Tuesday, January 31, 2017

Forgive Me, Leonard Peacock.

This is a tough one.
Gun violence and suicide.
In the US, there have been far too many incidents of teenage gun violence, and whilst it is a topic
that must be tackled, I couldn't quite get into this the way I normally would with Quick's work -- I just couldn't do the topic.
I suppose there are some things I would rather not acknowledge.
It is a weakness of mine,
to push aside that which is difficult to acknowledge as a factually supported truth.
We all do that to greater or lesser degrees,
bury facts under rugs so thick and with all those feet running over the top surely no one would ever feel the lumps.
I mean we should be able to stop something like this, right?
We're meant to see the red flags, right?
Like I said, a tough topic, and there is no question that Quick handles it in a way
that is very personal and connects us enough to climb inside one teenage mind to
find what makes those thoughts and motivations tick.
Forgive Me, Leonard Peacock
I did have a wee bit of difficulty with the character, initially anyway.
I just couldn't quite believe the light-hearted side to someone who carries a gun in a backpack with an intention to use it would bother beautifully wrapping presents for those he was leaving behind,
but then maybe I'm wrong.
Maybe even in those extreme moments we are so very multi-dimensional that why not?
It's within the realm, it's just not within my realm.
Why?
Cause to think about doing such things means you are in such a terribly
dark place the last thing you ever think about is the affect on those left behind,
so the presents?
Not sure there.
So far, this one's not for me,
but I'll push on just to make sure I give it every opportunity
to prove me wrong.
Whether you can handle this subject matter or not,
one thing is certain, the figures talk.
We're not doing something right,
or we're just not doing enough.



Thursday, January 26, 2017

What does it mean? Australia Day.

So, what does it mean, this thing called,
Australia Day.
Okay, so we will know that on this day of January 26, 1788 the First Fleet of British Ships hit our shores at Port Jackson, New South Wales, 
and the Union Jack was raised.
Yeah, okay got that, but what does it mean, now?
Do we celebrate those ships in respect and acknowledgement of the past?
Well, yes, partly, but the day has evolved to a greater sense of appreciation and deeply felt gratitude of what it means to be Australian.
Observe the world climate for a minute or two and you will understand what I mean.
We are fortunate, lucky to be here, by birth or otherwise.
That is not to say we are perfect. It is not to say that there are still not problems.
There is much to learn, and much to bridge in balance and understanding between the native people of this land
and those who have chosen and come to be a part of. 
The face of Australia has indeed changed.
Image result for Opening the window to Australia day
A land separate and not separate at all.
A country built from people across the seas,
the same seas crossed then that are crossed now. 
We open our doors,
to greater and lesser degrees,
and the faces of Australia have changed and continue to do so,
and bring with it cultural shifts and a greater understanding of our acceptance and place.  
I was not born here.
I speak differently.
I have had different experiences.
I have seen cities burn.
I have not met Donald Trump. 
My skin is white, but it could have perhaps been green, pink, brown, black, blue, polkadot,
for all that it matters.
This is my home,
adopted yes, but with a link not every immigrant will share.
 My own children come from a rather long line of Australians.
Their great grandfather fought in two wars. Their grandfather frequented the local pub.
He's buried in the local cemetery. Their father rode these streets when they were dirt and beach and not much more. Our extended family of cousins and uncles and aunts come from a very long, long line of Aussie stock.
I don't --
for all that it matters, this is still my home.
And so, we stand back on this day in appreciation and value of all that as been,
and yet to become,
and still to be grown --
And, in unity we hope.
Happy Australia Day.
Image result for Faces of Australia

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

The Distance We Place.

