Amazing! Can anyone else see the irony of the situation the world sees itself in at the moment? We have people dying of starvation, poverty, abuse, oppression and so much more. Yet the minute, ‘within two days’, the world rocks of the fear of the stock markets crashing and us facing a few years of recession. TA DA! $700 billion comes from nowhere! And that is only America! How long has the third world faced untold hardships and dangers? How long did South Africa struggle under Apartheid? How long did the people of New Orleans have to wait for food and water? How long could this list really be? I believe we could go on for a while but the point is that when the big fat cats screw up and we face the thought of a global recession money appears from no-where! 

WHO DECIDED WHO LIVES AND DIES?

I am not saying that a global recession would be a good thing by any stretch of the imagination. But why is it that the world can react so fast to something like this where banks are crashing, Yet when people are dying by the thousands all we can do is put on a bloody concert? or where a T-Shirt? Why is it that the American tax payer has seemingly accepted being robbed blind by their government? The biggest pick pocket in history has just occurred in plane site and not a single ripple of discontent. If there is a voice against this it is being kept awfully quiet to outside world. 

SENATORS, WHAT IS YOUR ROLE?

Why is it that all the senators or governors came out and applauded and made such a huge deal about each other on the fact they all worked together, created a plan that would rescue the world from recession. THAT'S YOUR BLOODY JOB! That is what you were elected to do, thats what people pay taxes to keep you in the life of luxury that you lead. It’s like they wanted applause or a bonus! I bet you don’t get that in your job tomorrow, because I know I won’t! It makes me sick to think how many peoples lives that money could have saved had it been spread around the third world. Don't you?

From a letter C. S. Lewis sent to Arthur Greeves, 15 June, 1930:

"Another fine thing in The Princess and Curdie [by George MacDonald] is where Curdie, in a dream, keeps on dreaming that he has waked up and then finding that he is still in bed. This means the same as the passage where Adam says to Lilith 'Unless you unclose your hand you will never die and therefore never wake. You may think you have died and even that you have risen again: but both will be a dream.'

"This has a terrible meaning, specially for imaginitive people. We read of spiritual efforts, and imagination makes us believe that, because we enjoy the idea of doing them, we have done them. I am apalled to see how much of the change which I thought I had undergone lately was only imaginary. The real work seems still to be done. It is so fatally easy to confuse an aesthetic appreciation with the spiritual life with the life itself--to dream that you have waked, washed, and dressed, and then to find yourself still in bed."

WHO:

Timothy "Tim" William Burton (born August 25, 1958) is an American film director, screenwriter and set designer, notable for the quirky and often dark, gothic atmosphere pervading his high-profile films. The protagonists are usually misfits or outsiders, physically or emotionally different or scarred.

SWEENEY TODD (2007)
CORPSE BRIDE (2005)
CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY (2005)
BIG FISH (2003)
PLANET OF THE APES (2001)
SLEEPY HOLLOW (1999)
MARS ATTACKS! (1996)
ED WOOD (1994)
THE NIGHTMARE BEFORE CHRISTMAS (1993)
BATMAN RETURNS (1992)
EDWARD SCISSORHANDS (1990)
BATMAN (1989)
BEETLEJUICE (1988)
PEE-WEE's BIG ADVENTURE (1985)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tim_Burton 

WHY CAMPY?

Artifice; unnatural physical appearance; exaggeration…

“All Camp objects, and persons, contain a large element of artifice. Nothing in nature can be campy . . .”

“Camp is the triumph of the epicene style. (The convertibility of "man" and "woman," "person" and "thing.") But all style, that is, artifice, is, ultimately, epicene. Life is not stylish. Neither is nature.”

(Susan Sontag, Notes On Camp)

WHAT:

Edward Scissorhands is a 1990 American fantasy film, written by Tim Burton and Caroline Thompson, and directed by Burton. The film features Johnny Depp as the titular Edward, Winona Ryder, Dianne Wiest and Anthony Michael Hall. The plot revolves around a man named Edward, an inventor's creation, who has dangerous shears and scissors for hands, and appears frightening, who is adopted into a colorful, but stereotypically suburban, family.

The film is a comedy-drama set in an exaggerated and highly stereotypical vision of American suburbia and the typical families that inhabit it. It intentionally combines clichés and styles from both the 1950s, early 1960s and the late 1980s. The concept, and many of the motifs of Edward Scissorhands can be compared to the English Gothic novel Frankenstein by Mary Shelley and the French legend of Beauty and the Beast. Edward Scissorhands was a modest box office hit, grossing $56 million worldwide.Critics acclaimed the film as a timeless tale of friendship; it is usually cited as one of Burton's greatest films.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eq2PPFUhfpo

Big Fish is a 2003 fantasy drama film, directed by Tim Burton and written by John August. It is loosely based on the novel Big Fish: A Novel of Mythic Proportions by Daniel Wallace, and stars Ewan McGregor, Albert Finney, Billy Crudup, Jessica Lange, Alison Lohman, Steve Buscemi, Helena Bonham Carter, Marion Cotillard and Danny DeVito, amongst others.

Will Bloom (Crudup) returns to his family home in Alabama, having spent the past three years not talking to his father Edward (Finney). Dying, Edward recounts his life story in his own unique, exaggerated way, full of fantastic events (portrayed in these flashbacks by McGregor). Will tries to get to know his father and find the truth, discovering that his father did lead an extraordinary life and that his storytelling was his finest achievement.

The film was initially planned to be directed by Steven Spielberg before Burton took on the project, following the death of his own father. Many critics hailed the film as Burton's masterpiece.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hv09743o8bs 

www.sonypictures.com/homevideo/bigfish

I know that there are four types of people in the world. I know everyone fits into one of them. I might not know how, or why, but I know they do and I also know what I am and why.

