10)Use Me Here

 10) If you could travel anywhere, where would you go?

I have always loved riding on a motorcycle. The feel of the elements as you slice through them stimulates my senses, and heightens my awareness of God’s creation; His splendiferous gift to us.

So if I were able to afford to travel unencumbered, seeing North America on a motorcycle would be preferred, because I really do not feel a pressing need to go to far and away lands, as much as I would like to discover the hidden treasures in my own back yard.

Well here I am being all grandiose with my dreams when in reality if a random person came up and asked where I would like to be other than home, my instantaneous and unrehearsed response would be Idaho.

So now rather than explain why that would be. I am going to cheat 😳 and paste in a heat induced rant from last October.

imageI have so much I want to do but the heat is not cooperating. What the heck, it is October, why is it 104°. I knew it, I should have moved to Idaho. I have, at the most, 52 days a year I can actually do anything of my own choosing and now I am trapped by my inability to regulate my temperature. I know people that would love to not have buckets of sweat streaming, but let me tell you, I would trade places in an instant, because my bodies lackluster production of a faint shimmer is a failure of epic proportions.

My current frustration is additionally being magnified by this ongoing, and not to successful experiment I am amidst, where I physically labor rather than using powered machines to complete tasks. I wanted to spend my time working hard at something, rather than using a machine to save time and effort, with the idea that I could not only avoid spending money and time at a gym to get exercise, but also accomplish something other than self-improvement. Theoretically this made sense, but I am finding that my immune system and the weather have other plans regarding time management, finances, and the feelings of satisfaction and well being.

Also by living in a desert climate I have limited myself, but moving was not a choice that was available, that is until recently. You see, my preexisting conditions had kept me a prisoner to my health insurance. Unfortunately or fortunately, I find that it is now too late in life to initiate the upheaval a move would unleash; it would mean leaving everything that is near and dear, and I know I would not last long without them, for family is my all and all.

But I still frequently think of Idaho when I am trapped inside for days on end. It has become the perfect depository for all my unrealized possibilities. Besides, I love the incongruity of the fact that I have never been to Idaho. I just happened to read a chart in my doctor’s office one day, which showed that of all the states in the US, I was the least allergic to Idaho. Wham! It’s been Idaho here I come ever since.

Please don’t tell me how ridiculous that is, I already know, but everybody needs to have an unreachable dream, and Idaho works for me. Also, don’t read this as a pity party, it is not meant to be one, because what I do have here, in this pollen filled desert climate, has already exceeded expectations and is still on an upward trajectory. But what the heck, it’s October, why is it 104°.

 

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1)Along My Lonely Way

Thank you Faye for giving me a list to ponder. I know, I know, I obsess over lists,  but sometimes they can be a great impetus to launch a ramble, and guess what, Faye has provided my with 10!

  1. Who is your favorite author?

I am going to preface this with the fact that I don’t find picking favorites easy or realistic, and with books, or authors, entirely impossible. For preference depends on the moods or the circumstances of life.

In the present moment of my life, I am reading blogs, voraciously. I do not expect this to continue at its current rate of consumption, and already I find myself missing my books, my garden, my sewing, a movie. However this does not address the question of an author, so focus I will.

My favorite as a child was The Wonder Clock, written and illustrated by Howard Pyle. But as I move past my fairytale years, it would be impossible to call out anyone one author as a stand out. Because as children, we were given free access to our parents extensive library, and they have thousands, really thousands, of books. We were also given a public library card of our own as soon as we could read. I really don’t want to venture into whether having free access to any and all books available is a good or bad thing, but it did make for the development of very eclectic reading habits.

In my high school years it was Russians literature; with Tolstoy topping the list. Still that was only a preference for perhaps a year, maybe two, until I exhausted the ones at hand. Because throughout my school age years, I would read anything and everything. I think I would actually feel the need to twitch if I didn’t at least have a cereal box or something to focus on. In other words, I lived to read.

As an adult, I read many different books at a time, but occasionally I find myself with a time gobbling page turner, which finally, I do not stay up all night to read anymore. For with age, sleep has settled onto its proper pedestal, and is valued for its worth.

Yes I know, and I do realize that I am still avoiding the question. So Thurber. There I did it. My family will be astounded. It happens to be a running joke around here as they try and get my to choose just one of anything.

I picked James Thurber because it stands out as an aha moment in my memory. His luscious use of words, his expressive yet simple drawings, the misunderstanding and chaos of his worlds. Hahaha, as I write this I am reminded of The Thirteen Clocks by him, and now The Wonder Book gets knocked aside, but wait how about Fifteen by Beverly Cleary. Yikes I have started over in my childhood.

So I will try this from a different angle. I read and read and read, everything but horror, or the gratuitous. But some of the authors that I reread over and over again when I want to escape from myself are: Dick Francis, Agatha Christie, Louis L’Amour, Tony Hillerman, Francine Rivers, and Beverly Lewis.

Wow that wasn’t so hard, not.

Now to ponder ramble dos – How did you pick your blog name?