Time must be justified.
For me, this is an absolute.
I understand we need downtime, we need time for necessities,
but time as a rule is a sticking point with me.
I do not seem to have enough,
and yet I have more than most.
It is sleep that bothers me, that need for rest. 
I wish I could plug myself into a socket and recharge for a brief hour and that would be it.
Such a waste, this need,
so I am cracking through the reads.
If you don't grab me in those first few pages, you're getting pushed to the side.
I have set aside three of the short-listed Victorian Premier's Award for that very reason.
I am not going to say which,
but I will say that there are books and stories of all kinds as there are people, with their own
likes and dislikes and all the in-betweens. 
Not all will make that grab, but if you can't get to my heart, I can't give you my time.
I just can't.
It's not in me to do so.
The last I set down was well written, certainly, but there was a veil between me and the heart in the story, the people in the story, almost like it was submerged, or I was submerged.
I could not rise to the surface.
Perhaps, it was that there was no heart.
Not every story does indeed possess that motivation,
and nor should it, but it is a requirement still to feel "something."
There was something slipping between the words and me,
a palpable divide I couldn't push myself past.
I couldn't pursue it.
There simply are not enough hours to any day.
So, lift the veil,
tell me your story not through glass or fog or the challenge of any divide. 
Open the window,
exhale.
Let me feel the breath of it in your words.

Monday, January 23, 2017

We Come to, Split, Shyamala's latest.

Split.
Not since Sybil have we seen splits such as these,
a multitude of characters in the host of one body, a fascinating starting point to a
 sordid tale on the effects of trauma.
Betty Buckley, still beautiful in her advanced age, plays Dr. Fletcher and brings
a real human touch to the condition of multiple disorders in this film,
and it's this combination of compassion and horror that ties together well.
She was brilliant, and even though
McAvoy did a superb job playing the multitudes,
it was Buckley that grounded it in believability, and let's face it, 
the root of any successful bit of scary is to create a story that teeters on the edge of possibility.
I'm not a huge fan of the scary genre,
but this was in the psychological thriller realm, and there's no one better than Shyamala to pull it off with just the right blend of twists and edge of your seat, 
"Hurry, hurry, turn the damn lock and get the hell out."
 The guy has experience, worked it well in Sixth Sense and some will say brought it home with Split.
There were moments in the end,
where he loosened the reigns with the appearance of the Beast, but he only let it brush against the supernatural briefly before he snapped it back to what was a well laid out story on the protection of the human spirit, the fight we all have in us to survive,
and the Beast that comes forward to ensure such survival.
SCARY!
Human regeneration of the crazy kind!
So, if you're in the mood for scary,
take a punt on
Split.
The best I've seen in its category in a very long time.


To Give Up. Hemingway.

To give up on anything,
it's a terrible crime and punishment.
A death of its own kind, you could say.
I wonder about those "things" we
hold so very dear
a part of us in some way or another,
that in being so,
become our fibers, the parts we grow along the way.
To decide, to make conscious effort, to give up 
is death.
Taking your own hands and digging out that part of yourself, whatever it may be, 
the clawing of flesh.
A painful process that leaves one to wonder at the kind of deaths
we do live in one life.
By choice. By circumstance. By forces outside our control.
Take Hemingway as an example,
not necessarily an example that will level with any of our own deaths, but still ...
Image result for Hemingway
There was a moment in his life
where all was lost,
where every word he'd ever written taken in a suitcase brought with good intention.
Every copy too, gone.
He must have stood there under that realization and just felt emptied out, 
gone himself to some extent,
but eventually what lived in him, what indeed was him resurfaced,
and whilst some of his heart died in that moment,
there was too something left to take over.
And so he did,
and so we have him forever as a result.
What is in our hearts,
is our hearts.
Clawed, or not. 
That which is us,
remains. 

Saturday, January 21, 2017

They might well have been ...

Trying to slice past
belief with a
 knife that spoke in a language of its own.
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Once upon a time,
as all fairies begin, 
in an old oak at the edge with all the rest of the folk.
There are things that bring danger,
and things that burn to be alive,
and there is much to be hunted in the end of such silence,
and there is Knife who 
will change their sentence.
Not with wand,
for that is an entirely different story,
and this is the story of, 
Knife.

Y'all should be. Happy.

Well heck,
I Hope You Are All Happy Now.
You did exactly what you set out to do.
It certainly shows what a good "banding" together will do.
There's one person you
might just explain a few things to,
or might explain to you.
You can give him a call.
Or, you can let the photos
Rock and Roll.
The Yeah Yeah Yeahs!
I Hope You are All Happy Now
Life in a band.
Thirty years of photos to show what that life is exactly like.
Every crowd. Every face. Every hotel.
Every consequence.
I Hope You Are Happy Now,
behind the music
for real.


