Me, According to Song Titles

Kerry According to Eagles Song Titles

Using only song names from ONE ARTIST, answer these questions. You can’t use the artist I used. Try not to repeat a song title. It’s a lot harder than you think! Re-post as “My Life According to One Band”

Are you a male or female:
Witchy Woman

Describe Yourself:
Victim of Love

How do you feel:
Desperado

Describe where you currently live:
Hotel California

If you could go anywhere where would you go?
Take It To the Limit

Your Favorite Form of Transportation:
Midnight Flyer

Your Best Friend is:
Heartache Tonight

What’s the weather like:
Tequila Sunrise

Favourite Time of Day:
Peaceful Easy Feeling

If your life was a TV show, what would it be called:
The Sad Cafe

What is life to you:
One of these nights

Your fear:
There’s a hole in the world tonight

What is the best advice you have to give:
Take It Easy.

Thought for the day:
Love Will Keep us Alive

How I would like to die:
After the Thrill Is Gone

My motto:

Get over it!

Kerry According to Crosby, Stills & Nash song titles

Using only song names from ONE ARTIST, answer these questions. You can’t use the artist I used. Try not to repeat a song title. It’s a lot harder than you think! Re-post as “My Life According to One Band”

Are you a male or female:
Suite Judy Blue Eyes

Describe Yourself:
Dark Star

How do you feel:
Helplessly Hoping

Describe where you currently live:
Our House/Down By The River

If you could go anywhere where would you go?
Southern Cross

Your Favorite Form of Transportation:
Wooden Ships

Your Best Friend is:
Love the One You’re With

What’s the weather like:
Cold Rain

Favourite Time of Day:
Daylight Again

If your life was a TV show, what would it be called:
For What It’s Worth

What is life to you:
And So It Goes

Your fear:
Shadow Captain

What is the best advice you have to give:
We’ve gotta get back to the garden.

Thought for the day:
Teach Your Children Well

How I would like to die:
Just a Song Before I Go

My motto:
Carry/Kerry On.

Kerry According to Melissa Etheridge Song Titles

Using only song names from ONE ARTIST, answer these questions. You can’t use the artist I used. Try not to repeat a song title. It’s a lot harder than you think! Re-post as “My Life According to One Band”

Are you a male or female:
Yes I Am

Describe Yourself:
Brave & Crazy

How do you feel:
Giant

Describe where you currently live:
Shriner’s Park

If you could go anywhere where would you go?
Refugee

Your Favorite Form of Transportation:
I Run for Life

Your Best Friend is:
Heroes & Friends

What’s the weather like:
Somebody Bring Me Some Water

Favourite Time of Day:
Breathe

If your life was a TV show, what would it be called:
Piece of My Heart

What is life to you:
All There Is

Your fear:
Never Enough

What is the best advice you have to give:
I Could Have Been You – You Could Have Been Me

Thought for the day:
Come on Out Tonight

How I would like to die:
This War Is Over

My motto:
Open your mind.

Kerry, according to Janis Ian song titles

 

Using only song names from ONE ARTIST, answer these questions. You can’t use the artist I used. Try not to repeat a song title. It’s a lot harder than you think! Re-post as “My Life According to One Band”

Are you a male or female:
I Play Like a Girl

Describe Yourself:
Breaking Silence

How do you feel:
Forever Blue

Describe where you currently live:
On the Other Side

If you could go anywhere where would you go?
Under the Covers

Your Favorite Form of Transportation:
This Train Still Runs

Your Best Friend is:
Society’s Child

What’s the weather like:
Tangles of My Mind

Favourite Time of Day:
Welcome to Acousticville

If your life was a TV show, what would it be called:
42nd Street Psycho Blues

What is life to you:
The Last Comeback

Your fear:
Tattoo (about the Holocaust)

What is the best advice you have to give:
I can make my peace, with Days Like These

Thought for the day:
Walking on Sacred Ground

How I would like to die:
Take No Prisoners

My motto:
“Truth is not the enemy.” (Janis Ian)

