Velvet Verbosity

Free writing, or “stream-of-consciousness” writing, is an interesting exercise that not only breaks through writer’s block, but often reveals thoughts and feelings on a topic we might not even be aware we had.  The point of a free write session is to not censor yourself.   You start with a prompt, and have no idea where it will end up.

Yesterday’s Thursday Thoreau quote inspired Pattiken to contrast Thoreau’s desire for simplicity with today’s modern technology and all the resulting “noise”.  Those of us in developed countries are merging with our machines and our relationships with them are becoming more dependent.  Have you ever seen the look of panic someone gets when they realize they’ve left their cell phone at home?  Or when their internet goes down for more than 30 seconds?  We are wired and connected, every waking hour of our day.  Is it for better or worse?  It depends on what aspect of our lives technology is affecting, and how.  But let me stop there, lest I defeat the purpose of a free-write.

The prompt is TECHNOLOGY.  Don’t think about it yet.  Set your timer for 15 minutes, and then GO!  Write non-stop for 15 minutes without stopping, no matter where the prompt takes you.  Stop immediately when the timer goes off.  No stopping, and no editing.  Now, if you’re brave, post it to your blog, and leave a comment here so we can find it!

Here’s a treat for you when you’re done, a video trailer of a documentary on the Singularity, what some people believe is next in technology.  It’s best not to watch it until after you’ve done your free-write.

The Singularity Documentary Trailer 

With love,

A writing meme in November?  You might wonder if this is just a happy coincidence since it’s day 4 of NabloPoMo and you’re a l r e a d y banging your head against the desk and asking the writing gods WHY, WHY, WHY.  No Internet, this is not a coincidence.  I just can’t help myself from helping a blogger out.  You’re welcome.

Here’s how it works.  Write a short “word portrait” of someone you know (or don’t know), post it on your blog, and leave a comment here.   And don’t forget to say “Walla!” when you’re done.  Because it’s satisfying, that’s why.

These “portraits” are word paintings of a person, a short description, but much more than that.  The way I write mine varies somewhat, and you can see examples here, and here, and here.  Aaaand, there’s more in the sidebar under “Portraits”.

Sometimes they are written about someone close to me, sometimes they are written about someone I know only a little, and sometimes they are written about someone I saw in passing.

Since I don’t have a conscious method, I can’t give you an exact formula to write your own portrait, but for what it’s worth, here are some tips (this is the part where I give away magic secrets):

1. Don’t necessarily “look” for someone to write about.  In other words, don’t try too hard.
2. Don’t try to think of the most interesting person you know, or try to find the most interesting person in the room.  Start with whoever is right in front of you.
3. Take your brain like a Halloween candy bucket, and empty it out  (eeeeewww Mom!  Someone gave us brains in our bucket!).  Now, with your emptified mind, just observe and experience this person.  If they are familiar to you, empty your mind anyway, because trust me, there’s always more to “see”.
4. As you begin to have thoughts, DON’T WRITE THEM DOWN YET!  This is important.  This is like when you’re listening to someone talk, and one and a half sentences in you’re not listening to them anymore because you’re already thinking about what you’re going to say.  Yeah, this is bad, and you’re probably missing a whole lot of stuff.  You need to get out of your own head so that you can “receive”.
5. Spend a good 10 - 15 minutes just quietly observing.  Let the thoughts bubble softly.  You should start to notice that certain sentences or words are starting to re-occur or get “louder”.  These are what you want to write down first.
6. Now you’re ready to write.  Start with those words or sentences that were re-occuring or louder, and then flesh the portrait out from there.
7. Like a portrait, you are not looking to capture every detail of a whole life, but just one moment, one impression.

Wait.  That sort of looked like a conscious method, didn’t it?  Well, take it all with a grain of salt.  Write for you, and do it as it works for you.  Any advice I give is only to help you if you’re stuck…by all means, don’t let it squash your creativity if you suddenly find yourself going in a WHOLE other direction.

I don’t know when I officially started writing  “portraits”, but I’ve always done them in my head.  I think that’s how you know you might be a writer.  When there are chapters and vignettes being written in your head on a more or less constant basis, and at some point, if you don’t start writing it down and getting it out of your head, all those words threaten to clog up the entire workings and land you in a padded room with only crayons for company.

That’s it.  Post by midnight, and remember to comment with a link to your post so we can find it!

P.S. Yes, I re-used an image.  I’m way too tired for Google Images at this hour.  Will fix tomorrow.  Probably.  Not.

