The Daily Prompt from August 5th asks:
and this week’s photo challenge is “creepy“!
I don’t have a tattoo, but if I did it would portray something a lot of people find creepy.
To many people bats are frightening, eerie, disturbing, menacing, and literally hair-raising –
even the cutesy Halloween bats shown here!
I’ve coveted this tattoo ever since I saw it on the Contrariwise: Literary Tattoos’ blog (unfortunately no longer supporting pictures). That was way back in 2010.
I have twin nephews who go all out with tattoos – sporting full sleeves and elaborate back & even face tattoos.
Many of my other relatives (brother, nieces) also sport the odd tattoo.
I won’t be getting a tattoo anytime soon. I avoid pain.
But if I did get a tattoo it would be inspired by this:
Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!
How I wonder what you’re at!
Up above the world you fly,
Like a teatray in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle little bat!
How I wonder what you’re at!
And it would look like this (not my picture – it was originally on Contrariwise so I do not know who to credit. If it is yours and you want it removed email me and I will).
I wonder how painful it would be to get a tattoo on one’s foot (and just how expensive this design would be)?
Here are some seasonal additions to Ailsa’s new travel theme; which this week is Grey/Gray. I’m Canadian – we consider either spelling correct. It makes spelling bees easier!
I was in the city yesterday. My sister and I have an annual tradition of going to the Fringe and the Ex’s Saturday night free grandstand concert. Before the fun started, we went to a craft store where the pre-Halloween decorations were out. You need time to create the perfect scary display! But, then again, the Halloween candy is also out (who buys it this early? I would have it all eaten before Halloween if I bought it now).
Seeing all the orange, black and grey has me anticipating Halloween and Fall. I want a shorter summer and a longer autumn!
The greyish skeletons remind my sister of death and she fears them. I see fun and mystery in them. I see dancing skeletons and ghosts yearning to tell their stories to all willing to listen. She sees reality. I see story.
I like the raven pillow here. It makes me want to going around murmuring “Nevermore” under my breath. The tombstones dream of becoming sinister props in a fake graveyard. They yearn for pithy says.
The day started out gray. By the time we hit the festivals the sun was out and bright. There was a nice breeze flowing through the grandstand in the evening (it kept the mosquitoes away. Hooray!).
We traveled home in the dark and encountered greyish northern lights.
That country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain.
― Ray Bradbury
This is my back yard. I view it mostly through my kitchen window. It needs work. The grass is spotty and the weeds in my garden space are tall. The trellis needs to go as does the rhubarb. I don’t eat rhubarb – it is too sour. I ate it, as a child, raw dipped in sugar but now I know that there is not enough sugar in the world to sweeten rhubarb enough for my tastes.
As I may have mentioned before, I am not an outdoor person. I used to be. As a child, it seems when I wasn’t reading I was running around outdoors. Then I started working after school (when I was thirteen) and time to myself was devoted to reading because reading kept my sane. I would read outdoors then. There was a small forest right in the middle of town, beside the Catholic manse, with a gazebo perfect for reading. They tore the forest down to build fancy houses. I don’t know where the gazebo went. I stopped going outdoors.
My eldest sister has a back deck that she uses as a second kitchen as long as she can until the snows come. She revels in improving and enjoying her garden and yards. She takes after our mother and grandmothers. I do not.
An untidy yard and garden depresses me but I hate the thought of spending precious reading and writing time fussing about outdoors.
My gardens and yards came with the house. I enjoy the flowers but have no desire to replant and replace what is there. If the condos around here would have allowed pets I would have bought one and then would have no outdoor space to worry and fuss over.
This is my garden space right now. It is a mess of weeds. I get depressed every time I look at it so I avoid looking at it. When I have the money it will be converted to grass. The flowers will be pulled up (or moved to the side space) and I will convert my outdoor space to maximum low maintenance.
No weeding. No watering. Just a small green space outside my dooryard.