John Steinbeck Quotes & Writing Advice

We are lonesome animals. We spend all our life trying to be less lonesome. One of our ancient methods is to tell a story begging the listener to say—and to feel—”Yes, that’s the way it is, or at least that’s the way I feel it. You’re not as alone as you thought.”
The profession of book writing makes horse racing seem like a solid, stable business.
The writer must believe that what he is doing is the most important thing in the world. And he must hold to this illusion even when he knows it is not true.
Ideas are like rabbits. You get a couple and learn how to handle them, and pretty soon you have a dozen.
In utter loneliness a writer tries to explain the inexplicable.
~ John Steinbeck, 1902-1968
American Novelist and Writer, Nobel Prize for Literature for 1962
John Ernst Steinbeck
(1902-1968)
“Talent alone cannot make a writer. There must be a man behind the book.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
________________________________________

John Steinbeck and Advice for Beginning Writers
“I have written a great many stories and I still don’t know how to go about it except to write it and take my chances..”
Dear Writer:
Although it must be a thousand years ago that I sat in a class in story writing at Stanford, I remember the experience very clearly. I was bright-eyes and bushy-brained and prepared to absorb the secret formula for writing good short stories, even great short stories. This illusion was canceled very quickly. The only way to write a good short story, we were told, is to write a good short story. Only after it is written can it be taken apart to see how it was done. It is a most difficult form, as we were told, and the proof lies in how very few great short stories there are in the world.
The basic rule given us was simple and heartbreaking. A story to be effective had to convey something from the writer to the reader, and the power of its offering was the measure of its excellence. Outside of that, there were no rules. A story could be about anything and could use any means and any technique at all – so long as it was effective. As a subhead to this rule, it seemed to be necessary for the writer to know what he wanted to say, in short, what he was talking about. As an exercise we were to try reducing the meat of our story to one sentence, for only then could we know it well enough to enlarge it to three- or six- or ten-thousand words.
So there went the magic formula, the secret ingredient. With no more than that, we were set on the desolate, lonely path of the writer. And we must have turned in some abysmally bad stories. If I had expected to be discovered in a full bloom of excellence, the grades given my efforts quickly disillusioned me. And if I felt unjustly criticized, the judgments of editors for many years afterward upheld my teacher’s side, not mine. The low grades on my college stories were echoed in the rejection slips, in the hundreds of rejection slips.
It seemed unfair. I could read a fine story and could even know how it was done. Why could I not then do it myself? Well, I couldn’t, and maybe it’s because no two stories dare be alike. Over the years I have written a great many stories and I still don’t know how to go about it except to write it and take my chances.
If there is a magic in story writing, and I am convinced there is, no one has ever been able to reduce it to a recipe that can be passed from one person to another. The formula seems to lie solely in the aching urge of the writer to convey something he feels important to the reader. If the writer has that urge, he may sometimes, but by no means always, find the way to do it. You must perceive the excellence that makes a good story good or the errors that makes a bad story. For a bad story is only an ineffective story.
It is not so very hard to judge a story after it is written, but, after many years, to start a story still scares me to death. I will go so far as to say that the writer who not scared is happily unaware of the remote and tantalizing majesty of the medium.
I remember one last piece of advice given me. It was during the exuberance of the rich and frantic ’20s, and I was going out into that world to try and to be a writer.
I was told, “It’s going to take a long time, and you haven’t got any money. Maybe it would be better if you could go to Europe.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because in Europe poverty is a misfortune, but in America it is shameful. I wonder whether or not you can stand the shame of being poor.”
It wasn’t too long afterward that the depression came. Then everyone was poor and it was no shame anymore. And so I will never know whether or not I could have stood it. But surely my teacher was right about one thing. It took a long time – a very long time. And it is still going on, and it has never got easier.
She told me it wouldn’t.
1963
John Steinbeck

My Life History In Tomatoes

By Kerry Vincent © 2009

 CHILDHOOD

 At Uncle John and Aunt Lillian’s farm, in the breezeway,

An army of tomatoes marches across the big picnic table,

Shored up on the south end by great logs of zucchinis and cucumbers,

Bordered on the north end by a mountain of sweet corn still in the husk.

All is hot, steamy, and still, except for the buzzing of the flies and gnats,

And sometimes the loud banging of the red screen door.

Just down the hill, sprawling in the garden,

A forest of Big Boy tomatoes grow.

In the evening we pick another batch of ripe red orbs.

I dust off a ruby beauty, still warm from the sun,

as big as my face, and bite hard into the firm flesh,

its life juice running down my cheeks and neck

nourishing my blood and bones.

