Category Archives: paranormal

Mood

The connection for the lights must be reconnected each time. Usually about dusk, which is slightly later each evening I go from the living room to the small den and connect the lights so that any passerby in my neighbourhood can see the fairy lights festooning two large artificial, salvaged wedding trees  The choice of lights vary from ordinary illumination to varying speeds of twinkle. Sometimes I’m in the mood for a pleasant speed of twinkle but often I am not. Tonight only one set of lights is on in the living room and it is so late now that my usual friendly neighbours are home with doors locked.  The curtain is pulled to show the fairy light though, just in case there is a random person walking by with their dog or perhaps  a soul or two might be out watching the changes in the moonlight sky. When the deer go through the yard at night maybe they look at my lights in the window and wonder how the stars got inside the house. My elderly cat likes the tiny lights on in the living room. She perches close by on the back of the couch and looks directly into the lights as they shine through the darkness and reflect against the window. She watches the deer go by and any other night creature that likes to venture around the village. It has finally rained enough to cool down the steam of the summer heat but there is a heavy warmth lingering in the night air. Many garden plants have scorched leaves and some have collapsed. Some plants have survived and carry on . At this point I am sad to see the end of the garden but indifferent almost to the fate. We tried our best both plants and I but there comes a time to be overwhelmed and give in. It has been a hot couple of months with the fans on full time in the house. The small air conditioner has made it’s noise so deafening that it has altered my routine. I avoid going into the den to read or watch television as the roar of the air conditioner , necessary to the comfort of my home is just too much for my sensitive nature to tolerate. Tonight it is turned off, the house is quiet except for the low sped hum of the fan directed at me in the darkened living room. It is too dark to read  a book or write any letters that I still send off once a month. Those letters are another story. Tonight the fairy lights are on, the house lamps are off, not flickering, the curtain is open just enough to share the steady small stars   and let them bounce back off the glass and no one knows if the deer is watching the elderly cat glaring back at him.

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In the Night

It is well into the deepest shadows of the evening and the Midnight Pen (inside joke) writes again.

When all is dark and it is best to be at home wrapped in a quilt by the fireplace, books and teapot by my side, the old cat nestled into the other comfortable chair in my woollen shawl, there is no sound from outside as the night is quiet and sleeping. Rain or sleet  and maybe a forlorn twig tapping against the window pane would be preferable but one can’t have everything.

More than likely the members of a writers group I recently visited are all sound asleep.

From the discussion about personal writing habits and routines I seem to be the only one attending that night  dependent on the night for the comfort to write.

Dynamics of the gathering convinced me that it is a wonderfully unique experience to walk into a meeting of assembled strangers and bravely say a quick hello before sharing your work in a round robin of readings. Once this was done and supportive nods and comments ensued, the task of writing on demand was a slight jolt to the system and yet accomplished. We  wrote together, in our own worlds on our own notepads.

The few minutes left over were even convenient  for my own jot notes of the experience as a whole in my designated Celtic design inspired  journal ( a gift form my niece) for book talks and writers events. Personal characteristics, body language, off hand comments of the other attendees impressed me.  No doubt I also gave off a variety of vibes in the other directions. At times I found myself to be too talkative, too much an attention seeker and too nerdy in my references to plays and theatre and books and travel.

In the course of two hours stories and poems about a wide range of experiences tumbled out in little heaps around the tables originally set up as a quilting room. There was laughter and there was quiet listening, head nodding and maybe a cringe or two. I myself cringed at least once.

The markings from measuring and cutting fabric on the tabletops distracted me a bit during the meeting. Was there some kind of message or connection between the slicing and cutting marks on the surface and the patches of stories and poems available that night? Was there a thread of connectivity between us to make something more out of the experience or was it to best left as pieces and frayed parts of something private and personal to be gathered up again and stored away.

I left the writers group that night feeling that the work of the contributors made me think of long forgotten things and that was the kind of creative relief I desperately needed. I remembered my own stories of books, theatre, travel and other nerdy things  because the writing of others had inspired me, I was using my notebook, new fluid black pens, my special Celtic design journal and even had my note pad ready for jot note action. Simply writing, awkwardly sharing at times with strangers at a quilting table in a rural arts centre and finding pieces of myself again. It was all good.

The daylight hours today were spent in  reading, cooking, housework, watching news programs and late night comedy shows. The really late hours of now, in the dark and in the night I wrote this blog.  Wrapped in the quilt, beside the fireplace, the cat making little sleep noises in my woolen shawl on the other comfortable chair, the night completely quiet outside, I write, In the dark. In the night. (Thank you S.J.)

 

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The Barracuda Grill, Lucan, Ontario, Canada.

