Checking Out

You crowd are a bloody disgrace!

You’ve kept me out of my bed when I should’ve been trying to catch up on all the sleep I’m missing due to feckin’ Vitamin D levels in the toilet again.

But do you hear me complaining of aching limbs and sleep deprivation? No. (You would if you were here right enough. #Shut the fuck up, mother!)

I’m heading for the hay having achieved one goal tonight. Yasss! 1000 posts in 16 months. Blogging and depleted Vitamin D was where I came in. I can’t half talk shite. #sooner or later, before, after, whatevers.

I’ll miss you my darlings for all of a month unless my ability to achieve the goal I set tonight is made manifest in the longer one of Nano.

I’m probably talking #shite here. Because, knowing me, I’ll be back before you can say Twitter. And there’s always Facebook if I’m desperate.

I’ve almost finished a bottle of wine. By myself. And I’m feeeeeeling gooood. Hic!

Van Helsing was a wash out, btw. Might salivate over Australia tomorrow. 2000 words allowing. ;) x

Edit Yass!

post-milestone-1000-1x     :)

#Fuck!

The shakes are beginning!

I’m starting to quake.

No more blogging!

I feel like a flake,

Imagining a world where here I feel I belong

Yet, denying its presence to sing my own song.

Can’t do this, I’m sweating (although I’m quite cool ;) )

I’m raring and ready but shit what a fool

I’ll feel, if I start this and fall at first fence.

Guess I won’t know lest I try, my defence,

Believing and dreaming that maybe the might

Is not quite so distant as seen at first sight.

2000 I’m sorted! Better than Twitter,

I’m a talker, a writer (sic), I’m not bitter,

To try and not muster is better supposin’

I fail, nope won’t hear that, I try, I prevail.

I’m waffling, excuse me, I’ll miss you like hell.

That’s part motivation so I’ll be back just to tell

The tale of the author who talks and who tried.

Luck wished between us. Feck, I’m so fried!

Nah! I’m not worried. I know you’re forgivin’,

I’ve read you all here and you’re all blessed from heaven.

You get it, you know it, I know that you do,

It’s a drive born among us, I feel it like you.

I can’t do the Twitter though I’ll be tempted if words

Fail me in novel, I’ll just twoot #absurd.

One more this evening I think that’s the score.

Waffling for Scotland #Independence #once more. ;)

Well, you didn’t imagine that my freedom had gone to hell, did you?

#No chance.  On till all the dreams are realised. Feck, missed a hashtag there somewhere. #bollocks!

 

Lovin’ This, btw

I’ve obviously confused WP with Twitter. Why else would I be filling you in on random thoughts? ( And, I ask you, 140 characters and sometimes that amount’s already there if you want to retweet. What’s that about?!) FB’s slightly better but I’m among friends here whereas I don’t know half the feckers who follow me on FB. Mostly, it’s political. I don’t know a fair few feckers here either. But, it feels like home.

So, I was having a night off tonight from all techy, bloggy stuff. Lasted about as long as Brief Encounter. What a movie, bar the jawries in the gubs. So, she’s gone home to hubby and now Bette Midler has got her falsers in and is gonna sing, ‘I put a spell on you’. And Hugh has yet to come. Pardon the expression. So I have that to look forward to.

I’d forgotten that blobbing in front of the telly could be quite so enjoyable. If only I could stop talking.

Thing is, I start Nanowrimo tomorrow. Got to clean out my office now that two further fledglings have flown the coop. Mucky feckers. Seriously. It’ll be thon time tomorrow before I write my first two thousand words.

I don’t see the word count as a problem per se. I have a slightly garrulous gene factor going on here. I’m about 4, I think it is, away from 1000 posts in the time that I’ve been here.  ( 16 months). I wouldn’t normally think that’s a problem. If you’re a talker, you’re a talker. Even if the words are just written.

Factoring in reblogs, I’ve talked for around 900 posts. That’s a rough guess. I can’t be arsed checking.

Soooo,

I’m enjoying the telly, going to continue the dream tomorrow of actually writing and finishing, albeit in rough format, a novel. (I’m not counting the fallow collection I’d be embarrassed to show.)

Lots of words.

