1 March 1962

Goodness me are you really fifty?
And yet you’re really still quite nifty
Suppose now you’ll have to be
Staid and refined, not unlike me
So when, if we ever, go out downtown
Who’ll get the job of playing the clown
I guess not us, we’ll be toeing the line
We’ll leave that to the youngsters, still 49

Still Alive!

This is just to let you all know that Ralphie is still alive and kicking- Do excuse the typos and such,  I am having one hell of a time trying to operate a keyboard that is half in Arabic! I am more or less in the middle of nowhere here, but have finally found an internet caffee- They do not seem to use a full stop here- I should be back in the land of Cyber tomorrow, Somebody willing! I love  and miss you all, big hugs and smackeroos from me!

A Writer, Really….How Lovely!

Writers are carnal bastards that talk with their fingers. We live to tell everything. We live to expose our soft under bellies because we are all shameless exhibitionists. We are profoundly sensitive and we care too much, but, oddly, we won’t answer the phone when our best friend calls because we are sleighed in the spirit of our selfish little characters~ who are in reality our truest “best friends.”
We’re so egotistical that we think our very thoughts are newborn suggestions that the world has yet to experience. We all foolishly reckon that our ideas are unique, and that our minds are tragic playgrounds well worthy of quotation marks. In short, we think we are God and as long as our fingers are moving, we are, and this makes us drunk with happiness.
We are like a bunch of venal children all shamelessly rolling up our sleeves, showing off our big emotional muscles. We spend whole years trying to tell an elaborate lie that is couched within an elegant truth, and we yammer on about what a curse it is to live in our own heads. Most of us never get anything notable published.

They say to be an idiot is to keep doing the same thing with the same results, but, we keep doing the same thing and generally, we keep getting the same results, but, we are in so madly in love with ourselves, or in hate with ourselves, that there is little time for much else in our world.
I imagine writers are generally well heated lovers, we aren’t much good for anything else. After all, most of our day is spent in fantasy. We are big on “detail” work, and we are disgustingly vulgar, if we are any good at all at what we do.

Souls…. In Literature and In Life

Not always, but habitually I can see straight through most pretenders.  I can’t read palms or look into your eyes and tell you all about your future, but, simply give me some time alone with your words, in person or in print and in a brief while, I will see your heart.  I’m not talking about making a judgment on your character; I am talking about a possessing refined sensitivity to the discernment of genuine or fake frames of energy.  I’m not alone or even special in this ability, most readers and writers are the same as I, for in order to create or comprehend rich, multi-faceted characters, one must intuit or convey the character or individual’s sincerity…. or lack of it.  The more brilliant the individual/character is~ the more powerful are their techniques of illusion. The smart characters that are being less than authentic endear themselves to one in prettier or more creative ways perhaps, but, a keen ear and good common sense over rule even a brilliant liar in person or in print.

I think this is why writing fiction is such a difficult task. Your story can be totally made up, anyone can make up big lies that assemble themselves into a nice story, however, that main character had better have a valid soul that its reader can sense, or the novel will be impotent. It’s the same way with the “real” people that weave themselves in and out of our lives. They can lie to themselves and to us, but, perceptive people can generally discern reality from trickery when they come face to face with an act of spiritual forgery.

Another Wintry Dawn

I realize that I write about early mornings repetitively, but, I am so excited about the dawning of a new day, I have no restraint.  What possibilities lay ahead and how can I make this day count in truly meaningful ways?  This morning is black; still, I can make out a fine icy dusting of snow on the pines. I step out onto the deck, I have now wandered into the powerful embrace of a bitter wind that is battering the heavy wind chimes; I shiver and listen in awe. I am suddenly transported; I am in a temple, a holy place.  I brace myself to stand within the wintry gust in my cotton gown and bare feet, I am blessed. Inside the house, the air is herbal, and thirteen candles are glowing, on my altar, and on the mantle, oh, no…..this number is not on purpose, that is just the count this morning, the room where I type now is golden.  I move to the kitchen, there are several old dogs snoring in the fleecy circles of various doggie beds as I tip toe sure footedly past them. I get a whiff of freshly brewed coffee that is ready for me, magic is everywhere.  A lamp floods the room with softness. Salem is following me, mewing loudly, he is eager to engage me.  I have everything I need this morning here in my little humble house on the hill. I have known sad mornings, I have known tragic mornings, I have known mornings of dry eyed despair, and, perhaps, this is how I know the difference.  My heart is ever grateful for icy, herbal, windblown, candle lit ordinary dawns in an old house that sits between two mother mountains and is filled with familial love and tragedy, for this is the way of our lives on earth, we must gather the blessings of each dark dawn and count them, one by one.

