Hot Flashes And Cold Duck

The suitcase feels weightless as Debbie lifts it to check it through.  She glances back at her friend Elizabeth who had driven her to the airport and wonders if it is too late to just go back home and forget the trip.

Elizabeth loves airports, especially if she is seeing someone off that she knows.  She will watch as her friend goes through the security post at the top of the long ramp here at McGhee/Tyson Airport.  Then she will watch intently through a convenient window as the plane carrying her friend flies out of sight.

This trip is no different.  Elizabeth walks with Debbie slowly up the ramp, fussing yet again at how she should use the wheelchair service offered by the airports.  However, Debbie is nervous enough and doesn’t want to add the pressure of appearing totally helpless to the world.

Elizabeth reassures her friend just before she enters the security area that this is a simple trip to share an informal reunion with some high school friends.  She should just go and enjoy some down time with a handful of friends she reconnected with through Facebook.

Memories of high school wash over Debbie as she waves good-bye to Elizabeth.  They continue to bombard her as she boards the plane and finds her seat.  She isn’t sure if she would have actually called these four women friends when they were all in high school, but more like classmates and people she knew.

Perhaps Vicky was more than that.  After all, Debbie’s family did move next-door to Vicky’s family in junior high.  For as long as Debbie could remember, Vicky was one who spoke her mind and didn’t care about doing so.  She was usually right when she spoke out so things would usually go her way.  Living next door to her, Debbie came to admire this trait and even envied Vicky for her boldness.

In contrast to Vicky, Barb was a lot like Debbie in some ways.  Mostly in that she seemed shy and thoughtful.  However, there was a certain strength about Barb that Debbie didn’t think she possessed within herself.  This brought high admiration for Barb and the ability for Debbie to keep going forward.

In three years of high school Debbie never really got to know Julie.  Seeing Julie as pretty and having lots of friends, Debbie felt that she was too average and timid, and therefore beneath Julie’s recognition.

Geri is the fifth person who will be part of this little reunion.  In high school she had always been a bit of an enigma to Debbie.  Not that she deemed Geri two-faced or anything.  It was that not knowing her as well, Debbie just couldn’t get a good read on her.   What Debbie did know of Geri was that she was more of a free spirit than she was and she could only dream of being more like Geri.

Since reconnecting to these women on the social media site, Debbie has come to know them a little better as the estimable women they have become instead of the awkward teenagers they all used to be.

The flight from Knoxville to Charlotte, NC is one hour.  This is a relatively short trip, but a lifetime in Debbie’s mind.  Once on the ground she focuses on making her connecting flight and the two-hour leg to Baltimore’s BWI airport.  Debbie is determined to leave the past where it belongs and concentrate, instead, on the present.

Julie greets Debbie enthusiastically at BWI’s baggage claim and after many hugs and mingled tears, Julie’s gentleman friend enters to retrieve Debbie’s suitcase and escort the ladies to his waiting car.  “Debbie, this is Chris.  Chris, Debbie.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Sir.  I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Likewise.”  Chris is more intent on exiting the hectic airport than meeting and greeting.  His response is clipped, but not in a rude manner.  It is more in the style of a man who would rather remain on the outside of “girl talk”. 

The thirty minute drive to Julie’s house has the air in the car sounding more like a couple of schoolgirls chirping and giggling instead of two grown women catching up on old times.  Once at the house, Chris departs leaving the women to their own devices.  It would just be the two of them in the house for the weekend as Julie’s boys were otherwise engaged in other activities.  The first thing on the agenda is for Debbie to rest if she is to attend the evening events.

Following naps, showers and much primping, Julie and Debbie approach a corner table at Squire’s Restaurant where Vicky, Geri and Barb are already chattering away.  As the five women greet each other, the other patrons begin watching as if trying to figure out what all the commotion is.

Appetizers, salads, entrées and desserts are well accompanied by carafes of wine and pitchers of beer.  As the food disappears the beverages flow into the conversation reviving bygone days, which had long since dissolved into youth’s blurry memory.

Plans are already laid for more activities through the rest of the weekend providing Debbie’s health will allow.  However, no one desires the evening to end and along with it the feeling of past joys reentered.  “Let’s all go back to my house.  I have some wine and we can continue this in the basement undisturbed.”

“Thanks, Vick, but I really need to get home to my Woobie.”  Barb’s voice is both disappointed and excited.  She wants to remain with the group and yet be at home with her daughter.

“Do you have a place I can lay down a bit?”

“Sure, Deb.  You lay on the couch and we’ll sit around on the floor.  Oh, and don’t worry. I’ll set a fan to blow the cigarette smoke away.   Everyone ready?”

Settling into Vicky’s basement brings back even more bittersweet memories for Debbie than driving through the neighborhood.  Shoving the memories to the back of her mind, Debbie concentrates on keeping up with the clamoring conversation unfolding around her.  After all she did make a conscious decision to leave the past in the past and this was a part of her past that she refuses to revisit.

