the pomegranate tiger

This week's prompt for, Sunday Scribblings is Art. They pose the question: What do you make of art? ugly beautiful meaningful incomprehensible It's junk! It's amazing! Art begs a response The progeny of creativity, it speaks to the soul If the soul begets creativity and creativity begets art Does that mean without a soul there is no art? And if a creation provokes no response, is it still art?

(This is another Debra story. I started writing about her as a lark last June 2008 for a writing prompt. If you want to start at the beginning, click --> here . They read in reverse order, so start from June 20, 2008. I have no idea where it will end, but will continue when and if the mood strikes.) “Where is HERE?” Debra demanded. “Looks like a beach.” Trust Charles to state the obvious. Deb was getting annoyed. No. More than annoyed. Pissed off. No. More than pissed off. The pressure of a can’t take it any more, screeching at the sky, gut-wrenching primal scream was building from somewhere in her core. Clenching her fists, she screamed silently inside her head. Not that it was silent inside her head, but Charles couldn’t hear it. Inside her head, it was a long AAAAAAAAAAAAAAArrrrGh!!! with full glottal stop. She turned and with steely determination smiled at Charles through gritted teeth. “Yes, I know it’s a beach. But what beach? Why? And you didn’t answer me. ...

regrets a retrospective wish list litany of could haves and would haves and if only I had knowns of service only to melancholy and late-night insomnia not the light of day ole blues eyes had it right

From Sunday Scribblings , the prompt, Phantoms and Shadows : - things and people, times, places, events and how your memory has treated them. Are there people you try to remember more clearly, phantoms you'd like to reach back into the past and take a firm hold of? What do you remember of your early school years? College years? Your grandparents? First pets, first houses, first friends? Do you have a good or poor memory? If you could go back to any particular time/place to recall more vividly what it was like, what would that be? I have few regrets in life, but recently, I've grown to regret my almost pathological detachment of people from the past. But, am I ready to do something about it? I've lived most of my life like a one-way road trip. I make stops in towns along the way; take the occasional detour or side-trip; meet interesting people; connect with individuals for a short time; then move on to the next town and the next experience with only the obligatory we-shoul...

(a Sunday Scribblings prompt and the continuing saga of Debra ) "Deb, it is you. What are you doing here?" Charles took Debra's hand and yanked her to her feet. As she busied herself with brushing sand -- yet again -- off her clothes, Debra couldn't help but see Charles shaking his head in his annoying, can't believe she's done it again manner. She could feel herself bristling. "What?!!" "Nothing. I just can't believe you're here." Charles shuffled backwards and plopped himself onto the sand. He was dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, faded khakis and sandals. Very un-Charles-like. The last time she'd seen him, he was pounding on her apartment door saying they could still "work things out" if she'd only talk to him. She couldn't be bothered. There was nothing to work out. She ignored his subsequent phone messages, emails, notes and letters. Eventually, they stopped. Their relationship had ended like all her rela...

(Continuation of a previous SS story ). Not your usual pick up, that's for sure. But who said Prince Charming had to come on a white horse? Besides, she'd always wanted a ride in a hot-air balloon. As soon as the gate snapped closed, Debra had a brief moment of self-doubt as visions of a news broadcast flashed through her mind, Witnesses said it looked like a giant fireball as the balloon climbed into the sky and then plunged into the RV Park near the U.S. border. "Oh, stop it! It's only a dream! Enjoy yourself!" She had a habit of thinking the worst. It was a way to shield herself from the inevitable disappointments in life. Her life philosophy went like this: If she could think of the worst case scenario in any given situation and it didn't happen, then she was ahead of the game; wasn't she. Debra could still hear the strains of "Someday My Prince Will Come", but it was morphing into something else. She couldn't quite put her fing...

Debra liked the demented, the dark and the surreal. It reflected her personality. From a young age, she’d realized there was no such thing as happy endings. The pursuit of happiness was for the delusional. To the world, she presented a hard, been knocked around, can take care of myself, so don’t fuck with me veneer. She didn’t believe in fairy tales -- unless they were told by Tim Burton. Yet, in the back of her mind, she harboured the faint hope that there might be a happy ever after for her. Of course, she never allowed anyone to see this hopefulness. So, now, here she was lying on a white sand beach. She couldn’t remember how she got there. She looked down at herself. She was dressed all in white; white slacks, white blouse, white pumps. She strained to remember something – anything. It was surreal; a scene from the Twilight Zone. Wasn’t there a scene like this in Contact where Jodie Foster’s character meets her dead father on a beach? Maybe she was dead. Maybe she wa...

