What's on Your Writing Mind?
I’m very excited to announce that Morningside Drive will be available soon. When you subscribe to claudiajustsaying on WordPress you’ll learn the exact date. If you are comfortable please share this announcement with a family member or friend. Thank you, Claudia
Today I rolled the Metaphor Dice. The words; wonder, memory and unspoken spoke to me. If you would
like to use the words in a poem or short story in a post, please do. After you post, copy its link in my comment section to share your writing.
Unspoken
Memory is an unspoken wonder
Disappearing quickly over time
Delete the past to make space for the present . . . or vice verse.
We cling to the passage of time.
Fond memories become fonder, an unspoken wonder of days gone bye.
. . . Claudia Seriously Just Saying
I have trouble saying goodbye, not to people. . . I think I’m good at that. But to objects; like my orange library card with the metal stamp. Clothing, my black cocktail dress (it still fits), mush cards from my son, and Martha Stewart Magazines.
The above photo was snapped from a Halloween issue.
There was a time, when I traipsed through the woods to find and assembled something like that. Well, it never came close, but had a lot of dried stuff.
In Florida, that is not happening.
The alternative is to thumb through the magazine, and I do so, happily.
Autumn is short lived in Florida. There is no raking of leaves, then jumping into the piles.
I still hear the children laughing.
Remember. . .this was called fun.
The Christmas hurry up will begin Thanksgiving day, or November 23rd, and like it or not. . . my world will turn red, and green.
I’ll have to say goodbye to the golden colors of fall.
I’ll tuck Martha’s magazines away, take out the past Christmas issues, and go into the woods to cut our Christmas tree.
… Seriously just saying
You don’t need a WordPress account to comment. Write your comment in the box below or click on the caption icon to the right of the title above. Ignore requests for a name/ username and press post or save. Your comment will be posted anonymously. Please follow me to receive notification
Who knew this would be the new normal
Toes that no longer wiggle, giggle or dance, they sleep
Then suddenly cry, “Sudden leg syndrome is attacking my feet.”
Hands that can’t twist open a door
Or flip pages any more
Kitchen tops decorated with items I don’t want to forget
A part of my brain
Ridge in thought
Like stiff knees reluctant to bend
Grey cells will not receive or send
Exhausted and depleted
Comfort myself with food Mama cooked best
Meatloaf and mash-potatoes
Gives my cerebellum a rest
So, what if I forget to lock a door, a date, a score. . . and more
I’m old, invisible, and small
Don’t fret_____ explore!
Close your eyes, remember your youth and come with me
Imagine places we have never been before
. . . Seriously just saying
You don’t need a WordPress account to comment. Write your comment in the box below or click on the caption icon to the right of the title above. Ignore requests for a name/ username and press post or save. Your comment will be posted anonymously. Please follow me to receive notification
Marshall says, “Every Man Needs a Junk Drawer
My husband, of 52 years, walked into the kitchen and asked, “Have you seen my what-ch-ma- thing?”
I knew exactly what he is talking about because he had on glasses and was holding a plastic tube of wood glue.
“You wanted the who-GA-ma-call-it put back together, and I need it.” He stammered and shook his head; his eyes focused on a ceiling corner in an attempt to retrieve the information.
I relished his sputtering, because earlier in the day our discussion about his health ended with him yelling, “You’re right, you’re always right, but you can’t make me do it.” And me leaving the room to avoid a fist fight.
He followed me with comments about who was right versus wrong, and smashed his toes, which hung over the front of his slippers, into the floor molding; and consequently hipped hopped about, flamingo style, scrunching his face like a shriveled prune and swearing, . . . shit. . . shit. . . shit.
I gave him no sympathy.
After rubbing his toes, he blurted out the real issue, “Why can’t we have a junk drawer?”
Yes, you heard right, we do not have a junk drawer. I am philosophically opposed to the concept and wonder why people accumulate items, they do not want and have no need for; useless items, that fill a complete kitchen drawer.
