tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60727310442369301832024-03-05T07:15:11.466-08:00Gypsy for HireDiscussion of job searching, unemployment, freelance work, writing, creative process, and starting over when life is half over.Just Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07531986024149005754noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6072731044236930183.post-41023517331489522462018-07-24T11:21:00.001-07:002018-07-24T11:27:15.883-07:00What's in a name?Recently it was pointed out to me that using the term "gypsy" in my blog title would be considered insensitive and/or insulting. I'm not sure in what manner but perhaps because it would seem I am claiming an ethnicity or community to which I don't belong.<br />
<br />
Part of the reason I chose the word is because I travel easily between communities and have all my life. Three states; six or seven houses by the time I was nine years old. Moving between financial classes and northern to southern to northern hospitality and practices. From church-going to not going to seeing Father Kinsella at the dinner table. From a bungalow-cottage sharing a single bedroom with my two brothers to spacious rancher to city rowhouse. From winter blizzards to palm trees at Christmas and back to northern chill.<br />
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So before I'd hit the first decade, I'd developed chameleon skills of adaptability so as to not draw unwelcome attention to myself as the new kid. My speaking voice still adopts the accent of my geography/companions. Instinctively I would mirror the postures and gestures of those in the room; later I would do it deliberately hoping be accepted at best or go undetected at least.<br />
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But none of that seems particularly linked to the term "<a href="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/gypsy" target="_blank">gypsy</a>." Perhaps the word vagabond is a better fit. But then I dressed as a gypsy for a Halloween party and started telling some guests their fortunes, telling them things about themselves I couldn't have known. And more than a few times, I was right.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRj2mNz37-JfULavoUoA0nhfbsacLU5pJ34G8hlaZXuIGehe46DCLc_VcPMSGJ4OBtltidN2PcgwACgIgIVkuqmWmd7OwBa_ZfmSDgxK6LUGaRcVPAvEyqrK5ZdvR_NWQ1KHrAodyKorUt/s1600/Rita+Hayworth+gypsy.jpe" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRj2mNz37-JfULavoUoA0nhfbsacLU5pJ34G8hlaZXuIGehe46DCLc_VcPMSGJ4OBtltidN2PcgwACgIgIVkuqmWmd7OwBa_ZfmSDgxK6LUGaRcVPAvEyqrK5ZdvR_NWQ1KHrAodyKorUt/s320/Rita+Hayworth+gypsy.jpe" width="256" /></a></div>
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I guess the real reason was to imply that I acclimate quickly, learn new skills like a speed demon, can "fake til I make it," and have experience in a variety of fields.<br />
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I'm open to suggestions for a better title, but for now, I'll leave it as it stands.Just Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07531986024149005754noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6072731044236930183.post-24820677257041791422015-02-06T08:34:00.002-08:002015-02-06T08:34:52.926-08:00Show No KindnessI wish for a voice as thin as spider thread, a whistle<br />
filled with wind, pressing strings to cradle the tune,<br />
and never, ever thinking of you.<br />
<br />
No harbor of compassion, no seed of regret, stones<br />
all overturned, vermin released, forgiving nothing.<br />
<br />
Stack wood, gather the ropes, secure <br />
the villian, rain oil, and ignite.Just Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07531986024149005754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6072731044236930183.post-59386616505152895292014-04-10T17:18:00.000-07:002014-04-10T17:18:26.005-07:00Tomorrow I will be participating in National Poetry Month by being the guest blogger on <a href="http://authoramok.blogspot.com/2014/04/source-poems-this-is-just-to-say.html">Author Amok</a>. Here is the catch; The guest blog writers are to write about a source poem. As Laura Shovan explains, " Source poems. Poems that we draw like water from a well, again and again, to quench some thirst."<br />
<br />
Laura has invited 17 authors and poets to guest blog this month. Each of us writing about a source poem. A single poem; not a single author. But one poem. The well. The well wrought urn. The poem. Or wait. No. We are to write about a source poem; one of perhaps many. Because otherwise the decision making process alone would take months, right?<br />
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I came to identifying as a poet reluctantly. I read poetry and it was a part of my childhood as my mother read poetry to me, and we memorized poetry, playing with the emphasis on a particular word, or moving our hands in the air to emulate Wordsworth’s dancing daffodils. But my real love was prose and poetry was so often riddled in metaphor and obscure reference and confined by strict forms that I could not master. It was a long time before I learned that I would never “master” any writing, but I could develop some skill, some muscle, if I worked out regularly. </div>
