Welcome to Why

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In  the beginning it was just a game.

A silly little game of solitude that I played all on my own.

Until one day, it jumped up and took over my thoughts, in the wink of an eye.

I know, for it was my own eye, that winked it in.

You see, I love words, or rather I did, back when they were whole beings that orbited the planet of my thoughts.

They would fall off my tongue and fill the silence all about me with their pleasing tones and meanings.

Then why came along and I found myself struggling just to hold its tail.

I started saying the word why, over and over.

Again and again.

Just like any word when you  say it too many times, it stops being that word.

Its letters melt into each other until the sound of it no longer sits correctly on your tongue.

So foreign does the sound of it become to you, that you even begin to question whether or not you are even saying it properly.

Then along with the melting of letters and the dislocation of a words sound, comes the disintegration of its  meaning.

It no longer sounds the same, looks the same or even portrays the same ideal that it once held, back when you said it only once and knew, just knew, the nature of the word and all of its derivatives.

Well why is like that.

I started asking why?

Why this?

Why that?

Then I found I couldn’t stop.

Too late I realized my own mistake as all  of the answers I once smugly thought I knew tumbled out of the sky and rained down on me in a stream of incomprehensible noise.

I know it sounds absurd to say that you have been drowned by a lack of meaning, but there it is, that is what has happened to me.

The more I asked, the less I understood.

The less I understood the more I asked.

It has  become a disease in me.

This constant need to know WHY has stolen from me all of my once strongly held truths.

You see all that I am, or have ever been, was being pulled agonizingly apart in a string of whys?

So far apart that I found I no longer knew myself to be the person  I’d thought myself to be.

You see this endless asking has led me to a barren place.

A place in which the oasis of understanding  lies shimmering,  in the distance, leading me ever on, further away from myself and deeper into the desert of the unknown.

Am I a child at war with myself?

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I feel often as though I am in the wrong country.

That the language I have is incorrect and yet I do not know how to fix it.

There are no travel guides here and even if there were I wouldn’t be able to read them, for they’d be in that other language.

The one that I have lost.

Perhaps it is not my family that’s a country at war with itself .

Perhaps I am at war with myself?

Perhaps I am. Perhaps indeed I am.

With few parting words from my mother I was placed in the back of a car and driven for what felt like years away from the home that had held me captive for all that time.

My eyes grew tired from straining to take in all that there was to see.

My body ached and my head wanted to lay itself down and rest.

But there was no rest, not with the questions of why still racing through my mind.

Why was I going somewhere new and who would be there to greet me?

So I sat in the back.

Trying to blink in the colours of the deepening sky and the sparse trees that doubled in number and then grew into a forest of greenery the longer we travelled.

All those colours clashed and collided inside of my head.

I tried in vain, to count the number of guideposts that it took to get there, in case I should not like it and wished to return back to my other home.

But there were too many and they flew by my eyes like hail.

Hard,

White,

Upright splinters

Fencing me in,

In a pen of their choosing.

I must have been asleep by the time we arrived. I remember nothing of entering my new home but rather I simply woke up in a new room with a translucent stranger hovering over me.

The figure smiled. ‘My name is Vonnie and I’m going to help you settle in and show you around. How would you like that?’

I must have smiled for she nodded her head at me.

Vonnie helped me up and showed me where the bathrooms were. I clutched my small bag of belongings to me as I scurried off to wash myself clean of the sins of reading .

For was that not what had gotten me into this mess in the first place?

My love of books?

To my mind at the time the answer was quite obviously yes.

I was there, in that very place, for that very reason.

I was being punished, once again, for loving beyond apparent reason,  that which others did not,  comprehend.

Childhood Taken Out Of Context And Transationally Lost.

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Some days being in my family felt like living in a country constantly at war with itself .

The bomb shells of my father’s yelling.

The shrilling peel of my mother’s crying and the thudding of a million doors slamming  that always made me jump.

And the way my father’s voice boomed too loudly at me as he stood in my doorway and told me that ‘after Christmas things would change’.

Change?

Like spare change?

As in money, I thought.

He must have meant that we’d be getting more money I reasoned.

We didn’t get more money.

Instead what I remember most about Christmas that year was my growing sense of displacement.

It was not anything new to me for I had always felt that way about Christmas.

