BLOG # 24-"THERE ONCE WAS A CROOKED MAN WHO LIVED IN A CROOKED HOUSE"

There once was a crooked man who lived in a crooked house and dear readers, there is a woman with a crooked smile who lives in my house and that woman is me!  We all know the Mother Goose rhyme about the crooked man in the crooked house with his crooked cat and now I am the woman with a crooked smile though no cat.  Today my theme is about “Alignment”. This is a very fashionable word at present- my car wheels need alignment, all our “central cores” need alignment-observe my daughter practicing her Yoga for alignment, my grandson, a serious rower doing his demanding “core exercises” towards alignment, to say nothing of the very popular “Pilates” and the meditative Alexander techniques -all of which in my long life I have attempted not too successively to do. But now I have to work on a new and completely unexpected alignment.  I have, of all things, a crooked jaw!   When I open my mouth to it’s greatest extent my face is crooked and I look not unlike Marley’s Ghost   This disconcerting knowledge of my nonalignment all came about because I was having earaches in my right ear and a marked inability to open my mouth widely..  When I told my dentist he sent me to a “jaw physiotherapist”, a delightful man who joyfully asked me to open my mouth widely while looking in a mirror.  To my horror my mouth listed grotesquely to the left -not a pretty sight.  Evidently I have been clenching my jaw thereby weakening my left jaw and tightening my right one. Now I have a whole new exercise program to add to my busy life involving many tongue depressors and crooked yawning exercises to straighten myself out so I won’t resemble the crooked man.  I even have photos of myself with twenty tongue depressors clenched in my mouth that my thoughtful daughter captured on film. The whole point of these difficult and comic exercises are to help me realign my jaw and return my face to it’s normal pleasant appearance.  I do these exercises four to five times a day and while I do them I contemplate .the importance of good alignment not only on my jaw but also in a more broadening sense, especially on the world stage where poor alignment is so apparent and  so crucial to correct.  The real area where alignment must be seriously considered is in the imbalance of the “haves’ and “have nots”

Now, there is an area where we really need a good alignment physiotherapist- a compassionate enthusiast like my physiotherapist, to straighten everything out. Unfortunately, on the world stage this isn’t really as successful as the straightening of my jaw.  What usually happens is someone with good intentions makes a few attempts at alignment this works for a short period and then even worse imbalance occurs and crookedness takes over. Of course, speaking of crookedness, I need to mention briefly “Politics” Now there is an area where Straightening out is essential- but I won’t go there, instead I will say goodnight and “good alignment”.

BLOG #22 WRITER'S BLOCK

  Writer’s block

It was bound to happen dear readers.  I have been feeling a heavy cloud on the horizon looming closer and closer- a heavy oppressive gloom engulfing me like a shroud. I speak dear readers about that inevitable attack on writers that is impossible to avoid.  I speak of course of that frightful plague called “THE WRITER’S BLOCK. Yes it has finally happened. I sit here staring at a blank page, my fingers flexed in the time-honoured typist position, and nothing happens. It feels like my fingers are buried in muck-like mud resembling prairie gumbo, and I am unable to move them.  I wonder what my writer mentors- Earnest Hemmingway, Kurt Vonnegut, Günter Grass would do in this situation. Do they tear their hair in despair, drown themselves in Whiskey until blackout or go on a rampage?  You will notice that my mentors in this case are all male. I have no doubt about this. This is not what happens to female writers. There is no way Jane Austin would ever have suffered from “writer’s block”. NO- Jane would have calmly hidden her manuscript behind the clock on the mantelpiece, smiled brightly and have gone into the kitchen and washed the dishes or mended the socks. Not for her the luxury of writer’s block and despair. This is the prerogative of male writers, and obviously, me. So what shall I do? Shall I follow in the footsteps of my male writer mentors and cause a riot or shall I follow my dear female writer mentor Jane Austin?  I think neither. I think instead I will go and paint my toenails a glorious bright blue and bask in the sun. I am so-oo glad I am a woman!  So dear readers don’t fret, I will not despair, drown my sorrows in whiskey or spend a week in an opium den! I will do the sane female thing of beautifying and adorning myself and let the writer’s block take care of itself and so I bid you goodnight until happier times.

