration, or hacking electronic voting systems. Ensuring the security and transparency of the electoral process is essential to maintaining public trust in democratic institutions.
Gerrymandering: Gerrymandering involves manipulating electoral district boundaries to favor a particular political party or group. This practice can distort electoral outcomes and undermine the principle of fair representation. Efforts to establish independent redistricting commissions and use algorithmic approaches to drawing district lines are steps toward addressing this issue.
Disenfranchisement of Marginalized Groups: In many countries, certain groups of people, such as convicted felons or non-citizen residents, are disenfranchised. While there are arguments for restricting the voting rights of some groups, it is important to balance these considerations with the broader goal of inclusivity and ensuring that all members of society have a voice in the political process.
Strengthening the Right to Vote
To safeguard and strengthen the right to vote, several measures can be implemented:
Voter Education and Outreach: Educating citizens about their voting rights and the importance of participating in elections is crucial. Outreach programs can help increase voter registration and turnout, particularly among marginalized communities.
Electoral Reforms: Reforms aimed at making the voting process more accessible and secure are essential. This can include measures like automatic voter registration, expanded early voting, and the implementation of robust cybersecurity protocols for electronic voting systems.
Legislative Protections: Strengthening legal protections against voter suppression and discrimination is vital. This includes enforcing existing laws and enacting new legislation to address emerging threats to voting rights.
Civic Engagement: Encouraging civic engagement through community organizations, grassroots movements, and public forums can empower citizens to take an active role in the democratic process. Civic education should be integrated into school curricula to foster a culture of participation from an early age.
Conclusion
The right to vote is a cornerstone of democracy, embodying the principles of equality, representation, and political participation. While significant progress has been made in expanding and protecting this right, ongoing challenges necessitate continued vigilance and action. By promoting voter education, enacting electoral reforms, and fostering civic engagement, we can ensure that the right to vote remains a powerful and accessible tool for all citizens. As we navigate the complexities of contemporary democracy, the collective effort to uphold and strengthen this fundamental right will be crucial in shaping a just and equitable society.
One minute, you sleep too long, and the next you can’t sleep at all. I suppose somehow, some way we search for the balance. You haven’t seen it so long you forget it east. I suppose it’s the way things do it. Or else it is just something else to fail at. Just another thing to let you down.
When I was a child, candy was truly a treat. Holidays like Easter, Halloween, and Christmas were awesome because we were allowed to eat candy for days. However, the remainder of the time, fruit served as our treat or snack. After wonderful years of sampling different types of fruit, I came up with the following list of favorites.
Apples – I enjoy all types of apples, but my favorite is Fuji.
Grapes – I destroy a couple pounds of grapes without thinking about it.
Mangos – They are just good; what else is there to say about that.
Oranges – I like all types of these varieties of this citrus fruit.
Peaches – nice and juicy.
I actually have a ten, but the response asked for just five. Although I love my candy and went through a period as an adult where I kept a jar full, now I prefer fruit in a way that is better because I choose it.
In the dimly lit room, an ancient cabinet stood solemnly against the wall. Its wood, dark and glossy, whispered tales of forgotten eras. As the key turned in its lock, a soft sigh escaped, revealing secrets nestled within its heart.
Sometimes, it feels like I’m Marlon Perkins from that show Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. It all started when I was invaded by two raccoons, Louie and Smiley. I was visiting my folks, and when I returned, Louie was sitting in my office chair reading the Douay-Rheims version of the bible. Smiley came out of the kitchen with a loaf of bread and a pack of cheese. He didn’t notice me at first.
“Louie! I’ve found the mother lode.” Smiley exclaimed, then went chewing on a slice of bread.
“Shut up, Smiley.” Louie warned, then he looked up and saw me standing there.
“Louie! He’s back! He’s back!”
Louie dropped the bible, and they scurried off past and out the door. I sat at my desk and examined my bible. I was expecting tiny paw prints on the pages, but surprisingly they were clean. However, throughout my kitchen there were paw prints everywhere. I went out to the porch, but there was no sign of the raccoons.
Frequently, I see rabbits, raccoons, and opossums on my property, but they never stay and visit. They see me and run off. I wonder if I’m as nice as I think I am.
I’ve spent a great deal of time in the woods, sleeping under the stars and even being chased by a family of wild boars, so the idea of going back to the woods for “fun” didn’t really appeal to me. However, I’m aware of oodles of fun had at the campfire, smores, and the guy serenading some girl while playing a single chord on his guitar. I’m so sorry that I missed that; not really!
We mustn’t get lost in its despair, we mustn’t be swallowed before the pain, and we must be careful not to be cut by beauty’s dual edge. But is that even possible? How can we embrace beauty without becoming its victim, without becoming its prey?
I’m beginning to get used to it. It’s almost like it’s second nature or something. Each day is not much different than the last; each day we are closer to being engulfed by the evil charms of its subtle beauty; bright pale blue lore is deceiving; it masks the wickedness that lurks neath its smiles: we are bitten by its breath
She Was a Phantom of Delight BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment’s ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A Creature not too bright or good For human nature’s daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveller between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light.
