Believe it or not, New Jersey has its own rodeo and it is quite popular. Rodeo is exciting family fun. Cowtown Rodeo, the oldest continuously running weekly rodeo in the United States, has several events each year that are part of The Professional Cowboys Association which lead to the National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas, Nevada.
When we went camping in South Jersey last summer, our entire family went to a Saturday night rodeo at Cowtown Rodeo, experiencing every American’s wild west fantasy. Bareback Bronc Riding, Calf Roping, Saddle Bronc Riding, Steer Wrestling, Bull Riding, Team Roping and Girls Barrel Racing kept the thrills coming. Imagine packing up, hooking the trailer to your pickup truck and heading to Las Vegas, Nevada, like an old-fashioned wagon train to see the culmination of the rodeo season.
Held at the Thomas & Mack Center, tickets for the ten-day event, held this year from December 2 – 11, 2010, sell out quickly. In doing some searches for this post, I found that they are already scarce. Team-One® has plenty of tickets still available at nfr-rodeo.com and when doing some comparison shopping, I found their prices to be in line with other sites and even cheaper than many. A secondary market ticket and travel broker, Team-One® has been in business for 31 years. While they do sell tickets above “face value,” they provide premium seating to sought-after events. From what I have researched, I would give them the opportunity to create another satisfied customer.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
One Single Impression - Insomnia
cold seeps into my veins thickeningmy limbs restless in over extended
exertion numb with thoughts unbidden
unceasing ramblings toss and turn
over wrinkled sheets of white pebbles
pocked and lumpy ticking tock
talking awake roused alert and
exhausted wide open mind
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Rose and Prince Brendan: Chapter 012 – Death and Defilement
The Rose and Prince Brendan story began with Quilly’s Three Word Thursday.
I continue with more archaic vocabulary.
Find the first eleven chapters at the Rose and Prince Brendan Blog.
The 3WT words for this week:
- amarulence, n. — bitterness, spite
- assectation , v. — act of following after something else
- defedate, v, — to defile, to pollute
Rose left the kitchens, muttering about the ridiculousness of someone refusing her help. She had forgotten the bad weather and that the sun had yet to rise. She plowed out into the rain, splashing mud.
Once in the center of the yard, she stopped and cursed her stupidity. Wet from head to toe and now dirty, too, she felt lost. She needed an occupation to dispel her mood and her feeling of uselessness. She slogged through the slush to the well by the barn. The least she could do was haul buckets of water to fill the trough. The rain would not be enough and she could pay Huard back for the deeds he had done to help her.
She pulled on the rope holding the bucket in the well. The Great Dane, Prince, approached her from around the corner of the building and stood behind her as if guarding her. She had forgotten about the big, black dog, but now thought of his protectiveness fondly.
As Rose brought up the first bucket of water and poured it into the stone basin, most her amarulence over being dismissed by Cook began to fade. When she dropped the bucket back in the well, the rest of her bitterness went with it. She began to hum to herself as she continued to work. She lost herself in her thoughts. The sun began to peek over the bailey walls.
A big, white horse came charging passed the well, taking Rose by surprise. Startled by the closeness of the beast and its wild ride past her, she barely moved quick enough to prevent being trampled. She fell into the trough.
The mud from her dirty feet defedated the water in the basin. The water would be spoiled until the dirt settled. It would be a long while as Rose thrashed in the water from the shock of falling in. By the time she hoisted herself into a sitting position with her head above the water, she heard the yelling of several men, a dog barking and horses neighing.
No one came to her aid.
Rose looked over her shoulder. She saw Prince being chased by a couple of knights, while Prince tried to bite a man sitting on the ground who was trying not to be trampled by the white horse. One of the knights grabbed the reins of the horse and pulled it away from the man on the ground. Complete chaos reigned. It increased as people from the kitchen came out to look.
One knight leveled a cross bow with a nocked arrow at Prince. The dog yelped as the arrow, let loose, grazed Prince’s left hip. The dog ran off as the assectation of another arrow occurred. A third arrow followed the second, glancing off of the barn wall.
The knight with the crossbow bent down to help the man on the ground rise. The knight held out a hand to him.
“Are you hurt, Prince Otho?” asked the knight.
Prince Otho stood. He grabbed the crossbow from the knight. He shot the white horse through the neck. The knight holding the horse’s reins barely had time to move before the animal dropped to the ground and legs kicking in the air.
“I want that dog found and killed,” said Prince Otho. He threw the crossbow and strode from the yard.
The sun breached the bailey walls.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Double Double
William Shakespeare (1564-1616) from Macbeth - Act IV, Scene 1
A dark Cave. In the middle, a Caldron boiling. Thunder.
