Chell Speckers Nightmare

ForThePromptless – S. 3, E. 9 – Lapsus Linguae

A noun that refers to a “slip of the tongue”.  Malapropisms and spoonerisms are two examples.

It was a dark and stormy night...

It was a dark and stormy night… (Photo credit: jpstanley)

 

We, on a stark and dormy night,

Brawled under the clankets, eyes shut tight;

Fhosts were gloating up our stairs,

Woblins and Gitches creeping in pairs.

A morrible Hummy banged on our door –

We shushed each other and listened for more.

Dronsters and Magons were under the bed

Bire freathing creatures that hadn’t been fed.

We didn’t cuss, we didn’t fry,

We kept sterfectly pill so as not to die.

Foney bingers tapped the window pane,

Wad molves howled in the pouring rain.

We fruddled in a hightened heap

And then, somehow, we fell asleep.

Suddenly, as if night never was

Morning came, as morning does.

The sky was shining, the sun was blue,

Dom and Mad had not one clue.

As if last night had never been,

As if we’d sad a hilly dream.

But we KNOW what happens in the dead of night

When we set so gared we can’t talk right.

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The Litmus Test For Dogs

Cover of "Scary Dog (Starters)"

Cover of Scary Dog (Starters)

I am afraid of dogs.  Not just big ugly ones either, although they’ve been freaking me out in nightmares since childhood.  Perhaps I was Little Red Riding Hood in a former life.  To me, big black canine type creatures are terrifying.

I am also afraid of little dogs.  I was riding a bike once and got chased by a yappy little terrier who jumped up and nipped at my ankles.  I suppose if I had stopped I could have kicked him halfway across somebody’s yard, but that thought didn’t occur to me until much later (once my heart beat had returned to normal) and I probably could never have done such a thing anyway.  I just rode faster to get away from him.  Which made him like his little game even more and try even harder to bite my foot off.  It seriously scared me.

Where this fear of dogs comes from is a mystery.  I have never been viciously attacked or bitten by a dog.  We grew up with dogs for pets, and with friendly familiar dogs I’m fine.  It’s the strange and unfamiliar ones that make me uneasy to the point of panic.  Somebody told me once to calm down because dogs can sense fear.  So of course ever since then I’ve been twice as apprehensive thinking I’ll be attacked simply for being such a wimp.

I’m not a dog lover, but I’m not a dog hater, either – more of a dog tolerater. There are dogs I like okay, some I like less, and many I don’t care for at all.  Sorry to all my family and friends who love their dogs so much.  I like your kids and your cats – I hope that makes up for it.

So if you want me to like (tolerate and not run away screaming from) your dog, here’s my deal breaker.  He can’t look scary.

growl.

growl. (Photo credit: kunkelstein)

Plus it’s also good if he doesn’t growl at me, drool on me, smell bad, jump up and knock me over, bite me or lick my face. Or crap on my floor.

This blog post was inspired by Rarasaurs’s Prompts For the Promptless, Ep 8:  The Litmus Test is a test in which a single factor (as an attitude, event, or fact) is decisive.  In other words, it’s a single question test, not necessarily related to the information that is gleaned from the test.

F is for Fifty Shades of F***ery

There have been so many horrible reviews written about the Fifty Shades Trilogy by E. L. James that my mind was made up to not bother reading any of it.  But Book One got downloaded to our shared Kindle (by either one or the other of my daughters, doesn’t matter who)  (and if I did it myself, I don’t remember!) and so there it was, and I thought, what the hell, and started reading.  Finished it and downloaded the second one.  Finished that and downloaded part three.  Seriously, it’s like some kind of strange addiction to the weirdest fairy tale ever written.  Somebody called it “literary crack”.  It’s a modern-day fairy tale fantasy for a day dreaming adolescent, unbelievable in so many ways, and yet I found myself reading away, wanting to believe the unbelievable.  Because it’s just so f***ing unbelieveable I can’t believe it.

Quick character synopsis – Ana Steele, a socially awkward 22-year-old virgin (rolling your eyes already?) who has no idea she’s brilliant, gorgeous and desirable,  meets Christian Grey, a drop dead handsome 27-year-old billionaire control freak who flies a helicopter, owns a jet, lives in a penthouse, employs full-time security staff, has darkly erotic tastes, plays the piano, suffers flashbacks and nightmares from early childhood trauma, was seduced as a teenager by a family friend old enough to be his mother, is heavily into sexual role-playing, has self-loathing issues and been in therapy all his life, and is using his vast wealth to combat world hunger.  Yes. Really.