Bless Me Mother

Bless me Mother

For I know things

Things that I Never

Wanted to know

Bless me Mother for

I am spinning

Upon the baked soil

Bare feet, raw toes

Dancing, weaving

Cursing, birthing

Singing, a cherished tune

Beneath the frosted moon

Toiling for naught,

Dancing for no one

Bless me Mother for

I listen with one ear

I see with one eye

A light that is too bright

A song that is too loud

I’m too sensitive

Bless me Mother

For I have blisters

That weep



Unto my Books — so good to turn —
Far ends of tired Days —
It half endears the Abstinence —
And Pain — is missed — in Praise —

As Flavors — cheer Retarded Guests
With Banquettings to be —
So Spices — stimulate the time
Till my small Library —

It may be Wilderness — without —
Far feet of failing Men —
But Holiday — excludes the night —
And it is Bells — within —

I thank these Kinsmen of the Shelf —
Their Countenances Kid
Enamor — in Prospective —
And satisfy — obtained —

The Upside-Down Appeal of ‘Downton Abbey’

From The New York Times:

<Click here to read!>

A comment from bronxie in florida, February 18th, 2012 – 6:56 pm

Exclamations and explanations are beyond necessary. If you don’t enjoy, love or understand. this outstanding serial….just forget it and dwell elsewhere.. As a long awaited follow up to the Upstairs Downstairs programs and their like, it’s excellence is doubled by the ease of watching and enjoying….and keep in mind, there were only two social classes at that time, both of which one was born into…the escape into a (new) middle class was due to the Typewritter. Attention given to the social order of the downstairs occupents is observed.
And the writing is so real, from the mouths of the assorted personalities whom dwell in the Manor House.
This program “ain’t broken” and needs no fixin’ or criticism.

For a peek of the social atmosphere of that time period, watch My Fair Lady.

from Emma Hardy for The New York Times


Inner Journey

Today I will be absent. Ashes will gather on the hearth and dirty dishes fill the sink.  It is cold – my icy fingers clutch my coffee mug for warmth.  The open windows admit the birdsong and the chill.   Candles flare in the draughts and smoke from joss sticks swirls around the room.


I am away – relishing my inner landscape – wandering on the black mountains, through the stone circles.  Sun shines through gauzy cloud on Penmaenhead and droplets gather in my hair.  The hares race past me, feet drumming on the hollow earth .   I hear the sheep and lambs calling to each other lower down the hill.  I glimpse ravens through the mist.   I follow in the steps of other women in ages immemorial.  I feel their spirits brushing mine..  Songs in my heart from nowhere – paeans of praise and lamentations.  Lonely pipes and whistles guide my steps to a fallen stone.  I sit, shrouded in mist, listening – waiting. Then suddenly the cloud lifts – shafts of  sunlight on the waters catch my breath. Puffin Island is emerald green in the sable sea,   A robin sings in the brambles.


A homely song – it is coming in through the window – and I am home again – restored and thankful to the Goddess.

Ralphie Off-line…

from iisg.nl

Sorry folks, but real life is catching up with me. I have to go and do some real work for a change. I leave this site in the capable hands of my fellow authors for a couple of days.

See yawl when I get back. Don’t forget me now, you hear!?

Don’t worry, I’m not on the chain-gang yet!