Enter the three Witches.
1 WITCH. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd.
2 WITCH. Thrice and once, the hedge-pig whin'd.
3 WITCH. Harpier cries:—'tis time! 'tis time!
1 WITCH. Round about the caldron go;
In the poison'd entrails throw.—
Toad, that under cold stone,
Days and nights has thirty-one;
Swelter'd venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i' the charmed pot!
ALL. Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.
2 WITCH. Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,—
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
ALL. Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.
3 WITCH. Scale of dragon; tooth of wolf;
Witches' mummy; maw and gulf
Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark;
Root of hemlock digg'd i the dark;
Liver of blaspheming Jew;
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse;
Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips;
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,—
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger's chaudron,
For the ingrediants of our caldron.
ALL. Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.
2 WITCH. Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.
A dark Cave. In the middle, a Caldron boiling. Thunder.
Enter the three Witches.
1 WITCH. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd.
2 WITCH. Thrice and once, the hedge-pig whin'd.
3 WITCH. Harpier cries:—'tis time! 'tis time!
1 WITCH. Round about the caldron go;
In the poison'd entrails throw.—
Toad, that under cold stone,
Days and nights has thirty-one;
Swelter'd venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i' the charmed pot!
ALL. Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.
2 WITCH. Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,—
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
ALL. Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.
3 WITCH. Scale of dragon; tooth of wolf;
Witches' mummy; maw and gulf
Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark;
Root of hemlock digg'd i the dark;
Liver of blaspheming Jew;
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse;
Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips;
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,—
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger's chaudron,
For the ingrediants of our caldron.
ALL. Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.
2 WITCH. Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
RnPB Update
Rose and Prince Brendan –
Map of Kitchen and Garden Area with Barn
I moved the Rose and Prince Brendan story to its own blog. Eleven chapters so far. Another will be done this week.
You can find the story so far HERE.
Monday, February 22, 2010
imim – SiL Birthday Card
There once was a girl named Karen
We wondered how she was farin’.
She partied and danced
She laughed and pranced
“Life is great,” she’s declarin’.
Saturday was my sister-in-law’s birthday. I make cards for family along with very silly limericks.
These were for her.
Thank-you Thom from Thom’s Place 4 Well Whatever…
~ press the button ~
I was his 1000th comment in February.
I won a $15 gift certificate from Amazon for my Kindle.
Yeah, Baby!
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Dream
The Tenth Daughter of Memory is having a contest. There are nine muses (prompts) and you write something for each. All nine make up one whole story. This is the last part of the story.
The Muses so far and my contributions:
Dream
Sunrise. The light shines through the sheer green curtains into the bedroom, waking her. She stretches on Egyptian cotton sheets, yawns and throws back the blankets. She rises and breathes in the smell of fresh brewed coffee. She slips into black fuzzy slippers and pads out to the kitchen. After pouring a cup of coffee, black, she goes upstairs to her office.
She checks her email. She laughs at the amusing comments left by the wonderful readers of her blogs. After drinking several cups of coffee and checking the activity of the internets, she takes her grandson and the dog for an hour long walk. During their stroll through the neighborhood, she takes hundreds of photographs while the puppy marks every bush as his own and the baby coos at life. She waves to the old men in their yards and the children riding tricycles. They take their time. No need to rush.
Once back home, she brunches on an egg and tomato sandwich while listening to the messages from her agent about the latest of her books accepted for publication. The dog barks and bounces on the sofa to let her know the mailman has deposited post in her mailbox. She retrieves her royalty checks. The bills she tosses in the basket for her assistant to pay.
At eleven o’clock, she goes back upstairs to her office, lights a stick of spicy incense, puts flame to a cinnamon candle, presses play on the Gregorian chant CD, setting it to repeat and turns on the DVD player to run Pride and Prejudice with Jennifer Ehle and Collin Firth (six hours of old friends.)
She has eight uninterrupted hours of writing, planning, drawing, researching and writing. She plays with her dragons and crystal ball. She chooses a different flavor of incense. She makes up character names. She plans maps of new worlds with mountains and glacial streams. She paints a flower on the wall. She meditates or stares out the window at the red hawk in the tree across the street. She sips water and pops sunflower seeds. She writes.
At seven, she comes downstairs to a dinner scallops wrapped in bacon and grilled asparagus in the back garden with her husband. They dine while the birds sing and the breeze rustles the bamboo and billows the leaves of the sycamore trees. She sips a gin and tonic while he lights a bonfire in the pit and the moon and stars climb the velvet sky.
When comfortably relaxed, they retire at the end of a perfect day.
