The Academy Goes To...

The game of Charades is the best way to begin one's acting career. If you think of what it details knowing that you have to convince the person who it is you are.. If they are able to guess immediately, it shows that it was too easy or maybe went for the obvious.

Here is the opportunity to allow yourself to act the scene out of a favorite movie or act out the performer for the movie and even a simple posture to express it with raw emotion.  We all like to be a performer deep down inside, so earn the Oscar.

Miss Scarlett

The infamous Miss Scarlett it the person that perhaps at least most girls want to be when playing Clue.  With her I can say I was one of the guilty ones.  She is the one of most sensuality that when she did it with the candlestick in the conservatory, it did not matter.  Though she murdered the vile Professor Plum or the orrnery Colonel Mustard the reason was understood why either of the two was to be killed.

For you are not to inflame the anger of a woman in Red.

http://www.hasbro.com/games/en_US/clue/

Ladder, Ladder

How can one say know the treachery that Chutes & Ladders give us.  How we get frustrated that we are almost at the top and then the snap of the spinner we are back to square one.

There was a part in Grown-Ups where Chris Rock (Kurt), Adam Sandler (Lenny) and Kevin James (Eric) playing the game as it was poker.  I enjoyed how they played it for money while using food pieces as chips to gamble on the game. 

Yes the game is competitive and I will admit I do get frustrated when I am about five spaces from winning and I get the ladder that goes back to the bottom. It is an evil evil game and I did when I was younger and playing today with my eight year old gets very competitive and ugly.  

The Mad Hatter

Playing Monopoly I strongly believe is superstistion that in order to win you must play the piece that you are in order to win.  We feel that if we don't have the right piece that we can't win and lose our focus because it isn't our piece.

I like the hat for it reminds me of being a Mad Hatter as in Alice in Wonderland as I study my opponets.  The strategy of the game is always mind blowing and to be one step ahead.  To be calculating is a intricate talent that only a person with a mind of genuine uniqueness can understand and wn.

Don't not think more of what the hat offers, it is not the top hat of that jolly mustached man on the box, no it is the mad hatter who knows all to well.

Go Fish

To state Gold Fish is to this day, I have yet to figure it out. I have had all three of my children teach it to me but for some odd reason, I cannot grasp it.

As simple as it is, I have yet for the life of me understand the mechanics.  But I cannot say no when asked especially as I began the withdrawal process from it a new generation of young cousins arose to play it.

Go Fish

Sunny Volleys

When I went to high school, there were two gym sports I liked to play which was volleyball and dodge ball.  These were the only two classes I enjoyed going to to release any bad moods during my four years of high school.

After high school, there were not many volleyball leagues and yet I wanted to play when I find out that I do not have experience enough. As I moved to Long Island being close to the beach and then finding out there volleyball leagues. Yet once again, to continue from the May 9th's prompt I am a average player and with all sports it is very competitive.

If I look beyond the competitiveness I like to play volleyball where it combines upper and lower body along with wicked workout. Of which volleyball I want to play it is the one on the beach. It is not at all easy especially after the rain.  I love to be in the sun and most probably be nice and tan with a nice perk of being thinner. Volleyball gives the opportunity to work as a team and each person gets a turn in serving the ball.

If the person I want to be for a volleyball player is Gaby Reese.  

City Sports

Sports from where I grew up I don't think is considered an Olympic activity.   I grew up in Brooklyn and Queens so what we did after school, before school and summer was anything that we use a handball with.

In order to play sports unless you could afford it, it wasn't going to happen. The ones who could afford were in Catholic school and with the sport crowd at the high school.  The movies don't lie, it that exact with divided into sections. 

So being the poor our Olympic game was handball which combined aerobics and strength training. Of course it was competitive between schools and cities in the surrounding area. I will be honest, I was not the greatest of players but I tried.

Today living in the Island there is much of selection of handball courts. I think in my 15 years living here I have only seen one at Cedar Beach.  I guess I didn't realize I miss as much for they do not have many stoops in West Babylon or let alone Long Island also. All just flat.

To Win With Dignity

When I was young my parents and teachers taught me how to win right and especially today there is no dignity when you win.

When I won, I had to be humble and congratulate the team that loss. The reason why it taught in that manner that do on others as you do on to you.  As you can see it comes from a catholic school upbringing but it should be the first thing you learn when playing a sport.

I won't say all coaches are like that because there some good one who listen to the child and play for fun.   For every good coach unfortunately there are double the amount of bad. These are the coaches that made me not want to play if I didn't do my best I wasn't picked. The children who were ringers got picked because all they cared about is winning.  What good is winning if there is no one to share it with nor why would you want to play with them.

Be smart, remember kids try their best and some have the talent. If you think and coach in a way that the child with talent can help out those who are not as good.