I'm the kind of person who wakes up in the morning thinking of love. I'm quick to gain consciousness, I do very easily, but there is that moment between waking and sleep. My dreams are fantasy, wishful thinking, nightmare. My reality is school, and thinking, and logic. That instant before I wake, I don't realize that people die. For a moment I think I, myself, am dead, and all those wonderful things people say about their dead to make themselves feel better are true. I believe in magic in my dreams. I believe that people are good at heart, and there is no such thing as evil except the absence of love. That's why I wake up thinking of love. Because that's what I want to believe in.

Sometimes I think I'm a cynic. I recognize that my life is not my own, and never has been. But that's logic, and the mind has no need for logic like it does for faith.

That's the second kind of person. The person who wakes up from dreaming about the past, what is rather than what might or could still be. And after that moment of sleepiness fades they are thinking their thoughts with reason rather than abandon. Imagination.

I read a book once; fiction, about faeries. A lot of people would scoff at wanting to believe in such things, but really they're just as true as anything else. But that's another story. In this book, it explained that people who grow up in this world learn to filter out such things as magic. From the beginning, the only notions they ever learn are in books, and no one gives credence to books in the "real" world. There are the people who develop that filter. And the people who don't. The dreamers.

My friend told me that most adults lose sight of their dreams because they've lived too long. Most of them don't hold faith that the inexplicable even exists because either science or peer pressure has taught them that everything is logical.

I wonder, then, if it can also be the other way around. I know it must be rare, but can someone who grew up a cynic fall into their dreams? Like a trapdoor of sorts. A tearing down of the wall. That's the fourth kind of person, after those who lose sight. Those who are born blind only to see for the first time.

I live in a world where dragons are people and people are made of magic. Sometimes I see this world, like ideas in the form of scenes rushing through my head and isn't it beautiful, the imagination. It is the world of artists and writers, and dreamers and those with too much hope or no hope at all. A refuge, a haven, a shelter for the battered and hungry. Some find religion. It's right down the street, but that's not where these doors lead.

Every day I wake up and I pack my bag for school. I walk out the door and test the air, and I look around for all the things I know will never exist. But I look. Just in case. And even when I never meet an elf, or talk to an owl or start fires with a flick of my fingers, I go to sleep dreaming those dreams and that is my world.

I found this here and forwarded it to my "Guest Blogger" that was recently kind enough to sub for me.

More as a jumping off place or inspiration than as a "to do" list, I know I'm always looking for new prompts or muses or inspirations to jump start a writing jag. There are literally a bagazillion of things to write about, and somehow it seems I draw a big blank "Uh, duhhhhhh" when it comes to what to write about. Or where to start. Though once it get rolling, the momentum usually carries me. Or is that gravity?

The important part to me is just to START! and then WRITE!

Peace and happy writing!

~Me

Writing Tips for Young Writers

Besides reading a lot, writing a lot is the next important step to becoming a good writer. Here are some tips that will help you find your way:

1. Steal from your favorite writers. Don’t be afraid to steal — imitation is the best way to incorporate good techniques into your writing. Later you’ll take these tools and make them your own, but at first you should feel free to mimic the best writers.
2. Try different forms. Don’t just stick to one form of writing. Have fun with different forms — short stories, novels, plays, TV or movie screenplays, poems, essays, newspaper articles, blog posts.
3. Start your own blog. No matter what age you are, a blog can be a lot of fun. It can be like an essay, a journal entry, a newspaper article, an online conversation — whatever you want it to be. And it’s free and relatively easy. Try a free Blogger or Wordpress account.
4. Share your stuff with others. It’s pretty scary to allow other people to read your work, but it really helps you grow and learn. Blogging is a good way to share your writing, but there are other ways: you can email stuff to family and friends, you can read poems out loud to family (as my niece Samantha recently did — she’s an amazing poet!), you can put on plays with friends or relatives for a small audience, you can pass out a newspaper to family. The feedback you get will probably encourage you or help you learn what you need to improve.
5. Read about writing online. There’s a huge wealth of information about writing on the Internet. Do some Google searches for writing blogs, writing tips, and the like. Subscribing to Write To Done is a good start. :)
6. Make writing a daily habit. Whether you write in the morning before school, or during lunch, or after school, or just before you go to bed … choose a time and try to write every day during that time if you can. Even just 20-30 minutes a day is a good start. An hour is even better if you can manage it.
7. Write what you know about. While it’s fun to use writing as a way to explore your imagination, the most realistic writing comes when you write about things you know. Write about characters who are similar to you in some ways, with similar lives or interests. Write about the city or town or island or area you live in. Take elements of people you know, settings that are familiar, events you’ve lived through.
8. Write what you’re interested in or love doing. Are you passionate about a sport, or a hobby, or a particular topic? Write about that — your passion and knowledge will shine through your writing.
9. Join an online writing group. There are tons of them out there — just do a search. Some of them are even aimed at young writers. Check out a few that look interesting, read through a bunch of posts for a few days, and then take the plunge and introduce yourself. Get involved in discussions, ask questions, and learn from the people in the group. Eventually you can share your own writing and get critiqued and get suggestions.
10. Don’t get discouraged. If you’re not a good writer at first, don’t worry — no one ever is in the beginning. Good writing comes with practice, with experience, with time. Just keep doing it. If you get bad comments from people, don’t sweat it — you’ll get better, and sometimes people just make bad comments because they feel like it, not because the writing is bad. If you read writers who are your age and who seem better than you, don’t worry about it — it’s not a competition. Don’t compare yourself to them, but instead learn from what they’re doing right. You’ll get better.
11. Yes, grammar and spelling are important. These might seem like boring subjects to you. I know I wasn’t interested in grammar in school, and I’m paying for it now (I make grammar mistakes all the time). But I recommend you pay attention to these subjects, in school, in the things you read, and in your writing. They’re important because while good spelling and grammar won’t win you many writing awards, bad spelling and grammar will cause people to stop reading your writing. It gets in the way of writing, and you’ll fail if you can’t do reasonably well at spelling and grammar. The good news: if you pay attention, you’ll get better at it. You’ll learn from experience and from reading.
12. And yes, editing and revision are important too. These are two other things I didn’t like when I was younger. When I was done writing something, I never liked to read over it again and revise my writing. It was such a pain! But let me tell you something: it improves your writing. In your first draft, just let the writing flow, and don’t worry about editing or revising as you go. But then go over it, and read it aloud, and see what sounds awkward, what doesn’t flow, what is unclear. Then revise, and read it again. You’ll learn to improve with each revision.
13. Avoid cliches. I’m actually bad at this, because I often forget I’m using a cliche. But when I can catch a cliche, I will kill it. Writing that’s full of cliches is bad writing. If you’ve read a phrase a number of times, avoid using it. Come up with something new.
14. Keep a notebook. This isn’t necessary, but I’ve found that it helps. Keep notes about characters and stories you want to write about. Jot down little snippets of dialog you’d like to use. Write descriptions of scenery you can use later. Write down your thoughts on writing. Go back over all of it later when you’re bored.