If left to my own devices – no job or early morning commitments – I'd be up most nights until dawn. I'm a night person. I like the solitude. I like the stillness. I like the wrap-around black coziness and the inky-black eeriness; the disconnectedness that sometimes leads to hidden and surprising insights to my soul. Perhaps, these insights were there all along, submerged below the surface of my daytime consciousness – unable to break through because of the noise and clutter of everyday life. I don't know. What I do know is that those niggling, back of the brain feelings ignored during the day because I'm too busy or too pre-occupied, break out full blown at night. The solution to problems, so unanswerable during the day, becomes obvious and self-evident at night. Thoughts and feelings, long ago forgotten become unforgotten. At night, all things seem possible. The line between reality and dream; conscious and sub-conscious thin and fade in those late-night hou...

Life Here comes the ball Whizzing down the lane Straight as an arrow To that sweet spot Strike zone. I've got it Feeling good I'm gonna knock it out of the park. Oops, Curve ball. Strike one. Here comes the ball . . . More Sunday Scribblings

"Quitter!" "Who's a quitter?" "You are." "Just because I don't want to do something anymore doesn't mean I'm a quitter." I don't quit. I give up. Sometimes that's what you have to do. There are times in life when what you are pursuing just isn't worth the time, aggravation and effort anymore - perhaps the pursuit was the real endgame; when you've given it your all and there's no more to give, short of your life or your soul; when it's time to wave the white flag; when it's time to graciously step away and say, "Sorry folks, but I'm done". It's not a bad thing. This is another one of those things I wish I'd known when I was younger, but then again, maybe it's something everyone needs to learn on their own. For Sunday Scribblings

I like to think I'm open to new ideas and the use of new technology. I hum along using current technology, perfectly happy and rather smug that I've mastered new gizmos and the concurrent jargon when, WHAM, it's obsolete. The shift-over starts insidiously enough. A few brave souls try out the new technology. It's usually clunky, not that efficient and prone to problems. More people jump on the bandwagon and the technology improves. Then it's like a switch gets flipped. One minute everyone is using the old ABC, the next, they're using the new XYZ. Think about the switch-overs of vinyl LPs to cassette tapes; cassette tapes to CDs; typewriters to word processors; VHS tapes to CDs/DVDs; dot matrix printers to laser; rooftop TV antennas to cable. The list is endless. I'm not exactly sure when everyone else changed from using rotary dial telephones to push button touchtone phones. I only know that our family must have been one of the last holdouts for rota...

Arms out Joyous Running Balls to the wind. Eyes wide Heart-thumping Leap Into the black hole of unknowns. Accepting Expecting Love Pain Loss Sorrow Knowing Mortality hovers. Running Leaping Regardless Is fearless. Another Sunday Scribblings prompt .

(Look -> here When we were wee , life was like a chocolate sundae. Sweet, yummy and blissful. Perhaps I should say blissed out. Because I don't think childhood is rooted much in reality. At least, not the adult version of reality. Fantasy was a mainstay of my childhood. Bedtime stories allowed my imagination to sprout wings and fuelled inspiration for secret identities where I could be the wicked stepmother or monster one moment and hero the next. No masks necessary. I always met bedtime with anticipation . Bed was a place to go on a dream journey – destination ; unknown. The following morning, I'd sit in the kitchen where I regaled the family with another new tale. These stories always troubled my grandmother. They gave her goosebumps because according to her old-world superstition , she believed that retelling dreams was like bringing a fortune cookie to life. It would bring both punishment and reward , but most likely the former. A powerful ...