After lying for a bit, Debbie sits up and accepts a glass of what Vicky calls Cold Duck from Geri.  Vicky is sitting in front of a fan rubbing ice on her neck in an attempt to assuage the current peri-menopausal hot flash.  Vicky’s hot flash wans into a tidal wave of alcohol-induced heat that would rival the tropical heat of the equator felt by all members of the quartet.

“I’m outa smokes.  Whatcha say we go out for some air and cigarettes?

“Isn’t it getting late?”

“Learn how to read a clock, Geri.  It’s far from late.  Bars are still open.”  Vicky is already set to leave, the others follow suit proceeding slowly, giving Debbie time to balance.

Vicky skillfully pulls her car into the parking lot at Harvey’s.  Julie automatically begins singing and continues singing as the foursome make their way inside and find a table.

Rounds of drinks are ordered and consumed just as quickly.  The only thing that flows freer than the booze is the conversation and as the heat rises, inhibitions lower.  Julie finds herself in her natural position at Harvey’s, holding a karaoke microphone.  Her music selections become sultry and seductive while Geri dances directing her motions toward Julie.  Vicky keeps her phone out with the video camera going and all Debbie can do is laugh hysterically and hold on for dear life.

After rousing more than curiosity at Harvey’s the foursome exit and find themselves at The Seahorse.  Debbie orders herself a beer and slowly makes her way to the ladies room.  Upon her return she finds her three companions imbibing in a strange drink directly from the pitcher using straws.  Pointing toward a straw in front of Debbie, Vicky warns; “Hurry up before it’s all gone.”

“What is it?”  Debbie’s southern drawl is a bit slurred from the alcohol already consumed and the lack of sleep.

“Good”, Julie snips between sips.

“A trashcan.”

“There’s one over there, Geri.  I can try bringing it over to you if you need to hurl and can’t make it to the ladies room.”

The three women laugh as Julie explains, “The drink is called a trashcan.  There’s a lot of liquor in it.  And… some fruit…. I think.  It’s served in a pitcher.  Everyone drinks it like this.  You’ll love it.”

After several long sips from the pitcher, Debbie digs into her pocket and using her cane and anything else she can hold onto, she staggers to the jukebox and makes a selection.  Arriving back at the table, she fluffs her now tousled red curls, unbuttons her top button and avers to those at her table (which is as loud as she can); “I am more than this wretched disease which has engulfed my body.  I .. AM … A … WOMAN!!!”

As if on cue, the music Debbie chose begins to play and Julie, once again starts singing; “I am woman hear me roar…”

Geri gets to her feet and commences to dance with Julie as Debbie unfastens yet another button revealing more cleavage than she has ever displayed in public and allows her hair to go where it may.  Vicky seductively moves behind Debbie getting everything on her cell phone and takes Geri’s hand with her free hand linking all four women in a kind of dance that causes other patrons and staff to engage in similar free-spirited, fun-loving activities.

Enveloped in their own world and completely oblivious to anything around them, the women finish their drinks being told admirers in the crowd have paid their tab and they determine it is time to move on.  Voices grow angry and loud behind them as furniture splinters and bodies fall to the ground causing the earth to shake even more under Debbie’s feet.  Geri takes Vicky’s keys as Vicky and Julie help Debbie to the car and the four women pull off, as the sounds of police sirens grow louder.

“What happened?”  Vicky asks looking back and seeing the police and an ambulance pull up at The Seahorse.

Geri, who is driving, replies; “I don’t know, but it looks bad.  Clearly we can’t go back and going home isn’t an option.”  Silence fills the air in the same manner an inferno fills the atmosphere around it.  Debbie lays her spinning head back against the seat.  “It’s okay, I know a guy.”

Waking up is difficult this morning.  At first, the blur that is believed to have been last night seems more of a disturbing dream than reality.  Debbie slowly sits up and looks around needing to find her glasses and cane.  This is not Julie’s house.  The décor is tropical.  With a reeling, pounding head she staggers around in search of direction and sees Julie and Vicky sitting, well slumping, at a patio table outside the glass doors.  Geri comes up behind her swaying and smelling of vomit and they realize this is not a dream.

Outside on the patio the staggering pair joins the slumping pair at the table and all collapse wondering where they are and how they got here.  As they ponder in whispers fighting the urge to regurgitate whatever they nonsensically ingested last night ear-piercing rings begin shrieking from Julie’s cell phone causing the four women to jump out of their skins with their heads shattering.

Julie slaps her phone and picks it up putting it to her ear.  “What?  I don’t know where we are.  What?  Huh?  Hello?  Barb?”  Julie looks at her phone with confusion and then drops it to the table.  The others look at her through squinting eyes.   “That was Barb.  She said something about everyone looking for us, including the police.  Seems someone was killed in that bar we went to.  Phone died, too.”

Folding her arms on the table, Julie drops her head back down with a mournful groan as the bewildered women try to make sense of things.  Debbie slowly lifts her head and looks at Vicky; “What in the world was in that duck sauce you gave us?”

“Mmmm, uh …. Um ….You mean,” Vicky coughs to clear her dry throat.  “You mean the Cold Duck?  It was just wine.  Where are my cigarettes?”

