“New Year’s Resolution: To tolerate fools more gladly, provided this does not encourage them to take up more of my time.” –James Agate
My mouth says I’m fine as my pain twists the tone and you hear it in the release sometimes you ask no really what’s wrong but I can only say
Nothing that’s all I feel by choice empty my mind my feelings most especially my soul anything that might be there has been bled dry and I am a skin of a person fluttering in the wind of others’
Change never for me every day the same drudgery-papered walls never the front of the parade nor even the front of the convoy but always the crew walking just behind to scoop the waste of others’
Happiness a dream or conciliatory statement I say to defer inquiry but I can only be happy if you are because I am the receiver of broadcast emotions buffeting my over-sensitive antennae and I really just say I am so you’ll stop asking because
It’s easier this way you’ll leave me alone and that’s where I want to be I think and yet I do not because thinking would mean I am alive and I try and try to not be alive and thinking and feeling and
Hurting so much hurting but soon I will sleep after not sleeping because here in limbo I can handle it until I can’t but the between is best and where I can numb and look up at you and say
Happy Christmas to you all and welcome back to our Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest! For those of you keeping track, this here’s #7.
New to the game? Don’t know the definition of terrible? I’ve got your back over at How To Write Terrible Poetry. Review it, read these rules, then enter:
- The topic is Resolutions. Maybe you’ve made some and can rap about it.
- For word limit, let’s keep it under 200 words and over 3.
- You don’t need to rhyme, but may if you’re so induced.
- Please, please, please make it terrible. I want everyone reading to make a New Year’s Resolution to never read terrible poetry again -till the following week.
- Keep it clean; like PG-ish.
You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (January 4, 2019) to submit.
I’m trying out this new-fangled submission form. Or, you can always leave your entry or a link to it in the comments.
“There is no such thing as a new idea. It is impossible. We simply take a lot of old ideas and put them into a sort of mental kaleidoscope. We give them a turn and they make new and curious combinations. We keep on turning and making new combinations indefinitely; but they are the same old pieces of colored glass that have been in use through all the ages.”
Paine, Albert Bigelow. Mark Twain, A Biography: The Personal and Literary Life of Samuel Langhorne Clemens (Source).
I remember when Harry Potter and the Sorceror’s Stone was first published. My former sixth grade teacher said to me, “There’s an excellent book that’s just come out on the market. You have to read it.” She has good taste, strong opinions, and more than a little experience with literature.
It was she who read our class The Turbulent Term of Tyke Tyler, The Log of the Ark, and The Wheel on the School. She allowed us to pick our own spelling words to be tested on and held us to a self-chosen monthly book-reading quota. In her classroom I read nearly every book on her shelves -and that’s saying something.
Knowing this, I read the book she recommended. I loved it. I read the others as they were released as well, pouncing upon them as soon as I could.
I know there are many to whom the series is not so impressive. My own husband has only read the first one. He and his sister began reading the second together, and he hated Dobby so much he hasn’t continued from there. One of my college English professors told us the Harry Potter books were only ‘good;’ not ‘great.’
I also know there are many to whom the series is life. They know the characters, creatures, spells, and trivia by heart. They know which floor of Hogwarts one might find: the Room of Requirement, Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, or the entrance to Slytherin’s common room. Those Potterheads’ greatest wish is that they will get a letter in the mail announcing them as accepted pupils to the greatest school of witchcraft and wizardry…
If I had been introduced to the series after its popularity, I’m not sure I’d be so fond of it. Hype and popularity ruin a thing for me.
Whether or not that’s the case, I will admit to falling more into the admirer category than the hater one. I’d love a wand and magic powers, yes; but much of my love for the series is Anglophilia. Blame my ancestry, perhaps. For that reason and the …insanity of the die-hard fans, I hesitate in admitting my affection.
So it is that, last night, I finally took an online quiz to determine which house I would be in. I did not get a song sung by a hat nor a voice in my ear; I instead answered a few questions regarding personality.
Out of curiosity, have you a guess to which I was assigned? I had. It wasn’t what I expected.
I definitely had two that I preferred not to be placed in. -Which is another thing I still do not understand about Potterheads. If you’ve read the series closely and if you are such fans, surely you would not want to publish to the world that you were placed in Hufflepuff. Right?
Everyone says Hufflepuff are a lot o’duffers. -Hagrid
Back to me. I’d like to think that I’d be sorted into Gryffindor. I’d like to think that maybe I’m less brave now because I have more self-preservation as part of being a mother, so that would be a possibility at the age of admittance (eleven years old).
But really, I was even quieter and more self-reserved then -unless someone ticked me off.
So I’m in Ravenclaw. ‘S probably right. And, that result’s better than the time I took the Which Disney character are you most like? at Disneyland and was given Maleficent.
