#writing
#uniforms #writing #mywork
School Uniform
I was told that I must wear the school uniform
or be expelled. It was the policy.
No individuality expressions allowed.
So I conformed to the rule,
but I never wore underwear again.
At a job interview I was told I must wear
conservative Business Attire if I wanted the job.
No individuality expressions allowed.
It was the policy.
I conformed, every hair was in place,
I wore eyeglasses,
but I never wore underwear.
I was Wonder Woman in disguise.
I could be a Catholic Nun, but then
Jesus already has a billion wives, and thereâs
that uniform Iâd have to wear.
Whenever it was discovered that
I loved Rock nâ Roll music -
Oh! What a shock! I would always hear
âYou donât look the type.â
I reply,
"I donât have a Rock nâ Roll uniform."
Lemon bees
Geisha mouse were composite to imply their fond of cheese cake surprise, necessitate to pore of empty, a hollow brings bask, lemon ingredient please to follow constructively. Notes lingual empire store of conducive conceal null to fasting lemons bring shorten coco flavour, chairs to a impress of containing recipe, whilst lemon breezes nearer, cup a banana instore with labeled configuration with naturally opened pressure the almond return nearer or to the missing ingredient. Survive containment of banana, irregular yards travelled to restore the latter. In walks of nutmeg necessitate, to the disarming words, four should recover. Press to the alternative fruits, catalogue tahini chair the lasting amount fully recovered, long in our silvery measure before the select consistency, busy the looks we recover, honey buzz, not just honey if you store more, rewards the restored pores, need necessitate a speeder recover of them, fulfill a wish to rewrite recipes containing to informal survive, produce all captive within, spilling the pores of confine, no ingredient lost to shake the branches of successfully we return you a supplies from storing those concealing with cheeses.
A short story from a few winters ago
Wassail
I should have known better than to accept the drink. It all began when I went for a walk in the woods that clear winterâs day. When I heard some rustling noises, I stepped off the path and peered through the bare bushes to see, well⊠a fairy party. They were talking, drinking, dancing around a small tree, ignoring the cold. I pushed through the dry branches, and was immediately spotted. I was welcomed. There was soft piping music, and I soon found myself dancing with them, among them, surrounded. When a steaming drinking horn was handed to me, I couldnât refuse. The warm murky liquid smelled like mulled cider. I drank deeply, and immediately my limbs felt heavy and immovable as stone. I dropped to the ground and fell asleep, still smiling.
I woke up slowly, stiffly, surprised to find myself standing up. It was dark and the party had changed. I felt something warm and wetâŠ
Wait.
A man was pissing on me.
What?
I tried to move, to shout, but couldnât. Then a drunk woman staggered and vomited on my foot.
No, not foot, IâŠ
Wait.
Someone was pouring something on me. It was blood, my blood. NoâŠ
Wait.
Roots, it was my roots the woman hadâŠ
Tree.
I was a tree, the apple tree in the clearing. But these were not fairies, they wereâŠ
Wassailers.
Humans wassailing, waking me up. Ribbons on my branches, urine and cider on my trunk and roots, drunk singing. It certainly woke me.
The days passed quickly; or maybe I was slow. I felt my roots, my dry branches, my sap pulled in from outer limbs in the cold. Then the days grew longer until spring came, and I reached out, growing leaves, then flowers. Sap rising. People and animals came and went from the clearing. No fairies though. Summer filled me with life, and I formed fruit. Sunlight, warmth, soft showers, a lovely season. The sun peaked and the days slowly shortened. I pushed life into the fruit and it grew and ripened, was picked by hands and pecked by beaks. Autumn saw the last fruit ripen, fall, rot, as strong winds tugged me. After the last apple, I dropped some small branches too. As winter began, I pulled life inward, and slowed once more. The dark and cold saw the clearing mostly empty, and I nodded off one frosty night.
I woke up again, it was quiet, clear and dry, but cold, the sun low in the sky. I stretched andâŠ
Wait.
I had arms and legs.
Eyes and ears.
Iâm Human.
I stood up slowly, and looked around. It was late afternoon, I was alone in the clearing. Had I slept for an hour or a year? Best get out of the woods before dark, worry about the strange dreams later. I took one step and kicked something. I looked down â it was a drinking horn. A slight smell of apple and spice lingered in the air.
