That awards show . . .

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Everyone is already talking about that awards show thingy, who wore what and how they wore it, so I thought I would go ahead and join the discussion . . .

There were just so many glorious gowns and snazzy suits, it’s hard to pick the best. I mean, the hair and makeup alone on some of them was simply beautiful, and that was just the guys . . . so much pretty jewelry and people wearing shoes and carrying handbags.

I loved that one girl with the dress, you know the one I’m talking about. Oh, and that other one, she looked fantastic. I don’t know about what’s-her-name though, she was looking a little rough, but that guy in that one movie that came out not too long ago was looking good.

I was really blown away by that actress with the long hair, or was it short? Doesn’t matter, she looked good didn’t she? And that one gal who was in that movie with the guy who was wearing the black suit just looks gorgeous no matter what, don’t you agree?

Letsee . . . who else? Omigosh, I can’t believe I almost forgot that woman who walked in on the red carpet, there were cameras shooting pictures and she had on those shoes. Wow. Stunning, you can’t tell me she wasn’t stunning.

That older guy who’s been in quite a few movies was looking pretty dapper hu? That one dress by that designer was really pretty. I think that other lady, the one with the face, looked lovely, but her dress was just all wrong for her wasn’t it? Would you have worn that?

Wait a second . . . I forgot. I didn’t watch the damn show. Did I miss much?

~ Tongue-in-cheek of course, I know many love the awards shows, I don’t pay much attention to it all and am always out of the proverbial loop when it comes to the next day recaps ~

Crystal R. Cook

RonovanWrites Weekly Haiku Prompt Challenge #7

Adding my 17 words to the Haiku Challenge . . .

Do not let your pain
keep your heart from finding peace
they can coexist

Crystal R. Cook

Ronovan's avatarronovanwrites

RW Weekly Haiku ChallengeBadge provided by DazzlingWhimsy.

#7

Welcome to this weeks Haiku prompt challenge.

(Not the Wordless with Pictures. That one is out at 9:30.)

If you want to refresh yourselves on a bit of Haiku in English, although you do not have to stick to that particular style of Haiku, it’s just my particular style to use, click here.

For Tips and Guidelines refreshers click here.

This weeks two words to use in some form, meaning you can use another word that means the same thing are:

 Before you start!

I have a link that will help you out. Remember for Haiku in English the total syllables are 5 for the first line, 7 for the second, and 5 for the last. This the Haiku I use. I don’t really hold people to that for this but if you want to do it in the 5/7/5 manner, the traditional…

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I Don’t Need Your Awareness

This post really hits on something I often have a difficult time with . . . If you want to know what it is like to be autistic, you have to listen to those on the spectrum. ALL of them. You see, autism is not something you can fit into a generalized list of symptoms and issues, you can’t watch a video or read someone’s opinion because we are all unique in so many ways, just like every single person has their own traits, quirks and mannerisms, so does every single person on the spectrum.

Awareness is great, vital even, but it’s when people think they have an understanding of what it might be like because they watched a video or know what it must be like because they read about it, it can be detrimental to the awareness they are trying to promote . . .

musingsofanaspie's avatarMusings of an Aspie

Awareness is trendy. Everywhere you look people are raising awareness about things. Sometimes even things they know very little about.

For example: here’s a 2-minute Vimeo video titled “Listen” that is intended to “inspire positive change through a deeper tolerance and understanding” about autism (Trigger/Seizure Warning for flashing graphics, loud abrupt sounds).

Do you feel more aware? Do you understand what it’s like to be “a child who is non-verbal” and an “extreme case” (in the words of the producers)?

No, you don’t. How do I know this? Because the people who made that video don’t know what it’s like to be a nonverbal autistic child.

Neither do I, of course. I am not and nor was I ever a nonverbal child. Only a nonverbal autistic child or someone who was once a nonverbal autistic child understands what it’s like to live that experience.

I am autistic, however, and…

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Dear Me . . .

Dear Me - The Qwiet Muse

Just to clarify ~ I’m not crazy. I don’t have split personalities, the one I have may be splintered just a little bit though. Truthfully, we all have many faces and facets that make up the entirety of who we are. Sometimes we disconnect from self, we may not even be aware we’ve neglected certain aspects of ourselves, but eventually it begins to manifest outwardly and when it does, people notice.

