Note: If you looked at my morning’s post and it was empty, please look again HERE.
In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: “Ephemeral.”
Tightrope: Talking to Myself in the Mirror
Life is a delicate balance–just toe in front of toe.
Make too grand a gesture and down you’ll surely go.
Tormented thoughts may enter but they’re sure to also pass,
so do not let them spill you onto your impetuous ass.
Try to think before you speak angry words and cruel.
Too often, though they’re warranted, they’ll make you out a fool.
Try to strike a balance between what’s kind and true.
Your mouth is way too tiny to accommodate your shoe.
Diplomacy’s not lying, it’s just choosing the right word.
To spill out everything you think will brand you as absurd.
Of course we’re only human and of course there will be slips
from time to time from angry, hurt or tactless lips.
But, no matter how chaotic the thoughts are in your head,
it’s best that you don’t follow them everywhere you’re led.
It’s one thing to say words that are weak, untrue and truthless,
and another just as bad to tell the truth in manner ruthless.
We can all be poets in choosing the right way
and time to say the things that we feel we have to say.
As much as it’s important to say what’s on our mind,
The world works so much better when we’re also being kind.
(Lest you think this sounds too preachy, please notice I’m talking to myself!!!!)
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “I Walk the Line.” Have you got a code you live by? What are the principles or set of values you actively apply in your life?
I love transformation movies: ugly ducklings turned beautiful, wallflowers who become the belle of the ball, villains turned saviors, shady ladies turned good girls, wild horses tamed. If you can name one famous example of each from the movies, you win the prize, but for me the top entry in the first category would have to be Bette Davis in “Now Voyager.”
I’ve always been surprised that they haven’t done a remake of the film, but on the other hand, I don’t think they could probably equal the romantic pathos of the dowdy, overweight, aging and submissive spinster Bette Davis, living with her dominating mother, her one rebellion–cigarettes sneaked on the sly. As her mother slips the noose of control ever tighter, Bette is “saved” by a nervous breakdown and a visiting psychiatrist who persuades her mother that she must be sent to a “rest farm” where the transformation takes place.
The resultant makeover, sea voyage, love affair and. . . but wait . . . I’ll tell no more, for if you haven’t already seen the film, it is a must-see and I don’t want to issue further spoilers. As a matter of fact, if you have seen it, we should both probably see it again. The last time I saw it was in VHS form ordered from Amazon twelve years ago and yes, I still do have a VHS player hidden away somewhere in the highest reaches of my house.
At any rate, I have been diverted by the film review when my real intention was to talk about the title and plot itself and the significance it has in my own life; for I, too, seek a transformation. Just once I would like to be that stunningly glamorous, thin mysterious stranger who turns all heads. Yes, superficial, but I’ve always thought it would be fun to experience being that woman who could have any man in the place.
For too many years, books and movies seemed more real than the world around me. My boring existence in a small town could not be all there was to life. Surely, if it were, then all those exciting books and movies would never have been written, for where would they have come from except from the patterns of other places and other lives that contained more possibilities than a small dusty town in the middle of South Dakota prairie?
Yes, I did eventually voyage off into life and I found places more exciting–more in line with my own interests. And although I had love affairs, married the man of my dreams, had careers I felt adequate at, traveled to exotic climes and never had trouble making friends, at age 67, I have still never been the femme fatale of my childish and teenage and middle-age dreams. I have made starts and even accomplished some of the goals. I’ve lost weight, found the perfect haircut, bought more stylish clothes. I’ve gone to clubs and danced unabashedly, joined internet introduction clubs, gone to singles parties. But still, at my best, there is some quality lacking in my makeup–some ineffable clue that I am available, sensual, smart and fun to be with. What is it? My entire life I have wondered why, with a few notable exceptions, I will invariably be the last woman at the table asked to dance. For years I believed it was because of my weight and at present that may be so, but even at my skinniest, there was some signal I sent out that made me unapproachable or unappealing or uncharismatic to most men, and as old and wise and introspective and analytical as I have become in my middle-to-old age, I do not know what it is.
