A song on the radio can be a magical thing. What does hearing a certain song do to you? Which of your senses does it tweak? twangle? shiver? memory? another place? another time? experiences of your youth? All of the above personally.
For me, songs transport me in a variety of ways. Sometimes they make me go from a bad mood to a good one. Sometimes they make my mind journey back to a certain place in time. Evoking a memory or an experience. Simply because that song was playing then. Other times, they make me feel things deeply....as like when you hear a song that was in a movie, and you can see a scene in your head. I love when that happens.
Sadly... (yes I am masculine enough to admit it), the other morning the song from "Dirty Dancing" came on the radio... Ugh, I know. Well hold on a second. I had been in a blah kind of mood. Upon hearing the song, my imagination played scenes from the movie in my head. The scene where they are practicing in the dance studio. The scene learning lifts in the water. All the fun things that happened there. An estate up in the woods where rich people took their kids for the summer. And the whole crowd of workers and dancers and waiters that interacted with the kids there. All very interesting. I loved summer camp when I was a kid. The whole movie was a little out of my own summer camp's league, but still evokes some memories. As sappy as I consider the movie, I still love it. Nobody puts baby in a corner. :) After hearing the song, I was in a much better mood.
Songs are magical. Country songs have never been my favorite, although my parents subjected me to them all while growing up. However, the older I get, the more interesting the themes are that I find intertwined within country songs. I guess my experiences have caught up with some of those of country singers. Not all certainly... but some. They speak of some deep parts of life. I guess now I get it a little more. My parents were ahead of their time. I suppose.
The next best thing to escaping from the world is a good book for me. But hearing a song evokes and transports me to another time and place in my memories. Sometimes they make me smile, sometimes they make me sad. Either way, they make me feel alive. A memory that I hadn't thought of in a long time pops up out of nowhere, simply because of a song. Need I go into the whole thing of junior high dances... Nope, I think the blog is already long enough. Perhaps another day.
All very interesting for me the other morning. A new appreciation for music unearthed again. I had lost that feeling for awhile. (see..."you've lost that loving feeling") what's that make you think of? haha..
I've had the CD player on at home of late. And have been enjoying rediscovering my love of music.
Thanks. w.w.w.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Friday, September 23, 2011
Big W the eleventh - "Blogs are fun?"
I entered into the world of blogs for a couple reasons. To promote my books certainly was number one. The second reason was that I viewed a blog as a fun outlay of words and thoughts. A blog is a writer's canvas to be able to muse, vent, rant, and express their opinions. Quite an interesting public area where one's words can be viewed, commented on, castised, or loved.
I wrote one blog, Loving Deeply/Slowly. It is still my most viewed post. The comments and reactions to it promoted me to start writing a romance novel. Quite a switch for a guy who has written two mystery/detective books. Did I let my target audience sway me into writing a romance? I don't think so. To be honest, I think that the idea was already within my synapsis's.
I have learned a lot of lessons so far in blogging. Some personal, some professionally related to my future novels yet to be written. Stereotyping, even within one's own blog is bad. And good I suppose. Bad, because it is not how I am in my day to day life. So why does it come out in my words? Well, perhaps it is just because everyone out there has differnet opinions. Which is healthy. Good I suppose, in that a blog full of assertions, opinions, and even stereotypes fuels conversations, and actually gets people to view the blog. Many a writer has told me that you haven't 'made it' as an author until you start to get some negative reviews on your books. I'm not there yet, as all of my reviews are positive. I guess I have to be a little more controversial, or scathing, or something. But that's just not me.
I like learning lessons. It makes one grow as a person. Sappy I suppose, but true. I actually listen to those around me, and try to assimilate their opinions. Pulling sometimes valuable things out of conversations or thoughts. That's just me.
The romance book? Well, guilty pleasure or not. I am writing three times as fast in it as I ever have before while drafting my mystery novels. Who knows what will become of it, although I have been told that 50% of the readers out there read romance novels. Wow. quite a stat.
So... blogging is fun.... I find it a way to organzie my thoughts, goals, and center my focus. That is all cathartic. I actually deleted two posts that I wrote over the past week. They weren't good posts, in the simple matter that I wasn't proud of the writing. First time that's ever happened. But I know why. I had felt pressured to post something, anything, to keep the blog fresh. But really I didn't have anything worthwhile to say. My creative thoughts have been on writing of late. My book. Not my blog. Interesting lesson to learn with respect to blogging. Only blog when you have an entertaining series of thoughts that will invoke others to read all the way to the end. Food for thought.
In the future I doubt I will blog as much. I will do it for me. Not because I should post something. I have no desire to put my name to something that I am not proud of in the written word. The word 'proud' is an interesting one. I feel that it's my blog, my opinion. Yet, as a writer the prose should be written in such a creative manner that I'm proud of it. The pride similar to that when I received the first copy of my book, and looked upon the bright cover. The pride of knowing that someone who had read my first novel kept after me to write a second.
Lessons to be learned in life. Who knew blogs were so helpful...
w.w.w.
I wrote one blog, Loving Deeply/Slowly. It is still my most viewed post. The comments and reactions to it promoted me to start writing a romance novel. Quite a switch for a guy who has written two mystery/detective books. Did I let my target audience sway me into writing a romance? I don't think so. To be honest, I think that the idea was already within my synapsis's.
