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In our language, the meaning of 'hag' has been distorted. Among the Kells (my mother was Irish), it is the final stage in the life of a woman. There are three: The Maiden/Virgin, untaken, untamed, wild and free. She's full of fire, dreams, visions and kinetic energy. She is the Waxing Moon. The Matron, in the full maturity of her child-bearing years. She is the great earth mother, the lover, the comforter, the healer. She is the Full Moon. The Hag. Seasoned and wise in the ways of the world, she holds her blood and sometimes her tongue. She enjoys honor and respect among those who hold her favor, and fear/caution among those who have earned her ire. She is the Waning Moon. I take The Hag for Hag Struan, a character in James Clavell's novel Tai-Pan, my favorite of his works. The Hag was born a Brock, which made her marriage into the Struan clan a Hatfield-McCoy heresy. The Brocks and Struans were rival shipping magnates in Scotland during the early days of China trade. The Hag was widowed young and stepped to the helm of Struan shipping, to keep them on top of her birth family. She was a tough, clear-minded, straight from the shoulder kind of lady. I admired her strength, her dignity and her dedication to her family against all odds. I'd have a very long way to go, indeed, before I could be in her league, but the name inspires me and I aim to do her proud. *************** For God sent NOT his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved. [JOHN 3:17] Peace to All. The Hag ......................................  .......................................... |
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Confessions from the NytOwl
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Mar 30, 2007 1:27 am
Mood: cheerful,
846 Views
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Do you remember the classic thirty-minute western series The Rifleman starring Chuck Connors as Lucas McCain, Johnny Crawford as his son, Mark and veteran 'character' actor Paul Fix as Sheriff Micah Torrence? That series, which ran from 1958 through 1963, always was one of my favs. One piece of the domestic minutiae struck an deep personal chord with me: Lucas always left a swallow of coffee in his cup that Mark was allowed to finish. That was a custom between Daddy and me long before the series was a draft in a screenwriters' typewriter.
Ours was a home with an open door, where the coffee was always hot - not necessarily fresh, but hot. Fresh you could get, but it might take longer. My father, a civilian employee on a large U.S. Army base, always did shift work, as did the majority of our neighbors. Folks frequently stopped in before and after work for an informal brunch or supper. Talk was light and lively and we were one huge, extended military family - as many of the younger couples who frequented our table were the enlisted troops.
As long as I was quiet, not cranky or 'being too rowdy', I never had a set bedtime. From about the sixth grade on, I'd normally make it to bed around 10:30-11:00pm, and have no problem being on time, walking to school the next morning.
I was born a night person. Two incidents from very early childhood are vivid memories: Mother was talking to a young friend who was struggling with getting her own newborn onto the all-important 'sleep schedule': "Well," Mama said, "when Elsie was a baby, we lived on the pear orchard and I was working in the fields while Bill worked at the sawmill. I'd come home in the evening, just worn out, but that child could not settle down and go to sleep. It was like she woke up when the sun went down. I'd get supper for Jim (my older brother) and myself, feed her and play with her a little bit, trying to get her sleepy. Finally, I just had to barricade her away from anything that she could get hurt on, and lie down so that I could work the next day. Poor little Jim would be asleep as soon as he brushed his teeth. When Elsie finally got tired, she'd crawl up onto the bed with me and go to sleep - then I could move her to her crib and really go to sleep myself."
Long before that, however, I remember a visit from Mama's 'baby' brother, a young man not yet married. It was a weekend and Daddy was home from the sawmill. He was playing with me, reading my Little Golden Books over and over again. Finally, my uncle got bored watching this, since he wanted some time to visit with Daddy man-to-man. "Bill!", I remember him saying, "if that was my kid, I'd spank her b*tt, put her to bed and make her go to sleep!"
Daddy laughed, long and deep. "Well, W.S.," he replied, "you could spank her b*tt, and you could put her into bed, but I'll be d*mn*d if you could make her go to sleep!
I managed to get through grades one-twelve and graduate from high school. I loved the studies and hated the hours - hate being up in daylight! As soon as I got into college, I took as many late afternoon and evening classes as could be scheduled, and for those semesters where I had to have early morning sessions, I most often worked all night, went to class then home to crash. In the work force, I've always taken second and third shift jobs wherever possible (and it isn't always).