 YOUNG ADULTHOOD

 I just wanna serve the Lord,

Help the poor, feed the hungry,

So I join this inner city ministry

Run by a power-hungry madman,

Where we freeze in the winter

And rarely have enough food to eat.

We pray to the Lord for our daily bread:

As a charity, on good days,

We get the food no one else wants:

Dented and unmarked canned goods,

week-old bread, just starting to mold,

Dairy products just beyond the expiration date,

Half-rotted produce left from the farmer’s market,

Soybeans and millet from an animal feed store,

Not meant for human consumption.

When I am pregnant, and visit my mom,

She asks what I crave, and I say,

“Fresh fruit and vegetables.”

She makes me a veggie sandwich,

With lettuce, glorious farm tomatoes,

Cucumber slices, cheese, and fresh bread,

Still spongy and springy to the touch:

Heaven on earth.

 MOTHERHOOD

Now I am the mother, escaped from the cult,

Now raising my own kids.

My mom has moved to Uncle John’s farm,

Caring for him since Aunt Lillian died.

The kids and I visit in the summer,

timing our vacation around tomato season,

so the children can help bring in the crops

and can the goodness.

When mom visits a few weeks later,

She lugs a heavy suitcase from the train,

Unzips it to reveal precious produce:

Prized farm tomatoes, peppers, carrots:

We feast!

 ON MY OWN

I’m in my cabin in the woods,

Re-writing my novel,

The expose of the cult,

The guest of a lovely retired couple.

They respect my privacy, let me write,

Only knock on the door to bring me

A ripe tomato to go with my supper,

Fresh from their own garden:

A gift of kindness and goodness,

Deeply appreciated.

 TODAY

I’m divorced, re-partnered;

The kids left the nest long ago;

Mom has since had a stroke.

I work as a technical writer

And dream of writing novels again someday.

I bought membership in a community share agriculture farm,

But I don’t get home from work in time to pick up my produce.

Maybe, when the tomatoes come in, I will make the time to go,

So that once more I can taste the richness of the soil

In the ripeness of a juicy red tomato, the earth’s own life blood.

…Summer is not over – there’s still time…

Stream of Unconsciousness

(response to a prompt on what inspires me)
A Stream on Unconsciousness (In response to What inspires you? prompt)
with 6 comments

I want to know why and what if and how and where and when and if you don’t give me the answers I will make them up I make stories to give meaning to this life because it would just be a cruel joke to be here floating in this metaphysical soup if there is no point no purpose no reason for being but maybe that is the reason that there is no reason but I’d rather pretend there’s a reason and a plot because I know my life is full of complex characters like my family or origin and trying to figure them out and me out is enough to force my pen to the page where I can put my thoughts on paper and then I can tear up the paper and throw it away no one gets hurt but if it’s a really good line I might copy it out and use it somewhere else because you hate to waste a good line and often that’s how you get the good stuff by letting your mind wander in bad neighborhoods and turning off your internal editor and telling her to go take a break so you can just write without worrying about spelling and syntax and just let an idea be lit on fire to brighten the world because it’s too dark and scary to be alone and afraid and sometimes the only jokes you hear are the ones you tell yourself and if you aren’t listening then where does the laughter go going round and round the mulberry bush ashes ashes all fall down anyone lived in a pretty how town in a sepulcher by the sea me and my Annabelle Lee fog sits on little cat feet and then moves on and on and so it goes breathe in breathe out that’s what it’s all about
by Kerry VIncent

Stranger than fiction – true stories

Stranger than Fiction
with 3 comments

(These are all true neighborhood scenes I or a friend has experienced over the years. I don’t know the back stories.)
Small town USA, this week – A young woman is pushing a baby stroller up the street. It is filled with all her earthly belongings. Atop the stroller is a cage in which rides a big white goose, loudly honking. A few feet behind her, a 4-year-old boy with dark curly hair shoved under a baseball cap follows, crying.
• * * * Another small town scene: I go to visit a friend who’s dad does the occasional circus gig, playing a clown, riding a unicycle. Today, he’s in the backyard, wearing just his underwear, juggling fire.
——————————