There are no winners..just try to get along

As a mother of three children, I thought by now I have a better grip of how to react my child lost.  I do not have it all because what worked for one child has a negative effect to another.


To simply state, I am upset and my eyes show the sadness knowing how they worked.  For me, the big girl pants come and then take a deep breath. You do not want the kids to see upset for it upsets them thinking they failed you.  As I approach my child, I look with love in my eyes ready to give them a hug and say you will do better next time.  I am happy that you like to play for yourself and no one else.  You are not paid to act out a scene or score a home run. That is later in life when you know you have to try your best.

You are a girl

Yes, I like to know I am a girl and playing sports was a not an option.  I didn't play any school sport until high school for gym.

I did like playing sports and beating the boys. I know not very nice but I felt more comfortable with them than creatures of my own nature. As we played football, grabbing each other with tackling by the time I was 12 I was told not to play anymore and today I understand why.

Outside of football it came to playing stoop ball, handball and dodge ball. That was dangerous in itself because when the block party time came a lot of aggression was let loose. By the end of the night woke with welts on my legs.

Sports, to each its own but I rather watch my kids since my gift disintegrate as I got older pretty much when I left high school

The Double Dutch Bus

When I was young, a mere child of 10 each day and when gym was outside, the plans were made for the double-dutch game.

As we wait and watch the last five minutes of the clock each of us keeping quiet in class as a rule in Catholic School each planning who was to jump first or who will be turning the rope. It was a group of girls perhaps 10 and played different types of double dutch games. 

Being precocious 10 year old and any reason to sing a song and guess what your boyfriend's name will be. Then there would be giggling but that as what innocence a 10 year old has and should always be.

How to Double Dutch

Won't You Play With Me???

The days of many moons ago where when it was time to play with your friends, it wasn't online it was in the fresh air.

I grew up in Brooklyn for the first ten years of my life and the remainder of my childhood till I got married in Ozone Park, NY.  The one thing I can say is there was always someone to play with especially with a park within a five block radius. 

In Brooklyn, I was the baby of my friends who were two years older than but we were our own little click of Barbie girls.  We played Barbies with clothes my mom made for me and gave them out as favors for my birthday parties.  Then there were days when we just played double dutch especially when my friends had their birthday parties and family came over. As the summer arises, it was skullsy.  With skullsy we all took turns of who would draw the board in the street and collecting the caps from our parents beer bottles. 

Then in Ozone Park click was varied since not many kids were not friendly and clicks were already made.  There were three girls and this time I was the oldest but the girls were like a covenant of sneaks and two faced liars. There were day that we did play outside but it didn't go beyond the street, no one came in the house nor was allowed to go to their homes.

As you can see the Brooklyn was like family just a shame that it had to end when things got unsafe in the neighborhood.

E. E. Cummings

In today's world, it is difficult to find at least to me a realistic approach to what is going on. I can so for myself I am negative but look for realistic views of the world. Though no one likes to hear the negativity I respect it more when I hear it and move forward from there.

in spite of everything by E. E. Cummings
in spite of everything
which breathes and moves,since Doom
(with white longest hands
neatening each crease)
will smooth entirely our minds

-before leaving my room
i turn,and(stooping
through the morning)kiss
this pillow,dear
where our heads lived and were.

I'll be your friend

When I was a child of many moons that passed, the first ten years I had many friends and very family oriented block. We all got along and trust me we had our bad days.  Even with bad day we divided into smaller groups and just waited it out.

Then the dark clouds appeared and we moved to Queens which was a very big change.  The kids were not very open to a girl whose mom made her clothes because everyone else had better things. It took a while for acceptance but no close friendships were established and I was more lonelier.  If I had a fight with one person and someone would take a side.  Then from there until she accepted my apology I pretty much played in my backyard than be made fun of when I walk down the block or sit on my stoop.  

It just is horrible and part of it still happens today. I just wish I knew the name of the book is to be accepted as part of a group not just a grunt. 

Edgar Allen Poe while reading his wiki the first thing that I loved was before his passing he lived in the Bronx New York and a fellow Capricorn. I find it wild that he was in the great state of New York especially in the borough to live his life.

It is sad, that living in a boisterous area, he was a very sad and depressed man. Most of his work, the best works was after the death of his young wife Virginia Clemm who was a first cousin.

Yes, this is a boring post.

Lost and Found in Translation by Melissa Cannon

Lost in translation especially between cultures can be difficult to surpass.  Though as two consenting adults, certain cultures are still adamant that customs are to be followed.  It takes strength for those who are in love with someone in that culture.You have ensure that all feeling are controlled and sometimes the longer you are together the more difficult it becomes.

