Sunday, September 14, 2014
Playing around with iPhone app & guitar. Summer wine verse.
I have been neglecting my music lately. It's time for me to get practicing again. Pulled these chords n lyrics off ultimate guitar tonight. Love this song. http://youtu.be/9h7C1V3uNkY
Thursday, September 29, 2011
One Magazine - issue 8 passion
ONE 8 • Glasgow Notes: From the Heart (By Way of Toronto)
Glasgow Notes: From the Heart (By Way of Toronto)
Leaving Glasgow for good was never my intention. Moving on was akin to boiling a frog; if I had left with the sole purpose of settling elsewhere the pain may have been too great for me to bear. As it was, I spent six months here and six months there: London, New York, Hong Kong, Sydney. Before I knew what my life was about I was travelling further afield and for longer periods of time.
Now I refer to those years as my weaning years. I thought once I’d travelled long enough and far enough my curiosity to explore the world would abate, but here I am, twenty-eight years later, with a foreign accent in my local habitat of Toronto, and a local accent in Glasgow, a city now foreign to me in many subtle ways, and I’m not sure to which one I honestly belong.
I still call Glasgow home, and after all these years I cannot see that ever changing, anymore than I can see my accent changing. It’s very confusing to the people whom, over the last two decades, I am lucky to call close-friends in Canada. ‘When you say home which one are you referring to?’ is a common question.
Home! Where is my home? Every member of my immediate and extended family, my closest friends through school to adulthood, and all the memories that shaped me as a person are wrapped up and placed in a warm fuzzy compartment in my heart labelled ‘Glasgow’. I know I used to idolize the place unduly and, to non-natives of Glasgow, I would describe the city like a modern day Eden. So, what is Eden? It is a different place to each and every one of us. Now, decades later, I can no longer separate the fantasy of Glasgow from the reality of Glasgow for somewhere along the road they became one and the same. The beauty concealed by pollution and poverty when I was growing up is now proudly on display after the gentrification that took place in the eighties and nineties while I trekked the globe.
In Toronto I miss such daily phrases as ‘this thing couldnae pull the skin oaf a rice pudding’ articulated by a frustrated friend berating her car for its inability to overtake a line of traffic; or, ‘she wiz so skinny she only needed wan eye’ voiced by a friend over his concern for his cousin’s weight. On a bus, after hearing ‘Robert E Lee’ shouted from up front, I finally realized the driver was informing us we were approaching the stop for one of Glasgow’s main hospitals, ‘The Southern General’. Ah, the joys of the Glaswegian people. I am like a deer tick on a mangy mutt; I simply can’t get enough. I return home two or three times a year, often for a month at a time because I am addicted to ‘The Patter’.
Glaswegians are super friendly. When asking for directions in the town centre, instead of being inflicted by the usual diatribe ‘turn right, go straight for a block, turn left, then…blah blah blah,’ it isn’t uncommon for visitors to be personally escorted to their destination. ‘Nae bother wee man,’ might be the standard retort to any words of thanks. It may be the love of the gab or just plain nosiness that makes wonderful storytelling, but for whatever reason a Glaswegian’s retelling of a trip to the corner shop sounds like an adventure you’re sorry you missed. Our combination of genuine warmth and cheekiness may be why we tend to fare so well abroad.
On this 250th anniversary of the birth of oor National Bard, Rabbie Burns, Scottish celebrations echo around the globe reminding us that, although there are only 4.5 million Scots residing in Scotland, there are about 30 million worldwide; 9 million in the USA. and 4.7 million in Canada. That’s a lot of curious people. So I never feel too far away from my roots. And I’m the first to admit that the longer I’m away the more tartan I become.
Every year in Toronto, on or around Rabbie’s birthday, there are a great many annual Suppers given in his honour. A traditional Burns Supper begins with the haggis being piped in, the Chairman delivering Rabbie’s ‘Address to the Haggis’, and the ‘Selkirk Grace’ being read. After the supper ‘The Immortal Memory’ speech is followed by a toast to Burns, to the lassies, and if there are ladies present, a response to the laddies. Humour is a key component throughout the proceedings. The celebration concludes with a performance of Robert Burns’s songs and poems and at the last everyone sings ‘Auld Lang Syne.’