In an American city in the 1970s, when I was 18-22 years old, trying to ‘serve the Lord’ in an inner city ministry:
• * * * *
I enter the apartment and suddenly I know what my mom meant when she used the term “flop house”. There are mattresses flopped all over the floors, with alcoholics lying on them, snoring, belching, farting. I’ve come to pick up Betty for a church meeting. Her husband Bill says he can’t go, he fell on the ice and broke his ankle. Betty says, “Bill got fallin’down drunk and is goin’ to hell.” But Betty should have moved out of reach before she said that – Bill whacks her with his crutch.
• * * * *
I am in the bad part of the city, handing out free loaves of bread to the poor. I enter one house. The only furniture is a urine-stained mattress on the floor, and an extra large rubber trash can, right in the center of the living room. I offer them bread – they ask for money instead.

• * * * *
I am new to the city, new to City Hospital. I ask for directions to the emergency room. I am told, “Just follow that trail of blood drops.”

• * * * *
I go to visit an elderly lady. She shows me her bird. There are cockroaches crawling in the liner papers. Mabel doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe with her cataracts, she can’t see the bugs. “Pretty bird, pretty bird,” she coos.
• * * * *
• I am in a church meeting. It is hot summer. One of the guests can’t take the heat any longer. She peels off her girdle, puts it in a paper bag, and passes it down the aisle for me to hold until the service is over.
One night at the church service, Betty passes me a scribbled note – it says, when Bill & I are having oral sex, he wants me to swallow. I don’t like it. What would God have me do?

Pastorale

Twilight at the lake house
Around the bonfire with friends
Sipping, talking, laughing…
For now, all is well.
I hold this shining moment:
So glad I hung on,
Despite the pain,
The hopelessness,
The not knowing how to go on.
If I had ended it all
15 years ago
I would have missed
This sweet Spring night –
The sun saying goodnight to the trees,
Spending time with friends I never knew I’d meet,
Finally feeling happy to be alive.

By Kerry Vincent © 2009

shedding skins

Shed the skins of years gone by
hang them out like wash to dry
Blow the memories to the sky
Whispered prayers for days gone by
Stepping stones of hope and try.

(c) 2009 Kerry Vincent

Results from six word memoirs prompt:

These were fun – hope you enjoy!

By Kerry – Kezza – Cordelia – © – 2009 –

• Loathe acronyms but must pay bills!
• Lonely child hurts, heals, helps others.
• Many wrong turns finding my way.
• She writes – creates – transforms – art heals!
• Yes, healing is a lifelong process.
• Fused in fire, annealed in hope.
• Were Pen’s pupil, finding my voice.
• Kerry Ellen, Glass Artist: Surprised Sheila!
• “Good onya, Kez!” – Believe in yourself!
• Soul Food Café – Global Sisters Salon

Aboard the SS Vulcania with Soul FooD Cafe

The chocolate was just an excuse, you know. To get you there, to the Arts Center. They hold a Chocolate Festival fundraiser every year, the Sunday before Valentine’s Day. You bring your loved one and you can have all the chocolate goodies you can eat, lovingly made by friends of the Arts Center. This year, if you brought a canned good for the local food pantry, admission was half price.

I go every year and always take family and friends. This year, it was a thrill to hear my teen-aged niece and nephew discuss the merits of various paintings, the artist’s use of light, the colors used for the skies. Art worked its quiet magic – a crabby, stress-worn father calmed down, started speaking more softly, joking, after we chatted with one of the volunteers about our crafts, me, my dichroic glass jewelry making and him his hand-lathed wood pens.

So then they asked me if I showed my work at Art EAST, the local annual studio tour. “Oh, no, I’m not a real artist. I can’t paint or draw. My degree is in English, not art. I just started playing with glass a few years ago,” I argued. “But that pendant you made that you’re wearing, that’s beautiful. And so are those earrings. Did you make them too?” “Yes, and the ones my sister-in-law is wearing, too.”

“ArtEAST is for beginners to get exposure. Why don’t you give them a call?” I’m honored to be asked, but do I dare show the necklaces Cordelia makes at a real art show? What do you think? I have enough to do a show – I have hanging at home what I call “the great wall of jewelry” – beaded necklaces and dichroic pendants and earrings galore – the question is do I have the nerve to believe in my own work?

What do you think?