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<br /></div>
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So I wrote some very bad poetry and then some mediocre poetry. But during my MFA program, I was introduced to experimental forms and contemporary poets writing in free verse. Many of them unlocked the creative handcuffs of writing for me, but Sharon Olds’ unflinching ability to unveil the spiritual in the physical, immediate, and familiar changed my writing. I like to think for the better.</div>
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So here is a bit about a poet that I did not write about for Author Amok. </div>
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A friend gave me a copy of the poem “Visiting My Mother’s College” by Sharon Olds. My mother had died recently and this poem invited me into her life before I was born. After that, rather than trying to write my truths cloaked in layers of subterfuge, my work became more honest and transparent, without the naval gazing of the “confessional” poem. Sharon Olds raised the <br />confessional poem from a tawdry salacious tale to a universal, fistful of carefully selected <br />imagery and language.<br />
<br />
<b>Visiting My Mother’s College</b><br /><br />This is where her body was<br />when it was sealed, her torso clear and whole,<br />she walked on these lawns. Curled as the Aesop<br />fox she sad in a window-seat, it<br />makes me sick with something like desire to thnk of her,<br />my first love—when I lay stunned<br />in her arms, I thought she was the whole world,<br />heat, smooth flesh, colostrums,<br />and that huge heartbeat. But here she had<br />no children, no husband, and her mother was dead,<br />no one was far weaker or far<br />stronger than she, she carried her rage<br />unknown, hidden, unknowable yet,<br />she moved, slowly, under the arches,<br />literally singing. Half of me<br />was deep in her body, dyed egg<br />with my name on it, in cursive script—<br />the most serene time of my life, as I<br />glided above the gravel paths<br />ghere near the center of her universe. <br />I have come here to walk on the stones she walked on,<br />to sit in the fragrant chapel with its pews<br />rubbed with the taken combs of bees, its<br />stained, glassy God, I want to<br />love her when she has not hurt anyone yet,<br />when all that had been done to her<br />she held, still, in her fresh body, as she<br />lay on her stomach, still a child, studying<br />diligently for finals, and before the dance<br />she washed her hair and rinsed it with lemon and<br />shook and shook her head so the interior of her<br />tiny room was flecked with sour bright citrus. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDKc-7j0CAz1wpfC0-fifCCxw7Fei3uCsm3IYpQbaedKg_g7qbZaOfDfdP2GgWI-R1D57wjckRuYXDjobaIxlnm9IsREWd8W-dn-gSwYfxImmD_xAFpinHkM_hyphenhyphenlAgDp0D5szeVD2xJz-p/s1600/Sharon+Olds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDKc-7j0CAz1wpfC0-fifCCxw7Fei3uCsm3IYpQbaedKg_g7qbZaOfDfdP2GgWI-R1D57wjckRuYXDjobaIxlnm9IsREWd8W-dn-gSwYfxImmD_xAFpinHkM_hyphenhyphenlAgDp0D5szeVD2xJz-p/s1600/Sharon+Olds.jpg" height="157" width="200" /></a>Sharon Olds is the Rocky Balboa of poetry; she is a clean fighter; she is coming at you honestly, her poetic muscle oiled and shining, slipping under your fingertips, her feet agile, so that in the last line you sigh, nod, or gasp and she knocks you so hard, that stunned, you climb back into the poem and bath in the human condition and grow stronger, even when there is heart break. <br /><br />“Visiting My Mother’s College” does have a distinct cadence, a bit of sing/song through the line breaks. A mere five sentences of strong sensual details staggering us in a unexpected and somewhat alarming longing for the mother as nurturer until at the end her mother is awash with the image of sour bright citrus and lemon.<br />
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This is not my "source" poem if I only get to chose one. To learn that one, you will need to visit Author Amok. But Sharon Olds taught me a lot about writing the truth.<br />
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Do you have a poet or poem that was significant in your evolution as a writer or in your thinking? Who makes you laugh or calms you or raises questions for you?<br />
Just Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07531986024149005754noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6072731044236930183.post-18980333264782090042012-07-14T07:41:00.000-07:002012-07-14T07:55:08.707-07:00Behavioral Tracking - great TED talk"The young generation is spending 8 hours a day online."<br><br>
"The price we are asked to pay for this communication/connectedness is a lack of privacy."