My body clock and my mind work better at night. The positive ion count in the air is much higher after sunset; it's quieter; on the job one escapes a good portion of the petty politics, jockeying for 'the boss' ' favor, tons of useless nonsense that have nothing to do with getting the work done. Staff meetings for third shifters are for absolute essentials only - seldom are they concerned with 'retirement parties for the third vice president in charge of broom closet maintenance', etc. When we have a baby shower, bridal reception or retirement party, it gets taken care of with much less pomp and circumstance. A coffee klatch on break in the cafeteria usually is sufficient.
Beyond that my creative energy soars in direct proportion to the darkening sky. My very best artistic work is always done at night. Sunset is my favorite time of day and in my dream world, I meet each one sitting in front of a huge plate glass window, facing west with a clear view of the horizon. There's a fresh cup of coffee in my hand, a plate of biscotti on the table and something serene on the music-maker: Pachelbel or Vivaldi or maybe DeBussy. My energy spikes at about eight in the evening and then again around two in the morning. My favorite time to have breakfast is just after finishing a grueling ten-hour shift, from 9:00pm-7:00am. After that, sit over coffee for a couple of hours with a good book, take a leisurely walk through the park, then home to the hot shower and long, sweet sleep.
To me, being a bona fide, dyed-in-the-wool night person is a beautiful thing. I've never fought it, fretted about it, nor wasted time arguing with folks who think "the only people who say they like to work nights are disreputable, untrustworthy or deviant.' (She was a tin-plated socialite with a 'volunteer' bureaucratic position at the YWCA.) I smiled, ever so sweetly and said, "Well, Ma'am, I'll remember that the next time you need an ambulance at two in the morning." I walked away as she was gasping for air to make a comeback.  My bad.
So, as we are some minutes away from my next energy spike, I shall refill the coffee cup and come visit you on your blogs - I am a couple of days behind with that!
Giggles and Grins!
The Hag
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The Neon Cross
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Mar 25, 2007 5:14 am
Mood: sad,
1183 Views
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The Golden Altar and The Neon Cross - conclusion
It would have been funny...
...had it not been sincere. ... Just after the original Star Wars appeared in theaters, a California couple wrote Sir Alec Guinness, explaining that, while they were quite upwardly mobile and very successful, their relationship was in trouble. Would he please come to California and live with them for (some specified time), in character as Obi-Wan Kenobi and straighten out their marriage - for a substantial fee or donation to his charity of choice, of course.
Thinking about it, it seems that the sanity barrier between performer and audience was broken by Elvis Presley. Previously, there had been great popular icons. Women had screamed themselves hoarse at Frank Sinatra concerts years before, but - as my most-adored high school teacher noted - "We didn't continue screaming while he sang!" Beatlemania came a few years later and from there, the phenomenon spiraled into sustained mass hysteria.
Khalil Gibran said, "And if there come (among you) the singers and the dancers and the flute players, - buy of their gifts also. For they too are gatherers of fruit and frankincense, and that which they bring, though fashioned of dreams, is raiment and food for your soul." We do have a spiritual hunger for the emotional release of cultural experiences. To appreciate and admire the work of any talented performer leaves us refreshed, enlightened and inspired. It's good to admire great work and to want to emulate it to the best of our ability. We have, however, lost this understanding.
Somehow, we have come to believe that 'fame', 'success', 'recognition' can be absorbed through the process of osmosis, simply by being in the presence of 'greatness'. How many times have we heard the question, "How did you get where you are today?" Do you notice the great similarity in the answers? Almost always they include ambition, preparation, education, HARD WORK , persistence, help from teachers and mentors - and being in the right place at the right time. There simply is no magic formula for instant success. You know what instant success is, don't you? That's success that takes fifteen years of hard work and rejection to attain, and it's gone in an instant!
A famous person, from whatever arena, cannot tell you what to do to get where they are - frequently, they don't know themselves. I've heard many of them say that, too. The terrifying reality is that there are only twenty-four hours in everyone's day. Your adored celebrity has the same amount of time to accomplish their goals as do you. The unseen truth is that, every hour you give up in frenzied ecstasy dreaming of living their life, is an hour you lose from your own - an hour you'll never get back. Dreams are Godgifts. Imagination is the tool we use to frame our future, especially when we're young, but when we fail to feed the dream with preparation, education and hard work, it becomes a malignant tumor in our soul - sapping our strength to pursue meaningful experiences of our own.
Screaming at Oprah will not get you a talk show, or a mega-million dollar lifestyle. Fainting at the feet of Leonardo DiCaprio won't make you a green light on the newest Hollywood A-List. Touching their car, having some intimate, personal souvenir will not endow you with super talent. Meanwhile, the limited amount of energy you do have is being siphoned away from your spouse, children, family, friends, work - YOUR LIFE, the only one you get, THE ONLY ONE YOU CAN LIVE.
