Fantasy and More

Thought for the day:  Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living; it's a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope.  [Dr. Seuss]

We're gonna take a break from talking about Florida today, so I can tell you about a book. (Okay, I'll wait for the cheering to die down before proceeding...)

Ready?

No, it's not a Dr. Seuss book, although I must confess, I was behaving a bit like one of his characters. You know that foolish fella who's so adamant about not liking green eggs and ham... without ever trying them? Shame on me, that's kinda how I reacted when it came to some book genres.

Well, earlier this year, a young Aussie writer left a comment on my blog, asking if I'd be interested in reading his book. Said he'd send it to me gratis, so what did I have to lose, right? Since his dark fantasy sounded way outside my usual (old lady) comfort zone, I told him I wouldn't mention it on my blog if I didn't like it. Well, whattaya know? Not only did I like his book, but his writing actually expanded my comfort zone.

This book is a compilation of short stories, flash fiction, and poetry, and I simply cannot tame and corral it all into a single genre. Dark fantasy? Yes. But it also contains elements of allegory, fairy tale, satire, insightful political and social commentary, and downright laugh-out-loud humor. Some poems are very short and pithy, while others are more grand and epic. Thought-provoking, imaginative, and clever... this book is all that and more. And ya know what? I would read it... anywhere.

And I definitely recommend it to all of you, too. You can purchase it (Sorry... in e-version, only) at a number of places, including Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble, and DriveThruFiction.

James has also recently published the first chapter of another story at a new JukePop Serials website. As he describes it, The Case of the Syphilitic Sister is a detective / superhero story set in a two-fisted version of the 1930s. 

If you'd like to check it out, you can find it HERE




Well. scratch my head in amazement... I DO like fantasy...

Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

Ya never know what you like if you don't give it a try. [source]

False Start Friday: Week One

Thought for the day:  Keep on beginning and failing. Each time you fail, start all over again, and you will grow stronger until you have accomplished a purpose--- not the one you began with perhaps, but one you'll be glad to remember.  [Annie Sullivan]

Having oodles and oodles of money under your mattress doesn't do much good if you never get to spend any of it, and squirreling away all your old writing in a drawer doesn't do much good, either. So why not pull some of it out?

First off, thanks to Suze for hosting this False Start Friday challenge to nudge some of us to do just that. For this first week, I'm pulling out something I wrote in the late eighties or so, when I was even more of a bleeding heart than I am now. Hope ya like it. If not, be kind. Poor thing's been shoved in the back of a drawer for a long time...
****

    They shuffle along in single file, these people that society tries to forget. When herded together into one faceless crowd and labeled the homeless, it is surely easier for society to forget them. It's not so easy for me, for I've seen their faces and touched their hands. It's painfully hard to remember and impossibly hard to forget the individual faces.
    One by one, they pass, their hands reaching out for a plate of hot food. Some hands tremble and shake perceptibly; others, roughened by years of hard work, remain comparatively steady. Many hands have thick yellow nails, stained by years of nicotine addiction. Some of the people shamble along slowly, shoulders stooped and eyes downcast. It's as though they've swallowed the poisonous propaganda that deems them less than human. Others manage to maintain their dignity, and walk with shoulders back and a ready smile upon their lips. And still others exude such hostility and anger, it's almost palpable.
    Many of them are regular visitors to the soup kitchen. They remember me, and shout a greeting my way. I stop and chat and laugh with them as I go among the tables, pouring coffee. I see men, women, and children of all races and ages. Some are very ill, either physically or mentally. One man grabs me each time I pass and begs me to pray for him. He babbles on almost incoherently about countless unseen assailants who are out to get him, but he always says very clearly, "Pray for me." Some of these people reek of alcohol and vomit, or are strung out on some kind of drug. Several men have told me that they have AIDS.
    Some complain about the food; others are humbly grateful, and bow their heads for a moment before they eat. Some are openly belligerent, and throw angry curses often, and a fist or chair occasionally; others laugh and flirt with me, and gather around the piano to sing.
    Most of them are dirty, and their smells are offensive. Their teeth may be rotted, their hair may be tangled, and their clothes may be ragged. But above all else, they are all people. They all deserve to be treated with respect and human dignity. The homeless are not a faceless mass of humanity. They have very real, very individual faces. And that face, but for the grace of God, could be yours. Or mine.

*****

Interested in rescuing one of your long-lost gems and posting it next Friday? Let Suze know on her blog, and you'll be good to go. Subliminal Coffee (the thinking person's cafe)

                       Until next time, take care of yourself. And each other.

Misplaced Fears

Thought for the day:  From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night, Good Lord deliver us.  [Scottish saying]

This haunted house, allegedly voted the number one attraction in Kissimmee, is open all year around, so boyfriends and ghoul friends don't have to wait until Halloween to be scared half to death. (And what, I ask you, happens if a person is scared half to death... twice???)