As far as I know WP doesn’t have an app or widget to do a word count on accumulated posts. And maybe that’s just as well. Some may have to be categorised as pure shite. Who wants that in their inventory? Not I. At least, not until the final edit. Then god can have a say.

Point of this post? If there is one. Apart from reaching 1000 (including others’ reblogs).

I have a lovely core of followers, a number who bear no significance to the number that shows in stats. What a steaming pile that is in the big pile of shite that statistics is. No offence to carpet salesmen everywhere. Or that ilk.

But those who are here are lovely. They really are. They give me a sort of fuzzy glow. I don’t need accolades from them. I love popping into their lives through this medium. I’ve made connections that matter to me.

Now, one of the things that I’ve noticed – maybe you have too – is that reblogs don’t always do justice to the purpose of the reblog. I mean, do you reblog shite? No, of course not. Not unless it’s your own. But, those faithful, who like the smell of your shite ( is that a fetish, btw?) will still mostly only read your shite rather than someone else’s. I do it too. I followed you. Not who you fancy. Except, I’ve met a fair few worthy bloggers through reading reblogs from those whose opinion and judgement matter to me.

So, I guess this is an invitation.

If I already follow you or you follow me and I don’t follow you. (And I know there’s a fair few of those. Sorry, but I can’t keep up!) Or, if you think you’d like to introduce yourself to my peeps (‘cos chances are, if they like my shit they’ll like yours), I’d rather see my blog in use than let it fall into disrepair.

I have my fingers crossed that I can do 2000 a day before I allow myself the pleasure of blogging here. They’re not crossed because I’m lying- we don’t do that here- not the lying, the fingers crossed for that purpose. Fingers crossed here is for luck. And I guess I’ll need my share of that to achieve the aim. Live the dream. Gene factor included.

I won’t blog here unless I’ve done the equivalent of 2000 words a day. I figure that’s motivation for me. Carrots and sticks in operation.

If you’d like to meet my lovely people and put your words to them I’m one email away. And my blog is yours. Unless I write 2000 words a day. Which case, tough shit. ;)

Now, I think I have four more posts to go before the 1000. Is that embarrassing? I need someone to tell me this shit! It’s 8pm and fifty- two minutes. I’m going for four more then silence unless….

your words or mine…

Selfish, I guess.

Motivational, definitely.

A possibility to meet lovely new bloggers who have inspired me to just do it.

And maybe a bit of giving back for what I have received here. You bless my soul with your words and encouragement. No matter the numbers here, it may be that someone of those who encourage me may encourage you. And you might just do the same for them.

Mi casa es su casa. scottishmomus@outlook.com

140 characters! Don’t make me laugh! :)

One proviso. Don’t depress the fuck out of my peeps! Even pain has hope. I like humour. Love. Sensuality. Hope. Poetry. Myths. Aw, feck it, if you don’t know what I like by now you must be a stranger here. In which case, welcome. To the possibility of dreams.

Get in quick! I may be inundated from 1333 followers….ghosts in the night of all that’s yet to be holy.

 

Dare To Just Do It!

You’ve got to have a dream. Life demands it.

It’s why you wake up willing, full of fight.

You’ve got to have a dream, like South Pacific,

Dream your dream with vigour and with might.

Fill your heart with loving and with longing,

Close your eyes and visualise the goal.

Dare to dream, I fucking well command it!

Dream, believe and act upon your soul!

 

For Rene http://nae50.wordpress.com/2014/09/06/a-way-to-live/ and  all who have and choose the dream. Just do it! We can do it together.

Rocking Friday

I’m having a night off tonight, I am,

It’s been a long week at chalk face,

Cabernet Sauvignon’s ready to pour

And there’s a movie I’ll watch for his grace…

Not really a fan of blood and of gore,

Hallowe’en’s just really for weans,

But I’ll risk some vampires and hunters as well

For his eyes and a dose from his veins.

Van Helsing is playing tonight on the screen,

Well, really, it’s Hugh that I covet,

But at a pinch, I’ll put up with the blood,

Suck it up and hope that I love it.