Feeding on their sufferings, struggles and scandals does not wipe out your own mistakes or ease your own sad, guilty feelings. Murdering one of them will indeed get you Andy Warhol's touted 'fifteen minutes' in the public eye - along with life-long jail sentence - but it will not allow you to assume their identity.
When the curtain falls, when the credits roll, when the gallery door closes, when you walk out of Barnes and Noble with your signed copy and your receipt in your hand - you have absolutely all of that person's life, time and attention to which you are entitled. By demanding more, you disrespect them and demean yourself.
The next time the rush of exhilaration overwhelms you at the sight/sound of your most adored icon, take some time to count the cost to them. Sally Jesse Raphael was forced to make her way to her daughter's funeral disguised as a homeless baglady. Would you really want all your pain, all your shame, all your sorrows, all your disasters, all your failure and defeat constantly trotted out before the public eye? You want to try to find reliable constant security guard for your children? Babies in particular? Think about it.
Anna Nicole Smith was a fictionalized creation of the industry. Vickie Lynn Hogan Marshall was a lonely, neglected, poor little Texas girl. To use my Mama's expression, she was 'jerked up by the hair of the head,' never feeling loved, cared for or appreciated. Like so very many, she got hooked on the images of the glamorous 'easy' life she saw on the movie screen and in the magazines. Of course she wanted it! How could she not? Anything would have been better than her reality. Anything. You know what else Vickie Lynn was? She was a child of G*d for whom Ch*ist died. No matter what judgment you level at her, she is deserving of your pity and of your respect for the things she suffered at her own hand, and at the hands of her 'controllers'. "It's just a picture from life's other side, someone who fell by the way. A life has gone out with the tide that might have been happy one day." ~ Hank Williams Senior
***************
Below is a short list of young people, each troubled by their personal tragedies, who tried to escape into fame. These were special to me. You will think of others.
* Johnny Ace (1954), singer, American singer, playing Russian Roulette
* James Byron Dean (1955) age 24, died alone in a car crash in Cholame, CA
* Diana Barrymore (1960), U.S. actress, writer ( 'Too Much, Too Soon' )
* Marilyn Monroe (Norma Jeane) (1962) aged 36, drug overdose, Brentwood, CA
* Nick Adams ( 1968 ), American actor, overdose of paraldehyde and Promazine.
* Jimi Hendrix (1970) age 27, drug overdose
* Janis Joplin (1970) aged 27 in Los Angeles, CA, drug overdose
* James Douglas Morrison (1971) age: 27 years and 183 days, drug overdose, Paris, France
* Cass Elliot (Ellen Naomi Cohen) aka Mama Cass (1974) rumored overdose, choked to death in her sleep, in London aged 32
* Freddie Prinze, Sr. (1977) aged 22
* John Adam Belushi (1982) aged 33, Los Angeles, CA
* Peter Bellamy (1991), English folk singer
* River Jude Phoenix (River Jude Bottom) (1993) aged 23, Los Angeles, CA
* Tommy Boyce (1994), songwriter for The Monkees
* Cheyenne Brando (1995), Daughter of Marlon Brando, hanged
* Selena Quintanilla-Pérez (1995), murdered at 23.
* Anna Nicole Smith/Vickie Lynn Hogan (birth name) Died February 8, 2007, aged 39, cause undetermined
* and, from another genre of 'show business' three brothers! *Mike Adkisson, a.k.a. Mike von Erich, (1987), professional wrestler, overdosed on the tranquilizer Placidyl
* Chris Adkisson, a.k.a. Chris von Erich, (1991), professional wrestler, gunshot to the head
* Kerry Adkisson, a.k.a. Kerry von Erich, (1993), professional wrestler, gunshot wound to the chest
********************
I believe this is much too long and too 'serious' a post, but I also believe it's worth talking about. I promise to speak in a briefer and lighter vein over the coming days.
YOU were born a unique original; DON'T die a cheap imitation! ~ John Hagee
Hagitha hath spoken!
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The Golden Altar - Part One
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Mar 22, 2007 5:11 am
860 Views
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MOOD: Philosophical
[Disclaimer: I'm using ALL CAPS for emphasis - it doesn't indicate "shouting"\Hagitha]
During her lifetime, I paid no attention to Anna Nicole Smith, though I did absorb basic sound bytes from her meteoric rise to become the favorite target of the Murdochian tabloids. Then she was dead and the circus began: In life, Vickie Lynn Marshall had been a gold mine for the "entertainment" and tabloid industry. In death, that mine has become pure platinum with a mile-wide mother lode. A feeding frenzy of controversy, confusion, cross-questions and crazy answers has created a media blitz so ferocious that even the Coroner is compelled to extract from it his own "fifteen minutes of fame". Watching a segment on Larry King Live, I stepped back and considered how I'd feel were this a relative of my own. I shivered and I cringed.
