Thinking November

I have the absolute cheek to have just signed up for National Novel Writing Month 2015. With last year’s novel still incomplete in edit, what exactly am I thinking?

Truthfully, I’m thinking that I am a great procrastinator, that I would be awful in the military life because I can’t take orders – even from myself, apparently.

However, I’m also thinking that this time last year I hadn’t even signed up to commit to 50,000 words in a month but I did it in the end.

I’m thinking that I knew the first book had a sequel as I was writing it and it seems daft not to get that down, considering it’s been mulling away in the background.

I’m thinking that I may be sorry to commit to this once again, especially as I obviously hate editing – unless it’s other people’s – just like the writing it down part.

I’m thinking, though, that I have nothing to lose and that I might even manage more of the edit on the first while working on the second because I’ll be so immersed in it again.

I’m thinking that I’m about to move school again in a couple of weeks and that could mean more or less work. And I don’t know which.

I’m thinking, ‘Oh,shit, why am I even letting others know?’

And, mostly, I’m thinking, blogging is one thing, Anne-Marie, but why exactly did you start that in the first place if not to actually gain the confidence to write that book you always knew you would.

Right now, I’m thinking why am I talking about myself in the third person? I hate that.

Frankly, I don’t really know what I’m thinking.

But I’m inclined to share my thoughts, sure or otherwise. So here you have them.

Last year, I swore off blogging during the week to make sure I focused on Nano. It was hard to let go of the reins. Your blog’s like your baby. Well, I think it is. You kind of nurture it along and watch it grow.

Last year, I had tremendous help from guest bloggers who made sure my baby was fed and watered. You know who you are. I don’t know if I’ll be able to let the reins go so completely this time – I’m a born mum – but I would be grateful for offers.

I spoke this over with my family last night. Mixed reception.

‘You haven’t finished editing the first one!’ D’uhh, I know.

‘Does that mean you’ll be holed up in your office again for a whole month?’ Thought that was a bonus for them, myself.

‘Do it, Mum!’ I think I’m gonna.

‘Whatever makes you happy.’ Thanks, hon.

So, I’ve registered. Another one of my not-thought-this-through-type-of-plans-that-I-don’t-make.

I might even try to plan this time – I’ve got nearly two whole weeks before it begins. Loadsa time.

So, this is by way of being my notification that I’ve enlisted. About to take orders from myself again. Someone has to keep me in check in the absence of a sergeant-major, I’m thinking.

Whose Muse?

She wanders in

when she feels like it,

tarted up, sometimes,

as if every eye in the place awaited her arrival,

flaunts herself

in naked abandon,

flourishing syllabic resonance wherever

wanton desire cherishes her arrival,

poses idly, at times, to capture flash,

smiling, leerily, on red carpet.

Departing with a sneer, she’s

off to sun herself in Grecian myth,

knowing she is

forever wanted

and desired.

A tart to all temptress,

scourging soul desire,

panting wildly when afflicted,

reddened pout

to tease all suitors.

So they say.

So say many.

Some fast while awaiting, and

she’s laughing with margharitas in the sunshine,

leaving clouds fermenting overhead,

idly casting aspersions on your value,

burnishing her limbs with languid poise,

her footstool, your soul,

querulous and querying,

while no great loss to her.

So I say.

A lecher.

No more than any other

of her kind.

Nothing to offer

but illusion.

Still she squirms inside your worth,

dedicates sacrifice to poisoned thoughts.

A tramp, I affirm,

designed and dressed in alter ego,

famishing your soul

until you realise the truth.

Just a bitch,

in the heat of sunny and overcast days,

becalming doubts as her mood takes,

laughing as clouds of despair

part words from mind.

Trust tarnishes her tan,

embittered exchanged coin of nothing.

Shylock,

feasting on flesh that waits

for her arrival

while life demarks

her worth.

SEX!!!! (and censorship…shhh)

I had another post in mind for today but I read two posts of a blogger I’ve only recently come to follow. She had some struggles today with a very honest post dealing with oral sex. It was not in the least offensive. But she had her doubts. Her second post reflected these. She removed her first post then reinstated it when her confidence took an upturn.

I think it’s a shame that we are so filled with doubts on what is acceptable here in blogland. None of us is sure when we hit that button to publish just how what we post will be received. I know I have had many doubts. Not only about posts shared but also about comments made. (I’m a bit of a mouth at times. Sorry, but true.) It’s a gamble. No doubt of it.

