Writing

Ash In the Wind

/ debbyproulx / Leave a comment

What are your thoughts on the concept of living a very long life? For me, it all depends on the context: are we discussing living for thousands of years like a vampire, or are we discussing downloading a consciousness into an artificial new body, or are we contemplating a normal human life stretched to its limits? It makes a difference; they are all very distinctive states of being.

Firstly, I envision the life of a vampire, living for hundreds or perhaps thousands of years in the darkest corners of the world. Being a vampire, I could travel like the wind, my fear of monsters gone. I’d become popular; cultivating more companions would be as simple as dispensing several affectionate nibbles. Generous victims would provide more than adequate blood and pocket money, and my mood swings would evaporate under the emotionless state of vampire etiquette. Eventually, though, due to the carnage I leave behind, vampire hunters would pursue me. I envision myself chased into hiding, whereupon the heroic hunters ferret out my lair and expose me to full sun. I evaporate; ash in the wind. Not a damn good deed done in my name. No, the vampire life is not for me.

So, the second option of a very long life might be to transfer my consciousness into a lab-grown body or robotic host. Death would become extinct. Granted, it might be exciting for the first few hundred years to do everything I ever wanted to do because I had no time restrictions, but on the other hand, wouldn’t it all become mundane after a few hundred years? Much of our drive and dedication comes from knowing we have a limited amount of time on this glorious planet. And what about people’s ability to have children? Do you think once the planet is infested with billions of artificial immortals that children would even be allowed? Unlikely. Suddenly, this is not my idea of a utopia, this sounds more like a perversion of humanity.

Lastly, I consider the length of a natural human life. As children, it seems long; as adults, it seems short. Our lives are limited by time. We often set a rapid pace, trying to fit in as many things as we can into our day. The older we are, the more precious and valuable our moments become. Many elderly find themselves unwell in heart, body, or mind, yet others find themselves getting along just fine. Aging is an individual process. My husband’s grandma turned one hundred years old last February, and she went skydiving to celebrate. She is doing it again this year. My aunt, who is elderly, swims most mornings, plays bridge twice a week, reads a couple of books a week, sews lap quilts for a charity, has the best sense of humor, and can still weed a garlic patch with the best of them. So, what are my thoughts on the concept of living a very long life? It depends on the individual’s desire. Who am I to say anything else.

Daily writing prompt
What are your thoughts on the concept of living a very long life?
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Cartoon Me

/ debbyproulx / 2 Comments

In the Seventies, Saturday morning cartoons were a heavenly childhood delight, transporting kids into another realm. That wasn’t me, though. I spent my Saturday mornings in hell, watching boring old Popcorn and Peanuts on CBC. It was the only television signal that reached the edges of the Canadian hinterland. So, you see, I was an involuntary member of the CBK’s (Country Bumpkin Kids), condemned to live life without a modern cartoon supplier, such as CTV and ITV. As much as I prayed for another channel to watch, the only station that came in with any clarity at all on our big, beautiful, two-hundred-pound television set was the CBC—the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. I despised being a CBK. While I was confined to watching bad cartoons, the children in towns and cities all across the country were being entertained by shows like Scooby Doo, The Jetsons, The Flintstones, and Bugs Bunny. A lack of decent cartoons often meant I would choose to watch Grams and Gramps bicker rather than watching poker-faced Popcorn and Peanuts. Often, Grams would bribe me with donuts to go away. She was a generous woman. I spent so much time observing bickering matches that my pants became tight.

On rare cold, clear winter days, we could improve our television reception and get rid of CBC by adjusting the antenna on the roof and on the television set. We were able to acquire cartoons from other channels during these rare times. Unfortunately, this manipulation required an adult. So what did we do? We begged. On bended knees, my sisters and I fervently begged our Gramps to affix tin foil to the rabbit ears and climb a ladder to the rooftop to reposition the giant antenna. Our grandfather was heroic. Despite the cold and frosty slickness of the ladder, he donned his large winter coat and gloves and bravely ventured outside to rescue the cartoon day.

Gramps slowly turned the antenna; we hollered out the window to stop when Wile E. Coyote appeared. Here, I want to emphasize that whether it’s a cartoon coyote or a chubby grandpa, they both flail in the same manner when they fall, whether it’s from a roof or a cliff. After Gramps landed, I raced outside as fast as a roadrunner would to check on the poor old hero. Despite his disheveled appearance and the snow covering him, he stood up and seemed unharmed. At this point, I couldn’t resist the urge. I said, “Beep, beep?”

Despite the passage of time, I continue to have a fondness for cartoons. If I ever find myself feeling down or I have a sick day, I simply draw a cartoon of myself or watch one. No more CBK club for me. These days, I can dial up cartoons at any time of the day; even in the Canadian hinterlands. However, I do miss my grandparents bickering…and the donuts.

What was your favourite cartoon? Were you a CBK survivor, too?

Daily writing prompt
What’s your favorite cartoon?
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To The Writers

/ debbyproulx / Leave a comment
writing text, random text, text, paper, notebook, pen. by turtlepod is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0

Pursing the craft of writing requires determination and a certain understanding that failure is a step to success. So, when I think of all the writers who struggle, I laugh. It is not a cackle of cold-hearted humour but a laugh of harmonious hysterics. And we must laugh, because it’s far less painful than banging one’s head against a wall. A day without laughter is a day with bandages on our heads.

And so, I commend all writers on their continued dedication to writing. Storytelling isn’t a craft for cowards; it is for people with golden scissors in the pocket of their pants. A tool to cut well-loved sentences, paragraphs, and chapters. In fact, well-written stories are the result of a bloody and thorough scissor slaughter. My novel, for instance, is beginning to feel like Frankenstein— a cobbled together horror of life.

In the end, dear fellow writers, the only way to finish is to keep on writing. Which oddly doesn’t always mean going forward; often times, in a banging your head against a wall situation, you need to go back to the beginning. Ugh. However, don’t give up. Whether it be forward or back, movement is the key to success. 

Be the flowing words; be the vibrational hum; be the silence and the song. 
Warble on and tell your stories of deep longing in a world of shallow breaths. 
Go outside and walk upon the earth; take notice of the trees and the sky. 
Pause to listen to the screams of silent masses, and then come into yourself and gather up your gifts and share. 
Stories are you; they are me; they are everyone we see. 
Endless tales of wonder and laughter and banging our heads against the walls.