So few of us seem to think seriously about what this degree of Star Worship is doing to us as a culture and a nation. Recent surveys reveal that the number one career goal among our young people is FAME - not becoming a high-performance sports professional, not a gifted artist - just GET FAMOUS by the quickest means possible. Our media pays feint-hearted lip service to education, hard work, dedication, public service and self-discipline (CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT) with sporadic public service announcements by prominent icons as spokespersons. Seldom indeed, however, do we see these values reflected in the end-product that appears in our family rooms via the 65" plasma screen.
We seldom think of the price that is paid in terms of lost self-respect and motivation. There are two generations of adult citizens in the U.S.A. (with a third now half-grown) for whom education and hard work are as prized as a piece of used Kleenex. We see the 'beautiful people' in designer garments emerge from the pricey limousines, jewels flashing, to stand on the red carpet, beaming at adoring fans and paparazzi alike and it looks easy - effortless, in fact. So much so that simply showing up on time, giving our best efforts to our job, earning an honest wage* and living honorably within our means no longer has value to many of us. (*NOT NECESSARILY FAIR! A fair wage is a different issue and the unfairness has been borne by the laborers as long as humankind has been forming societies.) Simple joys in simple blessings fails to meet our expectation of 'success' or 'just rewards'. We compare our daily lives to those of our favorite icons and we feel that, in spite of our hard work, we've failed. At worse, we feel somehow cheated and angry. This frustrated anger can become dangerous.
Worse, this idolization takes a terrible toll in human life. So much holy potential has been sacrificed to this meaningless god called Fame. So many young lives have been thrown away. Each of us can name several whom we admired, whose work added a dimension of wit or insight to our own lives - yet, they fell, crushed under the weight of their own ambitions, either because they had achieved more than they had dreamed possible and remained unfulfilled; because they had failed to achieve that coveted pinnacle of stardom, or because, once achieved, it has not lasted 'forever' and they could not survive being forgotten (and perhaps poverty-stricken).
[More to come...if you don't 'vote' otherwise!]
The Hag
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Today Is Not The Day
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Mar 20, 2007 6:12 am
834 Views
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MOOD: Sleepy (Is that a mood?)
A FEW FRIENDS are awaiting a particular blog. My goal was to have posted it this morning.
Howsomever, I fell into the research pit. I began following first one thread, then another, allegedly reading for background information, but in reality just assuaging my writer's curiosity. I produced about two-thirds of a decent first draft, but my mind has turned to mush (or at least to thoughts of hot oatmeal and cinnamon toast) and my energy level has sunk to 20,000 feet below sea level. Ergo, with apologies, I cannot post today as promised.
I'm headed to the kitchen to whip up that oatmeal, toast and a fresh potta, will walk Buddy and then I'd best grab a nap before work time. Yas. I've been puttering around in Dogpile the whole night. Loved it! It's who I am and what I do.
When I finish the draft, iron out the wrinkles and hone it down, I will post - should manage it tonight or tomorrow.
Have a great day, my friends!
Hugs and laughter!
The Hag
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Echoes of Erin
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Mar 17, 2007 5:43 pm
Mood: happy,
1021 Views
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I'm late in my wishes to everyone for a wonderful St. Patrick's Day weekend. I hope all the parties are lively, the beer green and the LUCK everlasting! Have a great one, my friends!
My ties to the land of mists and mystery come through my mother, whose father was Irish. (Her mother was Acadian French - but that's 'nother blog.) Mama's 'baby' brother married a charming girl of Irish heritage, the Kelley Clan. Among all my mother's relatives, Aunt Wanda was my favorite and my most dearly loved! She had that incredible energy and spirit - that tremendous outgoing connection to other people, the warmth and friendliness that made you feel welcome the minute you met her.
I loved visiting her neat, happy home and playing with my little cousins - one four years younger than I, the other six years younger. There was a huge toy chest in their room, and a great box filled with 'dress up' clothes and costume jewelry. I remember my mother's comment each summer, as we girls would traipse around in layer upon layer of garments, 'veils' and hats, with our baby dolls in the strollers, going about our imaginary 'teas' and the like: "Girls", Mama would always say, "it was a mistake about that child freezing to death!" Then she'd fill the room with her clear, pealing laughter.
