Someone’s roots are showing, you grow, girl. I’m too late for Pun Day on May 15th and too early for Word Nerd Day January 9th. Treerrific, huh? ♦
It’s really encouraging and thrilling to hear something you haven’t heard in a long time.
Heard “my” kitty’s meow recently as well, she’s been distant as of late. This week finds her prowling about the grounds at last, hurrying to greet me once again. Turns out her name is…
It was late and I was nearly up the second flight of stairs the other night when I heard the bobo bell of a certain cat’s collar nearing. Then a door from the bottom floor opens and I hear the guy who lives there call out, “Ashley! Ashley! Hey, Aaashley, here, kitty.”
I’d imagine her a Hilda before an “Ashley.” She has a toughness about her that I enjoy because it makes the vulnerability she sometimes shows all the sweeter. I prefer to call her Ash. The name must be the doing of the guy’s overbearing mother I sometimes here bellowing from the sidewalk.
Bad-ish dreams- I’ve watched a ridiculous amount of filth in the last almost decade and I’ve always marveled that it doesn’t seep into my dreams. But now, I’ve had more disturbing dreams in the last six months than in six years. Just because it’s on film doesn’t mean I have to watch it. But I’ve wanted to, despite believing garbage in, garbage out, and that we become what we focus on. Must behave. At least I don’t keep it in my home, and the desire to participate in life more so than consume it from a screen grows ever stronger.
I wonder how long once successful social sites will stay online- Myspace, Flickr, etc. I’ve received an excess (!) number of emails concerning my dormant Photobucket account- so I reluctantly deleted all the images and the account itself to shut them up, to no avail. Still receiving an abundance of emails. Grumpola. If they’d just stay in the spam folder, that’d be greeeat.
When I use the same phraseology unintentionally (love to do so with intent) in almost back-to-back posts, it makes me cringe when I only spot it after the fact. “Solid excuse” being one phrase that just popped out at me currently. Others leapt at me too, but I’m not gonna compile a list.
I love when I’m out and about in my car, and I catch people pointing and saying “Slugbug”! Played that game religiously growing up. I wonder if people see my license plate and think I got the name wrong or that “Slugbug” wasn’t available so I just chose a similar name. Nay, nay! When I had my 1974 Super Beetle(s) in the past, I was snug in my Bug, and the name remains.
As with several posts in the past year, here lies some grumpage concerning my fellow inhabitants of earth. Putting it to “paper,” expunging it from my soul. There’s currently a hodge-podge of lovely people in life that act as supplemental acquaintances, but I hunger for a few core friends that really click with me.
People that care about expressing themselves through exterior means, that have style in their appearance and home.
That cook (well) and share it with others.
That know the value of delightful external trappings, but aren’t owned by all their stuff, and instead operate from a core of what really matters in life.
That fight to keep hatred out, and bickering to a minimum.
That know words are important, and don’t casually throw cussing around like salt.
I currently say ”what the f—?” under my breath waaay too much, and I loathe it.
I want those that are for me, not against me, that are happy for me when something good happens.
People that include me, and allow me to include them.
So tired of no-style athletic shoes, sports gear, talk of beer, wine, pot, and the next game. Repeat.
That’s not my life and I don’t wanna hear about it from others.
Where are the well-rounded folks with interests being explored, hearts shared, that value and invest in people rather than in the next collectible (heck, I love collectibles, but they’re not life).
I see examples of people seemingly more in sync with me everyday, but to find them in real life has been problematic. For those I do encounter, I’m not a curiosity to be explored nor an obligation to get to at some point. I’m not here to be their mother or a 24/7 cheerleader- frank truth with a side of tact versus enabling falsehoods are my style. I just want some sort of balance- we’re a spirit in a body with a soul- the mind, will, and emotions. God feeds my spirit, people feed my soul. This quote from the flick 20th Century Women, brings me dismay:
“So, sweetie, I don’t know if we ever figure our lives out, and the people who help you, they might not be who you thought or wanted. They might just be the people who show up.”
And then there’s art. It feels like I can do art OR have a life, but attempting both at the same time leaves me half-arsing both, spinning wheels, negating each other, and I move no farther forward. If one or the other would sort themselves out, systematize already, I could more purely focus on the other.
WHERE POWER LIES
I’m mad at the world for being takers, not givers, taking and taking and not giving much in return.
For being overly sensitive and complainy instead of shutting up and doing something.
Doing something begins right where they are- being kind to those around them.
In my anger, I become them, a cyclical battle I can recognize, but feel powerless to stop. And yet, only I can stop it. Strength for each new day and no more.
