The big thing these days is “be who you need to be…stay true to who you are…don’t listen to those who will bring you down…the future belongs to you…”

I am very much on that “be true to yourself” bandwagon. Sometimes I wish I had jumped on way back when I was 30 or 40.

But what if you can’t always be on that “be true to yourself” bandwagon? Especially in relation to the reality around you?

I believe in being true to yourself. No one can make you happy — or unhappy — but you. I believe in never betraying your soul. But there are times when being true to your choices can cause eruptions in your daily life.

Say you truly want to go to Las Vegas or Paris or the Florida Keys and your significant other wants to stay home and plant trees. Do you stay true to your desires and fly away anyway?

I doubt it.

Say your friends all want to try out this new Mexican restaurant and you really don’t like Mexican. Do you stay home while everyone else goes?

I doubt it.

These are trite examples, but they state an honest message — you can’t always be true to your desires and beliefs.

I would rather write or read all day outside in the warm weather, or inside when its gloomy, but reality (in the form of work) gets in the way. I would love to sleep in on Saturday mornings, but my grandson’s soccer games get in the way. I would rather go to art fairs and renaissance fairs and craft fairs than clean house, but reality gets in the way. I believe in compromise (especially when it comes to housework).

I don’t believe in forcing my opinion in a crowd of people if it goes against what everyone is talking about. I may not agree on the point of view, the topic, the solution, but if there’s a chance of getting “into it” with friends it’s not worth it to me. I believe what I believe. I don’t need to convert them.

We all want to be ourselves at every turn. We want to do what we want when we want to, say no without repercussions, and voice our opinion on everything. We all want to say “I am a child of the universe and I answer to no one!”

But this is reality. It’s an every-man-for-himself kind of world. A survival mentality. If you are strong enough to take your beliefs to the next level and become public, do it. If you want to protest, make a change, do it. But most situations are not a fight or flight response. You have to calculate how important it is to give in to keep the peace. How you can do what others want without compromising your values. How to have conversations on sensitive subjects without hurting feelings or getting hurt yourself.

Face it. In most situations it’s easier to give in and move on. Find a way to be yourself without offending or messing with your everyday life. This is not the same as giving in. If you are abused, depressed, afraid, you need to actually do something about it. You have a right as a human being to be happy and healthy.

But if someone is a different religion or likes different music or would rather spend their day planting trees than gambling in Vegas, you can still retain your soul’s self worth and help plant trees too. Work on what you want. If it can’t be A make it B. Or F. Who cares, as long as you connect with your dreams?

Be who you want to be. Believe in what you believe. Follow your dream as far as your reality allows. But don’t make it a do-or-die choice. Friendships and family aren’t worth a surface compromise.

Hold true to yourself. Even if you feel a little slippery.

Alright…I know that Chemistry Cat images are not real art…but since they are a part of every chemistry teacher’s culture, perhaps they are.

Chemistry Cat (sometimes known as Science Cat) is an advice animal image macro series which consists of a scientific pun and a picture of a cat with a bow-tie and glasses sitting in front of a board.

These puns are usually based on the names of chemical elements from the periodic table or various laws of science and physics.

While the source of the image remains in veil, it is likely a stock photograph, possibly of Russian origin.

A significant portion of the puns are actually derived from chemistry jokes that have been in circulation for awhile, particularly in the context of K-12 education on chemistry and the periodic table.

The earliest known instance of “Chemistry Cat” series can be found in a Reddit thread posted on April 19th, 2011, of an image originating from the ICanHasCheezburger^[2] blog:

The macro series didn’t take off until the third week of July 2011, when image templates began to appear on image generator sites.

The rest is Chemistry Cat history. 

And he is funny.

I have always enjoyed watching birds at the bird feeder.

Off in the middle of my back yard there are two feeders that I try and keep full year round. When the weather’s nice I sit on the back deck and hope to catch the dive bombers as they come in for lunch.

Last fall I decided to attach a smaller feeder on the corner of my front deck. It has been Grand Central Station ever since.

