Life in progress


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New Blog

In the interest of keeping my blog organized I finally went ahead and created a new one just for my fiction. I’ve been hungering to write more but I didn’t want this place to get cluttered.

I’m still organizing things, but I’m up and running at my new location: Get on my plate! Or I’ll eat you right now . Please come and check it out! There’s not much there at the moment except one post and my ‘about’, but I hope to get writing soon. 🙂

I will keep this blog for daily observations, parenting stuff and my life in progress.

Cheers all, and thanks for visiting!


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House of dreams

shadows

In my recurring dream there is a house. It can’t always be found. Sometimes it’s in the city, hidden like the one in Harry Potter, squeezed between two others, sometimes I can only find it from the back. Sometimes it’s a barn and sometimes it’s just a vacant old thing with beer bottles scattered everywhere. Sometimes it’s in the country, looking out over acres and acres of landscape through large picture windows on the upper floor. But always, it’s hard to find.

I’ve dreamed of it falling to ruin with years of neglect and transient beings and cats. I’ve dreamed of living in it and oh how grand it was, with huge sunlit rooms. Many times the rooms are hidden too. Or they will be one after another so that I have to go through one to get to the next. No privacy – never any privacy in this house. And it never quite belongs to me, but always I used to live there. And I want it back.

The house of my dreams is always sinister.

Last night I dreamed it burned. Not all the way to the ground, but there were holes in it and the damage to the upstairs was extensive. The people who owned it, with whom I was visiting, wanted to keep it but it was no longer safe. It made my throat hurt. It hurt my heart.

I want it back.


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Adventures on my Paper Route: Why did the hen cross the road?

Chicken’s eye view

So there I was, standing on the curb, waiting as I do every day to cross one of my town’s main thoroughfares. It’s not a particularly wide road, nor is the speed limit fast, but it’s busy enough that I have to wait most days. Today there was only one car coming, or so I thought. I was poised. I made the decision to cross.

Now, you know when your body is ready to move and suddenly you realise that maybe you shouldn’t let it? I didn’t see the other car. It wasn’t that close behind the one I did see, but it was close enough to make me hesitate. What it did was make me twitch. I had to make a split second choice. Stay or go. But my body was already in motion — so I ran!

Obviously I made it across the road — I’m here to talk about it. Had I been younger it would have been a little thrill. Since, however I’m at my age it was an adrenaline rush I’m still recovering from.

So why did the hen cross the road?

To feel like a spring chicken 🙂


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Private Thoughts, Private World – Part 3

How much is too much?

It has occurred to me, partially due to a comment on Private Thoughts, Private World – Part 2 that perhaps there is such a thing as too much. While we attempt to convey our thoughts and our world to our readers, we, at the same time, need to keep at least a modicum of our ideas private, or do we? How much of ourselves do we wish to divulge? It’s fun every once in a while to have someone we are close to point at us and say, ‘HA! I knew you were going to say that!’. But if that were to happen more than occasionally it would get tired after a while. Particularly if strangers began to do it to us.

In our time of having the freedom to receive instantaneous feedback on the internet we are given equally the opportunity to hand ourselves over to whomever wishes to place us under their microscope. And as we all know, not everyone will treat us with the delicacy we deserve as humans. I have to wonder if the modern masters of fiction thought of this when they began. They are so good at their craft that they allow us to see into their souls, but at what cost?

tied hands


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Adventures of my Paper Route

Image

The squirrels have been busy

It happens while we sleep. The squirrels — the most talented of them at least — sculpt likenesses of themselves around the neighbourhood.  Here are two kissing. They will be the skinny ones that have no time for nut gathering, just in case you’re wondering which ones to look out for.


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Haiku

Japanese doll

Gossamer Dream

Placed in morning light
Draped in gossamer wishes
I kneel to your pyre


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Shadow Art Sculptures by Diet Wiegman

This is brilliant! I had to re-blog 🙂

twistedsifter's avatarTwistedSifter

 

Diet Wiegman is a Dutch artist that uses a combination of sculpture and light to create fascinating shadow art projected onto walls. Born in 1944, he began experimenting with light sculptures in the 1980s, inspiring a generation of artists after him to also explore the art style (e.g., Tim Noble & Sue Webster, Kumi Yamashita).

For more artwork by Wiegman, be sure to check out his official site at dietwiegman.tumblr.com/ where you will find all of his light sculptures as well as drawings, paintings, photographs, ceramics and more.

[Alafoto via TruthSeerum]

 

 

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Artwork by Diet Wiegman

 

 

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Artwork by Diet Wiegman

 

 

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Artwork by Diet Wiegman

 

 

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Artwork by Diet Wiegman

 

 

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Artwork by Diet Wiegman

 

 

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Artwork by Diet Wiegman

 

 

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Artwork by Diet Wiegman

 

 

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Artwork by Diet Wiegman

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Private Thoughts, Private World – Part 2

Incomplete Thoughts

Is there such a thing as a complete thought? When, as writers, do we know our meaning has been entirely understood by our reader?  Is it possible to have entire understanding between two people? After all, there are only so many human experiences, just as there are a limited number of stories, written over and over again from different perspectives. But still, I think not.

It occurred to me that writing a thought is like taking a step. No matter how many times you think you’ve taken your last step, come to the end of your journey, there will always be another step to take until you die. Then all there is left is for someone else to attempt to interpret your life, your steps, your thoughts.

JnT2


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My Opinion

In the spirit of the weekend, and in honour of a very special friend (you know who you are) here is an opera-singing bunny.

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You’ll either love it or it will keep you away from my scotch.


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Epilogue Rich Boy

Spotlights shine down like mother’s sun. Father’s love comes after in the form of drugs and liquor. Relive, rich man.

 

On stage, man raises his hand to the shrieking crowd, awed with humility at his fans’ adoration. Grasping the microphone, he thinks of father rolling in his grave.

He sips water from a bottle and shakes the rest over his head, a momentary reprieve from the lights’ insulating heat. Layers of clothing hide scars he openly speaks of yet never reveals. He laments mother’s death with his lyrics and thousands cry for his loss.

Father’s legacy follows him doggedly. Later, alone, man will consume that for which he distances himself from his own offspring. Let the child have his mother.

The boy within bows, singing of the love engraved in his heart.
To go to the beginning of this series click here

Disclaimer: This series is an unauthorized, semi-fictional story, based in part on the author’s imagination.