Happy Birthday to Edna St. Vincent Millay

I’d quote one of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s poems here, but they’re all too depressing, albeit lyrical and worth your attention–if you like METAPHOR and even SIMILE.

That’s somebody who wouldn’t have let ’em pry the metaphors and similes out of her poems, for sure.

Let’s not quote any poems. I’m really kind of down now. I was already depressed, anyway.

Was thinking about doing ConDFW, which is happening within walking distance of our neighborhood, but it costs money and I’d have to put on shoes . . . and it’s really more about fandom, although they do have writing panels. I’d like to get a look at the GoH, Peter S. Beagle, but I’m just not in a fannish mood. Skipping the Grapevine DFW Writers’ Workshop convention this weekend as well, because it costs a lot more and is much farther away. I think my prospects are so poor as far as getting something published that it would really be a waste to go out there and get all pumped up again.

My mother wanted to go to today’s Hillary Clinton rally, but (1) she’s 78 this year and she wrenched her back and skinned her arms the other day by falling down, so she’s really too fragile to stand outside for an hour or two; (2) it was really cold this morning, and her lungs don’t work well in the wind and cold; and (3) the rally was in South Oak Cliff at 9 AM, for Heaven’s sake, and we’re nearly in Plano. That’s an hour or more away in the going-to-work traffic and in an unfamiliar area, far from home and her nebulizer machine. So I set up a browser window so that Mama could watch the rally on my computer, on WFAA.com, which she did . . . but as soon as it ended, we discovered that one of the motorcycle police officers who was escorting the motorcade across that cursed Houston St. Viaduct (yes, the same one that Kennedy’s motorcade was heading for way back when, IIRC) lost control and was thrown off his bike and into the concrete wall. He died at Methodist shortly after arrival. They didn’t tell Senator Clinton before the rally that this was happening–there were a boatload of people in her car, and she didn’t see what was going on, and they went ahead to the rally–but as soon as the rally ended she found out and went out to have a press conference, looking sad. And no wonder. What a terrible thing to have happen, and how awful for the family and the police force. Mama said, “Just cry, hon, and you’ll feel better.” Even our Pomeranian picked up on the sadness . . . nothing can look as hangdog as a little dog looking up at you from between its little paws.

I tell you what, Dallas is an unlucky place for Democratic presidents and candidates, IMHO, and I think it needs to be exorcised or something. In fact, everything’s too materialistic, too fast-paced, too frenetic here, and everyone’s focused on all the wrong things. I’m ready to move to a quiet little resort town . . . you know, like Carmel-by-the-sea. The only thing keeping me here is that I don’t have two nickels to rub together.

Got a nickel I can borrow?

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Author: shalanna

Shalanna: rhymes with "Madonna" and "I wanna," and is not a soundalike with "Hosanna" or "Sha-Na-Na." Aging hippie with long hair, husband, elderly mother, and yappy Pomeranian. I've been writing since I could hold a crayon. I started with fiction, which Mama said was "lying." “Don’t tell stories,” she would admonish, in Southern vernacular. “That's all in your imagination!” When grownups said this, they were not approving. So, shamed, I stopped telling stories for a few years--rather, I stopped letting anyone read them. I'm married to a fellow computer nerd who doesn't really like hearing about writing, but who reads sf/fantasy and understands the creative drive. I'm actually a nonconformist/hippie still wearing bluejeans and drop earrings and the Alice-in-Wonderland hair with headbands and sandals. Favorite flavor is chocolate/orange, favorite color is either Dreamsicle orange (cantaloupe) or bubble-gum pink, favorite musical is either Bye Bye Birdie, Rocky Horror, or The Producers . . . wait, I also love The Music Man. Is this getting way too specific and irrelevant yet? Obvious why I don't sell a ton of flash fiction, isn't it? To define oneself, I always say, it is good to make a list. How about a booklist? Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird Frank and Ernestine Gilbreth, Cheaper by the Dozen C.S.Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (all the Narnia books) J.R.R.Tolkien,The Hobbit/LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy Gail Godwin, The Odd Woman F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby J. D. Salinger, Catcher in the Rye (before dismissing it, actually read it) George Orwell, 1984 Kurt Vonnegut, Cat's Cradle Donna Tartt, The Secret History Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn James Allen, As A Man Thinketh Mark Winegardner, Elvis Presley Boulevard James Thurber, My Life and Hard Times The Wizard of Oz, L. Frank Baum Winnie-the-Pooh/House at Pooh Corner, A. A. Milne Peter Pan, J. M. Barrie The KJV and NIV Bible (each translation has its glories)

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