I sit on my sofa and am constantly entertained by the parade of species stopping by for a seed or two. It’s amazing. Wrens, sparrows, a male and female cardinal, starlings, mourning doves, a red-headed woodpecker, and even the jaybirds stop and grab a bite.

It’s an entertaining soap opera. This little one pushes its same kind away so they can eat first, some knock it out of the feeder so they can eat it off the deck, and some just bask in the afternoon sun.

My feeder always has something going on. It gets to the point of being distracting should I be sitting on the sofa and watch TV or work on my computer.

I’m glad I could help the birds through this snow-filled winter. They are very diligent — they push away the snow on the feeding trough before I get out there to clean it, and  they practically stand in line to feed.

Help your fellow birds out. Extend your kindness to a bird and fill a feeder for the little ones. Then sit back and watch the crowds at the restaurant.

You will be quite entertained.

What is Infinity? Is it space that goes on forever and ever? A number that has no limit? Is it a concept we have yet to grasp?

Here are other’s ideas of infinity.

Infinity ~ Christopher Westfall

Infinity ~ Connie Pirtle

Infinity Kinetic Sculpture ~ David C. Roy

Infiniti Mosaic Cool ~ Paula Ayers

Birds of Infinity ~ Pris Roos

Infinity Mirrors ~ Yayoi Kusama

Infinity ~ Sandra Bauser

“The power of imagination makes us infinite.” — John Muir

My cats have been acting wacky lately — I am blaming it on Spring Fever.

With that in mind, I was perusing some older blogs and came upon this one. Maybe I should sit down and read it to Tom and Mysty…

Cat’s Eyes
August 17, 2016 ~ Claudia ~ “Cat’s Eyes”

My life has been a whirlwind these past few weeks. I’ve taken off to North Carolina and visited my bff and a city that was fun and busy and full of Southern charm, went to work for two days, then took off to Northern Wisconsin and noshed and laughed and cackled with friends while we hid from the rain.

It seems everyone had fun these past few weeks except for one.

Mysty.

My Cat.

Do you ever get punished by your pets for going away?  I have two cats, a toughy, lovey boy tuxedo named Tom, and a once-tiny-now-balloony girl Mysty. Tom could care less when I come and go. He sleeps with whomever is around, including sometimes the dogs.

Mysty is another story.

Everytime I go away and then return she makes eye contact, barely acknowledging my return, then gives me the cold shoulder for the day.

I didn’t think cats held grudges. But this one does.

When I’m home she’s on my computer, twisting her cute little head sideways, insisting on pets. She sleeps by my head, climbs all over me when I watch TV, all that cute little cat stuff.

But when I’ve been gone a few days — worse, when the whole family has been away and the cats have been left alone — well, hell hath no fury like a kitty scorned.

Of course, things are back to normal after a long day. I don’t think cats have that long of a memory span, and besides, they want to be fed. And pet. But for those few first hours, I swear my cat pouts and looks forlornly out the window, dreaming of a house where her master momma stayed home and played with her every day.

Maybe that’s why I didn’t leave my first born until he was 2 or 3. Just think of the dramatic sigh a toddler would make, looking forlornly out the window, dreaming of a house where his momma stayed home and played with him every day.

That is, until grandma or grandpa gave him popcorn or a Butterfinger or took him to the park. Which was instantly after I drove away.

Maybe I should offer a Butterfinger to Mysty…

Tina Lane works in truly a multimedia arena.
She works with photography, painting, and glass works.

“It is always difficult to explain my work,” she states.

The concept is to use the “inarticulate mind,” allowing the subconscious to speak without the pre-determination of an outcome.

I often find out as much about myself at the same time as the viewer.More of Tina Lane‘s amazing art can be found at   http://www.tina-lane.com/

It has been quite a while since I’ve shared some fantastic gifs. To me, gifs are magic. I have no idea how they are made…like a movie, I just sit in awe and get lost into their magic.

So it’s about time to share this magic with my besties. You. Use them on your posts, your emails, your blogs and your stories. Just dance in the magic!