And of course, the not so juicy cherry on top- all my hopes, dreams, wishes and wants, fall flat in the face of this nuclear war crap attempting to cast a surreally dark shadow all too soon. I don’t delve deeply into the news these days- bias, fearmongering, unnecessary repetition- it’s folly, and too many take the bait, feeding a deceptive juggernaut. Despite my current lack though, I’ll continue to enjoy life and help those I can, whether for a day more, or thousands upon thousands. Always at the water’s edge. ♦
I like when I’m driving home in the dark and music comes on that makes it feel like it’s a noir flick. Like tonight. Sadly, the effect was short-lived- were I only granted special privilege to issue tickets to those that stop dead at roundabouts. On the noir note, watched The Third Man this past week, and was quite captivated by the marvelous and atypical zither score. Effectively eerie at times.
Got a nifty workbench for use with tools of the heftier variety (took a 3D design class years ago that took place in a shop filled with power tools and promptly fell for the jigsaw) that I intend to put together shortly.
Cranwinkle. Collecting Ediths, it’s a thing.
Roald Dahl has been on my radar as of late- the debut of a marvelous clothing collection inspired by his books and characters, the BFG movie we all had to watch because of Shane’s British childhood, and a viewing of The Witches last month (yay, Atkinson). Dahl had such fun with words- telly-telly bunkum box, radio squeaker, and hippodumplings, for three. I was busy Googling a comprehensive list of all the ones he’s ever mashly-mished, when wonderment happened: can I pop other seeds just like popcorn? Yes, apparently, but I’ll be sticking with the corn it looks like.
We understand with time and hindsight I’m always told, but that’s not applied to anything I’ve experienced in life really. I’ve been asking where did I go wrong- a quantity of one, a mere one, to choose and value me over any other, to be my family. All these years, gone, with no memories, nothing built, a clean heart in wait of another clean heart. ♦
@iamkidpresident Replying to @realDonaldTrump
You could’ve just said “Happy New Year.” Or nothing. Sometimes nothing is good too. ♦
I’m glad it didn’t try to shake hands.
Those are the words I jotted down recently knowing at the time exactly what they referred to. Key words being “at the time.” Now? Not a clue. I do know, these words followed other words, that of “jaunty poo” and “foam” of which I do remember the origin and hope to expand upon at some point. Was I perhaps glad that the jaunty poo didn’t try to shake hands? Must’ve been it.
Good golly, I love breakamafast. So much in fact, it needs more syllables just to contain all the good. Made some eggs this morning similar to these from last week. A slab of grilled bread under there sops up all the yokey goodness. Something called TryMe tiger sauce- a hot sauce with a sweetish sour kinda kick finishes it off. Meow.
But first, coffee. Despite four new teas, two cinnamon and two Earl Grey (gimme all your bergamot), coffee it was. Today, at least. With cinnamon.
I just watched a docuseries from several years ago, The Story of Film: An Odyssey, based on a book written by film critic Mark Cousins. He chose to narrate the work as well, over fifteen hours in length. His manner of narration added much to the feel of the series- his cadence and phrasing lulled me in, though reviews listed this as having turned off quite a few viewers.
I enjoyed much of the series, my eyes opened more to how a scene is framed, an action relayed. I often notice such things, but from a reactionary standpoint. The film helped me see it more through the eyes of a director, how the scene is initially thought up and then carried out. It showed the clear progression and evolution of film, the additions of angles and light, continuity and mood, and as they developed, the new techniques employed that allowed an even better telling of story.
Most enjoyable was the coverage of threads of similarity woven throughout different film periods. This director showed such ’n’ such an element at this angle and this director then emulated it. I was familiar with some, and with others, I wanted to ask if it was an intentional ode or appropriation of sorts by the director, or merely an observation by Cousins- he sought patterns and therefore found them. Maybe a bit of both? ♦
Over the years, my dad buys me random books from time to time. More often than not, art deco books. Not sure why he’s latched onto that particular interest of mine, but no complaints here. The largest read yet sits on a bench out in the living room beckoning with its beguiling ways in each pass by. And now with Christmas, I’m near drowning in nouveau words to digest. All kinds- The Good, the Bad, and Me, for one. Eli Wallach’s memoir. Several pages in already. Yes, there are worse things!
Like crispy Christmas trees. It’s like it dried out overnight. Literally, overnight. Supple, plucky needles making for lush branches yesterday, rendered brittle bits of bough destined for a dumpster, today. Still manages to smell divine though. Christmas has passed by far too quickly this year, I’m sad to see it go, and yet thrilled to feel such affection for all its facets once again! ♦
I know how this movie ends: with credits. ♦ #Stoobulating