Thursday, January 19, 2017

We Call. Lion.

This is real.
Forget everything else.
This one has it all.
Depth. Power. Story.
Intelligence. 
The fertile ground was there in the story itself,
and no question it was meant to be written and brought to the screen,
but it was the way it was handled that spoke of absolute intelligence.
The editing, superb.
The sound track, clever.
The opening scenes intended to get your heart pounding, to get you "there,"
live it with them, feel it.
From there it went straight into
"heart-squeeze" right to the finish.
This is what I mean by "real."
It was "complete" in a way that engages us to feel.
Patel, Denham, Kidman, Mara, engrossing.
Supporting cast, perfect, and
little Sunny Pawar who stepped into Saroo's shoes and filled every inch of them
with an honesty that lit up the screen.
Beautiful to see.

It seems unfathomable to think of a child going missing,
to have him "lost" for twenty-five years and then have the gift of him returned to you
and the knowledge that he was well, cared for,
loved.
A gift indeed.
But, as the Lion campaign states, 80,000 children go missing in India EVERY YEAR.
EVERY. YEAR.
Not everyone can be saved,
and yet we need to believe that some can, some will.
Lion hands back that belief,
and hands back the reality of "more" in our world.
We do "call" each other,
and in this haunting tale, we feel that call,
the call of a Lion.
 A truly beautiful "real" story,
done with care, honesty,
and gives us enough room
to feel.


Have your way. Have mine. Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche.

Moral ground.
Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche
You have your way. I have my way.
As for the right way, the correct way, and the only way,
it does not exist.
So. What does?  Exist?
Nietzsche, and his moral code.
I will not make comment on thoughts of any Germanic kind,
not will I venture into his misogynistic attitudes,
but I will talk about this idea of morality.
Hume's thought centers on the belief that morality is built on natural sympathy for others.
What do you think?
Is it our empathy, our insight that allows us to conduct ourselves in what is deemed acceptable order,
or is it what is engrained in us, taught in our pews of knowledge and past,
taught and shown in what we must value.
For yes, of course there must indeed be order,
but there too must be honesty,
and there treads the difficulty with people confronted by, right, just, and reasonable
restrain within a framework of honesty to one's self.
Nietzsche explores this,
and succeeds with all its controversy and all the support of other philosophers that
leave political correctness by the wayside to explore societal truths, restrictions, guidelines
of our "rightness' within our own personal frames.
We can agree at the end with this one Nietzsche thought ...
Life is ultimately absurd, was not a reason for angst but a cause for celebration, self-creation, and artistic fervor.
We follow what has passed,
belief of our predecessors, belief in our own place, and we tread somewhere in the middle of
what is written in stone
and what can be written in truth.
And so, find our own moral ground,
and exploration of mind,
with care, with love, with truth.
Human, All Too HumanBeyond Good and EvilThe Birth of Tragedy

Wednesday, January 18, 2017

Critics Aside. This is it. The Nationals.

In one month exactly,
we find out the winner.
How many of these have you hit?
Two sit on my shelf on the ready,
two more on order,
one I'm left to think about.
I do like the sound of Moonglow, the stories that get lost and forgotten,
the ones yet to be told.
This is an ears open tale, listening to the old when they are by our side,
hearing their life stories before they are gone --
finding the treasures that we in our youth don't seem willing to hear.
I want your stories.
I want them all.
I want to curl up and listen until my last breath.
The Critics National Award.
March 16, 2017.
Moonglow
LaRoseImagine Me GoneCommonwealthSwing Time

The Book Of Unknown Americans.

That place of belonging.
Identity.
Knowing who you are and what you belong to.
Fundamental, right?
Our history. Our people. 
It colors in our spaces.
What if you didn't have that?
What if you had to change everything? What if you became that border king or queen?
The Book of Unknown Americans
pulls one world into another and creates home away from home.
It is in this place that friendships blossom,
love blooms,
a home is made.
Immigration, the hot topic during this last election year.
This is a story about
"those people"
in the fundamental landscape
of different and the same.
The Book of Unknown Americans

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

So Lightly Here.