“We have managed for fifty two years with out a kitchen drawer bursting with rubbish. Why would you want one now!” I yelled back.
“Marshal says every man needs a junk drawer, all the guys have one, I’m the only one who doesn’t.”
“Marshal says? Okay,. . . You want a junk drawer, for things you have no use for but, want to keep just in case. I get it, and what would you put in this drawer?” I asked.
“My who-Ga-ma-call-it, golf balls and golf tees, I don’t know, STUFF!” He answered.
“Don’t you keep golf balls and tees in your golf bag? And the what-ch-ma-thing is in your tool box.”
“You’re right, you’re right, I hate it when you’re right!”
. . . Seriously just saying
You don’t need a WordPress account to comment. Write your comment in the box below or click on the caption icon to the right of the title above. Ignore requests for a name/ username and press post or save. Your comment will be posted anonymously. Please follow me to receive notification.
Wikipedia definition, “A junk drawer or junk-drawer is a drawer used for storing small, miscellaneous, occasionally useful objects of little to no (or unclear) monetary value, and possibly significant sentimental value. Junk drawers are often located in residential kitchens, but they may exist anywhere with cabinetry or furniture used for storage, including home offices or workshops, and even commercial workplaces and businesses. The phrase “junk drawer” appears to be an Americanism dating to the early 1900s.”
I is for Impossible in the Alphabet Series. There are many fabulous words beginning with the letter I. Words like; impromptu, improvise, improbable, and imply to name a few and therefore it was difficult to choose.
Then I woke-up today and have a crazy habit of reminding myself of the date, day of the week, and how many days are left in the year. Well, there are only 113 days before we say goodbye to 2023, and hello to 2024. And that’s where impossible became first and foremost in my mind. Impossible, as in never or slim to none chance of happening.
Yet how did it happen! How could I possibly be seventy-five years old? It’s not my birthday, or even my birthday week. My birthday is in June. But every day since then I’ve lamented the impossibility of being this age. I could approach this impossibility with an attitude adjustment. Is the glass have full, and I’m lucky to be alive, or half empty, and holy crap; I’m done with the good years?
Since I work well towards a goal, I’ve decided to reach 80 (that’s only 5 years away), so let’s make it 90 which is fifteen years away and not be wearing diapers. It’s not impossible
. . . just saying
You don’t need a WordPress account to comment. Write your comment in the box below or click on the caption icon to the right of the title above. Ignore requests for a name/ username and press post or save. Your comment will be posted anonymously. Please follow me to receive notification of new posts.
D is For Disappear
D is for disappear as in the New York Times Best Seller novel, “Gone Girl” by Gillian Flynn.
Nick and Amy Dunne, two out of work New York City writers, move to Nick’s childhood home in North Carthage, Missouri when they learn Nick’s mother is fatally ill.
Nick is a journalist.
Amy writes surveys or opinion questionnaires, e.i., Which of the following will lead to personal happiness.
A. Caring more about others than yourself
B. Discovering a passion
C. Exercising and eating well daily
D. All of the above
Nick persuades Amy to invest the last of her Trust Fund in a business for him and his twin sister, Margo. They name the bar, “The Bar”.
Amy disappears on their wedding anniversary, and Nick becomes the prime suspect.
However she didn’t disappear, she’s hiding.
Gillian Flynn has written a plot driven novel that I read quickly and was reviewed favorably, but I could have put the book down easily. The twisted ending was a turn off for me. The movie also has the same distortion of love, or love gone crazy ending. I like happy endings.
“As The Washington Post proclaimed, her work ‘draws you in and keeps you reading with the force of a pure but nasty addiction.’ Gone Girl’s toxic mix of sharp-edged wit with deliciously chilling prose creates a nerve-fraying thriller that confounds you at every turn.”
Amy’s disappearance is not to vanish, perish or cease to exist. Her vanishing act is one of revenge and dysfunction, concocted when she discovers Nick’s infidelity. Victimized and bamboozled Amy plans to get even and does.
I can imagine the survey/questionnaire Gillian Flynn might ask readers to take about her character, Amy.