P.P.S. Never mind, I fixed that.  I’m not a perfectionist, shut up!  As a bonus for my original sloppiness, here’s a time lapse video of the current art being made.  (Artist Justin Simoni)

Day 3 of NaNoWriMo and NaBloPoMo.  Yes, that means I am now participating in both.  I’ve just recklessly made my entire month of November a full on write-a-palooza!  Besides the daily postings, the daily 1600+ words on a novel, I’m also working on three copywriting gigs.  Internet, let me help you with the math.  NaNo + NaBlo + Copywriting = A-Butt-Ton-O-Words.  Also translated as This-Is-Where-My-Head-Pops-Off.

Actually, all is going swell so far.  There is little time for procrastination, and putting myself in full writing mode for 12+ hours a day makes it all go a little, well, easier.  So, woot!

If you’re already participating, or this post inspires you to stretch yourself thin, you can buddy up with me for NaNo here, join my playspace at NaBlo here, and follow my Tweets here.  If being a part of the cheer squad is more your thing, stop by daily to leave encouraging comments here at the blog or on Twitter.  Actual cheers and “Ra Ra Ra’s” are encouraged.  OR, you can send me chocolate.  Chocolate is good.

I’m also rolling my brain over some November meme ideas in addition to the 100 Word Challenge.  All are based on writing/story-telling.  Here’s the proposed layout:

• Monday Memories - Childhood memories/stories.
• Tuesday Tag-N-Tell - I’ll start a story and tag one of you.  You add a paragraph and tag someone else, and the story goes on…
• Wednesday Word Portraits - Word portraits (see category Portraits in side bar for inspiration).
• Thursday Thoreau - I’m not sure what this will look like yet…
• Friday Free Write - Topic posted Friday morning, you free-write on topic for 15 minutes.
• Saturday - 100 Words
• Sunday - 100 Word new challenge goes up.

I’m willing to do all, a few, one, or none of the above, and that all depends on you.  Let me hear from you on any of the above you would be interested in for the month of November, OR, if you have a great idea you’d like to see run here, tell me about it.

With love,

NaNoWriMo is under way, and I’m on my second night of writing.  Made it to 1656 words last night, and shooting for another 2500-3000 tonight.  I’ll be meeting with a regional group at a cafe tonight for a write-in.  Sounds delicious and old school artsy, right?  Like we’ll all be drinking brandy, smoking cigarettes, and eating pastries while we “faw faw faw” between writing spurts?  Yeah, probably not.

If you’re participating this year, or want to join the insanity now, let me know so I can shout it from the rooftop of my blog!

With love,

Yesterday morning I woke up and, I am so not kidding you, my power was out, my car was dead, my laptop was dead, and my brand new iphone was giving me an error message that it needed repair. Is this some kind of message that I should just go back to camp?

Anyway, this week I’m picking a favorite. That’s right. I’ve just upped the ante round here. This week’s Velvet Verbosity 100 Words Favorite is Sandy’s piece over at Momisodes. I’m partial to it because I’ve stood in those very same shoes. The destination was different, the place was different, but the mental and emotional experience just the same. I think you’ll agree, it’s also a perfectly balanced piece of writing.

Over 3,000 miles away, the plane descended upon dry, hilly terrain. She swiftly maneuvered her 3 suitcases through the congested arteries of the terminal; everyone scattering off to some adventure. Naivety sped the pace of her feet towards an exit, nearly as quickly as her thoughts. Anxiety. Fear. Determination. All fought for attention in her frontal cortex. No car. No map. Not a friend within three time zones. This was not part of the itinerary. Yet this was precisely what she needed. Just 3 bags and a seed of fortitude, ready to grow and flourish in a fresh new world.

There were, as always, some really interesting pieces submitted. It’s not easy picking a favorite! Here are the links to all the other Fresh 100 word pieces. Hope you all get a chance to check out these other writings. Well worth it.

• Sleep Deprivation Ninja
  
• Sassy Mama Bear Writes
• Susan at West of Mars
• The Night Blogger
• Melissa at Taking What is Left
• LouCeel
• Secret Agent Mama
• Patsy (Ramblings from “While You’re Up”)
• Mommycosm

Now, for the next challenge. After having all my electronic/mechanical devices fail in one fell swoop, I was reminded of how much we depend on these tools to live the modern lifestyle that requires so much multi-tasking and organization and speed. It made me think of that book by James Gleick. The title:

Faster

With love,

Internet, I can’t believe you put up with my crazy schedule sometimes. Maybe it’s because you know I’m well-intentioned.