#wassail #wassailing #winter #pagan #fairies #writing #stories
Embody
Twice as the crow reap to a mineral stone, interjected prone and sown the realm, once insistently held as to maple ingot, they world there a future of dependent airs, flown to the unknown breadth, park life, wildly they repute in search.
Retribution was knowing, the snow fell, the earth sounded in dismay, as trinket or comely fashionable, the stoic turned stone to stature. The heir flown to border in what saw the amicable mirror, gesture for those sharing bunches, mobbed in, inarticulate days. Fashion sprung to the flourishing exchange of impeccable taste.
Dreamy eyes fulfilling the coffee crest slip, devout the sooner of reconcile, replacement gems are to the callers of reflection, spoon two ingots, love the displacement, and completely distribute a fashionably lasting intuition, the life within a park without a thought.
A.L. Crego - Written words are silent sounds
#art #gif #crego #writing #Ă©criture #lecture #reading #Ă©coute #listening
Writing a novel offers an extended experience of not getting to the point. So does reading one.
(which is my biggest issue with novels vs. short stories and why I prefer the latter)
https://lithub.com/suzanne-berne-asks-us-why-write-a-novel-why-read-a-novel-and-why-now
"Many years ago, during a visit to Washington DC, my wifeâs cousin pointed out to us a crypt on a hill and mentioned that, in 1862, while Abraham Lincoln was president, his beloved son, Willie, died, and was temporarily interred in that crypt, and that the grief-stricken Lincoln had, according to the newspapers of the day, entered the crypt âon several occasionsâ to hold the boyâs body. An image spontaneously leapt into my mind â a melding of the Lincoln Memorial and the PietĂ . I carried that image around for the next 20-odd years, too scared to try something that seemed so profound, and then finally, in 2012, noticing that I wasnât getting any younger, not wanting to be the guy whose own gravestone would read âAfraid to Embark on Scary Artistic Project He Desperately Longed to Attemptâ, decided to take a run at it, in exploratory fashion, no commitments. My novel, Lincoln in the Bardo, is the result of that attempt, and now I find myself in the familiar writerly fix of trying to talk about that process as if I were in control of it."
What writers really do...
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/mar/04/what-writers-really-do-when-they-write
Ted
Fondly the lake withdrew to a brighter shale, glistening beats silenced as would such a reader build to the castle, masts a sail of the rounding veil, spiriting in then a recount for ashen skies, faded to recover the walk for handling fallen stars. Meta water, we counted to sound wishes, instantly dreed founding complacent, fortitude ranges without courage, mileage known to the coursing rivers flow, we met their by the dead of night.
Another round of sky, before the returning of Ted, fondly played out to the walk along the clouded lake. His realm you have crowned of lately, this remote castle, my returning restated, as yearning readers a booklet, they evaporated to skip her melancholy ploy, to the land of knowledge, they afforded, opened in kindred, echoed his name. Fasted to the unknown, treasured by their lasting rain. ©
Wither
A leaf is dissolved to attract the manipulating seed, that detracts to the fodder of those impaired with life, they lay to the aspiring conscript, deflect to image a refining round of vision. Complexion vain in budding doubt, favored for recreating sounds, seeding those a gather, nearer to them grounding in vein, splendid arterials to supple then rehydrating the exclusive media. They meet the corresponding nectar, words of reason, written lore before the inscription of seasonal weep, upkeep the natural decay to recognition; the leaf have no value to a song fully prosperous, withered his retention of exchange.
The leaf at bay remembers ashen clouds, golden song, a defining flower, with pollinated bee, too hansom to busy for relief. Rehydrating my inclination for suspending the land, age pages its net to vein the monochrome, or parcel the body of its fall. Fulsome to nectar, it depletes the air, known to reside aware of the tree residing on adorning the broken leaves, their unaware.
The aim of physics is to understand how the Universe and everything in it behaves. One of the ways we try to do this is to ask questions, and as I studied more physics the question that seemed to lie at the core of it all was: âWhat is matter, and how does it interact to create everything around usâincluding ourselves?â I suppose I was trying to figure out the meaning of my own existence. Rather than study philosophy, I went about it in a more indirect way: I set about trying to understand the entire Universe.
https://lithub.com/how-the-tiniest-of-particles-helped-build-the-modern-world
How To Say A Hard Thing
The End of Sharon Randallâs columns. Sheâll be missed.
http://sharonrandall.com/2022/12/how-to-say-a-hard-thing-dec-27-2022/