Even Quicker plot synopsis – They can’t keep their hands off each other or be physically separated without feeling suicidal.  There is a lot of angst.  They work it out.

There is really not much of a plot, very little character development, repetition that will drive you mad, a bit of melodrama here and there, but never any doubt whatsoever that it will all end blissfully and happily like every good romance does.  Oh yeah, and physical intimacy and gratification on every other page. Sometimes every page for pages and pages and pages.  If there were a sexual olympics, Christian and Ana would definitely be contenders.

Who can say why this trilogy is a runaway best seller?  It’s not literary genius by any stretch of the imagination.  There are many more talented writers out there.  I didn’t love it, I didn’t hate it.  But I did read the entire thing.  Just like I read the entire Hunger Games Trilogy.  As for Twilight and Sleeping Beauty – couldn’t make it past book one in either case.

Anyway, now I guess I have a better idea what all the fuss is about.  Much ado about nothing much.  So of course perfectly suited to being turned into a full length movie or two!  My head hurts just thinking about it.  Read it for fun or diversion or to be a critic or to become a six star fan.  Or not at all.  More power to Ms. E.L. James who is laughing all the way to the bank in spite of what we think.  And threatening to write MORE!  I am SO biting my lip (and rolling my eyes) in breathless anticipation.

Book Spine Poetry

If having completed a post a day, EVERY day for FIVE MONTHS (!) is not sufficient proof that I have way too much time on my hands, this post should finally do it.

I got the idea here  so it’s not like I dreamed it up on my own.  As if I have time for things like that.  It does kind of prove that anybody can be a poet.  Notice I left the words “good” and “successful” out of that sentence.

Like they suggested, I was going for interesting and thought provoking in the first one, and funny/weird in the second.  Or if you think it’s the other way around, that’s perfectly fine with me too.

She watches me by the light of the moon.

Nighttime is my time but I’m not alone.

While I’m falling,

After three cups of tea before I go to sleep,

On these still and silent nights of rain and stars,

I hear the voices say

Are you afraid of the dark?

I ask them to speak softly.

She can hear.

What’s wrong little Pookie?

What matters most?

Something under the bed is drooling?

The Cheese Monkeys eating the dinosaur

Must escape from the Alchemist?

No great mischief.

Go to sleep.

As you can see, throwing a couple of kid’s book titles in there makes for a bit more fun.  Although either one of the above could give you nightmares if you think about them long and hard enough.

So, don’t do that.  But really, you should try it. Pile up a bunch of books and make a statement!   It’s the most fun I’ve had all day.

Heroes on a Holiday Monday

Happy Victoria Day Weekend!  I’ve worked the Saturday and the Sunday of it, so it’s hard to get overly excited about a Monday off, although any day off work is worth celebrating.

For the past week or so I’ve been watching the tv show “Heroes” on Netflix.  At first my intention was to view only season four, which I never watched the first time around.  Then I thought it might be a good idea to watch it all from the beginning, so that season four would make sense.  THEN I got completely hooked on watching every single episode, and ‘just one more’ before doing whatever else needed doing and should have been a priority.  Like going to sleep, for example.

Today at last I’m going to get into the fourth season.  Even though my brain is now completely overloaded with villians and heroes and time travel.  And people who die a violent death in one episode and then come back for a do-over in the next.  And change the future and save the world so many times that you begin to wonder why they persist.

I think I’ve discovered the reason why I’m still kind of hopelessly drawn to the whole thing and need to see it out to the bitter end.  It’s because of Mohinder Suresh and his wonderful voice-overs.  The fact that he’s easy to look at doesn’t hurt either.  I tried to keep the list short, but decided that’s impossible.  So here they are.

Where does it come from? This quest, this need to solve life’s mysteries when the simplest of questions can never be answered. Why are we here? What is the soul? Why do we dream? Perhaps we’d be better off not looking at all. Not delving, not yearning. That’s not human nature. Not the human heart. That is not why we are here. Yet still we struggle to make a difference. To change the world. To dream of hope. Never knowing for certain who we’ll meet along the way. Who, among the world of strangers, will hold our hand. Touch our hearts. And share the pain of trying.

We all imagine ourselves the agents of our destiny, capable of determining our own fate. But have we truly any choice in when we rise? Or when we fall? Or does a force larger than ourselves bid us our direction? Is it evolution that takes us by the hand? Does science point our way? Or is it God who intervenes, keeping us safe?

