Once upon a time there was a girl who spent most of her time alone. She lived with her parents; their best friends–a childless couple–lived next door. On weekends there were parties. Parties with all adults. The girl would go to the parties until an acceptable time which was bedtime and then she would go upstairs and read in her room, or colour, or play with her dolls. Occasionally one of the adults would come and say hello, but for the most part she spent her time making up stories in her head. In her imagination she had a life with many friends of her own. They would have parties most weekends and they would laugh and have serious discussions.
The girl didn’t mind being alone because even when she was with people, she would usually observe, listen, and let her imagination wander. She was a little jealous of her friends–her real friends–who had siblings, but she couldn’t really picture what it would be like never to be alone.
As she grew up she found that she liked people well enough. In high school she had a wonderful group of friends with whom she used to party. They’d sometimes skip school and drive to Niagara Falls just for fun.
But what comes around…
Now the girl is older and has a family of her own. She still has one of her old high school friends who she sees every day. She sits in her room and reads and imagines worlds in which people have parties with lots of friends, but now she has a computer on which she records her imaginings full of colourful adventures and happy endings. Stories that begin with “Once upon a time.”
It’s so much fun to be silly sometimes, isn’t it? Daft. I love the word, “daft.” It’s the third synonym of the list in my thesaurus. It conjures the image of Daffy Duck with his aweththome liththp and having his head blown upside down by a shotgun. It’s incomprehensible to me how they can sensor Bugs Bunny, and yet when I read it here it sorta makes sense.
But I didn’t grow up violent because I watched Loony Toons. The coyote never made me want to mail-order in a few sticks of TNT to blow up a bird. (I used to feel so sorry for the coyote. Especially when he put up that tiny umbrella just before a gigantic boulder landed on him.) I’m glad some of those old shows still exist though.
I often write absurd scenes, like the one on my fiction blog last night: click it. You know you want to. But I’m trying to think of the last time I actually did something silly when I was alone. Like skipping down the sidewalk instead of walking. Mostly I do these things with Alex. My neighbours must think I’m crazy sometimes, dancing in my kitchen or screaming back at him for fun. I know I get some strange looks when I make faces at him as we stroll through the mall. But these are my real pleasures in life. Being a kid again. Or at least acting like one. It’s very freeing.
Merciful is how I strive to live my life. When I consider the synonyms: Compassionate, forgiving, generous, kind and sympathetic among others, it just makes sense to me to try to be these things.
I’m not a Christian of any particular kind. I’m not even sure I believe in God, though I’m not adverse to the idea that there is more than we can see in the universe that is plain to our mortal senses. I don’t believe in the concept of karma as it relates to an eye for an eye. I believe in existence. I believe that it’s something we all have, whether we’re of this race or that, whether we’re human, animal, insect or herb. We are all equal in the fact that we live – we, all of us, affect one another in at least some small way. I also believe that we have choices in this life in how we exist. The sick can be happy – the healthy miserable. We can make the best of what we have to deal with, no matter what it is. Or we can dwell on that which is not ideal.
But what can we do for each other? If we all strove to ease one another’s existence, how wonderful would the world be? Yes, there would still be challenges; existence cannot be free of pain. Sometimes a smile, a helping hand, or a compassionate ear for someone who needs to talk things out can make all the difference.
I don’t need a God to tell me these things. I don’t need a proscribed belief system at all. I just need to be and to recognize that so does everyone else. Equally.
I am but a lowly member of society. Lower than a proletariat – I’m not even working-class. I’ve been judged for the way I look, the way I dress… or at least I suppose that is why I was judged. I resemble a plebe.
It was about 21 years ago. I’d just moved into my own house, miles away from where my mother was trying to sell hers so that she could be closer to me. Since I was already in the area, I was shopping around new subdivisions for her. For a while we were considering sharing a home–a big one–so I went to my local bank manager to see what I could get pre-approved for. He gave me a number and so out I went.
I walked into one sales office and was looking over floor plans. There were two sales people, a man and a woman; both smiled at me and let me look, which was fine I supposed. Then a couple walked in. Both sales people pounced. Now here was a sale!! I waited patiently for the other potential customers to leave and then finally I guess the sales lady got tired of seeing me there (or assumed if she didn’t talk to me I’d never leave – I might even scare away real buyers!) and came over to ask if she could help me.
“This one,” I said, pointing.
“Yes, that’s a very nice house. The second largest.” She smiled, humoring me.
“I’m thinking about buying one. Can I see your lot layout?”
She stared at me.
“I’ve been pre-approved for $250,000…”
Never seen anyone move so fast in my life.
I took the information and left. I didn’t go back.