I have learned a lot of lessons so far in blogging. Some personal, some professionally related to my future novels yet to be written. Stereotyping, even within one's own blog is bad. And good I suppose. Bad, because it is not how I am in my day to day life. So why does it come out in my words? Well, perhaps it is just because everyone out there has differnet opinions. Which is healthy. Good I suppose, in that a blog full of assertions, opinions, and even stereotypes fuels conversations, and actually gets people to view the blog. Many a writer has told me that you haven't 'made it' as an author until you start to get some negative reviews on your books. I'm not there yet, as all of my reviews are positive. I guess I have to be a little more controversial, or scathing, or something. But that's just not me.
I like learning lessons. It makes one grow as a person. Sappy I suppose, but true. I actually listen to those around me, and try to assimilate their opinions. Pulling sometimes valuable things out of conversations or thoughts. That's just me.
The romance book? Well, guilty pleasure or not. I am writing three times as fast in it as I ever have before while drafting my mystery novels. Who knows what will become of it, although I have been told that 50% of the readers out there read romance novels. Wow. quite a stat.
So... blogging is fun.... I find it a way to organzie my thoughts, goals, and center my focus. That is all cathartic. I actually deleted two posts that I wrote over the past week. They weren't good posts, in the simple matter that I wasn't proud of the writing. First time that's ever happened. But I know why. I had felt pressured to post something, anything, to keep the blog fresh. But really I didn't have anything worthwhile to say. My creative thoughts have been on writing of late. My book. Not my blog. Interesting lesson to learn with respect to blogging. Only blog when you have an entertaining series of thoughts that will invoke others to read all the way to the end. Food for thought.
In the future I doubt I will blog as much. I will do it for me. Not because I should post something. I have no desire to put my name to something that I am not proud of in the written word. The word 'proud' is an interesting one. I feel that it's my blog, my opinion. Yet, as a writer the prose should be written in such a creative manner that I'm proud of it. The pride similar to that when I received the first copy of my book, and looked upon the bright cover. The pride of knowing that someone who had read my first novel kept after me to write a second.
Lessons to be learned in life. Who knew blogs were so helpful...
w.w.w.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Big W the tenth "Chpt 1&2 - A Home with no Roof"
Sneak Preview - First chapter and a half of "A Home with no Roof" Just released on amazon.com. Click on the blog title to go to amazon and download it to be further entertained!!! Much appreciated...
~~ 1 ~~
I know from whence I came, although I have no memories. In my unfinished home I accept visitors daily, although they are uninvited. I see everything and everyone around me, yet no one can see me. Flashbulbs sear my eyes every day, although I never have my picture taken. A grassy knoll creates a luxurious carpet in my living room, which is surrounded by stone archways that support no roof. I slink from my tunnel and gaze up into the open sky at night, when all the guests that visit my humble abode have departed. Music plays in my head, classical tones that should be soothing and calming although no peace exists within my tortured mind. I am continually at odds to discover and confront who I am.
Often times the music is so loud and intrusive that I have to beat my head continually against the stone wall to make it stop. I pass the really bad days secluded in a secret place where none of the visitors to my home can see me. A few times a month, not that I truly feel the passage of time, real music plays within the open walls of my home for a while. I do not invite the musicians into my home, although they play here for hours. This music seems to drown out the tortured tones issuing from within my synapses for awhile. The musicians are accompanied by numerous visitors to my home. Often a ceremony is held within the open walls of my living room although I don’t invite them to hold their court here. The sky above my home creates an artistic backup for the ceremonies. Very picturesque I think. The ceremonies appear to celebrate two figures, one clad all in white and the other all in black. I would rather wear black. When the ceremonies occur, it is a dangerous time for me. I hide in one of my many secret spots and spy on the intruders, trying to hold back the black thoughts that run through my head. The music played outside during the ceremonies eases the pain in my head. I never ask any of the visitors to stay and keep me company on days when it plays. Part of me knows that it would be too dangerous to do so. I don’t always listen to that voice; I try to, but it’s hard sometimes. It’s nice and quiet once they all leave. I like the quiet. Sometimes I also wish that I could have a radio in my home. It would be really nice to play what I want on the radio. When I hear a song I liked, I could turn it up loudly and sing along. It’s not always fun having a radio if other people always get to decide what plays on it. That’s what I think anyways. It would also be fun to have a bird. A cute little parrot. Repeating everything I said. Funny, but cute.
Lying on my back now, buffeted by the springy grass beneath me, I stare up at the sky in my living room. Tiny dots of bright searing brilliance litter the night sky above me. I like that the roof of my home was never finished, as I enjoy staring up and seeing the brilliant dots of light. At least I think I do. I ponder for a moment when she will come for me. I know that she will, but I don’t know when. Seven times a day I turn this thought over in my mind. Not six, or eight, but seven times every day I think of her, although I can’t visualize her face in my head. She will come for me, although I don’t know if she will be happy with my new home. Maybe she’ll want a roof over our heads. I wouldn’t want to finish the roof of my home, it’s perfect without one. This way we can lay back and stare up at the dots of light. Fun.
A flood of thoughts pulls me out of that place in my head where I go to think of her. As I return to the present, I can still feel the cool grass blades caressing my body. I know that when I arise there will be a depression of my shape remaining in the green carpet. I know that the depression will fade quickly as it always does, although I wish that it would stay there forever. I also bet that the back of my legs will have thin marks up and down them, where I laid on the grass blades. Those marks are neat.
