So Sarah of Confessions of the Un-Published is hosting a 50,000 words in 50 days challenge. I am needing the encouragement and goal setting. So I am participating. It started July 12th and runs until August 31st. If you need so group encouragement sign up yourself. I will let you know how I'm doing through the 50days.
Also, as a way of letting my readers get to know me better, I hope that if there is any questions you would like me to answer that you might leave it in the comments below.
Gustave Eiffel's Iron Lady was inaugurated on 31 March 1889, and opened on 6 May. Today the Eiffel Tower is one of the most recognizable structures in the world and is the single most visited paid monument in the world. However, the tower was not well received when first built; many called it an eyesore. Novelist Guy de Maupassant—who claimed to hate the tower—supposedly ate lunch in the Tower's restaurant every day. When asked why, he answered that it was the one place in Paris where one could not see the structure.
When I ponder on the lack of acceptance given to this architectural art piece, which I hold so dear, I begin to relate it to my own lack of acceptance of the talents that my Heavenly Father obviously wants me to develop.
Let me explain--as a child I wanted nothing more than to learn to play piano like my big sister. I begged my mom to take lessons. Both of my older sisters had the privilege of lessons. And I will state as evidence that the youngest sibling does not get everything they want, that I was denied my request. My mother told me that my sisters could teach me.
Well that really did not get anywhere. Teenage sisters are not very interested in teaching younger siblings anything. So I took it upon myself to learn the art of piano playing. And I did learn. However, I have never gotten to the point where I would consider myself a pianist (even though I can normally sight read at least one clef at a time.) I have never accepted piano playing as a talent. Even though I enjoy sitting at a piano to play some tunes, I have never really thought to seriously try to better my abilities.
It would seem that my Heavenly Father has other thoughts of my talent. In my last ward, I was called to be the pianist for the primary children. When I moved last fall, it took a month to receive the same calling in my new ward. I hear my Heavenly Fathersilently shouting to me that I am a pianist and my talents are meant to be used.
Are you overly modest about your talents?
Do you have talents that you have a hard time accepting?
In Our Economic Turmoil Seriously Amber Lynae (re)Presents:
HOW NOT TO STRETCH A BUCK!! From the archives of Seriously Amber Lynae
My husband loves to shop around. He is always looking for a bargain. Whether we are vacationing in France or living in Virginia, he wants the best deal in town. Personally, I think it is great that I've married a man who doesn't want to throw away his money. But as his aunt and I learned from letting him and his uncle book a hotel.... Frugality can go TOO far.
For the equivalent $40 we stayed at Premiere Classe. (Just in case the name is deceiving you, it wasn't first class.) The room was barely big enough to fit the double bed with the luggage shelf above it. And the bathroom (pictured above) was more of a pod than a room. It was so small that you can shower, poop, and shave all at the same time without moving an inch.
Overall, it was a laughing experience. The small size of the room really wasn't enough to rate Premiere Classe at the bottom of our list. The rooms which were non-smoking (in France??) definitely had been smoked in (there is a headache for me), some sort of mold looked to be growing over the door, and the two bath towels the provide were scaled down to fit the room and were more like hand towels.
Have you had any money saving experiences go awry?
Before visiting the Musee de l'Orangerie in Paris, I was completely unaware thatClaude Monet's Water Lilies was a series of approximately 250 oil paintings or various sizes. I thought it was one painting. This May, it was announced that today, June 23rd, the 1906 Nympheas work would be auctioned in London. (I wish I could afford the estimated price of between £30 and £40 million).
In two oval rooms house within l'Orangerie, eight large paintings are now available under direct diffused light as was originally intended by Monet. The paintings depict Monet's flower garden at Giverny. Many of the works were painted while Monet suffered from cataracts.
It is romantic and almost magical when you stand surrounded by these magnificent works of art. I felt all twitterpatted with a desire to be spun around the room or to be wooed by poetry. The imagery really does evoke strong emotion. Just like a good book artfully crafted, these works have the ability to transport you into a different world.
What has the power to to evoke strong emotions within you?
Have you ever felt like you walked into a fairytale?
Beneath Notre-Dame cathedral square is an archaeological crypt which preserves the foundations and vestiges of buildings which were constructed between the Gallo-Roman period and the 18th century. There are remnants of bath houses, shops, hospitals, and house. It is interesting to see this crypt of Paris's past.
It reminds me that our past is a part of today. Our ancestors have paved the way for us to be what we are today. We must learn from their successes, learn from their failures, and take those lessons to build our present. I am grateful for the struggles and accomplishments that my ancestors. I am grateful for all they have made possible for me today.I hope that we all can build upon our past in a way that would please our ancestors and allows them to know that we cherish all that they have made possible.
How do you build about the past to make a better future?
I agree completely with Lucy's thoughts. I felt this way as I walked through various parts of France. I think we all have a place, whether we have been there or not, that we know is our own little heaven. There is not one place on earth that I would be completely happy, because I would always long for the closeness of all my friends and family.
I grew up in the foothills of West Virginia. The turning of the trees in the fall boasts colors that artists would struggle to capture. It is breathtaking. Those landscapes will always be a part of me.
Yet there is a connection for me to Paris. With her(Paris is nothing if not feminine)intricate ironwork, casual cafes, grandiose statues, cobblestone streets, and the glorious gardens, she beckons me. This is my internal landscape. The aromas, the sounds, and sights leave you longing for more around every corner. You are seduced into a relationship. While you eat your pastries or culinary art, roam through the leafy boulevards, or hunt bargains at the weekly markets; you are charmed by her arrogance and coquette manner. She all but demands you love her; and you helplessly obey.