Atop the CN Tower, another party tried to claim the record for ‘the highest Burns Supper of 2009’, only to be informed that Scottish mountaineer Chris Dunlop had washed down his haggis with a wee dram at the top of Ben Nevis, disqualifying the party. (Although this year’s record went to a hot air balloon over Switzerland, Chris still holds the all time record.) At one memorable Burns supper I witnessed a drum duet between a four-year old boy and an old weathered Glaswegian that would have brought tears to a glass eye. With hundreds of tartan-clad guests looking on, the wee grasshopper of a lad locked eyes with his mentor and beat his drum with the passion a man. There before my eyes I witnessed centuries of Scottish tradition being passed on to a first generation Canadian.
So with all this passion for my place of birth in my blood, why would I leave such a Garden of Eden with its mist-covered mountains? Well, Glasgow means ‘Dear Green Place’. You don’t have to be a gardener to know what makes a landscape so lush and green; lots of water and light. That translates to plenty of rain and long hours of filtered sun (subtle way of saying overcast). I’m being frugal by using the term ‘plenty’. I remember once it rained every day for two months and my mum kept repeating she had never seen weather the likes. Every time I am ‘home’ I hear the same thing. That rain has started and forgot to stop. So my choices are Scotland in the constant rain or Toronto with its six months of glorious sunshine. Ironically, the same rain that gradually drove me away has me returning again and again when it comes in the form of hypnotic Scotch mist, creeping over the Munros and Corbetts I love to hike across. I feel like a mistress trying to break free of an old love to settle in a new relationship, but I can’t make a clean break. Now I return more and more often for longer visits and higher climbs.
And fare-thee-weel, my only luve!
And far-thee-weel, awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho’ ‘twere ten thousand mile!
- Robert Burns, ‘My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose’
Glasgow Notes: From the Heart (By Way of Toronto)
Leaving Glasgow for good was never my intention. Moving on was akin to boiling a frog; if I had left with the sole purpose of settling elsewhere the pain may have been too great for me to bear. As it was, I spent six months here and six months there: London, New York, Hong Kong, Sydney. Before I knew what my life was about I was travelling further afield and for longer periods of time.
Now I refer to those years as my weaning years. I thought once I’d travelled long enough and far enough my curiosity to explore the world would abate, but here I am, twenty-eight years later, with a foreign accent in my local habitat of Toronto, and a local accent in Glasgow, a city now foreign to me in many subtle ways, and I’m not sure to which one I honestly belong.
I still call Glasgow home, and after all these years I cannot see that ever changing, anymore than I can see my accent changing. It’s very confusing to the people whom, over the last two decades, I am lucky to call close-friends in Canada. ‘When you say home which one are you referring to?’ is a common question.
Home! Where is my home? Every member of my immediate and extended family, my closest friends through school to adulthood, and all the memories that shaped me as a person are wrapped up and placed in a warm fuzzy compartment in my heart labelled ‘Glasgow’. I know I used to idolize the place unduly and, to non-natives of Glasgow, I would describe the city like a modern day Eden. So, what is Eden? It is a different place to each and every one of us. Now, decades later, I can no longer separate the fantasy of Glasgow from the reality of Glasgow for somewhere along the road they became one and the same. The beauty concealed by pollution and poverty when I was growing up is now proudly on display after the gentrification that took place in the eighties and nineties while I trekked the globe.
In Toronto I miss such daily phrases as ‘this thing couldnae pull the skin oaf a rice pudding’ articulated by a frustrated friend berating her car for its inability to overtake a line of traffic; or, ‘she wiz so skinny she only needed wan eye’ voiced by a friend over his concern for his cousin’s weight. On a bus, after hearing ‘Robert E Lee’ shouted from up front, I finally realized the driver was informing us we were approaching the stop for one of Glasgow’s main hospitals, ‘The Southern General’. Ah, the joys of the Glaswegian people. I am like a deer tick on a mangy mutt; I simply can’t get enough. I return home two or three times a year, often for a month at a time because I am addicted to ‘The Patter’.
Glaswegians are super friendly. When asking for directions in the town centre, instead of being inflicted by the usual diatribe ‘turn right, go straight for a block, turn left, then…blah blah blah,’ it isn’t uncommon for visitors to be personally escorted to their destination. ‘Nae bother wee man,’ might be the standard retort to any words of thanks. It may be the love of the gab or just plain nosiness that makes wonderful storytelling, but for whatever reason a Glaswegian’s retelling of a trip to the corner shop sounds like an adventure you’re sorry you missed. Our combination of genuine warmth and cheekiness may be why we tend to fare so well abroad.