 It's located in Old Town, a nifty place in Florida that has unusual shops and attractions, eating and watering holes, amusement park rides, and an old-fashioned arcade. Every Saturday night, there's also a decent-sized car show held there, so Smarticus and I try to stop by for the show whenever we're in town. Since it was so close to Halloween, some of the cars were appropriately decorated when we went this year.

And of course, appropriate music was playing in the background ... like The Monster Mash. But none of that was really scary. It was just fun.

How about THIS? On our way to Bok Tower Gardens, we passed a sign for Spook Hill. We saw something about this unusual place on some TV show a while back, so we wanted to take a quick detour to check it out.

Here's a closer look at the sign describing the legend of this weird stretch of road that seems to defy gravity. Not sure what the scientific explanation is, but the car definitely rolled... and it sure seemed like we were going uphill...

Again, not scary. But fascinating.

Wanta hear scary?

We were back home prior to Halloween, and appropriately enough, I celebrated the day by doing something that's really ghoulie and ghostie scary for a lot of women. I had a (shudder) mammogram.

Okeydoke, time for a rerun of last year's post about getting a mammogram, which was titled, Oh, Crap! It's That Time Again:
+++


Thought for the day: Since men undoubtedly invented the mammogram machine, I think it's only fair that women should be given the opportunity to invent an equally delightful machine to test men for testicular cancer.

As much as I dislike having to compress anything I've written, as much as I hate having to scratch through any of my words, I'd rather cut another 10,000 words from my WIP than do what I have to do tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I get my up close and personal annual compression. It's (gulp) mammogram time.

OMG! It's that time of year again.

Alas, I forgot to forgo caffeine like I usually do the week before the big test, so I may regret that, but in preparation, I have been dutifully doing my exercises. Not the running around the block or stomach crunches kind of exercise. I still stink at doing that. But there are certain specialized exercises that can help any woman psyche herself up for her annual appointment with the torture machine. Out of the kindness of my heart, I share them with you:

EXERCISE #1

Put a pair of metal bookends in the freezer, and leave them there overnight.

Invite a stranger over to help.

Next day, strip from the waist up.

Have the stranger place one of your breasts between the bookends. (This may require considerable stretching.)

Have him/her smash them together and hold.

Repeat with the other breast.

EXERCISE #2

Open your fridge door and place one breast between the door and appliance.

Ask your biggest, strongest friend to slam the door on it, and to lean on it for a few seconds for good measure.

Hold your breath while (s)he holds the door shut.

Repeat with other breast.

EXERCISE #3

Go into your garage at 3 AM, take off all your clothes, and lie on the cold concrete floor. (If you don't have a garage, the driveway will suffice.)

Ask a pal to slowly back the car over your boob. 

Turn over and repeat with the other one.

What a guy!

OK, so maybe I exaggerate. (But not by much.) 

Here's a poem that's been around for years, so you may have already seen it. Unfortunately, no one seems to know who wrote it, but now is the perfect time for me to share it with you. It's called

 ODE TO A MAMMOGRAM

For years and years they told me,

Be careful of your breasts,

Don't ever squeeze or bruise them,

And give them monthly tests.

So I heeded all their warnings,

And protected them by law.

Guarded them very carefully,

And my bra I always wore.

After thirty years of astute care,

My doctor found a lump.

She ordered up a mammogram

To look inside that clump.

"Stand up very close," she said,

As she got my boobs in line,

"And tell me where it hurts," she said.

"Ah, yes! There, that's fine."

She stepped upon a pedal.

I could not believe my eyes!

A plastic plate pressed down and down,

My boob was in a vise!

My skin was stretched and stretched,

From way up under my chin.

My poor boob was being squashed

To Swedish pancake thin.

Excruciating pain I felt

Within its vice-like grip.

A prisoner in this vicious thing,

My poor defenseless tit!

"Take a deep breath." she said to me.

Who does she think she's kidding?

My chest is mashed in her machine,

And woozy I am getting.

"There, that was good," I heard her say

As the room was slowly swaying.

"Now, let's have a go at the other one."

Lord, have mercy, I was praying.

It squeezed me from up and down,

It squeezed me from both sides,

I'll bet she's never had this done,

Not to her tender little hide!

If I had  no problem when I came in,

I surely have one now.

If there had been a cyst in there,

It would have popped Ker-pow!

This machine was designed by man,

Of this I have no doubt,

I'd like to stick his balls in there,

And see how they come out!

***

On a serious note, breast cancer is nothing to laugh about, and every woman should be diligent about getting those annual mammograms, no matter how much we fear or dislike them. I've lost several dear friends to breast cancer, and I'll bet you have, too. Do yourself and your family a favor: if you haven't had your test yet this year, call and make that appointment. Please. And men, make sure the ladies in your life take care of themselves, too. It's perfectly understandable to be terrified of the Big C, but it's irrational to fear the mammogram. Face those fears, embrace your life, and get that test!

                                  Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.