The Muses so far and my contributions:
- "A Random Memory" - Dark
- "Fear of Writing" - Dismal
- "An Ambiance of Technology" - Dam
- "Omitting Your Mistakes" - Design
- "Of Feral Mind and Carnal Heart" - Desires
- "Earnest Mockery" – Doodle
- "Shattered Mirrors" – Detour
- "This Business of Jupiter" - Delight
- "Infinite Possibility" – Dream
DreamSunrise. The light shines through the sheer green curtains into the bedroom, waking her. She stretches on Egyptian cotton sheets, yawns and throws back the blankets. She rises and breathes in the smell of fresh brewed coffee. She slips into black fuzzy slippers and pads out to the kitchen. After pouring a cup of coffee, black, she goes upstairs to her office.
She checks her email. She laughs at the amusing comments left by the wonderful readers of her blogs. After drinking several cups of coffee and checking the activity of the internets, she takes her grandson and the dog for an hour long walk. During their stroll through the neighborhood, she takes hundreds of photographs while the puppy marks every bush as his own and the baby coos at life. She waves to the old men in their yards and the children riding tricycles. They take their time. No need to rush.
Once back home, she brunches on an egg and tomato sandwich while listening to the messages from her agent about the latest of her books accepted for publication. The dog barks and bounces on the sofa to let her know the mailman has deposited post in her mailbox. She retrieves her royalty checks. The bills she tosses in the basket for her assistant to pay.
At eleven o’clock, she goes back upstairs to her office, lights a stick of spicy incense, puts flame to a cinnamon candle, presses play on the Gregorian chant CD, setting it to repeat and turns on the DVD player to run Pride and Prejudice with Jennifer Ehle and Collin Firth (six hours of old friends.)
She has eight uninterrupted hours of writing, planning, drawing, researching and writing. She plays with her dragons and crystal ball. She chooses a different flavor of incense. She makes up character names. She plans maps of new worlds with mountains and glacial streams. She paints a flower on the wall. She meditates or stares out the window at the red hawk in the tree across the street. She sips water and pops sunflower seeds. She writes.
At seven, she comes downstairs to a dinner scallops wrapped in bacon and grilled asparagus in the back garden with her husband. They dine while the birds sing and the breeze rustles the bamboo and billows the leaves of the sycamore trees. She sips a gin and tonic while he lights a bonfire in the pit and the moon and stars climb the velvet sky.
When comfortably relaxed, they retire at the end of a perfect day.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Delight
The Tenth Daughter of Memory is having a contest. There are nine muses (prompts) and you write something for each. All nine make up one whole story.
The Muses so far and my contributions:
Delight
Her Father loves her.
He has given her abundant chances and choices to find her way in the world. Even though she stumbles through life without a clue most of the time, she has ample opportunities to keep trying, again and again.
She does appreciate the rarity of it.
She is always looking beyond or behind where she is now. Never grounded in the moment. She is using those words again. The ones that leave no wiggle room. Never. Always. They should be stricken from her vocabulary.
She has a vision of the way her life should be.
She walks outside. The air is crisp and sweet and fresh. The sky is large and deep as only a clean sky can be. She feels the particles of life as part of her. She is the air. She is the sunshine. She is the sky. And they are she. She wants to cry from the pure joy of it. She does cry. Fat happy tears that wash her soul clean so she can keep going for another eon. She hungers for the feeling morning, noon and night.
She searches for that perfect moment.
It's in the smile of a baby while she waits in line at Walmart. It's in the glint of light reflecting from the melting snow. It's in the sound of a melody from a song she's heard a million times but today it sounds different. It's in the taste of a ripe strawberry as she chases the juice that runs down her chin so that she can have it all. It's in the smell of leather and spice on a man who walks by and glances at her with perfect green eyes.
She clings to the memory of perfection.
It's in the writing. When she has despaired of ever writing a coherent sentence again. When she deletes hundreds of words because they are not worthy of being flushed down a toilet. When she just knows - she just knows - her words are not even good enough to be called horrid because they lack any sort of emotion. That is when she no longer hears the sounds of the cars driving by. Her vision turns inward. Her heart bursts with the bright ecstasy of being the words. It no longer matters what the words are because she is the words and the words are she and she feels one with the All and her Father loves her because once again she's felt the gift.
By Jove, her Father loves her.
The Muses so far and my contributions:
- "A Random Memory" - Dark
- "Fear of Writing" - Dismal
- "An Ambiance of Technology" - Dam
- "Omitting Your Mistakes" - Design
- "Of Feral Mind and Carnal Heart" - Desires
- "Earnest Mockery" – Doodle
- "Shattered Mirrors" – Detour
- "This Business of Jupiter" - Delight
- "Infinite Possibility" – Dream
DelightHer Father loves her.
