Operation Feed is a local organization that distributes food weekly to 92 families in San Juan Cosala, Jalisco, Mexico. This year they’ve added meat, fresh vegetables and fruit to the staples formerly provided.
Good Still Exists Everywhere!!!
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Pay It Forward.”Tell us about a time when you responded to an act of kindness with one of your own.
Today, for some reason, I did something I have never done before. Instead of writing to this prompt, I decided to read what others had written first. Why this was so, I don’t know. Perhaps it was because I had the feeling many probably had that it is embarrassing to talk about this subject. How in the world do you write about it without sounding (and being) narcissistic or self-congratulatory? There is no way to talk about our own good acts without sounding either falsely humble or like a braggart.
I say perhaps this is the reason, because I was not even conscious of registering what the prompt was. I just went to the first page listed on the Daily Prompt page and clicked on the first square I saw. Unfortunately, it was at this exact moment that I got called away by Yolanda to talk about some household matter, and when I came back, I saw these words by Marilyn Armstrong:
“In Judaism, you lose points for telling anyone about your good deeds. The only ones that really count are the ones you do in secret. Pity that has never really caught on :-)”
Thinking it was her blog I was reading, I responded with this comment:
“I have never heard this before, Marilyn, but it sounds like it would make a great theme for a story or poem. I think we need to hear about the positive things that happen in the world. We are all so weighted down by the terrible ones. But perhaps the secret is to broadcast the good acts of others rather than your own. If you look at blogs like Mark’s or several others whose names have slipped my mind, they are often publicizing gross wrongs in the world and encouraging people to draft letters of protest or sign petitions or to give their support by other means. He is not blowing his own horn, but speaking out of a desire to effect change in the world. These are acts we can all see and in promoting them and him, we can spread the word of positive acts not our own. I am not disputing what you say, understand. I agree that people who constantly tell you of all their good works are irritating. On the other hand those who merely demonstrate their own good works by their actions are such wonderful role models that they have no need to blow their own horns.”
But now, the plot thickens. After hitting the “Send” button, I scrolled up to realize that the blog I was writing on was really The happy Quitter’s blog. The statement by Marilyn was just a comment! So, it became necessary to fire off this comment to its author, nonsmokingladybug!
“Darn. Ladybug, I came back to my computer and saw Marilyn’s comment and thought it was her blog I was writing on so addressed this comment to her! I can’t erase it from your blog, but please do if you wish to. This is what happens when I let life interfere with blogging..Ha. I think you also requested I not give you links, which I no longer do. Your point about blowing one’s own horn is a good one as you can see from my response above. Please do erase it if you wish.”
To this, she graciously replied that she saw no reason to erase it as I’d made some good points. She went on to say, in a different comment,
“The long comment won’t matter to Marilyn, since you made it on my blog (grin).
If I might answer that. I think the world is full with good, but many of us don’t see it anymore, because their focus has shifted. Do we need to point out the good in the world? I don’t think so, I think we have to point out that it is still existing everywhere.”
to which I answered:
“What is the difference between pointing out the good in the world and pointing out that it is still existing everywhere? I think they are one and the same thing. I get so depressed when I see the violence reported in the news, and sitting at home and merely reading about terrible act after terrible act, we are drawn into depression and deluded into thinking there is nothing we can do about it. But when we get active on a local level, we can see firsthand what wonderful things are being done by so many–and the changes they are effecting. These messages of how the world can be and is being healed need to get out as well. As you say, this is going on around us all the time. This is what encourages people to try to effect changes themselves.”
I live in a community where there are incredible numbers of people–both Mexican and expat– getting involved to make life better for kids, older people and the pueblos in general. I feel so lucky to live in a place where the positive natures of people can so easily be seen. I know when most people see the name MEXICO, they think of cartels and corrupt politicians, but there is so much love and positive energy here as well. These are the things we are more likely to see in our daily lives than in the news. As you say, good is still existing everywhere.”
At this point, I realized that in these two comments I had actually written a complete blog post, so instead of sending the last comment to nonsmokingladybug, I decided to publish it here.
If you’d like to see The happy Quitter’s original statement that prompted this confused chain of messages, please go HERE.