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"It's time to watch the watchers." We can download <a href="http://www.mozilla.org/en-US/collusion/"> Collusion </a>for free and track the trackers. "Collusion is an experimental add-on for Firefox and allows you to see all the third parties that are tracking your movements across the Web. It will show, in real time, how that data creates a spider-web of interaction between companies and other trackers." <br><br>
When teaching effective social media communications to my college students, I encourage them to create a strong, positive, on-line persona. Some students are reluctant; they don't want strangers to know their personal business. They don't have a blog, a twitter account, and they don't engage on Facebook. Unfortunately, that does not prevent the behavioral trackers from tracking them. If they access a class, a dictionary, a map, a newspaper article; those actions are being tracked.<br><br>
Try this: <br>
Search for a word about which you are not interested (for me, this might be Nascar or wrestling)<br>
Then go about your day using the internet as you normally do.<br>
Observe how frequently ads pertaining to that word show up.<br><br>
Please let me know about your experience.Just Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07531986024149005754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6072731044236930183.post-58322252582197873942011-11-15T11:32:00.000-08:002011-11-15T11:32:06.155-08:00Why I am not a Landscape Artist<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBM3IRQbAnjCxhoaoa7FjLfhRBrKdJiM4Tk4Fu4xlCLRTD-jLGAsi0yxlOnbPOV3fM3nlPVwwgc06_-5EpNWPO4w1bHv-LrWlzDB7FJ-Zwpd-6ggyp07u1FKDwAX6ugbw6H-VTPqzRRh7F/s1600/Ides+of+November+049.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="150" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBM3IRQbAnjCxhoaoa7FjLfhRBrKdJiM4Tk4Fu4xlCLRTD-jLGAsi0yxlOnbPOV3fM3nlPVwwgc06_-5EpNWPO4w1bHv-LrWlzDB7FJ-Zwpd-6ggyp07u1FKDwAX6ugbw6H-VTPqzRRh7F/s200/Ides+of+November+049.JPG" /></a></div>I am not a landscape artist. However, this morning the forecast was warm but overcast as rain is forecast later today and for the next day or more. So it was time to clean the leaves from the stairwell and cut back the monster size ornamental grass that flourishes at the top of my basement stairwell. <br />
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So I gathered the electric cord and my electric trimmer and got to work zipping through the slender grasses that reach over four feet. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF4LB_dTCp4mAweSXWd2mCqmoX9JOh-5JzWRdGh4ornLHPYvSqiqON65nD1dSiyatuQnriclBxLYocYZpvXLK-xsnWTjl-EVIepWvEApzPw4tnOgD07tHXunWc6nwIKvgfM_Xx_dIshsst/s1600/Ides+of+November+053.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="150" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF4LB_dTCp4mAweSXWd2mCqmoX9JOh-5JzWRdGh4ornLHPYvSqiqON65nD1dSiyatuQnriclBxLYocYZpvXLK-xsnWTjl-EVIepWvEApzPw4tnOgD07tHXunWc6nwIKvgfM_Xx_dIshsst/s200/Ides+of+November+053.JPG" /></a></div>I pulled the rushes into a single pile with a rack and then leaned over and gathered them into my arms to carry them into the woods behind the house where they can decompose naturally and feed the trees. <br />
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I felt a teeny something on the back of my right thigh and thought a leaf may be stuck to my pants. But my hands were full of fronds and the footing was leaf covered and irregular so I headed for the woods. All the while, my right thigh felt a slight pressure, as if something was floating over it. In my imagination, the leaf was on the outside of my pants, snagged in the fabric somehow which account for a sense of movement.<br />
<br />
I dropped the cuttings in the woods and looked back to examine my pants. No leaf. I put my hand on the outside of my gray khaki pants. I felt something long and slender extending from under my buttock check to the back of my knee. Something moving. What lives in tall grasses? Snakes - green garden snakes or green grass snakes. <br />