“Isn’t that what got us into this mess in the first place?  You needing cigarettes?”  Geri gets up to go back into the bathroom.  Upon her return, Geri sits back down with a bottle of water and had been doing her own pondering.  “How is it I’m the only one puking my guts up this morning?”

“Juls and I were up before y’all doing the same thing.  Can’t be anything left.”

“With the Meniere’s I have learned to suppress.  Bad habit, but when I’m vertigo, I can’t clean it up.  Speaking of which, I think I’m hallucinating.  There’s a man on our patio.”

“You’re not hallucinating, Deb.  I’m here and I have coffee.”

“I hope it’s good coffee and how do I know you?  You don’t look familiar.”

“Good?  I just hope the coffee is real.  And strong.”  Julie sits up searching for a cup.

Geri takes a cup; “This is my husband’s cousin, Dante.  What are you doing here?”

“Do you know where we are?  Better question, do you know where my damn cigarettes are?”

“Well, first off, we are in Freeport, Bahamas.  This is a friends place.  He’s not here so I thought you could hole up here till things cool off.  I’m here because you called me last night and asked me to meet you at the boat.  I showed up and the four of you were there asking me to get you as far away as possible.  The coffee is real, but if we are going to be here a while we’ll need to go into town and lay in supplies.  As for your cigarettes Vicky, you threw them overboard last night and swore you’d never touch another one after the trouble they caused last night.”

“What the hell happened last night that would make me throw my smokes away?”  Vicky’s bewildered voice brings to focus that everything is too real and something must have happened last night. 

The women just look at each other in wonder while Dante allows a creepy smile to cross his face.  “So, Ger…of all the people I know, you are not the one I expected to have to hie out of the country.  What really happened?  Ya kill someone?”

Dante’s voice resonated like a tolling bell deep inside a multifaceted cavern fading into the ebon haze.

The suitcase weighs heavy in Debbie’s hand as she struggles to lift it to check it through.  She glances behind her to see if her friend Elizabeth, who had brought her to the airport, had found a parking space and entered the terminal.  Not seeing her, Debbie turns back toward the smiling thirty-something lady behind the counter and wonders if it was too late to just go back home and forget the trip.

May 7, 2012

The Greatest Frontier

The Greatest Frontier

Throughout history man has looked for frontiers to conquer.  Stepping into the unknown is both fearful and exciting.  It is near impossible to predict what treasures you will find or even what dangers you will face.  The best we can do is rely on our past experiences to help guide in these endeavors.

Gene Roddenberry, in his television program Star Trek, called space the final frontier.  He dubbed this the last unexplored area for men to conquer.  Perhaps this is true to a point.

For centuries philosophers and psychologists have explored the human mind.  However, there is still so much to explore and learn with such a complexly simple mechanism.

Upon meeting someone for the first time, they might inquire, “Who are you?”  While they know your name from introduction, you, out of habit, repeat your name.  Another question that may be posed upon first meeting is, “Can you tell me about yourself?”  With this we may proceed to declare what job we do for a living, our marital status, offspring, etc.  These are things that identify us just as much as our hair color, eye color and the way we dress.

But, who are you?

We hear tell of those (usually kids in an attempt to keep from going to college or to work) who use their money to “go and find themselves”.  This may seem frivolous to many.  I find it so in the regard that usually all they are doing it romping about exploring life.  How often do they actually “find” themselves?

Many people look to religion as the source of identifying who they are, others their families, education or even hobbies.  These are things that can, once again, identify us, but do they tell us who we really are?

I had always heard that praying is the act of “speaking to god” while meditation is the act of “listening to god”.  I hear so much of people talking about praying, but rarely about meditating.  After getting sick and being mostly confined to my apartment I started searching.  One of the worst things you can do is leave a writer alone with her/his thoughts.  We can get into all sorts of turmoil this way.

I cannot go back to the me I used to be before the illness entered my life.  Believe me, I have tried and I have sought to “find” the me I used to be.  Only now am I realizing this is never to happen.  When I am in a bout of vertigo (which lasts two days) my head conjures up all kinds of things.  Some is good, some not so much and others just plain out in left field.  One thing, however, that is prevalent, is trying to find me.

The first time I went to have a check-up with my current primary physician he stepped back and asked me if I were a singer.  I affirmed this and he went on to state that it was his experience that singers know themselves well, some better than even professional athletes.  True he was speaking of knowing myself physically.  But this is something I have been pondering of late. 

My mind also travels back to  time when my best friend, Sissy, her husband, two other friends of ours and I all went to Kings Dominion for an outing.  Anyone who knows me well enough, knows how much I really hate roller coasters.  Sissy, her husband and our friend Loretta convinced me to get on this new coaster called the Shock Wave.  It is a roller coaster you ride standing up.  Loretta and I were in the car behind Sissy and Al.  I pulled the straps and bar over me and leaned my head back and closed my eyes.  As the ride was ending, Sissy and Loretta were unstrapping themselves even before the ride stopped and shaking me.  They said they thought I was dead as I had turned as white as the tank-top I was wearing.  All I know is I put a death-grip on the bar holding me in and went deep inside myself.