Good Evening My Friends! I’ve missed you all!

I am sitting on the sofa this evening, curled up in the corner under a blanket, watching the birds land in and out of the feeder before it gets dark. The weather is cool, rainy, almost snowy. It’s that in-between weather that brings on this in-between feeling.

Is it Spring by you? I mean warm, sunshiny, flower popping, sweet breezin’ kind of weather?

Mine is on hold.

Hold for me means not in the mood for doing much of anything. No writing, no cooking, no cleaning. No reading.  No wardrobe enhancements. Just being a slug until the sun shines a little brighter…and warmer.

I like to think of this  in-between time as all those seeds of creativity that have been brooding all winter getting ready to pop. All my ideas, notions, and plans are percolating right beneath the surface, finding their way around rocks and through soft spots and say hi to the worms on their way to the surface. And once they burst into the sunlight…

That sounds all well and good. Tomorrow. Ah yes….everything looks better Tomorrow.

So tell me! How do you cope with the in-between time? Do you plan new projects? Vacations? Do you sketch ideas for future paintings? Do you plan new meal ideas? Try new recipes? Do you reread your writing? Watch movies?

Love to see how you ride the in-between!

Last December I wrote a blog about what I want to be in my next life (the link if you’re interested…) Well, after last night, I have a brand new wish for my next life.

I want to have better social skills.

Went to a Gaelic Storm concert last night. Great Irish pub music, everybody singing and clapping and having a gay ‘ol time. I decided to hang around afterwards to get the band’s autograph, something I’ve never done before.

So here I am, a 65-year-old granny of three, married for 36 years, worked all my life, a writer, a verbal run-of-the-mouth, standing there to get the autographs I’ve waited 10 years to get.

I hand my stuffed donkey to the first fellow…he signs it…and I just stand there. Saying nothing.

Not “how’s the tour so far?” or “are you gambling later?” (it was in a casino’s theater) or “how’s tricks?”

I just stood there like a mute dummy, moving down the line, getting autographs, not interacting at all.

What is wrong with me?

It’s not like I’m star struck. These guys (and one girl) are your everyday fun people. Like you could have them over for a barbecue or something. I’ve followed this band for over 10 years — their music is like family singing around the campfire.

Yet I stood mute and dumb like I was in front of Queen Elizabeth or something. Me, the talker, the animated chatter, had not one word to say.

I get that way a lot. I don’t consider myself shy or introverted, but sometimes when I get out in public I clam up. Like I’m afraid to say anything because anything I say will sound dumb. Like all of my life experiences and those I interact with all the time are nothing more than drops in the proverbial bucket.

Am I intimidated by people in general? Do I not like it when the attention turns to me?

I hated telling fellow workers I had cancer years ago. I didn’t want all the attention bad news would bring, yet I thought they had the right to know. I don’t know how to take a complement, although I work on looking pretty decent from day to day.

Maybe there are leftover hangups from junior high that I keep locked away. Perhaps I’m not strong enough to believe that I did nothing wrong and they were the jerks. But that was 50 years ago, so it’s way past due to get over it.

I did get the nerve to say something to the lead singer…some mumbo jumbo about being their oldest groupie until tonight..that there were a lot of oldies in the crowd. Patrick laughed and said, “Well..you’re one of the young ones.”

A young one with marbles in my mouth…

I told Walt Page, a friend and poet, that his poem Night Dream Meadow  I reposted yesterday reminded me so much of a short story I wrote years ago.

Walt is a poet, and has such a way with words. I don’t have a flair for poetry but I am a writer, so for those who enjoyed yesterday’s poem, here is the story I wrote some time ago. It’s about 1,100 words, so hopefully it won’t take up too much of your time…

He woke up before the crowing of the rooster, something he hadn’t done in a long time. There was only one rooster left now, a strutting white leghorn with tan wings and black spots on his chest. Eddie didn’t feel like waiting for the bird’s morning call, though –he was wide awake. The old man stretched carefully, surprised to find the shooting pains in his legs gone. Remarkable. Last night the pain had been so bad he had to double his medication just to make it to his bed. Now — now his legs felt better than they had in years.