For news of wonderful things going on in my community, you might want to read these stories:
https://judydykstrabrown.com/2014/11/02/agustins-story/
https://judydykstrabrown.com/2015/07/21/camp-estrella/
https://judydykstrabrown.com/2015/07/23/the-boy-in-the-blue-feathered-mask/
https://judydykstrabrown.com/2015/07/26/camp-estrella-final-show/
Lost: The Ones That (Fortunately) Got Away
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Out of Reach.” Write about the one X that got away — a person, an experience, a place you wanted to visit.
Love
The one or two who got away
I’ll not call back another day;
for, compared to all the rest,
it seems I got to keep the best!
Job
Though a poetry press was up my alley,
I never saw a single galley;
for the editor did not choose me
though I thought the job was meant to be.
I decided to go back to college
to get some other sort of knowledge.
Met the editor’s wife in my first class,
who professed her spouse to be an ass.
Art took the place of words for years,
as I happily changed gears;
for although the poetry press was hot,
it seems the editor was not!
Pounds
The pounds I lost over the years
have lived up to my greatest fears.
They decided they would all come back.
Have old home week. Rejoin the pack!
But I will not give up the fight
to try to curb my appetite.
I buy these capsules that are magic–
a spell against an outcome tragic.
Expensive? Yes. But worth the cost,
to keep at bay those pounds I lost!
“To the Moon, Alice!”
On “The Honeymooners,” Ralph Kramden (played by Jackie Gleason) had a phrase that those of us of a certain age can’t help but remember. “To the moon, Alice, to the moon!” he would rasp at his wife (played by the inimitable Audrey Meadows) whenever he had no less predictable comeback to her never predictable jibes. Of course, the idea was that this was how far he would knock her. An upraised fist often accompanied his threat.
The audience, of course, would roar. So hilarious this empty threat, for America knew that Ralph would never make good on the threat. Even Alice never flinched–supposedly because she, too, knew those words signaled an empty threat. But underneath those words and the fact that viewers found them to be so hilarious, was the idea that such threatened violence was funny–and, somehow, that such treatment of his wife was a man’s right.
Alice’s only defense was her wicked wit, and unlike many abused wives then and now, she was never really punished for it. Somehow America knew that if he ever made good on the threat, that Alice would be out the door and probably within a manner of days, on the arm of a man who didn’t weigh 300 pounds plus–a man who made more than the $65 a week Ralph made as a bus driver.
All-in-all, the situation was not very believable–that trim beautiful (sharp-tongued) Alice would ever be wooed and won by fat, acerbic, not-too-clever Ralph required a suspension of disbelief we were well-accustomed to in the early years of TV, not to mention the movies. From “The Honeymooners” to “Doctor Who,” we were willing to believe anything to be entertained, but the element of violence toward women found so howlingly funny in the Jackie Gleason show was at least not echoed in the wildly implausible “Dr. Who” plots. There it was highly likely that one would in fact (or in this case, fiction) be flown to the moon–something that never quite happened on “The Honeymooners.”
How far would I go for someone I loved? Certainly not as far as Alice went. For although it is true that in my lifetime at least a dozen men have “sent me to the moon,” that is beyond the limits of where I’d allow anyone to knock me to! Yes, I would and have done many things for those I’ve loved. I have faced up to a gunman, done nursing tasks I never thought I would have done in a million years, faced up to a police captain to release a man from jail (and succeeded) in a situation I should have had the good sense to know was impossible, and stayed in a country torn by revolution until I knew the man I loved would live, but one thing I would not do is allow myself to be knocked to the ground, let alone to the moon. Abuse is something I would not take–by a husband, a lover, a parent or a friend.
It was inevitable that one clever cartoonist would come up with this answer to the question, “What did the astronauts find when they landed on the moon?” Of course, Alice Kramden! But let me tell you, one person she would never have as a companion there is me! “I’d do anything for you, dear,” is a song those of us “of that certain age” will find familiar, but in my case it is not true. I will not take abuse–either orally or physically–from anyone, no matter how close the connection, and have absolutely no expectations that anyone would take it from me.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Take Me to the Moon.” How far would you go for someone you love? How far would you want someone else to go for you?