With lilacs, of course. The lilacs will stay as will the roses. But it will be every flower for themselves. They will survive (or not) as Nature attended with no help from me.
As Ailsa wrote “if you don’t like mowing the lawn, let there be meadow.”
This is my front yard. I like my front yard. It is just grass and a bench that nobody ever sits on. There are no flower beds. There is no weeding needed to keep it pretty. It needs only rain and mowing. I do not waste water on my lawn. It survives (or not) as Nature intended.
Yesterday, it was all sun-dappled and pretty. I love how freshly mowed grass smells. The spotty green (it has been a somewhat dry summer) doesn’t bother me. The grass grows as nature intended (or not). I would be happy surrounded by meadow as long as there was a path to the house so that I could get in.
The perfect summer reading experience is indoors in a screened porch with comfy couches and a deep big chair and a pot of tea with summer breezes blowing in the scent of roses and lilacs and freshly mowed grass and the salty smell of the sea or the crisp mountain air.
Do I ask for too much?
On my walk to the hospital (long story) yesterday, I encountered a pig in the grass. It stood happily in the shade enjoying the summer’s day. It made me smile when I needed to smile.
Do you know what this symbol represents? I do. It is my home, my third place, my heart. I fear I have known this symbol since birth if they had used that signage then. I am a reader. I have been a reader forever.
I am also a huge library user. Last year, I borrowed over 400 items (books, graphic novels, CDs, DVDs) from my local library. Even if I were rich, I could never afford to buy every thing that I want to read.
I love my library. They never look askew at the variety of items I borrow. Right now, I have out 2 picture books, 1 young adult novel, a non-fiction book about Rain, a ton of mysteries, a graphic novel, a fan-girl geek guide, and the Big Gay Ice Cream book.
I love all libraries. When I travel, like to Alaska last year, I like to visit at least one library. I still regret not popping into the National Library of Scotland in Edinburgh when I walked past it. I didn’t go in because I was lost and stressed. If I had gone in I would have become less stressed and (probably) less lost!
My ideal trip would be a tour of the world’s libraries. I’ve been a patron of at least half of the libraries in my province and have used one library in 3/4 of all the provinces in Canada. So, this is where I would start – visiting every library (public, private, special, university) in Canada and then moving on to the rest of the world.
I would need a list of how to translate the word library world-wide in every language possible. I tried to find such a list. I know this list exists. I saw it in a library book when I was in library school. After an hour sucked into the endless depths of the universe via Google, I cannot find the list. I wish my library was open on Sunday then I could just go find it in a book!
How long do you think this would take me? Keep in mind that my average library visit is usually two hours long. I think I might need another lifetime or two for this task.
If I start now, how long do you think it would take me to visit every library in the World? When I’m done, can I travel with the Doctor (please) to visit every past and future library also.
Sorry, no actual photo for this photo challenge. I have no car and the signage is on the road about a mile out (and I am not walking that far on this too, too hot day).
My muse is Halloween. It is my favourite holiday. I can’t resist taking yet even one more Halloween picture. This was taken on November 10, 2015. It is a lone ghost hanging around after the party is over. She was gone by the next snowfall and will (hopefully) return next year.
It is too hot right now and I am anticipating the coolness of Fall and eargerly awaiting next Halloween’s picture opportunities.
Even more of my Halloween posts and pictures here.
For most of my life this has been the view I see as I go on my way traveling here, there and everywhere. You think I would be sick and tired of it by now. However, the amazing truth is that no trip ever offers the same view even when I am traveling the same roads that I have traveled forever.
Unfortunately, my driving trips have never turned into anything like Mrs. Todd’s Shortcut.
This post is in response to Ailsa’s Travel Theme: Tangle.
When I think of a tangled mess, I think of Jewelry. Unless I kept mine in their individual boxes my necklaces were always in a tangle.