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My heart raced. My sneakers raced over the leaves, skittering up the hill toward my back door. My hand tried to grasp what I thought must be the snake's head and pull it away from my body. Were they poisonous? Were any of my neighbors home? The elementary school teachers leave at 6:30 AM. I'd heard my next door neighbor's car rumble at 6:57 AM as I'd been in the midst of a "rah-rah" self motivating lecture to get out of bed. No one was home to help.<br />
<br />
Wait - no one was at home to see me frantically unclasping my pants and unfolding them to my ankles so I can grab the snake and throw it deep into the woods. My fingers fumbled with the button and the zipper. Standing ankle deep in leaves behind Dave's house, I pulled my pants inside out and down, grabbed the long green intruder into my hand and just before I tossed it into the woods, discovered it was a long frond of grass. How it found its way into my pants will never be explained.<br />
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But the reason I am not a landscape artist is easily explained.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0NQtf2YLb2uMvdfvJf9ofUjbEPvt1Iut5zO_hcKMCEtr4tPqWKSihjF8O3PLLbJ7j89SjvadXFEJ8V3HuIRbB5DlmVFsUz3o_9Oe4mIkNCBz1eDZ5VurKrntAGuZCXdPzqCU8QDyfbKjp/s1600/garden+snake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="150" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0NQtf2YLb2uMvdfvJf9ofUjbEPvt1Iut5zO_hcKMCEtr4tPqWKSihjF8O3PLLbJ7j89SjvadXFEJ8V3HuIRbB5DlmVFsUz3o_9Oe4mIkNCBz1eDZ5VurKrntAGuZCXdPzqCU8QDyfbKjp/s200/garden+snake.jpg" /></a></div>Just Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07531986024149005754noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6072731044236930183.post-43366761101082061072011-11-04T06:31:00.000-07:002011-11-04T06:31:50.338-07:00Make a Book Style eReader Cover - wikiHow<a href="http://www.wikihow.com/Make-a-Book-Style-eReader-Cover">Make a Book Style eReader Cover - wikiHow</a>Just Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07531986024149005754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6072731044236930183.post-15929583245247579472011-10-09T21:33:00.000-07:002015-02-06T08:32:41.271-08:00Common CourtesyEveryone understands rules and procedures and laws. <br />
Common courtesy is more of a mystery. "Common" means something you do for family members, good friends, co-workers? Does it include the shoppers at the mall, the grocery store? What about the panhandler on the medium at the red light when even though it is 102 degree in August and the air conditioner in your car is broken, you roll up the windows and stare straight ahead. Or racing to the office with a box of donuts, the fellow who sleeps beneath the awning of the machine parts store on Calvert Street raises his hand? Is it common courtesy to offer him a donut? <br />
<br />
We all know where "common" courtesy begins; where does it stop? <br />
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How do you decide that one person deserves compassion, consideration, and another does not? How is one person determined to be inhuman? What makes us shift from polite and waving in the Dodge caravan carrying several children trying to merge versus inching bumper to bumper to make sure the Ford 150 pickup truck with gun rack and rebel flag does not merge. Or perhaps it's the tractor trailer or the Jaguar or the 1957 Chevy with historic tags? Why can't we be generous to all? What rears up and pushes our molars together, grits the teeth, pinches the lips, hunches the shoulders?<br />
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Why can't common courtesy be "common" for all.Just Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07531986024149005754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6072731044236930183.post-24328506020006818982011-05-10T18:58:00.000-07:002011-05-10T18:58:34.106-07:00MOB on Mother's DayWhen Sara was four and I wrapped her in a towel from her bath, held her up to the mirror and sang, "Here, she is Miss America," I had no idea of exactly how beautiful of a woman she would become. Not magazine cover beauty but rather the type of woman who is beautiful to the bone. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZqyfG9TlQtgrTdYtV_HRioyp9bR2I6L2c5DJCPaf6c49Eioa1X59ADW9dCag9Z_RH5RLj3BUZoCUXECJEus5PBApSaSGO-QeneSe7Xt6BWsng0fQ_JBqVmZUIXbctlndcRSJxmvq8lh9m/s1600/227773_2007908523494_1417123178_32352695_8304426_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZqyfG9TlQtgrTdYtV_HRioyp9bR2I6L2c5DJCPaf6c49Eioa1X59ADW9dCag9Z_RH5RLj3BUZoCUXECJEus5PBApSaSGO-QeneSe7Xt6BWsng0fQ_JBqVmZUIXbctlndcRSJxmvq8lh9m/s320/227773_2007908523494_1417123178_32352695_8304426_n.