Do I know myself?  Hardly.  I know my name.  I know I am single, never married, no children and I am a fair writer.  I know I have a hideous disease.  I know these things about me that identify me to the outside world, but I don’t know me – yet.  I read things that force me to look inside myself.  When I meditate, I look inside myself and explore those areas that I am afraid to look at or didn’t know exist.

There are times I write things, especially here in my blogberg, that many have told me they cannot comment here or even in Facebook or Twitter because they don’t know what to say.  They explain that I write in a manner that makes them think and causes them to look deeper then they ordinarily would.  These are things that help me explore my greatest frontier.

Space may be quite unexplored by humankind, but the greatest and most final frontier is in exploring ourselves, our own minds.  The Buddhists have a way of spending time with themselves and looking deep and when they come out on the other side, they are more peaceful more at home with who they are.  Their way isn’t the answer for everyone.  We must find who we are on our own and in our own way detached from all other influences.  Get to the heart, the soul, the very core of you.

Francis Bacon once wrote, “It is a sad fate for a man to die too well known to everybody else and still unknown to himself.”

Take time to explore your greatest frontier.

Truth In Advertising?

I need to begin by saying I am not a religious person.  This is not about religion.  Nor is it about the bashing of religions.  In December 2008, I wrote Injustice And Intolerance In The Name Of God.  This came after hearing about a religious group in the UK protesting against a poet because they didn’t like his work.  I did not claim that all Christian groups are like the two that I wrote about in that article.  I just take it a little personally when someone (anyone) tries to stifle the voice of a poet or any writer just because they don’t happen to like the content which flows from the writer’s pen.  There are many things I do not personally approve of or perhaps just don’t care for.  I chose not to invest my time and energy in participating in those things.

The other day I received an e-mail from a friend which was a forward.  I receive a lot of these as I am sure y’all do as well.  This e-mail had the subject line of FW: A song some radio stations are banning, “Please Watch”.  I read the e-mail which stated this song was banned by radio stations and President Obama because it is “politically incorrect”.  There was a link to the YouTube post of the Diamond Rio song “Presidents Day”.  The song is an apparent religious/political song.  This is the reason for my opening statements.  I did not forward this e-mail.

Now for more.  I have also received in the past e-mails telling about people who are ill with cancers or children who are missing and asking that you go to a website and give money and then forward the posts along.  These items don’t just come in e-mails from friends, but you get them on Facebook and Twitter as well.  These do not come from unintelligent people.  They come from very caring people who are sympathetic to the plights described within.  The only problem is the messages are not vetted to be proven out.

Having been duped before by strangers tugging on my heartstrings, I prove out things before I follow through with any requests made by the sender of the e-mail or posting.  I have also replied back with my findings.  Having said all of this, you can guess where I am going.

Yes, upon seeing a heading that people are banning a song (poetry set to music), I got my feathers ruffled.  After watching the video of the song, I set it aside.  I have learned it is best to not write when I am ruffled.  After a cooling off period, I got to work.  I began Googling every way I could think of to find legitimate articles regarding this banning.  (As a writer I love researching and as a researcher, I love writing about my finds.)  I could find no information about this so-called banning.  Only more links to the YouTube video. 

There were many comments on the various links with thoughts and feelings about the song in general and the supposed banning of the song.  One comment I read stated that the song was never meant for public airplay.  Since it was recorded and performed at a live venue, this does not seem to be the case.  Perhaps it just wasn’t meant to be released to radio stations and Diamond Rio wanted to save it for their fans on an album.  I can only speculate on this matter.

Truth in advertising can mean many things in this day and age.  When e-mails are sent or posts are made to blogs, Twitter and Facebook, there should be truth held within.  I fault those who begin these shams.  Some are attempting to fleece monies from unsuspecting sympathetic souls.  Others are to gain notoriety.  One thing that has resulted from this latest e-mail is gaining more viewings on YouTube. 

My advise to all is to vet out the information you receive regarding such things before you forward the information along.

Keeping The Peace

As a fan of the Canadian police drama Flashpoint, I often hear the phrase “keep the peace”.  This sentiment also explicates throughout each episode as if a lighthouse illuminating the way for ships in the night.  Keeping the peace has been the focus of police officers the world around for decades.

To keep the peace is not just a purpose of law enforcement.  Peace has been sought by groups and individuals alike for generations.  Many times these people are labeled “peacemakers” and “dreamers”.  I stand before you accused.  I can only hope you find me guilty as charged.

Growing up, my kinfolk would speak derogatorily and make fun of other groups of people they deemed lesser.  This broke my heart and cut me to the core. Especially when they would speak differently in the open.

All through school and college when studying history, my heart broke.  From the torture of the Native Americans to the inhumane treatment of Negros to the mass murder of Jews and other “undesirables” in Nazi concentration camps the pain I felt was wretched.  But this was nowhere near what these others suffered at the hands of terrorists.

I grew up hearing music by John Lennon, Bob Dylan and others who wrote and performed songs laden with the message of peace.  This message was not specific to any particular genre and had no boundaries.

Recently, I sat in awe and watched as the Egyptian people stood and fought back against their oppressive government.  We are still watching as other nations are following the same path.

