In the Hollywood Blockbuster The Matrix, Neo finds out that his whole world was a lie. He had been asleep and machines had manipulated his reality. Nothing he experienced was real. Dreams are interesting because they can be so real, that when you wake, just for a moment reality and dream blend. Which is which? […]
Oh, the grand adventures of yardwork and home maintenance. I stopped by the Peregrine house this weekend to help with some chores. It’s what friends do, right? Well, as we say in theatre, my timing was all wrong.
This Mr. Reginald Swinebottom presents, and here are some more theatrics for you…
It’s been a busy week at the Peregrine Household and we’re here today to share a few brief moments into author life and humor. This is Mr. Reginald Swinebottom presents, and here are some theatrics for you…
There’s quite a few lines from the movie Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium that have stuck with me over the years. If you haven’t seen the film, I highly recommend it. The script doesn’t blanch at the realities of change and death. The characters frequently toss out clever lines and understand what it means to laugh and to struggle. It’s a simple plot, one that revolves around a magical toy store, but it’s powerful. I think I like the simple, magical stories the best.
One of the more poignant lines, one that is towards the end of the film, goes like this:
Molly: Are you dying?
Mr. Magorium: Light bulbs die, my sweet. I will depart.
My entry for KaylaAnAuthor’s Summer Poetry contest. Click here for details on how to join in and to check out the other entries.
Thanks for reading.
I’m working behind the scenes currently in securing an editor for my latest novel, M.B. She was recommended to me by an author in my area whom I’ve come to know in the past few months. On the outside I am the professional, helpful writer–listening and waiting patiently, hoping my novel portrays itself well. Inside I am a giddy seven year old, hyped up on cotton candy and screaming for more sugar, RIGHT NOW, MISTER!
I am calm. All is bright.
As I mature, a primary reason for my writing becomes clearer: I write for my sanity.
I hate baby showers. More specifically, I detest being around large groups of women. They smack their lips, gossip, compliment each other on their blouses, their charm bracelets and delicately ask about family affairs while devouring every dripping detail. Surgery stories are swapped, pill brands and doctor’s advice exchanged and everyone secretly ranks themselves against each other. The news gathered up is stored away in their overstuffed purses giving them neck aches and back problems, stalwart, steadfast symbols of their socioeconomic status and success. In the car, they ask their sisters and nieces what they thought of the awful food, the cute decorations and just what the hostess was thinking. I do not exaggerate. Women are subtly, and artfully, vicious. Cue harpies, banshees and the like.
Parties are grand acts and I am the jester, acting the innocent fool and observing it all quietly, hitting up the buffet line for thirds. No wonder Jesus made more wine at the wedding. Maybe it helped him get through it, too.
Did you like how I listed women first in the title? The order rank of the genders is apparent in our culture, day in, day out. It seems only when we’re trying to be polite (“Ladies and gentlemen…”) or heroic (“Women and children first!”) does the order get reversed. In medical school, I’ve heard the male body is studied first, female second. Why, I query? No response. Doesn’t one have the babies and the other not, I continue? I learned in college “his” represents both “his” and “her” in academic writing, no need to bother with “they” or “them”. So why not “her” represent “his” and “her”, then, if it’s all the same? No response.
I don’t believe the genders were made to contradict each other and compete for survival. I think the idea should be laughable. Being different is okay; it’s not an invitation for some twisted version of this week’s “Survival of the Fittest.” Don’t make me wear shoulder pads, be aggressive, or take only two weeks for maternity leave. I believe we were made to complement each other and work alongside one another, each of our work important no matter how it’s parceled out and done. I think this compassion and respect became lost eons ago. And here we are. Ending sentences with verbs.
I’ve never liked when I come across a person who is so adamantly sure that animals–particularly dogs–don’t go to heaven. I listen to their explanation, or rather give the appearance of it, because I’m usually required to be polite while enduring intolerable situations. I nod along to their premises (ones I disagree with) and take out an umbrella to shelter myself from their dripping grey attitude. Drip, drip, drip…the beating of the umbrella fabric gives me something to count. On some occasions, I watch the speaker’s temper flicker and flare, catching their pants on fire. I find a fire bucket and quickly douse them, becoming a hero two-fold. I smile coyly and say “There now, everything’s alright. You’re all wet after all!” Continue reading “All Dogs Go to Heaven”