I’ve been biking to work more lately, and after a week of rain, today was the first day that I felt I could safely take the bike to work and back. It struck me, as I was whipping along the bike path, that the invention of the wheel, such a simple thing, has been turned into so many modes of transport and recreation. Roller-blades, bicycles, strollers, contraptions whose name I don’t know but whose foundation is wheels, and on and on. I love riding my bike. Always have. Moving myself through space and interacting with others with smiles, nods, and “good mornings”. If I could give up my car altogether, I would.

So…yeah. That had nothing to do with the 100 Word Challenge but I’ve been glowing all day from the weird sense of freedom I get when riding. Last week’s challenge was to write 100 words on “Hour”. For some reason, I was excited by this prompt more than any other so far. The word hour has always held a whisper of something thrilling to me. It brushes up against infinite worlds for me. A word used to define one segment of the construct of time that we do not fully understand, yet make work for us. So let’s see what the word brought to mind for others.
I think Ash and I have some similar relationship with the word hour. This piece resonated powerfully with me.

The silken hour slips away with a whisper,
at once soft and cutting,
like a ghost of treasure;
a homeless man’s memory of wealth.

Already the fabric of time slides
again through fingers numb with
the caducity of life, unable to
grasp its only true riches.

Time cannot be trapped,
cannot be stoppered in a bottle
like an epochal elixir
to fix all the world’s ills.

Indeed, it is only those who
have discovered the ancient rhythm
of joy and surrender
who are the masters of time.

For them its silken fabric is a sail filled with wind.

Lceel had some fun with this one!

“Want to go upstairs?”, he asked.
“Nah, I don’t think I’m in the mood.”
“Oh, come on. It could be fun.”
“Yeah, I know your idea of fun”, she said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t want to get into that, right now.”
“No. What did you mean?”, he asked again.
“Okay .. It’s always you, you, you and it takes five minutes and boom, it’s all over. I’m left hanging and you go to sleep. Okay?”
He opened the bag and showed her the ‘toys’.
“These could take an hour, or so”, he said.
“Oh … at least”, she said.

The Night Blogger evokes the dreamy quality of a fulsome hour passing lushly and lazily. These are those hours we remember.

Smoke drifts lazily upward. I dream.

There is a meadow. With every breath of wind, innumerable fronds of yellow grass wave to the sky. Scattered cottony puffs coalesce above to form an umbrella against the searing sunlight.

The ground is cool here, beneath a wondrous giant redwood. Far above, so far I believe my neck will preak from straining to see such a distance, branches sway. There is such harmony here.

He’s there. He sits beside me and puts an arm across my shoulders. I’m happy then.

The smoke dissipates and I wake to find an hour has gone by.

Penelope over at Mama Bear Writes brings us to another time, another hour.

The night grew darker as the horseman rode,
The moon casting barely a dusting of light upon the ragged path he rode.
They said the answers he sought waited for him,
Hidden away in the castle keep for many a long year.
He had no memories of this place they claimed was his,
A home they said his mother and father and loved him in.
His father, a man he would not recognize if he passed him,
His mother long since buried in body, but never his heart.
He rounded the bend, there sat the keep,
Now was the hour.
~ Penelope Anne
July 3, 2008

Secret Agent Mama, aka Mishi, brought tears to more than one pair of eyes with this one.

Just one hour, that’s all I want. One hour to smile at you. One hour to laugh with you. One hour to listen to your voice. One hour, to crave more.

Just one hour, that’s all I want. One hour to cry with you. One hour to burden you with my problems. One hour to help you with yours. One hour, to drag on to two and three.

Just one hour, that’s all I want. One hour to share my hopes with you. One hour to dream together. One hour to hold hands and sit. One hour, to wish forever.

Susan introduced us to her character Chelle. I think I know her…

Lots of you come up to me and try to keep me from leavin’ shows when I got to. I try to be nice and all, but boys and girls, Chelle’s got a deadline here. If she don’t hit that deadline over at The Trumpet, her review don’t make the paper. Capiche? And since the whole reason Chelle’s got a job is to review bands for The Trumpet, if she don’t make her deadlines, she don’t get a paycheck.

You heard it first and you heard it here: Let Chelle make like Cinderella and get to the paper on time.

Renee Daniels is back this week speaking da truth! Right on sister.

