Afternoon Musings and Tea 1 July, 2010: Whither Wordzoo and Happy Flower?

Life Is Just a Bowl of Jelly Beans or Fried Scampi or Even Possibly a Selection of Petite Fours or Maybe a Loaded Pizza With Everything, Including Broccoli Florets and Extra Calcium

For now it is Windows Live Spaces for loyalty is one of my most stubborn character traits. I seek Erehwon, wearing une cloche with veil, patterned with html code.

I miss blogging and leaping off to cyberstroll from wordzoo. Wordzoo was my all-in-one-service, which commenced, with great trepidation at October of 2008 at Windows Live Spaces. There was a diversity of visitors enabling my arthritic body globe trot from Beijing to Margate, from Rio to Chicago, from Saskatoon to Galveston, from Vienna to somewhere in Canada’s Arctic (Hi Arctic Fox). However, changes to Windows Live Spaces provoked induced hyperstimulated produced a scattering of guests. Individuals relocated everywhere and, as some have commented (via email, comment box), the cybermigrations make it difficult to track and follow persons.

Perhaps, I might follow via RSS feeds at Google Reader? Perhaps, I might learn how to use RSS feeds? However, I avoid to avoid info overload. I know myself too well. Soon I would be buried in ever-expanding breasts of abundant information. True. I could keep abreast of activity reading at a single page of my design. Efficient? Yes. But the fun, for me, is the random roaming through cyberspace by leaping from a commenter and then onto his/her blog. I had developed a trust factor with online network at Windows Live Spaces that extended networks were safe playgrounds.

A few WLS-pacers (via email or comments) speculated if we might stay until ‘we’ could work it all out/through/whatever. It is doubtful, for me, that ‘we’ could work it out together. I am not a shareholder in Microsoft and, as yet, no one has hotmailed me to assist with refurbishment, restoration, dismantlement, refinement of Windows Live Spaces. Doubtful Spaces as a blogging ‘service’ is on anyone’s radar, especially as Statistics, Guestbook and report of slow, slower, slowest Spaces services reported. There are other glitches. Today my profile read in Spanish? Or, perhaps, Portugese? Oh those witty scallywag programmers.

I speculate a majority of ‘we’ got fed up, saw the writing on the cyberwall or determined to utilize services elsewhere for whatever reasons.

It’s difficult for me to make a choice of relocation. I have not yet located a similar community and combo which enables graphic trading and a multicultural feel. Somehow Happy Flower found a similarly quirky yet serious community.

Windows Live Spaces had a truly unique product but, as I stated elsewhere, it must not have been a money-raker maker. Yet, I wonder this rainy afternoon as I busy myself with overdue housework, with the volume of move I have witnessed how are advertisers dooling over revenue? And how many can read my Spanish (er, Guyanese?) profile?

The difficulty is also one of selection in that about one-half equally went to Blooger or Minespace. Set up two blogs? Time and health constraints make maintenance of a space a labour, albeit enjoyable but still physically challenging. It becomes a question of which neighbourhood or just making the leap and zooming right into this century and going Facebook?

These are all rhetorical questions buzzing my cranium as I clean house before 1 July celebrations. I regret the loss of all-in-one-access and demise of WLS. [1] It was a superb service for family-style blogging.

Will wordzoo be moving soon? Soonish? Yes. In due time but I must honour first commitment. I am always grateful to Mr. J. Bord who once left comment re. the writing of my novel, ‘How much time are you spending blogging?’ This was a wake-up call to, occasionally, eschew short-term fun and remember long(er) term goals. For now, I must complete final draft of Susannah: The Novel, gently caretaking fingers/wrists and quantity of keyboarding. The priority is not to forget my writerly intentions..

However even writers have to vacuum, scrub floors and, ggrrhh remove the grawt from bathroom tiles. ‘scusa, just going to practice some folding with a floor rag. [2]

© Sharilyn Calliou. 1 July, 2010. All Rights Reserved. Revised 1 August, 2010.