Among the synonyms for lowly, are average, dutiful, humble, modest, and unpretentious.
There are also these: common, inferior, poor, submissive, and unassuming. Ah, how ironic.
What is the key to writing a successful blog? I had a comment on my Priorities post of Saturday which asked, Why do good bloggers always contemplate leaving.. (thank you Celona’s Blog). The truth is, I’m not really sure what it is that makes a “good blogger”.
Although one might argue that a blog is made up of its content, I don’t believe that’s all it is. I think it’s the amount of caring that goes into it. The grammar and spelling could be fair rather than excellent, the photos could be mediocre instead of professional, and the artwork may be less than fantastic, but if there is an abundance of passion, knowledge and love for whatever it is that a blogger does, others can see it.
The secret to producing a great blog is also the communication that goes on between the blogger and his or her audience. The very translation between the blogger’s life and how it relates to the experiences of the reader can make or break the connection that keeps the reader coming back.
As a noun, some of the synonyms of “key” are code, cue, interpretation, and solution. “Cue” is also an important answer to having a successful blog. When we cue responses we keep our readers engaged.
As an adjective we have influential, and leading. How do we influence and lead? With passion and caring.
Do you feel as though you have these things covered on your blog?
Well that worked out well. I don’t think I need to take a picture of my thesaurus this week to prove that “journalist” is in fact the second-last word on the left-hand page that I turned to… you trust me, right?
Honesty in journalism is something that’s apparently hard to come by these days. I don’t often listen to or read the news. I wish I had less going on in my life that I had the luxury to put other people’s and countries’ business closer to the top of my priority list, but it just ain’t happenin’. My mother was recently diagnosed with ‘mixed dementia’ which includes a touch of Alzheimer’s, and though I haven’t even properly researched what that means, I have been led to understand that the difference between dementia and Alzheimer’s Disease is attitude. Let’s just say she hasn’t been easy to deal with these past few years and it seems to be getting worse by the day. While she hasn’t displayed any of the outbursts you sometimes hear about, nor has she gone wandering (thank goodness) but I’m finding myself agreeing to being the stupid one (her term) more often than not to avoid arguments. I really do need to learn more about this disease.
So where was I? Oh yes, journalists. I can’t imagine myself as a journalist. I can’t interview someone to save my life, and I’m afraid that any reporting I did would end up more speculation and fiction than actual true story. I tend toward writing fiction – my imagination is probably one of the most prevalent parts of my personality.
Let’s see what synonyms we have here: hack. Yeah, that’d be me. Chronicler. Sounds painful. Oh Oh OH! Periodicalist! I like that word, though my spell check doesn’t. Let’s try using it in a sentence.
The periodicalist was found guilty of dangling participles. His sentence; to be reviewed…
Impermanence: what better way to explain life? It’s a wonder that the word impermanent even exists; nothing is permanent. Unless you’re talking about a hairdo of course. Hair spray only goes so far so if you want it to stay that way, you’re gonna need a perm.
But I digress. As I do. One of the synonyms for impermanent is “ephemeral.” It’s a word that’s stuck with me since the summer before I first went to high school. A group of people got together to do a stage production of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince, and somehow I got involved. We didn’t have a script, we just adapted the book. Quite brilliant for a bunch of high school kids when I think back.
Anyway, there was a line in the book, and in our play, that went, “That which is in danger of speedy disappearance,” as an explanation of what the word ephemeral means. The line was delivered to (not by) a boy named Charlie who later became a friend. We hung out together all through high school. He was in the foster care system and sometimes moved from place to place – for a while he lived at my house. He was the youngest of, if I remember correctly, four. All of his sisters had left home and had their own lives. His mother was schizophrenic.
After high school, Charlie went out on his own. He moved to Toronto and had several different jobs. Then we heard he’d been living in a tent. It came out later that he was schizophrenic, like his mother. He hung himself to death before his thirty-fifth birthday.
Charlie always struck me as someone who was ephemeral. From his frequent moves between foster parents, and his very upbringing, leaving his home and his sisters who were all unable to care for him, to finally his departure from life.
I used to be very much a horse person. I loved horses as a kid – wanted to spend all my time with horses, so I talked my parents into sending me to horse camp where I learned how to ride. I remember being assigned my horse at the beginning of the week – the one I would ride twice a day. Oh how happy I was when I finally graduated to the more high-spirited horses!
I began of course with the ones that just plodded along. The ones that give the rider the illusion that he or she is in control but in fact there is nuthin’ that’s gonna change that beast’s mind about following the horse-bum in front of it. I swear sometimes those kinds of horses are sleep walking.