Describe to me your internal landscape and why you love it so much.
I don't think I have ever participated in a blogfest. But dream sequences are part of what my current work in progress is about.
The following scene is very raw example of the 'condition' that my MC--Damien deals with daily.
Enjoy!
*****
The queasiness in my stomach told me that I was lost in someone else’s dream again. It had been happening for months and I still hadn’t gotten used to it.
The night of my sixteenth birthday, it happened for the first time. When I woke up my head felt like someone had used it for batting practice. After I figured out that these dreams weren’t my own it became easy to distinguish when I wasn’t dreaming.
Gives a whole new meaning to “pinch me I must be dreaming.”
In someone else’s dream, everything outside the dreamers mental focus appears in black and white. Landscapes further from the dream center appeared vague and blurred as if I were walking around without my glasses. Even the sounds of the dream becomes muddled the further I am from the dream center.
I always felt a little bit safer being out of the dreamer’s focus, because sometimes people would remember seeing me in their dreams if I didn’t. If I could, I would stay in the blurry outskirts of the dreams but it is only when I get closer to the vivid colors and crisp objects that the sickness in my stomach eases.
My lack of focus, the gurgling of my stomach and grayish hue of my skin let me know I was far from of the dreamer’s focus. Bile burned my throat, so—I headed toward the vivid colors.
Unmarked gravestones surrounded me. I figured names were just something that this dreamer’s mind just hadn’t generated. Across the cemetery, there was a ceremony taking place near a short casket in color.
I began to walk with purpose forgetting that I cover ground much quicker in the dream state. It only took seconds to reach the congregated group. You could taste the sadness in the air. I know that sounds weird, but emotions were very different in dreams.
A young mother in the front row hugged an infant to her chest as she sobbed on the shoulder of her husband. No one could even look up at the pastor as he spoke about loss and tragedy. There were subtle glances at the tiny casket, but other than that everyone cast their eyes to the ground.
In fact, I think I was the only one that noticed the lady walking toward the group. She proceeded slowly with her white dress draping the ground. Her face was veiled. Cradled in her arms was a swaddled infant. With slow precision, she made her way closer to the group. She started to gain the crowd’s attention, when she approached the mourning couple. Everyone was silenced and waiting.
The white lady bowed her head toward her swaddled child and hugged the bundle to her chest. Her shoulders shook in a sob.
“I can’t... I can’t live like this any longer,” said the voice beneath the veil. She handed the baby to the man who had been comforting his mourning wife. He glanced down at the baby he had just been gifted and then to his wife. While I stood confused they seemed to comprehend exactly what had happened.
The white lady then proceeded to the closed casket. She clasped her hands over her chest. From beneath her hands black flamed over the white flowing fabric of her dress as if her despair singed the white dress completely blackening it with grief. But when her veil vanished I felt as if the breath had been sucked from my lungs. She was my mother.
I stood there stunned and staring. I knew dreams could be disjointed and complete nonsense, but this dream and the emotions were so thick. I guess the fact that I hadn’t been close to my mother in weeks made seeing her in this dream now hit me that much harder.
The funeral party vanished. Only she, I, and the casket remained at the graveside. This was her dream.
There was my mother, the same woman who could no longer look at me—her son. I felt like that baby she had just abandoned so easily when it would need her the most. The fire was burning within me and my heart pounding. She was giving up just the way she had on me.
In a low voice, somewhere between a plead and a demand, I said “Mom?” She seemed unaware of my presence as she crumpled to the ground next to the small casket and opened it.
“Mom,” I said louder more forceful. The lump in my throat was growing. I couldn’t swallow the pain back. My eyes were burning; my breathing deepened and I clenched my teeth. Then, I exploded. “Mother, look at me now!”
She looked up at me. “Damien,” she said. It was nice to hear her say my name to have her look at me. Yet there was nothing but sadness in her eyes. She returned her attention to the casket and removed the corpse of an infant. She hugged it to her and sobbed.
As I watched her pain, my anger melted. I knelt beside her. I wanted to comfort her the way she had always comforted me in the past. I wanted to look in her eyes again. Somehow, I knew that if only she would look at me she would stay here with me and fix my problems. “Mom, I need you.”
For a moment, she looked at me. I could feel her love the emotional barrier separating us was fading. I reached for her. The movement reawakened her previous resolve. She closed her eyes, her head hung and she sobbed harder. “I can’t. I can’t live like this.” Tears washed down her cheeks, and our surroundings changed to a mausoleum.
A large stone casket lay open in the center of the tomb. She rose with the infant in her arms. My eyes bore into her back as she stood there frozen for a long moment. She glanced over her shoulder to look at me once more. She levitated above the casket.
I was losing her for good. “Please stay?” My words brought her instantly before me.
She raised her hand to my cheek and tucked my hair back. “Sweet boy, it is too late. My baby is dead.”
I wanted to object to tell her no, I was her boy and I was living right here. But she had faded like smoke before me. She was in the stone coffin holding the small corpse.
The sound of the stone grinding closed filled the crypt. A chill ran up my spine. With all my strength I struggled to stop the stone. It was useless.
A deafening echo boomed. My mother was sealed in a house of death. All was black and I was back in my room—awake with another migraine.