Lo! where the rosy-bosom’d Hours, Fair Venus’ train appear, Disclose the long-expecting flowers, And wake the purple year! The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo’s note, The untaught harmony of spring: While whisp’ring pleasure as they fly, Cool zephyrs thro’ the clear blue sky Their gather’d fragrance fling.
Where’er the oak’s thick branches stretch A broader, browner shade; Where’er the rude and moss-grown beech O’er-canopies the glade, Beside some water’s rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclin’d in rustic state) How vain the ardour of the crowd, How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
Still is the toiling hand of Care: The panting herds repose: Yet hark, how thro’ the peopled air The busy murmur glows! The insect youth are on the wing, Eager to taste the honied spring, And float amid the liquid noon: Some lightly o’er the current skim, Some show their gaily-gilded trim Quick-glancing to the sun.
To Contemplation’s sober eye Such is the race of man: And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began. Alike the busy and the gay But flutter thro’ life’s little day, In fortune’s varying colours drest: Brush’d by the hand of rough Mischance, Or chill’d by age, their airy dance They leave, in dust to rest.
Methinks I hear in accents low The sportive kind reply: Poor moralist! and what art thou? A solitary fly! Thy joys no glitt’ring female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, No painted plumage to display: On hasty wings thy youth is flown; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone— We frolic, while ’tis May.
I find this a bit difficult since I go days without uttering a single word. There’s something about the serenity of silence that soothes me, and most times, I’m not willing to compromise my serenity for the sake of prattle. I have found that my fondness for silence makes people around me unnerved. Nervous people make me irksome. I don’t do irksome. However, I do enjoy a meaningful and civil conversation on the following topics.
Writing – I love to talk about writing. It’s interesting to hear the different approaches my contemporaries take to express their thoughts. If I lucky, they may be a novice writer among the group. To hear the frustration of trying to find the end of their tale. Not to mention, the excitement of finishing a draft of something they are proud of.
Music—I’d say music was my first love. Lyrics served as a spell that enthralled me in this spooky art of writing. The need to convey an emotion, discuss a topic, or simply groove you. I can’t get enough of it. I especially enjoy the different music challenges on WordPress. It’s like I get to geek out and not be judged. Music is a fusion of so many aspects of creativity; it’s breathtaking.
Nonsense – There is something to be said about bullshitting with your buddies. I can’t express the number of times chopping it up has been cathartic.
I would not exchange the sorrows of my heart For the joys of the multitude. And I would not have the tears that sadness makes To flow from my every part turn into laughter.
I would that my life remain a tear and a smile.
A tear to purify my heart and give me understanding Of life’s secrets and hidden things. A smile to draw me nigh to the sons of my kind and To be a symbol of my glorification of the gods.
A tear to unite me with those of broken heart; A smile to be a sign of my joy in existence.
I would rather that I died in yearning and longing than that I live weary and despairing.
I want the hunger for love and beauty to be in the Depths of my spirit,for I have seen those who are Satisfied the most wretched of people. I have heard the sigh of those in yearning and longing, and it is sweeter than the sweetest melody.
With evening’s coming the flower folds her petals And sleeps, embracing her longing. At morning’s approach she opens her lips to meet The sun’s kiss.
The life of a flower is longing and fulfilment. A tear and a smile.
The waters of the sea become vapor and rise and come Together and are a cloud.
And the cloud floats above the hills and valleys Until it meets the gentle breeze, then falls weeping To the fields and joins with brooks and rivers to return to the sea, its home.
The life of clouds is a parting and a meeting. A tear and a smile.
And so does the spirit become separated from The greater spirit to move in the world of matter And pass as a cloud over the mountain of sorrow And the plains of joy to meet the breeze of death And return whence it came.
In the discussion of what makes a person unique, it’s a short one. However -, the forced subtopics or categories lengthen the discussion and become a slow grind. The answer is simple. An individual’s personality sets them apart from everyone else. I concede there are aspects about individuals we need to include, but really it isn’t necessary.
He was enchanted by a woman whose eyes mirrored the night sky—dotted with constellations and shimmering with the light of distant stars. The kind of eyes depicted in storybooks and legend. Each glance into her eyes he fell deeper into their boundless and mesmerizing sea. He was powerless and that was okay. The specks of light slow danced with hope and mystique, a testament to the mysteries and beauties of fantasy. Her gaze was the key to stories untold, worlds unexplored, and the promise of adventure.
“Harold, are you going stand there gawking, my god boy! Close your mouth before you let flies in!”
Harold face redden, “Yes Nanna.”
“Give her the coupons.” Nanna continued. Harold’s embarrassment deepened. He makes eye contact again and her face reddened as well. She is smiling shyly.
A couple of months back a few co workers had this hair brain scheme to go a local watering hole to I don’t know, hang out? or some just as an annoying social construct. So, under protest, I showed up. To my dismay, I enjoyed myself.
I think it was the willingness of the participants to engage in karaoke. I sat and listened to beloved songs from my childhood butchered unapologetically. It was as if they walked into my memories and randomly snatched out a cut.