Methodology: Six billion people Randomly placed on Land masses Separated by Mountains, rivers, oceans and Ideologies Allow movement and contact. Variables: Leadership Religion Political beliefs Difficult to control Ever changing Observations: One: Fear, hostility, aggression Two: Curiosity, compromise, sharing, strength Results: One: War Two: Peace This bears further investigation. Notably: can the results be skewed to favour War or Peace by the introduction of other variables. A Sunday Scribblings post

Sleep can be rejuvenating refreshing inspirational Just what the doctor ordered. Too often needed drug-induced fitful and nightmarish. Elusive. More Sunday Scribblings

My fridge space alternates Between Double-stacked Tupperware containers containing I-can't-remember-what, but it must be good because I saved it goodies, Styrofoam and plastic takeout holders with leftovers of last weekend's dinner out, green fuzzy science projects in saran covered bowls, Corning ware dishes with mystery meat in maybe gravy and remnants of what looks like stew, opened jars of condiments, jams and jellies ranging from full to one tablespoon left if you scrape the bottom carefully, seven-layer dip that can't be used because we have no chips, oranges and apples jockeying for in-between space amongst the foregoing because the veggie bins are full, and Where the heck can I put the new groceries Stuffed. To Shrivelled apple, desiccated green onion and limp carrot in bin, half carton of skim milk, slice of week-old dry mushroom pizza, and There's nothing to eat Barren. A Sunday Scribblings post.

A Sunday Scribblings blog It wasn't Lydia's finest moment. She lost her cool and snapped at Gail. Gail hadn't done anything to warrant the wrath. She just happened to be the unfortunate rabbit that happened into Lydia's crosshairs at that precise moment. Gail, face flushed and tears welling up, abruptly turned and made a beeline to the ladies' room. Sigh. Lydia went through a quick mental checklist: Should she follow and offer apologies? Let Gail have a good cry first, then apologize later (Lydia was not good at there, there pat on the back hugging consolation)? Just let it go and allow everyone think she's a bitch (which some did anyways). Rats! She headed to the ladies' room. Inside, she found Gail in front of the mirror delicately dabbing smudges of eye makeup on her lower lids. Lydia barely finished her opening line of, "I'm sorry. It wasn't anything you did" before Gail interjected and said it was okay. She understood perf...

(A Sunday Scribblings prompt) My life is made up of miscellanea. The subtitle of my blog sums up much of what drives me and my life. I'm inquisitive. Eclectic is the word I use to describe myself. I love gathering information, following every trail, sniffing out odd words and associations, looking up birthdates, birthplaces and schools of people I see in the news and online. A place I've never heard of? I'll be looking it up. A new book I haven't read? I'll be searching for a review. There isn't a sport that I won't watch at least once, a musical genre I won't give a listen, an author I won't try. When asked about "favourites", I have a hard time coming up with an answer. For example, if someone was to ask me what my favourite sport is, I'd, first of all, have to ask spectator or participation? If spectator; I'd say I like hockey, figure skating, basketball when Phoenix (Steve Nash) is playing, some football (depending on...

or "Are you sure we turn here?" There's something exciting about not quite knowing where you're going. For the sake of this prompt, I'm talking about walks, but it could apply to life in general. This prompt has also given me the opportunity to revisit my trip to Rome taken almost exactly one year ago . It's not that I don't know where I'm going, it's just that I'm not quite sure how to get there. I'd spent months prior to our trip armed with a multitude of maps and guides and had a pretty good mental map of central Rome. Or so I thought. Funny how places aren't quite the same when you actually get there. We were leaving Castel Sant'Angelo where we'd spent the last two hours combing the dark and slightly creepy stone corridors and surveying the expanse of Rome from the parapets. It was nearing twilight and we wanted to see the Trevi Fountain before searching out a place for dinner. So, out we head into darkening Rome. I...

Left Brain According to his list, Lou had precisely four chores to accomplish before noon: Go to the bank, deposit a refund cheque and take out exactly $155. Drop off his grey suit at the drycleaners and make sure it would be ready for pick up by Tuesday, 5 pm; Go to the liquor store and purchase an Australian shiraz he'd read about in Gismondi's column last week. Go to Granville Island Public Market and pick up fixings for dinner: - French baguette at his favourite bakery - Fresh salad greens and cherry tomatoes (at one of two possible grocers, depending on how fresh things looked) - Balsamic vinegar - (2) ¾ inch thick New York strip loins from his favourite butcher - (6) Chocolate truffles He systematically ticked off each item as he accomplished them, carefully following the order on the list so he wouldn't have to back-track. This was very important to Lou. He hated back-tracking and always planned his car routes ahead of time to save both time and gas. He eve...