Observe. Become an observer of life, and of human nature. Listen to people’s conversations to improve your dialog writing. People-watch at busy places and take notes. When you’re going through something tough in life, reflect on it in your writing. Wherever you are, notice details.

     "Hi Mom, hi Mom," Ala said as she stepped through the door.
     Giselle was bent in origami shapes over a big blue leather book. Her hair was greasy at the widow’s peak, but dry at the ends, and she spoke quietly to herself Ra em pet in imaginary syllables. When she moved her lips, you could see the cracks only halfway filled with store brand chap-stick. They broke out like the veins of marble monuments, spreading from her philtrum down to her chin.
     Doby came in after Ala. He held the rib cage behind him, with his hands, and walked awkwardly to the left side.
     "Hello sweet," she said, looking up.
     "Doby’s here but not for dinner, we’re going to go outside and excavate and maybe snack on things, and do you have my seven dresses ironed like I asked, the silk ones?"
     "What?" Giselle said. "Your—"
     "It’s okay, I’ll have Frederick do them. He knows how to set the right temperature."
     "Ala," she said sharply.
     "What?"
     "Try not to get dirtier outside, please. Daniel is coming over again tonight, and he’s going to take us to dinner."
     "Out?" Ala said loudly.
     "To the chicken restaurant. He’s—Daniel is going to move in with us soon, and he wants to celebrate by taking us for chicken."
     "You’re getting married? Am I the Maid of Honor? Doby must be the Best Man. Or we could both get married at once. Frederick," she said, "could give you away."
     "Who’s Frederick?"
     "Congratulations," Doby said.
     "Thank you, Doby." Giselle looked down at her book—An Introduction to the Egyptian Hieroglyph—and again repeated the Sentence Two of Chapter One. "You can go outside now, sorry."
     Doby moved with his back to the stained wall until he reached the glass door beside the torn-up yellow chair. In the back yard, he and Ala planted the rib cage underneath a lightning-scarred oak tree, with roots that burped out from the earth in tiny mountains.
     "If we find more," Ala said, "we’ll be sure. That it’s the sand." She pressed her right hand to her heart; it was tightlipped in its beating, shaky, as if uncontrolled by time.

I consider myself one of Bill Watterson's greatest fans. Ever since I met his Calvin & Hobbes, the highly exuberant 6-year-old boy and his tiger ~ who is real to Calvin and a toy to all others ~ I have been completely and unabashedly smitten.

The artwork, the poignancy, the wit ... just throw in any and every lavish adjective of appreciation and admiration, and you have my feelings about this beautifully drawn, sometimes hilarious, sometimes thought-provoking strip.

Somehow it just has the beautiful power to convey a rich world of thought and emotion ... merely by using word and line. And that, to me, is true creativity, true art.

Like today's strip:

On a day like today it is good to imagine the tepid warmth of late summer grass itching against your calves, the sun dapples playing over your arms, the buzz of cicadas and bees, the fragrance of sun-warmed leaves and flowers, and the drowsy contentment of achieving nothing more than the very important task of BEing.

Thank you, Bill, you've touched my life more than you know.

Love,

Pippa

"From now on, I'll connect the dots my own way." ~ Calvin

DECADENT GLAM

A movement and a spontaneous fashion trend. In early 1971, when Marc Bohan, during an appearance on Top of the Pops, decided to allow the make-up artists to apply some glitter to his eyes and cheeks, he surely didn't realize that he would bring back for an entire new generation of teenagers a long tradition of outrageous behavior and transvestitism.

This is a story that, involving creatures dear to Jack Smith and Andy Warhol, goes back to the sources of sexual ambiguity, an obvious device with Mae West and even further back. Even Klossowski's The Roman Ladies are mentioned to legitimize a need to appear as something different from one's own self, in order to find one's own authenticity in that other, in the sense of the authentic Greek etymon: "A person acting for oneself." Yet, around 1970, glam rock was there, and this time rock stars acted as designers for a generation too young to remember Beatlemania and wanting to give a theatrical sense to their own existence.

Thus Bohan and David Bowie are the interpreters of androgyny in a cosmic and alien sense with space suits in satin with sequins and an ostrich boa. Iggy Pop, with bare chest, lamé gloves, and a dog collar, embodied the perfect proto-punk. Bryan Ferry and Roxy Music, helped by Anthony Price, gathered together several periods of Hollywood glamour. The brothers Ron and Russell Mall, of Sparks, offered themselves as an amphetamine parody-combination of Charlie Chaplin, Judy Garland, and the New York Dolls in women's clothing both on-stage and off. It should also be remembered that for Bowie's 1973 tour of Japan promoting his album Aladini Sane, Kansai Yamamoto designed 9 costumes inspired by traditional Kabuki theater.