Years later as an adult I went back to farm where I had formerly gone to camp and got a job taking out trail rides. The number one rule for guiding a trail is to watch the customers, meaning that as a guide, I’d spend three quarters of my time twisted around in the saddle facing forward but looking back. This includes while trotting and galloping. I remember my first trail – my God was I nervous! Nervous as in I didn’t have a single drop of spit in my mouth nervous. Riding backwards while running turned out to be the least of my worries that day.
You see, every once in a while we’d get a real ass (and I’m not talking about a donkey) go out for a ride. It was normally a young guy who wanted to show off to his friends how skilled he was on horseback. Invariably the ass had no idea what he was doing. Normally we could spot them 100 miles off and stick them on one of the aforementioned plodders. No problem, right? I got one of these guys my very first trail ride ever. And somehow he managed to do the one thing that would get a plodder’s attention.
We had on the farm a thing we called “the gallop strip.” It was a stretch of trail facing away from the barn (because if you gallop a horse in the direction of the barn it ain’t gonna stop) that nine times out of ten the more high-spirited horses would behave themselves on, and the plodders would get up to a trot… which was hilarious when we got one of our macho men on one, because he’d be bouncing all over the place totally out of control. Not so much on my first time out.
My macho man managed to hold his horse back through sheer brutality when everyone else started to run. Me, not being experienced, tried but failed to slow everyone else down (a lesson I quickly learned). So when the plodder, freaked out that his horsey friends’ bums had left without him, he finally bolted. The horse passed the trail line, passed me and took off for the barn. There I was screaming at the guy as he’s getting farther and farther away (with not an ounce of spit which was difficult) to pull back on the reins and stop squeezing with his feet which was what was making the horse go faster, I couldn’t chase him because the rest of my trail would chase me…
Needless to say I ended my first trail ride as a guide in tears. But, as they say, you’ve just got to dust yourself off and get right back on, right? I loved that job; I did it for about five years. And I’ve got a million stories to go with it.
So much for my letter of the alphabet today, eh? Oh wait – one of the synonyms for “high-spirited” is “dashing.” That works. 😀
Oooh, brrrr. Here’s a chilly subject. Appropriate considering we’re getting freezing rain here. Tiny little glaciers falling from the sky. The kind of weather that lifts your shoulders to your earlobes.
Speaking of cold shoulders, (what a segue, eh?) the first synonym in my thesaurus for glacial is antagonistic. Along those lines are also inimical (I absolutely cannot pronounce that word. Can you?) and unfriendly. This immediately brings trolls to my mind; the glacial denizens of the internet.
We’re all waiting to cross that bridge, aren’t we? If we haven’t already of course. That icy, slippery causeway to misery – commentary’s dip into a hostile Arctic abyss.
Or.
Just ignore them and they’ll go away.
The word, “glacial” also brings to mind my childhood and my favourite pasttime back then – figure skating. Although I practiced for eight years, I never did perfect the art of the axel. For those of you not too familiar, it’s a jump that involves taking off from a forward facing direction, spinning one and a half rotations (for a single axel) in the air and landing on the opposite foot facing the other direction. I simply didn’t have the guts to really give it 100% of my effort. I did enjoy coaching, though. Figure skating is one of those things that fits well into the adage, “those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.”
Up until now, the word “forefather” has always seemed a little redundant to me. Of course after I turned to it in my thesaurus as my word of the day, I looked it up to get a little more insight on what exactly it means, but in the past I was all like, “of course it’s a FOREfather. Can’t really be an AFTERfather, can it? Dad has to come first unless someone’s discovered the secret to time travel – and going down that road is just ewww…” *thinks of that episode of Futurama in which Fry discovers he’s his own grandfather* But now I’ve discovered it means every papa that came before dear ol’ dad it makes a little more sense.
I’ve never been much into family trees. I know I came from somewhere and while it would be nice to know whether or not I descend from royalty (my kids’ behaviour sometimes indicates that I actually may), since it doesn’t much help me one way or another I don’t really care enough to go delving. I understand there are cultures that are way into knowing where they come from and I think that’s very cool. Information like that, passed down through generations and not having to be discovered from scratch would be quite useful at times. Then again, finding out your predecessor was a dirty rotten scoundrel might be equally as disconcerting.
Before I sign off on this post I really REALLY have to mention one of the synonyms I found for “forefather.” I’m going to start using it any chance I get – it’s so cool. Ready?
PRIMOGENITOR
Seriously! Doesn’t it sound like some sort of awesome Transformer! Imagine, traveling back in time and meeting up with this ginormous dude made of space-aged plastic who bends down, and roars in a heavy, digitally enhanced bass, “I AM YOUR PRIMOGENITOR,” (with emphasis on the OR) and then picks you up and starts bouncing you on his knee.
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