Sixty minutes

Three thousand six hundred seconds

Each on a chance

Every moment an opportunity

Every tick gives us an option

To live consciously or move carelessly through life

To smile at that stranger, to hold a door, to pause long enough to say good day

Or to rush through the crowd, wrapped is self, selfishly trying to hoard time

To what end, for what purpose

These moments will pass regardless of our intentions or lack thereof

Each minute, each second can be used in a positive manner

Sixty minutes. Three thousand six hundred seconds. On hour. A lifetime.

The Wandering Author decided to try a short story for this challenge. The hours that we let slip past unnoticed, are the same last and precious hours for someone else. A lesson we all know, but forget to apply in our lives every day.

 

Final Hour

A short, sharp knock, the sound I’ve been expecting - and dreading - for months now.

A guard thrusts open the door, not waiting for my reply. “You have an hour to prepare.”

My goodbyes have already been said. If God has rejected my earlier pleas, all I can do now is accept His decision. I pick up my pen. So many ideas, so many observations jostling to escape before darkness erases them. Their loss seems sadder even than my own. Which shall I save? My pen wavers in midair.

Another knock, and the guards come in. How brief an hour is!

JM at Fiction Scribe had some technical complications but is back with this piece, another short story.

An hour. One whole hour.

What possessed me? How could I have so, so easily signed over my mind – my soul! – to another being. I was and am naïve to think that such a thing could possibly be good. Could possibly give me some sort of shred of decency or goodness to make this torture worthwhile.

“Mr. Talbert.”

Have I gone mad?

“Mr. Talbert?”

I look up. Could it be? Has an hour passed so soon?

The receptionist smiles. “The doctor is ready.”

Mr. Alberts walks out right on time. “Welcome, Mr. Talbert. I see you got here early today.”

Allison, who prefers to participate by email, turned her observations from the lakeshore into 100 delicious words.

Waves crash at my feet, the wind tussles my hair and the sun heats up my skin.
Around me, my little ones run on the beach, filling pail after pail with water and sand.
The seagulls fly overhead, wishing for crumbs from the strange large creatures beneath them.
I watch the peaceful rhythm of the natural state of the world.
Time passes but stands still while the sun slips down the sky.
Questions about the beginning and the end enter my mind.
Who and how did they decide to mark an hour?
When? Why? What did people do before that?

I haven’t been doing much reading lately, of anything. Work, the outdoors, and the social call of summer have been keeping me busy until exhaustion. However, I just pulled off my bookshelf Smilla’s Sense of Snow, which happens to be one of my favorite movies . Except the end. Why do they always ruin brilliant movies with lame or nonsensical endings? Anyway, the word is

City

Entries are technically due by midnight Thursday, but late comers will get posted too as long as I see them before I put up the post.

Ah Eden. Paradise lost. Was it ever real or merely a construct of human imagination, a place created in the mind to explain and ease our suffering? A past and future promise that there is a place we can return if only we get “it” right.

Yesterday I discovered that I missed the deadline for a local arts grant by HOURS. I had been checking and checking their site waiting for the deadline and details to be announced sometime in April. Then I got sick with this fatigue and it was all I could do during that time to get up and get my daughter to school in some approximation of “on time”, and then work. My limbs, even my fingers, felt hollowed out and fragile like an abandoned wasp’s nest. I could move, I could think, I could stay awake, but it took so much will. By the end of the work day, all that pumping of will power left me mentally exhausted and I forgot all about checking the arts council site. I would just crawl under the blankets and stare with dry eyes at the television. I couldn’t move, but I couldn’t sleep either. As I’ve already said, I’ve now seen more movies in the last few weeks than I’ve seen in the last 5 years. Being a couch potato is as alien to me as walking on two legs is to cats. It’s just not in my nature. That alone tells me just how sick I’ve really been.

My point? I’m not sure I have one except that I feel as far from the grace of Eden as one could get, and missing that deadline by such a small margin was the exclamation point on a bad few weeks. Let’s get to the 100 Word submissions for Eden.

This week, Jeremy emailed me this delicious entry. The link to his site is for his book, you won’t find this entry there.

So, this was Eden, the magical garden where life began, at least, she thought, for her. It was the small garden outside the church in the town where they first met, where they put off getting married until spring, when it could be in that garden so family, friends, and God could enjoy the sunshine they brought to each other’s lives, the love. She toddled through here as a child so many times, she knew each rock, rose, and root. And she now held them both, brought them back, to where it all began, to become part of it forever.

