Uncategorized

A Poem about Summer Slovens

AS IF ANGRY

She began as if friendly,
That pretty day,
To mother the throng in the park,
To permit their play.

No angst and no reason to abandon their plans
To line up for climbs, twists and plummets
On steep skeletal frames.
For some, a summertime dare to prepare
For psychotic amusement—pitch dark to unnerve
—Silent ghosts appear to touch, taunt and scare.
On this sumptuous day,
Perhaps paltry prizes
For enduring game gamblers,
Or one could gorge on sweets, greasy ribs
And fat burgers.

Crushed pop cans, foam cups, candy floss holders; Waxed wrappers, wasted serviettes, lost tickets,
Even striped straws smeared with lipstick…
All was well for the trash-dripping humans
Creating weak Ozone—no concern.

She began as if nurturing, that gentle day.
But her breath was the warning,
Tenacious and damp,
As if to blow on a long cake
Too large to guess age or count candles.
No other caution she gave,
Not even to musicians plugged into the band shell.
She came as if angry.
Somber mood and thunderous steps;
Blew down a few tents;
Knocked over a petite human guest.

She brought with her a bruised sky.
Bright spikes from those crowded clouds
Tore through steel-grey’s supple flesh.
And then, her stern rain.

Mama-atmosphere at first had smiled,
Endorsing their frolic outside,
Yet it seemed she had lied.
She chastised once more,
An emotional tone,
And let her cold tears pour,
Forcing the throng to clear
Allowing her to cleanse the Slovens’ playpen.

For this is Planet Earth;
First hers, not theirs.

Alas, the humans would be back;
Litter scattered.
Disrespect.

And so she brewed…
She’d be back, too.

L. P. Penner

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Uncategorized

Ladies, would you help me?

I need opinions, that’s all, and I know women love to help one another. I will not find you and spam you, I absolutely promise.

I’m preparing my novel for marketing in the traditional publishing setting, and my most interested beta readers are women. My synopsis is only 140 words. Would you please indicate if indeed you can imagine yourself curled up with this realistic fiction?

They All Wore Black concerns a traumatized, hushed up family struggling to learn it’s okay to cry out:

Brad Fadden trudges with his head down and his guard up. His deviant father died, but Brad aches with raw, nauseating secrets. Haunting memories. His haggard mother is reticent about it. His protective sister fled eight years ago because of it.

It’s 1988. Ganja, cocaine, pills—easy scores. Even so, fifteen-year-old Brad’s illusion of escape does not subdue his crippling emotions. He’s off to harass his dead father’s socially inept boozing pal who guards the pivotal truth, and that fearful sot may be the only one who knows it.

A peculiar old man intermittently appears to caution Brad about addictions and fact seeking, leaving him to think he’s hallucinating, but the kid won’t stop prying. They say, “The truth will set you free.” They’re wrong.

Thanks for your help, ladies.

Lynn

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Human Behaviour, Human Nature, Humour

Uninformed Greedy Guts

The system was I’d make enough din-din so hubby could warm his portion at work the following night.

Well, I made extra the night before so I could do something quick with it for myself the next evening. Hungry early and looking forward to my already cooked main stir fry ingredient, I went to the fridge. I couldn’t find it. I moved stuff. I squatted down, hung onto the shelves and thoroughly inspected the fridge’s contents. Gone? I shut the fridge door, counted three Mississippi’s and opened it again. I looked like a curious dog, you know, how they turn their heads and relate with their eyebrows.

Then it hit me… uninformed greedy guts left the container with his three course meal and took my extra, because that container was the biggest. I hugged my middle all bent over and scared the cats with my maniacal laughter and slaps on the counter. Utter greed—he took four grey, cooked chicken legs with wrinkled, cold skin on them, crushed down unceremoniously into the container with no veggies, no potato. Ew!

I knew what he was calling about that night. It was either for sympathy or we’d laugh together. I laughed the hardest.

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encouragement, Human Behaviour, Human Nature, information

Bipolar! Now What?

That mind-numbing moment when a doctor tells us that we have bipolar disorder.

Fresh hell! It’s like being sucked into a black hole—no air, no light, no hope—no direction. Mouth dries, can’t swallow. We are now labeled—tagged—might as well write mental reject or maniac or lifeless loser on our foreheads with red permanent marker so everyone can be as afraid of us as we are of ourselves. In the abyss, we’re reeling aimlessly. Head rush. We don’t even hear the doctor explain to us what exactly it is. He or she is telling us is, “Take this medication.” We hear the seemingly amplified scribbling sounds of the prescription being written.