And obviously, Ossie Clark and Antony Price designed for rock stars and acquaintances with a lively sense of glam-glitter way before the advent of the phenomenon. Also to be noted is the charming and prevalent obsession over Berlin in the years of the Weimar Republic, explicit in Bob Fosse's 1972 film Cabaret with Joel Grey and Liza Minelli, often cited as an influence on the Bromley Contingent, a direct heir of glam.

Hari2 yang berat dimula kembali... dan seperti biasa klo bru masuk skolah, engsel2 gw trutama kaki mulai pegel2 nga karuan dan badan rasanya cape skali... Sigh... Plus, hati ini yang masih tak rela sekolah karena liburan yang tak bisa dinikmati karena ada tes2 bwat prep uni... Mengapa2?

Huix... tapi mao gimana lagi... semua harus dijalankan dengan semangat positif dan keinginan yang teguh kan?? Ayo! Berjuang [bg: api berkobar2]!!! hahahahaha.... Asal mao pasti bisa!!!

Dn "beruntungnya" besok ada ulangan biologi... suatu mata plajaran yang sangad gw benci gara2 nilai gw jarang bgt bagus disitu sejak gw klas 3! Emang bukan bidang gw kli yah? tapi semua kaya pada, "ah, u mah bisa lha je... masa u lagi nga bisa?"... Sigh... dan pada malam hari, tiba2 bgitu gw ol kaya ada 2 org nudge gw minta bahan ato animasi klo gw punya, trus ditambah dengan about 5 people manggil gw, "Je, klo bgini gmn?" dan gw dirumah musti buka buku dgn cepat bwat cari taw jawabannya gara2 pada ngantri... Sigh...

Come on guys, gw nga jago bio-nya... liat nilai klas 3 gw, hancurlebur... tak da yang bisa kuw banggakan... hix... tapi skali lagi... Cia Yo TeJe! hahaha... kamu pasti bisa...

Nah2, terus kmrn gw ma erik chat, like dreamin bout the future of our own...

E: gila nih je, mikirin masa depan, gmn yah qt ntar?
E: wakuawku
TJ: hahahahahaha
TJ: bentar2
TJ: mari berandai2
TJ: u mabil jurusan ap rik?
E: computer engineering
TJ: woh...
TJ: ntar
TJ: misalnya
TJ: 30 taon lagi
TJ: u punya prusahaan yang nyaingin microsoft
TJ: wkwkwkwkwk
TJ: trus
TJ: ntar gw klo mo penelitian pinjem dana dr u
TJ: wkwkwkwkwk
TJ: seru tuh
E: bedeh
E: pinjem duit
E: swt
E: wkakwakwa
E: ama bank aja
TJ: haha
TJ: kan biasa klo penelitian dananya gede
TJ: ><
E: gw sih ngebayangnya
E: ewe2
E: enak ga y
TJ: Gubrak
E: gile
TJ: tergantung rik
E: deg2an pasti
TJ: klo u dapet cewenya cakep nan seksi
TJ: enak
TJ: klo nga...
E: ceng
E: wkkwua
E: ya harus dapet yang cakep dan seksi lah
E: yang pasti sejelek ato secakep apapun
E: yang ntar jadi istri kita pasti menurut kt tuh sempurna
E: waukkuwa
TJ: tul2
TJ: hahahahahaha
TJ: ntar qt klo reuni
TJ: ngadu gandengan aj
TJ: /gg
E: gila2an
E: terus ntar
E: pada suruh cewenya pake baju seksi
E: tanktop
E: rok mini
E: wakkawak

Dan pembicaran berlanjut kearah yang lebih... You Knowlah... nga perlu dibahas disini... ntar ni blog jadi tercemar martabatnya... hahahaha...

Tapi klo dipikir2, ngebayangin masa depan, pas kuliah, pas kerja, pas reuni... rasanya ntar kaya apa yah? ngeliatin yang dulunya pendiem tiba2 jadi kaya org DPR gitu, trus yang dulunya nilainya jelek2 tiba2 muncul2 ud jd scientist, yang skrg nga laku2, tiba2 gandengannya ud cihui punya... trus waktu itu qt inget2 masa2 qt skerang ini... hahahaha... pasti seru n lucu... mungkin waktu itu qt bru sadar betapa bodohnya qt di masa2 muda... hahahaha... yah, tapi liat aj ntar, tunggu tanggal maennya skitar 10-20 taon lagi kli... hahahaha... Waktu itu temen2 gw ud pd punya anak... hehe...

dan trus nanti mungkin gw punya ank. dan mungkin ntar anak gw sebandel gw, dan gantian gw yang musti repot marahin anak gw gara2 bandel banget... Trus misalnya gw punya istri yang cakep... hehe... Juz imagination...

Yah.. the future lies in front of us, however that future is shaped from our decision in the present. What we choose made who we are in the future... So neva give up! Neva eva give up! I hope you guys all succeeded in your life...

Take Care guys! God Bless

There she lay, her black as night hair whispering against the halo of silk pillows surrounding her head. 

Her body lifeless.

Her pale skin still as pure as the whitest snow falling in winter. 

Her lips still as red as a blushing poppy in fields of lined gold.

Her eyes closed, shielding their darkness.

Her body heaving with every breath.

Her breasts pale.

Her corset of diamonds strung across her holding her tight.

Her diamond silk knickers framing the shape of her pussy to perfection.

The prince could not take his eyes away from her.

Laying in the fields of gold and supple reds.

His body lean and breathless against her beauty.

He had to get closer.

He had to touch her.

Taste her.

Smell her.

For she was any mans weakness.

He could feel his hands searching.

Running his fingertips over the curve of her breasts.

His lips following in their path.

His mouth running smooth lines of magic.

He could feel her body turning.

Twisting.

Rising.

Falling.