The child grows, a life grows too. The parent grows, a life grows too.
The steps away. The steps in life.
 The world of parent to child.
Respect to accept.
To whose ears do we accept?
Here I Am
Here I Am,
talks about how we fulfill our conflicting duties as father, husband, son,
wife, mother, child, adult?
How do we claim ourselves amongst so many links?
These are the questions of heart,
the whispers in the ear
of making sure and making clear.
Accept. Respect.
Here I Am,
confronts the distances between the lives we think we want and the lives we live,
the meaning of home,
the fundamental question of how much life.
Respect. Accept.
We are so lightly here.
It is in love that we are made.
In love we disappear.
Leonard Cohen

Monday, January 16, 2017

Manguel. Dante. The Curious. And why?

Curiosity,
it did not kill the cat.
It only raised an enlightened brow.
The question remains,
"Why?"
Curiosity
Manuel's Curiosity, his own roadmap into that question through
inquisitives like Aquinas, Hume, Carroll, Carson, Socrates,
and beloved Dante, the philosopher of "why," and the virtues and vices of loves own hell.
Purgatorio. Paradiso.
The places and spaces in between.
Our heavens. Our hells.
What we make and choose to live.
Indeed, a Divine Comedy.
In Curiosity, there are thinkers, scientists, artists,
 anyone who asks this one question,
and delves for an answer, or some semblance of.
Why?
Why this? Why that?
Why one way and not the other?
Why be or not?
Why is this, and then why that?
Why?
The question soars to the skies in imagination,
and roots itself in the solid and more concrete.
For every question stems from reality, the foundation under our feet.
It's like fact vs. fiction, both stem from truth,
one remains in it, the other pulls out clouds of why's?
The thinkers will ask,
and they will forever seek,
this that takes our why's to
what and how
to know.
Dante Alighieri

Sunday, January 15, 2017

To the very last.

To the very last pages,
there were tears.
There was a simple understanding of our "people,"
those we let in and those who inevitably touch our hearts.
It can be their stories,
the words and time they share.
It can be little or big, but nourished to grow. 
This, that we open ourselves to,
to allow that in, 
is no small feat.
It is what makes us our family,
not by blood,
but by heart.
 Heart Songs

I did not know this. Sylvia Plath.

In 1963, this day,
Sylvia Plath's THE BELL JAR
was published under her pseudonym, Victoria Lucas.
I wonder at what point she switched back.
I would love to know how that came to be.
Perhaps, after such reception to this American classic,
she felt safe enough to do so.
I wonder.
Thanks to the Hub for sharing this.

Saturday, January 14, 2017

The Book of Loss. The Book of Ove.

There has not been a character so rich and alive in some time,
 as Ove.
I know I am going on about this,
but it has struck so many chords in its pure spot on immersion into
one character,
his love, his life,
his loss.
Loss.
The process we go through is under microscope in this book,
and so too outside this book.
It is indeed a process,
and as such it is saturated in up and down emotion.
It would be natural to expect,
poke in a few little important dates and it's poked once again
and we are reminded.
So there can be a shut down, or shut out.
There can be anger and frustration and the rather largest shake of one's head when questions
are fluent, the answers not so. 
There can be a shutting out of the world and also an understanding that one must too let in.
In Ove's case,
he looks for a way out,
but you see life has chosen for him.
Life has chosen life to live.
It walks right up and knocks on his door,
and won't take no for an answer.
For those who have, or are going through loss of any kind,
or simply want to feel the heart of a story,
then this is one to read.
A delightful insight 
to understand that in life,
we are all stories,
and we all travel through own processes of loss,
to gain.
Taking a turn to
Steinbeck --
who felt deeply the loss of things he loved,
but also adaptive in response.
You see,
eventually we must
be.

Friday, January 13, 2017

That is all.

Ove.
 If you don't feel this man's heartbreaking love,
then you are dead.
That is all.