It reminds me of public version of singing the shower. You sing your beloved song and don’t give damn. This is the fun part. After returning home, I sat laughing and jotted down a few tracks that fall into the parameters. Here’s my short list
My Girl – The Temptations
Louie, Louie – The Kingsmen
Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch – The Four Tops
Brick House – The Commodores
Brown Eyed Girl – Van Morrison
I find most of these songs you only really know the chorus. You mumble your way through the verses and when the chorus you let it rip. If with friends this is the part where eyes closed, drinks hoisted, and heads ended up on shoulders while that songs sung off key beget another cherished memory
How have you adapted to the changes brought on by the Covid-19 pandemic?
DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE
In many ways I viewed the quarantine as a god send. Let me be clear, I wished anything harmful on anyone, but I was dealing with emotionally issues and wanted to be alone. So I was. I encrypted everything and basically dropped on the face of the earth smack in the middle of town. Most of my provisions were stocked, except for fresh vegetables. I brought them fresh every couple of days, then I had to switch to frozen vegetables.
AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!
Due to this development, I was absolutely convinced the world was ending. No, I hadn’t completely flipped my lid. I spent several decades eating my meals out of pouches and cans, so idea of returning back to lifestyle was horrendous.
How have I adjusted ?
I’ve haven’t really, but I’ve made a few concessions in the following areas.
– I no longer expect 2 – Day shipping from Amazon
– My butcher is my homey and I get the best cuts.
– I started in herb and vegetable garden.
My soils sucks and nothing grows well enough to eat. Back to frozen
Mabel McGee lived in the quiet town of Willow Creek in a quaint cottage that seemed to hold more memories than objects. To the townsfolk, she was known as the elderly woman with a penchant for mixing up dates and events, often speaking of historical happenings as if she’d lived through them herself. Some whispered about dementia, others about a life too lonely. But little did they know, Mabel’s supposed confusion was not a symptom of her age but rather a consequence of her extraordinary past as a retired time traveler.
Mabel’s journey began in 2045 in a world where time travel was possible and regulated by a strict code. She was one of the elite, a ChronoNavigator tasked with maintaining the integrity of the timeline. Her missions had taken her from the bustling streets of ancient Rome to the futuristic landscapes of the 22nd century, each adventure embedding itself into the fabric of her being.
As the years passed, the toll of her travels grew heavier. The lines between times began to blur, not just in her mind but in her heart. Mabel realized that she yearned for something the vast expanse of time could not give her—a place to call home. And so, she chose to retire in the one era that had always felt like a balm to her soul—the early 21st century.
The townsfolk of Willow Creek knew none of this. To them, Mabel was the eccentric old woman who lived alone, her house filled with strange artifacts and her conversation sprinkled with anachronisms. Children dared each other to peek through her windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of her rumored collection of “antiques” that seemed too out of place, even for a collector. They didn’t realize that each piece in Mabel’s home was a memento from her travels—a Roman coin, a futuristic gadget that no longer worked in this timeline, a painting from an artist who wouldn’t be born for centuries. And the stories she told, dismissed as confused ramblings, were indeed true accounts of historical events she had witnessed firsthand.
One day, a new family moved into Willow Creek, and with them came young Ellie, a curious and bright girl with an insatiable appetite for stories. Unlike the others, Ellie found herself enchanted by Mabel’s tales. She listened, wide-eyed, as Mabel spoke of walking with dinosaurs, witnessing the signing of the Declaration of Independence, and even attending a speech by a future president yet to be elected.
Over time, the seasoned time traveler and the young girl formed a unique friendship. Mabel saw in Ellie a kindred spirit who understood the value of time not by its weight but by its wonders. For Ellie, Mabel was the gateway to a world far beyond the confines of Willow Creek—a world where anything was possible. As their bond deepened, Mabel decided to change Ellie’s life forever. She decided to share her greatest secret, the time device that had been dormant for years. Together, they embarked on a journey that spanned centuries, a final adventure for Mabel and the beginning of a lifetime of wonders for Ellie
In the end, Mabel McGee’s legacy in Willow Creek was not that of a confused old woman but of a mentor who opened the door to the universe for a young girl. As for the townsfolk, they would never look at their world the same way again, always wondering if the stranger passing through was just a visitor or a traveler from another time, inspired by the tales of Mabel McGee, the retired ChronoNavigator who found her home not in time, but in the hearts of those she touched.
In the heart of an attic, amidst a treasure trove of forgotten gadgets, an argument of epochal proportions was unfolding. Oliver, an old, venerable camera with a penchant for nostalgia, found himself at odds with Dexter, a high-tech digital camera with more settings than a spaceship.
“Back in my day, we captured the essence of life, one click at a time,” Oliver boasted, his lens gleaming under the dim attic light.
“Pfft, the essence of life? I can capture, edit, and share a photo before you even figure out your aperture,” Dexter retorted, his LED screen flashing in disdain.
The debate might have ended there if a cheeky squirrel had not chosen that moment to dart across the attic floor, pausing only to strike a pose.
A light bulb flickered to life above Oliver’s viewfinder. “I propose a challenge! Let’s see who can take the best photo of that squirrel,” he declared, adjusting his focus.