BLOGG #21 "O THE WEB WE MORTALS WEAVE"

O the web we mortals weave when we first our computers receive.  A while ago, my computer went on the blink—I don’t think this is the proper term-but it suits me. What happened was I had emailed something that gave my computer indigestion and it refused to send or receive.  As I tried to solve this, a flag popped up-you know-those pesky little flags that speak in foreign languages telling you what to do. Well. my daughter has told me time and again to NOT click on these pesky flags unless I understand them, but as all parents know, one doesn’t listen to one’s children, so I clicked. A new incomprehensible flag popped up. I clicked on it too and so on. Soon I had a veritable” fourth-of-July” screen full of flags with lots of instructions and options-none of which I understood until at last I saw a flag that said “when unable to solve problems call your technician.” With great relief I phoned him and explained my difficulty. “First of all” he said “find your modem and disconnect it for a few minutes.” “What’s a modem I asked. “It’s a black rectangular box connected to your computer” he said. I looked under the coffee table at the wire mess and counted four black boxes! My patient technician then described it me—it has red lights and orange lights so I went down on my hands and knees –a position I haven’t been in for years dear readers- crawled under the coffee table and T.V. until I could reach the wires and tried to locate my modem.  As I groped my way through the web I murmured into the phone- here is the wire connected to my stereo set , here is the wire connected to my copier , here is the  wire connected to my T.V. here is the wire connected to my D.V.D. player and here  is---and heard myself singing” hear the word of the Lord!”  “What! What! What was that you said just now? “

exclaimed the technician.  “Nothing “I cried and quickly hung up!  I fortunately found the modem and disconnected it still chanting “this wire’s connected to the----“ and suddenly found myself humming”-- neck bone and the neck bone  connected to the collar bone, the collar bone  connected to the backbone -----.”  Startled, I quickly reconnected the modem to my computer. At this point I was completely enmeshed in my wire web and started to pray feverishly to the jealous Greek goddess to not mistake me for a presumptuous weaver and turn me into another “Arachnid!” Eventually I untangled myself and crawled out,and slowly eased my aching bones off my knees and still humming, stretched my creaking back, stretched my arms over my head, looked at my fixed computer humming along with not a pesky flag in sight and sang joyously “Dem bones ,Dem bones ,Dem dry bones—now hear the word of the Lord.”      

BLOGG#20 APOLAGIA TO BLOGGS #17 AND 18

Apologia #17  

   As you no doubt are aware I have somehow passed over or missed Blogg # 17 and 18 and you are of course waiting with bated breath for an explanation of this inexcusable mistake.  I have no excuse, for some reason I thought the two bloggs already written and went blithely on to # 19.  Now I do know how traumatic it is to be passed over for no other reason than carelessness or inattention.  Am I not the ninth child of a huge family where many eager little hands are held out for treats or for special attention and have I not unfortunately been passed over?  Have I not too felt the big letdown when overlooked as sides were chosen for the local school soft ball team?  Yes,dear reader,I am well aware of the trauma of being “passed over”.  So this blogg  is an apology to #17and 18 to make amends and to reassure them that they who are passed over are not less in importance but equal to or better than those who have not.

  The rest of the blogg which we will call #18 is a poem I have written specifically for them and for you. It is not a great poem, nor is it very profound, but it is mercifully short and a great challenge for my typing and spacing skills!  So---------

                                                                A poem
                                           

                                                          There once was a yellow goop

                                                         Who sat on a Toronto stoop.

                                                         I cannot aspire, He said,

                                                    To wear the proper attire

                                                         when

                                               

                                                       I'm waiting with the spoon                                                 

                                                       my icecream to

                                                            scoop!

                                                                                               

        p.s. I do not know why the "spoon" refuses to be in the poem!  However ,being a true artist who believes in freedom of expression,I will allow the spoon it's freedom and leave it where it obviously wants to be!    And so Goodnight. 

                                                 

                                                           

                                                                                   

 