He has given her abundant chances and choices to find her way in the world. Even though she stumbles through life without a clue most of the time, she has ample opportunities to keep trying, again and again.
She does appreciate the rarity of it.
She is always looking beyond or behind where she is now. Never grounded in the moment. She is using those words again. The ones that leave no wiggle room. Never. Always. They should be stricken from her vocabulary.
She has a vision of the way her life should be.
She walks outside. The air is crisp and sweet and fresh. The sky is large and deep as only a clean sky can be. She feels the particles of life as part of her. She is the air. She is the sunshine. She is the sky. And they are she. She wants to cry from the pure joy of it. She does cry. Fat happy tears that wash her soul clean so she can keep going for another eon. She hungers for the feeling morning, noon and night.
She searches for that perfect moment.
It's in the smile of a baby while she waits in line at Walmart. It's in the glint of light reflecting from the melting snow. It's in the sound of a melody from a song she's heard a million times but today it sounds different. It's in the taste of a ripe strawberry as she chases the juice that runs down her chin so that she can have it all. It's in the smell of leather and spice on a man who walks by and glances at her with perfect green eyes.
She clings to the memory of perfection.
It's in the writing. When she has despaired of ever writing a coherent sentence again. When she deletes hundreds of words because they are not worthy of being flushed down a toilet. When she just knows - she just knows - her words are not even good enough to be called horrid because they lack any sort of emotion. That is when she no longer hears the sounds of the cars driving by. Her vision turns inward. Her heart bursts with the bright ecstasy of being the words. It no longer matters what the words are because she is the words and the words are she and she feels one with the All and her Father loves her because once again she's felt the gift.
By Jove, her Father loves her.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Detour
The Tenth Daughter of Memory is having a contest. There are nine muses (prompts) and you write something for each. All nine make up one whole story.
The Muses so far and my contributions:
Detour
When she was three, she spent hours writing in the sand. Bees buzzed around her head as she sat under the tall, thin pines. She swirled her stick in the white grains, creating dark furrows of meaningful patterns.
< DETOUR AHEAD >
When she was four, she made mud pies. Wet dirt squished between her fingers and toes. She smoothed the surface of the brown liquid earth. She sat the confections on rocks to dry in the warm sun.
At nineteen, she learned how to make pottery. She threw clay onto a spinning wheel, fingers and hands molding and shaping to produce a balance, graceful container. She used wires, sponges, ribs and boxwood tools to finish and decorate each piece. She painted each piece with mysterious glazes that added depth and shine once they were cooked in the kiln.
When she was six, she learned to dance the hula. Her hands spoke as she swayed her grass skirted hips. She danced with other girls in a snaking line on a spotlighted stage.
At twenty-four, she managed a gentlemen’s club. She hired dancers, listened to their Pretty Woman stories and watched as the reality of their lives melted the celluloid dreams they chased.
When she was nine, she took apart her brother’s toy cars. She removed the wheels from the axles, slid the doors from their pins and took out the back seats.
At twenty-five, she rebuilt carburetors on a 1963 corvette redesigned for drag racing. She beaded brushed aluminum for interior panels. She rolled extra wide tires onto racks built into the trailer used to haul the car to the track.
When she was twelve, she drove the family car around the mall parking lot. She cruised wide open spaces on Sunday afternoons when the stores were closed. She negotiated the vehicle between two shopping carts.
At twenty-seven, she drove a tractor and trailer across the country. She spoke on the CB Radio, good buddy, and was serenaded by big rig cowboys singing Sinatra. She froze in Wichita and brazened a hurricane in New York City.
When she was fifteen, she took in a stray cat. She brought the cat into her home and begged it to stay. She tolerated the scratches and bites of the semi-feral feline. She accepted the gifted dead mice left under her bed.
At twenty-nine, she had a child. She gestated a planned surprise. She created her greatest joy and her anchor in life. She birthed her salvation.
When she was sixteen, she took her first job. She went to work because that's what you did. She joined the paycheck chasers. She became one more cog in the machine.
At thirty, she settled down to one career. She joined a firm and stayed and stayed and stayed. She stayed through the different and she stayed through the same. She stayed through the mind sucking boredom. She stayed until she knew she could stay no longer and live.
< DETOUR OVER >
At forty-seven, she started a blog and wrote.