Dexter beeped in amusement. “You’re on, grandpa. Prepare to be pixelated.”
Oliver took his time, calculating the light, adjusting his focus, and waiting… waiting for the moment when the squirrel, enticed by a nut left on the windowsill, struck a majestic pose. Click. The sound resonated through the attic, capturing a moment in time.
Meanwhile, Dexter, with the efficiency of a modern marvel, snapped approximately 47 photos in burst mode, applied a “Squirrel-Enhance” filter, and even photoshopped a tiny superhero cape onto the squirrel in one of the shots. “Done. And I’ve already shared it on SquirrelGram,” Dexter announced triumphantly.
They turned to the attic’s old computer to judge their work. Oliver’s photo was a masterpiece of timing and light, showcasing the squirrel in a moment of serene beauty. The soft lighting gave it an almost ethereal quality.
Dexter’s photos were sharp, vivid, and varied, with the superhero squirrel garnering a particular chuckle. “Look at that! It’s going viral among the attic spiders,” Dexter bragged.
Just then, the squirrel, having completed its snack, scampered over to see what all the fuss was about. It peered at the screen, then at the two competitors. With a decisive nod, it grabbed a forgotten paintbrush with its tiny paws. It dashed off a squirrelly masterpiece on a piece of scrap paper: Oliver and Dexter, lenses crossed in friendship, capturing the squirrel in a heroic pose.
The two cameras, old and new, realized that the best photos come from seeing the world through each other’s lenses. They laughed, a sound of mechanical clicks and digital beeps, united in their newfound friendship and respect for each other’s techniques.
As the sun set, casting a golden hue over the attic, Oliver and Dexter understood that photography isn’t just about the camera—it’s about the vision, the moment, and sometimes, a squirrel with a flair for the dramatic.
And so, amidst the dust and memories, two cameras from different generations found common ground, proving once and for all that when it comes to capturing life’s beautiful moments, the best approach is a shared one. As for the squirrel, it became an honorary member of their photographic adventures, always ready for its next close-up—cape and all.
What’s a secret skill or ability you have or wish you had?
DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE
As a kid, I was obsessed with moving things with my mind. Yeah, I was the kid who laid the pencil on his desk, staring at it, trying to make it move. Of course, it never happened. Then, I got the idea that perhaps my powers would emerge later. Later, I researched superpowers and discovered that the power I wanted was telekinesis and extrasensory perception.
But before I did my research, I watched every movie that featured people with these powers. Everything I saw focused on the darkness of the abilities. Films like The Fury (1978) made the idea of having these powers spooky. Check this out:
We also had Sci-Fi horror flicks like Scanners (1981). Here is a scene from that movie.
Who can forget the psycho-thriller Patrick (1978)? Take a look
After watching movies like these, who wants telekinesis? Then, one day, I had a discussion with fellow film buffs about the pros and cons of telekinesis. We were teenagers, and this discussion was the first of what we considered a”deep” discussion. We were on the verge of deciding telekinesis wasn’t an ability we wanted. Then, one of the girlfriends announced that we were idiots. She couldn’t believe we hadn’t considered “The Force” in our examples of telekinesis. Her comment stopped us all in our tracks. We had never considered the Force as telekinesis. She said, “Our lack of faith was disturbing.”
I don’t know why we never considered The Force. Perhaps it seems to be something much more powerful than everyday telekinesis. I can’t really explain what I felt then, but “the Force” was so much more to me. Perhaps I felt it was a way of life, perhaps an ideal. My Midi-chlorians count was never enough for consideration for being a Jedi or Sithlord. I’ve always admired the ideal.
I’ve been working on music posts all weekend and writing a bit of fiction. So, when I read today’s prompt, this song came to mind as I popped some Tylenol for my aching bones. Then, ask this question.
Then, of course, this song pops into my head.
Fingers popping and belting the lyrics into a seldom used hairbrush. I stop and catch my breath. I realized this track from 1969, and I knew all the words. Scratching the back of my head, I pause and ask what’s my age again?
You’re going on a cross-country trip. Airplane, train, bus, car, or bike?
DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE
I’ve more time behind the wheel than any other mode of transportation. Driving has always relaxed me. I prefer driving alone to think in peace, but I’m not opposed to traveling with someone else. I’ve developed some of my best storylines driving. There’s nothing like working out a difficult scene while gliding across the asphalt sea. The only problem is that I never seem to have a device to capture my thoughts as they come. Yes, yes, I’ve tried the microcassette recorder thing, but I never seem to remember to bring spare tapes. When the digital ones hit the market, the problem is solved, right? Nope, I forget to download to my computer, and when I do, I forget where the hell I put them.
The essentials for a proper road trip: This list varies based on your individual needs, but here are a few suggestions to help you consider what you might need.
Two coolers – one for beverages and the other for food. Truck stop or gas station food is not kind to your digestive system. This may not affect you now, but you will understand what I mean as you age. Not to mention, the prices are ridiculous.
Thermos – coffee or tea. Most thermos can hold up to 10 -12 cups.