BLOG# 19 MY PET PEEVE

It is well known and universally acknowledged by notable experts everywhere [ if you believe this you will believe anything}  that to remain sane in this very complex and frustrating world, it is necessary to have a pet peeve.  So my dear readers, listen to your “auntie blogger ,if you don’t have one acquire one as soon as possible. In the meantime I will share mine with you. My pet peeve is the very annoying habit many car owners have of locking their doors with a remote control. These are attached to their car keys and as they walk away from their cars they click on them thus causing the car horn to beep. The other day I was backing slowly out of my parking space in a crowded busy parking lot when suddenly a car horn sounded, I slammed on my brakes and looked around, all I could see was this woman sashaying along at least fifty feet away pointing her key at her parked car. I don’t think I would have minded so much if she hadn’t had such a satisfied look on her face. Perhaps it is satisfying to make a useless needless noise just for the fun of it, but it is very annoying to the hapless driver who is backing up!! Furthermore what about the need to lower the noise pollution that we keep hearing about? What about that? And why is it necessary to lock your car door from a distance? Has it something to do with holding a remote control? Heaven forbid that we may have to spend even a few minutes without having one in our hands? Is that the reason? I could go on and on with my favourite “pet peeve” spilling out torrents of vitriol. My tongue has no limits of hostile expressions! However I will curb it as best as I can. The purpose of this blog is really to encourage you to find your own pet peeve. How will I do that?  By assuring you how much better a self righteous rant makes you feel! I now feel relaxed, the tension has left my shoulders, my jaw is unclenched! And if I should happen to bump into that annoying self satisfied sashaying woman at this moment, I would shrug my shoulders and walk away in a dignified manner instead of screaming at her like the much maligned fishwife. So you see, dear reader, get your pet peeve now and remain sane!  p.s. the main characteristic of a peeve is for it to be totally illogical and unreasonable- so remember that when you make your choice. So my new motto is “everyone needs a “pet peeve” to remain sane”   goodnight my sane readers!

BLOG # 16 "OH YE OF LITTLE FAITH"

OH ye of little faith “ This is what I said to myself as I listened to one more lecture given to me by my daughter on the infallibility of computers. The lecture came about because of the difficulty I had posting my third blog- the first one I did without assistance. I had finished writing it and was all set to post it. I had all the steps handy on slips of paper and followed the directions carefully. To post you have to do this magical thing of “cutting” and “pasting”.  Forgive me you savvy readers who do this all the time and feel blasé about this process, but to me it is amazing and unbelievable. In fact I am a total doubting Thomas. I made the mistake of doing this late at night when I was beginning to fade- still I managed to do it. I pressed all the right keys, and viola--! It didn’t work. I tried again-nothing-nada, tipota! [ that’s Greek for “nothing” –I like to show off] I become frustrated and decided I wasn’t hitting the keys hard enough-so I banged hard and harder several times-the upshot of all this hostility was predictable. I lost my blog—GONE--.Into the ewiegkiet! I did not phone my daughter at midnight, I refrained with great difficulty and went to bed only to wake up feverishly at two a.m. knowing I had to rewrite the blog which I did, finally going to bed at four a.m.  The next morning I contacted my daughter who solved the problem—just one itsy bitsy mistake on my part, such pickiness! I rushed eagerly to my computer and completed the posting properly. NOTHING! There was nothing on the page .I tried again and again! Finally I looked closely at the directions and saw at the bottom of the page a “post it” sign. on which I clicked. Success at last! Feeling very proud and accomplished I went to bed. Next morning I eagerly checked my blog. There were a total of seventeen repetitions of it! Again I called my long suffering daughter. She discovered that the computer had saved all my attempts in a bank and was waiting further instructions and so when I had pressed the “post it “ sign ,it posted the entire repetition! My daughter laughed and said it was a good learning curve for me. The computer does not make mistakes she said, the only errors are human. I agreed that this was true but that my mistake turned out to be a good thing as now I had just created a subject for another blog so nothing was lost. As I meditated on all this I came to this conclusion: yes, humans are fallible and make mistakes and machines don’t. This is what makes us different- this is what makes us resilient- this is why we survive. We make our errors and turn them creatively into something new and better-like this very long-winded blog  So don’t despair my dear readers, don’t beat yourself up when you make mistakes-remember –your “error” may be the makings of “survival of the human race”--such as it is in all it’s frailties.