Sitting up in bed, his watery eyes looked out the window towards the coming sunrise. The light sparkled like a million crystal chips, shimmering at the edge of the sky, stretching the morning clouds into ribbons of pink and gold. Someone once told him that the sunrises were brighter these days because of all the pollution in the air, but he didn’t agree. Eddie had witnessed many a sunrise on his farm in Wisconsin, many a sunrise and sunset since his father plowed the land when he was a boy. Maybe they all didn’t sparkle like this one, but they were all unique, all beautiful.

 Climbing out of bed and into the bathroom, Eddie noticed that all of his bodily functions were running smoothly. What an enjoyable respite from the dribbling and splashing he had been going through lately. Looking into the mirror, his blue eyes were the clearest he had seen in a while, the age splotches on his face nearly non-existent. His hands didn’t tremble as he shaved, nor did he need his glasses to comb his hair.

Donning his flannel and overalls, Eddie called his hound to come join him on a morning walk. The 84-year-old man had not wandered through his farmland in ages, and his legs felt so great, so strong, he couldn’t resist the urge to revisit fields that had seen better days. Bouncer didn’t come running, though, but merely slept in the puddle of sunlight that fell in front of the living room sofa. Fine, Eddie thought. Sleep the morning away. I have things to do.

The chill of the morning air danced around the old man as he opened the back door, invigorating his senses. The scent of hay and grass filled his nostrils, along with the earthy sweat of horses and cows. He looked down at his legs and worried for a moment they wouldn’t carry him across the porch and down the stairs to the old barn. He hadn’t been able to make that trek in quite some time, his legs having grown more useless as the years passed. But this morning — this morning was different. There wasn’t a cloud hanging over his thoughts anymore. No depression, no drugs to slow him down.

Eddie cautiously moved down the stairs and followed the dirt path that led to the empty red barn. Vivid memories of his father and mother and brothers bombarded him as he neared the dilapidated structure. His parents had moved to Wisconsin from Poland, hoping to find freedom and a new life in the rural countryside that looked so much like their native land. His father tended 25 cows in his day; Eddie almost 40 during his middle years. Adding chickens and a couple of bulls to the mix, Eddie made a decent living, enough to support a wife and three children in the heyday of the 50’s.

But the kids grew up and moved to the big city, and his wife took on a bout of cancer about ten years back and never recovered, leaving the farm and livestock to run wild with abandonment. Eddie finally allowed the neighbor to plant corn in his empty fields, providing a small but decent return that, combined with his small pension, afforded him a comfortable retirement.

The past was the past, and now all Eddie could visualize was the barn full of cows and the chickens raising a ruckus in their pen somewhere behind the milk cans and the 1952 Ford pickup truck that was down a quart of oil. His footsteps were lighter than air, quick and sure, walking the path they had carved into the earth for the past 80 years. Eddie noticed horses in the pasture and hay bales stacked up in the loft and kids playing baseball in the front yard. Yes, that was how it was supposed to be.

Past the farm equipment, through the barn and out the double doors on the other side, Eddie spotted his wife sitting on the picnic table under the huge oak tree at the bottom of the hill, laughing and talking to his mother and father.

Eddie spotted his father sitting in the wooden chair that used to sit by the fireplace and his mother on a blanket near the base of the tree. They looked so young and fresh, just as they did the day they bought the farm five miles outside of town. The kids squealed in the background, the dogs barked and the crows threatened from their perches atop the trees.

It was incredible how good it felt to be alive, to feel the earth and the farm under his feet, the sunshine on his weathered face, to hear his children laugh and scream and chase the dogs around the front yard. Eddie fleetingly wondered about his newfound energy, the firmness of his limbs, the accuracy of his eyesight. There were no more bouts with arthritis and pneumonia; there were no more regrets about the past or thoughts of suicide. It was as if he had always been this way. His wife Margaret seemed to take on a subtle glow as she beckoned him to join her under the overgrown tree.