What makes this character happy?
A. If you can’t have the one you love make sure no one else can either.
B. Make everyone who hurts or disappoints you suffer for the rest of their lives.
C. Inflicting pain on others is key to personal happiness.
D. All of the above
The author, Gillian says “she was not a nice little girl,” and “Libraries are filled with stories on generations of brutal men, trapped in a cycle of aggression. I wanted to write about the violence of women”
“The point is, women have spent so many years girl-powering ourselves — to the point of almost parodic encouragement — we’ve left no room to acknowledge our dark side. Dark sides are important. They should be nurtured like nasty black orchids.”
Have you read the book or seen the movie?
. . . just saying
You don’t need a WordPress account to comment. Write your comment in the box below or click on the caption icon to the right of the title above. Ignore requests for a name/ username and press post or save. Your comment will be posted anonymously. Please follow me to receive notification of new posts.
Today is Sunday, but not any Sunday, it’s Mother’s Day, a day that brings joy to many, although maybe not.
My daughter has planned a special treat for me a picnic. I love a picnic but I’m not looking forward to the occasion. My son died four years ago and for some unknown reason this year is especially difficult.
Friends have frequently asked how do you survive the death of a child and I would quote Ted Kennedy and say, “We go on for the living.”
So I will put on a big smile and sing, On a picnic we will go for it’s summertime you know, and we love to spend out Sundays in the park. Did you bring the hot dogs, hot dogs, hot dogs? Did you bring, etc.
. . . Seriously Just Saying
You don’t need a WordPress account to comment. Write your comment in the box below or click on the caption icon to the right of the title above. Ignore requests for a name/ username and press post or save. Your comment will be posted anonymously. Please follow me to receive notification of new posts. Thank you.
He wore a scowl. A permanent look of discontent. He glared at no one particular, and rarely smiled, but if he did, the smile never reached his eyes, like a basset hound whose jowls scrapped the floor, there was no emotion.
We met years ago, although never introduced. In retrospect, the event might have been better labeled a stare down. It was a bitter and windy day. I had ducked inside a city coffee shop to escape the pelting rain and found myself sitting next to him.
“Yikes! It’s wet outside.” I said sitting and shaking my umbrella free of rain.
The stools were the old fashion metal type with no backs that were low to the ground. My wet coat added to the squeaking noises produced by my twirling in place and attempting to prevent more damage. The man looked down, studied the drips puddling on the floor then locked eyes with me.
“Sorry,” I said feeling helpless. I smiled and ordered coffee and a bagel. He said nothing.
“It’s good to get out of the rain.” I mumbled.
His forearms rested on the counter and he stared straight ahead ignoring me, although our faces were visible in the mirror adorning the back wall. After draining his coffee cup, he signaled for a refill and frowned when the hot java tip toed near the top. He was handsome.
“I’d ask you out if you weren’t such a jerk.” I said.
“I dare you.” He responded scowling.
Seriously Just Saying
You don’t need a WordPress account to comment. Write your comment in the box below or click on the caption icon to the right of the title above. Ignore requests for a name/ username and press post or save. Your comment will be posted anonymously. Please follow me to receive notification of new posts. Thank you, Claudia
“Doris,” he said taking off his hat.
“Jim?”
We had arranged to meet at a local restaurant after chatting on a social media site.
He resembled a potato, and an image of an Idaho spud flashed through my mind as he sat. Worn pointed cowboy boots prevented his knees from sliding under the table. He angled the chair sideways. Its wooden legs scraped along the floor as he said, “Nice to meet you.”
(It took me about forty minutes to write, and edit the above paragraph, my attempt to write everyday, and for now is all I’ve got.)
. . . Seriously just saying
You don’t need a WordPress account or be a follower to comment. However, followers receive an email notification of new posts and reflect my popularity.
Write your comment in the box below or click on the caption icon to the right of the title above. Ignore requests for a name or username and press post or save. Your comment will be posted anonymously.
Seriously Just Saying 
Recent Comments