Her body full of tiny candles of heat.

Their lips pressed together.

Joint.

Hands grabbing.

Her mouth running the length of his smooth cock.

Tasting.

Punishing.

His tongue dancing between her thighs.

Moaning.

Poppy's trampled.

In.

Out.

Thrusting.

Their passion released in a gasp.

They need each other.

Desperate.

In the fields of Poppy's.

© Copyright of Charlotte Thorpe

I went to a LARP last night. To those of you not in the know, that is, a Live Action Role Play event. According to Wikipedia a live action role-playing game (LARP) is a form of role-playing where the participants physically act out their characters' actions. It's like being in a play or tv production where there is no audience and no script.

I've known about the event for a couple of months. It was a one shot production based on a canceled space cowboy series. I knew and liked the TV show and was intrigued by the idea of LARPing. Even though, I am in no way an actress and prefer to day dream in private. Plus, very quiet. Still, no matter what I do, so very, very quiet.

Had a friend talking me up but she's not the reason I did this. I know that I need to be more social. I'm just not sure how to be more social and still feel like me.

I spent the last few days wondering and anticipating and trying not to be too nervous. And saving up money.

I spent Saturday afternoon imagining back story, based on the three sentence pre-summary I was given and buying props. I knew I was to be a Private Detective (would all those mysteries I read finally pay off in real life) and that there would be a mystery to solve.

I bought a magnifying glass and some colourful plastic fish - yellow, orange, green, blue, purple - they looked like this. They could be weapons or some other type of tool. They were initially, in my mind, Babelfish. This is a fictional species, created by Douglas Adams, and is a fish that translates speech from one language to another. But they could also be, I thought, genetically altered land Piranhas (Galps) that could strip a person of their flesh in thirty seconds. This, after all, was the future: anything was possible.

But that last thought came later after I was finished with shopping. The last item on my shopping list was some sort of weapon. Do you know how hard it is to find any sort of toy gun in this day and age. Ah, too have saved my toy guns from the Sixties. Life was less complicated then.

So, perusing the local toy store I happened upon these: . They made an interesting buzzing sound, look futuristic and I thought I could explain how this weapon might work. It has to do with force fields, and sound, and perhaps hypnotism. More information, on this product, can be found at http://www.zerotoys.com/newsite/products/MagnaBuzz.htm.

Next came a very simple costume: striped black pants, a blue silk shirt, an understated purse, and black chopsticks in my hair (which in a pinch could also double as weapons). Thus, I was ready.

Or so I Thought.

I knew the Universe. I was familiar with the venue. The LARP universe was well suited to the venue chosen. The LARP was scheduled to happen from 5:00 to 11:00 pm. I went. I walked down (it took me 45 minutes; I had planned for it to take over an hour). I was early but that was okay. I met a few of the other LARPers, paid my fee, got my character profile and waited for everything to start.

The LARP started downstairs on the street which gave me too much room to hide and after two hours, we moved upstairs into two rooms which made me feel crowded and out of place.

I tried. I interacted with one of the three  other characters I was too have had a previous relationship with. But mostly I just watched and felt like I knew nothing of what was going on. The first space was too large for me and the second too small. I felt like Alice down the Rabbit Hole except Alice had a guide to show her what to do. And she was brave and I am not.

At 7:30 I politely stepped out, that is, I made up a polite excuse and went home. Still confused and not really sure how the game is to be played. It would likely had killed me to stay all six hours. It's the not knowing what's going on, it's the feeling out of place, it's me.

So, after $40.00 spent.

$12.00 admission

$10.00 taxi home

$18.00 on toys, props, & water

A pittance, that's all it was, just a pittance.

After all that, what did I learn?

That I like to write plot. The time spent imagining and anticipating was something I enjoyed. Also, I learnt I do know myself. I'm not brave. I'm good at observing, not so much good at interacting. I can't comfortably stay locked in an unfamiliar situation for more than a few hours.

But, I might try this again. I enjoy the idea of LARPing. Everyone was open and nice and engaged in the story. I was not. Next time, a shorter LARP with less people. Maybe then, I'll have to play!

A long post today, but I read this today and had to share. A truly brilliant speech.

Read below, or for a more visual view see http://nz.youtube.com/watch?v=pucdJHjZaqs

The Fringe Benefits of Failure, and the Importance of Imagination

Harvard University Commencement Address

J.K. Rowling

Copyright June 2008

As prepared for delivery

President Faust, members of the Harvard Corporation and the Board of Overseers, members of the faculty, proud parents, and, above all, graduates,

The first thing I would like to say is 'thank you.' Not only has Harvard given me an extraordinary honour, but the weeks of fear and nausea I've experienced at the thought of giving this commencement address have made me lose weight. A win-win situation! Now all I have to do is take deep breaths, squint at the red banners and fool myself into believing I am at the world's best-educated Harry Potter convention.

Delivering a commencement address is a great responsibility; or so I thought until I cast my mind back to my own graduation. The commencement speaker that day was the distinguished British philosopher Baroness Mary Warnock. Reflecting on her speech has helped me enormously in writing this one, because it turns out that I can't remember a single word she said. This liberating discovery enables me to proceed without any fear that I might inadvertently influence you to abandon promising careers in business, law or politics for the giddy delights of becoming a gay wizard.

You see? If all you remember in years to come is the 'gay wizard' joke, I've still come out ahead of Baroness Mary Warnock. Achievable goals: the first step towards personal improvement.

Actually, I have wracked my mind and heart for what I ought to say to you today. I have asked myself what I wish I had known at my own graduation, and what important lessons I have learned in the 21 years that has expired between that day and this.

I have come up with two answers. On this wonderful day when we are gathered together to celebrate your academic success, I have decided to talk to you about the benefits of failure. And as you stand on the threshold of what is sometimes called 'real life', I want to extol the crucial importance of imagination.