A go bag—the contents are at your discretion. However, I suggest a complete change of clothes and a spare pill box for current medications if you take any. Have enough undergarments for at least a week. Also, having somecash and a burner may be a good idea. The cash is handy; not every place is set up for debit or credit cards. I discovered this on my last road trip. The burner; cellphones break all the time.
Emergency Kit – Standard items include flares, first-aid kit, reflective triangles, and blankets. However, emergency food may come in handy. Examples include tuna or chicken pouches, bottles of water, and mayonnaise packets; these items keep pretty well. Also, I almost forgot that you need a good flashlight. Preferably, a rechargeable one; alkaline batteries tend to leak or are dead when you needed.
A small toolkit—Even if you aren’t mechanically inclined, you’d be surprised at what you can fix with a pair of pliers or a screwdriver.
A road atlas – I know I risk sounding like a weirdo, but GPS is NOT the truth. That shit be wonky. Just saying.
The most important thing
Whether you listen to music, podcasts, audiobooks, or talk radio, some items are saved locally on your device for times when you don’t have cell coverage.
If not, you may be forced to listen to stuff like this:
Some of you may enjoy these tracks, so you look at me strangely. However, on one of my road trips, before streaming services were a thing, I found myself listening to a Juice Newton marathon. Now, I ask you, how is this even a thing? It was that day. Some DJ, apparently a huge Juice Newton fan, played all her music. To make matters worse, he had a booming radio station that blasted for miles.
However, you get lucky and get some fun songs like these:
Play that shit Norman
An Anthem for every frustrated worker
This was my jam
By answering this post when I’m supposed to be sleeping, I’m subject to say anything. I couldn’t resist!
Despite the title, the rain is my favorite type of weather. I never understood why people ran from the rain but spent hours in the shower over a lifetime. They swim laps, surf, and waterski, yet the first raindrops they beat feet for shelter. Trust me, I’m not making fun of anyone. I was just like everyone else until I joined the military.
If it ain’t raining, we ain’t training
If it ain’t raining, ain’t, training became our mantra after just a few weeks in service. At my first duty station in Korea, I survived the monsoon season. Trust me, you will stop worrying about the rain after surviving monsoon season. We are soaked to the epidermis, which was wrinkled by the time you were able to put on dry clothes. I can’t remember the last time I ran from the rain.
At any rate, I love the rain. Its something about it I never could put my finger on. Here are some of my favorite songs with rain in the title. I know, it’s Eddie Rabbit’s fault.
In the heart of a bustling city park, where children’s laughter mingled with the melodious chirping of birds, sat a man named Julian. He was a solitary figure amidst the vibrant chaos, a contemplative soul who found peace in the art of people-watching. Julian was particularly drawn to the nuances of human interaction, the subtle play of expressions, and the eloquence of body language.
On this sun-drenched afternoon, his attention was captured by a woman practicing yoga on the lush, green grass. She embodied grace, her movements fluid and effortless, a visual symphony that mesmerized Julian. He noted how the word “lithe” seemed to be crafted for her, the very definition of her elegance and strength. She moved with an almost ethereal poise, her limbs stretching and coiling with a feline agility that left Julian in awe.
For days, Julian returned to the park, hoping to catch a glimpse of the lithe woman. She became a muse to him, a living embodiment of art and beauty he dared only admire from afar. Her presence stirred something within him, a longing to reach out and connect, to transcend the boundaries of his solitary existence.
Finally, mustering every ounce of courage, Julian decided it was time to step out of the shadows of his observation and into the light of interaction. He approached her on a day painted with the perfect azure of the sky. His heart thundered in his chest, a tumultuous symphony of nerves and excitement.
“Hello,” he said, his voice barely a whisper against the backdrop of the park’s life.
She turned toward him, her expression mildly surprised. Her eyes reflected the tranquility of the world she embraced. “Hello,” she replied, her voice as soft and melodious as he had imagined.
Julian stumbled through his introduction, words tangled with admiration and awe. He spoke of his observations, his fascination with how she moved, how she seemed to personify the word “lithe.” He expected bemusement, perhaps even annoyance. Instead, she smiled, a warm, genuine curvature of her lips that reached her eyes and ignited a spark of connection.
Her name was Elara, and she listened earnestly attentively, making Julian’s words flow more freely. They talked beneath the canopy of verdant leaves, their conversation meandering through the trivial to the profound, just as the park’s myriad pathways did.
In time, their meetings became a cherished ritual, two once-strangers finding solace and joy in shared moments. Julian, who had once been content to observe life from a distance, actively participated in its menagerie, woven with threads of companionship, understanding, and the unexpected beauty of a chance encounter.
And so, in a park where the world seemed to converge, Julian discovered the courage to connect, inspired by a woman who danced with the wind, her lithe form a reminder of life’s boundless grace.
What movies or TV series have you watched more than 5 times?
DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE
I suppose ever since childhood, I’ve been a fan of a good Western. The Magnificent Seven was my introduction to the world of justice. I suppose many others my age, I’ve been disappointed with the state of Western movies as of late. However, I’m glad to admit Hollywood must have heard me grumbling and put some decent Westerns. One of those such Westerns is the limited Netflix series entitled Godless.