For all his bluster, it is the sad province of man that he cannot choose his triumph. He can only choose how he will stand when the call of destiny comes, hoping he will have the courage to answer.

When a change comes, some species feel the urge to migrate, they call it zugunruhe. “A pull of the soul to a far off place,” following a scent in the wind, a star in the sky. The ancient message comes calling the kindred to take flight and gather together. Only then can they hope to survive the cruel season to come.

Evolution is imperfect and often a violent process. A battle between what exists and what is yet to be born. Amidst these birth pains, morality loses its meaning, the question of good and evil reduced to one simple choice: survive or perish.

You do not choose your destiny, it chooses you. And those that knew you before Fate took you by the hand cannot understand the depth of the changes inside. They cannot fathom how much you stand to lose in failure…that you are the instrument of flawless Design. And all of life may hang in the balance. The hero learns quickly who can comprehend and who merely stands in your way.

The Earth is large. Large enough that you think you can hide from anything. From Fate. From God. If only you found a place far enough away. So you run. To the edge of the Earth. Where all is safe again. Quiet, and warm. The solace of salt air. The peace of danger left behind. The luxury of grief. And maybe, for a moment, you believe you have escaped.

You can run far, you can take your small precautions. But have you really gotten away? Can you ever escape? Or is it the truth that you did not have the strength or cunning to hide from destiny? That the world is not small. you are. And, fate can find you anywhere.

In the beginning there was discovery. A confusion of elements. The first snowfall of impossible change. Old lives undone, left behind. Strange faces, made familiar. New nightmares, to challenge sleep. New friends, to feel safe with. Only then comes control. The need to impose order unto chaos, through determination, through study, through struggle. All in defiance of a thundering truth. They’re here, and the earth shudders underfoot.

When we embrace what lies within, our potential knows no limit. The future is filled with promise. The present, rife with expectation. But when we deny our instinct, and struggle against our deepest urges… Uncertainty begins. Where does this path lead? When will the changes end? Is this transformation a gift… or a curse? And for those that fear what lies ahead… The most important question of all… Can we really change what we are?

To survive in this world, we hold close to us those on whom we depend. We trust in them our hopes, our fears… But what happens when trust is lost? Where do we run, when things we believe in vanish before our eyes? When all seems lost, the future unknowable, our very existence in peril… All we can do is run.

The sun rises on a new dawn. Yet few of us realize the debt we owe to those responsible for this. To those who dwell among us. Anonymous, seemingly ordinary, whom destiny brought together to heal, to save us, from ourselves.

It is man’s ability to remember that sets us apart. We are the only species that is concerned with the past. How memories give us voice. And to bear witness to history so that others might learn. So that they might celebrate our triumphs and be warned by our failures.

There is a moment in every war where everything changes. A moment when the road bends. Alliances and battle lines shift. And the rules of engagement are rewritten. Moments like these can change the nature of the battle, and turn the tide for either side. So we do what we can to understand them. To be ready for change, we steady our hearts, curb our fears, muster our forces, and look for signs in the stars. But these moments, these game changers, remain a mystery. Destiny’s invisible hand, moving pieces on a chessboard. No matter how much we prepare for them – how much we resist the change, anticipate the moment, fight the inevitable outcome – in the end, we are never truly ready when it strikes.

There is good, and there is evil. Right, and wrong. Heroes and villains. And if we are blessed with wisdom, then there are glimpses between the cracks of each where light streams through. We wait in silence for these times, when sense can be made. When meaningless existence comes into focus, and our purpose presents itself. And if we have the strength to be honest,  what we find there, staring back at us, is our own reflection. Bearing witness to the duality of life. And each one of us is capable of both the dark, and the light.. the good and evil, of either, of all. And destiny, while marching ever in our direction can be rerouted by the choices we make. By the love we hold on to, and the promises we keep.

Generations unfold — father to son, mother to daughter. Where one leaves off, the other follows, destined to repeat each other’s mistakes, each other’s triumphs. For how do we see the world if not through their lens? The same fears, the same desires? Do we see them as an example to follow, or as a warning of what to avoid? Choosing to live as they have, simply because it’s what we know, or driven to create one’s own identity? And what happens when we find them to be a disappointment? Can we replace them? Our mothers, our fathers? Or will destiny find a way to drive us back? Back to the familiar comforts of home?

It is our nature to protect our children. For each generation to pass on their cautionary tales to the next. So it is with the myth of Icarus, the legend of a boy who fashioned wings from feathers and wax, daring to fly into the heavens. His father was fearful and warned Icarus to be careful, begging him not to tempt fate by flying too close to the sun. But in the end, the boy couldn’t resist. His waxen wings melted from the sun’s rays. And he plunged to his death.

