Tag Archives: words

#350 ~ Miscellaneous.1: Sticks and Stones

(Written during my month long absence)

Sticks and stones may break my bones – but more often than not words really do hurt me.

They can be pernicious and penetrating wriggling deep into the crevices of your heart, your inner sanctuary, the hidden caves that even you are fearful of entering. Do you ever do that thing, when you send off an email or a text, and you know that you’ll be disappointing someone – letting them down. Maybe you have to quit an activity, pull out of a race or even miss a class, because you’re about to fragment into a million shards of flesh and bone, and you know without your glasses you’ll never find all the pieces or the thread to stitch yourself back together again. You gather all the courage that lingers like used up dregs of tea in your none assertive self, and click send. Boom – into the ether it zooms.

You wait – linger, hover on the thresholds of depressive anticipation, and then you get a vibration, or a new email pops into your inbox, and you wait, tentatively. Doing everything you can to not click open, at last your finger slips, or the dredges of courage somehow coagulate and you stupidly think you’re brave.

Shot down like an enemy plane, even the most polite response blows you apart. And English people have a way, a very tricky and sly way of phrasing reproof in a cold, polite but detached manner which encourages you to implode on your own – with no promise whatsoever of Red Cross aid.

Once the initial damage has been done, and you realize what a complete failure and disappointment you are in the eyes of whoever you had to let down, when you are aware that your excuses seemed like puerile dribble in front of their retina, and they are not in the least bit understanding, but rather more incensed or even pissed off by/at you, you begin to wilt faster than watercress in a nursery kitchen. Even after you’ve rationalized and played their argument over, seen it from their side of the fence, and even, to a marginal degree, agreed with them, all the confidence to keep trundling along and getting the rest of the work completed evaporates.

You find yourself writing a blog post for a 365 day blog that you have neglected for these past 40 days or so, instead of focusing on the presentation on poetic symbolism which is due in 30minutes. You get frustrated, and begin scratching your well oiled scalp until the coconut lubricant builds up under your fingernails, and your head is once more exposed to the raging elements which have washed your university city in a cluster of unromantic water pellets and dirty puddles – and all the while you’ve allowed somebody to make you feel shit.

You are fearful of the impending meeting in 48hours, trying to work out whether you should try to bold face your’e way out, put on a nonchalant attitude of –  Dude, it was in the past, get over it, and hey, this is life, people be busy – but you know that any balls you might’ve had at conception certainly never dropped. You aren’t like that – you’re a crowd pleaser. At your best this is wonderful, at your worst it makes you cower, fearful of even attempting to be assertive. You hate letting people down, because you have sold yourself into the fetters of someone else’s opinion – someone you don’t even know well enough to truly care about, but because they have a title, you submit.

And you’re angry. Angry as you realize this is a constant feature of your character, but the whirlpool of depression still hangs round you, tainting the edges of your being. Could you have done it any differently? Well, no. You were exhausted, you woke up 20minutes into the class and hand’t done the reading or the essay that was due in 3 hours. It was never going to happen – but you still wish it had, even if it was just to please them. Will you make promises and denigrate yourself even further as a worthless fool who shouldn’t be participating the extra-curricular activities which actually give you a reason to live (and might also provide a job in the next few years), you probably will say Yes to that.

Will you always be fearful of someone else’s words? Or will you get to a point where you acknowledge them, but can ultimately move through them, the sticks and the stones to create your own words, your own works and one day, be the writer whose texts are being discussed – and smile benignly on the student who won’t hear them, as their too busy doing their own stuff.

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#342 ~ So that’s what Love is…

3 bouquets of flowers: one of pink roses, another of yellow roses, a third of pink tulips. A one person teapot and matching tea set. Raspberry and Apple Herbal tea, tickets to an acoustic concert, a beautiful edition of Herbert’s poetry, a pair of shoes, stunning earrings, 4 chelsea buns, 2 cakes from Patisserie Valerie, an empowering book on faith and inheritance, a cooked breakfast and numerous cards with countless messages that I cannot quite fathom in their depths of love, admiration, kindness and hope. So that’s what love is? I don’t deserve it.

In a most honest manner, I thought I didn’t have friends at Uni. How could I? I didn’t have the time to invest in friendships as I did when I was in school, stuck with 180 students for 7 years of my life. Now free from that I entered University and believed I couldn’t make friends – real friends at least. I barely went out, I was notorious for poor communication, I study English which means I don’t need to leave my room…and yet at least 20 people from all parts of my life surprised me and welcomed my birthday in with singing and laughing last night. Then I woke up to presents, cards, messages and love.