But this year I expected more, for with more money, I expected books. At last. Finally.

Every year, in that house at Christmas, with my pseudo mother and pseudo father, I’d always wanted books and I’d always got clothes or a school bag, but never any books.

Yet this Christmas, despite my expectations, still, there were no books

So I stayed alone in my room.

Just me and the walls.

The walls and me.

It was an ordinary day.

It came.

It went.

Like so many other days in that house.

On boxing day my pseudo parents came into my room and told me that they’d finally decided what was best for me.

I was to be sent to a home in the country.

It sounded nice.

‘What country?’ I asked them.

They stared at me.

I was used to being stared at. That didn’t bother me.

What bothered me was not getting the answer to my question.

How am I to know what country I am in if I am not told?

Their responses made me feel as though I were an ancient text that had been translated wrongly.

Just a few symbols out-of-place here and there and the meaning of everything changed all around me.

Do you see yet how easily I have been taken out of context and slotted neatly back in where other people would prefer me to be?

Or perhaps it is the other way around?

Perhaps it is not I who has been lost in translation but rather  the world around me that has been placed out of the reach of its own meaning.

Language of the Soul….. Part 2

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Living and dreaming,

Beneath our seams,

Words help us,

To make sense,

Of the differences,

Between,

The inner and the outer,

Being.

Reconciling the clash,

Between,

The seen and the seemed,

 This is why,

Words seem to dance,

And to thrive,

On the tongues,

Of all poets,

Who willingly feed us,

Food for more,

Than just thought.

Gently building upon our appetites,

While encouraging us to swallow,

And to savour,

All of our experiences,

Not just within the safety,

Of our own piecemeal,

Understandings,

But openly and knowingly,

As individuals,

Caught within a whole.

Those  who dine on knowledge,

Know,

That words are more,

Than just expressions,

They are the language,

Of the  soul.

 

Freshly Pressed

Would you like to know how to write a blog article worthy of being Freshly Pressed on Word Press?

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Well here’s a little secret, so would I.  So I’ve done a little bit of research and apparently getting the Golden Nod all starts with receiving an e-mail  in your in box, telling you that your words of wisdom have been blessed by the Gods at Freshly Pressed.

Here’s a list of articles written by those who have been so blessed, detailing  what they did  and how it all happened for them.

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Badly Messed? or Freshly Pressed? (tryingtowriteit.com)

Coming Out as a Blogger (via Freshly Pressed) (ridingbitchblog.com)

Journey into Awesome Has Been Featured on Freshly Pressed! (journeyintoawesome.wordpress.com)

Starve a Cold, Feed a Freshly Pressed Fever (lornasvoice.com)

The Night I Lost My Virginity (mancakestheblog.wordpress.com)

A Question of Pressing Importance (theoutliercollective.wordpress.com)

In the mean time, if you have any tips, resources or insider knowledge on how exactly to achieve this much coveted blogging feat, please feel free to share your secrets to success by letting us all know how to do it.

Families -It’s hard to get the lions share when the lion’s never there.An Aspie Wondering What Could Have Been……..

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Growing up as a child, I don’t remember my parents particularly taking much interest in me.

I know I certainly never felt like they were paying any attention, positive or otherwise, to me.

They never seemed to notice any of my good qualities or encourage me to excel in any areas of interest.

In fact , more often than not, they hurled criticism at me for being a “lazy book worn” rather than recognizing my early  love  of reading and writing  as skills  in which  (apparently unbeknownst to them) I excelled.

I, like many others of my ilk, have more than a few not so pleasant memories of growing up and I guess that most  everyone would have at least the odd one or two that develop on into adult bug bears.

Yet for me, it seems somehow as if all of my not so pleasant memories are more than mere momentary apparitions.

More than just the odd entities of past thoughts that rise up and envelope me whenever someone says ‘oh do you remember that time when we were kids?”

Instead they live and breathe inside of me.

My way of absorbing the world it seems, has etched them, into my very skin.

Turning them from the old long forgotten fiends that others so easily bury, into the constant companions that urge me to consider,….

What if?……

What if things had been different?????

What if, instead of discouraging me, my parents had taught me that words have value and that poetry can be powerful ?

That writing is a skill worthy of being worked on, understood and  nurtured, not ridiculed, forgotten and tossed to easily in the trash ?