BLOG#15 MY ELUSIVE HEARING AID

Well my dear faithful readers, as you my remember, a long time ago I wrote a very successful b log about my elusive cursor. Now I will write about another elusive thing that I own. With the unavoidable  unstoppable march of time, and the persistent changes that go with it, there has been added to my full life a new challenge- the admission of hearing aids. Those of you who have experience with these tiny gadgets will know the challenges I am  facing. I won’t bore you with  details of these experiences but will talk of only one aspect- the elusive qualities of these irascible gadgets! It is a well established fact that hearing aids are never in the spot where you last left them. They somehow grow feet and walk away, landing in odd ,inappropriate places. I have found them under the sofa, behind my computer and most frightening of all, in the kitchen sink. This is in my own home, however far worse is in the outside world. I have searched and found them under the car seat where I have hurled them in frustration, unable to tolerate the grinding noise of traffic, the shrill screams of ambulances and the blaring of radios of passing SUV’s. I have been known to absentmindedly remove them and place them on any available surface when attending parties that have become too loud and unbearable. The proper thing ,of course, at these occasions, is to place them in the container designed for this purpose and put them in your pocket. Unfortunately feminine clothing usually is not designed with pockets and if they do have them, the bulge these containers make is unacceptable to the discerning  fashionable female of which I am one.So,dear reader, you can see the many hazardous pitfalls I have to negotiate to prevent the loss of these  expensive new belongings of mine. Nevertheless in spite of this I have managed for two years not to lose them. But last Thursday, I and my hearing aids met our Waterloo. We were all-my hearing Aids and myself- attending the film version of the live performance by the London National theatre "The Cherry Orchard "by Chekhov. It was a “sitting on the edge of the seat” performance, and I, mesmerized ,absentmindedly removed the aids and put them in my handbag. The elusive aids, of course, left my handbag and are probably wondering around the theatre, or being sucked up by vacuum cleaners {serves them right} I have hunted in all the usual places but the elusive hearing aids are nowhere to be found. I don’t know what to do but I think I might decide I don’t need them anymore and ask my friends and relatives to repeat everything twice again as I used to. I am O.K. with that. You my wise readers will ask “but of course you have insured them”. I ask you, do I look like a “insure my hearing aid “sort of person? Of course not, My good friend consoled me by offering me a spare pair and suggested I write about it in my blog- which I did! So I bid you goodnight. -. the show was worth the loss.- I think

BLOG #14 LAST FALL I FELL

Last fall in September, I fell. I didn’t just fall,I FELL. I  fell like a bowling kingpin hit by a bowling ball fell, I fell like the marble columns that Samson pulled down fell; I fell like the giant Goliath that David slew fell; fell like the giant cedars our famous loggers felled in British Columbia long ago. Yes, reader I fell, I was showing  my town to my sister and brother-in-law the picturesque downtown wharf, misjudged the height of a curb and down I went! I fell right down flat on my face, and to add injury to injury, managed to slide on the abrasive sidewalk as well. What is it about falling publicly that is so humiliating? Why do we feel such idiots when we fall? Why with blood streaming down my face was I so busy stammering my apologies to the very polite and concerned Japanese tourists who were helping me? “No No “ I stammered “ don’t bother I’m fine” as I scrambled for my glasses blindly through the streaming blood? I was rescued by a good Samaritan, a lovely woman who took me to her pristine office where she promptly hauled out a huge first aid kit and helped me to clean up and bandage . But again, why feel so foolish? I don’t know which hurt more, my nose or my pride. And while we are on the subject, why do we laugh when someone falls? Comedy is based on “pratfalls”. I knew someone once who was learning to be a clown and I used to watch him practice his falls. To be funny without hurting himself took great skill and strength. Over and over he would go until he was exhausted- just so we could have a laugh. Also there are other aspects of falling besides humiliation and comedy. The myth of Iscariot for example, and of course the fall from Grace, the descent to Hades or Hell---all about “falling” and not to forget the notorious “falling dream” and the sudden wakening with all the shaming interpretations. But I am sure you, my readers, are innocent of those dreams! And ,of course, the greatest fall of all- the “falling in love fall” Oh my, the biggest fall of all and of course the fall that has the greatest capacity to make us look foolish! But never mind, everyone loves a lover and being a fool has it’s own reward too- as I know. By the way, no bones were broken and I have healed well except for my pride and we all know Pride cometh before the fall