I rarely do movies it has to be said,

Not much a fan of the box,

But with glass held in hand and feet on the couch,

I’ll suffer ‘cos Hugh Jackman rocks. ;)

Black And White

Clothed in bridal white, adorned,

Into misted woods,

Centred in the circular,

Vacantly she stood,

Awaiting fate, whatever hailed, thru

Wraith apparelled filter’d trees,

Wisps, through leaves, on silenced wings

Descend, she falls to knees,

Begs inside, a heartfelt prayer,

Though motionless her lips,

Redemption sought for all she’d wrought,

But terror tightly grips

Around and in and through her soul,

Stanching earthly breath,

Widened eyes and strangled moan

Survey an early death.

Dry her eyes, her mouth, her tongue

Cleaves inside, no sound

Could plea for mercy to this fate,

No soul for miles around.

Swoons to floor, soft carpet there

Of verdant life in form

Surrounded oval, toadstools share

Protection from all harm.

Returned to life, spectres depart,

Arrested in the glade,

Fey to foe, white magic saves

Hand of elven maid

Betrothed, from birth, to only one,

Composites compounded,

Separated by the vanquished

Now confused, confounded.

Dream walker sleeps from long ago

Wanders where she’s led,

Awakes unto her destiny,

Intended faerie bed.

If, in dreams, a voice calls forth,

Distresses nightly prayer,

Remember magic of the night,

There’s black and white to spare.

 

Preparation

potion poured on fire,

fan the flame,

prep for incantation,

chant one name


boughs asigh, acquiver

body blows,

 breaking bones deliver

sensual throes


advance

recoil,

repeat

neck veined to skies

wild

abandoned

throated

frenzied cries


naked

to white moon

crimson

nailed

sacrificial

bounty

burnt

impaled


glancing glint,

suffusion, razor’d gore.

tomorrow’s spell

bespoken, more in store

Babies, Bath Water And Wheels

One of those days where laughs have been absent,

Well, not absent, but definitely too few,

Too many reasons for not seeing the funny,

Like a failure to perceive different views.

Listening to others, all serious with cause

For things that, frankly, are lame,

Waffling on about nothings of note

With nary a pause in each frame.

Watching enactments of things seen before,

Discussed and never quite sorted,

Ideas never birthed, though pregnant with points,

Incited then swiftly aborted.

Boring, ’tis true, not the kids, not all,

But the professionals when gathered as one

At meetings of yore, the same as before,

All talk and nothing is done.

Not a laugh to be had though god knows I giggled,

Mostly just under my breath,

Demented I was and tired of each cause

But mainly just bored to death.

It’s the plague of the system that seeks to improve,

Hashes, rehashes, all logged,

Eyes glazing over, not mine, I’m too nosey,

Mental notes to be blogged.

Young woman beside me has kids on her mind,

Baby tended at home by a carer,

Well looked after, no doubts whatsoever

But I know her mind’s really there.

Not present, another, he’s gone with the wind,

Slouching deeper, bent double, spaced out,

Bored and disinterested by monotoned leader,

I know him well enough to not doubt

That thoughts on his mind revolve round his football

And he runs, so he’s thinking of that,

Or his wife and his kids, how he’ll moan when he’s home,

I don’t blame him, though he acts like a brat.

One says her piece and I stifle a yawn,

Can’t help it, it’s been a long day,

We’re all just tired, in need of a rest

So I suggest we’ve said all we can say.

And lo and behold the leader agrees!

She’s fed up too with the nonsense,

It’s good to know that it’s not just the minions

Who recognise some common sense.

Another will follow as they always do,

Another and then just one more,

And then once again to tick all the boxes,

They’ve made teaching a helluva chore.

It’s rife, so it seems, that all that we do,

In jobs, professions, careers

Requires so much talking, so much distilled shit

Till it’s streaming and pouring from ears.

I have to confess I do say my piece

Though usually it’s not well-received

When I remind all gathered that nothing much changes

Gasps! I’m not being believed.

Once in a while would be fine for a purpose

If action and sense would prevail,

But, not holding my breath till retirement comes,

Been there, seen that, done it and hail -

It circles around – like proverbially wheel,

Though no one admits that’s the case

Unless you’re a bit older with a trap you can’t shut

And enjoy the looks on their face

At heresy spouted, remembrances past

And how this is just as I find

Reinventing the wheel but not nearly as well,

Babies and baths come to mind.

Now, my poem’s as long as the meeting we had,

And there’s nothing visual for you

To redeem all the talk, to survey and to think,

So you’re dismissed ‘cos that’s what I do. :)