What to do, what to do....

So here I am, out here alone in blogspace. How can I be alone when I'm one of hundreds of thousands? It's easy: my class is over and no one else is posting. If they are, they haven't updated their blogs in a long time. They were pretty quick to shake the dust of PBDS 601 from their feet and post their final blogs, some doing it even before the class ended. I wanted to take a little longer, to suss out some things.

To me, blogging was never about the grade, it was making a connection with people that I may not have already known. Isn't that the reason that people blog in the first place? We all have something to say, we just need a forum in which to say it.

During our final class, I bemoaned the fact that I could never figure out what to do with my blog. I didn't feel comfortable really ranting about class, work, or personal life. In my mind, I just don't have that much to complain about. I have opinions about politics, religion and the state of the union, but I don't feel a need to put them out there for public view. I also don't feel the need to turn someone's head with my opinion. I know there's people who agree and also disagree. Enough said.

But is it really enough? What if my opinion serves as the foundation of a movement, maybe of a new way of thinking? What if it changes the mind of one person? What if it opens some eyes and breaks some hearts? The power to disagree with an opinion is a valuable one. The power to listen, even larger. Maybe blogspace needs another cyberranter or pixel-peacemaker to keep the conversation going, to keep the messages spreading, to keep the energy going. The way we communicate, with all its vitriol and verve, is what makes us who we are.

Am I up to the challenge of making my blog something more? My summer will probably be spent trying to decide, since I've opted to take the summer off from school. Originally I had signed up for another class, but I think I need to get in touch with my inner equilibrium again. I'll also be starting a new job.....as a full-time writer. Have to take the time to adjust to getting paid for doing what I love. What a concept!

So feel free to continue on the ride......or not.

From my garden....

Show and Tell - Favorite Blog

My favorite blog has to be my references from "The Vulgar Tongue: Buckish Slang and Pickpocket Eloquence."

A few more treasures from the letter "C" -

Caterwauling - going out in the night in seach of intrigues, like a cat in the gutters.

Charactered - Burnt in the hand. They have palmed the character upon him; they have burned him in the hand.

Chatterbox - one whose tongue runs twelve score to the dozen, a chattering man or woman

Cheese Toaster - a sword

Chosen Pells - Highwaymen who rob in pairs, in the streets and squares of London.

Crab Shells - shoes

I think I need another dictionary to get through some of these!

Tripping the Blog Fantastic

Just looking back through my blog and enjoying some of the images and thoughts that I put into cyberspace.

I sustained a computer-related injury while finishing my iMovie on Saturday. I worked for a straight five hours on the thing, and I think my mouse was positioned too far away from me. I was supporting most of my weight on my right arm and I strained my neck and shoulder muscles badly. Don't ask me to draw a diagram of how I did this -- I don't have a clue. The whole right side of my face and neck is now extremely sore and I can't move very well. Owie.

I'm feeling quite "tapped out" this week. I've hit the wall and it's hitting me back, repeatedly, with steel knuckles.

On the good side, my garden is finally starting to bloom. My peonies are growing big and bushy and my roses have begun peeping out from their tender buds. Now that the sun is coming out again, I'll get some shots and post some pics. Hmmmm...maybe I'll add them to my iMovie!

Definition...

This was my original definition project...before I switched it to "smile" and then to "mischief." My chosen word was "vendetta."

The bell on the door rang into the dining room of the trattoria, startling the afternoon patrons out of the haze of humidity and Turkish cigarettes. Frank Sinatra played on the jukebox, singing his heart out about feeling a part of it. The maitre’d took me in, from my styled coif to my stylish stilettos and led me back to a small table near the kitchen. “Espresso, grazie,” I whispered, lighting a cigarette of my own.

“It’s too warm for espresso, sigñora,” a voice rumbled in my ear. A tower of a man squeezed himself into the chair across from me, all right angles in Italian silk. His back was to the kitchen so I couldn’t see his face, only the outlines of his Hebridean jaw and the gleam of lustrous black hair. “Might I suggest a limoncello?”

“Prego, señor,” I answered, tapping ashes into the crystal center of the red tablecloth. Muscles rippled across his jaw in what I assumed to be a smile. “So how is this business handled?”

“Vendetta?”

The room paused; even the smoke stopped swirling around the ineffective ceiling fans. He placed both hands against the table as if to back away, but I leaned on my elbows and took a long pull at my cigarette, engaging his full attention with my low-cut blouse.

“It is a very serious matter,” he sighed. “We need to make sure that you are not entering into this lightly.” He pulled an envelope from his crisp jacket pocket, laying the contents on the table. A pocket watch, a gold locket, a ruby ring. I dashed quick tears from my eyes as my crossed leg hopped slightly under the table, betraying nerves.

“You must strike the blow yourself. What was taken from you cannot be restored, but it can be corrected. An eye for an eye, as the Persians say. You understand, yes?” he murmured. Not even the napkins on the table could hear him. But I could. My heart could. Our limoncellos steamed in the hot damp of the trattoria. “The Family cannot do this for you.” He waved his hands dismissively. “In America, of course it is different. Contract killers and drive-by shootings. But here, in the Old Country, the blood debt is for you to collect.” I sat and absorbed his words, letting the tears dry on my cheeks.

“Have it your way.” The shots were more like popping noises. The patrons did not stir. My companion slumped gently to the table. “Vendetta is best served over ice, don’t you agree?” I swept my family’s property into the envelope and slipped it into my handbag, along with the silencer. I threw some lira to the table and emerged into the cleansing afternoon sunlight that only the Amalfi Coast could provide. One down, seven to go, and not a spot on my white linen suit.

It was a good day.

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