For some time now I have been writing poems about peace.  In December 2010, a friend in Second Life ® asked me to come to her group and read my poems of peace and then perhaps stay around and DJ a gig so they could dance and have a party.  I agreed.  As I pondered this event, I decided instead to do something never done in Second Life ® before, I interlaced my poems into a special playlist of music with one theme.

I dubbed this setup to be the genre of peace and began my research for appropriate music.  I wanted my listeners to be surprised not only by my poetry, but by the selection of music as well.  I was extremely surprised throughout my research and included music from a variety of genres including jazz, blues, rock and even Celtic.

Keeping the peace and being a peacemaker should not be left to police officers and dreamers.  This is a right and a privilege of every human being.  Learning to accept people is the first step in co-existing on this tiny planet.  The way I end my peace program is to charge all my listeners to go out, walk up to someone they don’t know (and probably wouldn’t befriend) and hug them.  Then tell them you are glad they are alive.  I so charge each of you now.

What is the verdict?  Am I guilty?

A Muse, Me?

I have been a member of writing.com for four years.  I enjoy this site.  There are other writers, editors, etc who participate.  I read their work and they read mine.  We comment and rate and help each other.

It has intrigued me reading about the muses of other writers and artists.  Some are animals; others are “imaginary” friends.  Some actually tell of the conversations they have with their muses.  At times I have felt a bit of a misfit as I have never actually felt as if I have a muse.  I actually read the other stories longingly and desired to have a muse of my own.

When asked about my muse and how I gain inspiration to write my poetry and stories I have always said that it is the tornadoes.  Recently I have posted on Facebook and Twitter that the tornadoes were twisting and turning in my head.  Some comment back telling me to be careful as they think I am actually talking about nature since I do live in an area prone to tornadoes.  I just giggle and go on.

Trying to explain my writing process can be a bit of a challenge.  It is as if I see the words twisting and turning in my mind.  If I force the issue and try to put the words on paper, they come out a jumbled mess.  This is especially true when I have more than one thing twisting around.  I made this mistake once.  I had two things twisting around in my head.  Two poems, one each for two different friends.  They were looking like wonderful pieces and I was in a hurry.  I took my pen in hand and tried to force the words onto my paper.  I ended up with a bungled mess.  The worst part about it is that they were lost for good.

While inspiration comes from many places, I don’t have a muse as most would envision a muse to be.  I have my tornadoes and allow them to spin and swirl the words around in my mind.  When the words, like a perfect orange, are ripe, they will spew out onto my page in the proper order to be the most presentable with a bit a polishing and delicious to the waiting pallet.

There’s An App For That

Let me start off with a disclaimer.  I do not own a Blackberry, iPhone or any other type of what is termed a smartphone.  I have considered getting an iPhone or even an iPod touch to be able to use the cool apps.  I watch the ads on television about the apps that are available and have trolled the apps in iTunes just out of curiosity.  There are literally thousands of apps for virtually everything.  You can find apps to help you with everything from navigating the wild concrete jungle of New York City, to finding just the right relaxation music to enjoy in your den or the perfect way to dump the person you are dating.

Recently I sent an e-mail to a bunch of friends which included links to apps for things like tracking your finances to finding a clean restroom near your location.  I received a reply back from one of those friends saying her phone was dumb but it would be worth getting a smartphone just for the restroom app.  She was joking, but it caused me to think about these so-called smartphones and the applications that are available.

As a writer, I am always looking for things that can be beneficial to me and my writer friends.  You know how it is, the latest high-tech gadgets that can help us fill the blank page with our wit and wisdom.  My two favorites are my electronic thesaurus and digital voice recorder (DVR).  However, I want to look at smartphone apps here.  And guess what?  There are apps for that.  I have plugged in various words and phrases to iTunes Store, Blackberry App World and Smartphone.net.  I will include links for some of the apps I mention at the end.  Since I do not have a smartphone nor an iPod Touch, I cannot comment on the accuracy or functionality of any of these apps.  Some of them are free while others seem to be a bit much considering price comparisons between the three sites.

When I searched the Blackberry App World for “writer” and “writing” I found mostly eBooks.  Very few tools to help writers.  They do have the standard thesaurus’ and dictionaries to help find just the right words.  I did find one eBook for getting started as a freelance writer.  For that, if you are able to read a book on your Blackberry, I suggest you try it out.  Smartphone.net and iTunes seemed to have an abundance of apps for using your own handwriting in e-mails.  This appears to be a tool to allow you to use a stylus to write your e-mail.  If you are like me this is NOT a good idea.  It is far more difficult to write on a smartphone or even a laptop (my laptop has a built in function for writing into documents like that) than on a piece of paper; and if you already have bad handwriting, it will be much worse.  However, it can be fun.