I don’t deserve it – but I suppose we don’t deserve love. It’s a gift, given out of love, whether the receiver believes themselves worth the price or not.

Considering I run a blog and study literature, words are obviously important to me. They are me. I see my world though the matrix of language. And the words…the words of inspiration and love…of encouragement…I didn’t know I meant that much to people, that they’d take the time to build me up.

But that’s what love is, a firm foundation in order to elicit growth – everlasting growth.

Maya Angelou stated famously, and it has become my hopeful mantra for life:

‘My great aim is to laugh as much as i cry, to love someone with all my heart and have the courage to accept love in return’.

I suppose being a woman, is learning to accept love when you recognise it. This time last year I was moping about being separated from my sister, this time this year I am excited to realise…I love accepting love.

Happy Birthday,

with Love


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#310 ~ One Hundred Words and a Photo: 30

picture30A promise. I would capture your memory and lock it to my ribcage, interlocked bones wearied from age, bearing up under the weight of a memory, a promise.  I locked my heart to that fence and sealed it with a kiss, framed in words. That I would capture my memory and lock it to these pages, within this post of words that have flowed, with an unrecognized depth from my lips, releasing the ossified cage, interlocked, weary from age. And all along, she flowed beneath me, whispering a promise, a cold promise, fathomless, with dead bodies that would not forget.

Copyright: Death of the Writer – my own photo to finish the show

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#196 ~ Bob

Over half way, just, stretching for 3/4’s, before realising one is yearning for some inspiration. It’s not that the insipid, random, banal thoughts that trail across your mind or which play themselves out in the sad reality of reality cannot be captured immortalised in text; nor is it solely the desire to please whilst questioning the agitated question: what did I write which gripped people’s attentions so much in the beginning?, but it’s the acute sense of fatigue. An interesting story scurries across the banner which laces the bottom of a T.V. screen and whispers: Pick me! Pick me! I can make them read your work! – but then the artist, the professional within that at times is bursting at the seams of the ossified cage which incarcerates your poet’s heart, journalist’s muscle, your spiritualist’s soul, flutters, murmurs, and beats that.little.bit. s.l.o.w.e……r…..

Oh the effort. Even reading Wikipedia has taken its toll. Scrounging through the back stories, the histories, the comments and complaints which give your writer’s eye an angle that happens to be more obtuse than acute, flinging up a dirty glaucoma induced film of mottled, milk grey, whose gloomy lining which hugs the edges of your pupil tells you it’s easier to sleep than to write. Easier to breathe than to find something that makes that brown inhaler seem more appetising in the morning.

Is it boredom? The very vogue Ennui of literary critics, modern and post artistes, students on long summer holidays? A lack of inspiration, or perhaps it’s the block of wood that regularly lodges itself into the brains of people who like words, and like conjuring them either on paper or dirty, smudged, grease printed LCD screens?

I think, to get the ball rolling, that lumpy slab of a London Plane Tree should be given a name.

How about….Bob.

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#110 ~ One Hundred Words and a Photo : 10

It was an intertwining nexus of fragility and endurance. Each year they bloomed, bearing their frail faces to the atmosphere. Those frail faces that at times were crested with diamonds, coagulated dew drops that perched tentatively on the curve of a lonesome tear.  Fragile in their pale hues, yet stitched together in a patchwork bloom, they released an infusion of beauty into a twine nest of rustic brown. When they danced, transient petals crested on upturned lips, blessing them with a flowery kiss of frail incense. Yes, they were fragile, but preciously captured in an acute moment of pure bliss.


Victoria O, Copyrighted

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#106 ~ One Hundred Words and a Photo : 6

They knew they couldn’t sustain it. Yet the realization their life was finite, that they existed on a condensed amount of time, acted as an accelerant to their powerful ignition. Writhing and rising in a dramatic dance of freedom they contorted their wraith like bodies through the mesh prison that imposed itself on their furious dance for freedom. Desire licked their bodies whipping them into a frenzy as they switched partners, spun twirled soared, melting with the light, creating a burnished glow that singed the very air they leapt through. They only had a few minutes left, stretching for existence.


Victoria O, Copyrighted

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#105 ~ One hundred words and a Photo : 5

One of my favorite things about this job – tomcat – is getting to patrol parks. Stumbling across the odd couple getting at it, or the few youngsters dealing in the bad stuff are part of the JD, but mostly it’s just a paid late night amble. My partner gets quite jittery – bus -jumping at every car and whisper, crunching daisies and snail shells, but me, I just listen to the  gossip from the leaves in the trees. Feel the soft mud squelching beneath, it’s an obscure bliss…till he flips on his light switch and catches daffodils just about to kiss!


Victoria O, Copyrighted

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