Have you ever known someone who is doing something wrong and who just can’t get it right? Everyone knows what it is but no one tells them, for fear of hurting their feelings. And so they go on in life, never quite getting what they want and not having a clue why that is. Why don’t we just tell each other? It would be so much simpler. But, the truth is that we probably would not listen even if our friends told us. We would find excuses. We would not believe them, no matter how many people told us the same thing, because there seems to be some radar causing us to become who we are–strengths, talents and faults all combined.
A complete stranger sitting next to me at a banquet once said to me, “You don’t need that!” when I reached for the dessert held out to me by the waiter. I was astonished, insulted, irate. I wanted to take two desserts and put the bastard in his place! But the truth was, maybe he was that one person in my life who decided to tell me the truth.
Today when I got up to let the dogs out and give them their morning meal, I saw the dusty blistered card of diet pills on the kitchen island. I broke one off and swallowed it with a long drink of water. Perhaps I’ll start again that journey towards sylphdom. I’ll lose dress sizes, get a facelift to deal with the resultant sags and wrinkles, fit into sexier clothes, go back on OkCupid, meet another stranger grown familiar through words over the internet. Maybe it’s still not too late to be an object of desire. Or, perhaps I’ll just write about it.
The Prompt:Silver Screen–Take a quote from your favorite movie — there’s the title of your post. Now, write! https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/silver-screen/
Strangely enough, this post also ended up answering today’s prompt so I’m posting it there as well: But No Cigar–Tell us about a time things came this close to working out… but didn’t. What happened next? Would you like the chance to try again, or are you happy with how things eventually worked out? https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/but-no-cigar/
The passion of the wallflower
pressed between the pages of
her garret room
may range farther
than the wildflower.
She hides it by day
under her mattress,
the only evidence of it–
ink bled into her fingertips.
Through the long night,
her pen spills her to infinity
with the wild stars
on the other side
of closed shutters,
immersed in waters
she has never stepped into–
plunged into by words
that she gives over to
night after night
after long year.
Words so sensual
that her father,
if he sees
from that dark Hell
any fair creator
would have sent him to,
must not be capable of haunting
or he would.
She imagines him
watching her submit
to a different lover
her back bleeding black
from the ink of the passion
he has pressed her to.
As if her submission
were the most dynamic
of all works;
as if no one
had ever said Yes
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Third From the Top.” The Prompt: Go to your blog reader. Scroll down to the third post in the list. Take the third sentence in the post, and work it into your own post. (The line taken from my reader is the last italicized stanza of my poem. You can see the entire poem by Luci Shaw that it was excerpted from HERE.) And my poem is fiction, folks!
I woke up with the word “Silvestre” streaming through my mind. I knew that I knew what it meant, but in the end I had to look it up. Of course. It means “Wild” in Spanish. Even before I looked at the prompt, I knew this had to be my topic and as it turned out, it worked with the quote I was given. Thus, the name of the poem which might better have been named “Wild Words” but I like “Silvestre” better, and Patti, it is only coincidence that it is also our father’s middle name. I would never assign our father to Hell nor accuse him of the implications in this poem. Thus, this disclaimer when normally I feel no words should have to be explained.
poems, writings and short stories by Ruth Brodrick. All rights reserved©
Design, Photography, and Inspiration
welcome to my past, present and future mixed with whatever pops up
Fine Art Photography & Print Based Graphic Design
Reflections on Life through poetry, essays and photos
poems, poets, and prosody
Andrew's view of the world in poetry, prose, and picture
Original Poetry, Limericks, Short Stories, Op-Eds & Funny, Fender-Sized Philosophies
The Eternal Search to Find One's Self: Flash Fiction and Beyond
A Man with Dyslexia writing about this and that and everything else!
Short stories, flash fiction & photography
Teacher and Writer
An Etcetera Blog
Because everyone likes pictures.
capturing memories one moment at a time
Food, Road Trips & Notes from the Non-Profit Underground
Point of View | Short Fiction
Living in the Words of a Person
a blog about health, art, travelling, historical subjects