Each of the three sites did have a few apps for digital voice recording.  I use my DVR when I am driving or where I can’t readily get to pen and paper (even in bed) to record the thoughts I have and then return to them later.  You can download these voice files onto your computer and transcribe after.  This could be a handy tool for journalists and writers who interview people for various assignments and books.  Instead of carrying your DVR and your phone and juggling (I sometimes forget which pocket each is in in my briefcase) you can have only one instrument to manage

In both iTunes and Smartphone.net I also found apps for helping you write other languages.  While some were your standard English translation dictionaries, but others were apps to actually help you learn to write other languages such as Hebrew and Chinese.  There were also journal apps to help you keep a diary or journal for your personal thoughts and ideas.  Some of the most intriguing apps I found for writers were on iTunes.  On my laptop (aka: DL’s Brain) I have a program called Write It Now Novel Writing software.  I love this program as it helps you organize your thoughts, characters and storyline.  The apps My Writing Nook , Writing Help,  and Writing Toolkit from iTunes seem to be similar to this.

I also found apps to help people write poetry, music and articles.  You can even get an app to help with persistent writer’s block.  Now we have no excuses as writer’s anymore for not being able to practice our skills where ever we are.  Unless you neglect to recharge your phone of course.  But I am the only one in the world who does that.  Find the app or apps that fit you and download them today.  Half the fun will be playing with the new toys and getting to know them and understand them.  Then you can let them help you produce magnificent works of art.

Final disclaimer, no apps were used nor were any smartphones harmed in the writing of this post.  And since there are no apps for showing affection, remember to hug someone and tell them how much you care about them.

Smartphone.net – Writing ~ http://www.smartphone.net/en/usd/search.html?order=18&qry=writing&=Search+now&cat=0&advs_language=8&rating_start=-1

Blackberry App World – http://appworld.blackberry.com/webstore/

iPhone – http://www.apple.com/iphone/apps-for-iphone/

My Writing Nook – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/my-writing-nook/id332503036?mt=8#ls=1

Writing Toolkit – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/writing-toolkit/id345490233?mt=8#ls=1

Writing Help – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/writing-help/id329400915?mt=8#ls=1

Basics Of Song Writing – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/iguides-basics-song-writing/id346212463?mt=8#ls=1

Writer’s Block Buster – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/writers-block-buster/id329389227?mt=8#ls=1

Professional Woman: Writing Assistant – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/professional-woman-writing/id329411570?mt=8#ls=1

Music Composer – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/music-composer/id302221931?mt=8#ls=1

Article Writing – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/article-writing/id328018783?mt=8#ls=1

Let’s Write Poetry – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/lets-write-poetry/id324539422?mt=8#ls=1

I Need A Muse – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/i-need-a-muse/id360166218?mt=8#ls=1

Short Story Writing – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/short-story-writing-a-practical/id367761127?mt=8#ls=1

Love Writing – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/love-writing/id362088247?mt=8#ls=1

Oxford American Thesaurus – http://ax.itunes.apple.com/us/app/oxford-american-thesaurus/id348773557?mt=8#ls=1

Reading vs Writing

Benjamin Franklin once said; “Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.”  When I first made it known I was heading toward freelance writing as a career, I was told to first learn how to read.  This was not said in the literal meaning of the word ‘learn’.  I was an avid reader as a child and adolescent.  I wanted to read.  When you are shy, reading can be your favorite pass time.  As a freelance writer, or a writer in general for that matter, you read – a lot.  Research means reading.  Luckily, I choose to write about things I love, like history.

I was scanning my Facebook this morning and my writer friend Adele had posted that she was awakened this morning by the delivery of Adam O’Riordan’s collection In the Flesh she had recently order.  Excited about receiving it, she set about reading straight away.  I have known people who read much like a chain-smoker smokes.  They are already picking up their next book in hand before they finish the last sentence of their current book.  I have never been one of those.

Before I go any further I would like to address one issue, writers who read and those who don’t.  I have known some great story tellers, but if you ask them to write the story in order to publish it, it is no where near as exciting as the story they tell.  This is similar to ‘writers’ who do not read.  It amazes me that there are those who desire to be writers but yet they don’t make it a habit to read.  In school they read the minimal amount to pass their classes.  A person would not climb a mountain without proper training and preparation.  So why do people think they can become a best-selling author if they haven’t prepared?  This excludes politicians and celebrities, they hire ghostwriters (Sarah Palin included).  Reading is training for a writer.

All great writers are habitual readers, but not every reader can write.  So which is the better choice, being a reader or a writer?  In my opinion the better choice is to be a reader.  *Waits for the phone to start ringing and the e-mails and IMs to begin following the vacuum-like suction from the gasps*  Reading brings about knowledge.  Knowledge creates informed individuals.  A few months ago there was a frenzy in the United States regarding the passing of President Obama’s Health Care Reform Bill.  Due to my illness acting up at the time, I was unable to write a post regarding that.  It seemed to me that so many people were voicing their opinions (which is supposed to be one of our constitutional rights) and yet they were uninformed of what this bill actually contained.  I actually went as far to say that those who voted on this bill had not even read it.  Yes, I have read the bill.  In fact I was in the process of re-reading it when it was passed to prepare for my blog post when my illness stepped in and halted the process.