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How I keep Cordelia out of trouble…

{ January 26, 2009 @ 12:38 am } · { Uncategorized }
{ } · { Comments (9) }

While it’s known that Cordy can get into mischief, if I want to keep her busy, I just supply her with beads and some of the dichroic fused glass pendants I make & she creates these….As long as she’s playing with beads, your Tim Tams are safe!

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Seeds of Glass

{ January 21, 2009 @ 7:38 pm } · { Uncategorized }
{ } · { Comments (8) }

Before leaving the island of the temple people, Enchanteur whispered we should participate in the Seed Sharing Rites, to further our creative fertility and fecundity.  These ideas were planted, and began to grow…

Below is a “before” and “after” set of photos.  On the left, bits of broken glass, known as “frit”.  On the right, the beautiful, flamboyant result of the heat of creativity…The glassworker begins with a gather of hot white Moretti glass, applies more heat and clear glass to encase it with a transparent coating,  then rolls the still-hot form in mixed colored frit: voila, a Murano-like beauty is born!

(photo from www.glassdiversions.com)

At Soul Food Cafe, we collect, mix, and stir up words and thoughts, apply the white heat of the creativity, and produce beautiful new works, shining with cathedral-like color and vibrance. 

“Go into your studio and make something!” the saying goes.  In Lemuria, your studio is found in your heart and soul – so go deep within, find the light within your spirit, and let it shine out, using your chosen medium – glasswork, writing, music, photography, painting, or nurturing life itself! 

Each day is a new canvas for an artist of the heart!

(c) 2009 – Kerry Vincent

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Inner Circle – An Offering to the Dream Masters

{ January 19, 2009 @ 8:40 pm } · { Uncategorized }
{ } · { Comments (7) }

“The longest journey of any person is the journey inward”

Dag Hammarskjold quote

May I find on my long journey inward -

winding my ways along the inner labyrinth -

balance

wholeness

peace

connectedness.

May I find love of self and love of others -

not because I deserve it,

nor because I prayed so hard,

or performed the rituals the right way,

or believed so strongly and so sincerely…

A gift of grace I ask, o please -

I don’t know what else to do,

or who to ask -

in return

I will plant a prayer flag of hope

in the hard clay of my heart.

I will try to love my neighbor each day,

even when they refuse to use their turn signals.

O Trickster God may it amuse you to impart this gift

I dream of receiving, I dream of sharing,

that sacred gift most overlooked,

an ordinary day -

I offer this my prayer

to the dark echoing void.

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Why a walnut? Revisited

{ January 16, 2009 @ 6:30 pm } · { Uncategorized }
{ Tags: Cocoanuts, duck, Marx, silly, why a duck } · { Comments (7) }

My mind is a strange place and I should not go there alone…when I thought of “Why a (wal)nut?” the other day, it reminded me of this scene from the Marx Brothers’ movie, Cocoanuts. I copied it below for your reading pleasure – it still makes me smile every time I read this! (Of course I’m a simple soul….Kezza)

As some of you know, I have “a thing” for rubber ducks as well…

Why a duck?Hammer [Groucho Marx]: … Now here is a little peninsula, and here is a viaduct leading over to the mainland.

 

Chico [Chico Marx]: Why a duck?

Hammer: I’m all right. How are you? I say here is a little peninsula, and here’s a viaduct leading over to the mainland.

Chico: All right. Why a duck?

Hammer: I’m not playing Ask-Me-Another. I say, that’s a viaduct.

Chico: All right. Why a duck? Why a– why a duck? Why-a-no-chicken?

Hammer: Well, I don’t know why-a-no-chicken. I’m a stranger here myself. All I know is that it’s a viaduct. You try to cross over there on a chicken, and you’ll find out why a duck.

Chico: I no go someplace, I just–

Hammer: It’s deep water, that’s why a duck. It’s deep water.

Chico: That’s-why-a-duck.

Hammer: Look, rube. Suppose you were out horseback riding and you came to that stream and wanted to ford over there, you couldn’t make it. It’s too deep.

Chico: But what do you want with a Ford when you got a horse?

Hammer: Well, I’m sorry the matter ever came up. All I know is that it’s a viaduct.

Chico: Now look … all righta … I catcha on to why a horse, why a chicken, why a this, why a that. I no catch on to why a duck.

Hammer: Well, I was only fooling. I was only fooling. They’re going to build a tunnel in the morning. Now, is that clear to you?

