Last Video Battle: TWILIGHT (Edward vs. Jacob)

Thanks to all who popped over to Zoe's yesterday to read the interview with her. If you haven't been over yet, just click this link. If not to read the interview, to meet an amazing talented fellow blogger of ours who is definitely worth a visit. Don't forget to follow her either! You won't be disappointed!

Ok. Video battle. You all know the drill, right? Today is about a topic I know nothing about so, hmm ... 

This is going to be my last, and probably the last for all of us because Xrtranormal.com have decided to make us pay to use the service all of the sudden. Also, I have just provided the dialogue today because the sucky program decided to take over 7 hours to render, and then never rendered anyway. BOOOOOO!
Don't forget to check out the others! It's your last chance!

Jen - Unedited
Candace - The Misadventures in Candyland

Sarah - T.J. Carson's Writing Endeavors

Katie - Creepy Query Girl

Shannon - Shannon McMahon

Rachel - Open a Window

Susan - Susan Fields

Clara - Pinches of Madness

Angela - Slushpile Slut

Jennie - Garden Full of Lily

Albert: Queen Jennifer the 8th said today's battle is about...
Leonardo: Battle? But I don't have my gun ...

Albert: I'm not finished, Leonardo. Today's verbal battle is about twilight.

Leonardo: Twilight? No, I prefer the morning.

Albert: I prefer the evening myself. But I think it's referring to some sort of theatrical art production with two characters called Edward and Jacob.

Leonardo: King Edward the 6th? Smashing idea!

Albert: Ah, yes. Jolly good, Leonardo. Yes, that's probably who she was referring to. You are a smart fellow, Leonardo. But, who is Jacob?


Leonardo: That's a Hebrew name, is it not?

Albert: Ah, yes. Jolly good, Leonardo. But who is it?


Leonardo: The shepherd forebear of the 12 tribes of Israel, is it not?


Albert: Ah, yes, jolly good, Leonardo. From the bible. But why should we have to choose between a bible character and King Edward? And why on earth would they want to perform in a piece of theatre?

Leonardo: Ah, yes, you have a point there Albert. Did she say anything else? Did she give you any clues?

Albert: Well, as far as I can recall, she said something along the lines of one being a sexy werewolve and the other being a pasty white boy who calls himself a vampire. but I chose to ignore such a ridiculous notion.

Leonardo: Sorry? I didn't quite catch that, Albert. Did you say that Edward used to be a wolf, and that he would revamp our empire?

Albert: Oh, golly gosh Leonardo, do clean the wax out of your ears once in a while. It does get awfully tiring having a conversation with a man who can't hear sufficiently.

Leonardo: Jolly good then, Albert. Pass the chisel?

X-rated interview question answered ...

Hi everyone! Remember that contest that Zoe was holding over at No Letters On My Keyboard? Well, I won! I'm receiving a really cool looking gold flash drive and am being interviewed today over at her blog. And not your average questions either!

To go check it out, click HERE!

Hmm ... inter-resting ...

I wish to strangle you with wire ...

I know domestic violence is a tough subject to talk about, especially for those who have experienced it. I'm thankful and lucky not to have ever experienced this. Below is a poem I wrote putting myself in the imaginary shoes of a domestic violence victim. Have a read, and then tell me your opinion of my thoughts below it.

Remember the time I woke you, and you were already awake?

Remember I had my suitcase ready? I could have run for goodness sake.

In just one moment there, I would have loved to pull your hair.

Or hold a knife to your neck; a game of truth or dare.

I wish to burn your books; all your photos in a fire.

I wish to smash glass on your head or strangle you with wire.

But I only have one last thing I to say, and you must know,

How I’ve spent our 'happy' lifetime, becoming a kung fu pro.

So don't even attempt to hit me, with that base ball bat.

I'll drop you to the ground, then clean your brains off the bathroom mat.

I'll put you in the bathtub, slit your wrists, and write a note.

It'll confess how much you beat me; I'll leave it in your coat.

So think before you strike me now; before I walk out this door.

Think about the countless days you left me bleeding on the floor.

Think about your daughter; how you will never see her again.

And think how much you'll miss me; you'll miss inflicting pain.

This time you can't stop me; this time I won't come back.

This time is the last, you'll see my face blue and black.

So goodbye and good luck. I wish you all the best.

Well, no, actually I don't; I hope you never lay to rest.

Now, I know many who haven't experienced domestic violence think that they would just leave, no doubt about it, right? But I think the reality of it is that most women are too scared to leave, and their hopes for things to get better grow bigger and bigger. They convince themselves that they must have deserved it and that they are to blame.

To us, who look in from the outside, we see it as ridiculous, but we never truly know how we would react unless it actually happened. So, my point is, instead of judging these women for staying in a relationship that is harmful, support them and just be there for them if they need you.

What is your opinion about this?

Have you ever tried to write like someone else?

While studying Romanticism at University, one of my assignments was to write an ode in the same vein as one of the amazing Romantic poets of the 17th Century. I chose John Keats, and used 'Ode on a Grecian Urn' as my guide. The amazing coincidence here is that Keats produced most of his odes during April and May of 1819, and I too wrote this poem in April, while getting myself settled on a Greek island called Ithaca (the home of Ulysses, aka Odysseus). What a perfect time and place to be assigned such a task, hey?