Standing now, I stride toward the vaulted stone archway that leads to where I sleep. I’m not at all sleepy at the moment but I know that I have to attend to the visitor that I have staying with me now. She might be awake, although I doubt it as I hit her pretty hard on the head earlier before I left to roam out into the night. She has been with me for two days now. I took her after all the other visitors had left my home the other day. She wasn’t too smart to loiter around after everyone else had gone because that’s when I come out to play and find a special visitor to stay with me. They never say no, although they don’t get the chance to argue. I like having guests stay with me to keep me company. They don’t have much fun, but I do, so it’s okay.
~~ 2 ~~
Detective First-Grade Scott Mathias was enjoying his morning so far as he walked from police headquarters down to the immense cruise ship docked at port, butting up to the pier at Hamilton. Having been promoted up to First-Grade a couple months ago after solving a string of high level cases, Scott felt as if he was living life to the fullest. This morning it seemed as if the sun was shining down on his little part of the island solely in an effort to brighten his day. Everything seemed more colorful and brilliant today. The pastel colors on houses that he had passed a hundred times before seemed more vivid today for some reason. Scott’s new wife Lily had announced to him that she was pregnant last night and nothing could darken his mood today. He was so full of good thoughts this morning as his mind filled with joy at the wonderful times that he would have with a child of his own. Everyone that he knew kept telling him that he would make a great father and he was so looking forward to it. He felt that he was truly walking with his head up in the clouds today. Having met Lily last year during an intense bank theft case that he had been working, the two of them had been truly inseparable ever since. They had happily married about two months ago because they were truly in love and also so that Lily could stay on the island. She had only been on Bermuda on a graduate visa to engage in a work study program at the Bermuda Underwater Exploratory Institute (the BUEI). By getting married, she could now stay on the island as long as she wanted. Of course the paperwork involved had still been extremely daunting to complete.
Striding easily along the sidewalk teeming with tourists from the massive cruise ship, Scott weaved through the throngs of people. They were all hungrily seeking out good shopping spots and bringing large amounts of tourist money to the island. Scott smoothed his navy gabardine trousers with one hand, holding a cup of coffee in the other and crossed the street. His purposeful gait propelled his six foot two frame across the busy intersection of downtown Hamilton as he headed for the cruise ship. He could have easily given this morning’s task to one of the junior detectives, but he figured that it would be nice to get out in the sun, so he took the call himself to go and see what was amiss on the ship. Ruffling his hand through his dark brown hair, Scott looked up at the huge vessel dwarfing the pier against which it rested. All of the cruise ships had their own security personnel on board, but if something happened to a guest while they were out engaging in activities in town, then the local police were called in to provide their expertise. Having received just such a call about twenty minutes ago, Scott headed up the gang plank to find security officer Ron Jonas who had contacted them from the ship.
~~ 1 ~~
I know from whence I came, although I have no memories. In my unfinished home I accept visitors daily, although they are uninvited. I see everything and everyone around me, yet no one can see me. Flashbulbs sear my eyes every day, although I never have my picture taken. A grassy knoll creates a luxurious carpet in my living room, which is surrounded by stone archways that support no roof. I slink from my tunnel and gaze up into the open sky at night, when all the guests that visit my humble abode have departed. Music plays in my head, classical tones that should be soothing and calming although no peace exists within my tortured mind. I am continually at odds to discover and confront who I am.
Often times the music is so loud and intrusive that I have to beat my head continually against the stone wall to make it stop. I pass the really bad days secluded in a secret place where none of the visitors to my home can see me. A few times a month, not that I truly feel the passage of time, real music plays within the open walls of my home for a while. I do not invite the musicians into my home, although they play here for hours. This music seems to drown out the tortured tones issuing from within my synapses for awhile. The musicians are accompanied by numerous visitors to my home. Often a ceremony is held within the open walls of my living room although I don’t invite them to hold their court here. The sky above my home creates an artistic backup for the ceremonies. Very picturesque I think. The ceremonies appear to celebrate two figures, one clad all in white and the other all in black. I would rather wear black. When the ceremonies occur, it is a dangerous time for me. I hide in one of my many secret spots and spy on the intruders, trying to hold back the black thoughts that run through my head. The music played outside during the ceremonies eases the pain in my head. I never ask any of the visitors to stay and keep me company on days when it plays. Part of me knows that it would be too dangerous to do so. I don’t always listen to that voice; I try to, but it’s hard sometimes. It’s nice and quiet once they all leave. I like the quiet. Sometimes I also wish that I could have a radio in my home. It would be really nice to play what I want on the radio. When I hear a song I liked, I could turn it up loudly and sing along. It’s not always fun having a radio if other people always get to decide what plays on it. That’s what I think anyways. It would also be fun to have a bird. A cute little parrot. Repeating everything I said. Funny, but cute.
Lying on my back now, buffeted by the springy grass beneath me, I stare up at the sky in my living room. Tiny dots of bright searing brilliance litter the night sky above me. I like that the roof of my home was never finished, as I enjoy staring up and seeing the brilliant dots of light. At least I think I do. I ponder for a moment when she will come for me. I know that she will, but I don’t know when. Seven times a day I turn this thought over in my mind. Not six, or eight, but seven times every day I think of her, although I can’t visualize her face in my head. She will come for me, although I don’t know if she will be happy with my new home. Maybe she’ll want a roof over our heads. I wouldn’t want to finish the roof of my home, it’s perfect without one. This way we can lay back and stare up at the dots of light. Fun.