“Godless” is a gripping Western drama series that debuted on Netflix in 2017. Set in the 1880s, it explores the story of La Belle, a small New Mexico town mysteriously inhabited almost entirely by women after a mining accident claims the lives of nearly all the town’s men. The series intensifies when a menacing outlaw, Frank Griffin, played by Jeff Daniels, and his gang of bandits set their sights on La Belle, seeking revenge on Roy Goode, a former protégé who betrayed him. The show weaves themes of redemption, betrayal, and survival against a backdrop of stunning landscapes and a town fighting to assert its independence. “Godless” offers a unique take on the Western genre, focusing on strong female characters, moral ambiguity, and complex human relationships. It received critical acclaim for its storytelling, performances, and visual style.
Cast of Characters:
Frank Griffin – Played by Jeff Daniels, Frank Griffin is the menacing outlaw leader seeking vengeance on his former protégé.
Roy Goode – Portrayed by Jack O’Connell, Roy is a young outlaw who finds refuge in La Belle while on the run from Griffin.
Alice Fletcher – Michelle Dockery plays Alice, a tough widow and outsider who provides shelter to Roy.
Bill McNue – Scoot McNairy takes on the role of the La Belle sheriff, grappling with his own vulnerabilities while trying to protect the town.
Mary Agnes McNue – Merritt Wever portrays Mary Agnes, the widow of the town’s mayor, who becomes a leader in her community.
Whitey Winn – Thomas Brodie-Sangster plays Whitey, the young and brave deputy of La Belle.
Maggie McNue – Tantoo Cardinal is Maggie, the town’s wise medicine woman who provides guidance and support to its residents.
Truckee – Samuel Marty plays Truckee, Alice Fletcher’s son, who is curious and spirited.
A.T. Grigg – Jeremy Bobb portrays A.T. Grigg, a determined newspaper reporter following the story of Griffin’s gang.
During most of Tori Amos’ rise to stardom, my face was buried in the used record stacks, looking for classic jazz and blues. Though I collected many treasures, it wreaked havoc on my sinuses. I’m not sure if I ever fully recovered. Despite my obsession, I remember some of the women ranting about the excellent music of Tori Amos. I’m telling you, if it wasn’t Davis, Monk, Parker, Wolf, or Waters, I wasn’t trying to hear it.
As it turned out, I had three female soldiers assigned to my section. Although I had worked with female soldiers before in various limited capacities, I had never had any assigned to my section. Although they were from different backgrounds and musical tastes, they were all fans of Tori Amos. Finally, they talked me into listening. Here’s the particulars. Let’s get started:
Tori Amos, an American singer-songwriter and pianist, has captivated audiences worldwide with her distinctive voice and profound lyrical content. Known for her emotionally intense songs that blend classical music influences with alternative rock, Amos has carved a unique niche in the music industry. This blog post delves into her life, music, activism, and enduring legacy, offering a comprehensive look at one of the most influential artists of her generation.
Early Life and Musical Beginnings
Born Myra Ellen Amos on August 22, 1963, in North Carolina, Tori Amos demonstrated prodigious musical talent from a young age. Encouraged by her Methodist minister father and her mother of Eastern Cherokee descent, Amos began playing the piano at two and composing by age five. Her early exposure to gospel music and classical compositions profoundly influenced her musical style.
Amos’ prodigious talent earned her a scholarship to the prestigious Peabody Institute at Johns Hopkins University when she was five. However, her inclination towards rock and popular music led to her dismissal at 11. Undeterred, she played in bars and clubs in the Washington D.C. area during her teenage years, honing her skills and developing her distinctive style.
Her first professional music endeavor was as the lead singer of the 1980s synth-pop band Y Kant Tori Read, which was not a commercial success. This setback paved the way for Amos to establish her solo career, leading to her breakthrough debut solo album, “Little Earthquakes,” in 1992.
Breakthrough and Mainstream Success
“Little Earthquakes” marked a significant turning point in Amos’ career. The album’s raw, emotional intensity and unconventional songwriting resonated with listeners and critics, establishing her as a unique voice in the music industry. With hit singles like “Silent All These Years” and “Crucify,” Amos gained a devoted following and critical acclaim.
Her subsequent albums, including “Under the Pink” (1994) and “Boys for Pele” (1996), continued to explore complex emotional and social themes while showcasing her virtuosic piano skills and innovative arrangements. Amos’ ability to blend classical music elements with contemporary styles helped her maintain a distinctive identity in the evolving music scene of the 1990s.
Amos has received numerous accolades throughout her career, including multiple Grammy Award nominations. Her fearless approach to addressing personal and societal issues through her music has cemented her status as an influential figure in the industry.
Artistry and Musical Style
Tori Amos’ music defies easy categorization, blending classical, rock, electronica, and folk elements. Her classically trained piano skills are at the forefront of her compositions, often complemented by intricate arrangements and a wide range of instrumentation. Her lyrics are known for their depth, exploring themes such as religion, sexuality, feminism, and personal trauma.