From Blue Dog Studio

Graphic From Microsoft Office Clipart/Images Downloads

ENDNOTES

1. Housework becomes much more thrilling with Canada Day musical backdrop at CBC Radio 2, playing a 24-hour Canadian Music Shakedown: a day of 100% Canadian content, including French and classical music composers, voices and bands not too often heard mainstream.

2. I can hardly refold a napkin after a state backyard inner. For hyperOrgami enthusiasm, please click foldmegently.

NYAL

Technorati Tags: Windows Live Spaces,blogging,blog,wannabe blogger,cybermigration,cyberstrolling,CBC Radio 2 Shakedown,blog*spot,blogger,new home

Microfiction: Murderous Shorts. Saturday Nite Special: Short, Short Fiction

This Week: Member of the House

‘Pour quonk?’

‘O Lindsay, please speak English. We live just a mile from Hampton Court.’

‘Ma life est finis?’ a wail provoked another bout of spanking new tears.

‘He is a man.’ I reach and push face forwards a recent photograph of my son at a yachting race.

‘You,’ burbles disrupt a smoother delivery, ’He. Is your son?’ The sound of tissues wrenched from an already mangled box interrupts speech, ‘You approve?’

‘No. I do not approve.’

‘This is our fourteenth anniversary.’

‘Yes,’ I soothe, seeking distraction from the mess of make-up and twists of tissues littering the hand-woven Turkish carpet, ‘Perhaps, you married too young?’

Another howl of despair detours any possibility of sensible dialogue.

‘You were seventeen?’

‘We were married on my eighteenth birthday.’

A change in the lighting of the room catches my attention, a shadow enters the library before appearance of Fritz Michael Hastings. His pewter grey eyes assess the unpretty scene. The clench of his jaw, which hides his upper lip, indicates a desire to be anywhere but with a weeping woman.

‘She has found out about the affair,’ I offer as tidbit of exposure of this scene now centuries old.

‘Which?’

A shriek erupts from between the pouted lips of Lindsay Diane Sawyer McElwane-Hastings, my daughter-in-law of fourteen years. I feel all charitable obligations of society fulfilled with efforts made to assist this female who married ‘up’ and seemed to have a fear of heights.

‘All of them,’ I supply as simplest answer whilst fishing in amongst the dish of liquorice all sorts, my fingers seeking one pebbled with blue sugar granules.

‘What’s to be done?’

I point my chin towards the patio where Chef Adelaide has laid out a luncheon’ the salmon croquettes, chitterlings, hog maws, cod cheeks, ham hocks, shrimp scampi, salad Nicoise and French fries no doubt chilled and less flavourful. I toss Lindsay a glance of supreme annoyance at wrecking a summery meal.

‘How could she not know?’ Fritz questions.

Lindsay’s face is a study of upset, her lungs inhale quickly before recommence of lament. I try to soothe, ‘It is not as if Stephen is dead.’ At this statement, she hurls a rather antique lute against the fireplace.

I jot a hasty post-it that Stephen reimburse for the lute, rumoured to be the one posed for the painting The Prodigal Son, either painted by J. Cornelius or someone very much a good mimic ‘in the style’ of Mr. Cornelius.

Fritz assists as I stand and we step onto the freshly scrubbed stone terrace.

We sit and enjoy the bubbly taste of a white wine, the grapes grown on one or another of our tax-sheltered estates in France.

‘How?’

‘This.’ I push a bright yellow envelope towards Fritz. He extracts the contents and takes, for my taste, rather too long to examine each photograph of my son in various poses of sexual escapade. It appears Stephen does not have a type.

‘How much will this problem cost?’ Fritz reaches into the interior of his charcoal grey, pin-striped suit and withdraws cheque book, Mecalculator, Mephone, Mepen and Mepad. ‘Is this Lindsay’s difficulty? Inadequate funds.’

‘No,’ I nearly blush, ‘We are financially secure despite the small oil loss.’ Chef places a pansy salad afore us. ‘No, she is the young wife who discovers the unfaithful husband.’

I sip at my wine.

‘A classic script,’ Fritz chews patiently at a forkful of purple and white cultivars. ‘A fable you understand.’

‘You helped me understand dear husband.’

Fritz pours us each another glass of wine and begins to paw through the photographs again.

