How are you at receiving criticism? Do you prefer that others treat you with kid gloves, or go for brutal honesty?
“Will you form a band with a gander frontgoose?” — Freddie Goose
“Oh, I was not made for heaven. No, I don’t want to go to heaven. Hell is much better. Think of all the interesting people you’re going to meet down there!” ― Freddie Mercury
You’re about to enter a room full of strangers, where you will have exactly four minutes to tell a story that would convey who you really are. What’s your story?
Even better, the story can be told in 3:29 in song format. Here are the lyrics as written by Brian May:
Flash – a-ah – saviour of the universe
Flash – a-ah – he’ll save everyone of us
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
Flash – a-ah – he’s a miracle
Flash – a-ah – king of the impossible
He’s for everyone of us
Stand for everyone of us
He’ll save with a mighty hand
Every man every woman
Every child – with a mighty flash
Flash – a-ah
Flash – a-ah – he’ll save everyone of us
Just a man (eh, hem…Just a gander)
With a man’s (gander’s) courage
He knows nothing but a man (gander)
But he can never fail
No one but the pure in heart
May find the golden grail
Oh oh – oh oh
Changing colors, dropping temperatures, pumpkin spice lattes: do these mainstays of Fall fill your heart with warmth — or with dread?
“Well, darlings, when I was human my birthday was in the fall, but sometimes the leaves hadn’t even begun to change colour yet by September 5th. Fall leaves are spectacular in contrast to the koi pond where I enjoy sitting alone, feeding my fish. Next year I want a bigger pond. The fish are outgrowing this one. I will say that I do not like to feel chilly at all.”
“I would have written a shorter letter, but I did not have the time.” — Blaise Pascal
Where do you fall on the brevity/verbosity spectrum?
The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge. Show us what endurance means to you.
Endurance is developing inside a fragile egg, only to be crushed within 48 hours of hatching and still surviving. Just like a little dinosaur.
Eggs are fragile, yet the eggs of various species survive harsh conditions and still go on to grow an embryo that, in the case of a duck, hatches within a month’s time. Within a few days of hatching, the duckling must start tapping away with that egg tooth in order to “pip” a small breathing hole. But this doesn’t mean she’s ready to hatch, only that her air sacs (lungs) must grow accustomed to breathing air. She will wait in the warmth and moisture within the egg, alternately sleeping and tapping away until the egg cracks, then she will push with her tiny legs and neck so that the egg splits and she is hatched. By that time her umbilical cord will have dried up because she has used all the nourishment the yolk provided to break free from the egg.
Not Bernadette. She was trampled when her mother, a chocolate muscovy duck, defended her from a marauding flock. Bernadette had only begun to pip. She needed a few more days to develop and work her way out the egg. When I found her I thought she would die. I brought mum and Bernie, inside her crushed egg, into the house where I stayed up all night with a ceramic heater blasting onto a wet cloth to provide both moisture and heat for Bernie as I held her and watched for her umbilical cord to dry up. Hours passed. When her umbilical clotted and turned dark brown, I pinched it off and placed her carefully under mum.
I could hear them talking to each other throughout the night. That’s how I knew Bernadette would be okay.
Ready, Set, Done
Today, write about anything — but you must write for exactly ten minutes, no more, no less.
Last night’s dream was amazing and stimulated by a Writing 101 assignment in which description took precedence. My step-aunt, a psychology major at the time, told me back when I was a teen that dreams can be altered, that if I thought about what I wanted to dream about I could control elements of the dream–even stop the dream in its tracks and say, “Hey, wait a minute!” The same day she told me this, I dreamt a demon was chasing me on skis and I stopped and said, “You can’t get me!”
That was that. No more demon. From then on, actually, I did all the chasing in my dreams; I was a demon annihilator.
Dreams lately have been nightly and vivid. Many of them have kept me restless. In slumber last night I found myself at 1 Logan Place just like I’d written about in Day 1 of Writing 101: A Room with a View. Accompanied by my maternal sister E., we were outside the green door with fans’ scribble on its face and the surrounding wall. For some reason I tried the door handle and it opened up to the garden where we stepped inside.
The dream was entirely about Mary, the love of Freddie’s life. She is the person who resides at Garden Lodge, the one Freddie gave his assets to and I have a strong feeling this is because he knew she loved him like no one else ever could or would. I am intimately familiar with a similar situation, a bittersweet, unrequited love that can never be reconciled due to the death of one partner. Yet, Mary’s love for Freddie, and vice versa, was something else. Even if I don’t know whether Mary could move on fully or not, in my own life I am finally going forward. I know she married after Freddie, but it didn’t last. I cannot imagine being surrounded every day by this mansion and garden, the decorations much the same as Freddie had left them. The mixture of love and pain, grief and longing would be heavier than anything else.
My sister and I wandered around the garden while I told her what I knew, surprised to find there were boards leaning here and there against the inside brick walls and privacy screens absent from the top wrought iron fencing on their top half. Being in the garden penetrated my being with pangs of grief that I’ve experienced in other dreams about searching for someone (this person died in real life) I was told was still alive, but I could not find him.
We went up to the door. Even though I was dreaming, my feelings were intense and knocking was difficult. I didn’t know what to expect, but could hear television or radio inside. A curtain of shame loomed over me as I am not one to pester celebrities or bother anyone who wishes for privacy. I’m not an autograph beggar or selfie-with-celebs fan.
I really didn’t want Mary to think I was there to harass her.
A young man opened the door. In some way it was as if he’d expected us. The door swung wide and he stepped back, so we walked in. The foyer was warm. The colors on the walls rich and inviting. There was a wall ahead of us, but slightly to the right were a few steps leading up to an open dining area where Mary sat.
I asked to speak to Mary, but saw her subtly shake her head in the background.
But I held on.
I am inside, I thought. This may be my only chance to ever tell her how I feel.
“Please,” I said. “I want to share something with you, Mary.”
She smiled briefly and approached. She was elegant, slender and tall, compared to me. She looked tired.
We were alone together in a room. A bathroom, it seems. Every word I shared was laden with emotion, so much so that today I cannot recount the words exactly. I felt like a swollen reservoir bursting. How would I ever convince her of my genuine caring?
I told her, I am sure of this, about how beautiful she is and let her know that her pain is obvious to me, that I know of a similar pain. I thought I felt her loneliness.
We hugged. My insides were melting as if all the grief I’d felt in my past hit me at once.
She had an appointment to keep, so my sister and I walked with her out the garden and through the green door.
“May I write you a letter, Mary?” I said.
“That will be fine.”
From Wikipedia: “Love of My Life“ is a ballad by the English rock band Queen from their 1975 album A Night at the Opera. The song was written byFreddie Mercury about Mary Austin, with whom he had a long term relationship in the early 1970s. After performing the song in South America in 1981, the version from their live album Live Killers reached number 1 in the singles chart in Argentina and Brazil, and stayed in the charts in Argentina for an entire year.