For years and years  I assumed that  the way I’d taken in  my parents general lack of awareness of me, my hopes, my joys and my concerns, had all been part and parcel of my being the middle child.

I also assumed that the way I’d memorized and catalogued my extensive list of childhood grievances’ was something that every child did.

And that other children somehow  magically managed to forget about  such lists when the throes of adulthood struck them.

I’ve always wondered why it is that I’ve never been able to master this trick of forgetting all but the most extreme  agonies of childhood the way that others do.

For I know that other people can do this because it is what I’ve watched my sister do as she squashed down and then destroyed her dream of becoming a singer.

She had, in her teenage years, one of the most amazingly brilliant singing voices I’ve ever heard come out of another human being.

No I’m not talking about the sort of voice that occasionally earns you the title of “Rock Star” on Sing Star, but the kind of voice that makes people stop whatever it is they are doing and look up for its source.

Yes, she was that good.

Indeed some of my happiest childhood memories are of sitting outside our bedroom door (being younger I was always locked out of  the room whenever she was in residence) and listening to her belt out the latest Abba or Smokey songs.

She had a gift  but my parents weren’t interested in acknowledging, encouraging  or even remotely helping  her, to develop it.

No singing lessons, no accolades or applause for her performances within school choirs, nothing at all.

Yet despite this, when she was 16 (and all without the help of things like the YouTube of today), she was asked to audition as the lead singer for a local  well-known band.

For my sister to have even been asked was high praise and serious recognition of her talent indeed.

But my parents told her that it would be a waste of  time for her to even try as it would lead no-where.

Plus, they told her, they  weren’t going to waste their time driving her to and from rehearsals when they were sure that she’d never find the nerve to actually stand up on stage and sing in front of other people.

Music was a dead-end street.

That’s it.

Full stop.

Doubt firmly cemented into place.

All dreams of being a singer effectively squashed.

Sad to say, but when it came to the tactic of ignoring their children’s gifts, my parents it seemed, were equal opportunity employers.

Never the less, that didn’t stop me from feeling as a child, that my sister had always gotten the lion’s share of their attention.

As an adult, I know now, that it’s not true.

None of us had gotten the lion’s share of attention.

For there was no lion and no attention to share.

My sister now shrugs her ‘could have been’  moment in the singing spot light off with a sardonic laugh.

But  me……?

I can’t help wondering what we could have been…..

If……

For more than one passing second……

Our parents had given us just a modicum of acknowledgment, support, encouragement or even just the vaguest sense of hope that maybe one day, it could be possible for us to achieve our dreams.

 

Language Of The Soul

A poet’s words,

Are not just written,

They are an inscribed,

Razored calligraphy,

That enters the skin,

Allowing words,

To be worn forever,

From the outside,

In.

 

Being A Serial Girl…… Rizzoli and Isles….. Books versus TV shows

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If you are anything like me, there’s simply nothing better than sitting down and reading a good crime thriller.  Especially when you discover that not only are there one or two novels harnessing the same fascinating characters, but a whole slew of them.

Yes, I confess, that when it comes to books, I am a Serial Girl.

What can I say…..I simply adore that feeling of being able to snuggle down with characters you’ve grown familiar with, whilst still being avidly drawn in by the  authors wonderfully fresh plot lines.

Tess Gerritsen‘s Rizzoli and Isles novels are resplendent with her trade mark skill of  being able to take her readers down a path filled with bizarre twists and turns.

Always,  within this series of novels, she unfailingly incorporates the known with the fearfully unfathomable, to create novels that stand upright on their own, yet are somehow more ultimately satisfying when read in sequence.

Throughout the sequential process Gerritsen makes it safe to be awed, shocked and even overwhelmed, as her leading characters deal with the monsters that inhabit both the mundanities of their own lives and the extra-ordinary minds that perpetrate  unimaginable crimes.

What’s more, her novels are so much more complex and more intricately woven that any prime time TV show could ever be.

Having said all that though, I also must confess that I am just as addicted to the TV show.

I still love the multimedia version of the strong,  wise cracking women that the TV version of Rizzoli and Isles creates.

It holds all of the same strength of character and witty one liners that  her  novels do.

So which TV shows adapted from novels  do you enjoy?

Do you think the novels are better than the TV show versions of them or equally as good even if some what different?