The Muses so far and my contributions:
- "A Random Memory" - Dark
- "Fear of Writing" - Dismal
- "An Ambiance of Technology" - Dam
- "Omitting Your Mistakes" - Design
- "Of Feral Mind and Carnal Heart" - Desires
- "Earnest Mockery" – Doodle
- "Shattered Mirrors" – Detour
- "This Business of Jupiter" - Delight
- "Infinite Possibility" – Dream
Detour When she was three, she spent hours writing in the sand. Bees buzzed around her head as she sat under the tall, thin pines. She swirled her stick in the white grains, creating dark furrows of meaningful patterns.
< DETOUR AHEAD >
When she was four, she made mud pies. Wet dirt squished between her fingers and toes. She smoothed the surface of the brown liquid earth. She sat the confections on rocks to dry in the warm sun.
At nineteen, she learned how to make pottery. She threw clay onto a spinning wheel, fingers and hands molding and shaping to produce a balance, graceful container. She used wires, sponges, ribs and boxwood tools to finish and decorate each piece. She painted each piece with mysterious glazes that added depth and shine once they were cooked in the kiln.
When she was six, she learned to dance the hula. Her hands spoke as she swayed her grass skirted hips. She danced with other girls in a snaking line on a spotlighted stage.
At twenty-four, she managed a gentlemen’s club. She hired dancers, listened to their Pretty Woman stories and watched as the reality of their lives melted the celluloid dreams they chased.
When she was nine, she took apart her brother’s toy cars. She removed the wheels from the axles, slid the doors from their pins and took out the back seats.
At twenty-five, she rebuilt carburetors on a 1963 corvette redesigned for drag racing. She beaded brushed aluminum for interior panels. She rolled extra wide tires onto racks built into the trailer used to haul the car to the track.
When she was twelve, she drove the family car around the mall parking lot. She cruised wide open spaces on Sunday afternoons when the stores were closed. She negotiated the vehicle between two shopping carts.
At twenty-seven, she drove a tractor and trailer across the country. She spoke on the CB Radio, good buddy, and was serenaded by big rig cowboys singing Sinatra. She froze in Wichita and brazened a hurricane in New York City.
When she was fifteen, she took in a stray cat. She brought the cat into her home and begged it to stay. She tolerated the scratches and bites of the semi-feral feline. She accepted the gifted dead mice left under her bed.
At twenty-nine, she had a child. She gestated a planned surprise. She created her greatest joy and her anchor in life. She birthed her salvation.
When she was sixteen, she took her first job. She went to work because that's what you did. She joined the paycheck chasers. She became one more cog in the machine.
At thirty, she settled down to one career. She joined a firm and stayed and stayed and stayed. She stayed through the different and she stayed through the same. She stayed through the mind sucking boredom. She stayed until she knew she could stay no longer and live.
< DETOUR OVER >
At forty-seven, she started a blog and wrote.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Doodle
The Tenth Daughter of Memory is having a contest. There are nine muses (prompts) and you write something for each. All nine make up one whole story.
The Muses so far and my contributions:
- "A Random Memory" - Dark
- "Fear of Writing" - Dismal
- "An Ambiance of Technology" - Dam
- "Omitting Your Mistakes" - Design
- "Of Feral Mind and Carnal Heart" - Desires
- "Earnest Mockery" – Doodle (to deceive, or a foolish or silly person)
- "Shattered Mirrors" – Detour
- "This Business of Jupiter" - Delight
- "Infinite Possibility" - Dream
DoodleDressed in somber black from head to toe, her white bread face fooled them all. She became a master at hiding all of the good stuff.
People hovered around her light like night time bugs to an open flame. Trouble was that while the attraction was there, most tried to dampen the light with buckets of water or cover it with a rusted old tin can.
They wanted to be around the her. They waited to hear what she said. They watched to see what she would come up with next. They usually had quite a wait because she concealed herself from them, playing hide and seek with them. Their nerves on edge, their curiosity aroused, they kept after her until she gifted them with odd behavior that made them feel secure in their normalness.
She had decided to be with them but never became of them. They belonged to her and despite never quite fitting in, she couldn't and wouldn't leave them. She kept her life with them in a box, wrapped in a calm blue hue that never offended except for those times when they needed a distraction. This box never touched her other boxes and they did not know of the existence of her other boxes. She hid her special boxes in a closet, buried under coats and scarves and shoes, camouflaged from their eyes by the ordinary, by her self-imposed, anti-social mask.
When no one looked, she hauled out her secret containers and tossed the contents into the air like gossamer scarves blown in the wind. She tripped out on her own to other worlds to visit musicians that jumped and gyrated on smoke filled stages, costumed actors cavorting with pierced and leashed spectators, juried painters covered in oil and rainbow colors and beatnik poets reciting in parks for change. She watched the sun rise on the Winter Solstice, collecting ocean water in green glass bottles. She collected handmade knives, danced with Colombian Indians and sipped wine with bikers.