It may be some internal attempt at self-preservation, it may be our experiences in the moment are simply so overwhelming they overshadow parts of who we are. When his happens it can lead to depression, self-doubt, and a sense of emptiness in our lives. I’ve seen it happen to those around me, people dealing with illness, heavy work loads, and other life-changing events. I see it happen often with caregivers and parents. It’s happened to me.

Women seem particularly susceptible, especially mothers. We tend to forget we are more than just wives and mothers and the ten thousand other things we are expected to be. We are unique and complex individuals, there really is more to us than what the world sees, there is more to us than we can sometimes see as well.

We often push parts of ourselves to the deepest depths of our inner being, we become what we think everyone needs and expects us to be. That’s okay as long as we don’t forget to nourish the essence of who we are. Sometimes, we just need to remind ourselves we are important too.

When my kids were still little ones, I went through a period of loss. Loss of self. My life was a whirlwind of schools, doctors, therapists, and medication. I had four young children, two with developmental disabilities, a husband frequently away in service of his country, and a recent diabetes diagnosis. I lost myself in the mayhem.

In a rare and quiet moment the weight of it all bore down on me and I knew I had to do something or I wouldn’t have the strength or the will to continue. I hadn’t picked up a pen to write much more than grocery lists and schedules to keep for a long while, that night I decided to dust off my journal and try to make sense of it all.

What I ended up penning to the page seemed odd, and to be honest, I thought at the time, stupid. I closed my journal feeling no better than I had when I’d opened it. The next day though, I felt stronger. I took little breaks throughout the day to sit and read, to simply sit in thought. I felt a sense of peace. The rest of the week I felt lighter, I enjoyed my days a little more.

I’d forgotten about my journal entry until I decided to write something about a month later, I was surprised at what I found. I didn’t recall writing the words I was reading. I’d penned a letter to myself. It was the first of many . . .

Hello there my old friend. It’s been so long since we’ve had a moment to talk. I just thought I would check in with you and see if you’re okay. Are you? I only ask because you’ve been so distanced from me lately. Remember the hours we used to spend together in thought or in silent prayer? Have you forgotten how wonderful it was, sitting back in the sun, reading and resting?

I miss the quiet moments we used to spend together. I miss hearing your laughter. Do you laugh anymore? Tears seem to have replaced that twinkle in your eyes and that saddens me. I wish I could help. I am trying, do you even hear me? I know you must, you simply have to. If we could just reconnect I know it would ease your troubled heart.

I can feel your loneliness, it is mine as well. There’s no need to be lonely, I am still here. My presence seems to be crowded and nearly lost by all of the pressures and pains you’re feeling. I know the responsibilities you have are great, but what happened to the time you used to make for us . . . for you, the time used to rejuvenate your soul and refresh your mind and spirit?

You cannot keep going without checking in with me every now and then you know. You need me and I need you. What would we be without one another? I shudder at the thought of it. I know right now you feel you do not have time for me, but I think if you tried you would find you really do.

I’m not asking for days or even hours, just a few stolen moments every once in a while. We could read a chapter or two in an old book or step outside and let the cool winters breeze give us goosebump kisses. We could sip a cup of tea and write poetry and breathe.

Please think it over, I know you will feel better once we have been in each other’s company for a spell. I will be here for you when you’re ready, just as I always am. I do hope you will squeeze me in soon. I’m afraid if you do not I will lose you forever. What would become of me? What would become of you?

I whispered a prayer for us. I look forward to spending some time with you soon. Sooner than later I hope.

I miss you and I love you . . .

Sincerely yours.

A little part of you.

Crystal R. Cook

Neologism

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Neologism – /niːˈɒlədʒɪzəm/; from Greek νέο- néo-, ‘new’ and λόγος lógos, ‘speech, utterance’, borrowed from the French, néologisme in the 1700s, is the creation of new words, which of course is nothing new, Shakespeare was a master neologist and before him, well, someone had to invent them.

Language is ever evolving and forever fascinating. There has always been and will most certainly always be, debate surrounding the usefulness and relevance in regards to the coinage of new words, recent decades have spawned many new words and spurred many such debates.

I must admit I’m not always on the side of pop culture when it comes to cementing certain words to the history of language. Though I profess to be a tried and true logophile, such an unseemly name for such a beautiful obsession, I do struggle with certain recent entrants into our everyday vernacular.