Top Choice
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “From the Top.” If you had the chance to be reborn, would you choose to return as your present self, or would opt for a fresh start? Tell us about what motivates your choice.
I wrote about this topic some time ago. Here is my final stanza from that poem:
I know that there are others I might envy for awhile
before I slipped into their shoes and limped along a mile,
but I really feel the reason that I’m not already them
is because I am not worthy to even touch their hem.
I’m not good enough to be anyone but me.
Now wait!! Before you think that I am humble as can be,
I have to say that none of them are worthy enough to
slip into my skin or slip one foot into my shoe.
For all of us are unique in one particular way
and I have a feeling you know what I’m going to say.
Each of us is perfect—the best one on the shelf
at simply doing one thing—at being our best self!
If you’d like to read the rest of my poem, go here: https://judydykstrabrown.com/2015/01/12/envy/
My sisters Betty, Patti and me, back in my pre-crush years. I remember being very proud that my legs had finally grown long enough to cross! Not too successfully, by the look of me.
Crushed!
When I was very small, I was notorious for hating boys. My eleven-years-older sister once came into the living room and I was running around and around a big chair. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Chasing boys!” was my answer. My sister was at an age when “chasing boys” meant something else entirely, but she got my drift.
When I was six, a lovely southern lady moved to town who enlivened the entire town. She taught ballet and acrobatics to the girls and square dancing to everyone age 6 to 76. This only lasted for a year or two, but twice a month most of the town would gather in the fairgrounds meeting room to do-se-do and alamand left. I was usually paired with a little boy who was in my first grade class. One night, after an especially invigorating “trade your partner,” when I was once again hand-in-hand with him, he gave me a big kiss.
I can’t remember my reaction, but I certainly remember his mother’s. Abandoning her “trade your partner,” she came flying across the dance floor to shake her finger in his face. “Shame on you, Brian!” she said, “Shame on you!” (Not his real name.) She then grabbed him by the upper arm and jerked him off the dance floor to go sit in a chair by the wall. I was left without a partner and so had to dance with Will Prater, a grown man who was jerky and severe in his movements and who nearly dislocated my shoulder every time he swung me around.
Brian’s mother’s fervor in upbraiding him worked. He never dated a girl, let alone kissed one, for his entire grade school and high school life. He did ask me to the prom my sophomore year, but unfortunately I had accepted a date with another boy the night before. By then I had a pretty big crush on him, fueled by his third grade tauntings of ‘Mayor’s daughter, mayor’s daughter,” when my dad was, indeed, mayor of the town, as well as a lifetime of torments in study hall, where he would break my pencils or pass me notes upbraiding me for scoring higher than he did on chemistry tests . In my town, teasing was foreplay, but unfortunately in this case, the foreplay led to nothing, since he never repeated his offer of a date, in spite of his dad’s best efforts.
By my junior year, I was dating a boy from out of town. “What are you doing dating that White River boy?” chided Brian’s dad every time I ran into him on the street or in our little town’s one general store where I had gone to run an errand for my mom or to buy penny candy or a bag of Russian peanuts (our name for sunflower seeds.) “There are plenty of good boys right here in your own town!”
I knew he meant his own son, and had I not been in the throes of first lust with that “White River boy,” that would have been fine with me, as my longtime crush had continued. But, alas, Brian never heeded his dad’s hints, either, until my sophomore year in college when, both home for the summer from college in different states, he finally asked me out. There is no crush like the one where contact is long delayed. I remember one very hot and heavy kissing session before we both went back to our separate lives.
We both married older people with children. Both became swamped in our own lives. I see him now and then at school reunions and of course crushes rarely survive a combination of reality and the passage of years. But everyone needs a first crush, and perhaps he doesn’t remember that I might have been his, but he has the distinction of being mine. I wonder if he would be surprised.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “First Crush.” Who was your first childhood crush? What would you say to that person if you saw him/her again?<
What Should Be and Be and Be
I don’t really believe in fate because I don’t think life would make much sense if we were just following an unknown preordained script; but I do think some things are more likely to happen if we follow our intuition. If quantum physics is fact, I think our intuition is what guides us back to our other parts. This is why some people seem so familiar when we meet them and so right. And perhaps why others seem so wrong from the very beginning. How boring a game is life if we are fated. What an engaging game if life after life it is a game of go seek! It is not a case of what will be but rather a case of what “should be”
Prompt: Que Sera Sera--Do you believe in fate or do you believe you control your own destiny?