"How was your weekend?"
"Fine."
"What did you do?"
"Nothing much."
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Sensational Haiku Wednesday - Renovation
Renovation
cold winds lift red tiles
to fall and break on black ice
shattering cover
up above our heads
open crisp blue sky revealed
tossing wisps of hair
nets hold back debris
block out seeping alfresco
until the new roof
If you would like to sign a Guest Book for Dr. John
to be presented to his wife, Betty,
please visit Thom for all of the information and how-to's.
Click HERE
Wordless @ The “other” Chrysalis Stage
Monday, February 15, 2010
Good Bye, Dr. John
It was with great sadness that I learned of the news of Dr. John’s passing. My deepest sympathy to his wife, Betty, and the family he loved so much. You are all in my prayers.
Dr. John was a great story teller. He loved poetry, puns and jokes. He played with words like a child with a new toy. I loved reading Pastor John’s Sunday sermons. He witnessed his faith with a kind certainty. He was a true man of God.
The dragons are crying.
Condolences can be left at Betty's blog.
There will be no other post on Tuesday in Dr. John's memory.
Condolences can be left at Betty's blog.
There will be no other post on Tuesday in Dr. John's memory.
Desires
The Tenth Daughter of Memory is having a contest. There are nine muses (prompts) and you write something for each. All nine make up one whole story.
The Muses so far and my contributions:
Desires
Combing the fingers of her left hand into her hair, she grabbed a handful and pulled. The slight tingling of her scalp woke her up, making her more alert. Eleven forty-seven. Thirteen minutes to midnight. A slight unease over the total irresponsibility of her choice to stay up so late floated across her mind, quickly banished in favor of continuing on a impassioned project. She wrote late in to the night refusing to listen to the voice that reminded her that five am came quickly the longer she put off sleep. Tomorrow would be soon enough for the regret of lost rest.
She would be quiet and moody at work. She would mechanically process the tasks she needed to do to get through to the end of the work day. In between the various jobs she did with half a mind because of years of repetition, she thought of characters in a world existing in her mind like the dusty world of the Who.
Rivers of cold deep mountain waters flowed into villages surrounded by tall evergreen trees. Green iridescent dragons played hide and seek with pink and blue butterflies. Mothers sang lullabies to children eating wispy cotton candy. A man in a black cape with a hood pulled over his beard stubbled face snuck through the alley ways looking for a soul he could steal so his magic became stronger. The heroine with long curly, auburn hair waved to friends while picking apples, unaware that her life would soon be changed forever.
She jotted notes on scraps of paper, surreptitiously stuffing the bits into her briefcase to remind her later of that great animal she just invented with eyes the color of dull mud and feet the shape and size of divers’ flippers.
A wizard spoke in her ear during a meeting about implementing a policy that had been in place for twelve years. The bald man, smelling of witch hazel and cloves whispered of more important, more urgent matters. Her voice spoke all of the correct phrases while her imagination listened closely for the spells conjured by the old alchemist, willing him to change her into gold, molten, hot, flowing and priceless.
She would burn. She would run wild and naked through sun drenched fields of wild flowers. She would gnaw on the raw meat of her desires and take in the vital energy to sustain her beyond a mundane world that threatened to crush out the breath of enthusiasm. She would drop from the highest cliff and free fall into a swirling whirlpool of her unknown future.
The Muses so far and my contributions:
- "A Random Memory" - Dark
- "Fear of Writing" - Dismal
- "An Ambiance of Technology" - Dam
- "Omitting Your Mistakes" - Design
- "Of Feral Mind and Carnal Heart" - Desires
- "Earnest Mockery" – Doodle (to deceive, or a foolish or silly person)
- "Shattered Mirrors" – Detour
- "This Business of Jupiter" - Delight
- "Infinite Possibility" - Dream
Desires Combing the fingers of her left hand into her hair, she grabbed a handful and pulled. The slight tingling of her scalp woke her up, making her more alert. Eleven forty-seven. Thirteen minutes to midnight. A slight unease over the total irresponsibility of her choice to stay up so late floated across her mind, quickly banished in favor of continuing on a impassioned project. She wrote late in to the night refusing to listen to the voice that reminded her that five am came quickly the longer she put off sleep. Tomorrow would be soon enough for the regret of lost rest.
She would be quiet and moody at work. She would mechanically process the tasks she needed to do to get through to the end of the work day. In between the various jobs she did with half a mind because of years of repetition, she thought of characters in a world existing in her mind like the dusty world of the Who.