“I really want to write something.”
“I know; I know. ‘So, write something.’ If only it were that easy.”
“It is. You just-”
“Just WRITE something. If it’s so easy, you do it.”
“Where is it?”
“Where is what?”
“Whatever it is that you wrote. Supposedly. I mean, you said that-”
“Oh, that. Yes, well, it’s …thing is…”
“Computer crash last week.”
“Yes. Tragic. I’d just finished up the 53rd chapter, too.”
“Fifty-three chapters?! Now I know you’re making this up.”
“Hmph. You’re just jealous because you can’t think of something to write.”
“Neither can you!”
“Of course I can. Didn’t you just hear that I wrote fifty-three chapters?”
“And J.K. Rowling’s agent. He said they wanted me to send off what I had.”
“Unfortunately, that e-mail also was lost in the crash.”
“Obviously….So, what were the fifty-plus chapters about? Hmmm?”
“Oh! Erm.. ah.. it was a fantasy novel.”
“Well, I can’t give everything away.”
“Sure, sure. Just tell me the synopsis you sent to Rowling’s agent, then.”
“I’m sure you’re not really interes-”
“Well.. it was a sort of ..hmm… a mashup of classic story lines. …You know: a bit of boy-coming-of-age meets a girl-who-discovers-she’s-magic story…”
“It’s true! Julieng –yes– Julieng is nearing adulthood and discovers a dragon egg buried beneath a red wall that …erm… Eil-ent -um- Eilent’s uncle built near her family’s cauldron on a pig farm and they must join forces to stop the ..evil …overlord who came back to life because of a ring.”
“Uh-huh. And the ring was lost behind a false wall ..erm.. in an upstairs room about a hundred years ago that ..uh… Jules’-
“Yes -Juleng.. Julieng’s stepbrother’s half-sister’s cousin made with magic powder that takes them between worlds. …I had a bit about a lion -or maybe a witch. -Hmmm, maybe it was a wardrobe-”
“Or, maybe it was a vanishing cabinet. I can’t exactly remember because that was back at the start of the book, see, and I was to the part where they …ah found Queen Guinevere with one of the knights..”
“That’s what? Hey -where ya going?”
“I thought you didn’t have anything to write …”
“I didn’t, but a recent conversation inspired me.”
“Yep. I just hope the publisher doesn’t think it’s too tame of an idea…”
“Well… you know what Abraham Lincoln said.”
“There is no such thing as a new idea. It is impossible. We simply take a lot of old ideas and put them into a sort of mental kaleidoscope…”
“Smart man, that Lincoln.”
“Yup. Like me.”
I am the fifth to admit that I overdo things. That’s better than last, mind you, though not as good as third might be.
I delude myself that I am simple, efficient, and practical. I only own a Pinterest account because I had a writing job that involved saving pictures for crafting articles. I eschew the latest fashion or home-decorating trend. My children receive rules and guidelines but no sort of life-planned-out Supermom schedule. And, despite being in this Stay At Home Mom profession for over a decade, I do a terrible job at housekeeping in general.
I’ve decided I’m trying to get fired -but that’s a side topic for another post.
Back to fifth place: I’ve had a busy two weeks. In fact, we need to go back at least three months because events then affected the crunch of now.
Not that I voluntarily hurt my tailbone in a really really really bad way. I did, however, schedule a surgery on November 6. I also neglected to remember that Thanksgiving was on the fourth Thursday and would therefore arrive not-too-long-after that surgery. Then, I forgot that we all usually attend The Festival of Trees… which precedes a holiday most of the world celebrates… and that led to a service project for the boys’ principal, an annual Christmas newsletter to be sent with cards, decorating for Christmas, a son’s birthday party (with a theme and guests), and cookie-making and distribution.
Congratulations on getting through that last paragraph. You can rest, here, with me.
Even though I do not re-label juice boxes for birthday themes, I tend to take on a lot at one time. I also have a high standard of perfection. Maybe I think things are more exciting that way?
I mean, I not only did everything in that too long; didn’t read paragraph, I also have been trying to uncover the house from the molding lump it degenerated into whilst I was recovering/ignoring it. Add shopping for presents and food, plus wrapping all the gifts for everyone, and my cup runneth over six feet below the surface of the well.
I mean… I spray-painted Costco milk boxes to look like Minecraft blocks. My Christmas newsletter was a paragraph for each of seven well-known poems, incorporating bits of A Visit from St. Nicholas AND news about each family member. My cookies were all from scratch.
Maybe I really am one of those Supermoms, just one who sometimes wears pajamas in public ’cause I love my comfort.
Maybe everyone overdoes his life, and it’s not just me.
