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WARM

Published August 2, 2020 by Nan Mykel

The soft blue blanket used to be electric.

 Now it’s a rag of its former self, but a warm rag 

when used along with sheet and comforter.

 It’s an eyesore if you turn on the light and study it. 

But why do that? 

Mr. Catsoe where are you…

Published July 31, 2020 by Nan Mykel

They don’t come with instructions, you know.
“Almost nothing”, the doctor says, “Two appliances”.
To what shall I listen now?
Better just to sit.. listen to a Tree.. how delightful..!

copyright:
Carl Rivera                                                  visit https://mrcatsoe.wordpress.com/

Maybe you ARE the tree now. Your blog is gone, you don’t comment any more, your e-mail fails. Your words continue…

Bryan Ens, again…

Published July 31, 2020 by Nan Mykel

Is my value as a human merely based
on the colour of my carcass?
Is there no intrinsic value
in what lies beneath my pelt?
Is my hide all that matters?
Will you say that a coat of black
is worse or better than a coat
of white or brown or red?
Peak beneath my skin
and see who I really am
Let me see you for more
than your colour
or let me be flayed
and tanned
for if I am no more than the
tone of my flesh,
I am merely an animal
to be hunted and
turned into leather.

https://quest4peas.wordpress.com/page/6/

What’s Going On?

Published July 31, 2020 by Nan Mykel

[Exclusive] Trump Signs Historical OTC Hearing Device Bill, Slashing Hearing Device Prices By 90%!

What is this? Came from an ad on Alternet. Surely the president can’t set prices for items in the community! There was a photo of him signing a bill in his office. …Unless he owns the device he’s talking about?…

GREEN STUDY REBLOG

Published July 26, 2020 by Nan Mykel

I hope you enjoy this as much as I did. (Reading others’ older posts can be rewarding) 

Posted on March 24, 2015 by Michelle at The Green Study

Parting with Pretension: Writing What You Write

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I’ve been stuck for months trying to rewrite my first novel. As a skilled organizational artisan, I’ve created the storyboard,  character sketches, and timelines. I’ve scheduled writing time, forced myself to write every day and each time I sit down and write, it feels torturous and miserable, every chapter a chop shop of hijacked words.

I’ve spent too much time lately reading books by lauded authors, writers who have been hailed as literary greats – writers who other writers spend their lives imitating. My own writing became more and more strangled, as I leveled world class academic criticism at it. Everything was shit and sitting down to create more of it became a moribund exercise in self-flagellation.

After working through yet another book that had collected dust in the halls of literary greatness, I sat in silence. This anger that kept erupting inside of me was the result of my own inferiority – this need I could not name. I wanted something that I could not have, that I could not want and still continue to write. I didn’t want to be called a hack. I imagined reviews that mentioned my simplistic prose and unsophisticated ramblings. I didn’t want to be unmasked for the pop storyteller that I truly am. I did not want to be naked in my ignorance, in my lack of creative invention, in my sheer earnestness.

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I’ve always believed that in order to be better at anything, I needed to look towards those who are the best in their fields. I needed to read material above my intellect, wrangle with prose until I understood what the author was trying to say, slog through story lines that were miserable and depressing. It finally hit me, I don’t enjoy the books that I’ve been reading. I don’t want to write miserable navel-gazing buckets of guts. I don’t want someone to get to the end of my novel and realize that they need a drink, a rope and a chair. I don’t want someone to read my novel and say “What the hell? I just read 600 pages and nothing happened.”

I wanted so desperately to be something I am not and the words, which I poured out onto the pages were these disappointing, rather stupid children. Why would I expect to write that which I found little joy in reading? Why would I want to imitate authors who I found pedantic and arrogant, writing post-modern, avante garde, experimental bullshit that was more irritating than enlightening. I understand subjectivity, but I was in denial that I am the masses. I am a sheep. I am a pedestrian proletariat with a touch of vulgarity and a smidge of mediocrity. I am all the things that people get called when they just don’t get it.

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I like to look at paintings of landscapes, not melting vaginas in the desert. I like music that I can sing to and orchestral pieces that are harmonic. I like a damned good story in language that flows. It doesn’t need to sweat me or make me travel through every minutiae of a character’s day. I don’t need to re-read passages ten times trying to figure out who the hell the dialogue is attributed to and why it’s suddenly daylight.

This is a particular cruelty of self-awareness. You know what you don’t know. You know what you can’t do. You know what you aren’t. Perhaps it was my working class upbringing that has made me so ridiculously sensitive about being perceived as anything less than brilliant. Which is odd, as I have never been described as brilliant. Maybe it’s that I decided to make a deliberate run at this writing thing. Maybe it’s because I’m scared to death that this thing I thought I would always be was a delusion and I’m going to fail so big that it will break me.