ROCHELLE #11

Rochelle----- Rochelle--What a name! Rochelle-it rolls richly off one's tongue. Rochelle-- a lover's word .” Rochelle, I love you"  ".Rochelle you are my world." " Rochelle, my beloved Rochelle". Rochelle repeated her name over and over—“What were her parents thinking of when they named her? The name belonged to a beautiful voluptuous woman ,fragrant. vibrantly young, confident, sexy, all the lovely adjectives dedicated to  romance novels. She, on the other hand did not belong to any novel she could imagine. She was the kind of woman never to be featured anywhere neither in fiction nor in real life. No, she  was the kind of nondescript woman that was always passed over, not noticed ,with plain ordinary features, mousy brownish hair and no elegance. Rochelle knew where she belonged in life and if she became unsure, she had her faithful mirror to remind her,” Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is fairest of them all?” and the mirror would always answer “not you my dear”.  Across the city another woman was looking into her mirror –a very different mirror-this mirror is beautifully beveled with an ornate gilded frame. This woman was also examining her reflected image and was thinking on the same lines, but with a difference. “Why was I given this name by my parents? What were they thinking of? “who names their child -their beautiful only child -Jane? “Jane, where are my shoes?” “Jane ,my shirt needs ironing.” “ Answer the phone Jane”. This is the life expected by a woman named Jane. This is the sum total of  her. Jane looked at herself in the mirror examining in detail her exquisite features, her blue azure eyes, her rosebud mouth, the tilted nose and the high cheek bones to” die for.” Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is fairest of them all?”---  You have read, dear reader, the first paragraph of my novel that I WILL NEVER WRITE !  As I am developing my typing skills I am also curiously examining all aspects of this tantalizing machine [though I still haven’t learned how to paragraph-my elusive cursor mysteriously won’t let me –any suggestions my silent readers!] and it is inevitable that I examine the role of the novelist. There are many questions that come up and I am enjoying dealing with them; what, for example, does it feel like staring at a blank wall waiting for inspiration? Do I throw myself back in my chair, gaze distractedly at the ceiling, calling on my muses?” Where are you Paul Newman, Johnny Depp, Brad Pitt?” “Why have you deserted me?” Do I tear at my hair or throw my trusty typewriter out the window? All very deep questions but that is not all! “What do I wear?” And most important “what do I drink?” Do I wear an old beige cashmere sweater with holes in the sleeves, faded jeans, desert boots and artistic cravat tied carelessly round my neck? Do I drink scotch? Or shall I wear a loose tropical afghan with a turban on my head and drink absinthe? That solved, what theme should I chose? Shall it be a crime thriller complete with monocled aristocrat, or a romance with a tall dark brooding character with a throb in his throat? What format shall I use? Shall I use”Hemmingwayesque” short curt sentences-every tiny word heavily weighted, or should I use a”Robertson Davies” florid,flambouyant style? These are problems that are keeping me awake at nights. But however tempting it is to continue in this enticing way I am sorry to say I will never write this novel! So what will happen to plain Rochelle and Lovely Jane ? I am afraid I will never know and eat your hearts out dear readers for you will never know also –though I think there will be a prince in it--- or a frog!  And so, on this note, this “almost budding” novelist bows out for tonight                  

LA-DE-DA-DE-DA--#10

La-de da-de- da- I am so tired but can't sleep and am punch drunk so I am wandering around saying "la-de da- de da-.Somehow it makes me feel better -somehow it makes me feel like Diane Keaton in her oversize vest, necktie and sloppy pants and  floppy hat. La-de-da de da. Guess what? I am not wearing the above sloppy Diane Keaton costume. I am wearing my flour speckled jeans because in my exhausted despair I decided to make homemade spaghetti. Have you, dear reader, ever made home made spaghetti? Have you ever made homemade spaghetti without a machine, cutting the noodles with a dull knife by hand? I have! La-de da-de da. So here I am swanning around la-de da-ing ever so preppily pretending I’m just down from Harvard -la-de-da-de-da-,speaking carelessly in a fine drawl. It’s two a.m. outside my window is an eerie view of white snow, deserted road sinisterly gleaming with ice, and flower pots on my balcony wearing grotesques hats of six inch snow, but I am, with droopy eyes, queening around la-de-da-ing .Oh it's fun to be punch-drunk with sleeplessness! It's a surprising bonus of old age I did not expect! I always imagined and looked forward to long delicious sleep when I retired and became carefree. Little did I know about this new development. Instead of deliciously sleeping in my bed I can instead go swanning gracefully about la-de-da-ing.How exciting is that? Don’t ever believe old age is boring dear reader-.LA-DE-DA-DE-DA!

