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 Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland |
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Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland  Welcome to the place were I chronicle my own falls down dark holes and adventures chasing white rabbits! Come on In, Take a Bite, You Never Know What You May Find... "Curiouser and curiouser." Alice in Wonderland ** Image ID #1701066 Unavailable **   |
| "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 1752 October 3, 2018 Prompt: "The true painter strives to paint what can only be seen through his world." Andre Malraux Do you think this applies to writers and words as well as painters? Write anything you want about this. I had wanted to tackle today's prompts over lunch but I was greeted by a headline, which in turn, inspired a blog of a wholly different variety which took a surprising amount of time to get out...this one had to do my rage justice. I'm feel like I'm still suffering the aftershocks as I am trying to write this one. These days I rarely have the time to blog outside the prompts but when I do, it is usually because something has hurt or enraged me or otherwise affected me deeply enough to wake the muse. It is an important issue however, one that so many (far too many) women are dealing with in our world today. That blog can be found here: http://mdmaurice.blogspot.com/2018/10/what-she-remembers.html And fair warning, it contains adult themes and language that may trigger some women. Now back to the true painter... I believe some of the best writers write about things they know intimately. Their knowledge and authority gives their work an authenticity that is engaging for readers. As much as some writers are gifted and dedicated researchers, one can never learn about something enough to surpass actually living it. That being said, then there are wonderful writers who craft from imagination and fantasy. Roald Dahl crafted an eccentric madman in Willy Wonka that fascinated millions of readers. His descriptions of the chocolate river running through the factory or the inventive ways he dispatched the troublesome brats lent themselves to vivid images and left an indelible mark. In much the same way, Wonderland became a real place for me as a child, a marvelous up-side-down land where flamingos made excellent crochet mallets and a Red Queen ran amuck. Some writers strive to "paint" more than what can be seen and to do so with words is a fine craft indeed. "Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 2145 October 3, 2018 Write a poem or story about your favorite autumn activity. Apple picking, pumpkin picking, carving, baking, going on foliage tours... you tell us. I seem to be writing an awful lot about autumn these days. I can't complain because I wake with delight on these frosty Fall mornings and look forward to the weekends full of seasonal traditions and activities. By far one of my most favorite things to do is go apple picking at a local orchard. It sits on top of a small hill and once the leaves chance, the views are really lovely. You ride the wagon to the designated self-picking areas and load up on a variety of apples. Of course the real treat are the apple cider donuts we get after. They are crispy on the outside, delicate and moist inside. They are sweet and leave a tasty residue of sugared cinnamon on your lips after consuming one. I love the piles of gourds and pumpkins and the tables of colorful mums set in rows. It is a near perfect seasonal destination. |
| 30-Day Blogging Challenge Oct. 3 Prompt: Do you speak a second language? If so, what inspired you to learn it? If not, what language are you interested in learning? Once upon a time I pursued Spanish, in part because I was involved with someone for whom Spanish was a first language. I had visions of conversing in his native tongue, raising bi-lingual children and exploring Mexico independently on my own. Time and reality soured the relationship and any of those bi-product dreams. I still loved the language, the ease of it, the way it rolled off my tongue. I did use it in real world applications and began to understand that, as a second language, Spanish was one of the more important ones to know for the practical purposes of living in a world where Spanish speakers were one of the most rapidly expanding demographic. I can understand a surprising amount of Spanish despite not using or studying it in decades, even more if I'm reading it. Today I am married to someone who speaks Turkish. It is much more difficult to master and even harder to use in an everyday applicable ways. I wish I had the time to devote to fluency. I wish I knew enough to be more than a clueless eavesdropper on my husband's conversations with friends and family. It is a language that sounds far more foreign than Spanish or French. It is hard to find familiarity which is intimidating for me. Perhaps one day I will have the time to devote to learning, at least a conversation version of my husband's native tongue. In the very least, I'd like to see my daughter develop the interest in learning, if nothing else, to be able to talk with her Grandmother on face time. I think it would be something that would deepen their already strong bond even more. |