These might seem quixotic or paradoxical choices, but please bear with me.

Looking back at the 21-year-old that I was at graduation, is a slightly uncomfortable experience for the 42-year-old that she has become. Half my lifetime ago, I was striking an uneasy balance between the ambition I had for myself, and what those closest to me expected of me.

I was convinced that the only thing I wanted to do, ever, was to write novels. However, my parents, both of whom came from impoverished backgrounds and neither of whom had been to college, took the view that my overactive imagination was an amusing personal quirk that could never pay a mortgage, or secure a pension.

They had hoped that I would take a vocational degree; I wanted to study English Literature. A compromise was reached that in retrospect satisfied nobody, and I went up to study Modern Languages. Hardly had my parents' car rounded the corner at the end of the road than I ditched German and scuttled off down the Classics corridor.

I cannot remember telling my parents that I was studying Classics; they might well have found out for the first time on graduation day. Of all subjects on this planet, I think they would have been hard put to name one less useful than Greek mythology when it came to securing the keys to an executive bathroom.

I would like to make it clear, in parenthesis, that I do not blame my parents for their point of view. There is an expiry date on blaming your parents for steering you in the wrong direction; the moment you are old enough to take the wheel, responsibility lies with you. What is more, I cannot criticise my parents for hoping that I would never experience poverty. They had been poor themselves, and I have since been poor, and I quite agree with them that it is not an ennobling experience. Poverty entails fear, and stress, and sometimes depression; it means a thousand petty humiliations and hardships. Climbing out of poverty by your own efforts, that is indeed something on which to pride yourself, but poverty itself is romanticised only by fools.

What I feared most for myself at your age was not poverty, but failure.

At your age, in spite of a distinct lack of motivation at university, where I had spent far too long in the coffee bar writing stories, and far too little time at lectures, I had a knack for passing examinations, and that, for years, had been the measure of success in my life and that of my peers.

I am not dull enough to suppose that because you are young, gifted and well-educated, you have never known hardship or heartbreak. Talent and intelligence never yet inoculated anyone against the caprice of the Fates, and I do not for a moment suppose that everyone here has enjoyed an existence of unruffled privilege and contentment.

However, the fact that you are graduating from Harvard suggests that you are not very well-acquainted with failure. You might be driven by a fear of failure quite as much as a desire for success. Indeed, your conception of failure might not be too far from the average person's idea of success, so high have you already flown academically.

Ultimately, we all have to decide for ourselves what constitutes failure, but the world is quite eager to give you a set of criteria if you let it. So I think it fair to say that by any conventional measure, a mere seven years after my graduation day, I had failed on an epic scale. An exceptionally short-lived marriage had imploded, and I was jobless, a lone parent, and as poor as it is possible to be in modern Britain, without being homeless. The fears my parents had had for me, and that I had had for myself, had both come to pass, and by every usual standard, I was the biggest failure I knew.

Now, I am not going to stand here and tell you that failure is fun. That period of my life was a dark one, and I had no idea that there was going to be what the press has since represented as a kind of fairy tale resolution. I had no idea how far the tunnel extended, and for a long time, any light at the end of it was a hope rather than a reality.

So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had already been realised, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.

You might never fail on the scale I did, but some failure in life is inevitable. It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all – in which case, you fail by default.

Failure gave me an inner security that I had never attained by passing examinations. Failure taught me things about myself that I could have learned no other way. I discovered that I had a strong will, and more discipline than I had suspected; I also found out that I had friends whose value was truly above rubies.

The knowledge that you have emerged wiser and stronger from setbacks means that you are, ever after, secure in your ability to survive. You will never truly know yourself, or the strength of your relationships, until both have been tested by adversity. Such knowledge is a true gift, for all that it is painfully won, and it has been worth more to me than any qualification I ever earned.

Given a time machine or a Time Turner, I would tell my 21-year-old self that personal happiness lies in knowing that life is not a check-list of acquisition or achievement. Your qualifications, your CV, are not your life, though you will meet many people of my age and older who confuse the two. Life is difficult, and complicated, and beyond anyone's total control, and the humility to know that will enable you to survive its vicissitudes.

You might think that I chose my second theme, the importance of imagination, because of the part it played in rebuilding my life, but that is not wholly so. Though I will defend the value of bedtime stories to my last gasp, I have learned to value imagination in a much broader sense. Imagination is not only the uniquely human capacity to envision that which is not, and therefore the fount of all invention and innovation. In its arguably most transformative and revelatory capacity, it is the power that enables us to empathise with humans whose experiences we have never shared.

One of the greatest formative experiences of my life preceded Harry Potter, though it informed much of what I subsequently wrote in those books. This revelation came in the form of one of my earliest day jobs. Though I was sloping off to write stories during my lunch hours, I paid the rent in my early 20s by working in the research department at Amnesty International's headquarters in London.

There in my little office I read hastily scribbled letters smuggled out of totalitarian regimes by men and women who were risking imprisonment to inform the outside world of what was happening to them. I saw photographs of those who had disappeared without trace, sent to Amnesty by their desperate families and friends. I read the testimony of torture victims and saw pictures of their injuries. I opened handwritten, eye-witness accounts of summary trials and executions, of kidnappings and rapes.

Many of my co-workers were ex-political prisoners, people who had been displaced from their homes, or fled into exile, because they had the temerity to think independently of their government. Visitors to our office included those who had come to give information, or to try and find out what had happened to those they had been forced to leave behind.

I shall never forget the African torture victim, a young man no older than I was at the time, who had become mentally ill after all he had endured in his homeland. He trembled uncontrollably as he spoke into a video camera about the brutality inflicted upon him. He was a foot taller than I was, and seemed as fragile as a child. I was given the job of escorting him to the Underground Station afterwards, and this man whose life had been shattered by cruelty took my hand with exquisite courtesy, and wished me future happiness.

