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  • Post is under moderation
    Ken Hartke
    Ken Hartke commented on the blog post, Sofia's Bakery

    Thanks, Rosy, -- glad you liked it.

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    Ken Hartke
    Ken Hartke commented on the blog post, I Promise

    I am so looking forward to your return -- I love your writing and wish you well. From my youth I've always embraced a quotation from Robert Louis Stevenson: “Quiet minds cannot be perplexed or frightened, but go on in fortune or misfortune at their own private pace, like a clock during a thunderstorm.” That takes some discipline and it aggravates a few people around me at times but the notion has always served me well.

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    Stephen Evans
    Stephen Evans commented on the blog post, I Promise

    Sometimes when I am dealing with deep anxiety I find that work (by which I mean writing), and the focus that comes with it, can quiet the mind. I hope you find something similar.

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    Rosy Cole
    Rosy Cole commented on the blog post, Sofia's Bakery

    I just love this, Ken. As appealing to the senses as a painting. Thanks :-)

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    Rosy Cole
    Rosy Cole commented on the blog post, I Promise

    Prayers for you, as ever, Rina. So nice to see you here and good that you're feeling positive. God bless. x

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    Virginia M Macasaet
    Virginia M Macasaet created a new blog post, I Promise

    I Promise

    Posted in Blogs on Sunday, 20 May 2018

    To get myself back on track. I am going to try.   A hypnotherapist is helping to quiet my mind. Residue from being hit by a bus a couple of years back is stuck in my subconscious.   The last purge was encouraging.  Sleep is much better but not quite there yet. Today, I am pushing myself to get back to my creative roots.

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    Ken Hartke
    Ken Hartke commented on the blog post, Sofia's Bakery

    Thanks...I hope it stayed in a good way.

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    Jane Phillipson Wilson
    Jane Phillipson Wilson commented on the blog post, Sofia's Bakery

    This was the first thing I read this morning and it will stay with me all day. Thank you.

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    Ken Hartke
    Ken Hartke created a new blog post, Sofia's Bakery

    Sofia's Bakery

    Posted in Blogs on Thursday, 17 May 2018

                            The village sleeps while a few coyotes prowl and scuff through the alley that passes for a dusty street. They own the night. We are only tenants here at the edge of the desert; close by the river. A light is on at the bakery, as it is every morning in the long hours before the first glow. The coyotes are used to it. They watch her quietly pass by each morning as regular as the dawn. Sofia is immersed in the day's work. Everything is in its place and ready from the day before. The old oven heats; the chill fades; flour in her hair; her morning routine. Lumps become loaves or anise biscochitos. The first oven smells are drifting down the street before sunrise. She stops for a drink of her coffee. She likes her coffee strong and sweet; flavored with cinnamon or cardamom. She indulges herself at this hour. Working alone, she enjoys this time of day. She has a place here in this little village; like the mortar between the stones. She recalls her mother, with flour in her hair, greeting the men on their way to the fields with fresh bread. She is ready for the day as she hears the first sounds from the street. She smiles and steps out the door. *     *     * 2018 - The Home Place    

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    Ken Hartke
    Ken Hartke commented on the blog post, LOST

    I tried the trail of breadcrumbs trick -- didn't work. Stay with us, there's safety in mumblers.

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    Stephen Evans
    Stephen Evans commented on the blog post, LOST

    I think a lot of people are feeling this way. Glad at least you found your way to Green Room.

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    Virginia M Macasaet
    Virginia M Macasaet created a new blog post, LOST

    LOST

    Posted in Blogs on Monday, 14 May 2018

    Something is off balance. Despite the routine in place, there’s a gap somewhere in between.   Can’t quite put my finger on it. I just know and I can sense that something is not where it should be.   I keep looking around, sniffing and observing. I haven’t asked around because I don’t quite know what to ask.   People tell me they’ve been feeling off tangent lately. Call it whatever you wish.   Simply put, I’m lost.

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    Stephen Evans
    Stephen Evans commented on the blog post, The Coming of Dusk

    These extraordinary passages pop up all through both Out of Africa and its successor Shadows in the Grass. The clarity and strength of the prose just takes your breath some times. Glad you liked it!