It does help though if we know that there is an openness in this land of words and shared ideas that, even while some may not agree, there is no need for us to fear what we may discuss.

Another blogger I follow removed a post this week just as I was about to comment and encourage her to continue her presence here.

To both of these bloggers, women after my own heart, I wrote this to let them know that they have my support along with the many who gave theirs in their comments.

 

Now there are lots of little fancies for your pleasure,

Accoutrements to tickle while you wait,

Gifts for some indulgent self-endeavour

And those reserved just solely for your mate.

 

There are joys of sex abounding for the asking

With willing hands that wield a sensual load,

Locations for a titillative teasing

And many paths that wend from just one road.

 

There are tongues and lips that like to go awander,

To travel south where aches throb deep with want,

Many are the mouths that purse to ponder

While fulfilling what leaves others pale and gaunt.

 

Some there are who know the kamasutra

And ‘read’ its pictures with a certain inclination

While others view such images as puerile

And seek other forms of subtle delectation.

 

There are Trappists who resist all worldly knowing

And contemplate a life of quietude.

Others scream, orgasmic in the showing

Of bonded bodies. This is also good.

 

There are mothers, like my own, whose efforts trying

To educate while censoring her spate,

Informed me that, ‘Some people when they’re dining,

Sometimes even like to lick the plate’!

 

Euphemisms for the genitalia,

‘Flowers’, ‘fannies’, ‘manhood’ and the like

Bemuse the young and crease my sense of humour,

Though my laughter is not done with any spite.

 

There are places where I’d never speak of sexual

Though not many as I’m open to that sphere.

A censored self is perfectly acceptable

But surely not because of others here.

 

I welcome how the words found in this venue

Attest to honesty and just debate,

I love that with those words my trust renews

And many get to share some awful fates.

 

It’s in openness and words said with a glad heart

That many wounds and hurts are lifted, healed,

In discovery that there are others just like you,

When truths, uncertainties are not concealed.

 

Maybe ponder on a page before dismissing

Just what the writer tries to oft portray.

Where none offence is given then why take some?

Instead believe the words they have to say.

 

Prohibition never works, we all know this,

Just ask the Jack of Daniels or his pals,

Cunnilingus, fellatio, aka ‘intimate kiss’,

Are just some words used and done by guys and gals.

 

I’d link to who brought forth this post, no problem,

But I’d firstly want approval, only fair.

The trial of her open poll was awesome

And, if she likes, I’d gladly join and spare

 

Any sense of blushing for her posting;

It took courage and a readiness to relate.

If others are offended by sex, I’m toasting

That some there are who like to lick that plate!

 

Now I haven’t checked the spelling of some terms here in this missive

But I’m good with that so some can take red pen,

Strike through all the words they find offensive

And I’ll ignore them. I’d rather have the act than spell their name.

 

UPDATE.

 

I’m delighted that my new-found friend has found this

And, approval sought, so given with a smile

So here’s the link to Mer; let nought confound us.

Blogging shared makes all the words worthwhile.

 

Now there’s one who, with her certain sense of giving

And receiving of what is love and how it manifests,

If, shyly, with her own doubts and self-misgivings

Should wish, I’ll proudly show my own self-interest.

 

For, in sensual words and images depicted,

There really is a world of huge array.

Some view sex as chore, ‘lay back and think of England’,

While she, like many, see the fun and play.

May Music, Day 22 – Keep It In The Family

Another of Twindaddy’s questions that’s got me somewhat flummoxed.

Everyone in this house sings. It’s difficult to ascertain just who they’re singing to sometimes. Or at. There are always guitars and songs on the go and not necessarily to anyone. Just music and voices coming from various rooms in the house. A real ongoing cacophony at times till everyone converges spontaneously and has a bit of a singsong. Not a regular thing. Just whenever it happens.

The last one who sang to me was my youngest, Anna. At seven, she’s unabashed at impromptu performances and sings wholeheartedly to anyone who’ll listen.

A couple of weeks ago she had a wee friend to stay overnight and the two appeared in my bedroom the following morning and asked if I would listen to their duet. Eyes still half-closed and propped up on multiple pillows while my first coffee of the day began to do its work, I couldn’t muster the words to tell them to get lost until I was fully awake.

By the time they were finished giving me their rendition of ‘Let It Go’, I was fully awake and applauding loudly. So they sang it again. And I’ve had it sung to me multiple times since. Sometimes even at my request. She’s quite charming in her sincerity and sweetness.