And as long as I live I shall remember walking along an empty corridor and suddenly hearing, from behind a closed door, a scream of pain and horror such as I have never heard since. The door opened, and the researcher poked out her head and told me to run and make a hot drink for the young man sitting with her. She had just given him the news that in retaliation for his own outspokenness against his country's regime, his mother had been seized and executed.

Every day of my working week in my early 20s I was reminded how incredibly fortunate I was, to live in a country with a democratically elected government, where legal representation and a public trial were the rights of everyone.

Every day, I saw more evidence about the evils humankind will inflict on their fellow humans, to gain or maintain power. I began to have nightmares, literal nightmares, about some of the things I saw, heard and read.

And yet I also learned more about human goodness at Amnesty International than I had ever known before.

Amnesty mobilises thousands of people who have never been tortured or imprisoned for their beliefs to act on behalf of those who have. The power of human empathy, leading to collective action, saves lives, and frees prisoners. Ordinary people, whose personal well-being and security are assured, join together in huge numbers to save people they do not know, and will never meet. My small participation in that process was one of the most humbling and inspiring experiences of my life.

Unlike any other creature on this planet, humans can learn and understand, without having experienced. They can think themselves into other people's minds, imagine themselves into other people's places.

Of course, this is a power, like my brand of fictional magic, that is morally neutral. One might use such an ability to manipulate, or control, just as much as to understand or sympathise.

And many prefer not to exercise their imaginations at all. They choose to remain comfortably within the bounds of their own experience, never troubling to wonder how it would feel to have been born other than they are. They can refuse to hear screams or to peer inside cages; they can close their minds and hearts to any suffering that does not touch them personally; they can refuse to know.

I might be tempted to envy people who can live that way, except that I do not think they have any fewer nightmares than I do. Choosing to live in narrow spaces can lead to a form of mental agoraphobia, and that brings its own terrors. I think the wilfully unimaginative see more monsters. They are often more afraid.

What is more, those who choose not to empathise may enable real monsters. For without ever committing an act of outright evil ourselves, we collude with it, through our own apathy.

One of the many things I learned at the end of that Classics corridor down which I ventured at the age of 18, in search of something I could not then define, was this, written by the Greek author Plutarch: What we achieve inwardly will change outer reality.

That is an astonishing statement and yet proven a thousand times every day of our lives. It expresses, in part, our inescapable connection with the outside world, the fact that we touch other people's lives simply by existing.

But how much more are you, Harvard graduates of 2008, likely to touch other people's lives? Your intelligence, your capacity for hard work, the education you have earned and received, give you unique status, and unique responsibilities. Even your nationality sets you apart. The great majority of you belong to the world's only remaining superpower. The way you vote, the way you live, the way you protest, the pressure you bring to bear on your government, has an impact way beyond your borders. That is your privilege, and your burden.

If you choose to use your status and influence to raise your voice on behalf of those who have no voice; if you choose to identify not only with the powerful, but with the powerless; if you retain the ability to imagine yourself into the lives of those who do not have your advantages, then it will not only be your proud families who celebrate your existence, but thousands and millions of people whose reality you have helped transform for the better. We do not need magic to change the world, we carry all the power we need inside ourselves already: we have the power to imagine better.

I am nearly finished. I have one last hope for you, which is something that I already had at 21. The friends with whom I sat on graduation day have been my friends for life. They are my children's godparents, the people to whom I've been able to turn in times of trouble, friends who have been kind enough not to sue me when I've used their names for Death Eaters. At our graduation we were bound by enormous affection, by our shared experience of a time that could never come again, and, of course, by the knowledge that we held certain photographic evidence that would be exceptionally valuable if any of us ran for Prime Minister.

So today, I can wish you nothing better than similar friendships. And tomorrow, I hope that even if you remember not a single word of mine, you remember those of Seneca, another of those old Romans I met when I fled down the Classics corridor, in retreat from career ladders, in search of ancient wisdom:

As is a tale, so is life: not how long it is, but how good it is, is what matters.

I wish you all very good lives.

Thank you very much.

nor both together

go to the making of genius.

Love, love, love,

that is the soul of genius."

= Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756 - 1791) =

Johann Chrysostom Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is an Austrian composer of the classical era. He composed more than 600 symphonic, choral music, classical, concertante, chamber, operatic music, requiem; mostly are for piano. He is one of the world-popular composer which the music has been played almost all the classical musician.

His most well-known compositions are Symphony No.41 and Mass in C minor. Passed away in a very young age at 35 because of several illness, most reasonable version is that he died of acute rheumatic fever.

Quite simply, it made me realize what I wanted to do in life. Being in that space ship, IMMERSED in that world of imagination, I was so happy and so confident. I wanted other people to be able to experience those same feelings. I realized that it would be possible to do that through movies. I could bring people into a new world where they wouldn't have but one care. All that would matter is being IMMERSED in imagination.

Memory Map Key: Space Ship

Knowing my point of view about such moments, the universe placed a copy of Sandra Hatfield's delightful novel Zero Degrees of Separation on my desk when it came time for me to review a book for the November issue of Georgia's Living Jackson Magazine.

Sandra Hatfield, whom I haven't knowingly met in this lifetime, lives a few miles up the road. Yet, we may well have walked some of the same pathways as we each found ourselves drawn to remember how the universe works; especially "death," "dying," and the "afterlife." As I read Zero Degrees of Separation, I discovered a fictionalized account of my own belief system in which "death" as call it and fear it and avoid it is a very natural transition between realms.

Most readers of Zero Degrees of Separation will clearly see before Hatfield's main character Christina sees it, that she has died. Even so, she finds herself thinking that she's never felt better in her life, for gone is the hospital bed where she lay dying where her family experiences the grief of our universal experience when we appear to be separated from family and loved ones for all eternity.