I watch, torn between resentment, agony, anguish, neutrality, rage, sorrow, shame and absurdity. Yes, how my husband had taught me the correctness of the Hastings family in public and the Hastings family in private. I hold a hand to my throat and finger the delicate strand of pearls, first gift of begging forgiveness.

‘O,’ Fritz places his glass gently on the table, ‘This could be problematic.’ He holds up a picture for full view.

I look away from the tangle of sheets and limbs in full-frontal moonlight.

‘No. Look. It is Monique,’ Fritz holds the picture for closer study, ‘Yes. Monique. I cannot recall her surname. She’s a bit of a chatterbox. Not much gets by her. She plays the innocent but many a parliamentary career hangs in the balance of those hips.’

‘Do not be crude.’

‘Yes. My love.’

‘What do you recommend?’

Fritz stands, kisses my wrist, winks and begs he ‘has an appointment,’ leaving me to perform suicide watch with the daughter-in-law. How could she not know? I study my fecund daughter-in-law, whose primary occupation has been birthing, readying herself for a birthing, concluding a birthing, shopping for layettes, booties, teething rings, nursing bras, schools, pre-schools, strollers and whatnots, which always involve the remodel and renovation of the ten-bedroom chalet built by the lake. I speak to myself as her wailing would drown even the trumpeting of elephants. ‘How could she know? Her life is consumed with motherhood.’

My daughter-in-law has made me a grandmother six times. I hear her inhale deeply and use the opportunity to instruct, ‘Men are men,’ I open, ‘There are certain concessions to be made. The photographs were sent to obviously upset. There was no blackmail or request for money.’

My words cause another burblement of weeping before she manages to restate, ‘It is our anniversary. The children, Stephen and I were to attend Le Cirque du Soleil. Together. As a family. Tonight.’

The anniversary, of course, does not involve view of clowns and acrobats but more a circus of media for somehow my son manages to become headlines as apparent victim of a murder-suicide in some rather bizarre exploration of - well, items related to sex. I lose a child; she a husband. I am unable to calculate Fritz’s losses as he proposes an outlandish replacement candidate for Stephen’s MP-ship for the riding of Elk Hoofs, Manikatchewan.

However, tonight, as the spotlight shines upon the stage, I understand. Fritz squeezes my hand as Lindsay beams at the crowd.

I wince at the tininess of her breathy, ‘Thank-you.’ I raise eyebrows at Fritz.

‘Do not worry, my pet. Nerves. We rehearsed her for this.’

I watch but cannot hear Lindsay’s laugh buried in the cheer of the crowd. At this she raises her arms, waving vigorously, and begins to twirl. It would seem mourning is concluded.

‘How much?’ I query Fritz.

‘A bit more than expected but given the circumstances, an investment that will pay for a Hastings will sit in-house again.’

I lean forwards to watch the tableau as Lindsay motions and her six children – my grandchildren, our grandchildren – join their mother on stage. She hugs each one with delight, turns to the microphone and I hear in her voice a richness of soprano, a deepened timber from deep within a woman who has moved beyond the joys of mommyhood into the territory of the joy of power.

She flashes me a smile.

I nod and return with a tilt upwards of my chin to acknowledge and affirm.

© Sharilyn Calliou. 26 June, 2010. All Rights Reserved.

From Blue Dog Studio

Graphic From Spice Comments

TTFN

Technorati Tags: career advancement,short short fiction,microfiction,short story,creative writing,marrying up,womens’ studies,eclecticism,adultery

A Savings of One Percent. Earth Hour In YVR, Home of the Green Olympics

To 'Conserve' There are no graphics with today's post.

Whom Is Kidding Whom About Whose Energy Awareness?

I regret I shall be deceased and/or in cryogenic suspension when cultural anthropologists locate the ‘buzz’ about the initiative known as Earth Hour. [1] [2] Multiple commentaries will, without doubt, be written with blueberry juice ink upon hunks of salvaged drywall in attempt to describe early activity of the 2100s to pay homage to energy conservation.