I was tempted to record her and post it but she’s not in and, if I did, there’s every chance that she would want to take over my blog. And that’s not happening. Much as I love her to pieces.

So instead I’m opting for a song that hubby and I sing and dance along with whenever it comes on. Twin brothers, Craig and Charlie Reid, otherwise known as The Proclaimers, have a distinctive sound in that they deliberately trained to retain their Scottish accent while singing. They’ve been going since 1983 but I’m not sure how well known they are around the globe.

This is one of my favourites of theirs. Maybe my crew should get their act together. ‘Life With You’.

Dream Lives

Trying their best to ignore what they feel,

To live in the present, where everything’s real,

Dreams are ephemeral dice.

Knowing that others’ needs must be met,

They sublimate thoughts, attempt to forget

Chances to live their lives twice.

 

A strange twist of fate to glimpse for a moment

Alternate path that seeks to torment

And prods at the softest of hearts.

She’s just a girl with longing and tears,

He’s simply a boy, heart ridden with fears

And the two must stay far apart.

 

Recollect selves but dream the sweet dream,

Imagine the moment where nothing seems

Impossible to realise.

Shift back to now,

Remembering how

Reality is somehow more wise.

 

Never forget, though, that dreams may come true.

It’s strange and confusing but often they do

In the weirdest of wonderful ways.

They sanctify souls that search for all bliss

To know heart’s desire, love’s sweetest kiss,

Till nights’ searching fulfills all the days.

Ashes Of Peace

Ashes of peace,

Treaty entreated,

No phoenix to

Surface in flight.

End of the conflict,

Gives no concord,

Truce settled for less

Than they might.

 

Divergence of interest,

No contradiction,

Consistent

In their discord.

Battle still rages,

Though behind lines,

Neither believes

One word.

 

Fear and mistrust,

Goodwill gone astray,

Ceasefire may last

For a while.

Without true intention,

A closer inspection,

No solution.

No style.

 

 

Beaming!

I nipped home from school at lunch time today to pick up a ‘princess’ dress. There and back inside 45 minutes. And so worth the rush.

You see, one of the schools I teach in was having a dress rehearsal for the Christmas school panto – an adaptation of Cinderella. A member of staff mentioned earlier in the morning that one girl was without a costume. She had been off school and was not aware that she had to bring a dress in with her today. And she had nothing suitable. Just like the real Cinderella.

I had no idea who the dress was for but, judging from the teacher’s description of the girl, I felt sure I would have one at home that fitted. Well, not me personally, you understand. I don’t dress up as a princess. Much. One of my daughter’s dresses.

On returning to the school and rushing to the class in question I discovered that the dress was for a nine-year old I see once a week for a few hours. This girl, K., is profoundly deaf in one ear and is painfully quiet in class, barely speaking unless directly spoken to. And, even then, in a whisper

When I realised the dress was for her I was worried. This child was going to be one of the Cinderellas! I reassured myself that maybe she had a non-speaking part.

Shortly after one o’clock I sat, along with all the other children and staff in the school, and watched as three classes of children aged 9-11 did their thing. They were great.

K. came on in her princess dress. I was practically holding my breath.

She joined in a song with the others on stage and seemed to be doing well. I relaxed a little despite the fact that she was being overshadowed by two other more confident girls practically standing right in front of her. I wanted to shout, ‘Hey, let Cinderella in!’

The song finished and the next scene was between K. as Cinderella and Buttons. I was blown away.

My gawd, she was brilliant. This bashful child enacted her part with clarity and volume and facial expressions and movements worthy of either of the two ‘real’ pantos I’ve been at in the last few weeks.

Sometimes, people think that Drama, Dance, Music, Art and P.E. are secondary in importance to the principal subjects of literacy and numeracy. Of course, the latter two are important. And I love teaching them . But, I’ve argued for years that the aesthetic and physical subjects develop areas of personality and boost confidence that helps with all areas of school life.

Today, K. showed me and everyone there that there is nothing secondary or inferior in worth in the aesthetics.

She was not the only one. Every child on that stage and in the choir took on roles, some of them humorous – a difficult thing to pull off- all acting and singing their hearts out.

I have seen this over the years with the Expressive Arts and P.E.. The opportunity for teachers to see the children in different learning environments, using different attributes and developing their skills is an eye-opener.

K., for me, was the one who really mattered most today because the difference in the before and after was so pronounced.