Eddie hesitated for a moment, as a thought, a rationalization, tried to take form in his head. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, for the world was full of enchanting sounds and sights, and no rationalization could take that away.

Just as the sun crested above the distant pines the rooster finally crowed, cracking the morning with its triumphant sound. At that moment Eddie thought he heard a jumbling of sounds: a phone ringing, a dog howling, voices and noises and the shattering of glass. But it must have been the wind playing tricks, carrying nonsense through the open fields from the farms down the way. He turned, and, smiling, went into the arms of his beautiful wife.

The reunion had begun.  Eddie was home. Home on the farm.

LOVE YOU ALL!!!

Both a tremendous athlete and a motivated student growing up in New Hampshire, it wasn’t until later in life that Jack Storms discovered his passion for contemporary art.

At 30 years old, Jack graduated Plymouth State University with a BA in Art focusing primarily on studio production.

It was during his junior year at PSU that he stumbled upon a nearby studio of a glass artist producing a rare style of glass artwork by combining lead crystal and dichroic glass using a cold-glass process.

Jack worked alongside this fellow artist for over a year to learn every component and facet of this incredibly challenging and unusual art form.

Jack’s first major accomplishments as an independent glass artist was to invent and design a cold-working lathe that offers him the ability to turn glass and sculpt shapes with curves and details like one would produce from a wooden medium.

Early memories of studying his fathers craftsmanship as he worked for hours in his own studio with a wooden lathe provided him with the blueprint of his vision.

His intense drive and deeply embedded passion as a glass artist combined with the inspiration that came from the idea of pioneering new trails was extremely intense, time consuming and physically demanding,  but no obstacle was going to get in the way of his dreams.

More of Jack Storms fantastic work can be found at  https://jackstorms.com.

If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. ― Emily Dickinson

Today I have a question for all of you poets out there.  I follow quite a few, and am amazed at the quality of your words.

My question: are you a poet in the educated way? I don’t mean did you go to college and MAJOR in poetry, but do you understand the various types of verses — not just the usual free form, ballad, or rhyme, but a tanka, lyric, and haiku?

Or do you just write what you feel and cut it up into short words or stanzas?

I had to look up some of the poetry styles above. Each form has its own rules. That’s the beauty of the outcome. Following the rules makes you understand the difficulty of the style. And from difficulty (usually) comes understanding and appreciation.

I have a computer full of poetry. Yet I’m not comfortable calling myself a poet. When I reread some of them it feels more like the second style — writing what I feel and cutting it up into short words or stanzas.

My second question:  What is your goal when you write a poem?

Is it to vent emotion? Show appreciation of something concrete? To let the ethereal run through you? Is every emotion yours? Or a pretend someone?

A lot of the poets I follow use poetry as a way of keeping a memory alive. Or an occasion. Others’ dark poetry opens a door to their own (possible) darkness. Others sound more like a story in stanza form.  And I am always curious as to what prompted those poems.

I wonder if writing poetry is like writing stories/novels. Most novels are pretend people and pretend situations, yet the emotions of the writer often takes over one of the characters…maybe even two. Novels need to make sense — they need a beginning, middle, and ending.

I see poetry as more of a passing thought.

I ask these questions, not to call you out, but to understand the world of the poet. You should be proud to call yourself a poet, whether you write “by the rules” or not. Whether you’re published or not. Whether you are Poet of the Year or not.

Let me know how a poet thinks!

#wordlessWednesday

It’s Friday Night.

What are you doing? What are you watching?

Friday night is the crash point of anyone who works full time Monday through Friday. Somehow it’s become the psychological barrier between work (madness, determination, exasperation) and freedom (creativity, socialization, family and friends).

We all deal with Friday in our own way. Some go out on the town. Some go to the movies, some to the local bar. Some make a pizza and beer night (I have been known to participate in such). Some just jump into jammies and watch whatever is on TV. Others run to the book they’re reading to catch up on the next chapter.