No man. United Kingdom.

"No man is free who is not master of himself."
Seretse and Ruth Khama,
a relationship that shook the world.
Neither were quite prepared,
neither were ready to let go either,
and so they didn't.
They hung tight together in love,
and fought whatever came their way.
Do you have any idea how hard it would have been for them,
but they carried their belief, carried it out into the world and said I'm not hiding from it.
This is me. This is us. This is who we are.
The adjustments in belief are to be yours. 
Of one country, to another, of one color, to another, and still to have stood.
I am flabbergasted by their strength.
I truly am.
United Kingdom is inspired by a true story between Botswanan King Seretse Khama and his British wife Ruth Williams Khama, and their union of opposition that rose battled voice from family, country, tribal elders, and government.
Did they survive this?
What sacrifices were made?
What honor did they show the world in their simple truth and non-denial?
This, is an enduring story of love,
 a story of what it is to believe in that one and singular thing,
and to show that to the world in all its honesty.
To hold one's head high.
To hold one's heart high.
And so, 
in this story of absolute
United Kingdom. 
One's fight.



Thursday, January 12, 2017

You, who have forgotten.

You,
who have forgotten,
not,
all that you know.
You,
who trusted,
not,
all that you know.
You, 
who walked to follow,
follow not.
Lead.
You,
who stole to take,
took to stole,
You,
who have broken,
 to fix.
You,
who have loved.

This is not a story for
the light-hearted.
It will not warm your heart, but set you in chills.
Violence seen in a small town
leaves its mark, and so they try to erase it,
make it so it didn't happen.
But, it did.
All is Not Forgotten,
a psychological thriller with an aim to chill.
It is graphic. It is intense.
And eventually, it cuts through to the real story.
It isn't pretty.
Nor is the close-knit community that steps free of the shadows
to find the monster
that has lived amongst them for years.
All Is Not Forgotten,
a story of memory erase.


Wednesday, January 11, 2017

I must confess.

I must confess.
Now, don't get excited,
this is not confession by any normal means,
but more an admission of undying love for the "Beast."
Yes, the Beast.
This story, ah this story, taming the beast, the hidden jewel beneath ... it certainly does tick all the boxes one would hope for in our fairy tales. Beauty and the Beast has been, and will continue to be, one of the truly savored, wonderfully rich that it is in story and of course the truly expansive characters galore.
The first glimpse of this tale appeared in 1740, "La Belle et La Bete,"published by Villeneuve, and explored the choice or gifting of a husband to a woman, a decision that came way by their father's selection and choice.
Hence the story of Beast. 
Hence a glimpse of a woman's view on "arranged" marriages.
From there, it was shortened and altered to reflect the changing times with glimpses of "French Enlightenment," passed from Beaumont to Lang's best known english version,  
and we begin to see the shape of the story as we now know it. 
I do not believe there is anyone who has not found something in the Beast
they adored, and how lucky is Emma Watson?
This is a fairy tale of all fairy tales.
A wonderful story,
whose own film adaptations have gone from
Jean Cocteau, 1946, to Disney's 1991 animated classic,
and now this, 
no doubt a soon to be wonderful addition I am so very much looking forward to.
The Beast
carried forth through time in all its incantations. 
"Be my guest, be my guest, be my guest."


Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Got 5 Minutes?

Please watch this.
No, listen to this.
Really listen.
One of Hollywood's most respected woman who is eloquent 
in mind, in heart, in spirit.
Listen to her.
Pluck out the bits that mean something to you,
or perhaps make you cringe with understanding.
Listen.
5 Minutes.
We need to be better,
of mind, of heart, of spirit. 
We, all of us, need to do better.
It's time.
If 2016 has given us one clear message,
it's shown us the bar must be raised.
We've let it fall too low.
Listen.
5 Minutes.

The Constellation of Chance and Choice.