Several years ago I was a bit taken back when I jokingly typed muffin top into dictionary.com and actually found a definition. It is right there in black and white, listed as a noun, defined as flesh that falls over the waistband of a garment, example: muffin tops hanging over tight jeans. Etymology, 2003; for its resemblance to the food . . . also known as muffin roll.

This discovery led me to type in my bad, forty-eight meanings followed by even further explanations. At least now I know where to go when I’m unsure what the teenage beings inhabiting the planet are saying. In January of 2005 the American Dialect Society deemed luanqibaozhao least likely to succeed in its Words of the Year vote, fittingly, it is Chinese for a complicated mess, fitting as well for some of today’s new entrants into dictionary prestige.

A newly coined word for newly coined words is protologism, you won’t find this in any mainstream dictionary, at least not yet, it has however, earned entry in urbandictionary.com – protologism – n Greek protos, first, original + Greek logos, word; cf. prototype, neologism – a newly created word which has not yet gained any wide acceptance. It is a prototype or a hypothetical projection of a new lexical unit before it may become current in writing or speech.

The word “protologism” proposed here and now is itself an example of protologism. In contrast to protologisms, neologisms are words that have already been in public usage by authors other than their inventors. As soon as a protologism finds its way into newspapers and websites, journals and books, it becomes a neologism.

Old(ish) new words. Radar was birthed in 1941, while technically an acronym for radio detecting and ranging, it is still a relatively new word, that same year the word robotics was accepted. In 1968 blackhole became another mainstream word. Hyperspace (1934), phaser, (1966), metaverse (1992) and replicant (1982) are also examples of new old words. Political correctness, soccer mom, genocide, homophobia, and meritocracy all came in to being between 1943 and 1992.

Nonce words almost fit into the category of new words, these are words made up for a specific, usually one time use in literary pursuits. Over a thousand nonce words appear in the Oxford English Dictionary, “touch-me-‘not-ishness (stand-off-ish.) 1837 Dickens, There was a dignity in the air, a touch-me-not-ishness in the walk, a majesty in the eye of the spinster aunt. cot’queanity (character or quality of a (female) cotquean. [The housewife of a cot or labourer’s hut] 1601 B. Jonson Poetaster We tell thee thou angerest us, cotquean; and we will thunder thee in pieces for thy cotqueanity. I’m rather fond of several of them.

Onto some of our newer additions, many of which I have a hard time understanding their usage, but by popular demand they can now be looked up and utilized for generations. Mouse potato, earwurm, sexting, man cave, bucket list, unibrow, bling-bling (or simply bling), hoody, manga, ginormous, soul patch, supersize, himbo, google, drama queen, ringtone, crunk, degenderize, ixnay (yes, pig-latin), biodiesel, telenovella, docusoap, dramedy, smackdown, spyware, emoticon, chill pill, and trekkie are among the new and wondrous words immortalized in print.

There are other very real and very invented words in the English Oxford Dictionary of notable origin. Hobbit for instance, created in 1937 by J.R.R Tolkien. Grok was made up by Robert Heinlein in 1961 for his novel Stanger in a Strange Land. Camelious was coined by Kipling in 1902 and Shazam was invented for the Captain Marvel Comics in 1940. The word spoof was invented for a game created by Arthur Roberts in 1884. The word blatant was coined Edmund Spencer in 1596 in The Faerie Queen to describe a thousand tongued monster representing slander.

There will always be words, ancient, old, new and newer. I may not like them all, but I can’t help but love each one of them.

Crystal R. Cook

Stop flinging your poo. Seriously. Be happy.

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Son-of-a-fugly-jackhole. People piss me off. Okay, maybe not you, but people in general. I am a loving, kind-hearted, compassionate, and caring bitch of a good person and yet I have a difficult time extending these amazing qualities to the majority of the people I am forced to walk the earth with, and yes, I am calling myself out as amazing . . . because I can.

Some people just seem to thrive on being as boorish as they can be. I don’t understand it. The thing that absolutely, positively, and undeniably upsets me most is the contagion factor of it all. They make me feel like they are acting when they fling their poo around like wild monkeys. It stinks and it sticks to you.

I don’t want to stink.

I’d like to walk around with a lovely little canister labeled Petulance Repellant or something preferably more witty, and spray the crap out of people with it. I would buy it in bulk.

I need to shake it off, or shower it away now because I have to brave the masses once more, I forgot what I originally went out to get. I got this. I can handle it. Just in case I lose it, is anyone willing to act as a character witness for me?