| Admittedly I woke up in a bit of bad mood this morning. The day seemed it would be another rain-soaked drizzlier like so many others before it. I was already fighting fatigue and a blooming foulness when I signed on to yahoo news and saw the headline about our President mocking Christine Blasey Ford. In some ways perhaps I was already primed to have a bad reaction, I’m not sure. Normally I avoid clinking on political links that seem overtly sensationalized but, perhaps because I had myself been so recently triggered by Ms Ford’s testimony, I went ahead and did it this morning. https://www.yahoo.com/news/trump-mocks-christine-blasey-ford-mississippi-rally-0... The US political machine, and Trump supporters near and dear to me, often try to convince me that the liberal media loves to malign and misquote him. I have to tell you that the unfavorable opinions I have come to hold about our President are not due to watching a biased news channel or listening to democratic senators take him to task over policies and principles. No, my opinions are formed exclusively and concretely by the words I hear coming from his own mouth. They are formed by his personal actions, by his arrogance, and by this, a seemingly default knee jerk reaction to rally his base and choose his own political agenda and fragile ego over common decency and respect. I understand that he is supporting his nominee. I will even allow that he feels an attack on his nomination is perceived as yet another attack on him and his administration by the Democrats and their political agenda. I will also concede that politics are always at play especially in the high stakes arena of the Supreme Court appointees. However, what kind of human being doesn’t watch Ms. Ford’s compelling testimony and not acknowledge that indeed, something traumatic happened to her? What kind of person sits through her account, unmoved? What kind of father, son, brother, husband…ignores her obvious discomfort and distress at recalling the details on an event that had so clear and profound effect on her life? What kind of leader ignores the pain of woman’s assault and questions her credibility to garner cheers on a public podium for political gain? There are many details Ms. Ford does not remember, this is true statement. It is the details she does recall though that tear and wound. She can remember some details with disturbing clarity – the hand over her mouth, the feeling of being over powered, the laughter. These are the details she can never forget. These are the memories that haunt her, lie in wait for her in the dark. These are the details that had to be dealt with professional help and dedication. These are the details that rise up in therapy like unwelcome intruders. These are the details she had to work hard to move past, to move on. This is how it is with sexual assault. We might not remember exact dates, we may be foggy on the timeline but we won’t ever forget some things. Some details will come back over and over again, even when we have never tried harder to pretend something didn’t happen. Some memories can always reside with us, buried long ago with our shame and our fear, only to be unwittingly triggered by the testimony of others. I could not tell you the date of my assault, even the day of the week. I’m also a little foggy on the events leading up to it. I might have had certainly had a drink myself. To this day, I’m not 100% sure how the situation so quickly morphed outside my control. However, I can tell you what I remember with startling, visceral clarity. I can tell you how the fear started. It was a slow burn in my gut that blossomed into a panic that rattled against my rib cage when I realized he was stronger than me and I could not get out from under him. I can tell you how he tasted of stale cigarettes and popcorn and the way my fingers got tangled in his blonde curls as I struggled against his advances. I can recall the way he turned into a stranger, his body taunt and unyielding, driven by one need. I remember the way I disappeared under him, became a non-person with no voice and no power of objection. He failed to hear or see me as anything other than a vessel to pour his rage and grief into. I remember the abrupt release, the dismissal and the almost immediate snoring that ripped through the room as I scrambled for my clothes. I can remember the pain of it, a brutal rawness I nursed for days after and the numbing fear that something inside me had been tore beyond repair. I don’t remember the walk back to my own room, only that I felt wrapped in a heavy blanket of shame with the hot whispers and his excited keening playing in my head and my burning ears like an obscene soundtrack. I remember the self-loathing and the shame, the guilt I placed on my own shoulders for being naïve and foolish. I remember wanting to forget everything. I had never wanted anything to disappear more than those minutes of my life. The reality of assault that President Trump doesn’t seem to understand is that the details you fail to recall do not erase those you can. The fact that you can’t remember dates or times, or the minutes leading up to an event, do not render that event untrue, they do not disqualify the experience as having happened. I don’t know if Mr. Kavanaugh is the one who assaulted Ms. Ford, but she seems to 100% believe he was. I can tell you first hand, the decades don’t erase the face of an assailant. I can tell you, someone absolutely hurt that woman. I don’t need her to tell me how she got to that place to know someone assaulted her there or that she was alone and she was afraid. I don’t need the time or the date to know that someone robbed her that summer of something she can never get back. My heart breaks for the details she can never forget and there is nothing political about a victim’s pain…ever. |
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