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Mother's Day found me in New York City with my daughter, Sara, celebrating her bachelorette weekend. Most parents will understand that this is a miracle. My daughter and her bridesmaids (Gretchen and Bridget) also invited my sister, Pam, and my sister in law, Debra. A true bonding of generations of strong, smart, independent, loving women gathered to rejoice that one of us has found a wonderful partner, a man suitable and worthy of her amazing attention and affection.<br />
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I could provide an itinerary of events, funny moments, remarkable moments. But the moment that will follow me is not her surprise on seeing our matching tee-shirts, or her shock that we were taking a knitting tour, or the subtle blush of viewing Le Scandal burlesque show. The moment was small, minor, easily missed by most.<br />
<br />
When I was a young woman, my mother would take my hand and hold it out next to her hand, telling me how beautiful, unlined, and lovely was my skin, my fingers. As I aged, I witnessed my hands slowly become her hands; the raised veins and sunspots, the nails with exact same weaknesses. At first I was appalled to see her aging hands at the ends of my wrists; and then after I lost her, I realized the beauty there and how I would now comfort myself, mother myself, with her hands discovered in my own fingertips. <br />
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My daughter, without explaining or speaking, took first my left hand and spread it out and looked at my fingers, my nails and then I held out my right. Foolishly, I wondered if she worried how I would look at her wedding with my unvarnished and uneven nails. I was wrong. She was looking at my hands with love just as I have looked at her unlined, strong hands that constantly create loving meals, beautiful crafts, efficient work. Sara did not see my hands through my own critical veil but rather just as the continuation of capable women's hands in our family. <br />
<br />
As a mother, seeing my children successful and happy would have been enough, but to be invited into her world for such a milestone event is something mother's do not even imagine. <br />
<br />
This mother's day, I was a very fortunate mother.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHkbfIK3dvCu-GOfaMVz6p0r9Pn376bzkw_NxuYYom8GEfip5po0OQtbXeD0e3v_PjR7jX8uln4J_feM61x4M8S5-8BclacwgWtxHjoFntQ_KvKqT6cL8MrUteJmYdXAu-9Ef-O6j8osxf/s1600/Bachelorette+group+photo+love+it.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="266" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHkbfIK3dvCu-GOfaMVz6p0r9Pn376bzkw_NxuYYom8GEfip5po0OQtbXeD0e3v_PjR7jX8uln4J_feM61x4M8S5-8BclacwgWtxHjoFntQ_KvKqT6cL8MrUteJmYdXAu-9Ef-O6j8osxf/s400/Bachelorette+group+photo+love+it.jpg" /></a></div>Just Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07531986024149005754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6072731044236930183.post-5039984001571163332011-05-01T15:50:00.000-07:002011-05-01T15:57:40.137-07:00Silence<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmz6AFL2UClm56-DacvhO8zkN1q_aTJr0YQrEnr_NgJiUvc4_D2qDTfJdsu9PVtdqbCwQc50HF29j-UGyJhO19ggln1NraiPkdG6u4Gki2JeGTGIetnNkq5xvzDhERGGCTJfm8eY3e9aZA/s1600/IMG_0419.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmz6AFL2UClm56-DacvhO8zkN1q_aTJr0YQrEnr_NgJiUvc4_D2qDTfJdsu9PVtdqbCwQc50HF29j-UGyJhO19ggln1NraiPkdG6u4Gki2JeGTGIetnNkq5xvzDhERGGCTJfm8eY3e9aZA/s320/IMG_0419.JPG" /></a></div><i>"Silence, according to scientific study, is the most terrifying thing for people." </i>Bob Dylan<br />
<br />
I've just finished a poem titled <i>Silence </i>that will appear in <a href=" www.thelightekphrastic.com">The Light Ekphrastic</a> next issue.<br />
<br />
Many silent days occur in my life between semesters. It makes the transition back a bit difficult; accustomed to quiet (except for Sally barking at the planes), accustomed to no one expecting anything, not expected anywhere -- returning becomes difficult. But maybe it is good preparation. In the end, all will be silence, quiet, solitary.Just Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07531986024149005754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6072731044236930183.post-83968794513536624362011-04-23T22:17:00.000-07:002011-04-23T22:17:55.115-07:00Checking InThat is what we ask - <br />
