’21 A To Z Challenge – M

 

THANKS FOR THE MAMMARIES

Truth, freedom of expression, and lack of censorship seem to be good ideas, but…. there’s something to be said for the more subtle, understated ways of yesteryear.

Let me re-introduce you to Marilyn Monroe.  When guys got a look at her, they often went

MMMMMMM

Back in the 1950s, and early ‘60s, there were a coterie of female movie starlets labelled as sweater girls.  They primly, modestly, covered up what they had, but emphasized it by stuffing it into tight sweaters.

Mamie van Doren

This was a time when female celebrities’ costumes were measured in yards of fabric, not yards of bare skin poking out.  Someone asked, “What’s the big deal about sweater girls??  Take away their sweaters, and what do they have?”

Anita Eckberg

As one of many such, the English language took the word milch from German.  In German, it is the noun, milk.  In English, it became the adjective, milk.  When a dairy-cow has been bred, delivered her calf, and is ready, again, to provide milk, she has been ‘freshened.’  She is referred to as a milch-cow.

Gina Lollobrigida Known to Mad Magazine as Gina Lottabazooma

The Germans also gave us a delightful, sweet, white wine, called Liebfraumilch – dear/beloved-woman/wife/lady-milk.  It’s good that there is no actual milk involved, so that der frau would need to be a milkmaid, and the cream come from her cows.  A woman, working in a big office, had to put a note on her Tupperware container of liquid in the communal lunchroom refrigerator – To whoever is using this to cream their coffee;  This is my breast milk, that I pump for my baby.

Jayne Mansfield Mother of Mariska Hargitay of Law And Order: SVU

Well, that was an outstanding post, if I do say MMMMMM myself.

’20 A To Z Challenge – C

 

 

 

 

 

 

Technological obsolescence! It’s a term to describe things that we no longer do or own, because our rapidly accelerating science-driven lifestyle has replaced them with something newer, although not always better. (Remember Windows Vista?) 😯 We’re on generation 12 of Smart phones, and the Chinese are providing the 5G cell phone system to run them on, as well as COVID19.

The telephone operator lost her job when dial phones came into existence. The dials turned into push-buttons, and the push-buttons morphed into touch screens. The poor English language is having trouble keeping up with it all.

Let me introduce you, and then say good bye, to

CHIROSPASM

Spasm of the muscles of the hand, as in writers’ cramp.

Now there’s an expression that you don’t hear any more. It was common for hundreds of years, from religious monks inscribing Bibles, up to school children frantically composing essays for English class all desperately, tightly, clutching quills, pens and pencils, till their hands cramped.

Then, along came the electronic age, with its word-processors and keyboards. Archaic old chirospasm and writer’s cramp have been replaced by hunched-over-the-keyboard data-entry shoulders, and your cell-phone-toting grandson’s texters’ thumb.

Fortunately, I have never sprained or strained either of my middle fingers, the ones so necessary to communicate with taxi drivers and politicians. That would be the only physical disability which might affect my capacity to express myself, although I am just an amateur, compared to some of the old masters.

From his seat inside a private rail car during a vacation in Salmon Arm, BC with his children on August 8, 1982, Pierre Trudeau, then the Prime Minister of Canada, gave the finger to protesters in Salmon Arm, British Columbia, earning the incident the nickname the “Salmon Arm salute”. The gesture itself has also been nicknamed the “Trudeau salute.”

Our young drama teacher ski instructor Prime Minister learned at the knee of one of the (self-described) greatest.

Poetry In Motion

I am a Philistine. I don’t know what great art is, but I know what I like.  The same applies to poetry.  I have been exposed to some of the ‘Great Poetry’, The Rime of The Ancient Mariner, The Twa Sisters O’ Binorrie, La Belle Dame sans Merci, William Blake’s, The Tyger, and many of Shakespeare’s sonnets.  I still like the poems that begin, “There was a young man from Kent.”

I express myself on this site though prose. When I check to ‘see what others are writing about,’ I find an interesting number of bloggers who express themselves in – poetry(?).  Some of the poems are actually quite good.  Others….are more a pretentious stream of unconsciousness.

Song lyrics, written out, should make sense. I feel the same should apply to poetry, even if it’s only published on WordPress.  Here’s an example.  See if you agree with me.  The first is how it would look/sound, if it were simply written as prose.

writing

The morning adrenaline in class essay exam detailing the ways to restore lost dynamic to man. Caffeine fumes, school bus, Drive, write your heart out!  With speed, with force, believe, you were born for this thrill of academics.

Speaking scholars and students inspired. This is my arena, my work, brain on display.  Bare, stuttering, but speaking again.  Grasping at straws, texts, engaging in every aspect.

The parkway was packed by 4:30 and given recent attacks, at night, plus rush hour fears from the kid who sped into my lane last year as evident by 3 bulging cervical discs. Thought it best, surely, safer to wait out traffic elsewhere.

***

The following is how it was actually published. Does it make any more sense?  Is it significant?  Artistic?

***

writing

The morning adrenaline
in class essay exam
detailing the ways
to restore lost dynamic to man.

Caffeine fumes, school bus,
Drive, write your heart out!
With speed, with force,
believe, you were born for this
thrill of academics.

Speaking scholars
and students inspired.
This is my arena, my work,
brain on display.
Bare, stuttering, but
speaking again.
Grasping at straws,
texts, engaging
in every aspect.

The parkway was packed by 4:30
and given recent attacks, at night,
plus rush hour fears
from the kid who sped into my lane
last year
as evident by 3 bulging cervical discs.

Thought it best, surely, safer
to wait
out
traffic elsewhere..

When ‘an artist’ throws paint-soaked sponges at a sheet of plywood, the resulting mess on the wood is not the Art.  The action, the process, is the art – performance art – like 12 clowns getting out of a tiny car at the circus.

I’m sure that many of these blog-poets are serious, and are struggling, as I do, to get their feelings out. When I come across something like the above, I just get the feeling that I’ve missed the real performance, and my only reaction is, “Huh!”  How about you?  😕