OK so my stream of consciousness Saturday became a stream of consciousness Sunday but I think it still works 😀
If you want to check out the rules or read some other great blogs turn please check the link to see Linda G Hill
‘My precious, my precious.’
His bony fingers turned the gold band over and over as he rocked back and forth happy in the knowledge that his true love was back in his hands once again.
I always felt that Smeagol or Gollum whichever face you choose to bestow upon him received a bad rap for his outwardly creepy exterior. Perhaps if he were the handsome hero and the ring had been his female counterpart then being so blindly obsessed would have been considered sweet or endearing for his persistence. If he were the guy who fought for his true love and never gave up, the one in the film that had been deserted, rebuffed yet got himself back together to fight for the girl. If he had been the knight in shining armour, fighting through wild forests and battling the dragon to get that princess back in his arms again then they would have all loved him unconditionally.
Yet because the source of affection is just a placid lump of metal the whole passions of the creature becomes trivial and humorous. So funny in fact that in a cinema when the scene between Smeagol and Gollum came on and he had an argument with himself over his precious, a huge wave of laughter began and made everyone turn and stare.
Except myself who was too busy shrinking down in my seat trying to pretend I wasn’t with that date!
It’s wide open face trying to lure me in with fake promises of innocence and plausible deniability. Yet I could sense the danger; see the evil glint in it’s googly eye.
Every so often I came across it, usually in the big grand clear out of hoarded cupboards, of drawers, of boxes, of past lives. Yet every year it survives. The single birthday card destined to be sent out yet never quite reaching it’s full potential. Instead it lingers, ticking away at my mind and forcing me to recall memories of things past and left unsaid.
Oh, I know I could throw it in the dustbin or send it off to someone else to save the waste yet I just can’t bring myself to do it. The stupid humour on it was perfect for our little ‘in jokes’ that nobody else could understand and I knew you would appreciate the line of the poem I’d picked out and inserted especially for you – nobody else would have made the connection.
And yet I can’t send it now either.
Instead I clear it away, packed back into a shoebox, left to fester amongst the half burned candles and dried out roses. Left in the box of memories that mean the whole world and yet nothing at all.
This piece was written using the ‘card’ prompt by Linda G Hill as inspiration. If you want to join in or just check out some inspired writing then please check out her blog for rules and more.
March has been taken in a bit of a stride around here. To begin with I haven’t felt like I have had enough time to sit down and really focus on writing or reading or pretty much anything that will bring joy. Instead I have found myself resorting to hibernation mode on the days where I could have had some time to get things done; then afterwards kicking myself for wasting time.
Yes, at the beginning of March, I was already to march into the sunrise, head full of goals to complete and a list of things to do: yet somewhere along the way I got lost.
Do you ever get those days where you just feel you have had enough so you sit down and take a breather and some selfish time to yourself, and suddenly a few hours have been lost. Well that was my month of March really. Then tonight I find that I have literally lost an hour (darn those stupid time switches), and suddenly I feel awake again and aggrieved at all the time lost.
It keeps ticking whether we make the most of it or whether we waste it: and I guess we all need to feel as though we are wasting our time in order to do something about it.
So I shake my fist at you March, you have been my downfall and now I am protesting! Give me back my time and we shall have no more quarrel!
Wouldn’t it, wouldn’t it
Wouldn’t it be funny
If a lady had a wooden tit
Wouldn’t it be funny
Ok so that isn’t a particuarly pc rhyme but this was triggered and remembered from an old poetry book I had as a kid (this happened before from a SOC) , though I’m starting to think that this wasn’t exactly a book meant for children, at least not the age I was anyhow. But regardless we are trailed off the subject matter here.
Would or wood? the same sounds yet very different meaning it just gets confusing as so many things in life can do. If only we could see the wood from the trees or perhaps we should be hoping we can see the trees instead of just wood as all I seem to be seeing recently are trees being pulled down to make way for roads and building, and one day soon I worry I will wake up to find that I’m living in a concrete street. Yes it might be easier to maintain with no gardening to worry about etc but surely we should be valuing nature surrounding us at a much higher price.
Recently I saw a blog post which made me smile as it gave me hope that Spring wasn’t too far off and I’m looking forward to the days getting longer and the crisp bright mornings. I’m even looking forward to seeing if I get a new family of starlings in the garden this year, wouldn’t that be grand.
Linda’s prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is: “cash”
It’s a dirty word so they say, and as a product it’s actually dirty if you ask my friend about this who works in a cash office. I guess if you think about it logically it’s true too, all those places that money seems to go that we never really think about. Notes they get scrunched up in pockets, rolled up for drugs, left in old socks under mattress for paranoid people saving for a rainy day. They get folded and slipped into bra’s by girls out dancing but are too young to carry a bag (ah I remember those days fondly), or folded into the back of a travel pass – that emergency money we all desire to have available.
Then of course we still have the coins to think about, covered in ridges ready to hold the dirt and grime of everyday life. Clammy metal that attracts all manner of bacteria from sticky fingers eager to by sweets, or coins placed in mouths by bored children which then get put back into purses. Coins that drop on to pavements or roll through the grass . We even used to have a game of monies when we were young (after marbles got banned in our school) which meant we were actually just throwing money around on the floor yet we never questioned the germs: and you can bet the tuck shop never did either.
Even now I will always find dusty coins while cleaning, hidden in handbags and pockets of coats, or simply coins that have been dropped and rolled out of sight. I have containers of pennies that get put into tubs with the idea that one day I will pour them into the cash counting machine yet this never actually happens so instead I just end up with a big coin mountain.
Maybe one day soon I will get around to actually doing this, I could be rich! Or at least have enough for a bottle of wine to reward myself for the next batch of cleaning
Ta or tata – Thank you or goodbye – Thank you and goodbye not such a positive statement now, or is it?
If we are saying thank you then there must have been something positive right?, there must have at least been something to be thankful for. But if we are grateful why indeed are we saying goodbye.
We go through our lives meeting people and places, putting down roots and getting comfortable yet we rarely want to remove them afterwards, is this because we feel that we are trees and we will die when uprooted? Even the most beautiful plant needs a bit of pruning to keep it fresh and alive.
Upon being born we are thrown into a strange unnatural world, yet we survive. We embrace the new environment, breathe the new air, learn to adapt to the new less fluid atmosphere. Our bodies are amazing machines which work in such a way that they are almost effortless in their pursuit to keep up alive: so much so that we often take them far too much for granted.
In our lives we accept the bumps and the scrapes, expect to be able to rebound from the small ailments and get better, yet what happens when this never happens: what if our bodies stopped healing to an extent, would we take more care?
Spare a thought for those accident prone among us for a moment won’t you. For instance, this morning I am sporting a purple bruise on my upper calf that mysteriously appeared, from an unknown source. When washing my hair this morning I discovered the memory of hitting my head after the recoil of pain from under fingertips. I also remember the scorn for the word of ‘Did that hurt?’ from an onlooker, as is somehow being hit around the skull with a metal bar wouldn’t be painful.
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