When several of the aunts and uncles were together, there'd be a family sing. My uncle, brother and an older cousin played guitar, and then the Irish ballads would start. A sweet choir or quartet of kindred voices calling back all the melancholy beauty of a land they never saw - yet it bloomed forever in the memories of their/our souls like my Mama's favorite song:
The lyrics and music to My Wild Irish Rose were
written by Chauncey Olcott for his production of A
Romance of Athlone. The music was published in
1899. Chauncey Olcott was born Chanellor John Olcott in
Buffalo, New York. He produced several shows about
Ireland for the New York stage and was one of the most
popular singers, actors and songwriters of his time.
His other hits included When Irish Eyes are Smiling.*
My Wild Irish Rose
If you'll listen, I'll sing you a sweet little song,
Of a flower that's now drooped and dead,
Yet dearer to me, yes, than all of its mates,
Tho' each holds aloft its proud head.
'Twas given to me by a girl that I know,
Since we've met, faith, I've known no repose,
She is dearer by far than the world's brightest star,
And I call her my wild Irish Rose.
My wild Irish Rose,
The sweetest flow'r that grows,
You may search ev'rywhere,
But none can compare
With my wild Irish Rose.
My wild Irish Rose,
The dearest flow'r that grows,
And some day for my sake,
She may let me take
The bloom from my wild Irish Rose.
They may sing of their roses which, by other names,
Would smell just as sweetly, they say,
But I know that my Rose would never consent
To have that sweet name taken away.
Her glances are shy when e'er I pass by
The bower, where my true love grows;
And my one wish has been that some day I may win
The heart of my wild Irish Rose.
My wild Irish Rose,
The sweetest flow'r that grows,
You may search ev'rywhere,
But none can compare
With my wild Irish Rose.
My wild Irish Rose,
The dearest flow'r that grows,
And some day for my sake,
She may let me take
The bloom from my wild Irish Rose.
Erin Go Bragh!
The Hag
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Memories of Esmeralda
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Mar 15, 2007 9:04 pm
Mood: thoughtful,
861 Views
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Esmeralda! Esmeralda! lost and lovely Gypsy queen! She held the curves like a python snake, and on the straights, she purred like a cat over cream!" (mine - doggerel though it be.)
Esmeralda wasn't my first car, but she was my first brand-new car. 1973 Dodge Demon, midnight green with black top and black hood scoops. She got cat-calls from all the guys in the parking lot the first day I drove her to work - and once inside, they all wanted to know whether my husband and I had won the lottery, since she was a gift from him. We'd been able to swing the deal because my husbands boss had gotten her at cost from his father's dealership. She was a world of fun, totally dependable, and handled so easy, even on slippery, wet roads. She took me shopping, to do our laundry (no w/d connections or on-site facility in the tiny apartment complex where we lived). She brought home the groceries, took my friends to various off-campus functions; on the weekends, Ron and I would drive the Kentucky countryside, just drinking in the beauty and enjoying our break from the strain of the week. We reached the point of being unable to maintain the two cars, and sold her because she was the most marketable. I hated parting with Esmy and there are times when she roars through my dreams, even now.
Matilda was a broken dowager. She came to me second or fiftieth-hand, abused and neglected. A classic Cutlass Supreme, she'd been queen in her day, it was easy to see. My brother helped us do the major repairs and restoration of the paint job, but she always handled like what she was - a land yacht that needed a lot of room to maneuver and a lot of time in which to do it. There was no gunning it and screeching away from the traffic light in this one - you waited sedately to take your turn and prayed the vehicle behind you would do the same. We totaled Matilda one night in the foothills of Missoouri (quite another blog). Once I realized Ron and I were not seriously injured - he had chipped his left elbow rather badly - I grieved for the loss of Matilda, even knowing she'd be replaced. Probably because of the fun we had while we owned her, Matilda remains my favorite and best-loved of all the vehicles I've owned.
Dirty Sally was a white Fury III - an out-and-out gift when Ron's boss got a new one. So named for my favorite recurring character on Gunsmoke, Sally was always dirty. Five minutes out of the carwash, and you couldn't tell she'd ever seen one. But, lemme tell ya, friends - that machine could move! She had the heft and balance of a custom-made dueling pistol, sitting on that broad bench seat was like sitting on the sofa at home, and just the touch of a toe to the gas and she flew! No wonder so many police departments favored the Fury as their black and whites! I drove Dirty Sally for twelve long years. Then one night, she was hit on the street (parked and empty) in a hit and run. My brother looked her over and pronounced her totaled. We sold her for scrap, alas.