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    Rosy Cole
    Rosy Cole commented on the blog post, The Coming of Dusk

    This passage is amazing for its luminosity. It is so perfectly what I sense and believe, in the way that I believe it, and to see it articulated takes the breath. The journey is ever expanding inwards. The outward and its consensual reality shrinks slowly away. Such revelation is impossible early in the day.

    Thank you!

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    Rosy Cole
    Rosy Cole created a new blog post, Reflected Universe

    Reflected Universe

    Posted in Blogs on Tuesday, 08 May 2018

    The second of two passages from Next Year In Jerusalem   Frustratingly, my eagerness for adventure was no measure of my ability to keep pace with the high spirits of the rest. Dr. Jennings had forbidden me to dance. At Christmas, I danced solo in the pantomime we put on for our patrons and almsgivers and a lady from the audience was so taken with my performance she offered to arrange proper tuition. Nadia, her name was, a gamin creature in red fox fur up to her ears, a real ballerina, Reverend Mother had emphasised, and a member of the Rambert company. “Such an honour, Angel. You are blessed.” It was a fairytale come true. Little had I thought to become what I most longed to be! Undaunted by the discipline, I practised my steps morning and night. Madame Minoret at the ballet school was amazed by my progress. A natural, she had confirmed to Nadia, an empathetic dancer, whatever that meant. And Nadia had twinkled. “We shall see what we shall see,” she said. But Dr. Jennings had come along and put a cold stopper upon my ribs and squinted down his aquiline nose and warned that the dancing must cease. All strenuous activity was to be avoided. “A slight heart murmur,” he confided to Sister Agnes, relaxing his stethoscope. “Nothing to be unduly concerned about at this stage. However, we had better play safe. Eh, young lady?” During the night, I went down with a fever. Dr. Jennings was summoned and diagnosed a severe attack of ‘flu. Alarm grew when I failed to respond to treatment. For two days and nights my condition did not abate and even in delirium my toes formed points under the covers. On the third day, the crisis passed. I surfaced, clearer-eyed, to a new world of textures, tastes and sounds. The acuity of my perception was startling. It was as though I had been recast in another mould. The calm relationship of objects, after the storm which had imparted a sinister meaning to them, moved within me a remote happiness. I found myself in the sick bay, in a large bed high off the disinfected linoleum, with Felicity Rag-Doll ailing beside me and a painted Tau Cross on one wall and the Sacred Heart of Jesus on another, inflamed and bleeding, and the Michelangelo Pietà on a third. Down the corridor, Mildred Semple was practising her piano pieces. I sat up and flung the blankets aside. But the second the floor touched cold to my foot, I remembered. How I pined for my lost freedom! It was torture not to be able to take flight and dance, like being a bird and having your wings clipped. Life was never the same again. All I did involved undue effort. I tried not to give in but tired quickly. What I hated most of all was being left behind like the lame boy in The Pied Piper of Hamelin, forever shut out of the enchanted kingdom inside the mountain because he couldn’t keep pace. In the garden, I looked on dispirited, while the hole dilated at my feet and my companions alighted on the rewards of their industry. Several blue glass beads were found, an old clay pipe, its bowl still intact, a tortoiseshell comb and a bun penny. As the afternoon wore on, we lost all track of time and place until we heard Sister Agnes calling us across the snow. Thomas hitched his spectacles up to the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and consulted the position of the sun. “Right men! Pocket the booty! It’s a long trek back to base. Look lively, Novak, or you’ll be spending the night in an eighteen foot drift. Wolf-fodder, that’s what you’ll be!” We followed him, our Wellington boots cutting a swathe through the smudged lawn. Already the snow on the terrace had melted. A thrush sang in the apple tree stippled with green. The conservatory threw back a pale sky splashed with flame. It was warm. The air smelled of spring and of picnics postponed, of an outing to the sea if we were lucky. Tomorrow all trace of snow would be gone. It was as we were stamping our boots, about to file in, that a resounding thud drew our attention. A young blackbird had collided with the window and lay, a tumbled heap of feathers, on the path. I darted to his rescue, but it was too late! He fixed me meekly with his beady eye and lapsed, quivering, into stillness. I stretched out a finger and stroked his soft wings. He was as warm as my own flesh and blood, poor scrap, so deceived by the reflected universe. I couldn’t take it in. I fell on my knees and moaned and rocked to and fro and refused to be comforted. How could I bear such passive obedience to order? That night, I had a nightmare about the hole in the garden and how it could be made good before Simms found out. I awoke, sobbing, to the recollection of yesterday and that precocious silence about which I could never speak.   Image courtesy of Carl Bovis    