…Tell me it’s not just me?
This week in review, because I’m taking tomorrow and the next day off. So, there!
Wednesday, December 19: Down-Home Marital Advice. What’s your take?
Thursday, December 20: The day my kids got out for Christmas Break. So… I got the days mixed up and posted The WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest. Congratulations to Molly and Gerard!
I also apologized for messing up, in The Most Sleep-Deprived Time of the Year.
Friday, December 21: Skinwalkers, XLVI.
Saturday, December 22: Christmas Cookie Limericks, terrible rhymes about my baking exploits.
Sunday, December 23: This post.
I also almost thought about planning on the possibility of catching up on my Reader’s Feed. If you see that I left a comment way back on December 12, then I finally have. My apologies if you’ve felt slighted in the meantime.
There once was a mom in the ‘burbs
Who thought, for her neighbors, to serve
A plate full of treats;
She filled cookie sheets
With stars, bars, and fudge squares superb.
Once baked, cooled; then frosted and stored,
The mom looked with pride at her hoard.
“Don’t eat them!” she warned;
Then, her advice, scorned –
Her snack-taking not aboveboard.
Thus laden with cookies in hand,
She followed her gifting program.
Though many, afraid
Of free calories, stayed
Inside while they spied from their door-cam.
They paused outside the door. “N. Reed; Pul,” Stone acknowledged, exiting just after they did. He continued past them and down the corridor. Nathan’s eyes adjusted to the lighting to watch the broad-shouldered man retreating and he realized the suspension drops’ influence had worn off. Worn off… Off… Something’s off… A thought struck him. Turning to Pul, Nathan exhaled and made a show of lightly stretching his shoulders and neck.
Pul chuckled. “That was some performance in there, Nathan Reed.”
Nathan stood up on his toes, continuing his casual pretense. “Thank you, Pul.” He stood flat again. “I thought I may as well fix six blemishes with one patch.”
Pul laughed again. “That you did.”
“Still,” Nathan continued, “I’d hate for you and the others to catch trouble for any damage or waste to that many materials.” He met Pul’s eyes and raised one brow. “I’d calm if I could see them delivered.”
He watched the expressive executive’s own eyebrows rise in surprise. Pul had clearly not thought of this possibility. “Oh! Oh, of course!” As Nathan desired, Pul then spun and reactivated the door behind them. His motions were more hurried than last time. Before the entry had pulled to the side completely, Pul was back inside the red-lit room. Nathan stood right behind him.
“Pul! What are you doing?” a familiar, shrill voice demanded. Nathan stepped to the side and saw just the woman he wished to, in just the position he suspected. Caill stood very near a work station in a stiff posture. Upon spying Nathan, her hands began twisting around each other.
Surprised, Pul cleared his throat. A jiff passed and he cleared it again.
Nathan moved around him and walked in Caill’s direction. “We returned to deliver the samples,” he said. “I thought you and your associates might want to ensure their safety.” Stopping a little over a meter away, he stared right at Caill’s eerily-shadowed face. “It would be a thick loss to Carapace otherwise.”
The proud and crafty woman, once a prowling wolf, seemed more an outlands rodent now. Her hands wound round and round, and she stepped back from him involuntarily.
“But, perhaps,” he said, and paused, “That is precisely what you were doing.”
“Oh!” Pul recovered. “Of course! That’s what you were doing, Caill.” He gave a nervous laugh and came forward as well. “Well, then -I guess we’ll help. Which stations have you packaged?”
Caill appeared to be trying to remember something, and Nathan suspected it to be how to think on her feet. “I… um,” she said. “I actually just got started.” She smiled at Pul; it looked painful.
“Right,” Pul responded. “Then I guess we’ll work on the last rows while you start where you’re at.”
The rabbit twitched her gaze from Nathan, to Pul, to her hands. She finally stilled her hands, sniffed at the air, and nodded. “O-of course.”
Nathan smiled and returned to assist Pul. Really, he thought, What other choice did Caill have?
My apologies. I just realized that I announced the ending and the winners of The Terrible Weekly Poetry Contest a day early.
The reason is that I thought today was Friday. I’m not sure which Friday because I am so exhausted lately it ought to be illegal for me to even run a washing machine.
Anyway; again, my apologies. No one pointed the mistake out, though, so maybe I’m not the only writer needing a long winter’s nap.
This all ties into something I meant to mention at my weekly wrap-up on Wednesday, which is that I will not be writing a Wilhelmina Winters nor Skinwalkers story next week. I will post the next Skinwalkers tomorrow, and keep the other days for whatever strikes my fancy.
I hope you all have a merry Christmas, especially if you do not read another message from me till after it’s all unwrapped and done.