For some, a GP will paste this new identity on our forehead after we were brought in by family, a friend or partner—for being “crazy,” the sharp word they used.

Perhaps we have been hospitalized, observed, micromanaged… then the dreaded news comes from a psychiatrist. Now a nurse holds out a tiny paper cup with our pills; sour apple juice. Friends don’t come to the hospital to visit—because we are too ashamed to let them. We may or may not remember what we did to end up in a crisply made bed in a room with no area carpet, no computer, no stuff we recognize as our own. The bathroom mirror is missing. Gone from the ugly rolling table, too. No sharps, not even nail clippers; that’s the rule.

Either way, we have a mental illness diagnosis. Really?

Bipolar, the two-headed Beast. It scares the hell out of us, because we know nothing about it when we’re diagnosed except the standard one-size-fits-all Oxford Dictionary definition: adj. 1 having two poles or extremities. 2 characterized by two extremes. 3 (of psychiatric illness) characterized by both mania and depression. No wonder the general public assumes that bipolar persons are “happy one minute and sad the next.” If only our episodes lasted a mere minute, and if only it was merely happiness or sadness…. Anyone who has bipolar knows that it is so much more than that—it’s anxiety and panic attacks, uncontrolled, scary, weird, negative or delusional thoughts. Inability to fall asleep or concentrate. Hyperrealistic sensory faculty. Lack of or too much confidence, anger episodes, weeping, death wishes or grandiose plans. We float up to extreme highs and regret what we say and do. We are pushed off a cliff and feel dead.

Perhaps we despise this label, bipolar disorder. Yet like a can of food, without a label, we don’t know what it is—what’s in us. Bipolar disorder is manageable—because of the label—believe this.

I was diagnosed in 1984 when they called it manic depressive disease. I lived in a psychiatric hospital during a severe manic episode, psychotic and terrified, then utterly depressed. Upon release after a few months with medications, and settled in at home with my young child, I utilized the library to research my illness. Computers weren’t readily available. I had to own it and educate myself, for me, my boy. I fashioned that section dust free. Discovering I have bipolar type 1 answered my “what’s in me” questions. This gained knowledge is my weapon against the Beast. I never did kill it entirely, but it has been tamed considerably.

The foremost strategy in managing bipolar is to understand it. Learn why people get ill with it (genetically predisposed; severe childhood trauma; nasty drug and alcohol additions in family history etcetera), discover the symptoms in detail as to recognize what’s happening so we can thrust a sword into the Beast before it takes our heads into its jagged-toothed jaws.

I learned what the triggers are, and I learned strategies to help myself—because the doctors talked about medication, gave me more, but never told me what researching helped me understand what I know today. Triggers are persistent distress (like an unhealthy relationship/toxic people, or jobs); missing medication doses or not having a medication schedule and sticking to it; finances not properly managed. Worrying is deadly, and not having a proper sleep schedule is equally detrimental. Negative self-talk has absolutely no purpose.

Added medications from a doctor can be helpful for controlling moods and the many other symptoms I described earlier. If they are not, never give up, try something different. Be assertive with doctors, tell of feelings and moods, research bipolar medications and ask about them. More often than not, medication combinations will help a lot along with wellness strategies. Looking up medications also helped me to understand their purpose, side effects and benefits. I had to be diligent about helping myself, because if I didn’t, who would do this for me?

With internet we are able to research, but make sure a source is given to follow up. My rule is I need to see information three separate places before I consider it to be accurate. After all, the internet is convenient and loaded with information, but realistically, any “know-it-all” can post answers or create a paying website.

I’m proposing a few sites I know to be authentic. First, I found an engaging documentary on YouTube. The introduction reveals what the general public thinks bipolar is; disturbingly, the lack of education isn’t surprising. However, the documentary (video) is highly relatable to persons who have bipolar disorder and, if family members and friends will watch it, they’ll gain insight since it is a series of interviews with people who experience the multifaceted symptoms. Beneficial characteristics are mentioned by the interviewees, too. Intelligence and creativity are hallmark traits. Never forget this. Famous bipolar persons are also mentioned—and our world would be lacking without them. Medications which persons find helpful are also mentioned. It’s worth watching for an hour and 23 minutes. Thus far there are 37 videos one can subscribe to, it’s copyrighted (2013) and likely to available long term, so, Google, “Up/Down” Bipolar Disorder Documentary. There is also, The Black Dog. It is a creative, insightful animation describing depression. An exceptional site is, Psychcentral.com. This site is loaded with various subjects pertaining to bipolar and other mental illnesses as well as medications. Explore it if you will. But! The most gratifying thing I ever did was to google “famous bipolar people.” Best way to get a fat head—try it—I’m left with a lasting impression. We bipolar humans are in a genre of people who are undoubtedly intelligent, entertaining, expressive, creative, and either successful or have the potential to be accomplish much.