A flood of thoughts pulls me out of that place in my head where I go to think of her. As I return to the present, I can still feel the cool grass blades caressing my body. I know that when I arise there will be a depression of my shape remaining in the green carpet. I know that the depression will fade quickly as it always does, although I wish that it would stay there forever. I also bet that the back of my legs will have thin marks up and down them, where I laid on the grass blades. Those marks are neat.
Standing now, I stride toward the vaulted stone archway that leads to where I sleep. I’m not at all sleepy at the moment but I know that I have to attend to the visitor that I have staying with me now. She might be awake, although I doubt it as I hit her pretty hard on the head earlier before I left to roam out into the night. She has been with me for two days now. I took her after all the other visitors had left my home the other day. She wasn’t too smart to loiter around after everyone else had gone because that’s when I come out to play and find a special visitor to stay with me. They never say no, although they don’t get the chance to argue. I like having guests stay with me to keep me company. They don’t have much fun, but I do, so it’s okay.
~~ 2 ~~
Detective First-Grade Scott Mathias was enjoying his morning so far as he walked from police headquarters down to the immense cruise ship docked at port, butting up to the pier at Hamilton. Having been promoted up to First-Grade a couple months ago after solving a string of high level cases, Scott felt as if he was living life to the fullest. This morning it seemed as if the sun was shining down on his little part of the island solely in an effort to brighten his day. Everything seemed more colorful and brilliant today. The pastel colors on houses that he had passed a hundred times before seemed more vivid today for some reason. Scott’s new wife Lily had announced to him that she was pregnant last night and nothing could darken his mood today. He was so full of good thoughts this morning as his mind filled with joy at the wonderful times that he would have with a child of his own. Everyone that he knew kept telling him that he would make a great father and he was so looking forward to it. He felt that he was truly walking with his head up in the clouds today. Having met Lily last year during an intense bank theft case that he had been working, the two of them had been truly inseparable ever since. They had happily married about two months ago because they were truly in love and also so that Lily could stay on the island. She had only been on Bermuda on a graduate visa to engage in a work study program at the Bermuda Underwater Exploratory Institute (the BUEI). By getting married, she could now stay on the island as long as she wanted. Of course the paperwork involved had still been extremely daunting to complete.
Striding easily along the sidewalk teeming with tourists from the massive cruise ship, Scott weaved through the throngs of people. They were all hungrily seeking out good shopping spots and bringing large amounts of tourist money to the island. Scott smoothed his navy gabardine trousers with one hand, holding a cup of coffee in the other and crossed the street. His purposeful gait propelled his six foot two frame across the busy intersection of downtown Hamilton as he headed for the cruise ship. He could have easily given this morning’s task to one of the junior detectives, but he figured that it would be nice to get out in the sun, so he took the call himself to go and see what was amiss on the ship. Ruffling his hand through his dark brown hair, Scott looked up at the huge vessel dwarfing the pier against which it rested. All of the cruise ships had their own security personnel on board, but if something happened to a guest while they were out engaging in activities in town, then the local police were called in to provide their expertise. Having received just such a call about twenty minutes ago, Scott headed up the gang plank to find security officer Ron Jonas who had contacted them from the ship.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Big W the ninth - "Writer's Block"
Writer's Block.... Those two words speak volumes. Well, negative volumes for that matter. Lack thereof. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then those two words are void of thoughts, ideas, and any semblance of coherrent thought.
Picture a crew on a ship in the middle of the ocean. They have no wind. They are not going anywhere fast are they. A writer, with the BLOCK.... they're not going anywhere either.
It's been a troubling week. My mind feels like it's being pulled in a thousand different directions at once. Between a very demanding day-job (can't I make it as a writer soon and forget my day-job?--probably not), and an interesting personal life, all the social media out there, and everything I can not seem to focus my thoughts enough to sit down and write.
Even my blog has suffered. I haven't been able to write in days. So...what does any smart guy do? Write about how he can't write. At least... Get....the....words....flowing.... Write something.
I did do a guest post on someone else's blog this week. It actually took me a few tries to get it right, because I was so hurried and felt like my four arms were being pulled in different directions by horses galloping for the four corners of the earth. (Hey, nice image... the words are flowing now).
I haven't found time at home to sit down and write (see demaning, interesting personal life dilemmas).... I hate when that happens. I hate wasting hours in front of the television. But that's what you do when you can't focus your brain I suppose. I believe the term is 'vegging out.' Or simply trying to appease the other people in your house.
I can write... I've always been able to...
Have written poems when dating women my entire life. Am never at a loss of things to say. I actually crafted fun 'chapters' of a cute old couple to one woman I was dating back years ago. It was just as fun to write them as it was to hear how entertaining they were for the person to read. The joy was when on a slow Friday afternoon at work, they would write to me and say "hey, I'm bored and don't want to work anymore....Entertain me!!" Always my pleasure.
Women are better than Paris in the springtime. More enjoyable than sitting in a olden square in Florence sipping chianti and enjoying a plate of caprese. Anytime I have a woman to write about, the words seem to flow out of me. Why is that? So much to say? Or so many experiences to draw from?
I do get called to the mat once in awhile... One of my books has a scene in it where one of the characters uses her toes to pull off the man's boxers in an intimate scene. Sadly, someone I work with asked me if that was a real life experience. I simply blushed... Innocent little me.