In 1966, RIF (Reading Is Fundamental) was founded to motivate children to read.  Here in the area where I live, Dolly Parton began a program called Imagination Library which now reaches around the world.  In conjunction with that, the state of Tennessee has a program called Books From Birth.  Every baby born is given a book and then receives a new book on their birthday every year till age five.  Each of these programs and many, many more around the world are striving to improve and in some cases enact the habit of reading in children.

When I used to take care of children and would be there for their bedtime, reading was a habit.  I would have the children take their baths and prepare for bed and then meet me on the living room couch.  I would have one of their books or my complete works of Hans Christian Anderson and while they relaxed, I would read to them.  Reading to children will open their minds (imaginations) and pave the way to make them habitual readers.  There is one other side-effect to the practice of reading to children, it creates a bond like no other between the child and the reader (parent).

Read to your children.  Read for yourself.  I am not talking about reading the newspaper or what ever you may need to read for work.  Pick up a book or even a magazine and read for pleasure.  Lose yourself in your own imagination opened up within the pages of a well written book.  The rewards are immeasurable.  As for writing, those who write, write on!  Everyone else – READ!

Love Is The Word

In this day and age, the world over people do not consider the words they speak.  As a writer I consider words all the time.  One thing I have come to realize was that people use various words even if they do not truly mean them.  A few words that I rarely use are family, friend and love.  More than a year ago, on writing.com, I created a poll called “What Is Love?”  I have received some very interesting reviews and comments regarding this poll.  I had not planned on writing using any of the material until I was satisfied with the number of votes cast and could allow the information to direct other polls to create in gathering my information and then dive into the place it took me.  A lot of comments were about the limited options (WDC only allows for nine options) and my coupling certain options.  Recently I reworked the poll and placed it here on my blogs sidebar.  I have added more options, including “Other” and unpaired some of the others.  I invite everyone to participate and pass the link on to others to allow optimal participation.

My poll on WDC was only open to members and I desired a more global allowance of participants.  It seems that writer’s have interesting thoughts concerning love.  The way I pose my question and the selection of options caused many to pause before replying.  On the surface the question seems quite simple.  Then you view the options and begin to question what you really think.  I can not recall exactly why I designed this poll, except that I wanted to write an article.  What my prompt was I do not know.  As I ponder this I am sure that I was brought to this poll due to my own thoughts about love.  I actually put my response in the options – “A word in the dictionary”.

The first nine years of my life all I knew of love was that it had to hurt.  If someone said “I love you” then they wanted to hurt you, physically and/or emotionally.  Then I found religion and thought I was heading in the right direction when it came to love.  Yes, there were still those in my life that would continue to hurt me, but I thought I had found a different kind of love.  Then I got sick with a chronic illness that has no known cause/no known cure and all of that seemed to vanish.

I love teddy bears.  I love to write.  I love to read.  I love, love, love mangoes.  I love music.  It has been more years than I can count since I have said “I love you” to anyone.  In Second Life, I do occasionally say “I love my SLamily”, but it is usually said a bit facetiously when the crew are acting all silly and goofy.  I have noticed that most folks use that line very rapidly.  In the beginning of romantic relationships it can be a bit explosive.  But those who know each other a long time or are related in any manner say it all the time.  They end telephone and IM conversations with it and even sign cards, letters and e-mails with it.  Sometimes I think it is out of habit or expectation.  It isn’t that I have no feelings for the person I am speaking with.  I just don’t like using such powerful words on a whim for one.  I also have such negative memories for those who have used those words with me and I do not want to use something for someone I care about with ugliness attached to it.

So, take the poll and give it some real consideration when you answer, “What is love?”  Then look at how it applies to you and your life in respect to those you care about.

The Human Touch

Today, for the first time in more than a month I felt the human touch.  I actually initiated the first touch by extending my hand to bid farewell to a nice lady I was chatting with about my passions of history and writing.  we were both at the senior center waiting to speak with the tax people to have our taxes prepared.  My name was called and I prepared to stand and meet the preparer.  I found myself extending my hand to thank the lady for chatting with me.  It was kind of slow motion.  I remember pausing and wondering why I was doing this.  What would it be like to feel another human’s touch after all this time.  I know I have gone longer than a month.  I think the longest I have gone without feeling the touch of another human is close to three months.  As this lady’s hand slipped into mine, it felt odd and at the same time pleasant.

Growing up I dreaded the human touch.  The main touches I received were painful and wrong.  I guess when you get the wrong kind of touches and then the right kind and then have people not wanting to touch you at all, it can be quite confusing.  I withdrew my hand and as I was approaching my tax preparer Galar decided to growl a bit and the elderly gentleman grabbed my arm to steady me.  It felt odd again, but Galar’s growls were more intense than the gentleman’s hand holding my arm.  I got lost in the tax preparation process and didn’t give it much thought beyond until I left the center and slid into my car.  Most people don’t ponder the touch of others.  Being a writer is a solitary life.  Having a chronic illness brings about even more solitude.  Sometimes I  believe I should be used to this, but then I feel the pain of being so disconnected.