Winner of the The Robinson Jeffers Tor House 2012 Prize for Poetry
Lost and Found in Translation
Melissa Cannon

What’s in a sobriquet? My Iraqi boss,
whose self-taught English only goes so far,
renames us—now “habibi,” now “hemar,”
which, roughly put, means “dearest dear” or “ass.”
“Habibi” saves the buns before they char,
while “hemar” neglects to stock tomato sauce
and over-proofs fresh dough until that mass,
reeking of beer, sinks, flat and turning sour.
His Kurdish girl’s a frequent visitor—
she’ll pound the counter, giving grief and sass.
From the same country, both suffering its loss,
they lack one native tongue and have to spar
with ours: she, baiting when she’s really cross,
calls him the oppressor in their civil war;
he scoffs—her family’s clannish, insular
(the sense is clear, the terms less decorous).
               *
We’re an unlikely pair: he might have been,
in a different, saner world, an architect;
a cook here, he describes his Shiite sect
to an ex-academic, skeptic lesbian
he’s dubbed “old lady.” Just sixty, I object,
but he claims stings help toughen too-thin skin,
shows the scar a bullet gouged along his shin
and reveals himself in ways I don’t expect.
I read things he needs read and I’ll correct
his grammar if he asks, suppress a grin
when he says, “That’s how is it.” We begin,
through daily chores and crises, to connect.
We shy from touch. Though, greeting, Muslim men
may kiss the cheek, embrace with warm respect,
touch seems to be reserved for those select
few—lovers, fellows of the faith and kin.
                *
Since I’ve retired, we arrange to meet and chat.
He bought a house, remodeled every room,
now longs to fill it, marry and become
a father. His stubborn girl won’t set a date:
though they spat until their lips grow numb,
she craves her parents’ blessing so they wait.
But then, if it’s too little and too late?
After twenty years, he’ll finally travel home,
anxious, he tells me, to surprise his mom;
I’m anxious at the thought of tempting fate,
can’t bear the image as I contemplate
his brother, dead from an errant curbside bomb.
I surface, startled, when he adds, “I hate
to leave. You know, we are—“ We’re what? Well, some
elusive answer to this posed conundrum
perplexes, vexes, makes him hesitate.

Then he speaks to me in Arabic, intends,
I guess, to find the phrase still unexpressed
if he has to put each language to the test.
And yet so much of all we mean transcends
mere words—ambiguous, half-true, at best,
misleading us to figure out the rest;
it’s hardly any wonder that he ends
up shrugging , settles for “—we’re more than friends.”

Melissa Cannon was born in New Hampshire and grew up in Tennessee.  She decided, at 15, that she wanted to be a poet and, at 65, she still has her pen in hand.  Her first career was in academia; her second, in fast food--both, she comments, provided substantial entertainment.  Her poems have appeared in various small-press publications over the years--most recently in Indefinite Space and The Lyric. 

Mother Goose

As again, I will restate my knowledge in poetry is childlike as with darkness from English when I was able to relate to Mr. Edgar Allen Poe.

Being the age I am currently at but too vain to admit the range it falls between, my oldest and dearest is Mother Goose.  With having three children the rhymes were a refreshing flashback to my past.  Looking back with a 15 year old and soon to be 14 year old, their books and poems are no longer that simple.

To keep my childhood in place, my oldest and truest of poetry form is the beloved Mother Goose.

Nevermore..

As I begin this post, I am ashamed that I do not have a favorite poet or poem. When I was in high school I did enjoy the studies of Edgar Allen Poe. The Raven was one of my favorite poem with his darkness and the vivid imagination I had gave me chills.

When I walked home during the dark winter nights from my friends home I thought of the poem as I passed the cemetery each night. I had my ears open and  opened the eyes behind my head thinking of dark hands attacking me and pulling me into the cemetery.

The raven I only see the darkness and I think part of my soul is black as the raven.

The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe
(published 1845)

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
                Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
                Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-
                This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door;-
                Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-
                Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-
                'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-
                Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore-
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
                With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before-
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
                Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

                Of 'Never- nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore

                Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,

                She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"

                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-

On this home by Horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-

Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!"

                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore-

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting-

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

                Shall be lifted- nevermore!

Funeral Card

Faith

You will not see me, so you must have faith. I wait for the time when we can soar

together again, both aware of each other. Until then, live your life to its fullest and when

you need me, just whisper my name in your heart, ...I will be there.

Emily Dickenson

Corny Poems..

Yes, I will admit due to having men that never expressed themselves to me. My degree of romantic poems is as simple as this:

Roses are red, violets are blue

Sugar is sweet and so are you!

I think I should have woken up after hearing it too many times when no effort went past that poem. There were times that I even heard as this with the romantics I have dated as such:

Roses are red, violets are blue

I love chocolate more than you!