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!”