K.I.S.S.#9

The other morning while my friend and I were discussing computers over coffee at Starbucks,  . he leaned over and said to me "Remember Laurie , always kiss". “OH” says I "I like that. I can do that! Further more I can always use one"  He said “No I mean K.I.S.S---which translates into “keep it simple, stupid” Remember it, repeat it over and over as a mantra, use it in everything you do in your life, but above all use it when using your computer”. Funnily enough I understood just what he meant, for hadn’t I for months puzzled over that mysterious term “P.C.”? Knowledgeable people i.e. my computer technician on the phone trying to help me, or my annoying savvy friends would ask me where my pc was or what “make my pc was” and I would frantically search  around my computer or thumb through my manual looking for –I don’t know what! Of course I never admitted to not knowing--one never admits ignorance! I would nod and make a mumbled reply. Quite by accident I found out this mysterious term meant “personal computer”. What a revelation that was! Nay-almost an epiphany! So simple! It wasn’t an obscure mechanical device with yards of complex wires connected to my rats- nest wiring mess on the floor, .it wasn’t something magical , and P.C.. didn’t stand for “picoraturational  postefficaratour” It was simply my” personal computer.” From that moment on I relaxed. Computers are basically simple. Not only are they simple they are dumb with no imagination. They were devised to do exactly what we ask it to- no more no less. They are never asked to think! Since that revelation I’ve never looked back. All I have to do is remember to always k.i.s.s. and my computer and I will hum along happily ever after. So dear readers, your Aunty Blogger  advices you to remember to always K.I.S.S a lot and you, your computer and your life will hum along smoothly ever after too!  And so “Goodnight”  xoxo

"Oh God!" #8

O God!! I’ve become serious and pedantic! How did this happen? Where was my surveillance- my inner humour police? Why is it when a writer decides to write "essays" she becomes suddenly transformed into that horrid caricature of time honoured female intellectuals? Here I am suddenly with a bun at the nape of my neck, a midline part in my hair and a beige twin sweater set on over a midcalf skirt with a distinct sag of the hem. Me- that foxy lady in trendy jeans not too tight, but with a refined though sexy allure, and a top that speaks volumes of  exciting though tasteful experience in what can only be the "Crème de la creme" of artistic  fashion? I’m afraid dear  reader, I need to have a long thoughtful pause!                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

‘Was I really portraying myself as the epitome of self conscious understated and undermined mouse of spinsterhood in literature? I wish!! To be able to place myself in that exalted exclusive club of females in twin sets is sheer impertinence!  All my life I have longed to be in that club. To be able to carry off that distinct uniform with élan has always been my desire. Especially to be able to hold my profile in a Virginian Wolfe- like angle, with my aristocratic nose and that alluring understated sexy indent between the upper lip and nose. Oh how I envy Virginia that indent! But we are not talking noses or lndents. We are seriously talking about my serious decline into pedantism-a quick and long slippery slope. I need to redeem myself. To take one’s creative art seriously is important but to take oneself seriously while doing it is disastrous. Now I must make something about myself clear! I am definitely not a “foxy” lady in perfectly fitting sexy jeans! I am very sorry to disillusion my faithful and trusting readers, but I am really a rather dumpy woman at present wearing a very loose and shapeless shift and my hair I am sorry to say is a sun faded frizzy red with roots showing. On that note, with bowed head I sign out for tonight.

NONMANAGEMENT WITH ONE'S BRAIN #7

 This is what was said to me as I was going on and on the other day about my dissatisfaction with myself “The trouble with you is when you talk your brain is not engaged, you open your mouth and everything comes tumbling out, you are then in trouble and you can’t go back and unsay it- It is out there, hence you are in difficulty”. What difficulty? How can one not be engaged with one’s brain? Having said that let me go back to my dissatisfaction. The point is I want to go to Vancouver to the art gallery, walk down memory lanes, but above all to be alone, so promptly I phone my friends to tell them of my plans-thereby underlining the fact of my brain nonengagement. The outcome of all this is everyone wants to join me. What to do? I want to be alone and I want to see my friends, but above all I don’t want them to think badly of me, so I say nothing and spend the whole night trying to figure out how I can juggle being alone walking down memory lane and at the same time be with my friends so as not to offend them. That is, have my cake and eat it too. The upshot of all this was a sleepless night and a great sense of worthlessness as I went off to join my longsuffering friend for coffee and bored him with a long meandering tale of my “self dissatisfaction” thereby earning the comment-pithy enough “the trouble with you is when you talk your brain is not engaged and you find yourself in these messes”. Why didn’t he just say” say naught “not that he would under any circumstance say the word “naught” and leave my poor brain alone! Dear reader, why can’t I stop rambling on about my poor brain and why can’t I get my elusive cursor to go to the end of the line? I’ve spent half an hour trying to get it to obey me!  I think I best bid you a frustrated goodnight and go to bed.

