A test

So i finally joined the 21st century. I got a “smart phone”, a Samsung NOTE. Testing to see if this app really works for wordpress. While this phablet (phone / tablet) is big it functions well. The screen is beautiful. But the touch screen is taking a while to get use d to.


Om shanti

Continue reading “A test”

Ommmmmmm…….Yum & Yuck

Tom Robbins, author of Still Life with Woodpecker &  Even Cowgirls Get the Blues once wrote that there are only 2 mantras ‘Yum’ & Yuck’.

And if you think about it there’s some wisdom there. Things either nourish us or they don’t. Food, thoughts, ideas, the people in our lives can either be beneficial or damaging, or at the very least not nourishing. It always seems to come down to the choices we make. Choices about what food to eat or people to hang with or which thoughts & ideas we allow to linger in our minds.

Some choices are obviously not beneficial, smoking, eating heavily processed foods or staying in an abusive relationship.  Some choices, at least on the surface, seem like a good idea at the time. For example I know a woman, a dear friend, who read about how carrots are good for you. So she began to eat more carrots…. a lot more carrots! Sounds like a good thing, Yummy, right? All that vitamin A and beta carotene, feel healthier just thinking about it. But if all you eat are raw carrots for several months you can raise the levels of vitamin A in your body to dangerous heights. And that’s what she did, ate so many carrots she turned orange, her palms,  her eyes, Orange! True story folks. 

So what in your life is Yummy or Yucky? What choices can you make everyday to balance your Yum and Yuck!

Om shanti


Viva La’ Evolution!

I love it when I read someone’s great post and it invokes in me the need to write a novel in the comments section.  A lovely post by Diane, over at In My Opinion, was just such a post, she writes about her life and how she has changed. She talks about not being perfect and how she made changes in her life, it’s a great piece. My brain immediately picks up on the ‘perfect’ bit and takes off running. It’s a subject that we have all struggled with, women especially, we are bombarded by the media, told what is perfect, whether it’s about our bodies or how clean our house is or about the choices we have made in our lives.

No One Is Perfect! Nothing is perfect!

Perfect doesn’t exist.  And even if you have a picture perfect body right now that will change. Maybe, right now, you have the perfect job or the relationship side of your life is peachy keen, trust me that will change too. But change can be a good thing; maybe your body changed due to child-birth, having kids is worth it! Maybe your future  holds a career change that right now you can’t imagine but will allow you to grow and to serve in ways you never thought of. Change is constant. It’s an evolutionary process that is necessary. As a child you changed almost daily, growing taller, reaching puberty, getting your braces off, experimenting with hair styles. The only thing that won’t change is your past, so don’t let it screw up your future, embrace the here & now.  And know that life is ever-changing. But the constant change doesn’t mean you don’t put down roots or settle on a hair color that works for you. It means that nothing is perfect!

So whether it’s your body or lifestyle or work you choose, cut yourself some slack and go all Bobby McFerrinn and Dont Worry Be Happy, especially with the choices you make right now, because they may change. Hell they will change or you’ll change or the people around you will change. So how can perfect be achieved if we are all still evolving? Lets embrace those changes.


Om Shanti


What a waste of time!

Fear is a waste of time, energy and potential. Use your time & energy wisely and you will find your potential.

So what fear blocks you from your potential?

Fear of loss or maybe of winning? Fear of failure or success? Fear of death or life? Fear of pain or change? The list is endless…until you decide to end it.

Fear causes us to shrink, to draw in and retreat. But fear you say can keep us safe, when we’re afraid of fire we’re less likely to get burned, but wouldn’t it be more productive if instead of fear based thinking, you could turn it around and tell yourself you have a healthy respect for things that could do potential harm. Respect inst the same as fear. Fear holds you back from all that you could achieve and all that you could do for others. Turn your thoughts around and ‘fear’ of something becomes ‘doing’ something and ‘being’ someone.

And really, all you get from a fear of fire is the inability to roast marshmallows.

