Velvet Verbosity

Fellow readers, if you do not yet know about the great 100 Word craze, click here to be enlightened. Last week I pulled the word Precise out of a book, and these are the 100 Words that people had to say about it.

From the Great and Powerful LCeel (sorry it took me so long, I was packing. And everything had to go on my body and pass inspection before it could go in the suitcase.) I love the surprise ending and the light take on a topic that could be taken oh so seriously.

You know, you’re a real jerk. (ambiguous)
Why, what did I do now? (attempt at clarification)
I shouldn’t have to tell you. (still ambiguous)
Did I forget something? (a further attempt at clarification)
When do you ever remember anything? I ALWAYS have to remind you. (perhaps a bit less ambiguous)
What? Is today something? (digging a little deeper)
Why do I have to tell you? You are such a JERK! (still stuck in ambiguity)
Open the drawer by the bed. (heading toward precision)
What’s this? Oh, my God. (getting closer)
Like it? (eliciting precision)
I love you, you jerk. (precise)

And my good friend Woman Remodeled (I just want you to know I misspelled “good” with “goof”. I decided to fix it. This time.) This is a beautiful piece, particularly the last line. It’s those last lines that get you sometimes.

Precise asks too much. It wants perfection. It is that moment you miss when you blink. It is the emotion that poets capture and is then lost in interpretation. It is a time that you don’t realize until later. It is a moment that never seems to happen if you wait. Precision is an expectation, a skill set, a commodity, and a criticism. It is a demand that cannot be met. It is a destiny of falling short. It is an interpretation of perfection expressed in philosophical poetry. Precise is the simplicity of the indescribable feeling of me touching you.

Finally, my 100 Words

There comes a precise moment when you know what you have to do. Before that moment, there is nothing more than underground rumblings. You hear them, but you don’t yet know the message. You begin to prepare yourself for the eruption, for the upchurning of your soul, but not knowing how it’s all gonna shake out in the end, you tremble at the unknown. Then comes the calm. Everything is still. Your mind is still. The world before you shifts into brilliant focus. Your mind clears out, aligns itself to cut through confusion with the clean bright sword of precision.

I know, I know. After reading these, you are anxious to write your own 100 Words on a topic. And you can! Next week’s topic, pulled from the book closest to my elbow at the time of this posting, “The Mind & The Brain: Neuroplasticity and the Power of Mental Force”. Yes. I am a geek. Topic is:

Generation

Deadline is next Thursday. Please join in and spread the word, the 100 Words.

Girls Accepting Sexual Assault At School As Fact Of Life: Reports

The article doesn’t actually make any correlations between over 20% of girls being sexually assaulted in Toronto schools and expecting it and the pornification of our culture. The only conclusions the experts can draw is to say that the problem is that “most kids don’t actually know what sexual assault is”. Really? Now why wouldn’t they know what sexual assault entails when this is the generation of kids that grew up with “innappropriate touching” education? And why, like the title suggests, are girls accepting this as part of school life?

Someone please give me an intelligent answer to this, because I’d really like to hear it. Be forewarned, don’t use the party line that this has been going on all along, because I’m not buying it. I went to school. Boys cat-called, and on dates they sometimes tried to get more than they were going to get, but I don’t remember one single incident of a girl telling me that a guy followed her into the bathroom and stuck his hands down her shirt, and she thought this was to be expected! There have been times in history and places on the map where women have been subjected to this type of treatment, and that’s because they lived in a time or culture of oppression. How do we explain that in a time and place where women are supposed to more or less have equal rights, that this is happening? How do we explain the conflict between being told we are in a “sex-positive” and “sexually liberated” culture that brings us such gems as Girls Gone Wild and the fact that young girls don’t feel safe getting their EDUCATION? Is it at all possible that the sex industry that has leaked into every facet of our daily life and portrays women liking being objectified, used, and abused and as nothing more than a commodity to be obtained for male pleasure is having any influence at all on young minds?

All I ask is that you open your eyes and take a look around. Listen to the music. It’s not just about sex, it’s about sexually degrading women. Pay attention to the television, the movies, the ads, the stuff that is all around us everyday and how it is not just about sex, but about women being objects. Do this for a few days. Do it honestly. Then come back and give me your answer.

While you’re thinking about it, you can start with this thoughtful video: Hip Hop - Beyond Beats and Rhymes. Pay particular attention to what the people on the street are saying starting at about three minutes in. Watch the full length video here.

***On a lighter note, “note to self”. When putting on a turtleneck sweater, if the neck is so tight you feel like you’re being birthed all over again, it’s time to stop putting said turtleneck sweater in the dryer. Capiche?

Val was having nightmares. All variances on the same theme. He was there, either as himself or represented. Always charming, smiling, endearing her to him. He would draw her in, engulfing her with his voice, his flesh, his word. He pulled and pushed her along, chattering, endlessly chattering about nonsense. The landscape seemed to pass rapidly and she couldn’t focus on anything.

As the dreams unfolded, sometimes a darkness would descend, sometimes not, but she always felt an evil creeping in, a shivering cold, an unseen threat. In the dreams she would become anxious, vigilant, seeking the source, surveying the landscape, yet she couldn’t help but to feel he was the source. At first she would catch only glimpses out of the corner of her eye. His face would change, transform rapidly back and forth between bright-eyed charm to something sinister. Sometimes the change was subtle, nothing more than a flickering of facial expressions. In other dreams, the change was something out of a B-horror movie. The skin would bubble, bones shifting beneath skin, leaving a grotesque visage.

