‘Better Together’ or the new rhetoric now that the Indy vote is in the past. If you’re not right you’re left behind. Right wing media strikes again. Its funny really in a sort of sad, pathetic, racist, terrifying, incredible way.
No blogging for me tonight. Just dreaming on an early night. Sweet dreams everyone.x
No explanation for this one. I opened my mind to what would follow “These things I dream…” I hope you like it.
These things I dream…
A room of white in early dawn,
The scent of spring contained,
No sound but that of
That calls a sweet refrain…
These things I dream…
A shaded wood from legends tale,
With sunlight piercing gloom,
A river cool flows
The cherry trees in bloom…
These things I dream…
The land aflame with fire bright,
A million candles burn,
With single breath
Flames are doused
The world forever turns…
These things I dream…
Unending night and scattered stars,
A universe arrayed,
Where time is lost
And love is not betrayed…
These things I dream…
Perfected beauty in a glance,
A timeless life in view,
If not for dreams
That visit me
I’d never picture you.
Catching up on some overdue blog reading I came across this gem from Jason.
For me the title says it all. That’s what WordPress feels like to me. And it’s an ongoing process.
The body of the article contains advice for the ‘frustrated’ or the ‘angry’ blogger, for any blogger feeling the ‘hump’.
Possibly all part of the blogging process?
One thing I’m sure of, in my own experience here, is the evolutionary part.
Like an adventurous mystery tour I may otherwise never have had the chance to journey on. Meeting others from around the world, sharing thoughts and ideas, reading the lives and feelings of others whose insights colour my thinking. Becoming and releasing more of me in the process. Kind of why I started on the journey.
I am still evolving.
In support of Anne-Marie and her dreams.
It touched me….I had to pay tribute to a much too shortened friendship.
It’s amazing how things can move you….isn’t it?
What’s the point of life if we can’t be moved by others experiences.
Empathy, charity….love and loss.
I am reposting this on A-M’s blog today because she love’s stories about love and life….Hell, she’s Scottish, it’s in her blood….along with .10 alcohol content of dubious vintage.
I hope you like it too….
The Dying Rain
The rain began to patter on the window that looked out over my best friend’s small garden.
I was holding her frail hand, the one with her “green thumb”.
I smile at this…
She always giggled when she told me that she could kill a plastic plant…
I’ve seen it happen.
But now her eyes were closed, her breath labored.
….. today was a good day for her, considering.
She may have been asleep but her fingers gripped mine as hard as she could squeeze.
I could barely tell I was holding her hand at all as weak as she was.
It’s so painful to imagine strength draining away from the strongest person you have ever known.
….like sand in an hourglass.
I laced my fingers thru hers, gripping them a little harder, tracing the veins on the back of her hand with my other fingers.
I can’t believe I’m losing her….
I can hear the thunder in the distance, the rain coming and going, the branches of the trees scraping lightly across the panes of glass
In the storm graying light of the small bedroom I turn back into time to think of our lives together.
I have done this more than usual lately….
…..Way too damn fast.
Doesn’t it seem weird that when you are about to lose someone close to your heart, a piece of your very soul, that we start to reflect on our memories of them more, as if though trying to burn them deeper into our hearts and minds….
It’s as if though we are afraid that we might forget something important….forget them?
I look at her face as she sleeps….
She’s so beautiful……..even now.
The sun is leaving her eyes.
The rain reminds me that I must not cry……
Cloud tears trickle down, the beads of sky diamonds ornament her window…..
I won’t weep…..Not now at least, she gets upset when I cry.
I sit there, holding my friends tiny hand, staring out the jeweled window as the storm drums the shutters.
The lightning is bright, the thunder is closer….the rain, more insistent…..
I can smell the trees.
I begin the stroll down our memory lane; it isn’t raining here.
There is only laughter, joy and our high school prom.
I am brought back from my breaking heart to the bedside when I feel her stir under the blankets….
The thunder moves her.
Her eyes are open and I follow her tired gaze.
She is looking out the window, watching the storm.
Shadows of the window panes, rain drops and lightning dance across her face…..
She is quiet….Still.
Oh so still…..
