WOW #31 – MUMP

 

Mumps

One potato – two potato
One

MUMP

Two mumps

Definitions for mump

  • to sulk; mope.
  • to grimace.
  • to mumble; mutter.

 

Origin of mump

The rare English verb mump is akin to the equally rare Dutch mompen “to mumble, grumble,” and the magnificent German verbs mumpfen “to chew with one’s mouth full” and mimpfeln “to mumble while eating.” The Germanic verbs most likely derive from a Proto-Indo-European root meuǝ- “be silent,” from which English also derives mum “silent,” Latin mūtus “silent, mute,” and Greek mustḗrion “secret rite, mystery,” a derivative of mústēs “an initiate,” a derivative of mueîn “to initiate, instruct, teach,” itself a derivative of múein “to close the eyes, mouth, or other opening” (lest one reveal what is not to be revealed). Mump entered English in the 16th century.

When the wife saw the beginning of this post, she immediately declared that I am just an old MUMP, a much better word than ‘grump,’ to describe me, as I sulk and mope and mutter and mumble.  When you have

  1. an infectious disease characterized by inflammatory swelling of the parotid and usually other salivary glands, and sometimes by inflammation of the testes or ovaries, caused by a paramyxovirus.

and both sides of your throat (and perhaps your nuts) are sore and swollen, you can sulk and mope, you can grimace because it hurts to eat/swallow, and you have to mutter and mumble because the swollen throat makes it difficult to talk…. then you have a double serving, and the medical plural is called

Mumps – noun (used with a singular verb) Pathology.

And neither of these have anything to do with my WOW #11Mumpsimus, which was about officially not knowing what you’re talking about.  (Also see – Trump) 😯

I’m still trying to find the line where I can be different, without crossing over into weird.  While I appreciate the homespun attraction of ‘Mump,’ I still want to be a ‘Grump.’  I like being G.O.D. much more than I would, being a M.O.D.  See you in a couple of days with more prosaic words.  🙂

 

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Poetry In Motion

Poetry

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?  😕

 

Flash Fiction #98

Flood

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

HOW DRY I AM

Rain, rain, go away! Come again another day!

Bobby had always been an active boy, into baseball, football and Scout Camp. He wondered how many times he’d made that plea over the years.  Too many, obviously!

Into each life, some rain must fall. All he’d been doing was delaying the inevitable.  How long had it rained in the Bible??   Forty days and forty nights?!!

His family had retreated up this mountain when the floods came. He hoped that the water level would start receding, before clouds gathered, the sky opened up, and he had to wish the rain away again.

***

Go to Rochelle’s Addicted to Purple site and use her Wednesday photo as a prompt to write a complete 100 word story.

 

Flash Fiction #87

Lightning

PHOTO PROMPT © Sean Fallon

THE WRITE STUFF

Writing is easy. Any fool can do it – many try.

To be a good writer requires a bit of genius, which Edison described as 1% Inspiration, and 99% Perspiration.  Robert Heinlein said that a writer must write 2000 words each day, to keep the muscles and mind toned.

To be a successful writer, to assemble the right theme, the right title, a believable story arc and interesting characters, to capture and hold the readers’ attention, is like catching lightning in a bottle.

Here’s a Flash – none of that is Fiction.

The best of luck to all of us who try.

***

Go to Rochelle’s Addicted to Purple site and use her Wednesday photo as a prompt to write a complete 100 word story.

***

My apologies for the clichéd title, but it is apt.

 

Now Just Back Up A Second!

Backspace

Why is there a backspace key on the keyboard? Actually, my PC doesn’t have one, clearly marked ‘Backspage’bBackspace’, handily located in the lower right corner of the keyboarkeyboard. Mine is an inconvenierinconverinconveniently located button in the upper right, vaguely labelled(?) with a left-pointing arrow.

The backspace key is obviously therthere so that we can go back and correct our typing errors. Mine usually gets quite a waorkoutworkout. I’d have never passed a high school typing test. With words or strokes being subtracted for errors, I’d have ended up owing words.

Mistype

As I get older, it gets worse. Sometimes it’s as if my hands have a mind of their own. This shows up especially when I’m doing crossword puzzles. Clue – wondrous….solution – epic. The mind says, “That’s spelled E>>>PE…P…I…C” – and I look down, and my fingers have already written the C where the E should be. When I’m typing, the lesftleft little finger really likes to add randonrandom a’s.

I recently read a post like this, where the author had been challenged to publish a document, with strikethroughs to show where mistakes had been made. Like him/her, in several cases, the hands automatically backspaced and corrected, but I then retyped thmistakesthe mistakes to show where they’d been.

How about you, my faithfifaithful readers? Are you all perfect typists, with no strikethroughs? Would any of you like to accept this secodsecond-hand challenge, and publish a little missive to show how much you go through to bring us your perfect prose?

Fat typist

 

Flash Fiction #60

Night sky

PHOTO PROMPT -© Madison Woods

THERE’S NO EXCUSE

It was a dark and stormy night. The clouds looked like God Himself had burned them, like marshmallows over a giant campfire, then stuck one of His fingers through, so that He could see the moon…..

Dear Ms Wisoff

Please forgive Archon for not completing his assignment on time this week. His girlfriend, Erato, abandoned him – again, and he’s been quite depressed.

He’s been in bed for days, with a cheap hooker and expensive blow bad case of flu. If you can excuse this one omission, he promises to have two bright Flash Fictions for next week.

Thanx

Mama Archon

***

Go to Rochelle’s Addicted to Purple site and use her Wednesday photo as a prompt to write a complete 100 word story.

#490

Flash Fiction – Part 1

That title is incredibly optimistic.  It implies ongoing capability and commitment.  I accepted BrainRants’ challenge to write a short-short story.  Go to Rochelle’s, Addicted to Purple blog.  Each week, she publishes a picture.  You are to use the photo as a prompt, and write a complete story about it, in only 100 words.  Below is my first attempt.

PENSIVE

miriam-reubenShe paused to reminisce.  She wrote to her mother regularly, but so many things had happened.

Those years ago, as a newlywed, leaving the safety of New York for the wilds of the Oklahoma Territory with an ambitious husband, had seemed both a wild risk, and a marvelous adventure.

His tenacity, intelligence and canny business sense had combined to make him the proprietor of the greatest and finest Dry Goods Emporium in the Territory.

Being his family had made her and their beloved children both safe, and well taken care of.  Civilization continued to sprout around them.  Mother would be pleased.