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Helpless.” Helplessness: that dull, sick feeling of not being the one at the reins. When did you last feel like that –- and what did you do about it? This is the conclusion to a true story that was begun yesterday. I don’t think you want to read the ending without reading the beginning first. To do so, go HERE.
“The One Who Got Away”
Devil #3, Part II
Perhaps if I acted normal, it all would go away–
this little game they’d started that I didn’t want to play.
I said, “Please let me out right here, a friend lives down the block!”
But silence met my pleas, as though they couldn’t hear me talk.
As the three of them kept talking about which way to turn,
the man I’d danced with quickly turned cold and taciturn.
He had said he was a stranger who came from the east coast,
yet he didn’t ask directions of the one who knew the most.
“Which way should we go, man?” He asked the one behind
as though there was a certain road he wanted to find.
Of me they took no notice–as though I wasn’t there.
The driver just looked straight ahead with a hardened stare.
My life’s worst fear had been to be in someone else’s power,
so the thought of what was happening made me want to cower
and beg and plead and scream and cry; but I did none of that,
though I felt like a bird first toyed with by a cruel cat.
My heartbeat raced but my thoughts raced ahead of them to find
escape from what must have been planned by his devious mind.
They took the road past houseless land—a golf course and a farm.
I knew the way led out of town—a cause of much alarm.
“Turn right here,” I said as we approached a lighted junction,
but as he turned left I knew that there would not be any unction.
I won’t go into all the times I pleaded with them to stop.
“My friend lives down this road,” I said, “Just leave me at the top!”
“Are we heading out for Casper?” said the stranger on my right.
I wondered what would happen if I chose this time to fight.
To slug him once and climb over to jump out of the car,
but with three of them I knew that I would not get far.
I also knew the stretch of lonely road from here to there.
The bodies found along that road—and knew how I would fare.
When I had left my house a party had been going strong.
I wondered who would still be there for I’d been gone so long.
Yet it was a plan and there were neighbors who might hear my screams,
so I gave them an alternative to their frightening schemes.
“It’s so far to Casper,” I said in a normal voice,
“Perhaps it would be better if you made another choice.
A good night’s sleep and food and drink is what might serve you best.
I live alone, my house is near. Why don’t you come and rest
and start out again tomorrow for wherever you are going?
If you are strangers here, then you could have no way of knowing
how far it is to Casper with no place to stop for gas.”
My suggestions fell on deaf ears. No one answered me, alas.
Once on the open road I would have no chance to escape,
What would happen next? Would it be Torture? Murder? Rape?
In less than a mile we would reach the Interstate–
the beginning of the ending of this ill-fated date.
I thought of all the stories where women were abducted.
It was a grim sorority into which I’d been inducted.
How would they tell my mother, my sister, my best friend?
Would I be another story for which no one knows an end?
I tried to think how I could end it, but could see no way.
No knife, no gun, no poison to aid me on this day.
I looked at the glove box. Was there a gun inside?
Was there at least one bullet in it? Enough for suicide?
Years ago when I first worried how I’d fare if I were one
of those unfortunate women snatched for a sadist’s fun,
I thought I’d get a capsule of cyanide that fit
on a chain around my neck in case I needed it.
But that seemed so excessive, so improbable and crazy.
Now I chided myself for being too damn lazy
to cover every angle to protect myself for what
I realized was happening –and this was the cruelest cut.
How did I feel? Not panicked, just the deepest sort of dread
of all that they could do to me before they left me dead.
Though I’m brave, I don’t do well with pain, so I have to say
I’ve always known if tortured, I’d give everything away.
There was no chance these men’s intentions were anything but grim,
so I kept my eyes upon the road and never looked at them.
Then I shifted to the dashboard. Was there any help for me
I was overlooking? And then I spied the key.
What if I grabbed the keys out and threw them in the air
into the grass beside the road. I wondered, did I dare?
Then I saw two headlights in the mirror, far back, but coming fast.