Click on the link below when you find yourself at odds with the human race. Humor helps.

http://www.pinterest.com/qwietpleez/funnies-misanthropic-bliss/

W.A. – It affects you, I guarantee it.

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If you have any of these warning signs, you are one of the many people afflicted with WA –

  • an unusually and unnecessarily large collection of writing instruments.

  • an over abundant supply of paper, notebooks, journals, etc..

  • overflowing bookshelves, the compulsion to buy books even when you have unread stacks of them next to your bed, couch, and kitchen table.

  • an overwhelming compulsion to blog, read blogs, and comment on blogs.

WA is a newly recognized and widespread epidemic of addiction affecting people around the globe. This affliction has silently consumed lives for centuries, some may argue it is a harmless addiction, though many have been known to suffer from co-morbid conditions such as alcohol and caffeine abuse.

Negative side effects include insomnia, malnourishment, and social deficits. Family members of those living with WA have reported episodes of withdrawal, lack of spontaneity, decreased desire to engage in family activities, lack of personal care, and sustained periods of restlessness in those diagnosed.

Currently, the typical diagnostic criteria used to determine addiction is not apparent in all cases, many go unrecognized by the medical and psychiatric communities leading to a majority of cases being diagnosed by family members. Many of those with WA are self diagnosed.

In many instances you may hear it referred to as a syndrome in lieu of an addiction. A majority of those with WA do not see it as an addiction, they believe they were born with WA. Popular theory and current research suggests there may be a genetic component involved.

Since the diagnostic criterium for addiction is not always met, WA, also known as Writing Addiction, or Writing Syndrome, is often a diagnosis of exclusion, meaning you know your addicted if you’ve excluded everything else in life aside from the written word.

imageIn fact, if you are reading this you may have one of two very real addictions, perhaps even both. If you are reading simply because you must read you more than likely have RA, Reading Addiction. If you are reading this and already thinking of what to write about it, it’s safe to say you are a Writing addict. If you are reading this out of sheer compulsion AND thinking of what to write, you are not alone, a majority of those diagnosed carry a dual diagnosis referred to as RAWA, Reading and Writing Addiction. There is no shame.

Writing addiction is not something you plan. It is an all-encompassing desire, the more you write the more you need to write. Like most addictions, it begins to consume you. At first it’s just jotting things down now and then, a bit of poetry here, a little prose there and soon you’re writing stories and sonnets and epic works of words late into the night.

It’s a secret addiction in the beginning, harmless to most. Writing addicts typically start in their spare time. It doesn’t take long until spare time is no longer enough; it begins to creep into their day. When you’re supposed to be doing bills an idea will hit and next thing you know you’ve written half a chapter on the back of your electric bill.

It doesn’t end there. Dinners get burned, kids are late for school, laundry piles up and you forget to feed the dogs, you write about it though. Hungry Dogs, a Tale of Sad Tails. When it first begins it’s easy to hide, but soon you get careless and scraps of paper litter the countertops and the dressers, notebooks and journals are in every room of the house.

Your desktop is filled with papers and coffee cups. Oh yes, coffee cups. Once the addiction has you in its clutches you forego nourishment for a good old Cup-o-Joe to keep you going. Snack foods sustain life. By the time family and friends see the signs it’s too late. No one says anything until you arrive at school in the afternoon to pick up your children wearing yesterday’s pajamas.

By the time anyone suspects there is a problem it’s already too late. Sure, they can hold interventions; they can beg and plead, but the need to write simply cannot be overcome. Once you have it, you have it for life. Eventually those who love you will accept the reality of your life. You are a writer.

There isn’t much you can do for someone with writing addiction except accept them and love them imagejust as you did before they picked up a pen. As previously mentioned, in some cases it appears to be genetic; many children of writing addicts are themselves addicts by the time they reach puberty. The same can be said for the offspring of reading addicts. There has yet to be a cure, its doubtful there ever will be.

I myself am a reading and writing addict. It began when I took my first breath, my family has tried to put an end to it, but they’ve never succeeded. They’ve never even come close. They know I will write about them if they push it too far. Do they think I don’t know casserole will burn if I don’t stop writing long enough to take it out of the oven? I mean seriously, why else would I keep a fire extinguisher at my desk. I’m one step ahead them.