I still have this 'ode' of mine, called, The Pebbled Shores of Ellada ('Ellada' means 'Greece' in Greek, by the way). It doesn't quite conform to all the rules, but I do think it has, although slightly more modern, a similar Romantic feel about it. If you've never read John Keats' Ode on a Grecian Urn, you can here.

Anyhoo, here's my ode:

Along the pebbled shores of Ellada

I let the sun engrave my skin

As though a Greek God has now possessed me

I tread its land like I'm cursed with its sin

Floating somewhere amidst the sea mist

Is a veiled beggar from the past

Haunting every solitary step I take

Waiting for me to rebuild his mast

One foot on this beloved soil

I become a willing prisoner

Amongst the blues of the sky and the depths of the sea

My body and soul will never be set free

The olive groves and the grape vines

Entice me to intrude their sacred grounds

But I will eat their oils and drink their wines

Until a place to dwell has been found

I have now become embodied

In a certain type of cell

Instinctively invented by my heart

Or concocted by an infinite spell

Yes my love, I must look quite sad

You say that all I do is weep

But sometimes alone in my own abyss

I pray for bliss in my sleep

The tears don't pour just from my eyes sweetheart

If I perhaps try to escape

And it's not only my heart that tears apart

When I must leave this bewitching place

There is a mysterious power hidden here

That keeps me safe from harm

I am invincible from the eerie fear

Yet my revelations remain so calm

When I sleep at night under the secretive stars

Sometimes my dreams come alive

Will these words I write all day and night

Through the centuries survive?

Will the place I love through thick skin and bone

Live as letters on a page?

Or will they dissolve beneath this holy earth

Like mind and body after old age?

When the summer smell wafts through my window

It stirs a fated movement

Not of birds and bees and flowers and grass

But of passions, desire and sentiment

This smell sparks a fire inside the heart of my soul

A burning plea for creation

For music, for dance, for love

But most of all, just for this sensation

The streets are so quiet this time of year

Yet nature is in full bloom

And the roaring waves of the vicious sea

No longer entice temper and doom

Sometimes I find this sound of silence

Encompasses me like a child

To spare me the pain of an evil man

An unknown force; an invader of land

But non-existence on the other hand

Could enable an abundance of delight

As I sit alone gathered in my thoughts

My heart – out it pours, without a fight

Like a mountain of rich lava

Its force so red and strong

Or a steam train on a tainted journey

Where its coals last forever long

I know deep inside my heart that I must trust

I will do good, I will say no wrong

At the end of this day I have sung the most beautiful song

Oh! - I have waited for this moment so long

In this life I live for only this:

If passion can reach your heart

Just like it did mine

We will live in eternal bliss

Have you ever tried to mimic someone else's writing style, even if not in poetry, in prose? How successful were you at 'being' someone else? Did you find that you couldn't help putting a little of yourself in there? I sure couldn't.

I grew up with awesome FEEDBACK ...

Amplifier feedback, silly! Screeeeeechaaaweeee!!!!!!!!!!

I was just twelve when this video was made. My mother is the singer/guitarist, my father the bassist. Got no questions for you today, so thought I'd share a little of my past. Enjoy!

If anyone is interested in seeing or hearing more, you can find stuff here.

Red smells like rekindled desire

If you didn't stop by yesterday take a quick peek at yesterdays post as today is a continuation of the same issue. And wow! All your ideas yesterday have put me to shame! Here is the excerpt in which I express red having a smell. I'm afraid after all your wonderful ideas this seems meek, but I'm not one to back out, so here we are:

On the night of my birthday he put on Joni Mitchell’s ‘Blue’, and set the dining room table with four large black square plates, painted silver round the edges. He’d bought a brand new crimson tablecloth and set it using my grandma’s silver cutlery that I’d stored away in some difficult-to-reach place I could not recall. The dining room, filled with the scent of red, shimmered with light from the fireplace. With thick muffled heart throbs, drowning out all other sound, I asked him who was making dinner, because he hadn’t started to cook anything, but he did nothing but smile, kiss my cheek and pat me on the head like I was the dog.

So, does the scent of red serve it's purpose here? Does it work? Insert the word rose after red, for example, and see how much of a difference it makes to the meaning of the whole passage. Red no longer refers to an emotion, but a physical object, and I feel has much less impact. What do you think?

You can't smell a colour? Why? (+ new contest winner!)

Says who?

I had a sentence in my ms, that referred to a room being filled with the scent of red.

Ok. EVERYONE, who read my ms told me to take it out. 'You can't smell red, you can't smell colours ...' What ever happened to poetic licence?

If you COULD smell red, what do you imagine it would smell like?

So, here's my question for you ... Reading this idea out of context, what do you think red might be referring to? What is the first thing that comes to mind when you imagine what red might possibly smell like? Then, tomorrow I'll tell you what I was referring to.

And ... the new winner of my contest is ...

Mary McDonald

Congratulations!

Oh yeah, and what do you think of my mock book cover in my side bar?