I remembered then a conversation from the staff room of a few weeks ago where one of the teachers had commented on a quiet child who blossomed on stage. This was K.!

When her parents see her tomorrow and Friday in the real show they will beam with pride. I did.

Ping!

A new message arrived in my inbox,

I smiled when I saw what it said,

This one I shall keep to look at again.

Not deleted, even after being read.

 

The contents are not really private,

But they might not be interesting to you.

It was a message relayed, through someone, from God,

Telling me what I had to do.

 

I laughed with such joy when I read it,

It said all I wanted to hear;

To communicate and shout from the heavens.

So, I guess that’s why I’ve found myself here.

 

It’s amazing to me, someone that I don’t know,

Heard a word and passed it by mail.

An assignment from Him, delivered so modernly.

Who knew that God no longer used snail?

 

Part of the message said that He had my addy,

To expect communication from Him,

But, before further greater enlightenment,

I should be open and filled to the brim

 

By all He can offer, if I but just ask,

And listen with two willing ears.

So I’m knocking and seeking for God to instil

More confidence , from some of my fears.

 

I tell you, I cried when I read it,

Such tears that made my face damp.

If He’d sent it by post, I’m telling you too,

I would also be treasuring that stamp.

Dancing Daughter

Picture perfect,

Pointed toes,

She moves with sheer delight.

Twirling, whirling princess –

Sings and dances

With all her might.

A voice raised true

And arms out flung,

She does not have a care.

Her heart extols her virtue

No audience is there:

Except for me, a smiling mum

Watching through the glass.

Wishing childlike confidence

Might last when youth has passed.

‘Ugly’ People

‘Ugly’ people can definitely grow on you. I know this for a fact. Conversely, I have known some really good-looking people whose entire appearance and appeal faded on better acquaintance.

Take Peter. He was not what anyone would call handsome or even particularly attractive. His hair was wiry and stuck out at odd angles. It looked as if it had not seen a brush or a comb for weeks on end.

He was also at that teenage stage where most days brought an avalanche of excess sebum to the hair follicles as well as to the skin. So he had this lank, wiry hair that was unkempt and mostly unclean and definitely not styled. His face at the point I knew him was not suffering too much from the oil that attacked his hair, so generally he wasn’t too spotty.

What was most prominent about him at first were his teeth. They were not buck exactly but they were there when he smiled and talked and laughed. You couldn’t not notice them. They weren’t very white either – more a kind of off-white, but not dirty.

He was a bit odd-looking would be about the kindest way of describing him. But because I didn’t find him attractive I could completely relax with him and that was where his appearance began to change. Peter was what people would call a character. His behaviour was off the wall and he expressed his feelings and emotions freely in whatever way came to mind. I never knew him to do anything wicked or mean, just eccentric. He was what you might call a free spirit and it showed in his dealings with everyone from fellow students to teachers. Everybody recognised Peter for what he was and he was liked for it. I think everyone envied his self-expression. Teachers smiled at his antics and students wanted to be able to adopt his carefree pose to their work and relationships. So, yes, this odd-looking boy of seventeen became for me a really attractive person.

I didn’t know how not to take things seriously and found it difficult to relax in the way he did with everyone. He seemed to be so comfortable with himself and with others while other teenagers, including myself, were angst-ridden about their image and relationships and the world and the bomb. A lot of us took ourselves seriously in that obnoxious way that only teenagers can – where they feel that adults really do not have a clue and do not care about the really important things. Adults become so caught up in a world that revolves around trivia like paying bills and feeding families and arranging holidays and planning for a new car and stuff that did not look at the GLOBAL issues.

Superior teenagers have got to be some of the most insufferable people on the planet. Peter wasn’t like that. Maybe that’s why the adults liked him as much as his peers. He could have a truly sensible conversation about all sorts of issues and speak from the heart with the ease of one not embarrassed to have real feelings and emotions. It may have been his family background that contributed to so much of who he was or it may have been just who he was born to be but I’m glad I knew him.

I’m older now and I find myself remembering him fondly for the kind of person he was and wondering how he had grown at such a young age into someone so unique and likeable when all around him were the usual teenagers that he really ought to have been trying to emulate because that’s what teenagers do. They follow a code – unwritten but perceived and forceful – that few dare break away from.

With teenagers of my own now I want to understand what made Peter the way he was because I would like it if my own offspring could be half the confident person he was at that tender age.