I've named all my vehicles - (and my computer system, wherever I am always has the same name: H.A.R.L.I.E. from a dearly-loved old novel by one of the StarTrek writers. It stands for Human analog Robot, Life Input Equivalents. Would love to have that book again) and appreciated different qualities about each of them. When it comes to our motor vehicles, even farm implements and the like, I think it's that our relationship with them is so physical. They have many requirements that parallel human needs: they have to be fed gas and oil; they have to be maintained with regular check-ups; when they require major repairs, they need a specialist (mechanic), who's d*mned expensive.
No two are alike. A test-drive of two brand new models of the same manufacturer, same design, will reveal subtle differences in the handling, in the feel behind the wheel, the way the seat cradles us as we sit there - one will adjust to our posture better than the other. As we own the vehicle, all of these connections become more pronounced. We become more familiar with its quirks (needs?). Just how much pressure must we apply to achieve the acceleration required to pass in traffic, pull away from the light, etc. How readily does it respond to the brake? A billion tiny impulses that our minds and our tactile memories record unconsciously make this piece of equipment uniquely 'ours'. Unknowingly, we invest ourselves in it.
We depend upon this heartless machine to get us to work on time; actually to do our work in some instances, to bring home the groceries, get the kids to school, to provide amusement and entertainment; when there's an emergency, our very lives depend upon it. It may save us in an accident and it may take our life capriciously. We are the brain that maneuvers a solid ton of steel, glass and rubber down the freeway at 70mph, never considering the myriad calculations, adjustments and corrections we're making automatically each millisecond.
For many, this is our only time alone every day, which explains the near-phobic American aversion to car-pooling. We do our best thinking here - sort out our problems; brainstorm; dream; pray (either deliberately or in desperate, furious, frustrated spontaneity). When we have passengers, some of our most meaningful and intimate conversations take place in the car (truck, van). It's emotionally safer - while the driver must (should!) keep their eyes on the road, the other is free to look out the windows, and this free association leads to easier, more open communication. We can say what we feel relieved of the need to make/keep eye contact. It has the flavor of the confessional.
When we look at this inert tonnage, we don't see "It" - we see what it means to us. We see the people who've shared our lives, laughing as we came back from the movie, praying for the safety of our young people out celebrating as we drove home from the high-school graduation, weeping as we drove away from the graveside service - alone at last, where it's safe to let go.
When we part with a treasured vehicle, whether through trade, sale or having been totaled in an accident, it is not an object with which we part, it is a chunk of our soul.
Namaste.
Elsie, The Hag
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I've Exhausted My Ignorance...
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Mar 13, 2007 4:39 am
Mood: drained,
1064 Views
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My Final Thoughts
I am not a saint - plaster, paper or otherwise. I am an example only of what NOT to do, when and how NOT to do it. For a further elaboration on my self-image, see the old blog What May Be The Longest Blog You. My Savior is perfect. I am not. I'm just an old sinner saved by His Grace, nothing more, nothing less.
To share material from the public domain is not plagiarism, not 'stealing' , so long as it is not presented as one's own creation. Under the auspices of the Bill of Rights (quote):
Amendment I: Freedom of speech, religion, press, petition
and assembly.
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment
of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof;
or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the
right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition
the Government for a redress of grievances. (end quote)
Under THAT AUTHORITY, as long as no copyright laws are infringed upon, e.g., the material is in the public domain, I'll post 'my conscience' unless and until SFF kicks me off the site. What others may choose to do, I DESPERATELY DO NOT WISH TO CONTROL. PERIOD.
To my beloved friends who need to post more than two blogs per day, I offer a simple suggestion. Try this for one month: Instead of posting the third blog, take that time to explore this site. It is a good one. Read and comment on others' blogs. Start by responding to those who comment on your own. Venture into the magazine and explore its different sections and features. Go to the SFF Tool Bar, that broad blue band under the logo that says: Home (mailbox icon) My Account, etc., and click on Groups. Find a discussion group that interests you and see what those folks are up to. A Discussion Group is like slow chat (my system is cantankerous, so it's hard for me to keep up in regular chat). You can read the topics that have been posted and what group members have said in regard to them. Post a topic of your own.
THERE ARE MANY ADVANTAGES TO THIS ACTIVITY:
1) you learn more about what's available on SFF and how to make good use of it;
2) you increase the number of your contacts, getting to know more people faster;
3) you strengthen your computer skills, which are transferable to other areas and even other systems;
4) you keep your mind alert, alive and active through new learning;
5) it's just a whole lot of fun!