The novel provides us with a window into an afterlife that contrasts sharply with the traditional versions most of us grew up with. Whether Hatfield's version seems plausible or not as you read, Christina's experiences make for an interesting story. So, too, Christina's compassionate feeling for those left behind who are experiencing grief at her absence.

No doubt, Hatfield's many years of experience with Hospice and The Twilight Brigade, helped her write the novel's scenes about grief in a way that is not only real to readers, but potentially empathetic and helpful in their own lives.

Hatfield's novel, which I think you'll enjoy, is available from her own website for $18.30 (including S&H) via check or Paypal.

Copyright (c) 2008 by Malcolm R. Campbell

And I knew there were people with vivid imaginations, like mine.

You have completely blown me away! I have had so much fun reading your contributions to  our Halloween story!

Keep it coming! This can't possibly be the end of the story.

We still have to determine what happened on Halloween.

What is her gruesome game?

Whatever happened to the farmer?

Did he dance naked under the full moon?

Click here to add your contribution!

Mr. Sen is an author, international lecturer, and business consultant who tells a rather compelling story about coming to Canada with a suitcase and $400 borrowed dollars. He spoke of the one common trait that all great leaders share, no matter what they had become famous for: imagination. 

While I'm not one to get too worked up over grandiose speeches about inspiration and visualization in order to reach your goals, I believe all of these elements, though cliché, do play a significant factor. I actually don't remember much of his talk, because whatever Mr. Sen said for the first 5 minutes put me into a bit of a trance, where I found my mind willingly wandering off into la-la land. It was fabulous, and right there I crystallized some business ideas I really needed to move on.

When I snapped back out of my trance, Mr. Sen was echoing the famous lyrics of Joe Darion, who wrote the song, The Impossible Dream. Fabulous lyrics, and certainly something that you can let yourself get inspired by.

When I posted my theme for the month yesterday, I realized how doing things imperfectly is SO how my childhood hero, Pippi Longstocking, approached life. I'm not going to repeat everything I posted over at the Theme page ~ have a look over there if you are curious; there are some nice links ~ except to say that in years and years I have not felt the excitement of being Pippi.

As a kid I used to pretend to be her, and those times were probably the only ones in which I momentarily became free from The Inner Perfectionist. Living rough and ready like Pippi released something wild and wonderful into my veins, a daring joie de vivre which took me by surprise even as a little girl. No wonder she was my hero!

Perhaps you, too, have a childhood hero who made you feel like you could conquer the world...

I am going to remember Pippi this month as I do it imperfectly.

Love,

Pippa

"If you carry your childhood with you, you never become older." ~ Tom Stoppard

In the world of my mind,
There’s nothing I wouldn’t do,
To cast away

I know it’s like a trip for me too far,
Moving foward, faster, into my imagination,
Let it run, away with me,
I know your love is perfect like the stars,
When we’re together, here in my imagination,
Let it run, away with me, away with me, away with me (fade)

With every thought,
The journey begins again,
And we will go on,
Chasing the endless box of creation,
That holds me for hours,
There’s a rising sun along the dark horizon,
As I’m driving through the flow of the rain

It’s like a trip,
Into my imagination,
Let it run,
And you know your love is perfect,
Here in my imagination,
I let it run,
Away with me (x4),
Let it run,
Oooooh (x16)

I know it’s like a trip for me too far,
Moving foward, faster, into my imagination,
Let it run, away with me,
I know your love is perfect like the stars,
When we’re here together, here in my imagination,
Let it run, away with me, away with me

Let it run,
Away with me
I let it run, run, run,
Ooooh oooh (x16)
Away with me,
Away with me

His birthday was coming up and he thought this was a good time to tell his mother what he wanted.

Mom, I want a bike for my birthday.

Little Bobby was a bit of a troublemaker. He had gotten into trouble at school and at home.

Bobby's mother asked him if he thought he deserved to get a bike for his birthday.

Little Bobby, of course, thought he did.

Bobby's mother wanted Bobby to reflect on his behavior over the last year. Go to your room, Bobby, and think about how you have behaved this year.

Then write a letter to God and tell him why you deserve a bike for your birthday.

Little Bobby stomped up the steps to his room and sat down to write God a letter.

************ **

Letter 1

Dear God,

I have been a very good boy this year and I would like a bike for my birthday.

I want a red one.

Your friend,

Bobby

************ **

Bobby knew that this wasn't true. He had not been a very good boy this year,

So he tore up the letter and started over.

************ **
Letter 2

Dear God,

This is your friend Bobby. I have been a good boy this year and I would like

A red bike for my birthday. Thank you.

Your friend,
Bobby

************ **
Bobby knew that this wasn't true either. So, he tore up the letter and started again.

************ **
Letter 3

Dear God,

I have been an OK boy this year. I still would really like a bike for my birthday.

Bobby

************ **

Bobby knew he could not send this letter to God either. So, Bobby wrote a fourth letter.

************ **

Letter 4

God,

I know I haven't been a good boy this year. I am very sorry.

I will be a good boy if you just send me a bike for my birthday.

Please! Thank you,

Bobby

************ **

Bobby knew, even if it was true, this letter was not going to get him a bike.
Now, Bobby was very upset. He went downstairs and told his mom that he wanted to go to church.

Bobby's mother thought her plan had worked, as Bobby looked very sad.

Just be home in time for dinner, Bobby's mother told him.

Bobby walked down the street to the church on the corner.

Little Bobby went into the church and up to the altar.

He looked around to see if anyone was there.

Bobby bent down and picked up a statue of the Mary.

He slipped the statue under his shirt and ran out of the church, down the street, into the house, and up to his room.

He shut the door to his room and sat down with a piece of paper and a pen.
Bobby began to write his letter to God.

************ **
God,

I'VE KIDNAPPED YOUR MAMA. IF YOU WANT TO SEE HER AGAIN, SEND THE BIKE!!!!!!

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