Rivers of cold deep mountain waters flowed into villages surrounded by tall evergreen trees. Green iridescent dragons played hide and seek with pink and blue butterflies. Mothers sang lullabies to children eating wispy cotton candy. A man in a black cape with a hood pulled over his beard stubbled face snuck through the alley ways looking for a soul he could steal so his magic became stronger. The heroine with long curly, auburn hair waved to friends while picking apples, unaware that her life would soon be changed forever.
She jotted notes on scraps of paper, surreptitiously stuffing the bits into her briefcase to remind her later of that great animal she just invented with eyes the color of dull mud and feet the shape and size of divers’ flippers.
A wizard spoke in her ear during a meeting about implementing a policy that had been in place for twelve years. The bald man, smelling of witch hazel and cloves whispered of more important, more urgent matters. Her voice spoke all of the correct phrases while her imagination listened closely for the spells conjured by the old alchemist, willing him to change her into gold, molten, hot, flowing and priceless.
She would burn. She would run wild and naked through sun drenched fields of wild flowers. She would gnaw on the raw meat of her desires and take in the vital energy to sustain her beyond a mundane world that threatened to crush out the breath of enthusiasm. She would drop from the highest cliff and free fall into a swirling whirlpool of her unknown future.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Happy Februa
If you do not wish to celebrate Valentine's Day, perhaps you'd prefer the eve of Februa. As I'm sure you've guessed, we got the name of the month of February from this ancient Sabine festival of cleansing. Sabines were an ancient people of central Italy, conquered and assimilated by the Romans in 290 BC.
This festival was associated with the beginning of Spring and had to do with purging, cleansing with water and Spring rains. The Latin word itself may have had an Etruscan origin.
Etruscans were a group of people also from central Italy, who ruled Rome until 509 BC when the Romans expelled them from the city and conquered them. Many of the things we consider Roman, such as frescoes, are actually Etruscan in origin.
In Roman and earlier Etruscan mythology, Februus was the god of the dead and purification. Sacrifices were made at this time of year to atone for sins.
Februa became included and confused with the Roman festival of Lupercalia. They were initially the same kind of celebration but once the Romans took over, the festival celebration for this time of year became one of merriment and kinky sexual play.
During the festival of Lupercalia, men run around wiping people, especially women, with goat-skin thongs called februa (purifiers) to bring fertility and an easy childbirth.
In 494 AD, Pope Gelasius I introduced Candlemas or the Feast of the Purification of the Virgin Mary to try to stop the pagan festival, which was still very popular.
Tom’s wife, from Tom & Icy fame, was born today.
Happy Birthday, Red!
A frequent visitor here who likes to remain mysterious,
would like us all to consider helping the children of Haiti by visiting
The Universal Learning Centre's Website and doing what you can.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Design
The Tenth Daughter of Memory is having a contest. There are nine muses (prompts) and you write something for each. All nine make up one whole story.
The Muses so far and my contributions:
Design
Fighting The Voices in your head is a battle of epic proportions. The Voices come from one source but they mutate into individuals with Herculean powers that mere mortals have trouble conquering. They must be taken out one by one, head on, without sympathy for their death struggles. Compassion must never be felt, no quarter can be given. The Voices do not fight fair. They know every dirty trick in the book and never fail to use them to maintain the status quo.
The key to killing The Voices is strategy. Become a general in the greatest war of your life.
Begin by spying on The Voices and describe as many of the key players as possible. Become aware of the layout in your head and how The Voices navigate through their habitat.
Once you know some of the individual personalities that make up The Voices, it is time to divide and conquer. Give them names. This makes them more real, less frightening and creates an anchor word to help demolish them.
Choose one. Start watching for him in your everyday life and activities. Depict how he looks and talks and what he says. Make notes about him in your journal, dissecting every aspect of his being. Watch for the situations when he shows up. Identify his favorite haunts.
Keep in mind that he is a lie, a false impression, an error of belief that was shoved into your thinking and being by an outsider. He became entrenched because you didn't know better at the time. He was introduced by someone you trusted. Acknowledge the good intentions involved. But all things must be kept in perspective. What may have been valid once upon a time or in a specific situation, became obsolete and useless once you grew and learned and reached maturity. Make your own decisions and choices. Let go. Comfortable leads to stagnation.
Replace the dangerous voice with a new, more appropriate one. Choose one to refute the old one. Choose an opposite thought. Choose one that leads you in the direction you want to go. Concentrate on eradicating one aspect. When he rears his ugly head, attack with aggression and without mercy.
Wipe out what is no longer useful to you. You are in control. Design the terrain in your brain to shape a world that you want to inhabit, wiping out the slums of useless and harmful thoughts that keep you stuck in misery and poverty.