Chico: Yes, everything excepta why a duck.

–The Cocoanuts

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more nuts, anyone?

{ January 16, 2009 @ 2:18 pm } · { Uncategorized }
{ Tags: Lemuria, nut, Vulcania, walnut } · { Comments (2) }

www.walnuts.org/pdfs/WalnutIndustryFactSheet.pdf

Click the link to learn more about walnuts, which lower cholesterol, have been around for thousands of years, have roots that grow 10 feet deep, have beautiful, deep burled texture, and were a favored food of Roman emperors.  Funny, this fact sheet doesn’t mention the “beam me on board, Scotty” feature – maybe that’s only for the Vulcanian variety of walnuts…

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What Does It All Mean?

{ January 15, 2009 @ 4:36 pm } · { Uncategorized }
{ } · { Comments (7) }

Meaning is not something you stumble across, like an answer to a riddle or the prize in a treasure hunt. Meaning is something you build into your life. You build it out of your own past, out of the affections and loyalties, out of the experience of humankind as it is passed on to you, out of your own talent and understanding, out of the things you believe in, out of the things and people you love, out of the values for which you are willing to sacrifice something. The ingredients are there. You are the only one who can put them together into that unique pattern that will be your life. Let it be a life that has dignity and meaning for you. If it does, then the particular balance of success or failure is of less account.—

John Gardner

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orchid – Missouri Botanical Garden photo

{ January 14, 2009 @ 4:55 pm } · { Uncategorized }
{ Tags: deep, flower, orchid, Shaw } · { Comments }

Sipping sweet nectar

tracing soft spots with fingertips

peering in the pulpit

at this petal-sized universe

by Kerry Vincent (2009)

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why a walnut?

{ January 12, 2009 @ 4:29 pm } · { Uncategorized }
{ } · { Comments (17) }

All is working according to plan – my fellow passengers are so worried about me nabbing their Tim Tams they have no idea what I am really after is ideas for my stories…

Now just why would Enchanter give everyone a walnut? Except for the obvious joke you have to be nutty to cruise with this bunch…it reminds me of one of my favorite quotes:

Life does not accommodate you, it shatters you. It is meant to, and it couldn’t do it better. Every seed destroys its container or else there would be no fruition.
Florida Scott-Maxwell

Christmas Fudge

So far this recipe has been used by 4 generations of my family – and we have the big Swedish hips to prove it!  We’ve been making it every year since the 1950s.  It is always a hit – at potlucks, family dinners, office parties, gifts for teachers and neighbors – my nieces and I call ourselves “the Fudge Fairies” when we make this no-fail recipe.  Enjoy!

4 1/2 cups sugar

1 can evaporated milk (I think it’s 12 ounces)

3 (or more!) cups chocolate chips (traditional is to use all semi-sweet, but you can try milk, white, or butterscotch if you like)

2 cups chopped walnuts or pecans (your choice)

1/2 pound (8 ounces) butter or margerine

28 large marshmallows (or about 3 cups of miniature marshmallows)

2 tablespoons of vanilla

Pour milk and sugar into a large, heavy bottom pan (I like to use a Dutch oven on the stovetop). 

Bring the mixture to a boil – keep boiling for 9 full minutes, stirring constantly.  (If you don’t stir the full 9 minutes, the texture is wrong – so laugh, tell stories, have some egg nog – but keep stirring at a full boil for 9 whole minutes.  The mixture may rise up all bubbly – if it gets too high, turn down the heat a little, but keep it at a boil. 

Take the pan off the heat and add the butter/margerine, nuts, chips, marshmallows, and vanilla.  Stir to melt and mix – use a strong utensil.  Make sure it is all mixed well.  It takes awhile – but it is worth it.

Pour fudge into a buttered pan – I like to use a big cookie sheet, 12 in. by 17 in., about 1 inch deep.  Chill for at least 2 hours before cutting.  Makes 5 pounds.

* I often make this a month before Christmas – then sample it periodically, for “quality control”.  For those who prefer a dry fudge, I take it out of the pan, cut it, and flip it over, exposing the bottom to the air, so it dries out more quickly.  (And of course if there are any crumbs, guess who gobbles them up?!!) 

submitted by Kerry (Kezza) Vincent