Does Friday night mean anything to you? Is it a change from one world onto another? Is is psychological change, a metaphysical change? Do you turn from Dr. Jekyll during the day to Galileo during the night? Do you turn from data clerk or accountant to a creative entity worth mentioning?

I always have felt like a different person during the day. Methodical, calculating, creative when I need to be. It’s nothing like my science fiction, cerbrial, not-making-sense sort of person. I always thought I was the same person day in and day out. But the last few years have proven otherwise.

It doesn’t matter what your creative field. Painting, crocheting, writing, calligraphy. Rarely does your day time job allow your muse to come front and center. That’s why it’s always amazing that an accountant becomes a poet. Or a stock trader becomes an internet and Food Network sensation.

We all do what we have to do to make a living. We may be cement contractors during the day — a director or an accounts payable clerk or a cashier

But that is not who we are.

Pay attention to your inner voice. THAT is who you are. Your basic skills may be typing or graphic design but your real self is so much more.

Don’t ignore what your inner voice is saying. If it is screaming to paint a thought or moment on canvas, let it out. If it is telling you there is a poem in your daily grind or in a sunrise, let it out. Life is too short to be limited to one column, one state, one being. You all know what I mean. The way the world rolls, we usually are one singular person during the day and someone totally different afterwards.

Back to the original question — what are you doing this Friday night? Are you vegging, dreaming, writing, painting? Are you watching your favorite TV shows? Science fiction? Reality shows? Game shows? I believe we all are drawn to that secret part of our personality.

Happy  Friday, everyone. Get moving with those dreams!

For those of you brave enough to start New Year’s Resolutions, how are they going? I know its only January 4. But resolutions have been made and broken in less time.

Those of you who read my blabber blog know that I do not make resolutions. Why put all that heart and soul into promises you might not keep?

One of my friends and followers Jane Gealy from The Planet According to Dom commented on my no resolution blog thus: ” I’ve not made a NYR for 30 or more years, but from this point on I will make an exception: to reduce the amount of plastic I buy/use and to be more ‘earth conscious.'” And I replied thus: “It doesn’t have to be “NY resolution” — let it be a lifestyle change! ”

And that got me thinking. Resolutions are made for shorter periods of time. Six months. A Year. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything say they were making resolutions that would last five years.

But I have heard of people making life style changes that lasted five years — or more.

People with diabetes (my husband) or high blood pressure (my friend) have to change their way of life — eating and drinking and exercising — if they want to live. Period. They have to make a lifestyle change. Maybe it’s not eating a hot fudge sundae every day. Maybe it’s learning meditation. Maybe it’s taking a walk after a busy day.

I wanted to lose weight. That was all health-related, of course, but one day I just decided not to eat every treat that was brought into the office. Not to eat potato chips while I watched TV. Not to have cookies and ice cream before bed. I might have “resolved” to change my eating habits, but I didn’t NYEve them. It was a day to day thing.

Of course, I’m 65 and have this thing about premature death. I believe I should live until at least 96. The thought of not growing up with my grandkids kicks me in the chest harder than any football tackle. So one step at a time I’m doing something about it.

Another source of stress is my daily job. It’s not what it used to be, and I’m ready to retire. But I need to get my finances in shape first. So I don’t have a NYEve resolution to retire in a year — I have a lifestyle goal.

Your lifestyle goal can work for anything. You want to get published? Put it on the lifestyle list. Want to move to a different neighborhood? Visit Paris? Be able to jog around the block? New job? Don’t resolve to do it — just work every day towards those goals.

Jane hit it on the head when she said: “I will make an exception: to reduce the amount of plastic I buy/use and to be more ‘earth conscious.” To be more of something. More aware. More active. More inquisitive.

Anybody can make a conscientious effort to change their life. Don’t draw the line in the sand and say all or nothing. Do what you want to do — need to do — one day at a time.

You’ll be surprised how far you will go in a year.

#WordlessWednesday