Om shanti


Ray Bradbury

Ray Bradbury, one of the most prolific Syfy and fantasy writers of the last 100 years has passed away leaving a legacy of writings that are as diverse and thought-provoking as any writer of his day. I don’t know the exact numbers but he has to be in the top 5 for the total number of short stories written. My favorite Bradbury collection is ‘I sing the body electric’. I  first read Bradbury after I married my first husband (arguably the smartest person I ever met, without a lick of common sense), he introduced me to many writers of great ideas, some better than others, but Bradbury’s stories always seemed to conjure up movies in my head. Was it the way he wrote or the stories themselves, I don’t know. I try not to analyze books I love, it takes the fun out of them, same goes for movies. If I like, that’s it, ‘nough said. I will read it over and over and over.
Bradbury is probably best known for the following works;
‘The Martian Chronicles’
‘Something wicked this way comes’
‘A medicine for melancholy’
and of course his classic work Fahrenheit 451
for which he wrote the following
 About two years ago, a letter arrived from a solemn young Vassar lady telling me how much she enjoyed my experiment in space mythology, The Martian Chronicles.       But, she added, wouldn’t it be a good idea, this late in time, to rewrite the book inserting more women’s characters and roles?       A few years before that I got a certain amount of mail concerning the same Martian book complaining that the blacks in the book were Uncle Toms and why didn’t I “do them over”?

      Along about then came a note from a Southern white suggesting that I was prejudiced in favor of the blacks and the entire story should be dropped.

      Two weeks ago my mountain of mail delivered forth a pipsqueak mouse of a letter from a well-known publishing house that wanted to reprint my story “The Fog Horn” in a high school reader.

      In my story, I had described a lighthouse as having, late at night, an illumination coming from it that was a “God light.” Looking up at it from the viewpoint of any sea-creature one would have felt that one was in “the Presence.”

      The editors had deleted “God-Light” and “in the Presence.”

      Some five years back, the editors of yet another anthology for school readers put together a volume with some 400 (count ’em) short stories in it. How do you cram 400 short stories by Twain, Irving, Poe, Maupassant and Bierce into one book?

      Simplicity itself. Skin, debone, demarrow, scarify, melt, render down and destroy. Every adjective that counted, every verb that moved, every metaphor that weighed more than a mosquito – out! Every simile that would have made a sub-moron’s mouth twitch – gone! Any aside that explained the two-bit philosophy of a first-rate writer – lost!

      Every story, slenderized, starved, bluepenciled, leeched and bled white, resembled every other story. Twain read like Poe read like Shakespeare read like Dostoevsky read like – in the finale – Edgar Guest. Every word of more than three syllables had been razored. Every image that demanded so much as one instant’s attention – shot dead.

      Do you begin to get the damned and incredible picture?

      How did I react to all of the above?

      By “firing” the whole lot.

      By sending them rejection slips to each and every one.

      By ticketing the assembly of idiots to the far reaches of hell.

      The point is obvious. There is more than one way to burn a book. And the world is full of people running about with lit matches. Every minority, be it Baptist / Unitarian, Irish / Italian / Octogenarian / Zen Buddhist, Zionist/Seventh-day Adventist, Women’s Lib/Republican, Mattachine/FourSquareGospel feel it has the will, the right, the duty to douse the kerosene, light the fuse. Every dimwit editor who sees himself as the source of all dreary blanc-mange plain porridge unleavened literature, licks his guillotine and eyes the neck of any author who dares to speak above a whisper or write above a nursery rhyme.

      Fire-Captain Beatty, in my novel Fahrenheit 451, described how the books were burned first by the minorities, each ripping a page or a paragraph from the book, then that, until the day came when the books were empty and the minds shut and the library closed forever.

      “Shut the door, they’re coming through the window, shut the window, they’re coming through the door,” are the words to an old song. They fit my lifestyle with newly arriving butcher/censors every month. Only six months ago, I discovered that, over the years, some cubby-hole editors at Ballantine Books, fearful of contaminating the young, had, bit by bit, censored some 75 separate sections from the novel. Students, reading the novel which, after all, deals with the censorship and book-burning in the future, wrote to tell me of this exquisite irony. Judy-Lynn Del Rey, one of the new Ballantine editors, is having the entire book reset and republished this summer with all the damns and hells back in place.