My Scottish grandparents use to buy us a necklace every Christmas when we were young. We only wore them to church. I was (am) a fiddler, if my necklaces were not in a tangled mess then their chains were broken from me constantly fiddling with them.
As a young adult, I wished to appear sophisticated so I bought my self jewelry. I never wore it. This is the last of what I bought all untangled and on its way to big sister’s house for the nieces and grand-nieces to enjoy.
I’m sitting here staring at an empty space
It’s not that I don’t have things to fill it with
In fact, I have an abundance of things
Thoughts, memories, hopes
But they’re all jumbled together
Tangled, like poorly stored necklaces
The chains wrapped tightly around each other
Almost impossible to separate
(First of three stanzas)
This is a hard question. How do I narrow the possibilities down to just one?
There are the famous I’d like to meet. Those I feel like I’ve known forever like Bernadette, Broadway actor extraordinaire whom I’d like to have seen on stage as the witch in Into The Woods. Susan, whom I’ve followed since Thelma and Louise first rode off into the sunset (and Geena, of course, who is such a smart woman and strong feminist). Jodie, whom I watch grow up on screen since I was just a wee bit like her. They could help me understand how one lives a happy, happy life in spite of all the idjits out there.
Then there are the historical women like Mary Shelley and her mother who had such interesting lives despite society’s views on their womanhood.
And what about all my fellow spinsters out there? I don’t have enough time to explore them all.
The answer to this question changes daily, nay, hourly, or by the minute!
My choice right now would be someone alive and kicking, someone nearish to my age so we could be life-long admirers of each other’s works. I would have liked to have had her childhood (she grew up in a funeral home) and I get her references because we have the same cultural markers in our lives. I shall start following her on facebook because, in this day and age, I can.
Her name is Alison Bechdel and I have read her comic since the beginning though heaven knows how I (a young woman in rural Saskatchewan) ever first discovered it since, Dykes to Watch Out For, a cartoon strip that ran for twenty-five years, between 1983 and 2008, ran mostly in alternative newspapers.
Her view point is not mine. Her life style is not one I aspire to. I like that she, as all these women do, shows me a different world that is, in many ways, exactly like my own.
So, here we have today’s (this minute’s) one singular sensation whom I would like to be reading my blog.
Describe your relationship with your phone. Is it your lifeline, a buzzing nuisance, or something in between?
I dread the ringing phone. I always have. I always will.
I grew up on government assistance. It was drilled in to me early to never answer the phone. It might be someone checking up on us and answering would only result in bad things happening.
So I learned to ignore the persistent ringing of the phone at my mother’s house. I wrote recently how annoyed she would get about this (bad) habit of mine.
I also ignored the phone at my father’s house. He was very particular about getting his messages correctly and would yell if a message was forgotten or wrongly transmitted. Thus, I learnt also to ignore his ringing phone and let the answering machine take the message.
The phone has never been my friend. I hate answering it. I hate making calls on it. There is too much that can be misconstrued.
I was not the type of teenager who spent hours talking to her friends on the phone. My youngest sister would get home at seven and still be talking with friends on the phone at midnight.
My university boyfriend would call me and chatter on for a half hour with little input from me. My mother (and other family members) don’t expect much from me on the phone besides an occasional “uh huh.”
I can not tell you how much I love the new smart phones. I don’t have to talk to anyone (mostly). I can get answers and services taken care of through text (mostly). This is heaven. This is bliss.
My mother worked as a telephone operator in her younger days and thus knew all the small town gossip. My older sisters have no trouble ignoring a ringing phone without feeling guilty. The phone to them is a useful tool. To me, a ringing phone is an incessant demon berating and punishing and never conveying good news.
No, a ringing phone is not my friend.
If you need to talk to me, text me please.
This is a picture of the first phone we ever owned. It sounds like this. It sits on my desk, loud and annoying. The ring, even turned all the way down, scares the cat. We are thankful that it barely rings once every few days.
Remember, text me, don’t call!