Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland |
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 ** |
"Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1785 October 5, 2017 I stumbled across an interesting poem this evening by Marge Piercy called The Moon is Always Female. I've included an excerpt and the link for your reading enjoyment. I'm interested in your reactions to this controversial poem by Marge Piercy The moon is always female and so am I although often in this vale of razorblades I have wished I could put on and take off my sex like a dress and why not? Do men always wear their sex always? The priest, the doctor, the teacher all tell us they come to their professions neuter as clams and the truth is when I work I am pure as an angel tiger and clear is my eye and hot my brain and silent all the whining grunting piglets of the appetites. Growing up I always heard the stories of the man in the moon, that winking charlitan in the night sky. How more fitting is it to believe the moon to be truly female instead? Who could dispute that the harvest moon, glowing with rich and fertile promise, is not ripe and feminine? The crescent moon, shaded and obscure can draw our gaze like that of a dancing, mysterious woman. The moon in all her stages, hangs above the world ever present and unwavering even as the sky shifts moods and violent weather paints the landscape. "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" Day 1299 October 5, 2017 Prompt: A man dressed in 18th Century clothes, driving a fancy, black carriage pulled by 4 beautiful black horses arrives at your door and says he is here to take you to see someone special. What happens next? Elsa raised her head from her book. Her tea had gone cold and the fire had burned down to just the faintly glowing embers. The story had been captivating and she had lost time in the tale. It was surprising because Elsa had never been a fan of period novels or films. She closed the book and drew the fleece blanket around her shoulders. Suddenly Barton raised his wide head began to growl, he heard something. Elsa did too. She pulled herself to her feet and went to the bay window, drawing back the lace curtain. She had a visitor, a very unexpected one at that. The black carriage was polished to a high gloss. It was drawn by four immense black Frisian horses. The man at the reins wore a burgundy tailed coat with elaborate gold brocading and his starched white wig was tied in a ribbon at the base of his neck. His gold silk trousers ended just above his knees. He wore striped stockings and delicate heeled shoes with blazing gold buckles on the arch. Elsa's first thought was this was someone's wedding chariot and he was horribly lost. She stepped out on her stoop as the horses pulled up short and the man swung himself down. He startled Elsa by dropping to one knee and bowing, his hands clasped behind his back. He stood up and extended his hand. "Are you ready?" He asked. Elsa stared at the black beauty mark on his right cheekbone and the heavy liner around his hazel eyes. He was handsome under all the pomp and fancy gobbledygook. "You must be lost, who is it you are looking for?" Elsa asked. "You, Elsa." He insisted. "You should have dressed a little warmer, the carriage is sturdy but a bit drafty I'm afraid." Stunned to silence, Elsa allowed herself to be lead inside the black carriage while Barton began to bark and toss himself against the bay window in protest. The interior of the carriage was lushly appointed in black and cherry velvet seats. Candles set inside gold lanterns cast everything in an amber glow. The wood floors below her slippers were polished to the same rich gloss of the carriage's exterior. With a jolt, the horses came to life and Elsa's mysterious journey began. |
"Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 1783 October 3, 2017 “A myth... is a metaphor for a mystery beyond human comprehension. It is a comparison that helps us understand, by analogy, some aspect of our mysterious selves. A myth, in this way of thinking, is not an untruth but a way of reaching a profound truth.” ~Christopher Vogler Do you agree or disagree? What's your favorite myth? The myths that I find most intriguing are those that pertain to things that are lost or undiscovered be they relics or mystical objects, monsters or cities. It is an exciting prospect to think that some of the greatest treasures and discovers are still out there, waiting to be revealed in all their mystical glory. It evokes a sense of adventure to think about pursuing quests like finding the Fountain of Youth, the treasure of the Knights Templar or the lost city of Atlantis. There are droves of people who take up the charge to discover if Bigfoot is hiding out in the great forests and mountains of the Northwest. Their belief and conviction can be contagious, even among the staunchest skeptics. Can Nessy really still be alive in that cold, deep Loch Ness? People clamber to the shores with their equipment and cameras to try to find out. And why not? What a fabulous notion that with all our technology and advancement, something fascinating and marvelous still eludes us? Who wouldn't welcome the discovery with a childish sense of wonder? To think that there are no great mysteries left in the world is a sad and tragic prospect. "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" DAY 1296--October 3, 2017 Prompt:What is your most memorable airplane or airport experience, and what do you think of air travel, in general? I work in the aviation industry. My exposure started from the time I was a child, toddling across hanger floors and airport ramps. Now, two decades later, the whine of jet engines and smell of MEK are the smells and sounds of my personal landscape. When I was an young and avid adventurer, I enjoyed flying. I loved the sensation of climbing above the clouds, the way my stomach bumped along with the air pockets. As I grew older, the prospect of flying appealed to be less and less. Perhaps it was walking past the aircraft in the shop in various states of disassembly and repair that began to weigh on my psych. It may have been the fall out from the tragedy of having lost two very good clients in terrible crashes that turned me into a reluctant flyer. Whatever the reasons, these days I fly very little, surprising in my line of work. I manage to keep my feet fairly grounded even as I celebrate our client's shiny new aircraft purchases. I can still revel in their passion and excitement, even if I myself can no longer fully relate to it. As far as the rest of it goes, I love this industry. I love being in the hanger after our techs have gone home and walking among the shadows of the silent fuselages - breathing in the scents of spent oil, adhesives and new leather. I love getting to work early, and watching the sun rise of the wide expanse of the ramp. Or, staying just late enough in the evening to have the outside lights buzz and blink to life around me. I love hearing the heavy thud, thud, thud of a helicopter starting up or the rumble as an old piston fires up. I love the sleek and sexy way the single engine turboprops stalk off and on the ramp all day long, their owners grinning behind the yoke. I don't have to fly to love flying nor do I have to be a pilot to appreciate man's desire to command the skies. This is the industry that is home to me. It runs in my blood. After more than twenty years, I can't imagine doing anything else. |