At nearly 4 a.m., I knew this chance would be my last.
As the truck got nearer, I reached out for the keys,
ripped them from the ignition, and then fast as you please,
hurled them from the car into the tall grass by the side.
The car came to a rolling stop as the engine died.
The man next to me grabbed out for the handle of the door,
but the driver screamed out to him with a mighty roar.
“Don’t leave the girl,” he said, and then he told the other guy
to hop out and find the keys—and then I knew that I would die
if I didn’t make a move and so I wedged my back and feet
and catapulted from the front right into the back seat.
I rolled over the car’s rear trunk and it was just my luck
that I landed in the road just as the headlights of the truck
came up behind and brakes went on and I went running back,
pursued by all three members of that frightening pack.
The driver of the truck was young—twenty-two or twenty-three
I beat upon his window, saying, “Help me! Please help me!
These men are trying to kidnap me! Please, let me in your truck!”
By then my former “savior” had arrived to try his luck.
“Don’t believe her, she’s a con artist. She’ll hit you in the head
and make away with all your money. Leave you in the ditch for dead!
She tried to do it to us, man. We were trying to find a cop
when she grabbed the keys out of the car and brought us to a stop!”
“My name is Judy Dykstra. I teach English at Central High.
Please don’t leave me with these men, for if you do, I’ll die!”
The driver then called out to him—angry to the core,
“You’re making a mistake, man,” as he opened up the door.
I ran around and climbed inside. The last things we could see
were three backsides in the grass, searching for a key.
We knew they couldn’t follow us, but still he floored the pedal
while I went on and on about how he deserved a medal.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I said three times or more.
Then, “Why did you believe me and open up the door?”
“Because two of those characters looked so low down and crass,
but mainly ‘cause my sister had you last year for a class!”
This story that I’ve told you could have had a different end,
But as it was I spent the night with a longtime friend
who persuaded me that I should never ever tell
what happened on this evening, for it had turned out well.
“Do you know their plate number? Can you describe their car?
Could you tell their face descriptions? Do you know where they are?
And even if they find them, what could you possibly say?
They’ll say that you were just a girl picked up along the way.
They met you in a crowded bar. You asked them for a ride.
They walked you to their car and you chose to get inside.
You asked them all to stay with you, but they all said no.
Then you suddenly got angry and said you had to go.
They didn’t want to let you out and leave you all alone.
They said that they would rather take you safely to your home.
But you were drunk and even though they all said, ‘Lady, please. . . ‘
You reached out and suddenly you grabbed for the keys.
You threw them in the tall grass and jumped out of the car
a totally different person than that lady in the bar!
You convinced some poor kid they were kidnapping you.
And there was nothing else that they could think of they could do!
They didn’t try to stop you or to argue if you please.
They simply went back looking to try to find their keys.
Can you imagine in a trial what they would make of this?
You know you are the sort of person that they love to diss.
A female teacher out at bars who had been heavily drinking,
closing down the barroom. What could you have been thinking?
Your friends all say that when they left, you just didn’t show.
So you left the bar at 3 A.M. with someone you don’t know.
You get into his car with two more men you’ve never seen
For a teacher you appear to be other than squeaky clean.
You could lose your job for this, and your reputation!”
She ended her soliloquy in a state of great frustration.
So tell me please what do you think, was I right or not
In not reporting these three men, so they were never caught?
All I can say is that I wonder to this very day
how many other women died because they got away.
Devil # 3
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Helpless.” Helplessness: that dull, sick feeling of not being the one at the reins. When did you last feel like that –- and what did you do about it?
Okay, I was going to give this prompt a “miss” and went to the new prompt generator I’ve been using for the past few days. I hit the button and was served up the two-word prompt: “Ill Devil”. At first I read this as #3 Devil, and I must admit, I got a chill, because what I immediately thought about when I read the prompt was the third time I was in a near-death situation where I felt totally helpless. What are the chances, I thought, that these two prompts would line up? This must be something I’m meant to write about. But then reason stepped in and I realized this prompt always gave an adjective and a noun. What they probably meant by the prompt was ill Devil. (Changing the capital to a small “i” clarified the prompt.) But then I realized that ill devil described the occurrence I am trying not to talk about as much as #3 devil did, so I guess, prodded on twice by fate or coincidence or synchronicity, I will try.