This is an epiphany of sorts. We all carry preconceived notions, prejudices and beliefs and as a friend of mine has reminded me “Just because we think it, doesn’t mean it’s true.” Truth has become a priority in my life. And like a true navel-gazer, truth must start with being honest with myself. And letting go of the idea of best and perfection and greatness. Those things were likely never within my reach.

I am a writer. I have stories to tell. I hope that someday, someone will read and enjoy them. The end.

Write your story. Screw literary punditry.

 P.S. Some of the great writers seem like real wankers.

THE GIFT OF A FINE PEN re-blog by Walter J. Wojtanik https://wordpress.com

Published July 25, 2020 by Nan Mykel

The ink that flows is the milk of a million ideas,
released with every scratch across the page.
All sage words live within it, it is an extension
of my expression. All painful memories come
in torrents of her indigo flow. I can show you
my pain with each strain of her nib.
Give me a pen, and you’ve given me freedom!
For no soul can be sequestered when a writer
writes. Every sight they have seen is given in return
all in remittance for the gift of a fine pen!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017

Pandemic Verse

Published July 20, 2020 by Nan Mykel

   

Rhythm And Blues Petunia

    PETUNIA BUDDIES

They hang in two baskets, my twins

Mothers Day arrivals, with grins.

They need me so—my Purple and Pink,

itching for pinching, then a long drink

ev’ry day so the wilt won’t win—

new soil tucked under their chin.

Philosophy’s on hold just now–

reality’s behind the plow,

knowing one day will come the query

what we did when things were dreary.

Although it wouldn’t be very witty–

I must confess–more’s the pity.

Nan  7-18-20

HEY! Remember the POST OFFICE?

Published July 16, 2020 by Nan Mykel

To the best of my knowledge,

  1. The Post Office has not been funded after September.
  2. Trump appointed a new head of the P.O. several months ago
  3. Trump thinks the P.O. should raise prices
  4. He says he’s against mail in votes
  5. If the P.O. becomes privatized before the election, what then?
  6. Why does no one seem concerned about this looming problem?
  7. Costco is selling large packs of Forever stamps
ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!

When Not Depressed…

Published June 21, 2020 by Nan Mykel

When I’m depressed, nothing interests me. At other times I enjoy many things, as I reminded myself in a 1985 Journal Entry:

Among these are drawing, doodling. cutting and pasting (collaging), writing, browsing in the library or second hand book stores, singing, looking for Indian artifacts in a plowed field after it rains, brainstorming or discussing ideas with a friend, smelling the earth after it rains, looking at rainbows, feeling the warmth of a purring cat, exchanging soul gazes with my pet dog, sharing food with friends, lying out under the stars, reading aloud with an intimate, snuggling under the covers while the rain patters on the roof, singing Christmas carols, the lit Christmas tree, walking along the beach collecting gifts from the sea, attending a Quaker meeting, viewing a sunset, picking and enjoying flowers, speculating on strange encounters, watching a heart-warming movie… Now I would add reading on evolution and consciousness.

Doodling

I also think of the things I’m grateful for…Family; friends; curiosity; creativity; sleep; the ability to faint when physical pain gets too great; the lessening of fear of death with age; prolonged infancy developing into love; the “cooperative” gene; the “religious” gene serving to draw people together beyond family lines; mathematics, which leads us to believe that this is a rational world; the aesthetic experience associated with this world and its characteristics; the cherishing of nostalgic memories; the sense of peace associated with clinical near or after death experiences; the survival instinct which permits life on this planet to evolve; “emergence” –which unfolds what is and affects what is to be; the ability to read and write; consciousness–so that we can reflectively experience; and humor–the saving grace…

A surprising way to lessen depression–for me at least–is to go to Google and look at all the different species of birds. I accidentally discovered this method.

I also want to announce that I don’t intend to post any more until my helper arrives so I know how to control the site. Hats off to those still sufficiently nimble of wit to understand it.

WARM

The soft blue blanket used to be electric.  Now it’s a rag of its former self, but a warm rag  when used along with sheet and comforter.  It’s an eyesore if you turn on the light and study it.  But why do that? 

Mr. Catsoe where are you…

They don’t come with instructions, you know.“Almost nothing”, the doctor says, “Two appliances”.To what shall I listen now?Better just to sit.. listen to a Tree.. how delightful..! copyright:Carl Rivera                                                  visit https://mrcatsoe.wordpress.com/ […]

Bryan Ens, again…

Is my value as a human merely basedon the colour of my carcass?Is there no intrinsic valuein what lies beneath my pelt?Is my hide all that matters?Will you say that a coat of blackis worse or better than a coatof white or brown or red?Peak beneath my skinand see who I really amLet me see […]

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