It always happened when her back was turned. It was rapid, and like a game of “red-light, green-light”, she tried to turn faster and faster to catch it, to know for sure it was not her imagination. He would always smile reassuringly at her then. The dreams seemed to last for hours, with this game of hide-and-seek becoming more elaborate. Finally, in each one, there would be a definitive moment when she would know to turn when he wasn’t expecting her to, or in one instant everything would flicker, shift into focus, and the horror of his true identity was revealed. Having forgotten himself, he would smile, not realizing he had not yet returned to his charming self or that the illusion had worn off. Each dream ended with the same icy terror ripping through her as the full realization of how close she had been to evil all along sunk in.

There were other people too. Protectors. In one, a man from her past who was literally “a protector” appeared suddenly following the revelation. He ran alongside her, calm and unshaken. In others it was strangers, or friends. There were also women. Women that he knew or just met who would appear at the end, after the revealing, his face frozen in its true form to her, and yet these women would not see it as Val did. She wanted to warn them, but their eyes always had a far-off or glazed look. She would stare as he ripped into their flesh, or crouched on their chest like an incubus drawing the life from them, or licked their skin as he embraced them in what they saw as an innocent hug, or chewed on their hair as a maniacal demon. Then she would run. He would call out to her, still not realizing she could see, that his protective shimmering spell had worn off for her.

He never chased her. Chasing had never been part of his game.

Wakening to sun, she felt no fear, no residue. Dreams, she knew, particularly her dreams, used exaggerated symbolism and the messages they whispered had long ago been known to her. It had never been a matter of escape. It had always been a matter of waking up.

I met Photohunt, and right away knew that we were made for one another. This week’s hunt - Wooden. This photo was taken on a weekend trip to Rhode Island last summer, part of a series of shots that I took right around the B&B we were staying at.

Not planned originally, but I posted this on Sunday, the same day for Weekly Winners.  Click over for more photography, from wee ones to sunsets.

From Gimundo.com, “Good News Served Daily”.  It’s about time.

Embedded Video

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Tags: Elderly, pranks, fun

A friend posted this on my Facebook profile. This “prank” was pulled off by a group called Improv Everywhere based in New York City (where else?). The group was formed in 2001 by Charlie Todd and has, to date, pulled off over 70 missions. Also check out the MP3 experiments, the Cell Phone Symphony, and the Redhead Protest against Wendy’s, though the following is the best of the best.

I’ve got tons of work to do to prepare for my trip and have things buttoned up at work before I take off.  That means no time to write.  In the meantime, I dare you to not let the corners of your mouth turn up, however slightly, at the sight of this rascal.  C’mon, keep looking.

Yep, there it is.

There were just so many interesting blogs that came my way this week. I have a folder full of candidates, but today got a bulletin on Facebook for a blog that was just too funny not to share. A tongue-in-cheek stopping place for

Stuff That White People Like

Yes, you read that right. I was particularly tickled to read the second post, “Difficult Breakups” considering I went and “broke up” on Valentine’s Day (and no, I’m not a masochist, no matter what Woman Remodeled says). Fooking funny stuff I say! Here is an excerpt:

The majority of white person art is created after a difficult breakup; films, indie music, and poetry are all kicked into high production during the end of a relationship. This helps train white people to prepare for the pain that is coming.

Once breakup proceedings have been initiated, a white person is immediately thrust into the center of attention in their circle of friends. During this time, they are permitted to talk at great lengths about themselves, listen to The Smiths, and get free dinners from friends who think “they shouldn’t be alone right now.”

It is imperative that you do not attempt to kick them out of their misery by saying things like “get over it,” “there are other people out there,” or “I don’t want to read your poem.” Implying that there things in the world more important to you than their breakup is considered one of the rudest actions possible.

So, family and friends, take note. I am entitled to create crazy art that you will think is amazing if not downright genius. I will not be listening to The Smiths, but I will be listening to DJ Spooky’s File Under Futurism, The Cocteau Twins, Ani DiFranco, and whatever else bad *ss stuff I want to. Be warned, I might make you dance to some of it. Ok, none of the above is danceable really, but who cares?

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California…land of sunshine. That’s where I’m headed next week and I’m packing my sun-dresses and my bikini, though there won’t be much time for beaches since I’m going for WORK. I do have one day semi-free before I fly back so I let my friends on the West Coast know and made plans with one of them for Thursday. He called tonight.

Me: Hello?

K: Hey you, are you seeing the eclipse?

Me: Yep, I’m looking at it through my window.

K: It’s so beautiful, I’m standing out here on the deck.

Me: It’s too cold here.

K: It is?

Me: Yeah, so I’m staying inside. How warm is it supposed to be next week there? Warm enough for sun-dresses?

K: Uh. Yeah. Of course. Wait, where are you?

Me: I’m in Massachusetts.

K: OOOHHHHH. I thought we were getting together tomorrow.

Me: What? No. I meant next Thursday. Did I not say that?

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For more funnies, go here I say!

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