The Muses so far and my contributions:
- "A Random Memory" - Dark
- "Fear of Writing" - Dismal
- "An Ambiance of Technology" - Dam
- "Omitting Your Mistakes" - Design
- "Of Feral Mind and Carnal Heart" - Desires
- "Earnest Mockery" – Doodle (to deceive, or a foolish or silly person)
- "Shattered Mirrors" – Detour
- "This Business of Jupiter" - Delight
- "Infinite Possibility" – Dream
Design
Fighting The Voices in your head is a battle of epic proportions. The Voices come from one source but they mutate into individuals with Herculean powers that mere mortals have trouble conquering. They must be taken out one by one, head on, without sympathy for their death struggles. Compassion must never be felt, no quarter can be given. The Voices do not fight fair. They know every dirty trick in the book and never fail to use them to maintain the status quo.
The key to killing The Voices is strategy. Become a general in the greatest war of your life.
Begin by spying on The Voices and describe as many of the key players as possible. Become aware of the layout in your head and how The Voices navigate through their habitat.
Once you know some of the individual personalities that make up The Voices, it is time to divide and conquer. Give them names. This makes them more real, less frightening and creates an anchor word to help demolish them.
Choose one. Start watching for him in your everyday life and activities. Depict how he looks and talks and what he says. Make notes about him in your journal, dissecting every aspect of his being. Watch for the situations when he shows up. Identify his favorite haunts.
Keep in mind that he is a lie, a false impression, an error of belief that was shoved into your thinking and being by an outsider. He became entrenched because you didn't know better at the time. He was introduced by someone you trusted. Acknowledge the good intentions involved. But all things must be kept in perspective. What may have been valid once upon a time or in a specific situation, became obsolete and useless once you grew and learned and reached maturity. Make your own decisions and choices. Let go. Comfortable leads to stagnation.
Replace the dangerous voice with a new, more appropriate one. Choose one to refute the old one. Choose an opposite thought. Choose one that leads you in the direction you want to go. Concentrate on eradicating one aspect. When he rears his ugly head, attack with aggression and without mercy.
Wipe out what is no longer useful to you. You are in control. Design the terrain in your brain to shape a world that you want to inhabit, wiping out the slums of useless and harmful thoughts that keep you stuck in misery and poverty.
Golden Future
The best investment I ever made was marrying my husband. The simple gold bands we wear are worth more than their weight but certainly put us both on the path to varied and abundant riches.
My husband and I found each other in our late thirties. Neither of us had been married before. We both lived moment to moment, having carefree fun. When we got together, we decided to put down roots and build a more comfortable future.
While it's true that this is a sponsored post, it is also true that we are considering investing in gold. We have been looking to buy gold online and have been reviewing Goldline International, Inc. Gold seems like a solid form of wealth, so we will being doing our research and considering this company which has been in business for fifty years.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Take Advantage of the Current Real Estate Tax Benefit
Do you yearn for a little cottage with a white picket fence? Does a rambling ranch strike your fancy? Are you perhaps interested in a sophisticated condo in a stylish city?
My daughter and son-in-law want to buy a home of their own in a quaint suburban neighborhood. It is a dream shared by many people. We Americans do not feel complete unless we can own property.
If, like my children, you are considering buying a house, try to do it soon. Right now, there is a Real Estate Tax Benefit to buying a house that should not be missed, if you qualify.
The Homebuyer Tax Credits have been extended into 2010. They have been expanded to include not just first time purchasers, but also people have not owned a home in the last three (3) years and those who have owned a house for the last five (5) years but want to move on to a new house.
Coldwell Banker has an easy to understand informational page that outlines those who qualify for The 2010 Homebuyer Tax Credits. The page includes the deadline dates and income limits you must meet to take advantage of this program. They have also put together this short video that highlights this tax benefit.
My daughter and son-in-law want to buy a home of their own in a quaint suburban neighborhood. It is a dream shared by many people. We Americans do not feel complete unless we can own property.
If, like my children, you are considering buying a house, try to do it soon. Right now, there is a Real Estate Tax Benefit to buying a house that should not be missed, if you qualify.
The Homebuyer Tax Credits have been extended into 2010. They have been expanded to include not just first time purchasers, but also people have not owned a home in the last three (3) years and those who have owned a house for the last five (5) years but want to move on to a new house.
Coldwell Banker has an easy to understand informational page that outlines those who qualify for The 2010 Homebuyer Tax Credits. The page includes the deadline dates and income limits you must meet to take advantage of this program. They have also put together this short video that highlights this tax benefit.
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