All the world’s countries have decided that the Internet itself needs a government. Your country asks you to run for Prime Minister of the ‘Net — do you accept? If so, what will your platform be?Photographers, artists, poets: show us LEADER.
Find Another Fool!
I decline the nomination. I don’t need the job and I don’t want the responsibility.
For the first time since childhood, I have no regular commitments. No mandatory classes, zero working-for-the-man hours, no children to care for, no volunteer work. There are no houseguests expected, no coffee dates planned, not even a doctor’s appointment or a haircut on the calendar.
That’s the way I like it, for now. My time is my own. I do what I want.
Besides that, there are plenty of more qualified people. The world was out of it’s mind to nominate me.
Evening gatherings of tree swallows foreshadow their departure and autumn’s approach.
I saw falling leaves yesterday; little yellow memos saying Autumn’s coming
Haying season foreshadows fall.
When you’re unwell, do you allow others to take care of you, or do you prefer to soldier on alone? What does it take for you to ask for help? Photographers, artists, poets: show us HELP.
I Was Askin’ For It
I rarely have to ask for help. My dad, grandmother, and husband have taken good care of me without being asked, those rare times that I was unwell.
But last night I was asking.
I was desperately trying to ask for help, but I couldn’t move or make a sound. It was another episode of sleep paralysis.
My husband was still reading when I dozed into a light sleep. I felt the tingling sensation first, an electric wave, spreading through my body.
I imagine that’s how it feels to be beamed-up by Scotty; sort of a dissolving, effervescent feeling. I expect the Star-Trek transporter would be less frightening than sleep paralysis.
It’s not a dream, it’s a feeling. The tingling sensation is probably just the chemical coursing through my body, sent by my brain to keep me from physically acting out a dream. I don’t mind a little tinglyness from time to time, but the paralysis and the feels-like-dieing part scare the hell outta me.
On the inside I was struggling with all my might to move my leg, to touch my husband, to ask him for help. Wake me up, shake me, whatever it takes to unparalyze me.
But I couldn’t move a muscle. I was screaming on the inside, but he couldn’t hear me.
It lasted only seconds, maybe a minute. A long minute. Finally, I was able to utter a sound. I thought I said Help me! but what he heard was a “pathetic whimper”.
He said “Are you okay?”, and suddenly I was. I snapped right out of it. I always do.
It shouldn’t be so scary anymore. I know what’s happening. It’s just a little chemical mis-fire. But I can’t reassure myself with that, when it’s actually happening and I’m physically unable to ask for help.
Tillie Baldwin, born Anna Matilda Winger, emigrated to America from Norway at age 14. Impressed by cowgirls she saw at the making of a film, although she had never been on a horse before or seen a ranch, she decided to learn trick riding. She began her rodeo career in Wild West shows and vaudeville, riding in her first real rodeo in 1911 in Los Angeles where she won the bronc riding.
At the Pendleton Round-Up in 1912, Tillie Baldwin won both the trick riding and cowgirls’ bronc riding contests. She was the first woman to win a roman race, standing on the back of two galloping horses and the first to try bulldogging, wrestling full-grown steers to the ground. Tillie Baldwin was inducted into the National Cowgirl Hall of Fame in 2000, and the National Cowboy’s Hall of Fame in 2004. [Information from Hall of Fame listings.]
Thanks Sharon, for bringing her to mind.
Daily Prompt: Charitable
You’ve inherited $5 million, with instructions that you must give it all away — but you can choose any organizations you like to be the beneficiaries. Where does the money go?
I’d give one million dollars to the Freedom from Religion Foundation because I believe strongly in the work they do to keep religion out of government and public schools. http://ffrf.org/about
I’d donate a million to Northwest Pilot Project, which helps low income seniors find afforadable housing and assists them with transportation to appointments and other needs. http://www.nwpilotproject.org/
I’d split a million between Oregon Humane Society and local animal shelters. http://www.oregonhumane.org/
I’d spend a million dollars on musical instruments and music lessons for low-income children. http://www.seattlefoundation.org/npos/Pages/Music4Life.aspx
I’d give a million to Jimmy Carter to use in his fight to iradicate the guinea worm. http://www.cartercenter.org/health/guinea_worm/mini_site/index.html
Go back to a blog post you always thought could be better, or were unsatisfied with — now, fix it.
This is one of the prompts I never got around to.
There was a shoebox in Grandma’s hall closet that used to transport us back in time, to the days when my grandmother was a little girl living on the North Dakota prairie. In the shoebox were sepia tone photographs, some a hundred years old. We’d sit at the kitchen table carefully handling each precious photo, Grandma fondly recalling the names and I, memorizing them. It was important to me to know the names and stories. I longed to visit the grand, old farmhouse my great-grandfather built, to see the kitchen where little Alma, her mother and sisters cooked and baked and ironed. I wanted to play in the hayloft like Grandma had and ride to town in the horse drawn wagon with my great-grandfather.
The shoebox of photos meant as much to me as it did to my grandmother. When she died, the family shoebox became mine. I put the photos in a proper album with acid free paper and wrote down all the names, places and dates I could. I added to the album as new treasures came my way. A cousin sent letters written by my grandmother in the early 1900’s. She also very kindly sent a thick hank of my grandmother’s wavy brown hair, cut when all the ladies were getting The Bob. I have her diploma from nursing school and Dad’s baby shoes and wool cards from the farm. The collection outgrew a large drawer and now is barely contained in a large rubbermaid tub. There are six generations in that tub. I’m not sure anyone cares. My son and daughter have never shown any interest in the old photos and stories. They don’t know any of the names.
I hope one (or all) of my grand-daughters will care about the tub of old photos and mementos. I hope they don’t wind up unknown and unloved in a yard sale. I think I’m going to have a Dia de los Muertes celebration so the girls can get to know their ancestors. They love a party and they love to decorate, so they can help me arrange some old photos, flowers and candles in a beautiful display and I’ll tell them the names and stories.
Those are my people and I love them as if I had known them, outside the shoebox.