Yesterday YVR is reported to have reduced energy consumping by one percent. One percent of what has not been e-numeral-ated for us couch potatoe pies. One percent for one hour is like so lame a three-legged camel could run faster through the labyrinth at Hampton Court. [3]

http://www.hrp.org.uk/HamptonCourtPalace/WhatsOn/maze.aspx

I do not wish to demean global do-goodness but this annual fromage-du-energy-reduction is starting to smell, er, like something that is not too good and, well, smellyish. Why not get brave and go Earth 2.07 hours?

I realize I was born so last century in pre-Avatar times. However, even when I was growing up parents coached on the wastefulness of lights left blazing like the deepest reaches of Hell. My parents could be quite descriptive. Thermostats were turned down so low at night (once we got one) that it was warmer to sleep outside in snow banks.

Now it is the next century the rantation of energy conservation approachette a zone beyond absurdity. The gentle tones of energy conservation battle with the blare to promote the newest gimmicks (wireless or not) to use greater amounts of energy. Front-and-center the hoo-hah-hah for 3-D televisions at-home with $200.00 to $400.00 (Canadian dollars) for specialty eyewear or the newest iPad or the whatever.

It is not enuff to have one television or computer in a home but necessary to individualize ownership. How can anyone simultaneously maintain consumerismo and reduce energy consumption? This type of irrationality makes me want to turn on all appliances and bake for 24 hours. ‘scusa…just have to find the remote for the bread maker.

No that’s the one for the pencil sharpener.

Oh, here’s the one for the pre-cable television.

Well, gee, ‘how ‘bout that . . . the hair blower thingey has it’s own remote.

Wow! Who knew the radio/CD combo mini-stereo even had a remote. Well, gee, I dunno.

‘scusa must run to Wally Mart for a truckload of batteries. Batteries are good because you do not have to plug them into a wall socket and consumer electricity. When done with batteries, just toss into Mother Earth Salad for future anthropological excavations.

© Sharilyn Calliou 29 March 2010 All Rights Reserved Perpetually

From Blue Dog Studio

Graphic From Microsoft Clipart Downloads

ENDNOTES

[1] Earth Hour is a sixty minute fest of globally connected consciousness when persons and even corporations turn off lights and such to save gigjoules. After the hour, every thing goes back to normal levels of abnormal consumption. Info? Please click, 60Minutes.

http://www.earthhour.org/

[2] For cryogenic suspensation I am requesting to be laid out like Ophelia amidst a stream of running blueberry coloured H2O. I haven’t quite selected the hat but it will have a veil – probably with a pattern of chemical formulae for cryogenic type substances thingeys. I want to be wearing red heels and stockings with the line up the back. I got near-to-giddy today as I sketched ideas for my cryo-wardrobe. Not sure about gloves as am leaning towards must-have consumer purchase of 2010 Olympic Red Mittens for Special Collections. This is a case where I must toss anti-materialism aside and buy.

[3] There are 8760 hours in a year so one hour is like .01141552511415525 of human consciousness in a year. It is a global activity that probably consumes more hours and gigglewatts of energy to promote and to stage than to just leave it alone. I do not wish to sound sullen or peevish but confess to chuckling bemusement.

TTFN

Technorati Tags: tinged with irony,Earth Hour 2010,Earth Hour 2009,environmental awareness,environmentalism,resource conservation,conservationism,humor,humour,humourous,funny maybe

Loneliness Meditation for Tuesday 27 January 2009-01-27

Things I Am Glad Old People Told Me

Loneliness Meditation for Tuesday 27 January 2009

Sometimes people go missing from our lives. Many reasons. There is gap, absence, hole. Breath is automatic yet what is breathed? There is loneliness. Once I had a case of the ‘Big Lonely’. I was fortunate an older person listened to me. Then I was asked to stop, look and name everything around me. I am, sometimes, dense but I trusted this person. So, I replied, ‘Birch bark tree. Ants. Moss. Grass. Bird flying overhead. River.’ I think admit my ego got in the way and, wanting to impress, gave an extensive inventory of flora & fauna.

‘See,’ I was told gently, ‘You are never alone. The Creator did not make it so (hu-)man to be alone. We only think it so.’

Then they talk with me - listen - until I laugh or smile.

Ho

From Blue Dog Studio

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