      A final test for old Job II here: I sent a play, Leviathan 99, off to a university theater a month ago. My play is based on the “Moby Dick” mythology, dedicated to Melville, and concerns a rocket crew and a blind space captain who venture forth to encounter a Great White Comet and destroy the destroyer. My drama premiers as an opera in Paris this autumn. But, for now, the university wrote back that they hardly dared to my play – it had no women in it! And the ERA ladies on campus would descend with baseball bats if the drama department even tried!

      Grinding my bicuspids into powder, I suggested that would mean, from now on, no more productions of Boys in the Band (no women), or The Women (no men), Or, counting heads, make and female, a good lot of Shakespeare that would never be seen again, especially if you count line and find that all the good stuff went to the males!

      I wrote back maybe they should do my play one week, and The Women the next. They probably thought I was joking, and I’m not sure that I wasn’t.

      For it is a mad world and it will get madder if we allow the minorities, be they dwarf or giant, orangutan or dolphin, nuclear-head or water-conversationalist, pro-computerologist or Neo-Luddite, simpleton or sage, to interfere with aesthetics. The real world is the playing ground for each and every group, to make or unmake laws. But the tip of the nose of my book or stories or poems is where their rights and my territorial imperatives begin, run and rule. If Mormons do not like my plays, let them write their own. If the Irish hate my Dublin stories, let them rent typewriters. If teachers and grammar school editors find my jawbreaker sentences shatter their mushmild teeth, let them eat stale cake dunked in weak tea of their own ungodly manufacture. If the Chicano intellectuals wish to re-cut my “Wonderful Ice Cream Suit” so it shapes “Zoot,” may the belt unravel and the pants fall.

      For, let’s face it, digression is the soul of wit. Take the philosophic asides away from Dante, Milton or Hamlet’s father’s ghost and what stays is dry bones. Laurence Sterne said it once: Digressions, incontestably, are the sunshine, the life, the soul of reading! Take them out and one cold eternal winter would reign in every page. Restore them to the writer – he steps forth like a bridegroom, bids them all-hail, brings in variety and forbids the appetite to fail.

      In sum, do not insult me with the beheadings, finger-choppings or the lung-deflations you plan for my works. I need my head to shake or nod, my hand to wave or make into a fist, my lungs to shout or whisper with. I will not go gently onto a shelf, degutted, to become a non-book.

      All you umpire, back to the bleachers. Referees, hit the showers. It’s my game. I pitch, I hit, I catch. I run the bases. At sunset I’ve won or lost. At sunrise, I’m out again, giving it the old try.

      And no one can help me. Not even you.


I love it! As I suspect all my blogging writer friends do too,  Bradbury wrote about ideas, so what if some of his ‘ideas’ werent grammatically correct or as someone on the internet pointed out, were ‘inaccurate’; referring to the temperature at which paper burns…really? that’s what you got from the book, the incorrect temperature for burning paper. Wow.

I digress………. From Ray Bradbury my journey into SyFy & fantasy moved to Philip K Dick, Asimov and beyond, my personal favorite is still and probably always will be Glory Road by Heinlein. Not that Heinlein is my favorite author, I don’t have a favourite. Well I do, but my favorites are dictated by the seasons, cycle of the moon, time of day and the mood I’m in.  In reverence to Mr. Bradbury here are some quotes attributed to him.

 “If we listened to our intellect, we’d never have a love affair. We’d never have a friendship. We’d never go into business, because we’d be cynical. Well, that’s nonsense. You’ve got to jump off cliffs all the time and build your wings on the way down. “

“Don’t think. Thinking is the enemy of creativity. It’s self-conscious, and anything self-conscious is lousy. You can’t try to do things. You simply must do things. “

“Love. Fall in love and stay in love. Write only what you love, and love what you write. The key word is love. You have to get up in the morning and write something you love, something to live for. “

“My stories run up and bite me on the leg – I respond by writing down everything that goes on during the bite. When I finish, the idea lets go and runs off. “
“Stuff your eyes with wonder, live as if you’d drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It’s more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories.”


Namaste Ray Bradbury