STRING OF WORDS #6

It is time to write something- something satisfying to me if to no one else. What is it-the need to express oneself? perhaps it is the delight, surely confined to humans, of stringing words together- lovely words, naughty words ,meaningless words, strings of unconnected word like for example- lust,------------------------------------------ blackmail ,permeable,unforgettable,everlastng.serendipity. What fun to roll these lovely words off our tongues, savouring the sound of vowels and strong consonants. Do other animals have this joy? I think not though we don't know. Today my friend and I watched two male ducks- drakes I think they are called, quacking to each other, quite a sustained conversation though the sounds never varied, just quake quack, quack. Perhaps our dull sense of hearing did not catch the subtle nuances of duck language, but I really think humans are unique in the infinite variety of their sounds of speech. Anyway my friend decided the drakes were gay-two handsome beautiful gay drakes conversing together as they lazily paddled through the stream. I’ve just been listening to a Leonard Cohen concert recorded on Skye in the seventies and there is a human being who loves words-stringing words, word pictures, loving words ,sensuous words. Words fall off his tongue in a beautiful variety of sounds and meanings filling our lives with endless sensations of joy and sorrow and the infinite variety of Cohen craziness. How lucky we are to have this wonderful vehicle- the vehicle of words and how lucky we are to have a Leonard Cohen to string them together for us. Thank you for listening to me--- and so I bid you goodnight dear readers.

H--- S---!#5

h---- s--- H--- s---! Well what do you know, I've just discovered something sublime, an invention so wonderful it is up there with the invention of the wheel or perhaps the invention of certain feminine products! It is a little feature in the Word Pad ,a little symbol that you click on and it  corrects your spelling and grammar mistakes! I click on this symbol and suddenly my paragraph is covered with squiggly red lines just like my essays in grade four on which the teacher has scrawled in  red ink lines, a big "D" and "PUNCTUATION!!" PLEASE” all over them. What happened recently is that a friend came over while I was typing, leaned over my shoulder and gently pointed the mouse to the top line of the WordPad and clicked on the funny little symbols and cute little pictures. Like magic all these symbols and cute little pictures turned into my ready and willing unpaid servants who exist just to do my bidding. All I have to do is click on them and they correct my spelling, correct my grammar and best of all even correct the spacing between my words. There even is a dictionary at my disposal! But best of all, I have my own personal dictionary in which I can put in my own words … this means I can put in words that I like such as “malleollicious which I can use  without it being rejected. The keyboard bows down to a superior force-that’s me- and humbly prints it despite it’s misgivings! Now I have always known I was born in an enlightened age(in spite of the hourly T.V.news)and am a living proof of it. Am I not with my new hip replacement tripping lightly to and fro from my apartment to the liquor store, the library, the delelicatessan and the video store in search of my basic needs? Don’t I know that when the lights dim in my lovely green eyes, I can have a five minute cataract surgery and then will be able to see the world with the fresh eyes of a new born babe? Can I not get in touch with any of my beloveds anytime anywhere even in the lady’s dress department change room at the “Bay” in the  down town mall with my brand new HI-tech. cell phone? Yes! Yes! And Yes! But THIS, dear reader, this, as my little Yorkshire friend Jess says ,“Dis caps D’lot!”

STREAMS OF CONSCIOUSNESS#4

,      Tonight I really am subject less so I will talk about streams of consciousness. The first thing  I have to say is that the spelling of consciousness is difficult and easily tripped up ,thereby stopping  my stream of consciousness to flow smoothly and begin to resemble a bumpy country ride in a leafy lane redolent with earthy smells as is  expected in that setting. The next thing I have to mention is the difficulty in punctuating a stream of consciousness. Does one go on happily spilling out words tumbling them out as a babbling brook unstoppable until they reach the ocean? Or does one stop them with commas and periods to say nothing of semi colons -those enigmatic dot comas- cluttering up the stream and clogging the flow thereby making  it stagnant? Or heaven forbid even "paragraph" them? What trauma would one inflict on this stream then, twisting the flow unto itself, inverting it, thereby causing it to induce peristalsis-like movements as it backs up? Would it not be better to have a well planned concise well thought out sentence, with consecutive thoughts carefully and neatly punctuated and paragraphed? Ah, but then dear reader, what joy you will miss. What delightful ramblings among words and thoughts as disjointed as a ramble through an untamed wood with who knows what delectable objects to be seen around the corner? No let us have the unbridled stream of consciousness, immersing ourselves in glorious words thoughts and images until we are sated.                                           