There is nothing to be ashamed of. Bipolar disorder is a chemical imbalance. Stability can be found through lifestyle, educating ourselves, healthy eating, medication(s), and our “I’m going to tame the Beast” attitudes.

Be well, stay well.

 

 

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encouragement, Human Nature, information, inspirational, Mistakes

Brilliance of Dyslexia?

Despite the near disabling aspects of it, it’s not a disability at all, rather an outstanding ability. Once it is discovered and nurtured, the brilliance of dyslexia will present.

I gleaned much information and encouragement at age 39 when I was diagnosed with the help of ATN Access Inc.

 If more were known about dyslexia when I started school in 1968, over time, my skills and passion for writing would have developed with less suffocating in my own defeatism.

In grade one I was terribly confused by the compound word into during the read aloud participation. I remember my tingling cheeks and swishing in my ears when the other kids started whispering the word with impatience. I also remember in grade three when I was sent to the office for “clowning around.” I wrote “Wook book fro Writinp” on the cover of my new notepad. I can still see that, it was bold, a black marker, because writing was something I wanted to do well. This happened frequently, and I was labeled as “a slow learner.” Outside of the classroom, sitting on the hall bench, I recall the coat hooks jabbing my head while an unknown adult tried to teach me math, but it was not unlike classroom instruction, just s-l-o-w-e-r. In the 60s and 70s, we kids with learning differences were just labeled slow and treated like someone ought to be there to scrape pudding off our chins at lunch.

To this day I write form instead of from, top for pot, left for felt, gob for dog and so on. I have edited reversed sentences also. I reverse numbers, too. Some days are worse than others. I write, though, and I accept the fumbling process. Autocorrect is mostly hilarious, but the spelling and grammar police on computers these days make it tolerable. Well, mostly. I do have to proofread my work repeatedly, then when I feel I’m finished with the challenge, I have my computer read it to me, still finding errors.

 So why is this learning disability called a gift? What’s to celebrate about dyslexia? C’mon—it’s devastating! Isn’t it? And it’s genetic, too? Don’t parents feel guilty passing this “affliction” on to their children? How can it be overcome? Or can it? Should it? 

Let’s sift through an article, “The Gift of Dyslexia,” I read back in 2003 by Alanna Mitchell. You can decide if being dyslexic is being gifted or ruined.

Interestingly, the hemispheres of a dyslexic’s brain are more symmetrical than that of non dyslexic persons. Affected persons have difficulty reading; however, the symmetry is perfect for other complex brain functions involving images and three dimensions. Incredible photography doesn’t just happen, it’s a skill. Outstanding artists have the skill, too. Perhaps they’re not all dyslexic, but artistic imagery, even creative literary art is possibly a flourishing talent for those who are dyslexic. Another perk is excelling at spacial perception, like seeing the trick of optical illusions, and catching moving objects as small as a set of keys. Sports are played well by the ones with symmetrical brains.

Also, dyslexics do not seem to sort through information in a direct, sequential way, rather a variety of things are sorted at the same time, rapidly. This gives them the edge on strategy. Throughout history, many people who are now understood as having been dyslexic, made dauntless advances in science, art, music, politics, and sports. Among the greats are Albert Einstein, Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Alexander Graham Bell, and Winston Churchill. 

Incidentally, a little off subject, if you look these people up for ADD or ADHD and bipolar disorder, a lot of them will be listed as having them with dyslexia. Learning differences (brain variances) share within themselves, if that makes sense. If you know you have one diverse aspect, you probably have three. Also, some of our favourite authors have learning differences including dyslexia, like Agatha Christie and F. Scott Fitzgerald. There are many if you google “famous dyslexic authors.”

The sixteen-year-old, Nicholas Carson, featured in the article, “The Gift of Dyslexia,” didn’t read until he was twelve. He had reported that school was still difficult. It was said then that he thinks in pictures and the school was run by “word thinkers.” So he felt alone in his imagery thinking, yet understood he was also gifted.