I notice a small tear is running down her pale cheek and across her dry lips…
I reach up and wipe the tear away with my finger.
She grabs my hand and presses it to her lips and then….she drops my hand with a tired sigh.
I raise my finger to my lips and kiss what’s left of her tear….
She gives me that shy grin of hers and turns back to the storm.
“Will you do me a favor?” she asks in her beautiful, weak voice; the stormy sky reflecting in her pretty eyes.
“I don’t know” I say “I’m kinda busy”
I grin and feel guilty….
She squeezes my hand again before turning to look at me, her gaze imploring.
“I’m serious” She says.
My face softens, I will not cry….
“You bet” I whisper, both my hands pressing hers to show my promise.
I can’t squeeze hard. She lives very close to pain that I can’t imagine.
She turns her face back toward the window as the rain dances across the roof, the thunder making the panes tremble….
I cannot cry in front of her….
I will not….
My best friend in life is slipping away like a dream, like water thru my fingers….
“I hope it rains forever” I say….
Her eyes are closed now…
Her fingers relax in mine….
“It doesn’t hurt now…” she whispers.
I thank God for this small answer to my anguished prayers.
“No…don’t go…” I say
I never thought that would be the last thing she would hear from my lips.
No God….not her….
Not my friend…..
Take me instead, I’ll go.
Her heart has finished its toil.
I can’t breathe….
She has gone from me into the storm….
Our joined lives continue as memory….
I can cry now.
But, I think it still upsets her…
I will dance in the rain with the memory of my friend, and we will laugh…
I rejoice in the fact that as long as I live, she will be there with me.
She will watch our children grow.
She will watch our children become best friends.
It is time for me to weep for my lovely…
Oh my God, why is it so hard to breathe when I think of her?
I can already hear her voice in my head…
“You’re such a cry baby” she would’ve said.
I smile and feel guilty…
She’s here…..right now.
Her and the green thumb of death and her inability to carry a tune in a bucket.
It is raining.
And I am crying again….
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.
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.
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. email@example.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.
I’ve just found this lovely post. Gentle yet terrifying in possibility. I felt the author tell as if round a campfire. Tending the pods our job. Lovely to find you, Lunarose.x
There was a special rare flower that was the only one of its kind known in existence. It was kept in a monastery high in the Himalayan Mountains and was called The Flower of Infinite Peace. The monks that kept it were given a sign that when it started to reproduce it was to be dispensed to the leaders of the most powerful countries in the world. There should be at least one sent to every continent on the planet.
Now this flower didn’t need tending. It didn’t need water, soil, and therefore a pot. They didn’t even keep it in sunlight. Although sunlight would not have harmed it, it wasn’t necessary. They kept it in a dark room on an alter with a lamp burning constantly and incense offerings given next to it for centuries.
This delicate flower had the purest white blossoms with strange vine like stems like…
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Words of tender love and hope. Ethereal and beautifully expressed by Daniel.
In the shadow of modern daybreak he approaches tenderly, a young man with brunette tresses bound by red thread naturally. He is taller than a seraph humble almost shy, and when you look into his eyesight, you see a world that’s born of sighs. In his attitude is passion born of latitudinal rhymes, those words that create mercury that never can oxidize. The wind it flows right through him, all its colors born upright, lest a shadow should be waiting, the sun stands still against the sky. If born of womb and sorrow he would be master of deceit, likewise, he moves above mere element, ages gather round his feet. He strides without aggression, antithesis, of all that is new, his forehead growing lighter, the old woman in his view.
She is three score, nine a lady, with light gray about her hair, she’s been shopping, eyes born waiting, for…
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You struggled beneath the surface of unquiet moments
and I strove too,
shared your gasping breaths
of impossible release,
flowed with time
in the drowning.
…and we drift
off into oblivion,
sheltering sanity and cost to trust,
reposed breaths taken to ease,
soughing breezes without,
chantilly draped eyes cease to view,
seeing only treasure scapes unfolding within,
cream-coated tendrils woven in dreams…
Funny lady. Funny clip. Pmsl! Cheers, Ali! What a way with words both you and Clouseau have. I’m still giggling.