On this 250th anniversary of the birth of oor National Bard, Rabbie Burns, Scottish celebrations echo around the globe reminding us that, although there are only 4.5 million Scots residing in Scotland, there are about 30 million worldwide; 9 million in the USA. and 4.7 million in Canada. That’s a lot of curious people. So I never feel too far away from my roots. And I’m the first to admit that the longer I’m away the more tartan I become.
Every year in Toronto, on or around Rabbie’s birthday, there are a great many annual Suppers given in his honour. A traditional Burns Supper begins with the haggis being piped in, the Chairman delivering Rabbie’s ‘Address to the Haggis’, and the ‘Selkirk Grace’ being read. After the supper ‘The Immortal Memory’ speech is followed by a toast to Burns, to the lassies, and if there are ladies present, a response to the laddies. Humour is a key component throughout the proceedings. The celebration concludes with a performance of Robert Burns’s songs and poems and at the last everyone sings ‘Auld Lang Syne.’
Atop the CN Tower, another party tried to claim the record for ‘the highest Burns Supper of 2009’, only to be informed that Scottish mountaineer Chris Dunlop had washed down his haggis with a wee dram at the top of Ben Nevis, disqualifying the party. (Although this year’s record went to a hot air balloon over Switzerland, Chris still holds the all time record.) At one memorable Burns supper I witnessed a drum duet between a four-year old boy and an old weathered Glaswegian that would have brought tears to a glass eye. With hundreds of tartan-clad guests looking on, the wee grasshopper of a lad locked eyes with his mentor and beat his drum with the passion a man. There before my eyes I witnessed centuries of Scottish tradition being passed on to a first generation Canadian.
So with all this passion for my place of birth in my blood, why would I leave such a Garden of Eden with its mist-covered mountains? Well, Glasgow means ‘Dear Green Place’. You don’t have to be a gardener to know what makes a landscape so lush and green; lots of water and light. That translates to plenty of rain and long hours of filtered sun (subtle way of saying overcast). I’m being frugal by using the term ‘plenty’. I remember once it rained every day for two months and my mum kept repeating she had never seen weather the likes. Every time I am ‘home’ I hear the same thing. That rain has started and forgot to stop. So my choices are Scotland in the constant rain or Toronto with its six months of glorious sunshine. Ironically, the same rain that gradually drove me away has me returning again and again when it comes in the form of hypnotic Scotch mist, creeping over the Munros and Corbetts I love to hike across. I feel like a mistress trying to break free of an old love to settle in a new relationship, but I can’t make a clean break. Now I return more and more often for longer visits and higher climbs.
And fare-thee-weel, my only luve!
And far-thee-weel, awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho’ ‘twere ten thousand mile!
- Robert Burns, ‘My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose’
Monday, November 08, 2010
Your Sober Till when!!!! HAHAHA
Well it has been an eventful 6 weeks. Not one drop of alcohol has passed my lips and I have another 6 1/2 weeks to go until I can revise that statement.
My extensive abstinence has come about due to a hung-over promise to myself, you know the usual, "I am never going to drink again for as long as I live." Once the pain of that particular hangover had begun to subside (nearly 3 days later) I thought to myself maybe I had been a bit harsh on myself with such a hefty lifetime sentence so I reviewed the situation and made my revisions. I decided a few months should be sufficient enough to cleanse my system and prove to my self that alcohol was still a controlled indulgence of mine and not a necessity. The very fact that when I announced my ‘3 month of abstinence’ to my so called friends it was greeted with laughter and great merriment and comments like, "Yeah right." or "I'll take that bet." or "Whatever, sit down and have a beer." This made me take a closer look at my lifestyle or more specifically it made me acknowledge the copious amounts of alcohol I had become accustomed to guzzling without batting an eyelid, or blurring an eye.
My extensive abstinence has come about due to a hung-over promise to myself, you know the usual, "I am never going to drink again for as long as I live." Once the pain of that particular hangover had begun to subside (nearly 3 days later) I thought to myself maybe I had been a bit harsh on myself with such a hefty lifetime sentence so I reviewed the situation and made my revisions. I decided a few months should be sufficient enough to cleanse my system and prove to my self that alcohol was still a controlled indulgence of mine and not a necessity. The very fact that when I announced my ‘3 month of abstinence’ to my so called friends it was greeted with laughter and great merriment and comments like, "Yeah right." or "I'll take that bet." or "Whatever, sit down and have a beer." This made me take a closer look at my lifestyle or more specifically it made me acknowledge the copious amounts of alcohol I had become accustomed to guzzling without batting an eyelid, or blurring an eye.