The point is that dyslexics have a built-in three-dimensional imagination. They have multifaceted perceptions in varying situations. Try to understand that when a dyslexic carpenter is designing a building, they’re are able to visualize their plan, spin it around and explore all angles from the inside, although it’s troublesome to do this with flat objects like blueprints on paper.

Here’s an example. The letter b from a straight on view is a two-dimentional b. But from behind it’s a d. From above a p, and below, it’s a q. All of these variations are seen at the same time by dyslexics, hence the reading reversals and writing errors. On the other hand, a dyslexic’s stellar imagination can create a compelling story, novel, or poem. We record our mind’s eye imagery. It gives a whole new meaning to the phrase descriptive writing.

Dyslexic persons are highly creative, imaginative, athletic, and artistic. It has been established that they calculate thoughts so quickly, they usually don’t understand how they arrived at an answer. This also goes for conversation whereas another’s thought is correctly interpreted before the person has finished explaining something.

Dyslexia then, to me, is a gift. Work with it, not against it, and the perks shine through.

 Please don’t imagine curing my reversals, they are my edge, as backwards as that seems. Understand my ways and accept they’re different. I’m not slow. I’m built for speed, and that sometimes slows me down.

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Human Nature, Traditional publishing

Delivery Jitters

It takes years, seemingly half a lifetime, to see that prick of daylight, subtle light, not enough to accost the eye’s delicate lens.

The final “perfect” word on a novel manuscript doesn’t mean a celebration of tinkling ice in a celebratory drink. Not so fast. Well, perhaps maybe one, but if the said story is going to shipped off, it’s the query or cover letter and proposal package that leaves the bleeding bald spots on the scalp, the rock hard shoulder and neck muscles, and the mind divided between real life and the life of being hunched over a keyboard with non fiction facts, or characters who have become living beings.

But a writer’s life is real, it’s hard and it’s tedious. Spouses who like to read still don’t, and really can’t fathom the work behind so much as a short paragraph, the all important bio. The brief 50 words or less to sum up our existence.

They don’t know that alliteration, even unintended, isn’t allowed. They’re in the dark about the cover or query letter. The light of knowledge doesn’t reach them: how much information goes into the allotted one page, cut short by the proper to and from addresses and date, the short but oh-so- carefully loaded paragraphs, all to conform with the standard etiquette. They, those unsuspecting spouses and partners we live with, say they understand, yet they don’t understand what they’re saying they understand. It’s possible they’re trying to connect with us, soothe our nerves. And it really isn’t helping, is it? We need feedback, a fresh perspective —a writing fairy to whip up the all important everything that goes with a proposal or submission.

It’s the writer’s life to live, eat, nod off and guzzle coffee at our keyboard in solitude with our craft. And it seems best this way. Leave out the spouse unless we’re finished with the full-out pounding heart, like a stamping machine, the delivery jitters of hitting the send button or dropping the package into a mailbox.

“Oh that’s good, honey,” they’ll say.

Writing is a life of solitude. If it weren’t for writers’ groups, we may end up babbling softly, incessantly at our pets. Pets understand. Maybe our soft and sometimes loud murmurs of frustration are actually the solution to solitude.

I sent my submission yesterday. I don’t know how long it will take to grow back pulled hair. Or when my neck and shoulder muscles will unknot. When I will hear back from the medium-sized publishing house, but I figuratively went in with my little boots and kicked around a few big chairs. Because  sometimes courage will pay off.

Maybe “They All Wore Black” will noticed. For the love of words, I hope so.

I’ll post about my novel when I realize in my whole mind that it won’t be as submission, just a share.

Thanks for reading.

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Cat lovers, Human Behaviour, Uncategorized

Passwords Lockouts

It would seem that I neglected my blog page, and I have. Sort of.

Password lockouts have kept me from blogging. I don’t claim to understand why my password stops working, but here I am after what seems like being held down by a size 15 shoe on an athletic foot which of course would be on the connecting leg. That’s as far as my mind film goes.

I’m all right. I have survived worse. Like being pinned to the couch by my seventeen pound cat. They know when we have a full bladder. They prove their mysterious cat knowledge by kneading the bladder.

In the meantime, when I’m not trapped on my furniture, I have noticed new readers and followers, so thank you for  keeping me alive! If the password gods have mercy, I’ll blog again soon.

The sun has graced my part of the world with its occasional grin today. It’s been grey for a month. I must get out there.

Thanks again, and have a sunny day.

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