I have written to a similar prompt twice in 2015, so probably most of you who read my blog have chanced upon one of those posts, but when I wrote to a similar prompt in June of 2014, I wrote a different piece and since I had few of my present-day readers then, I’ll mention that THIS is what I wrote. It may not be obvious that the topic given in today’s prompt was what I was really talking about then, however, because it was a poem where I actually stood to one side of what I was really remembering and wrote about the subject as an onlooker rather than a participant. I only alluded to the real subject, which is what I’m going to attempt to write about today. That real subject is Ted Bundy and how otherwise respectable women sometimes fall prey to such predators. Okay, deep breath. I’m going to tell to the world something I have actually told to very few people. Yes, this is a true story.
Devil # 3
Nineteen seventy-something. In the bar with friends.
When you are in your twenties, the partying never ends.
It was rodeo season and the big one was in town.
As one by one they ordered drinks, I couldn’t turn them down.
We were a rather rowdy bunch of teachers in our prime
Devoted in the classroom, but wild on our own time.
The bar was crowded hip to hip, the music barely heard
over the loud cacophony of laugh and shouted word.
It was my turn to buy a round. I struggled towards the bar.
My polite “Excuse me’s!” really hadn’t gotten me too far
when a guy appeared in front of me and moved the crowd aside
as though he had appointed himself to be my guide.
As I returned with eight full drinks, again he stemmed the tide
by walking close in front of me and spreading elbows wide.
He smiled and then departed, back to the teeming mass.
Impressive that he had not even tried to make a pass!
My friends all wondered who he was. I said I had no clue.
Tall and dark and ivy-league, he vanished from our view.
This story happened long ago. Some details I’ve forgotten,
and any memories he retains, you’ll learn were ill-begotten.
I think we danced a dance or two. I know we talked awhile.
I liked his fine intelligence, his low-key polite style.
At three o’clock the barman’s bell commenced it’s clanging chime
and I made off to find my friends, for it was closing time.
Two lines of men had split the bar, lined up back to back.
Their hands locked and their arms spread wide–they moved into the pack.
One line moved east, the other west, forcing one and all
Either out the front door or towards the back door hall.
I was forced out the back way–out into the alley.
My friends and I had made no plans of where we were to rally
and so I walked around the block, sure that was where they waited,
but there was no one there at all–the crowd had soon abated.
I went back to the alleyway to see if they were there.
but all was dark and still, and soon I began to fear
that both carloads of friends had thought I was with the other.
I had no recourse but to walk, though I prayed for another.
I combed my mind to try to think of anyone at all
living in this part of town where I could go to call
a friend to come and get me and furnish me a ride
for 3 a.m. was not a time to be alone outside.
There were no outside phone booths and I lived so far away
I simply had to rouse someone, but what was I to say?
But since I had no other choice I thought I’d check once more
if any single soul was waiting at the bar’s front door.
And as I left the alley to be off to see,
I saw a new familiar face looking back at me.
It was my dancing partner, his face split in a grin.
It seems that he was going to save me once again.
He had asked me earlier if needed a ride,
but I had told him wisely that I had friends inside
and so I thought he’d left, but I could see he was still there.
Yet, ride home with a stranger? Did I really dare?
And yet I had no other choice, abandoned as I was.
And so I said I guess that yes, I would, simply because
I knew there was just one of him and I was young and strong.
And he seemed kind, polite and gentle. What could go so wrong?
His car was just a block away. Our walk was short and brief.
And when he pointed out his car, I felt a great relief.
For it was a convertible–and easy to escape
If I detected the first signs of robbery or rape!
He opened up the door for me. I got in the front seat.
But as he started up the car, my heart skipped a beat.
For from the bushes, two more men emerged and jumped inside–
one man in the backseat, the other at my side!
He pulled out into the street, though I protested so.
I didn’t really want a ride, so please, just let me go!