Whatever you may choose to do, I hope you always remember that you're a valuable member of the SFF community and you have friends here.
I have great news! SFF has not contacted me to request that I become a Hall Monitor or head up The SFF Neighborhood Watch Committee. This delights me to no end since, had they done so, I'd respectfully have to decline.
Should they become so displeased with my postings that they kick me off the site, I'll not fight with them to be reinstated - there are 'other sites', Good Friends. So, should you come a'knockin' one day only to find an empty space, just know that I luv ya, and it was great, great fun!
These topics will not be revisited here and I have exhausted my ignorance thereon. Sincere thanks to each of you for your comments - and especially for your kindness and tolerance.
Looking forward with much joy to my next blog (within a day or two), I wish you peace, hope and joy!
The Hag has spoken! (and for the moment, has finished speaking.)
Namaste.
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'NOTHER ISSUE ALTOGETHER...
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Mar 11, 2007 12:20 am
968 Views
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MOOD: Concerned
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QUOTE: I wanted to wait to start this until the photo was posted, BUT
Jun 7, 2006 2:51 pm
Mood: cheerful, 287 Views
I can't stand this one-way communication. I'm fast becoming addicted to SFF, and if I'm going to surf around in here, dropping odd comments and sometimes pontificating, then I gotta have a place where I can receive same. This is only my opening gambit and I must hurry -- but will be back to build on this foundation ASAP.
Peace and joy to all visitors, WELCOME.
Joy in Jesus,
The Hag
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That was my first blog. It netted eight comments. I clicked the "View My Blog" link beneath the photo of each respondent. Upon viewing their blog(s), I clicked the link in the upper left corner of their blog page "Watch This Blog" - bingo! I had eight watched blogs. Next time I signed onto SFF, I went immediately to those eight blogs. At this writing, the number of my watched blogs has grown to 55. Personally, I've never paid any attention to where my new blogs show up or how long they stay on the 'front page' (???).
This will be blog #78, since that first posting nine months ago. The previous 77 have netted 793 total comments. This number has the same significance to me as which horse won the third race at Santa Monica today, i.e., none.
Of paramount value are the people who took the time to read those blogs and post their comments. I've made incredible friends here and those friendships continue to grow, even as new ones are born each week. The people I've come to know here add depth, color and new dimensions to my life that I'd never have thought possible. To me, being here is an honor, a privilege and, as such, a responsibility. I have a responsibility to uphold the integrity of the community, just as I do at work, church, my neighborhood and my family. I want to keep those relationships born on SFF solid and sound. I want to make sure I treat people right.
I strongly believe in and support the right of every blogger to cut and paste site-appropriate material from the public domain and to express themselves within the bounds of decency on their own space as they see fit.
Clog-blogging and blitz-posting is a completely separate issue - and it is inexcusable. To post multiple blogs within a short time is irresponsible, inconsiderate, disrespectful and rude. It's an abuse of the site and it is wrong. The folks who cannot be dissuaded from engaging in these practices are like those individuals who allow the weeds to take over their property and grow waist-high; who stockpile rusted out vehicles, household appliances and other scrap materials that belong in the landfill or other waste site to accumulate until the neighbors have to take action against them and complain to the appropriate city/county authority to take matters in hand.
I feel a very strong concern that most of the folks who're guilty of this 'sin' truly do so innocently. Either they don't realize the mechanics involved - that by their repeated staccato postings, they are depriving the rest of the community of rightful 'air' space; they're lonely, in need of attention/support and don't see that their repeated bids for attention actually cause problems for others. A smaller number don't/can't care. And, there are a few among us who do so out of their malicious, malignant pain.
Whatever the cause, I think SFF should address this problem technologically by limiting the number of BLOGS, MAGAZINE ARTICLES/POEMS, ADVICE LINE QUESTIONS or DISCUSSION GROUP TOPICS that can be submitted from one handle in a 24-hour period: I would favor two blogs or magazine articles; three poems, advice line questions or discussion group topics, thereby giving everyone a fair and equal opportunity to have their material be easily accessible to the majority of our readership. Perhaps those of us who think this is a good idea should pass it on to the Service Department or Abuse Control.
"Lord, fill my mouth with worthwhile stuff - then nudge me when I've said enuff! " ~ Author Unknown
Respectfully submitted for your consideration,
Elsie, The Hag
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Irreparable Damage
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Mar 7, 2007 6:49 am
Mood: guilty,
987 Views
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SimpleLadyB has posted a poll in the magazine that asks: Have you ever lost someone you cared about because of your behavior and attitudes?