So.... it has been good to write again... Thank you for listening (and hopefully enjoying) the rant.
I have decided to write a period based romance novel... And am very excited to begin it. It's different than anything that I've ever done, but I know I will be up to the task. The question is whether I'll be smiling the ENTIRE way through. Imagining what situations to put my characters in next. That, is the pleasure of writing. It's enjoyable and fun.
So... I'm off to start it. Right now. No excuses... Just fingers on the keyboard, and start. Go back and edit later... It doesn't have to be a work of art right out of the gate. That's what CP's are for. Valued as they are. To clean up the ramblings of a person who's mind works faster than his fingers can type.
Go write. Now.
Picture a crew on a ship in the middle of the ocean. They have no wind. They are not going anywhere fast are they. A writer, with the BLOCK.... they're not going anywhere either.
It's been a troubling week. My mind feels like it's being pulled in a thousand different directions at once. Between a very demanding day-job (can't I make it as a writer soon and forget my day-job?--probably not), and an interesting personal life, all the social media out there, and everything I can not seem to focus my thoughts enough to sit down and write.
Even my blog has suffered. I haven't been able to write in days. So...what does any smart guy do? Write about how he can't write. At least... Get....the....words....flowing.... Write something.
I did do a guest post on someone else's blog this week. It actually took me a few tries to get it right, because I was so hurried and felt like my four arms were being pulled in different directions by horses galloping for the four corners of the earth. (Hey, nice image... the words are flowing now).
I haven't found time at home to sit down and write (see demaning, interesting personal life dilemmas).... I hate when that happens. I hate wasting hours in front of the television. But that's what you do when you can't focus your brain I suppose. I believe the term is 'vegging out.' Or simply trying to appease the other people in your house.
I can write... I've always been able to...
Have written poems when dating women my entire life. Am never at a loss of things to say. I actually crafted fun 'chapters' of a cute old couple to one woman I was dating back years ago. It was just as fun to write them as it was to hear how entertaining they were for the person to read. The joy was when on a slow Friday afternoon at work, they would write to me and say "hey, I'm bored and don't want to work anymore....Entertain me!!" Always my pleasure.
Women are better than Paris in the springtime. More enjoyable than sitting in a olden square in Florence sipping chianti and enjoying a plate of caprese. Anytime I have a woman to write about, the words seem to flow out of me. Why is that? So much to say? Or so many experiences to draw from?
I do get called to the mat once in awhile... One of my books has a scene in it where one of the characters uses her toes to pull off the man's boxers in an intimate scene. Sadly, someone I work with asked me if that was a real life experience. I simply blushed... Innocent little me.
So.... it has been good to write again... Thank you for listening (and hopefully enjoying) the rant.
I have decided to write a period based romance novel... And am very excited to begin it. It's different than anything that I've ever done, but I know I will be up to the task. The question is whether I'll be smiling the ENTIRE way through. Imagining what situations to put my characters in next. That, is the pleasure of writing. It's enjoyable and fun.
So... I'm off to start it. Right now. No excuses... Just fingers on the keyboard, and start. Go back and edit later... It doesn't have to be a work of art right out of the gate. That's what CP's are for. Valued as they are. To clean up the ramblings of a person who's mind works faster than his fingers can type.
Go write. Now.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Big W the eight - "Henry the Eight I am"
I had to do it... Please don't shoot me.... Course, with a devilish grin I must admit that I looked forward to it.... in my Big W the "nth"... counting... I could see Big W the eight coming up soon... Images of an annoying, yet charming man in such and such a movie (can't admit to seeing it), walking around a bedroom chanting and chanting until he got his way.... charming? well at first.. then.. yes... annoying.
I'm Henry the 8th I am,
Henry the 8th I am, I am,
I got married to the widow next door,
She's been married 7 times before,
And every one was a Henry (Henry),
She wouldn't have a Willy or a Sam (no Sam)
I'm her 8th old man I Henry,
Henry the 8th I am
Second verse same as the first
I'm Henry the 8th I am,
Henry the 8th I am, I am,
I got married to the widow next door,
She's been married 7 times before,
And every one was a Henry (Henry),
She wouldn't have a Willy or a Sam (no Sam)
I'm her 8th old man I Henry,
Henry the 8th I am
Okay, I got that out of my system.... whew!!!
Has any man ever used such childish games to get a woman to do what he wants? Not a very effective means of communication... and perhaps during initial courting (just once), might be deemed as adorable.. (for a few verses).... but there are plenty of other ways to win a woman's heart.
The smile of any woman, gracing down upon you is more lovely than Paris in the Springtime....but if a man utilizes the silliness above, then please know that although you may get a smile, in her head the woman is pondering whether or not you are truly daft... (or worse, that she is daft to be in the same room with you).... so don't do it.
Devilish, sly little grin. Perhaps just once.
w.w.w.
I'm Henry the 8th I am,
Henry the 8th I am, I am,
I got married to the widow next door,
She's been married 7 times before,
And every one was a Henry (Henry),
She wouldn't have a Willy or a Sam (no Sam)
I'm her 8th old man I Henry,
Henry the 8th I am
Second verse same as the first
I'm Henry the 8th I am,
Henry the 8th I am, I am,
I got married to the widow next door,
She's been married 7 times before,
And every one was a Henry (Henry),
She wouldn't have a Willy or a Sam (no Sam)
I'm her 8th old man I Henry,
Henry the 8th I am
Okay, I got that out of my system.... whew!!!