I figured the amount I drank was totally acceptable as long as I wasn't drinking at home alone, going drinking with strangers, or getting myself into any really dangerous situations. A couple of whacks to the head from falling in my front door or out of a taxi didn’t count. The fact I rationalized to myself that I only drunk socially did not enter into the equation as I seemed to be in a permanent socializing mode; a dinner party here, a concert there, a drink after work with my colleagues, a special coffee with breakfast, some champagne with brunch, wine with dinner, after dinner cocktails, or a night cap; all socially acceptable times to drink.
Growing up in
But I began to weary of the wasted days spent recuperating. It got to the point that if I had a big social event coming up, I would keep the next day free just in case I was a bit on the rough side, which this summer was happening more and more often. People told me it was because I was getting older. “You’re in your 40’s now so you ‘should’ know ‘middle aged’ people don’t handle their booze as well”. Oops, sorry I must have missed that lesson at the last AA meeting, you know the class that told us about “getting older and what to expect from overindulgence”. Well my mother is 75 and can still give me a run for my money and always has done, as do a number of older people I know. I have also been humbled by a good many pensioners in my time. I knew age wasn’t the problem. I had simply begun to find other experiences more enjoyable than going out on the piss. Who would have thought?
In truth, I was bored spending all my hard earned cash on alcohol. I was bored having vague and often blurred memories of nights out with my pals. I was bored lying in bed for the better part of a weekend waiting for Friday nights hangover to go away; the hangover that no longer came in the shape of a balaclava headache, eyeball popping, chest heaving, toilet hugging experience. This was worse. Yes, there is worse! These hangovers now came in the form of anxiety attacks. It took me a while to identify the connection and once I recognized the pattern then I learned how to cope with these terrors. And the terrors weren’t about what I had done the night before. That’s the spiral of shame, which later always transcend into a great piss up story. These terrors were not about any hardships I was dealing with in my life being magnified by alcohol. Or any stress I might be suffering at work. Or even any worries I had about the health and wellbeing of my family and friends. These terrors were over the mere fact I was almost out of toothpaste, or I had left a plate in the sink over night, or I hadn’t watered a particular plant all week.
The very fact I was freaking out over such meaningless things made me stop and look around. Something was wrong. The one common denominator was the booze fests. Now I’m not talking about a couple of beers. That’s okay. It’s when the little greedy monster inside comes out to play. It screams ‘Party’ or ‘Jaeger bombs’. Full steam ahead and damn the torpedoes. It didn’t matter that I’d have something important the next day. Or I was trying to save some cash to buy or do something special. When I got in that mode it was all about, ‘you only live once and this is living.’ I associated having a good time with lots and lots of alcohol, as do many of my friends. I have learned over the last year that when I look back I’ve had most of my best moments in life sober.
Last week between Monday and Friday I was out for drinks with my boss (non-alcoholic beer), a book reading by Ian Rankin, a dinner party with a bunch of close friend’s, and an acoustic concert by Fran Healy from Travis. The booze was flowing the whole week and you know what, I didn’t miss the demon drink one bit. I got a buzz from the events that I was taking part in. If anything, I have found my non-drinking is more frustrating for my friends than it is for me.
So am I a tea-totaller now? Hell no. I enjoy drinking too much. But now when I go back to participating in my alcohol driven society it will be because I do enjoy the relaxation a fine glass of wine brings after a hard days work, or at a dinner party with friends. And I’ll know when I am sipping on my
Saturday, July 04, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Seduced by Twitter
I had determined very recently that I was going to concentrate and attempt to put more of an effort into the updating of my blog. 'Write something everyday' I instructed myself, putting into effect the age-old practice of the writer’s mantra.
I do write everyday, but not for my blog, or a magazine, or my novel. I am sorry to admit, but I have been seduced by the 140-character count of Twitter. Not only does this seducer stop me from practicing my prose but it also lays waste to my spelling, syntax, and grammar, which needed work to begin with.
I am no longer a slave to the doctrines of my English professor. Twitter awaits me whenever I call, just like the friend who is always available. Twitter keeps me company on the bus, on the train, and sssh, dare I mention it, in the loo. Well, the loo is usually a last resort when I have been threatened with ex-communication or, gawd forbid, the confiscation of my iPhone by zealous family and friends who demand more of my attention.