just give me a call to check in -<br />
oh, no. too much. Well just an email<br />
or even a txt. When you get <br />
home. <br />
<br />
Nothing more. Just a<br />
nod. So I know, my <br />
world has not ceased<br />
while I was walking the dog.<br />
<br />
Just a comfort to <br />
stave the 3:24 AM clutch. <br />
Nothing more. While I am<br />
checking the weather for your trip.<br />
<br />
Which begins at 8:30 AM<br />
on the same day. And the Atlantic<br />
so unpredictable, like Omaha and <br />
Kansas; or today, Missouri. <br />
<br />
Just checking. Always<br />
checking.Just Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07531986024149005754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6072731044236930183.post-80060851120962791022011-01-09T09:14:00.000-08:002011-01-09T09:14:06.743-08:00As a poet . . .I wrote this recently after receiving the word "wormwood" in my Word-of-the-day email:<br />
<br />
<b>Fragrant Wormwood</b><br />
<br />
Pungent flower dying<br />
on the dining room<br />
table. Wednesday and<br />
<br />
the world is<br />
blanketed with wormwood.<br />
Death stinking of<br />
<br />
regret, remembrance, and<br />
rind. Rejection nuzzling my<br />
pocket, trigger finger<br />
twitching.Just Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07531986024149005754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6072731044236930183.post-5471913233496037582010-09-20T19:55:00.001-07:002015-02-06T08:33:02.215-08:00Name this quote"Freedom isn't the position that the world supports. You have to wear a suit of armor to defend it."Just Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07531986024149005754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6072731044236930183.post-16368836035892310262010-08-19T08:36:00.000-07:002010-09-20T19:57:30.791-07:00The Importance of ToneTone of voice is important in both written and spoken word.<br />
<br />
I am currently enrolled in a class on Wimba (a voice over internet protocol that enhances online learning). As one of my projects, I decided to record a podcast on the topic of tone in Flannery O'Connor's short story, <i>A Good Man is Hard to Find</i>. <br />
<br />
To learn more and to listen, just enter a screen name below (you don't have to pre-register and you can use any name that suits you. <script type="text/javascript">
this.focus();
</SCRIPT><br />
<br />
<script type="text/javascript" SRC="http://umucvoice.wimba.com:80/umucvoice/pc/pc.js"></SCRIPT><br />
<script type="text/javascript">
var w_p = new Object();
w_p.language="en";
w_p.rid="485-1282231113678";
if (window.w_pc_pc_tag) w_pc_pc_tag(w_p);
else document.write("Applet should be there, but the Voice Tools server is down");
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<noscript><br />
Your browser does not seem to be configured correctly to be able to use Wimba<br />
Tools. Please go through the<br />
<a href="http://umucvoice.wimba.com:80/umucvoice/wizard/launcher.jsp"> Setup Wizard</a> to configure it correctly.<br />
</NOSCRIPT>Just Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07531986024149005754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6072731044236930183.post-47399682778262813662010-08-13T19:25:00.000-07:002010-08-13T20:03:51.295-07:00"Eat" of Eat, Pray, LoveSo at age 32, Elizabeth Gilbert had what every writer dreams about; a successful career as a writer. Paperback copies of her latest success, <span style="font-style:italic;">Eat, Pray, Love</span>, are available for as little as $2.29 (plus shipping) on the internet. Which raises the question that vexes most writers (and musicians, photographers, etc.); how are we to make a living when our creations are so readily consumed and made available for free or near to it? <br /><br />Printed matter mounds on the mortician's table and music has been pirated without remorse for over a decade (unless you count those mix tapes that are featured in <span style="font-style:italic;">Eat, Pray, Love</span> invoking a nostalgia for simpler times. All the writers of my acquaintance testify to their devotion to the printed