Sassy Mama Bear asks if Eden can exist.

Eden, can it exist? Where could one find a place that qualifies as paradise? Does such a place exist that could ever meet everyones needs? Is there a tangibility to the word?
Or is Eden a state of mind? A sense of perfect happiness, sublime bliss?
Have you found your Eden? Is it a place or a feeling?
Are you still searching? Will you know it when it is there?
Was there once a garden, where God started humankind? Are the gates still waiting somewhere for the right person to find them again?
Do we have that power within us?
~ May 8, 2008

The multi-talented Secret Agent Mama is back from vacation with poetic vengeance.

Her head is seemingly filled with
A senseless silence

Despite constant efforts to increase the volume
There’s still a personal void

This emptiness often muted
By the sounds she chooses to muddle life with

I’ve tried to tell her
I’ve tried to make it clear

But my words are too softly spoken for her to hear
She doesn’t understand why it can’t be easy

Why can’t she just recreate that melodic tune
That personal eden

Where there’s more light than dark
Where there’s more love than hate

She’s trying to amplify and resound
So….she opens her mouth and sings

Lceel reminds us all of the innocence around us every day. By the way, Lceel, aside from being a loyal player of 100 Words, and flattering me each week with new descriptions of me, is also a burgeoning artist. Go check out the evolution of his paintings.

There are those who would say that Eden is lost. For Eden was Innocence; we knew not we were naked. And Eden was no knowledge of Fear; danger had never arisen. And Eden was a lack of Want; all needs were provided for. And it would seem that Eden is lost. But there are those among us who live in Innocence; they don’t care if they’re clothed. And they have no fear; for they don’t recognize and understand danger. And they want for nothing; they ask for nothing beyond what they are given. They are Children. They live in Eden.

JM over at Fiction Scribe offers a, erm, slightly cynical view of what might have become of Eden. Of course it’s fiction, but captures well the disillusionment we all have felt at the receiving end of lost love.

Eden. The mythical, biblical land of absolute perfection and paradise. Thinking of Eden made John think of great expanses of very green grass with beautiful trees in sight in every direction. Some bore the purest beautiful fruit you could ever imagine.

Eden meant perfection. Love. Serenity.

That is, the biblical Eden.

The Eden of his reality was anything but serene. He tossed another one of the pictures featuring her and him on the fire and took a cold pleasure in watching it slowly curl up before turning into ashes.

Maybe after the betrayal of Adam and Eve, God burned Eden.

And so begins a new challenge. Readers, if you are new to the 100 Word writing prompt and challenge, you can find details here. I’ve just picked up a book that’s been on my “must read” list for years. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. It’s one of those books I heard about over and over again through the years, and I’ve finally come round to reading it. From its pages, I challenge you with:

Want

Good morning fair readers.  The day is grim outside and I’ve caught myself a virus of some kind, so I write from a cocoon of blankets as I peer out from puffy eyes.  It’s a sucky Tuesday in my neighborhood.   Last night I saw Eddie Izzard at the Orpheum, and that was fantastic fun even though I started to feel the tiredness from impending illness towards the end of the show, and certainly on the long ride home.  I’ll write more about that later.  Eddie Izzard that is, not my sickness.  Why make you suffer too?

Last week’s 100 Word challenge was “Hooked”.  Let me take a moment to direct new readers (and hopefully new playas) to the 100 Word Challenge Rules, such as they are.  The first 100 words is a reflection of one of the things that comes to my mind when I hear the word hooked.

Heroine hooked him with promises of bliss.  She became his lover, his friend, his steady companion, his home, and his escape.  She needled her way deep and deeper into his flesh, his brain, his soul, then she methodically took him down until he didn’t know how he ever lived without her, or ever would.  She turned on him, turned him inside out and he loved every minute of it, even when the bliss was punctuated through with searing longing, even when the lies stacked upon lies; those she told him, those he told others, and worse, those he told himself.

None of us are entirely sure about what happened to Secret Agent Mama this week when her 100 words turned out to be about Hidden, yet at the same time about Hooked.  Truth is, doesn’t matter.  SAM always delights me with whatever she writes, and with her photography.  Did I mention she has a new website just for her fantastic photos?   Damn I miss my camera!