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    Stephen Evans
    Stephen Evans created a new blog post, The Coming of Dusk

    The Coming of Dusk

    Posted in Blogs on Tuesday, 01 May 2018

    "At times I believe that my feet have been set upon a road which I shall go on following, and that slowly the centre of gravity of my being will shift over from the world of day, from the domain of organizing and regulating universal powers, into the world of Imagination. Already now I feel, as when at the age of twenty I was going to a ball in the evening, that day is a space of time without meaning, and that it is with the coming of dusk, with the lighting of the first star and the first candle, that things will become what they really are, and will come forth to meet me." Karen Blixen (Isak Dinesen), Shadows in the Grass

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    Rosy Cole
    Rosy Cole commented on the blog post, Happy Birthday, Will Shakespeare

    Thank you for this enlightening link!

    One of my volumes of the 'Complete Works' is hidebound and marbled with gold die-stamping. It was published in 1862 by H G Bohn, York Street, Covent Garden, and apparently was owned by a pupil of Bedford School whose name is on the bookplate in Latin, Gulielmo H Parker (William Parker). He has missed out the second 'g'. This Victorian edition has the Bard's name as William Shakspere. (Perhaps suggesting 'father of the more famous Shak', probably 'Jacques':-) )

    Now I'm thoroughly persuaded that Shak did his Dad proud in the Norman Conquest and earned honours of William the Conqueror :)

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    Stephen Evans

    If anyone is curious about the spelling of his name:

    https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spelling_of_Shakespeare%27s_name

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    Rosy Cole
    Rosy Cole commented on the blog post, Happy Birthday, Will Shakespeare

    I believe his name originally was spelled without the first E. Ah, the days before the iniquity that is Amazon, when you could pay a bill with a quill, or even a Giro with Biro.

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  • Post is under moderation
    Stephen Evans

    Happy Birthday, Will Shakespeare

    Posted in Blogs on Monday, 23 April 2018

    There once was a playwright named Will Whose spelling was practically Nil. Whether Shaksper or Shakspere Or Shakspe or Shakespeare, Sweet Will paid his bill with a Quill.

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Latest Comments

Ken Hartke Sofia's Bakery
20 May 2018
Thanks, Rosy, -- glad you liked it.
Ken Hartke I Promise
20 May 2018
I am so looking forward to your return -- I love your writing and wish you well. From my youth I've...
Stephen Evans I Promise
20 May 2018
Sometimes when I am dealing with deep anxiety I find that work (by which I mean writing), and the f...
Rosy Cole Sofia's Bakery
20 May 2018
I just love this, Ken. As appealing to the senses as a painting. Thanks :-)
Rosy Cole I Promise
20 May 2018
Prayers for you, as ever, Rina. So nice to see you here and good that you're feeling positive. God b...

Latest Blogs

To get myself back on track. I am going to try.   A hypnotherapist is helping to quiet my mind. Residue from being hit by a bus a couple of years ...
                        The village sleeps while a few coyotes prowl and scuff through the alley that passes for a dusty street. They o...
Something is off balance. Despite the routine in place, there’s a gap somewhere in between.   Can’t quite put my finger on it. I just know and I c...
The second of two passages from Next Year In Jerusalem   Frustratingly, my eagerness for adventure was no measure of my ability to keep pace wit...
"At times I believe that my feet have been set upon a road which I shall go on following, and that slowly the centre of gravity of my being will shi...