 

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Emoticons Rock

I think in pictures and emotions🤔

For me to use words, is like translating from a second language😳

Hence the discovery of emoticons has rocked my world😃

So I apologize insincerely😉, if my over use of them is annoying😡

But I ❤️❤️❤️ this newly discovered means of communication🙃

I’m so immature, I know🙄

But everyone should embrace their inner child sometime, or so it has been said😝

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Lonely With Me there

Christina was born within a fortress which should have been surrounded by very dense walls. This thick insulating surround was to be put in place for her protection, or so it had been said.

For a reason known only to him, the master builder gave pause to the project before it was complete, and eventually decided he liked its appearance in its unfinished form, and besides he decided, only the unimaginative could be disappointed with its lack of stature and opaqueness.

So Christina learned to pass it off as matter of fact that she was basically unprotected, and at the mercy of  the whims and foibles of the beyond. She adapted to the walls holes, patched as many as she could with fire and ice. Occasionally, she would slip through a crevasse she had missed, and join in with those who resided in the noisy chaos of outside over there.

Eventually though, the competing frequencies and pulsations that bounced off of every surface in this land of many sights and smells reached a fervid pitch, and she would retreat back into her fortress; frantically sealing the breach she had used. With each journey and retreat, and the subsequent frenzied blockading, the walls became more solid. Thus less filtered in, but alas, less also went out.

Then Christina behaved in a very untypical and disastrous fashion, she invited a fellow from the land of outside over there to come in, to be with her inside her fortress. Very quickly she realized that this would not do, however, by now the walls had been breached, the blockades of ice melted and the fires quenched by the arrival of joy, of little ones.

But there was this problem, the need for retreat, for space, for breath, was not understood by the other new residents of the fortress. Christina could not leave and abandon them, and where would she go, what could she do. She had never taken care of herself before, and the thought of new surroundings was incomprehensible in her overwhelmed state of mind,  Then there were the rules, once in, never out, and Christina knew that one can never forget the rules, or life would be a living hell, or so it had been said.

Hence, Christina did the only thing that she knew, she retreated, she built new walls of fire and ice, right there inside her fortress. She did not involve the master builder, she did not want his advice and knowledge, for she knew he would disapprove of these walls being built inside of his creation. Still, in a foolish move of desperation, Christina built these walls strong, inflexible, and solid; she was safe and trapped behind them.

That is until the master builder came around for a look see at his wall. He did not care for the solid impenetrable room he found inside, and started knocking on its bolted door to see if anyone would answer. Christina peered through the peep hole, beheld the kindness of his face, and trusted for the first time. She let him in, along with the little ones, but the anger that had developed in the fellow from outside over there, from being shut out, was too great to be encountered with any guarantee of safety.

So Christina gathered her frightened little ones, and ran away. She gave the fellow from outside over there, her fortress, her inheritance, and her prayers and best wishes in hopes that he would seek help. She even gave of herself, tried to make up for the years of silence, but this only made things worse, for a silent Christina had never voiced a thought of her own, and for Christina to disagree with him, was against the rules.

The End

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When Words are in Full Retreat

 

“Man Of God”

Sometimes I’m a liar sometimes I’m a fake
sometimes I’m a hypocrite that everybody hates
sometimes I’m a poet sometimes I’m a preacher
sometimes I watch life go by sitting on the bleacher
But I’ve never been left alone
in any problem that I’ve known
even though I’m to blame
there were times when things were dark
and I’ve been known to miss the mark
but someone fixed my aimSometimes I’m a man of God
sometimes I’m alright
sometimes I lay down close my eyes
and pray to God

Sometimes I don’t feel good
it’s hard to start the day
it’s hard to climb the obstacles
that sometimes come my way
if I make it, I’m a good man
am I a bad man if I fail?
I know I’m never good enough
so I let grace prevail

But I’ve never been left alone
in any problem that I’ve known
even though I’m to blame
there were times when things were dark
and I’ve been known to miss the mark
but someone fixed my aim

Sometimes I’m a man of God
sometimes I’m alright
sometimes I lay down close my eyes
and pray to God I’m ready for the night

By: Audio Adrenaline

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Hooked on His Feelings

Zachary is a sad excuse for a writer, he knows this, and at one time gave some serious consideration to the idea of trying to be better at it. He toyed with the possibility of learning the rules of proper blog writing, minimizing his vocabulary, shortening his sentences, leaving lots of white space, abandoning his love affair with semi colons, and blah blah blah blah blah; then stopped.

Because it just so happens that Zachary is incapable of maintaining two simaltaneous tasks. Sure he is very good at never completing anything, or having multiple projects going in many different stages of completion, but concurrent output, no.  Therefore as Zachary pondered the ins and outs of presentation, all his much loved words came to a screeching halt.

So Zachary decided he would write as he thinks and reads. More with an emotion to be conveyed, rather than a image to be seen, even if it only made sense to him. That is not to say that he is careless, for enjoy his readers he does, needs them he does, but write for them he doesn’t.

Perhaps if Zachary’s words were to be purchased, well then, I am sure he would care, however once he cared, they would be no more, and the release of those words from the prison of his mind is more valuable to him than all the silver and gold of this world.

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