I can’t
I won’t
It’s sad
It hurts
The pain
The lies
The cost
The loss
My heart
It broke
The past
Long gone
And still
I sit
I wonder
I balk
I question
How come
And why
Just some
Too much
Or maybe
Just maybe
The pain
Is deep
And maybe
Just maybe
Evil creeps
Sadness looms
Happiness doomed
Squinted eye
Furrowed brow
Underneath it
Somewhere somehow
Truth sprouts
Good grown
Paths chosen
Evil dethroned
I can
I will
I’m happy
You know
My slate
Is clean
My heart
Is well
You’ll see
You will
What’s hidden
Must stay

LouCeel, in addition to coming back again and again with clever and thoughtful 100 Word submissions, also always has a unique descriptive word to describe me.  This week I was “diabolical”, which of course means incredibly evil.  Of course he meant it playfully.  I mean, I’m not really evil.  Hehe.  I digress.  LouCeel uses 100 words to describe his love and passion for art and being an emerging artist.

The names come to me in my sleep. Unbidden. Relentless. Remorseless. And the visions the names conjur up are all the things the names imply - romantic, intimidating, eloquent, frightening, terrible, bloody, angelic, pastoral and religious. To give a name to but a few of the things they imply. The names are old. So very dead. But they have a life of their own. Something that I would wish for myself if I had but one wish to claim. The talent to live among the names. For their names are ART. And I have found their Art. And I am hooked.

I was thrilled to see Sassy Mama Bear back for this week.  Her poem evokes peaceful and gentle energy.  I feel like I could know this man.

Sitting upon the park bench,
the wind whistling through the trees
He sat and watched the water flowing past.

With fingers gnarled by years gone by,
He gently wound the line
A twist a turn, a knot deftly tied.

A flick of the wrist, and a tip of his hat
He sat, watched and waited.
The sun warming his weathered skin.

A gentle tug, just a simple sign
Slowly, with skill learned over time
He wound the strand around his hand.

Dangling at the very end flopping fiercely
Hung his dinner, trying hard to break free
a beautiful perch, hooked.
~ Penelope Anne Bartotto
April 25, 2008

So that wraps up the Hidden 100 Word challenge.  I’ve got a book laying here that I’m not actually currently reading.  One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzhenitsyn.  An old fraying paperback with an orange cover that I picked up at a tag sale because it looked interesting.  From its yellowed and aged pages, I give you:

Fringe

“Every reform movement has a lunatic fringe” ~Theodore Roosevelt

What? I give you “lips” and not one tawdry entry? Readers, you disappoint.

No. I’m just kidding. Truth is, I think that this was my favorite challenge for submissions so far and it once again inspired me to write my own 100 Words this week.

The Compliment

“I just noticed you have the most amazing lips”. She said this to me across the desk I was leaning over and she was sitting at. Compliments always take me off guard. I get trapped up there, somewhere in my head among the dendrites and neurons and synaptic clefts. Such an intimate compliment brings me back to the Now in all its juicy and mundane detail. Here now is the brown carpet, the calligraphy hanging behind her head, the movement of people in the hallways, the wild red halo of curls framing her face, her own pink-red cherub lips.

Secret Agent Mama’s, while on the “hot” side, was most definitely a tribute to love. A delicious one. Any man whose wife writes about him this way should count himself a lucky lucky man.

There are ways that your touch makes me wild with desire.
There are ways that your hands travel the curves of
my soft body that reduce me to a puddle.
There are ways that your eyes can look into mine that makes me crumble.
There are ways that you can hold me that reminds me that I am safe.
There are ways that your lips meet mine that enchants me.
There are ways that your tongue dances across my skin that captivates my senses.
There are ways that you can enter me like no one else ever can or will.

I love this gently sweet entry by Lceel.

Lips smile, and let the world know we are well and happy.
Lips pout when we don’t get our way, or when the world intrudes itself in an unhappy fashion.
Lips pucker in anticipation of a baby kiss or when they have been attacked by a strong dose of lemon.
Lips soothe when the world has bounced itself off our noggin or scraped some skin off our knee.
Lips give form and shape to our speech, wherein we express love, kindness and understanding.
Lips nuzzle and nibble and tease our tingly senses. Oh, the things we do with our lips.

Warm welcome to calicobebop. I haven’t had a chance to explore the rest of her blog, but this was a charming 100 Word tribute to a daughter.

Sweet little rosebud that looks nothing like mine, you must have inherited a rouge gypsy gene to make such a perfect bow. Either puckered in frustration or pulled wide in happiness, I never tire of your expressions. I remember the first sounds that crossed them. I remember the first words they formed. I remember all the laughs and cries in-between but what I’ll remember most fondly is their best friend - Thumb. Between you and Thumb many sorrows could be cured. A tired little girl is comforted, a reassured soul drifts to sleep and a gratified mother is forever grateful.

