I’ve struggled trying to think of something to talk about here, with you. Maybe you haven’t noticed my silent self sitting in your living room at the end of your sofa with a pillow tucked behind my achy back listening to your stories. You’re always so fascinating. I start to open my mouth and then clamp it shut suddenly shy and reluctant to share. Even a full-bodied glass of red wine can’t coax me to speak. Continue reading
Winter, which drags on like a ball and chain in Ottawa despite the good cheer of robins and red wing blackbirds, has been a pain in my hips. Prolonged sitting – or even brief sitting – brings sharp hot jabs to my derriere. Concentration is difficult so writing has been sporadic and targeted. Blogging, in case you hadn’t noticed my absence, has been difficult.
Look. I’m not complaining. I still have my teeth, all my limbs, and most of my faculties. Those I’m missing are bolstered by my long suffering spouse. Together we are one. Occasionally gas erupts unexpectedly but I have a dog at home and at work my chair has a squeaky wheel to blame. Plus, a well-timed loud toe-tap can sound remarkably like a fart.
Evenings, which formerly were devoted to you, your concerns and interests, I spend on a yoga mat attending to the lengthy physio exercises and stretching routine that will render me as limber and pain free as a puppy. I must persist. But overall, really, I’m fine. Just fine.
I’m telling you this not for your pity (though I’m not above that), but because I miss you, think of you often, and wish I could be with you more. Time, they say, heals all wounds. The pain in my ass will pass and I’ll be back.
In the meantime, meet Crystal Anderson. She’s new to blogosphere and is an enormously talented storyteller. Please drop into Crystal’s blog and say hello.
The dirty dog in dirty snow demands his due, despite my dragging derriere.
The food of my people was fried, gravied, stewed and jelloed. Don’t get me wrong. I liked it all, especially deep fried halibut. Continue reading
I’m taking today’s Just Jot It January prompt (silence) literally. Shhhh. I’m reading.
The weatherman warns
stay away from water.
All day the clouds shroud
in a way I had not considered
before I dyed
My head blends into land, water, sky
swathed in its uniform grey,
blue-grey, green-grey. Sky
churns, grumbles, low
clouds fill Scotch
Point for the
day. Continue reading
Never underestimate the power of a cane thrust directly at a strategic body part. Myra Tellingheusen via Twitter
One-liner Wednesday & Just Jot It January are like PB&J.
But you already knew that, didn’t you? Here’s what The Review Review said about my story “Anchor” which was published in edition 190 of The Antigonish Review or TAR as it is sometimes called.
TARs current edition – 191 – is entirely digital and they’re archiving all their previous journals. When 190 is up, I’ll let you know. I’d love for you to read the story, especially those of you who followed the saga of Harry Bittercress and Lady Smock. “Anchor” branches into the story of Rose Laine and her boyfriend, Derrick Fudge, told from the point of view of Rose’s mother, a recovering alcoholic.
Blogging made this story possible. The series about Lady Smock and Harry Bittercress sprung from another blogger’s post (A Tramp in the Woods) about wildflowers he encountered on his rambles in the New Forest in England. Harry Bittercress is a weed and Lady Smock, commonly known as a cuckoo flower, is a dainty pink, hairless perennial found mostly in Europe and Western Asia.
Thank you, fellow bloggers, for the daily inspiration and for launching my fiction writing.
With love and gratitude,
Do or do not. There is no try. – Yoda
Several times a month, I write a post for this blog whether I want to or not. Kind of like having sex after being married for 37 years. It can be a grind. It starts slowly, reluctantly even, then gradually it starts to work. The brain and body connect and everything starts to flow – blog-wise I’m talking. Well, sex-wise too I suppose. Continue reading
Cynthia Jobin, a blogging friend, passed away last month. I knew her voice through her poetry and generous, insightful comments on my blog and many others. Her comments bit sometimes too, and made me mad but those comments got me to look at my writing from a different viewpoint. She was honest – unreservedly so. I miss her presence.
At 7:00 this morning, as black turned to grey the colour of old long johns, a trio of Continue reading