THE PURPOSE OF MY BLOGG#3

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So today I am going to talk to you dear readers about the purpose of my blogg. and if there ever was a blogg with no purpose this is it .A few years ago I purchased my first computer and started to do things with it like emailing for instance to my friends. Now I used to be a prodigious  letter writer in illigible longhand.which I inflicted on my friends but now I had a new way of communicating.What an ecrutiating thing it was! It took hours to print an email.I would type a sentence and then my irasible elusive cursor that you have already met would jump in and wipe it half out or worse,scramble it beyond comprehension.My emails got shorter and shorter, mere blurps  of”hw re u am fine”kind. In fact I think I’m sure I.  became the forerunner of texting. At this time, my darling practicle daughter emailed me a link to download a typing manual which promptly disappeared  by way Of my clicking on  the dismissive delete button (I don’t know how to download), Then another friend who I admire suggested I take a typing course.I had a flashback to grade ten when I enrolled in atyping course and spent long boring hours trying to type with the correct method (I failed the course but did manage to perfect a mean male profile complete with mustache using the #7 key).I could,of course,have spent hours copying long oieces out of newspapers. But why should I do that when I have my own vivid imagination?The oroblem with that is Ineed to write to someone. Of course I could always revert back to my grade ten course and type over and over that thing about the grey fox jumping over or under the fence.But how tedious is that?That is not me! Oh no not me.I want to plunk down my glas of whiskey on the desk,thrust my fingers impatiently through my hair,roll up my shirtsleeves,loosen my tie,hunch over my trusty keyboard,flex my fingers and withtwo fingers hunt and peck my way furiously through my clever article in time to meet the”deadline”Not for me the prissy starched white blouse,the  modest slim pencil skirt-I wish-,the mocha hued stockings and feet planted maidenly in their Cubanheeled shoeswith my glasses perched on my pert little nose!No not me! I want to”toil and riol or is rail and flail” pounding on my trusty ole typewriter . That is what the romantic aura of typing means to me,a long romantic tradition of great words strung together,no grey foxes in my version. That is why I started my Laurie’s essays,and my blogg so I can type furiously on right into Who knows?-THE GREAT QUINTESSENTIAL CANADIAN NOVEL?You my dear readers are vital to my quest to typing perfection as I can’t write to a vacuum and I am very grateful to you. And now I simply most close before this very long and tedius blogg turns into the great Canadian novel-yikes- so I bid you goodnight.

ESSAY#2 THE ELUSIVE CURSOR

Where oh where has my cursor gone? Has it gone into the ewieghiet ?Or  has this elusive gismo a mischievous life of its own? Does it have imp-like impulses to confuse me?  Does it feel a necessity to jump all over the page in a childish game of hide and seek? Or is its delight to "bamboozle me?  a lovely word I first encountered in  Toronto – a truly old fashioned Ontario word dredged up from the long ago rural townships at a gossipy oh so  truly proper and tasteful tea party? Or does it have a mysterious rite of passage?” .If a sequel  of keys are not pressed in a specific manner I will hide and pout until this ignorant typist learns the correct protocol“ I do not know .I only know it really frustrates me and ,I admit ,truly humbles me and I bow down in defeat to this great opponent and so I bow out for tonight.

ESSAY#1 LEARNING HOW TO TYPE

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 I am learning to type and find it very confusing and challenging.  The purpose of doing this is to eventually put down my thoughts and ideas , but at the rate I am going,  I must postpone my leaving this glorious planet for many years, maybe an eternity. But I ask you, are my thoughts and ideas vital to posterity? I think so. After all my thoughts and ideas are unique to me therefore irreplaceable! no one else has them and this is aftter all the crux of our individuality and why we all desire to make a maRK OR LEAVE SOMETHING BEHIND  when we are gone. Most of us realize this in our children,thus creating our own immortality. Some of us especially we artists have the audacity to  leave behind expressions of our creative talents in the optimistic hope they will  succeed us into the future thus giving us immortality that way.The resilience of the human spirit is always amazing and never more so than in the wishes of the artist wanting to be remembered through his/her creative endeavers. Having said all this, I do not claim to desire this for my < thoughts and ideas> as I have expressed today. However I am managing to almost  vanquish the unrullingness of this machine.