So that wraps up the Lips challenge. Let’s see, I’m not sure I can pull an interesting word out from the book I’m currently reading, but let’s just see….

Hey! Not bad. This week’s challenge?

Hooked

Speaking of hooked, if you’re new to the 100 Word Challenge and wondering what it is and how you too can play, go here.

Oh my god, you thought I died or something, didn’t you?  Nope.  I’m still alive and kicking, but my wrist did almost fall off this week, and my head did almost explode, and my well-being did fall down a slippery slope, but that’s another story.

And holy batman readers, you’re crawling out of the ethernet just when I disappear for a bit! As Basil Fawlty would say, “Just typical”.

So because I’m lagging behind with all of the 100 Word posts (rules here for you new folks) this is going to be a long post. Once I get up to 10 participants in one week, I’m going to start choosing a top three or something to post in full and provide link love to the others. This week, to make up for my, er, absence, here are all the entries from the last two challenges.

Two weeks ago, the challenge was “Hidden”.

“When a thing is funny, search it carefully for a hidden truth.” ~George Bernard Shaw

Secret Agent Mama continues to impress me with her creativity, her honesty, and her heart. If you’re not already a fan of hers, please let me introduce you to her.

Underneath all the years,
The poor choices,
Constant procrastination,
She waits.

The skinny, fit girl,
Who’s often felt but rarely seen,
Waiting to emerge again,
Hopefully.

Blaming her pregnancies,
Was an easy way to deny,
That the damage that has been done,
Is of her own doing.

Her body is getting older,
It’s getting harder to face the facts,
Though one thing’s for certain,
No more carelessness.

She owes it to herself,
To be the best she can be,
Inside and out,
Every breath she takes.

No more will she be hidden.
Come out,
Come out,
Where ever you are.

Lceel, having just returned home from an England tour, entered what he called a “half-assed effort”. I don’t know about the effort, but the result was clear and true.

How do I explore the word ‘hidden’? I ask myself, “What things are hidden?” Treasure. Treasure is hidden, else it is wealth. Motives. Motives are hidden lest we give up advantage. Truth. Truth lies hidden because to tell the truth exposes us to the judgment of others. Meaning. Meaning is obscured for the same reason, for to understand the meaning is to know the truth. Love. Love lies within, in our most secret places, wrapped in layers of obscured meaning, colored truths and camouflaged motives because love is the greatest treasure we own. When we spend it, we are exposed.

Sassy Mama Bear, another poet, joined the challenge for her second week with a piece on pain and secrets we all keep hidden away in our minds.

In the shadows of the mind where secrets often lie,
You may be intrigued by the hidden doors you will spy.

Dare not consider to touch the locks upon any door,
What lies behind, I wish to see no more.

Tucked away in the closets of my mind it should be,
The hurt, the pain, the shame you must not see.

Let the cobwebs take control and hide it all away,
May the memories that haunt never see the light of day.

Fear not that may escape and run free,
Always guarded by my soul and heart they will be.

Methinks the lady Judith Shakespeare doth make us laugh too much!

“Chocolates! It’s not my birthday, you know.”

“I know. I thought I’d do something special for you just because it’s Monday.”

“Oh, honey. These orchids are stunning!”

“…just because it’s Tuesday.”

“Yes, I’d love a back rub! Thank you!”

“…just because it’s Wednesday.”

“Did you clean the kitchen and fold the laundry?”

“…just because it’s Thursday.”

“A real restaurant? The kind that doesn’t offer booster seats? Really?”

“…just because it’s Friday.”

“Thanks for letting me sleep-in, love.”

“…just because it’s Saturday.”

“You know, this has been such a great week! Chocolates, flowers, back rubs…”

“Honey, can I buy a boat?”

Madame Meow was one cool cat with her “Hidden” submission. Do you see it?

However way in which one wants something to be seen, sometimes the only real way
In which one can truly be taken seriously in any absolute situation is a time when they
Deign to remain… unseen. Perhaps it is the quality of the mysterious and the unknown that
Draws the attention of so many. Perhaps it is the nature of the unseen to markedly
Embark on an adventure so great that to reveal it to the unprepared world would be
Not unlike casting pearls among swine. And what a true and great waste and crime that would prove to be.