Amos draws inspiration from various sources, including mythology, literature, and personal experiences. Her storytelling ability is evident in her songwriting, where she creates vivid, emotionally charged narratives. Her voice, with its distinctive timbre and dynamic range, adds an additional layer of expressiveness to her music.
Her musical influences are as eclectic as her style, ranging from classical composers like Debussy and Rachmaninoff to rock and folk artists like Led Zeppelin and Joni Mitchell. This blend of influences has helped Amos create a sound that is uniquely her own, resonating with fans across different genres and generations.
Notable Works and Albums
Throughout her career, Tori Amos has released a multitude of albums that have garnered critical and commercial success. “Little Earthquakes” and “Under the Pink” are often cited as her most impactful works, featuring songs that address complex emotions and personal struggles. “Boys for Pele” showcased her experimental side, incorporating harpsichord and brass instruments into her music.
Other significant albums include “From the Choirgirl Hotel” (1998) and “Scarlet’s Walk” (2002), each demonstrating Amos’ evolution as an artist and storyteller. Her ability to adapt and explore different musical landscapes while maintaining her core artistic identity is a testament to her talent and versatility.
Activism and Impact
Beyond her music, Tori Amos is a passionate advocate for various causes, including women’s rights, sexual assault awareness, and LGBTQ+ rights. She co-founded the RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network), which has become the largest anti-sexual violence organization in the United States.
Amos’ activism is reflected in her music, where she often tackles challenging and taboo subjects, offering support and solidarity to those who have experienced trauma. Her dedication to these causes has inspired her fans and fellow artists, amplifying her impact beyond the music industry.
Legacy and Influence
Tori Amos’ influence extends far beyond her discography. As a pioneering female artist in the alternative rock and singer-songwriter genres, she has inspired countless musicians with her authenticity, musical innovation, and lyrical depth. Her contributions to music and activism have earned her a dedicated fanbase and a lasting legacy as an influential and respected figure in the industry.
Butterfly Lyrics :
[Verse 1] Stinky soul, get a little lost in my own Hey General, need a little love in that hole of yours So one way’s now and Saturday’s now And our kittens all wrapped in cement From cradle to gumdrops got me running girl as fast as I can
[Chorus] And is it right, Butterfly They like you better framed and dried?
[Verse 2] Daddy, dear, if I can kill one man why not two? Well, nurses smile when you’ve got iron veins You can’t stain their pretty shoes And pompoms and cherry blondes And the kittens still wrapped in cement From God’s saviors to gumdrops got me running girl as fast as I can
[Chorus] And is it right, Butterfly They like you better framed and dried?
[Outro] Got a pretty pretty garden; pretty garden, yes Got a pretty pretty garden; pretty garden, yes You’ll be a pretty pretty garden; pretty garden
In the tapestry of human endeavor, threads shimmer with unyielding tenacity woven from the fiber of women with grit. These women, from varied walks of life and corners of the earth, share a common trait—a relentless fortitude that propels them through adversity, enabling them to emerge not only unscathed but stronger and more resolute.
Consider the woman who rises before dawn, her day stretching ahead like an uncharted expanse, demanding her sweat, intellect, and care. Yet, she meets each challenge undaunted, fueled by an inner fire that refuses to be extinguished. She could be the single mother who juggles multiple jobs to provide for her children, ensuring they receive the opportunities she never had. Or the scientist in a lab, her eyes alight with the spark of discovery, tirelessly pushing against the frontiers of knowledge despite the voices questioning her place in such a world.
Reflect on the women in history who stood firm against the gales of their times, refusing to bend. They are the suffragettes who endured mockery and imprisonment, their eyes fixed on the horizon of equality. They are the trailblazers in arts, sciences, politics, and activism who dismantled barriers and defied conventions to etch their indelible marks on the annals of time.
Women with grit embody resilience, a quality that resonates through their every action, a silent strength that speaks louder than words. They navigate life’s storms with a steely grace, their resolve a beacon for others to follow. In their perseverance, they weave a legacy of inspiration, a call to each of us to harness our own potential, face our battles with courage, and emerge not just enduring but triumphant.
In celebrating these women, we recognize the grit within ourselves, a testament to the enduring power of the human spirit embodied in the resilience and determination of women across ages and the world.
My mother was such a woman. She had grit, but she referred to it as gumption. I’ve always liked that word. Despite the challenges of raising me on her own, she refused to surrender the chaos surrounding us, no matter how tempting it had been. She remained steady in all that we faced. A lesson I tried to demonstrate to her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I’m honored to be a steward of her legacy. No different than the others who have courageous women in their lives.
This challenge was tough for me, not because I didn’t know a song that fit the parameters, but because I knew too many to choose one. So, I decided to cheat a little, just a tad. I’m going to list my Top 3 favorites within the parameters. However, I will only deep drive on the first song. My Top 3 are as follows:
God Bless the Child – Billie Holiday
God is a Bullet – Concrete Blonde
Dear God – XTC
God Bless the Child is my favorite because of the dear memories it holds within the melody and lyrics—memories I rarely recall until I hear the song. Immediately, I’m teleported back into my childhood, listening to my mother playing the track on the HiFi. For the longest time, she only played Diana Ross’s cover of the song. I memorized and sang it along with her. I found the original when I was old enough and brought the 45 for Mom. Here are the particulars about the song.