It is not a cigarette, a mickey of vodka, or even a measure of some illegal substance, which has me scurry into the corners, intent on indulging myself. It is simply ‘Twitter’ the heart of my mobile device unit.
When I press that little blue application icon, I feel like Norm must have felt when he walked through the doors of Cheers every night to be greeted by friends who exist outside the usual perimeters of his everyday life.
Twitter keeps me coming back for more with the promise of more followers, the lure of reply tweets, the underground world of DMs, and the latest gossip on any topic my heart desires. Thrown into the heady mix is the potential to hob knob up close and personal with some celebrity or other.
I reckoned my poor wee blog had been left out in the cold to slowly slide down the search engine ranks of google. But I needn’t have worried; my seducer knew how to provide for its predecessor. A link was inserted, a bone if you may, to appease any competition from my blog to regain my full attention. Twitter now thoughtfully provides constant pings to my neglected blog letting it know that I am not too far away. With no more content than a changing blurb in the bottom left-hand corner I supply my blog with enough updates to keep it ahead of the google rat race. But I know I must return every now and then, whenever Twitter’s 140-character count frustrates and limits my ability to run free and fully express myself, in unabbreviated, fully typed words of undeterminable size. No cryptic messages. Only clear concise prose extolling a written form of communication more ancient than Twitter.
After I have scaled the 500 word, 1000 word, 2000 word barrier, I am once more compelled to rush back to my Twitter congregation and share the fruits of my latest adventure because Twitter requires fresh subject matter to keep my followers interested, even if I must make tale of my latest adventure in 140 characters or less.
I do write everyday, but not for my blog, or a magazine, or my novel. I am sorry to admit, but I have been seduced by the 140-character count of Twitter. Not only does this seducer stop me from practicing my prose but it also lays waste to my spelling, syntax, and grammar, which needed work to begin with.
I am no longer a slave to the doctrines of my English professor. Twitter awaits me whenever I call, just like the friend who is always available. Twitter keeps me company on the bus, on the train, and sssh, dare I mention it, in the loo. Well, the loo is usually a last resort when I have been threatened with ex-communication or, gawd forbid, the confiscation of my iPhone by zealous family and friends who demand more of my attention.
It is not a cigarette, a mickey of vodka, or even a measure of some illegal substance, which has me scurry into the corners, intent on indulging myself. It is simply ‘Twitter’ the heart of my mobile device unit.
When I press that little blue application icon, I feel like Norm must have felt when he walked through the doors of Cheers every night to be greeted by friends who exist outside the usual perimeters of his everyday life.
Twitter keeps me coming back for more with the promise of more followers, the lure of reply tweets, the underground world of DMs, and the latest gossip on any topic my heart desires. Thrown into the heady mix is the potential to hob knob up close and personal with some celebrity or other.
I reckoned my poor wee blog had been left out in the cold to slowly slide down the search engine ranks of google. But I needn’t have worried; my seducer knew how to provide for its predecessor. A link was inserted, a bone if you may, to appease any competition from my blog to regain my full attention. Twitter now thoughtfully provides constant pings to my neglected blog letting it know that I am not too far away. With no more content than a changing blurb in the bottom left-hand corner I supply my blog with enough updates to keep it ahead of the google rat race. But I know I must return every now and then, whenever Twitter’s 140-character count frustrates and limits my ability to run free and fully express myself, in unabbreviated, fully typed words of undeterminable size. No cryptic messages. Only clear concise prose extolling a written form of communication more ancient than Twitter.
After I have scaled the 500 word, 1000 word, 2000 word barrier, I am once more compelled to rush back to my Twitter congregation and share the fruits of my latest adventure because Twitter requires fresh subject matter to keep my followers interested, even if I must make tale of my latest adventure in 140 characters or less.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Glasgow v's Brooklyn
I always wondered why I felt so at home in Brooklyn.
I should have known. It was staring me right in the face.
Spot the difference.
Park Slope or Glasgow's West End?
I should have known. It was staring me right in the face.
Spot the difference.
Park Slope or Glasgow's West End?
Monday, May 04, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
The Romance of a Character
As I mentioned in my previous blog, I never know where the muse for a story is going to spring from. It can be from casually observing someone I see sitting across from me in a cafe, or from watching an actor play a role, or from envisioning a familiar friend so far out of their element they become someone else; but one thing is for sure, wherever these muses lurk they eventually make themselves known.
