Magical man-hammer

Magical man-hammer is not mine; I borrowed it from a guy called Chuck Wendig (Terribleminds) because it's clever and catchy and I'm not feeling all that clever and catchy today. Here is Chuck's 'magical man-hammer' comment:

"... this isn’t about playing the hero — we aren’t going to fix it with our magical man-hammers, and women are not our Death Star Princesses to rescue. But we can signal boost. We can support." 

You can find the discussion in full here Why men should speak out about sexism misogyny and rape culture

Please check out Chuck if you want to know, without being TOLD sledgehammer-style, magical or otherwise, why (more) men need to enter the feminist fray. The comments are also well worth checking out. Lucky Chuck seems to have some of the most gender-savvy readers and followers of any blog site I've come across.  He's also a damn good writer.

Cheers Chuck; you are my man-hammer of the moment.

Beach to myself

The beach to myself today,
not even a camera



Deep jade green sea
you can't believe
is as cold as winter

Sky as grey as sky
or anything
gets

Island guard stretched out darkly,
as ominous as any monster

Rainbow, all the colour and brightness
the sea and sand lack

My pale brown slacks,
pelted with rude wet drops
A mottled effect

The brolly holds
The sun unfolds

The beach to myself no longer

Housekeeping IX (again): Replenishing

This is my second post on what I have called 'replenishing'. Re-filling expired consumables, dealing with packaging, etc, here is the previous post on this most scintillating of subjects:  Housekeeping VIII: Replenishing

My second replenishing post is mostly images: the fruit tray clearly needs replenishing and washing. De-staining, you might say. Fruit rots, just like everything else. If I don't do it, it probably won't get done, though M is a fabulous help.

The famous 'capsibum' was eaten last night in this:  

Put to good use, you might say (not if you happen to be vegetarian).

More replenishing and make-do failed replenishing 

Remember to retrieve the scooper before you pour the replacement powder in, if you buy washing powder in bulk like we do.  I don't need the playing kids reminding me of the purpose of washing, like I need reminding.

Remember to retrieve the scooper before replenishing powder,
otherwise it's like a scene from Witness. 

Best I could do today

Is it an egg...

Can anyone guess what this is?  A white button on a black coat? An almost full moon? Neither. It is, in fact, nothing more, and nothing less than the skylight dome in our laundry on a dark stormy day, hogging all the light rather than distributing it into the room like it's supposed to.  I don't mind so much because it looks this incredible, like an egg; or an eye.

Sinner's sleep

Another nightmare has triggered a story. Too vivid to sleep for all eternity it must, rather, be born into life: the life of a story, no less.



Does that sound melodramatic?

Probably.

The storm blew the balcony door open in our room last night and spawned a nightmare. The balcony door doesn't close properly without a fifty gun salute slam. At certain times of the year, that is, when the wood swells. Most nights it's not fully closed but in the coldest weather it must be. Last night was freeeeezing, but the door hadn't been closed properly. When it flung wide open early this morning the cold was instantly arctic, almost as shocking as the time we were woken by a cat fight in my wardrobe.

The nightmare came after I finally went back to sleep for about half an hour before I had to get up. Not ideal conditions for peaceful sleep. On top of which, the balcony door is kind of my fault (long - longer - story), so the nightmare involved blame. That will be my story's theme: sinners who get no peace at night. I have my title.

C1

  

Twenty today
Hip hop hooray!

And me a mother that long too

Our dates match up,
Our blood like glue

Your day of birth
My delivery

Twenty today
Hip hop hooray!

Mother

I cannot write you



A muse -
you are not

Cat, car, and croquet lover -
you are

Mother,
I cannot write you

And yet...