That which makes us who we are.
"The constellation of chance and choice."
Simone de Beauvoir.
Bloglovin brought her back to me, and in fondness did I recall
a face full of intrigue,
an expression that showed a mind that was always working,
always turning thoughts of who we are,
what we are,
how we are all placed together,
over in her mind.
The constellation of chance,
of choice,
what does it bring?
One movement to the left or right and your path is crossed
in a way that would not have crossed should you have walked straight,
chosen differently,
did differently.
Chance taken. Choice made.
But at whose hands were those choices brought?
The outside forces of life and matter and that which blows,
guides, brings, alters.
Do you believe in fate?
Do you believe that we stack up our little bits and pieces,
one on top of another,
until that choice is made?
With thought.
Without.
It matters little.
Chance and choice made --
who we are.

How to be.

The shiny new year rolled in
like a shiny new toy,
and we do what we tend to do every year.
Ask questions.
Of ourselves.
Of others.
Of our world.
How will it be,
this shiny new thing?
We ask not for that which has hindered
to show itself in this 'new,' but to bring forth that which we have not seen,
and do not know.
We ask for better.
We always do.
In ourselves.
In others.
In our world.
We meet this new with anticipated enthusiasm,
with hope, and recognition, or perhaps just that 
question of
how to be?
How to be both
They say it is scrupulously playful,
a genre-bending conversation between forms, times, truths and fictions.
Two tales of love and injustice
becomes singular where time becomes timeless, structural becomes playful,
knowing becomes mysterious,
fiction becomes real.
Life's chances.
How to be
both.
How to be.

Monday, January 9, 2017

Library, library, where for art thou?

The first time I walked into the State Library,
 I cried.
Yes. 
I am that person,
one who marvels at incredible beauty,
who yes, appreciates the shelves, and shelves and shelves of thoughts,
ideas, hearts, minds, souls, knowledge
laid out in a mind licking abode that you would need more than your own lifetime to get through.
I simplify now, or I've found a "trick" to maximize my reading potential.
The local.
Yes, the trusted and true where I have received so much.
The emotional impact is not the same.
Pleasing yes, a place still of words, yes,
but the impact that the State creates is not something that happens in
your local.
Gotta step outside for something like that.
The local does, however, become the practical choice,
and still very much appreciated as indicative by the stacks around me.
The mountain of books I have borrowed, and intend to borrow certainly is mounting, and
I'm sure I have them wondering.
But you see,
I don't quite finish them all.
It is a trick,
a chance for a little "peek and see."
It keeps me current, keeps me in the know,
and through that process I find out which do indeed tickle me my fancy.
Those are the ones I end up buying,
the ones I want to take my time with, slowly, and appreciate, fully,
and so,
the local gives me that chance to see if I want to take it further. 
It gives insight, opportunity,
 a chance for more.
Your local.
Don't cry.
Just get there.


Sunday, January 8, 2017

The Hate U Give. Timely YA.

Yeah, I know you,
you know me,
we all know each other and we all hate each other,
cause hate is so much easier than any time and energy it takes to know any different.
Look.
Look at me.
Look at the color of my skin.
You hate me?
I hate you back. Let's just hate everything.
Spit on the ground, spit on my name
and turn around and spit into the wind and see what happens then. 
Hate. Hate. Hate.
Such a sad waste.
Who are you? Who are we?
Look over your shoulder and you will see there are two.
Look further,
you will see even more.
Look beyond,
you will see me.
The Hate U Give
Hate. Prejudice. The jump on assumption.
Death and dying,
the kind you should never see before your very own eyes.
The twist and turn of one moment.
The wrong in it that has no end,
only blame and pain and endless dying of a different kind.
I have been waiting for something like this to hit the market,
being that it is so very "timely."
A shooting.
Black against white.
Armed cop against nothing.
Uneasiness between two worlds,
 the walk from a poor neighborhood to the world of posh prep school,
and there is Starr stuck in the middle, seeing both sides.
Who takes the time to do that?
The truth is searing.
The truth is dangerous.
The truth is all there is.
Will Starr find that passage in between?
February, 2017 release.

The Hutch in the Sun Interference. Names Names.