An hour to wait until the Lucan Library opened and I had several options. I could wait in the parking lot, browse the village or go for lunch. As usual, lunch won.

Instead of the drive thru place which is my usual routine in this village, not all that far from London Ontario I found myself having Today’s Special at The Barracuda Grill.

Land locked Lucan is far from Margaritaville but the decor suggested that theme possibility. As it was close to the 2pm lunch closing time for today I decided to have something quick and be on my way.

Another customer, a nattily dressed older gentleman quietly enjoyed his soup and sandwich while following the news on the wall mounted screen.

Over my shoulder was another television screen and also the framed portraits of a couple of The Donnelly folks.  I took this to be a good sign of local approval and continued with my meal with them kindly looking over my shoulder.

My special was well presented, hot and tasty. The service was ideal and welcoming even though I had walked in rather late for lunch. The grill is one of those small rural village places but prepared to service at least ten tables of four. The pleasant server told me the tables are often pulled together for full breakfast action on Saturday. I’m forgetful so I can’t remember what the hours are so you should check them out before going.

It is a breakfast and lunch style place and today, a Tuesday, it closed at 2pm.  I imagine it really would appeal to the locals year round and be a comforting stop for the fun events that go on, Lucan style at the arena, Baconfest and such. Today, at the late lunch period it was perfect for a pleasant and quiet meal before my literary visit to the local library.

I enjoyed reading my writing magazine , had some time to jot down a few sentences in my journal, person watched this older dignified fellow peacefully enjoy his good lunch and then have a tiny cat nap when the newscast didn’t fully hold his interest.

After my second cup of coffee and getting ready to pay my bill another customer arrived for her takeout order and with this active turn of events my fellow grill patron woke from his little nap and we all went on our way.

However, I keep checking over my shoulder , just in case . It feels like a strange energy followed me home but most likely it is all in my imagination.

 

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Compulsion

Not the way to go home but in the immediate vicinity

sometimes

a  dark moody time

sometimes a brighter sunshine filled afternoon

finding

myself

travailing

the lane to take in

the feeling

being at home again

among the ancient

trees and tangles of undergrowth and weedy growth

just to feel the air

and hear it

go

through my mind and soul

to the very quick finish of the lane

finding myself

turning back

along the hardened surface that takes me suddenly back to even a safer spot

sometimes I just need

to be

away

before returning

as the dusk gathers

once more around

the older part of the world

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The Will Must be Stronger

Such along time has passed since my last post. Why has the title appeared so bold faced when typed? I no longer know the features on this blog site so everything is new again.

Hot chocolate, made from a dark chocolate bar and hot milk( don’t try it) at hand and very late at night I settle into the chair ,  aching from an old church parking lot injury ( (don’t ask) and therefore suffering a bit for my art I decide it is now or never. I must write. Fighting off the cat from the laptop and from sticking her nose into the hot chocolate ( I’ll use milk chocolate next time) I make this feeble effort to at least open up the writing part of my quiet existence once more. I know I can do this.

It is the will that has somewhat atrophied almost to the point of disuse.

Folks in general have noticed my absence from writing. Comments, blunt and discreet are often made. The greeter at church one day mentioned it to a visiting minister. The coffeeshop staff have cleared a spot for me and reminded me of their hours of business, gently suggesting I should return to my table of soup, sandwich coffee and journal writing, people watching and listening in on conversations. Family send updates to writing events. Hints drop, suggestions are made, jabs here and there.

 

Even the winter creature that lives somewhere along the exterior wall under the radiator behind my desk has rattled on a bit with encouragement for me to return to my swivel chair, laptop and late hours. Mr. Mole or Miss Mouse or possibly worse nibbles and scratches a bit as I type keeping me alert. Nothing more arouses the will to write than the prospect of having this wee soft creature zip across my foot. It is like having a snake loose in a dark bedroom and being too petrified to confront it so the imagination must cope.

Topics to write about are overwhelming and yet some appeal to me. Reading, writing, poetry, music, theatre, family, cooking, gardening, teaching, pets are my comforting favourites. My own stories are on the surface, bubbling, waiting to be stirred. World issues, problems and general chaos are too much for me, yet provoke thoughts and  disturbing dreams. Am I reluctant to write of these things because of what they are or am I afraid that I will write?

Cat has jumped over the screen once more, the mug of wretched chocolate has been drained, the small creature behind the wall is quiet once more. The will to write has stretched a little ignoring the ache.