My friend once asked me why I can't just imagine these characters from scratch. Why I don't just make them up like I do with all the other aspects of the story built on imagination and dreaming. My answer was simply, "I can invent places, items, gadgets, fashions, animals, etc, but to give my characters substance I need a face. I need to regard how they smile, how they move, how they sound, and what gestures they make. At that point I have my reference point to refer back to when describing a look, a dialogue, or a movement. From then on the characters proceed to take on a fictitious life and dimension of their own.
That is why I am continually mesmerized by the characters that appear every day in: tv shows, plays, and movies. I'm still trying to figure out where the writer of a character leaves off and the actor picks up. I think classics are produced when these two elements meet and blend seamlessly. Sometimes the writer has a person in mind when they write the character of a story. Sometimes casting agents have to produce a long grueling list of potentials in order to find an actor who fits the vision of the character the writer has created so well it lives and breaths.
I've decided I am going to start making a list of all my favourate characters. I don't mean your every day well acted parts. I mean the totally fictitious characters that step out of the book or walk of the screen and take you by the heart as if they truely live and breathe.
My friend once asked me why I can't just imagine these characters from scratch. Why I don't just make them up like I do with all the other aspects of the story built on imagination and dreaming. My answer was simply, "I can invent places, items, gadgets, fashions, animals, etc, but to give my characters substance I need a face. I need to regard how they smile, how they move, how they sound, and what gestures they make. At that point I have my reference point to refer back to when describing a look, a dialogue, or a movement. From then on the characters proceed to take on a fictitious life and dimension of their own.
That is why I am continually mesmerized by the characters that appear every day in: tv shows, plays, and movies. I'm still trying to figure out where the writer of a character leaves off and the actor picks up. I think classics are produced when these two elements meet and blend seamlessly. Sometimes the writer has a person in mind when they write the character of a story. Sometimes casting agents have to produce a long grueling list of potentials in order to find an actor who fits the vision of the character the writer has created so well it lives and breaths.
I've decided I am going to start making a list of all my favourate characters. I don't mean your every day well acted parts. I mean the totally fictitious characters that step out of the book or walk of the screen and take you by the heart as if they truely live and breathe.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Star Trek
Travelling back in time is a fact. I have just experienced it. I am now an adult inhabiting the space I once occupied as a child. I have rediscovered my childhood fantasy show Star Trek TOS only very recently. It seems incredible to me that something that gave me so much joy way back then as a little girl can give me so much pleasure now through the eyes of a woman.
I cannot get over how handsome, attractive and soo very alpha male Jame T Kirk's character is in this series and I now have a very difficult time trying to envision any other actor in the role of a Starfleet Captain. Throughout the years I have followed all the Star Trek movies and spin offs, up until Enterprise that is (couldn't quite get into that one). Since I can't even begin to remember the last time I viewed these episodes of Star Trek TOS (quite a number of years ago) my adult memories of William Shatner are of a much much older man and in my opinion a very different character. Then again, he has just turned 78. Wow even that blows my mind.
I now find myself obsessing over this character from the far past which feels alien to my normal sensibilities but has spurred on my creative flow as a writer. I will no longer question the strangeness of where one finds their next muse and simply go with the flow and relish the sheer enjoyment I am experiencing second time around with this fabulous show.
I may now, as a result of this obsessive/compulsive behaviour, have to go out and purchase the new remastered DVD offerings.
I cannot get over how handsome, attractive and soo very alpha male Jame T Kirk's character is in this series and I now have a very difficult time trying to envision any other actor in the role of a Starfleet Captain. Throughout the years I have followed all the Star Trek movies and spin offs, up until Enterprise that is (couldn't quite get into that one). Since I can't even begin to remember the last time I viewed these episodes of Star Trek TOS (quite a number of years ago) my adult memories of William Shatner are of a much much older man and in my opinion a very different character. Then again, he has just turned 78. Wow even that blows my mind.
I now find myself obsessing over this character from the far past which feels alien to my normal sensibilities but has spurred on my creative flow as a writer. I will no longer question the strangeness of where one finds their next muse and simply go with the flow and relish the sheer enjoyment I am experiencing second time around with this fabulous show.
I may now, as a result of this obsessive/compulsive behaviour, have to go out and purchase the new remastered DVD offerings.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
Idiot's Argument
My mother told me never to get in to an argument with an idiot. She said they will only drag you down to their level and beat you with experience.
My dad told me if I ever fall off a cliff to give flying a try. I have nothing to lose at that point.
My dad told me if I ever fall off a cliff to give flying a try. I have nothing to lose at that point.
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