There are different kinds of touches.  Here I only look at the kinds appropriate for public viewing.  You have the intimate touch of a hug and kiss from a friend in greeting.  Then on the opposite end of the spectrum is the sterile touch as when my doctor examines my ears or someone reaches out to help steady me when I am off balance.  Then you have the middle ground, a handshake in greeting or farewell.  Usually I am only receiving the sterile touches and have gotten to where I don’t even feel it unless the doctor is performing a procedure.  Perhaps once a year I am lucky enough to receive the intimate touch as someone will feel the need to take pity and come visit me.  Those I have come to not expect at all in my life and when they do occur, I am usually so overwhelmed that I cry.  It is the touches in the middle that make me stop and wonder.  Enjoy those you care about and make sure they know how much by at the very least, embracing them when you see them.  Don’t let them form the idea that touching is wrong or has to hurt.

Loneliness Can Kill

The other day I published a post called Regrets.  I was hurting and didn’t know where to go or what to do.   I was making plans though.  I knew who would get what and made a list of letters to write to try to provide understanding.  Believing I cause only pain and suffering to all those I touch, I isolated myself more from those I care about in an attempt to shield them from me.

My background in psychology gave me the insight to see what was going on, however, I still felt powerless to the forces within.  A few of my on-line friends cornered me in an attempt to learn what was going on.  I talked a bit.  Then the next day still feeling very overwhelmed I was cornered by another on-line friend who isn’t as close to my inner-circle, and using MSN voice chat she read me the riot act and we talked more candidly.  I cried so much there wasn’t one dry spot on my handkerchief.  I told her that I believed the real issue to be my 16 month unemployment and diminished bank account compounded by a chronic illness.

After my four hour conversation with this person I ended up in a chat with one from my inner-circle.  Mostly superficial on my part, but I told her that I promised not to even talk about booking a one-way flight to Iraq for myself.  I then received an e-mail from a new friend that an old friend has been trying to introduce me to for nearly a year.  I set it up and we began to chat in MSN and the mutual friend began IMing me in YIM at the same time my cousin IMd me in Skype.  I was too focused on keeping my conversations straight to even acknowledge the overwhelming feelings within.

I spent a couple hours with a handful of my inner-circle last night in Second Life.  I stayed up a wee past my bedtime last night pondering things and for the first time in days I didn’t cry myself to sleep.  I am still unemployed.  My bank account is still empty.  I still have a chronic illness and I am still alone.  I woke up this morning considering everything.  I remember the other day feeling so bad I went on line and typed something (I can’t recall now what I typed) into a Google search.  The result was a website linked to the suicide hot-line.  I sat there and looked at the site and scrolled through.  It kept saying that if you were in immanent danger to call the number.  Being too cowardice I knew I wasn’t in that kind of danger and there are others more in need so I just looked at the screen.  Finally, I closed the browser and played backgammon against my computer.

I am not one to wear my heart on my sleeve and don’t go around telling everyone how sad I am.  This post and the last are exceedingly difficult.  However, I feel it needs to be said as I am sure there are others out there like me who may need encouragement or just validation that they are not alone.  What occurred to me this morning was how wrong I was in what I deduced yesterday.  The things that I thought were causing my issues were the aggravaters.   My real problem is loneliness.  It has been weeks since I have felt the human touch.  No hugs, no kisses, not even a handshake or the unintentional brushing up against someone not watching where they are walking in the market.  There is no one here for me to talk to when I am having a bad day or get stressed out because my balance is off.

Yes, there are those that would say right now, “Well, you could call me”.  I have called people or IMd them on-line with the intent of talking to them but I end up sitting and listening to them go on about their issues or they give me the feeling that they are too busy to take time for me.  I oblige and listen or let them go so they could continue with what they were doing.  Then I go off by myself.

The suicide rate increases during the winter months.  Holiday time it is the absence of loved ones who have passed away.  The cold weather sends us indoors where we are locked away from the rest of the world and when you live alone, that can be devastating.  It is this separation from other people that can drive someone, even someone with intelligence and education, to consider ridding the world of their life.

I have not just been considering my own situation, I have been trying to see the other side as well.  I am an isolationist, I try to cope by shutting myself off from everyone as I feel they do not need to be bothered with my issues.  I know this is wrong, but it is all I know.  So what should the ones who care about you do?  How can they know when you aren’t one to broadcast (how I envy those people who can make things known)?  A lot of times people get so busy with their own lives and their inner-circle that they forget about others they know who may be lonely.  Those who know me, know I am unemployed and that I have a chronic illness that prevents me from doing a lot of things.  There are times that I would love to take a walk in the park and make mention of it, but there is no one there to go with me, so I can’t go.

If you know someone who is pretty much cut off, then give them a call or drop them an e-mail.  Stop by and not just because you are in the neighborhood.  It will make a big impact if you go out of your way because you want to see them.  Let them know you want to spend time with them just talking, not about their situation, but as a friend the way you have done many times in the past.  Offer to go for a walk with them.  Just reach out and touch someone don’t just think about them and later when you happen to see them or talk to them tell them you think about them and pray for them all the time.   Those are nice words, but they don’t help to heal the real problem ~ Loneliness.  You don’t need to ask them what you can do for them, they probably won’t tell you.   But just be a friend and give them the one thing they crave more than anything in the world, your time and you.