book; the lure of the printed page. the scent of pages enclosed between leather or cloth book ends. Well, few of us recall the scent of the mimeograph but it had an allure also and, yet, is long expired. Like them, my collection of printed matter is extensive, and much of it is housed in boxes in my basement for lack of shelf space in my busy life. And unless they hiding their collection in the attic, I might guess the same is true of them. Not that their affection and devotion to printed books is any the less. And is it only the musicians who long to collect vinyl? I am not certain of either group of artists but I do know that I can purchase Pink Floyd's <span style="font-style:italic;">Dark Side of the Moon</span> for $11.88 and my guess is that it would have cost me a bit more than that to buy it when it was first released. The value of art and artistic expression does not exist in the product. Yet, Elizabeth Gilbert was supporting herself, her husband (for the most part) and entertaining a lover at age 32 when she ditched it all equally. Or perhaps not so equally. <br /><br />Certainly, the husband was gone forever, and the lover as well. But writing a memoir of a trip to three provocative locations and selling the movie rights and then having Julia Roberts as your doppelganger goes a long way toward thinking that perhaps she was walking away from a successful career as a writer. Rather that taking the writing career with her was the one thing she never abandoned.<br /><br />I tend to agree with Maureen Callahan's review in the New York Post that the spiritual aspects of the book are superficial in the face of "the worst in Western fetishization of Eastern thought and culture, assured in its answers to existential dilemmas that have confounded intellects greater than hers." However, the movie provoked a bit richer response. In the book, the reader gets the sense that the author is skirting and skirting in memoir is a breach of contract. Movie audiences expect a bit of subterfuge from film; viewers are accustomed to reading the actors' actions and expressions, to filling in the blanks with their own experiences to a greater degree than with memoir. I did not approach the movie with an expectation that motivations and outcomes would be explained and found myself, in a few scenes, revealed.<br /><br />However, few writers' work end up on the big screen. Most of us work in solitaire, without much hope of publication, with little hope of film adaptation, and while asking if you'd "like fries with that" or nursing, teaching, soldiering, etc. <br /><br />So how will any poet, writer, musician put food on the table, shoes on their children, rhinestone collars on their dogs? I'm not sure. I do know that I am perfectly willing to make travel arrangements for executives, take minutes, file, walk dogs, edit, design a logo, or detail your car if it will support my writing habit.Just Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07531986024149005754noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6072731044236930183.post-40319394190180900282010-08-09T06:23:00.000-07:002010-08-09T09:36:22.395-07:00Gypsy Serving Wench Served Amazing GraceAnd now for my next trick . . .<br /><br />So, I was invited to take a spin at being a server and bartender's assistant last weekend. A bit apprehensive as to my abilities to gather guests' glasses and plates and offer them cocktails, I discovered that several decades of participating in and hosting parties had prepared me quite well.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYtcOADSPBZEQPwL3A_k8hOlt6EaftjdL9VJNDz-5Bq0dZABIt8RIICqt9ZxV9wvh6RlQxYzfOBcuTnQUoN7tXTgE4OSVi_DRIwn-FDCuLGdjpg33lqwF2R3T6D32GZ1LdqKhsIzBIfyWx/s1600/roses+in+August+005.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYtcOADSPBZEQPwL3A_k8hOlt6EaftjdL9VJNDz-5Bq0dZABIt8RIICqt9ZxV9wvh6RlQxYzfOBcuTnQUoN7tXTgE4OSVi_DRIwn-FDCuLGdjpg33lqwF2R3T6D32GZ1LdqKhsIzBIfyWx/s320/roses+in+August+005.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503408939738785906" /></a>The hostess' home (located in Arlington, VA - yes, the gypsy will travel for work) is magically decorated with some touches of southwestern natural beauty and the in-ground pool was ringed with tiki torches under a ceiling of soaring trees and a star-filled sky. She was even prepared with a mint bush so we were able to prepare an unlimited supply of mojitos for Susan, the birthday girl and the other guests. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-u6zXWTMEi54j2aDx-AYefOSfkUEQscizzFB4qKyvq93ARxYonZs8zZ5lJSsoF539pw3LOO1uTKpRume9t-lwBRTi4EbvEKAbUMguMdxnT1dRIhhDj-_RwDQhdOW1bJTJm6X4p2mL44-Q/s1600/roses+in+August+001.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 173px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-u6zXWTMEi54j2aDx-AYefOSfkUEQscizzFB4qKyvq93ARxYonZs8zZ5lJSsoF539pw3LOO1uTKpRume9t-lwBRTi4EbvEKAbUMguMdxnT1dRIhhDj-_RwDQhdOW1bJTJm6X4p2mL44-Q/s200/roses+in+August+001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503412169898907138" /></a>At the beginning of the party, I limited myself to only preparing sodas and pouring beer or wine. However, with the direction and encouragement of the expert bartender, I eventually found myself mashing mint leaves in a collins glass with a muddler and adding the other refreshing elements. Soon I was whipping up margaritas and cosmopolitans like I'd been doing it for - - - well, for a few hours anyway. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid1bh_5GpGiKVwcnwkjW2tdSD-XMR1ax7BQsVIOpvMemHDf-PBlOs_h_SZ2kSQb8NW9lzU2GIyG5CLGQkX0psjfzVTvxodh703LvT27pR6eDA05_av4C8gSDkd-nud94mDatGhzxDXUeCK/s1600/roses+in+August+002.jpg"><img style="float:center; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid1bh_5GpGiKVwcnwkjW2tdSD-XMR1ax7BQsVIOpvMemHDf-PBlOs_h_SZ2kSQb8NW9lzU2GIyG5CLGQkX0psjfzVTvxodh703LvT27pR6eDA05_av4C8gSDkd-nud94mDatGhzxDXUeCK/s200/roses+in+August+002.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503409289025495954" /></a><br />As the evening was winding down and I stood elbow deep in dishes at the hostess' sink, five of the guests began to sing Amazing Grace a capella. Their voices blended in sweet and tender harmonies, and I thought what a grace it can be to be of service in any capacity. The hostess thanked us repeatedly, remarking that this was the first time in six years of hosting parties at her home that she'd been able to "be at the party."Just Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07531986024149005754noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6072731044236930183.post-30303447040859330072010-07-06T12:29:00.000-07:002010-07-06T12:57:34.321-07:00Smart Companies Hire the Overqualified .The work place has changed dramatically since our parents (mostly our fathers) started in the mail room, worked their way into middle management positions or vice president positions, and retired with a pension, a gold watch, and health benefits. Some employers do still invest in new employees by offering benefits, training, leave time, and opportunities to advance. However, some employers expect 10-12 hour days, no leave in the first year, minimal benefit offerings, and new hires to be fully experienced and capable in every aspect of their businesses. The hiring spectrum includes everything in between.<br /><br />Then two years ago, employers experienced the worst downturn in business since the 1970s. They laid off workers, they closed divisions, flattened management (eliminating much of the middle management), cut benefits, and discovered free software tutorials on the internet for training. The result is that many middle-aged professionals could not find positions at their level; they were under-qualified for the next level up; they were over-qualified for the support positions. Highly capable and unemployed, scrounging for work so they can keep their homes, their health, keep the lights on. <br /><br />Since when did companies not want to get more for less money? Hiring over-qualified candidates is the smart decision. Companies get employees who are grateful to be working, grateful to be useful, mature and independent but dedicated and reliable and with skills exceeding the minimum required for the position. It is true that that employee may someday leave for a higher level position if one doesn't exist within the company -- but hasn't that been the case for a long time now. Hire the overqualified candidate; they will keep their house, pay taxes, buy a new car, send their child to college, and probably be so grateful they will give more than they get.Just Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07531986024149005754noreply@blogger.com0