Sometimes, because of our behaviors and attitudes we lost the best thing we have.
For example, very possesive, jealousy or something else.
Have you ever tried it?
I'm sixty years old. I have neither a parent nor a grandparent who lived to celebrate their 80th birthday. In my lifetime, I've made three statements that I would give ten healthy years apiece to unsay:
Two took place during my engagement before my first marriage. I enjoyed a strong, personal friendship with two coworkers. Gentlemen who had been friends all of their lives and who had served together in WWII. My family was in turmoil over the impending marriage, and both these men were concerned for my future happiness.
In a conversation with the one who had attained the rank of General on the battlefield, I said, in painful, aggravated frustration: You don't measure the stature of a man in feet and inches.
The second, a physician (it was his third career), was embroiled in the same struggle with his only child, his daughter, as my family was with me. She was engaged and determined to marry a man of whom her father disapproved. She's two years younger than I. To him, I quipped: Well, you should have had two or three more children, Doc, and then you'd have more options as to where to leave your money.
The general had simply shaken his head at my arrogant naivete but Doc went ash white. He locked eyes with me and said softly, but loudly enough that I clearly heard every syllable: Well, little girl, when you have to destroy the factory to produce the first model, that really ceases to be an option, now doesn't it? He then executed a perfect military about-face and marched away from me.
My friendship with these wonderful mentors outlasted the marriage, so I knew the joy of their forgiveness - and neither every breathed a hint of 'I told you so.'.
My father was murdered, and in the first year following his death, a dear, dear friend stayed up for that first year - talking, listening, counseling and praying with me by telephone - most of the night, regardless of her work schedule or other plans. The year following his death, my husband (second marriage) and I moved to the midwest, to be near his mother. En route, we stopped to visit with my friend. About 10 : pm one evening, her phone rang. She looked at me and smiled - "Well, it can't be you," she grinned, "you're here." She took her phone call in the bedroom (cell phones still being exclusive to doctors, attorneys and CEO's) and quickly returned to our conversation.
My mind was drifting back to those hours-long sessions she'd so patiently nursed and coached me through. Half in revery, I murmured, "I'm really sorry I've been such a nuisance, Tilly. I shouldn't have called so much, I know, but Sherry and Lisa are working moms with small children and they need their rest." The stark change on my friend's face brought me back to reality. She looked as if she'd been sucker-punched. Too late, I realized what she'd heard: Gee, Tills, thanks for staying awake for a solid year, keeping me out of the nut house, but the only reason I called you was, the people I really wanted to talk to were unavailable.
No amount of repentance, apology, explanation, begging, pleading or cajoling has been sufficient to undo that terrible, terrible wound.
"For ye know how that afterward, when he would have inherited the blessing, he was rejected: for he found no place of repentance, though he sought it carefully with tears." -- Hebrews 12 : 17
Affectionately, with hope,
The Hag
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BACK BY REQUEST...
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Mar 4, 2007 7:45 pm
943 Views
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MOOD: Flattered
My Handle and Why I Chose It
In our language, the meaning of 'hag' has been distorted. Among the Kells (my mother was Irish), it is the final stage in the life of a woman. There are three: The Maiden/Virgin, untaken, untamed, wild and free. She's full of fire, dreams, visions and kinetic energy. She is the Waxing Moon. The Matron, in the full maturity of her child-bearing years. She is the great earth mother, the lover, the comforter, the healer. She is the Full Moon. The Hag. Seasoned and wise in the ways of the world, she holds her blood and sometimes her tongue. She enjoys honor and respect among those who hold her favor, and fear/caution among those who have earned her ire. She is the Waning Moon.
I take The Hag for Hag Struan, a character in James Clavell's novel Tai-Pan, my favorite of his works. The Hag was born a Brock, which made her marriage into the Struan clan a Hatfield-McCoy heresy. The Brocks and Struans were rival shipping magnates in Scotland during the early days of China trade. The Hag was widowed young and stepped to the helm of Struan shipping, to keep them on top of her birth family. She was a tough, clear-minded, straight from the shoulder kind of lady. I admired her strength, her dignity and her dedication to her family against all odds. I'd have a very long way to go, indeed, before I could be in her league, but the name inspires me and I aim to do her proud.
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Begging the indulgence of you, Dear Friends, who already are familiar with the origin of my handle.
Thanks for your patience!
Elsie, The Hag
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To link to this blog (TheHag) use [blog TheHag] in your messages.
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