The Meaning of “God Bless the Child”
“God Bless the Child” is a song that carries profound meanings, intertwining themes of independence, self-reliance, and the harsh realities of inequality and economic disparity. Originating as a jazz standard, it was famously performed by Billie Holiday, who co-wrote the song with Arthur Herzog Jr. in 1939. Through its poignant lyrics and soul-stirring melody, the song delves into the complexities of financial dependency and social stratification, resonating across generations with its timeless relevance.
Interpretation of Lyrics
At its core, “God Bless the Child” emphasizes the value of self-sufficiency. The opening lines, “Them that’s got shall get, Them that’s not shall lose,” reflect a stark observation of societal dynamics, where the rich grow richer and the poor face continual hardship. This sets the stage for the song’s central message, advocating for personal strength and independence in a world rife with inequities.
The chorus, “God bless the child that’s got his own,” underscores the dignity and empowerment found in self-reliance. It suggests a divine favor or resilience bestowed upon those who can stand on their own feet, contrasting the vulnerability of those who depend on the charity or whims of others. This message is particularly poignant, considering Billie Holiday’s own struggles with poverty and racial discrimination, adding a layer of personal testimony to the song’s narrative.
Cultural and Historical Context
“God Bless the Child” emerged during significant social and economic upheaval in the United States, reflecting the hardships of the Great Depression and the subsequent recovery period. Its themes resonated with many who experienced financial insecurity and witnessed the disparities between social classes. Over the decades, the song has been interpreted by numerous artists across various genres, each bringing their own perspective but retaining the core message of autonomy and resilience.
Philosophical and Ethical Considerations
Beyond its commentary on economic issues, “God Bless the Child” also touches on deeper philosophical and ethical questions. It prompts listeners to consider the values of independence versus interdependence and the moral responsibilities of the fortunate towards the less privileged. In this light, the song can be seen as a call to introspection and empathy, encouraging individuals to find their strength while recognizing the interconnectedness of society.
Legacy and Influence
The enduring appeal of “God Bless the Child” lies in its universal message and emotional depth. It has transcended its original context to become an anthem of perseverance and dignity, inspiring listeners to reflect on their circumstances and society. The song’s influence extends beyond music, permeating cultural discussions and academic analyses, attesting to its profound impact and relevance.
In conclusion, “God Bless the Child” is more than a musical composition; it reflects human resilience, social justice, and the quest for dignity. Its message of self-reliance amidst adversity resonates, offering inspiration and insight to each new generation that discovers its timeless verses.
God Bless the Child Lyrics (1956 Version)
Them that’s got shall have Them that’s not shall lose So the Bible said and it still is news
Mama may have, Papa may have But God bless the child that’s got his own, that’s got his own
Yes, the strong get smart While the weak ones fade Empty pockets don’t ever make the grade
Mama may have, Papa may have But God bless the child that’s got his own, that’s got his own
Money, you’ve got lots of friends They’re crowding around the door But when you’re gone and spending ends They don’t come no more Rich relations give crusts of bread and such You can help yourself, but don’t take too much
Mama may have, Papa may have But God bless the child that’s got his own, that’s got his own
Mama may have, Papa may have But God bless the child that’s got his own, that’s got his own
He just don’t worry ’bout nothing, ’cause he’s got his own
You guys already know how I feel about Concrete Blonde. However, XTC’s Skylarking was packed with amazing songs, and I spent a lot of time listening to it.
Thanks to Jim Andrews for hosting this challenge. Such a fantastic suggestion, Nancy, aka The Sicilian Storyteller.
A quaint village nestled between rolling hills and whispering woods lived a trifling spirit named Elara. Mischievous and light-hearted, she danced through the villagers’ lives like a playful breeze, her presence barely more substantial than a fleeting shadow. With a penchant for harmless pranks, Elara often left a trail of bewildered smiles and gentle laughter in her wake. She’d whisper riddles in the wind, tie shoelaces together unseen, and sometimes, in a whimsical mood, cause the flowers to bloom out of season, painting the world in unexpected splendor.
Yet, despite her whimsy, Elara held a deeper purpose. Her antics served as gentle reminders not to take life too seriously and to find joy in the small, unexpected moments. In her own trivial way, Elara wove a thread of light-heartedness into the fabric of the village, teaching that sometimes, the heart needs the relief of laughter and the soul the lightness of just being.
In the pale moonlight, the world seemed ethereal, yet a profound silence pervaded the air, perforated by the echo of distant footsteps. A mosaic of shattered hopes now lay among the ruins of a forgotten city where dreams once flourished. The remnants of crumbled walls whispered tales of yore, each fractured stone a bearer of untold stories. Underneath the celestial gaze, shadows danced across the fragmented relics, casting an intricate ballet of light and darkness. Here, amidst the vestiges of the past, resilience bloomed anew, forging beauty from despair, a poignant reminder of life’s perpetual rebirth amidst ruin.
Memoirs of Madness 