No, not Starksy and Hutch,
but maybe from around that same time period.
What year do you reckon this was done?
Do we consider time period, place, cliched character and space?
This is the conundrum of names,
those that click together in unusual, good, and opposing not-so-fitting ways.
Choosing names can be difficult,
but if you're lucky and the heat (38 degrees) subsides and your brain ceases from malfunctioning, sometimes those names get presented on silver platters.
Collected Hutch Owen, Vol. 1
Let's see, I'll run the list.
We could start with Amy, Jamie, or the funny little lady.
We could move to Fiona, Diablo, Denise, Felice, Nicki, Nic, Deb, Tom, Jack and Joe,
like Jack and Jill, simple Simon the pieman.
Make the plan Stan,
Jan, Fran, John, Lou, Ange, Andrew, Ants in the Tony, Paul and Bologna.
 Frank, Roz, Boz, Sue, Tom, Baz, Tim, Dave, James, Josh, John, John, Join.
We've got Lisa, Alice, Cole, Bec, heck,
Adam, Mark, Danielle, Mick, Michelle, Rachel.
Let's hit the more unusual.
Araceli, Braylon, Amaryllis, Bliss, Cici, Si.
Fawn, Fleur, Jubilee, Odelia, Paizlee with little pinch of Pepper.
The list runs long,
and there are only a few here to pluck from.
Where do you pick from?
Which one sticks?
How many times to you change yours?
All I can say is thank God for Word's "Find and Replace."
I tend to follow the Registry's,
and always end up finding my pick. 

Saturday, January 7, 2017

Ove. L-OVE.

 Ove.
A character so rich and so complete you will immediately feel you know him,
and quite possibly want to
thrash and hug him at the same time.  
A crotchety man of fifty-nine who points and ridicules those different from him,
or different to what he expects,
for they must indeed be crazy to think and do such things, or quite possibly they are criminals, posers, or any other such thing in their white shirts and pencil skin intrusions.
And just look at those self-employed "work-at-homers,"
they're nothing but bludgers who extend their lunches to dinners and know nothing of what it means to possess a solid work ethic.
They certainly do not drive Saabs.
Only sensible people drive Saabs,
 and Ove is nothing if not sensible, but he is also critical beyond critical,
 ready for the "worthless world to disappoint him."
Ah, Ove.

There is the question of principle when it comes to Ove's motivations,
and so it should be no surprise that he would take note of license plate numbers to report
that should not have done, and should not be there, and do and not, and not, and not.
There shall be no unauthorized rubbish.
Nothing so much as a twig out of place.
There will be daily inspections, clocked and recorded,
otherwise how would he know who was doing what?
There must be order, and he will ensure he doesn't miss one thing.
We surely must have surveillance cameras this minute in place.
Calmness through routine, and then there was that one unexpected day.
 "Life was not meant to turn into this."
Ah, there you have it. Not to expect.
It is life, Ove. Life.
I have a feeling it's exactly that which will knock on his door, at last,
and it comes in the surprise of a pregnant woman, her husband, and a cat,
and quickly expands to "more."
We have all known our "Ove's,"
and whilst I have only begun this tale, I too immediately feel like Ove
lives next door to me.
and watches with dismay as I leave a bin in the wrong place, or perhaps walk a little too much to the left or right.
Yes, Ove. We do love him, but I do have some question.
The voice of Ove, no doubt strong, strong, strong, and conjures images of our own "Ove's,"
I do question what man at fifty-nine in our world would not know the things that Ove does not.
It seems we need to add a few years to Ove to
accept his "character" as such.
I have only just begun,
and I am certainly intrigued,
and so I will ask Ove to show me all that I should see.
A Man Called Ove

If you knew. Me.

If you knew,
me,
which you don't,
but if you did,
there would be no questions.
If you knew,
me,
which you don't,
you would know that 
I have, had, carry
undying, unwavering belief.
Yes, it is a dogged trait, or if you so wish call it cat, mouse, bear, wolf, sheep, "baaa" --- whatever.  
It isn't bad or good or wrong or right,
it's so much more.
It's strength and conviction.
It's backing yourself, cause you're the only one who really knows.
Conjecture. Assumption. Disbelief.
All add up to trouble.
You see there are things within us that define us.
Those are our immoveable rocks, the important and treasured things.
People may try to paint another picture,
but the truth is so very apparent,
 it sits naked before your very eyes,
and still it is not seen.
You can not alter the essence of someone.
You can not make them into something they are not.
Open your eyes.
Whatever lives inside,
beats inside your heart,
dreams inside your soul,
beats inside me.
If you knew,
me,
then you would know,
but you don't.
More Than You Know

Friday, January 6, 2017

Not for everyone.