 

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Creative Recovery

Sleeping arrangements are fluid and depends on who gets the bed or basket or recliner

there will be

no television

when there isn’t enough

room

for both on the recliner so

pretending

to work at the computer is so boring and yet

comforting

it fakes

enough

that sleeping resumes and then television and a cup of tea is manageable

a constant supply of cheap food with pull

back lids set upon

a tea

towel on

a high level is tolerable

as loads

of laundry wind down to floor

mats and duvets and random

socks

yet still there are bins and baskets and bags and general loose ends that are set aside while swollen ankles ache and frozen shoulder seizes

dishes are reasonably clean and dirty

in a cycle of day to day existence in the middle of this shift in family, possessions, luggage, pets and dreams

while here

at the centre is a maternal management

worse for wear and exhausted by worry yet hopeful and proud

ignoring winter salt stains on the boots and the grit by the door for a little while longer until the sun warms and melts and the green shows through

perhaps revealing some

solutions

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Happy Valentine’s Day Bat Boy !

A little bit of a chorus line, mixed with a gospel revival and a tad of mid summer night’s dream..oh and some my fair lady with a dash of Saturday night live …and that’s how my valentine’s celebration at the theatre tonight turned out.  The production of Bat Boy at the Mc Manus Theatre, (Grand Theatre) London, Ont., Canada runs until February 23. Tonight was opening night and I plan to go again several times. To say it is an unusual story is an understatement. What I experienced was an intriguing night of entertainment and I took away the message that the ones we shouldcomfort, love and protect are vulnerable to danger, mistrust and ignorance and we are often too damaged ourselves to really sort these problems out. Pretty much, that’s the lesson in a nutshell. Oh yeah, did I mention that my wonderful son, who never thinks just inside the box, is the director…?.(and set designer…and other stuff.) Quite the musical !

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Eclectic, Random and Impressive

When I went on the prowl I didn’t really know what I was looking for but I wanted something good. As soon as I went through the door, there he was, on display. I bought the entire display of eighteen used books by the same authour, Kurt Vonnegut. I also bought some other used books by five authors I had been looking for and keep their names handy on my wish list. The wonderful, young artsy used bookstore clerks gave me a great deal and I made off with my bulging shopping bag like a bandit.

Vonnegut is my son’s favourite writer and I made the purchase with him in mind. Thinking he would enjoy this wonderful assortment for a gift I started in on the other books chosen for myself but within a very short time I pulled out the eighteen books and started browsing through them. I’ve put the other books I picked out for myself aside, for now.

The Vonnegut writing is so very good, sometimes challenging to follow and I have to reread a few sentences here and there but I feel like I’m spending time with someone quite cool, intelligent, humane and with an amazing sense of humour. I’ve only read about a hundred pages of the one book so far and I may change my mind once the novelty of my big find wears off but Mervyn Peake and the others will have to wait for the time being. Now, Mervyn Peake’s Gormenghast…..that’s quite a read on a dark and stormy night isn’t it?

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My Hungry Games

Some nights the internet server doesn’t cooperate with my writing blog habits and flickers into a blank screen. Often, my high strung senior cat drapes herself over the keyboard or lurks behind the laptop lid watching me type and considers her chances to bite down on my fingers as I try to type. Consistently, I sit for awhile considering what to write about and usually snap it all off and try again later when something interesting pops into mind. Tonight, the deterrent to my writing is that I’m thinking about food. I ate my breakfast about noon and my lunch about seven p.m. so my supper hour is just kicking in apparently.
I am perfectly capable of making something interesting for myself and most likely I will. It is just very inconvenient to mess up the kitchen . It would be quite silly for a mature woman my age to jump in the car and drive all the way into town to get something as all the restaurants are closed except for the fast food places. My desire at the moment ( 12:03 a.m.) is for fluffy, hot, buttery mashed potatoes, creamy coleslaw, tangy meatloaf with chili sauce and chocolate pie with just a little whipped cream. There is a big possibility I will make this for dinner tomorrow and ensure that there will be leftovers for late night weekend munchies.
This leaves me with my go to late,late night meal with the ingredients at hand. Toasted bacon, cheese and tomato sandwich, with mustard and ketchup on the side, a dill pickle or two and some chocolate cookies I have stashed in the pantry for emergencies like this one and a big pot of tea. The dear cat, endearingly curled up asleep now beside my computer screen having given up on immediate attention and settling instead for mere proximity to my tapping fingers, is welcome to share a wee bit of my toast. Afterall, that’s what friends do.

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Writing Diary #3

Things are not looking good image wise for my character in my second story. He started out just plain mean and now after my writing session tonight he is a monster made of ice and stone that stands under a child’s window trying to get attention. Creepy stuff, let me tell you and I’m not finished with the poor old guy yet. A further yarn I have to spin about him may change the whole direction I’ve taken in the piece but hopefully he will not haunt my dreams tonight or be at my window…. again. Now I know why writers often drink to excess. I’ll settle my jangled nerves instead with good old hot tea and lock all the windows and doors just to make darn sure.

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