Has any man ever used such childish games to get a woman to do what he wants? Not a very effective means of communication... and perhaps during initial courting (just once), might be deemed as adorable.. (for a few verses).... but there are plenty of other ways to win a woman's heart.
The smile of any woman, gracing down upon you is more lovely than Paris in the Springtime....but if a man utilizes the silliness above, then please know that although you may get a smile, in her head the woman is pondering whether or not you are truly daft... (or worse, that she is daft to be in the same room with you).... so don't do it.
Devilish, sly little grin. Perhaps just once.
w.w.w.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Big W the seventh - "I am Darcy"
I... Am....Darcy... Yes, I know, that is quite a bold statement. For those of you who have not read Jane Austen, or some of her fan-followers, it is even a meaningless statement. For those of you who have, please let me eleaborate...
No, I am not deluded into a fantasy of being Mr. Darcy. But the comparison is an enjoyable thought. First and foremost, his wealth exceeds my own by quite a measurable amount. I would like to have his resources, if for nothing else than to be able to purchase any sweet trinkets, adorned with rubies and diamonds for the love in my life at the top of a hat.
However... Sir Darcy and I have much in common. It is in the little things. A thirst for life, love and happiness. The hunt that he laid out for his true love, Elizabeth, leaving her cute notes to follow around the halls of Pemberly is something I would do. Extremely thoughtful and very endearing. I can picture the smile on Mrs. Darcy's face as she read each note and hurried along towards the following one. The ulimtate destination of her desires running through her mind, thoughts burgeoning upwards from within her very body.
His piercing eyes. Focused on what he wants, and what is important to him. I have been advised throughout my life that I likely have him beat on that point. A face that fully lights up, extending a twinkle of a smile up to the eyes and that takes over one's entire face is a very useful quality, especially during courting. Please look up 'melting' in the dictionary. Smile at that.
Mr. Darcy often has troubles expressing himself at first. As do I. Some deep introspection, and further thought as to his true feelings and emotions takes a little while for the Master of Pemberly to come to grips with. This is a troublesome quality, but also a deeply feeling one. He takes time to truly understand his feelings before expressing them in such a manner as to adequately make his true love understand his thoughts. Troublesome for Elizabeth at times as we read and follow along, the drama at miscommunication or misunderstanding vexing her greatly for a period. But all will be revealed in good time. A flighty, charming man such as Wickham can express himself (and tout himself) at the drop of a hat. But... his feelings should not be construed as a true reflection of himself. They are simply words. Whereas, Darcy's words reflect his mind, body, and soul poured forth in expression.
Physically, Darcy must be active. Much as myself. Oh, he truly loves to leisure, should the perfect set of circumstances present themselves. A lazing morning spent between the covers with his beloved is better than heaven on earth. Slowly, gently trickling his fingers whereever they will bestow the utmost pleasure. However, when inactivity builds up within, he must mount his horse (should his neather-regions allow) and gallop for the fences to burn off steam... I can fully understand this and my horse (my cannondale bicycle) has eaten up many miles of thought-provoking introspection.
Darcy is sweet and caring to those that he holds dear. But is viewed as somewhat aloof and better than others to whom he is not intimate. I have been labelled the same many times. Even receiving an 'arrogant' label once, which is personally so undeserved. But knowing Sir Darcy I can see how his countenance may be misconstrued. Life is short enough for all (especially in olden times), and the best way personally to go through life is by focusing on those dear to you. This could be better explained by a statement such as "being able to focus on the minutia important things, whilest not being distracted by larger troubles in life." Darcy manages a huge estate, but always has the time and energy left within him to devote to those dearest to him. I view this as one of his better qualities. Not allowing himself to be caught up and mentally downtrodden to such a degree as to make him unable to come home and greet his adorable bride with a face altering smile. And make her feel that the rest of the world disappears when she is near him. His focus is her. I strive to do this whenever possible, although life does at times get in the way. The continual realization of it is the important part I suppose, and will make one a better man
Virility... I will not even go there. Suffice to say, a gentleman should never share. But Wickham I am not. Darcy and I are cut from the same cloth. That is all I will say. The rest is your own imagination. Should you need further proof, read the 'loving..deeply..slowly' blog. Enough said.
Family. When pressed, Darcy defends, extolls, and savagely puts his heart into his family. Closeness to his Uncle George is an admirable quality for a maturing Master of Pemberly and is heartening to read about. I don't take offense to my person very easily, but if one messes with my family, please beware. My dear mother is infinitely important to me, and I take it upon myself to make it known to her what she means in my life. Again, life is too short. Share now with those whom you love, your feelings such as would occur to you if they were ever taken from your life too early.
Darcy is a better dresser than I... but I dare say that if I had attendants who would match the color of my cravat to the shade of dress worn by my beloved, I would welcome the symmetry and adornments of presenting a union matched not only in love, but in fashionable sense as well.
I could dither on for hours, but in summary.... All the men in the world should strive to pull some of Darcy's characteristics into their own personalities. If they did, the women around them would benefit and know that they are the most special and important part of that man's life. It is the little things gentleman... Grand gestures aside, by sharing feelings, emotions, and focusing on that relationship with all your being you will benefit from a life which is ungodly amazing and will repay your energies ten-fold. Darcy struggled to withhold himself enough soon after wedding his bride, and when he did, the pleasure that she attained was more special to him than anything he had experienced. There is truth in that.... simply giving is often more special than receiving. A tough lesson in this day and age, but one that has a universal, timeless truth.