(And here I have to beg off and say I’ll finish this story tomorrow. Right now my heart is pumping and my head throbbing as though I’m re-enacting this whole tale physically as well as mentally. I’m totally exhausted. Why I decided to write this in rhyme I don’t know. Perhaps I thought it would be easier, or more fun or more lighthearted, but there is simply no way to write this from any other frame of mind but the terror I felt that night. So, sorry, but I will resume tomorrow. You all know that I’m here telling the story, so be assured that the worst didn’t happen…but the story is by no means over, so join me tomorrow for the rest. I, for one, could really use a drink, but it is only 1:40 in the afternoon so I’ll find some other means of escape.)
To see the conclusion of this poem, go HERE.
If you’d like to try out Jennifer’s new prompt generator, go HERE.
Fantastic Finish
My Art Studio, nee Novelty Owing Ongoing
Last night I wrote my first prompt making use of Jennifer Nichole Wells’ new Prompt Generator. What the site does is issue you a two-word phrase consisting of an adjective and a noun. This then becomes the subject of your post. (Mine for today was Fantastic Finish). If you don’t like the prompt, just hit the button again as many times as you wish before you come to one that jiggles your creative button.
She has launched her site at a good time—when those of us who are relatively longtime daily bloggers are being met with repeat after repeat on the WordPress prompt site. At first I just tried to alter the prompt a bit or to take a different slant. Then I started making a pingback to the earlier post or posts and choosing a completely different prompt, but the problem is that I’ve done most of their alternate prompts as well.
I’ve been told that WordPress establishes the prompts mainly for beginning bloggers as a way to motivate them, but this is a bit like turning your back on long-established and proven customers in hopes of winning the tourist trade. Good for a season perhaps, but how many go away is evidenced by the number of times I click on a site that is on the WordPress post page and find the blog has been closed or is nonexistent. Either the blogger is not clear about how to pingback or they have already closed down and fled!
Another thing I have noticed is a big increase in the number of people who just say they don’t want to answer the prompt, who spend their entire blog making excuses for not writing to the prompt or who merely publish one or two line pat answers. It is becoming hard to find a blog I really want to read except in my Readers section. This is a shame, because I am always on the lookout for new really excellent blogs to read that are within my realm of interest; and I miss not being able to cull them out of the WordPress site. Well, new thinking called for. I think my fresh modus operandi will be to investigate the blogs that people I am following are following.
As I hit Jennifer’s prompt button time after time—out of curiosity rather than dissatisfaction with the prompts, I was struck by the similarity of the word combinations to the new system based on words that has been proposed to replace the old numbers-based latitude and longitude. The system divides the surface of the planet into 57 trillion three-by-three meter squares and assigns a unique sequence of three random words to label that area. The purpose in changing the system, as stated by Smithsonian Magazine, is to “replace the impossible-to-remember strings of numbers that comprise our geographical coordinate system—“ with an easier-to-remember string of three words.
For the superstitious, it might be a matter of finding the exact correct nine square meters of their property or house that best describes them. My own art studio has been assigned the title “novelty owing ongoing.” Seems appropriate, somehow. My house, on the other hand, is “straddles blocking easel.” Is this a way of pointing out that all too often home repairs and maintenance gobble up precious time better spent on art? Sounds appropriate in Mexico!
For those of you talented in assigning names (I am not) I want to be clear that it is not a matter of naming your own little corner of the world. All of the word assignments have already been made. If you are curious about what three-word-labels have been assigned to your house and property, you can go HERE to find out. Choose your favorite group of three from the list (remember that since the labels are given for 9 square meter areas, that you will have more than one set for your house) and perhaps you’d like to post the three words you’ve chosen in the comments page on my blog along with a pingback to your post telling why those three words do or do not describe you. You might want to use a number of your assigned trios as prompts on different days! It would be fun.
To read more, go here: http://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/plan-replace-geographic-coordinates-earth-unique-strings-three-words-180949946/#eZWdfVSPWLqrE3df.99
And as for the title of my today’s blog, “Fantastic Finish?” As person after person says they are giving up the WordPress prompts, perhaps as you run over the finish line, you can consider it as the starting line for a new prompt system—either Jennifer’s new prompt generator or your own personal three-word-prompts as assigned by those who have labeled your world for you. Whatever you choose, I hope you’ll keep on blogging. We’ve become accustomed to your space!!!!
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/break-the-silence/
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 