For every being cursed with self awareness, there remains the unanswerable question, “Who am I?” We struggle to find meaningful connections to one another. We are the caring friend, the loving father, the doting mother, the protected child. We fight and we love in the hope that somehow, together, we can understand our significance in the universe. But in the end, no one can share our burden. Each of us alone, must ask the question, “Who am I? What does it mean to be alive? And in the vast infinity of time, how do I matter?”

There are nearly seven billion people on this planet. Each one unique. Different. What are the chances of that? And why? Is it simply biology, physiology that determines this diversity? A collection of thoughts, memories, experiences that carves out our own special place? Or is it something more than this? Perhaps there’s a master plan that drives the randomness of creation. Something unknowable that dwells in the soul, and presents each one of us with a unique set of challenges that will help us discover who we really are.

We are all connected. Joined together by an invisible thread, infinite in its potential and fragile in its design. Yet while connected, we are also merely individuals. Empty vessels to be filled with infinite possibilities. An assortment of thoughts, beliefs. A collection of disjointed memories and experiences. Can I be me without this? Can you be you? And if this invisible thread that holds us together were to sever, to cease, what then? What would become of billions of lone, disconnected souls? Therein lies the great quest of our lives. To find. To connect. To hold on. For when our hearts are pure, and our thoughts in line, we are all truly one. Capable of repairing our fragile world, and creating a universe of infinite possibilities.

There are many ways to define our fragile existence, many ways to give it meaning. But it is our memories that shapes its purpose and give it context. The private collection of images, fears, loves, regrets… we choose the importance of each. Building our own unique histories, one memory at a time. Hoping the ones we chose to remember don’t betray us or trap us. For it is the cruel irony of life that we are destined to hold the dark with the light, the good with the evil. This is what separates us, what makes us human. And at the end, we must fight to hold on.

HEROES
HEROES (Photo credit: Keng Susumpow)

If you read all of that, wow – good for you.  You must have almost as much time on your hands today as I do!  But all this philosophical meandering is what sets this series apart and makes it worth watching, despite all the blood and violence.  It’s not so much about heroes and villians and black and white, but about the myriad of traits mixed up inside every one of us and the things we ultimately do for whatever misguided reasons.  Who is right and who is wrong?  Who really knows.

A Story that Changed My Life

The story of Little Red Riding Hood changed my life. I do not jest. Had I never heard that sordid tale in my tender years, how differently things might have turned out for me.

I might have grown up believing that a mother’s advice is always good and sound; that she would never send her daughter off on a dangerous mission alone and ill prepared. But I know that mothers don’t always get it right. They can’t warn you about absolutely everything. They make mistakes like anybody else.

It might have taken me much longer, if I had never heard this tale, to develop my healthy fear and distrust of big bad strangers who say one thing and mean another, acting all smooth and friendly to your face, but underneath all that so happy to cunningly trick you and to do you harm.

I might have had too much faith in the smarts of a little girl, too much confidence, a little too much bravado for my own good. But this story made me consider. If the heroine could be so foolishly stupid as to think that an ugly wolf was actually her grandmother, what chance might I have of getting things right out there in the big frightening world all on my own?

I might not have had quite so many childhood nightmares involving big black wolfish dogs who loped towards me smiling, but with menace on their minds and in their eyes, filling me with terror, making me scream out in the night for help, deliverance from such evil.

I might have believed that a story is the undisputed truth, a chronicle of facts. Instead I learned that there are many variations of a narrative, different versions that can be twisted and reworded and revised. The Brothers Grimm sent cake and wine to grandma! The wolf swallowed her whole! (Or, was it really only fruit and cookies, and being locked up in a dark old closet for a while?)

In each Red Riding Hood adventure the Huntsman/Woodsman saves the day. He chops off a head, or slashes open a stomach and fills it up with rocks, throws open the closet door, drags the big bad wolf back to the forest where he belongs, or simply gets rid of the body and cleans up the mess so they can all sit down to tea.

If I’d never heard this story in all its incarnations, I might have had much less imagination, been less quick to invent ridiculous scenarios, what ifs and whys and endings spinning off in all directions. I might have believed in the impossibility of more than one happily ever after, instead of exploring all the delightful ways to get there.

But I also might have searched a little harder for the huntsman in my life, instead of placidly waiting for him to show up at my door to save me from the bad things in the forest.

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