No, I am not deluded into a fantasy of being Mr. Darcy. But the comparison is an enjoyable thought. First and foremost, his wealth exceeds my own by quite a measurable amount. I would like to have his resources, if for nothing else than to be able to purchase any sweet trinkets, adorned with rubies and diamonds for the love in my life at the top of a hat.
However... Sir Darcy and I have much in common. It is in the little things. A thirst for life, love and happiness. The hunt that he laid out for his true love, Elizabeth, leaving her cute notes to follow around the halls of Pemberly is something I would do. Extremely thoughtful and very endearing. I can picture the smile on Mrs. Darcy's face as she read each note and hurried along towards the following one. The ulimtate destination of her desires running through her mind, thoughts burgeoning upwards from within her very body.
His piercing eyes. Focused on what he wants, and what is important to him. I have been advised throughout my life that I likely have him beat on that point. A face that fully lights up, extending a twinkle of a smile up to the eyes and that takes over one's entire face is a very useful quality, especially during courting. Please look up 'melting' in the dictionary. Smile at that.
Mr. Darcy often has troubles expressing himself at first. As do I. Some deep introspection, and further thought as to his true feelings and emotions takes a little while for the Master of Pemberly to come to grips with. This is a troublesome quality, but also a deeply feeling one. He takes time to truly understand his feelings before expressing them in such a manner as to adequately make his true love understand his thoughts. Troublesome for Elizabeth at times as we read and follow along, the drama at miscommunication or misunderstanding vexing her greatly for a period. But all will be revealed in good time. A flighty, charming man such as Wickham can express himself (and tout himself) at the drop of a hat. But... his feelings should not be construed as a true reflection of himself. They are simply words. Whereas, Darcy's words reflect his mind, body, and soul poured forth in expression.
Physically, Darcy must be active. Much as myself. Oh, he truly loves to leisure, should the perfect set of circumstances present themselves. A lazing morning spent between the covers with his beloved is better than heaven on earth. Slowly, gently trickling his fingers whereever they will bestow the utmost pleasure. However, when inactivity builds up within, he must mount his horse (should his neather-regions allow) and gallop for the fences to burn off steam... I can fully understand this and my horse (my cannondale bicycle) has eaten up many miles of thought-provoking introspection.
Darcy is sweet and caring to those that he holds dear. But is viewed as somewhat aloof and better than others to whom he is not intimate. I have been labelled the same many times. Even receiving an 'arrogant' label once, which is personally so undeserved. But knowing Sir Darcy I can see how his countenance may be misconstrued. Life is short enough for all (especially in olden times), and the best way personally to go through life is by focusing on those dear to you. This could be better explained by a statement such as "being able to focus on the minutia important things, whilest not being distracted by larger troubles in life." Darcy manages a huge estate, but always has the time and energy left within him to devote to those dearest to him. I view this as one of his better qualities. Not allowing himself to be caught up and mentally downtrodden to such a degree as to make him unable to come home and greet his adorable bride with a face altering smile. And make her feel that the rest of the world disappears when she is near him. His focus is her. I strive to do this whenever possible, although life does at times get in the way. The continual realization of it is the important part I suppose, and will make one a better man
Virility... I will not even go there. Suffice to say, a gentleman should never share. But Wickham I am not. Darcy and I are cut from the same cloth. That is all I will say. The rest is your own imagination. Should you need further proof, read the 'loving..deeply..slowly' blog. Enough said.
Family. When pressed, Darcy defends, extolls, and savagely puts his heart into his family. Closeness to his Uncle George is an admirable quality for a maturing Master of Pemberly and is heartening to read about. I don't take offense to my person very easily, but if one messes with my family, please beware. My dear mother is infinitely important to me, and I take it upon myself to make it known to her what she means in my life. Again, life is too short. Share now with those whom you love, your feelings such as would occur to you if they were ever taken from your life too early.
Darcy is a better dresser than I... but I dare say that if I had attendants who would match the color of my cravat to the shade of dress worn by my beloved, I would welcome the symmetry and adornments of presenting a union matched not only in love, but in fashionable sense as well.
I could dither on for hours, but in summary.... All the men in the world should strive to pull some of Darcy's characteristics into their own personalities. If they did, the women around them would benefit and know that they are the most special and important part of that man's life. It is the little things gentleman... Grand gestures aside, by sharing feelings, emotions, and focusing on that relationship with all your being you will benefit from a life which is ungodly amazing and will repay your energies ten-fold. Darcy struggled to withhold himself enough soon after wedding his bride, and when he did, the pleasure that she attained was more special to him than anything he had experienced. There is truth in that.... simply giving is often more special than receiving. A tough lesson in this day and age, but one that has a universal, timeless truth.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Big W the sixth - "The Luncheons - Part 2"
Reaching forward with one dirty hand, Jimbo pushed aside a few of the soldiers from the camp. Poking a pudgy, dirty finger and digging with a mud-caked fingernail, he delved into the hole at the top of the sand mound. Trying to forage deeper to see where the congregation was, or how big their food store was, he dug. Striking the red brick underneath the sand mound he found nothing. Disgusted, Jimbo brushed the measly sand mound away, clearing the spot where it once stood. Underneath the site was about four or five big holes in the packed sand between the cracks in the brick. Way underground. Under even the bricks, there was probably a thriving community. Now that the mound was gone, the ants just plunged into the holes, bound for who knows where.