I might get in trouble for bad words on my blog, but I met my next favorite Mommy Blogger in Mr. Lady. Anyone who names their blog “Whiskey in My Sippy Cup” is good in my book. If you don’t like the bad word, close your eyes, and then go yell at Mr. Lady cause I’ll be having none of it. I already live with two teenagers. I’m long past graduating from whiskey in my sippy cup. I go straight for the bottle now. (Just kidding Mom, no need for an intervention.) Also, make sure you click the link and read the back story on this one.

She sat around a table, sipping on stale coffee, nibbling on whole bran muffins made with applesauce instead of oil. Children squealed somewhere in the distance, but she hardly noticed; she was out, with adults, and she wore the smile that she forgot she had tucked in the back of her jewelery box.

She drew a deep breath, exhaled, and grinned. She finally could relax and just be with these new people in her life. Maybe the sunshine, or her determination, was calming her. Maybe it was just that, this time, she had the sense to wear a fucking cardigan.

Hehe.

Wow! Are you still here? Good, because there’s a whole other round to go. Last week, the challenge was “Spark”. Great word, spark. I always like to pair it with “stomp” in writing and have probably done so ten too many times. At least Woman Remodeled didn’t. But she did use that darn F word again, so now I’m probably going to get a bunch of Google hits for weird porn stuff from a bunch of pervs. Thankfully, I’ve done gone and put up some anti-pornography posts so that should bounce em right out of here. I digress. Here’s WR’s sparky submission!

A spark is something that I had. You have that spark, that something special. It is that jump-start that gets you moving with enthusiasm. It is that drive. It is the sex that you want to constantly have. It is that blind ambition that others envy. It’s fearlessly moving forward and being able to say FUCK IT I DON’T CARE, and really meaning it. It is having a little “Fuck You” in your soul. I had that spark. It is still there, deep inside buried by frustration and perceived struggle. My spark is emerging with the arrival of the future.

A sweet 100 Words on friendship from Secret Agent Mama:

Hey, thanks for meeting me today. This coffee’s good, isn’t it? I did wake up with a headache, but knew that we were going to see each other and it almost instantly cleared. I’ve missed you.

What’s new with me? Everything! Life is good. Sure I don’t have enough money to buy that new pair of shoes, but these shoes I’m wearing are still a good fit.

I know that life can sometimes get away from us, but we need to make more time for our friendship. I miss your spark, your zest, your smile. Let’s do this again. Soon!

Love is like this Sassy Mama Bear, yes it is.

Each morning I watch you, my heart aching as you drive away, turn the corner and start your day. I feel the pain that tears your soul as you face the drudgery, the hypocrisy, and the monotony.

Yet I know when you light that first spark, the metal pooling into a puddle of liquid magic, flowing forth, your eyes brighten, your heart flutters with a hidden passion quite deep. Your hands move the torch and from your actions great, useful things are made. Today it may just be another washer, but tomorrow it will be a work of magnificent art.

Sadie was looking to “spark” her creativity with the 100 Word challenge. Looks like it worked!

A darkened room, a flickering light, a whispered prayer, peace fills my soul. The white, the red, the blue and the green; each flickering along together. I sit and watch, absorb the peace, the few minutes I have on my own. Tomorrow brings more turmoil and upheaval, but tonight is mine.

I picture my family, and my friends, at peace, healthy and near me. Imagery is a powerful tool, and I dream of it working again.

Light dims not with a breath, but a lack of as I snuff out each light by hand. Tonight I will dream in peace.

Talk about spark, this girl’s got it going on! Judith Shakespeare, you are one sassafrass woman. But, I couldn’t get your blog to load! I’ll check back later. For now everyone, here’s the link. (Let me know how it was!)

Lceel, I just want you to know that quoting Joni Mitchell gained you MAJOR bonus points.

He approaches her door, his heart is thumping in his chest, the blood pounding in his head has faded his vision, his hand is trembling in anticipation. He is going to see her. Her touch is enough to make it hard for him to breathe, he grows faint at the slightest whiff of her scent; to kiss her is to suspend time as their lips brush each other, the softness of her expended breath on his lips leaves him unable to move lest he move too far away to feel it. He approaches. He has come to court and spark.

Wow! How about a round of applause for all the 100 Word participants? This week’s challenge is from my friend Laurie Ann Guerrero’s new book, Babies Under the Skin. I invited her to join the 100 Word challenge, but she’s too busy finishing up her next book! Check out a review from Smith College here.

Lips

Hoo boy. I don’t even want to know what Mr. Lady does with that one.