In conclusion, writing can in fact, be an addiction. There is no way to know who will become a slave to the written word. There is no way to stop it once it has begun. I suppose those of us with writing addiction are enabling the reading addicts among us, they can’t get enough of what we do . . . but then, are they not in a sense encouraging our own addiction to writing? And what of those of us with the dual addiction, we are our own worst enemy and best friend; it is a vicious circle, one with no end.

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If a cure is ever found I’m heading for the hills. I wonder if I can get high-speed Internet service up there . . . no matter, paper, pens and solitude is all I need to feed the hunger. No twelve step programs for me, I’ll write one for anyone who wishes to work through their beautiful addiction though, not that anyone would.

Crystal R. Cook

Resurrected to share for the blog share learn linky party!

#MidLifeLuv Linky

Reality Check

Going through the shoeboxes again . . . I distinctly remember the day I wrote this. I was tired. So, so, very tired. The week had been a whirlwind of medical appointments, two IEP meetings, my husband was out of town, my blood sugars were high, and my energy was low.

Autism was in charge and it’s sidekick Bipolar was running amuck. I was outnumbered and out of my mind – Thankfully, a little reality check pulled me back.

Seems like only yesterday sometimes

Seems like only yesterday sometimes

I remember reading something once about about people with unsinkable souls, I believe I am an unsinkable soul. I simply must be. If I weren’t, I certainly would have drowned in whatever sea of muck souls sometimes sink into long ago. I’ve felt myself being pulled under a few times, but I always manage to pull myself up for air. Sometimes, I even manage to find dry land.

I recall one particular night when my toes were just about to reach the bottom of this proverbial, soul-sinking pit, and I was ready to throw in the towel, search out a nice little cave and see if it was possible for a human to hibernate. Ultimately, I decided it sounded like too much work and made one last attempt to free my sinking soul from the murky depths by reaching for my pen.

Miraculously, I managed to pull myself up and I began to write. I was going to pour my heart out on the page. It was going to be a gloomy piece, a somber and sad work of words. It’s often said writing is a healing art. I’ve never doubted it to be anything but true, but I may have taken it for granted now and then.

On this night, as my tears fell to the yellow pad beneath my hand, transforming my words into water-color patches of blue, I was reminded of the awesome power writing holds. I did not pen a masterpiece that night. I did not create an epic tapestry of words that would go down in poetic history. It was not my best writing, nor was it the worst.

It was also not what I thought it would be when I began. It turned out to be something that dried my tears, made my husband laugh, and my children smile. Writing is a healing art.

Peace and quiet . . . Solitude and rest,
someone else to cook the meals, someone else to clean this mess.
Someone else to do the laundry and mediate the fights,
someone else to sweep and dust and get up and down all night.

Oh, for just one day, I need a little break,
I need someone to give, instead of take, take, take.
Let me have a little nap, for just an hour or two,
a rejuvenating rest sounds like a wonderful thing to do.

I’d love to take a shower till the hot water is all gone,
I simply can’t imagine staying in there for that long.
I could actually take the time, to shave my legs tonight,
and I’d love to go to bed sometime before midnight.

I could paint my nails or polish up my toes,
I could curl up on the couch and catch up on some shows.
I could read a book and maybe have a cup of tea.
I’m not trying to be selfish, I just need some time for me.

REALITY CHECK

The kids say they are starving, they are on the brink of death,
you can’t make it down the hall unless you watch your step.
The dryer keeps on buzzing and someone just got punched,
I don’t think I’ll get to take that nap, but that is just a hunch.

I’m sure I’ll get to shower, sometime late tonight,
when the kids have given in to the sleep they like to fight.
The hot water will be gone between dear hubby and the dishes,
so I’ll keep that dream close to heart with all my other wishes

Maybe I’ll just shave my legs tomorrow or the next,
I’ll wait for a new razor, I think this one has been hexed.
Most my nails are broken so I’ll pass on that one too
the other stuff sounds nice, but I’ve got too many things to do.

Like drop from sheer exhaustion and drift off to sleep and dream,
of perfect little children and a house that’s always clean.

REALITY CHECK

The morning sun has risen, a new day lay ahead,
and there’s a morning snuggle bug curled up in my bed.
I wrap my arms around him and hold him near my heart
I cannot think of a better way for a brand new day to start.

I really can’t imagine someone else to take my place,
and chance missing a precious little smile on a dirty little face.
The housework’s not that bad, not compared to other things,
like the joy and love and laughter having a family brings.

Crystal R. Cook