Getting to his feet, Jimbo made his way back over to the swing-set. Forgetting about the world of the ants, he got on the swing in the middle. Higher and higher he swung as he propelled his feet forwards and backwards. The swing-set was beginning to pull out of the ground when he went too high so it was time to abandon ship. Geronimo. Flying through the air, Jimbo jumped off the swing at mid-height. Coming down on his feet, his forward momentum propelled him to his hands and knees. Hard landing. Standing up and dusting himself off a little, Jimbo skipped to another part of his world, totally forgotten now were the ants and their lunch mission of the hot dog bun.
In the corner of the yard near the house was an old stump. The tree that had stood there had been sawed down by his dad’s trusty John Deere chainsaw. Because it was getting too close to the power lines he had said. Whatever those were. A favorite past time of Jimbo’s was peeling the bark off the stump. The old oak had tough brown bark that came off easily and was fun to play with. Sitting on top of the stump now, Jimbo picked at the sides of the stump, pulling off two good pieces of bark. Rubbing the two pieces together, small bits of bark got shaved off the big pieces. Very neat.
Something over on the other side of the stump suddenly caught Jimbo’s eye and the bark was momentarily forgotten. A Gardner snake was sneaking through the grass towards the stump. Slithering back and forth, the snake was moving quickly through the blades of grass. His pink, forked tongue darted in and out of his mouth as Jimbo watched him.
Jimbo wasn’t afraid of snakes. Ignorant was probably more like it. They just looked cool and moved quietly and were all in all, kinda neat. Getting down from the stump Jimbo moved silently over towards the snake. Sitting down on the ground, he watched as the snake finally reached his goal. Circling around the stump, the snake moved to a pile of bark where Jimbo had put it last week when he was done playing with it. Moving amongst the pike, the snake paused for a moment. He had green spots on his black back and was about a foot long. Wanting to pick him up, Jimbo moved a little closer to the snake. He stopped in his tracks just like the snake as they both saw something else in the bark. A little black bug moved out from under one of the pieces of old bark. It was probably nice and damp and dark under the bark, probably the roach’s home. The snake moved before Jimbo did, towards the bug. Jimbo just watched, as he sank to his knees to get a closer look.
The slithering predator moved in for the kill. The bug didn’t have a chance, the snake moved faster. Really fast. Jimbo watched on as the snake moved behind the bug, darted its head outwards and the bug was gone. Lunch. Jimbo was fascinated by the whole scene and watched as the snake settled amongst the bark to rest and relax. Jimbo decided not to pick up the snake because he didn’t want to interrupt its digestion. Nothing like a good nap after a good meal. Ohhhh, PB and J would hit the spot right now.
Forgetting about his sudden hunger urge and the snake he moved towards the white fence. The street lay beyond the fence. The forbidden territory, a place where no man ever goes. Without mom of course. Putting his hands on two of the pickets, he looked over the fence to the cars and the houses across the street. Everything looked so big, and unfamiliar. Wow. Two boys were playing hoop across the street, too much of a big boys game for Jimmy, outside of the living room toss that him and his dad enjoyed after dinner.
In the middle of the street lay a brown shape with a mixture of red in it. Craning his neck higher, Jimbo couldn’t quite make out the identity of the object. Cars flew by on the way home form the high school. Probably the football guys coming home after practice. That means that it’s almost five thirty. Wow, time flies when you’re having fun. Looking back to the object in the middle of the street, Jimbo now saw what it was. One of the cars must have hit it when they went by. The squirrel now stared at him just as Jimbo stared back. Red stuff was all over the squirrel’s legs. Neat. Road pizza had been the term that his older sister had used a few times. She had made an ugly sounding eeek! when she had seen a chipmunk squashed in the road last week.
While thinking all of this Jimbo hadn’t even seen the black crow swoop down towards the squirrel. Looking back now, he saw the crow peck into the squirrel searching for a tasty morsel. Gross. That’s disgusting, Jimbo thought as he moved back towards the stump. Grabbing a piece of bark from underneath the snake he hurried back to the fence. Seeing the bird still chewing away at its lunch, he hucked the bark towards it. The bird, unfazed by the bad throw continued to chow down on its snack. Going back for another piece of bark, Jimbo noticed that the snake was now gone. Slithered away now that digestion was all done. Taking a big piece, he went back to the fence. The bird, like the snake had vacated the scene. Eat and run. Jimbo looked at the remains of the squirrel and saw a few holes that were new. Placing the bark in between two white fence slats, he vowed to be ready if the crow returned to the street.
Getting a little tired now from all this running around he went back to the swing-set and sat in the swinging loveseat. His big sister and the little girl down the street’s big brother had married Jimbo and the little girl last week. Whatever married means. All the girl could talk about afterwards was something called divorce. Cool, maybe now she’ll come over more often. Sitting there swinging back and forth he looked back towards the walkway. No ants could be seen moving about but he kicked some sand in that direction anyway. The sun was beginning to move down behind the trees and he figured that it was time to go in. Before mom gets out the bell and rings it. Why doesn’t she just come out and say it’s time to come in. Or hold a PB and J sandwich out the window. I’d go in for that. Anyway, it must be near time to eat. Hunger, forgotten since the first PB and J, seemed on his mind for some reason. Licking his lips as he bounded the steps, Jimbo left his world, the yard, and everything in it until tomorrow.
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