For revelation of heart --
this, when speaking of democracy now in its
misconstrued and misused landscape.
“I didn’t want to start a fight… I wanted a revelation in the heart rather than a confrontation or a call-to-arms or a defense.”

A reflection from Leonard Cohen on C.S. Lewis's contemplation
on our core misconception of democracy.

democracy; control of a population, group, by the majority of its members,
their voice, their right to voice, the system of placing voice.

You will know I love any contemplation,
any thoughtful dialogue that probes, questions and further ponders.
I do not always love regurgitation.

Below, I have included what has prompted this rather tichy post, which is
a short narration put together in homage of Cohen's thoughts and pondering and
rejigging with Neil Gaiman narrating.
Now I love Gaiman -- reading Gaiman --
I truly adore and worship the man's stories, mind and words.
I do.
I do not love his voice put to Leonard Cohen.
I couldn't listen to it.
The polar opposite tone and intonation from a voice that shook the earth like Cohen's 
to this fairy tale version was something I simply could not handle.
When talking about democracy,
when talking about Cohen,
I want timbre that vibrates in places within me that have slept for too long.
Shake me awake. 
Sorry, Neil, I am --
but one can not expect to be joyously received over everything we do.
This was not joyously received by me,
but I leave you to make up your own mind,
as I always do.




Thursday, January 5, 2017

The Profound.

The history of thought
pirouetting on the outer edge of language.
Is it madness that brings us our language of love, of heart, of our souls to the world
 and ask that they be heard?
Madness.
Is there less or more in silence?
The answers are there.
The illumination that connects knowledge, language and action
in the order of life.
The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human SciencesThe Archaeology of Knowledge & The Discourse on Language

Frankie, Frankie ... je ne sais quoi.

e. lockhart.
There are authors that make a promise,
as in you know exactly what you're going to get. 
Most of us will very much appreciate that,
after all, it's what keeps us coming back for more.
Promise indeed,
even if it isn't the same world, the same place,
it's still that trust and faith.
Having just finished Hoffman's latest, with many more before, she would
fit into this "trust and promise" thing.
e.
just happens to approach it from a completely different angle.
There is still trust and promise,
but we're in a different ballgame,
as in language, voice,
boom, pow, story.
If you know this about her,
you will not be disappointed by any means.
So let's talk about Frankie, ah Frankie, a real drop into the teenage world,
characters nailed.
The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks
Now being that I was in the Hoffman phase of trust and good faith,
and that I had absolutely adored, adored, adored, the heartbeat on the page of
We Were liars,
Frankie was a drop into something completely different.
The panopticon illusion, the panopticon world.
There wasn't the same heart that grabbed me in We Were,
but that was greatly due to the story itself, and what drove it.
Ghost vs. life.
Sorrow vs. manipulative scheming and unashamed, unabashed, ambition and power.
In both, there was "real,"
as in "real" dialogue, "real" characters that live and breath their world,
and what world is it?
Well, Frankie, Frankie,
you kind of made me smile in quite a few places.
The boys, the boys,
head huddled boys playing their round robins.
There's an all-male secret society.
An ex that shows up in the oddest of places.
There are pranks galore.
There's Alpha and the She-Wolf.
Thing is Frankie's got them nailed. She saw through them right from the get go,
and that gives Frankie a certain advantage.
She's got guts.
She's got smarts,
and she's recognizing what she could do better.
Some say she's a damn mastermind.
This is the story of how she got to be that way.
I will say,
We Were Liars,
will always top it for me.
Give me a ghost and I can't help it.
Regardless,
e. lockhart,
trust and faith
 and the good hands of a promise.
We Were LiarsFly on the Wall: How One Girl Saw EverythingHow to Be Bad