Spermologer, Curglaff, and Queerplungers


Greetings Friday,

How text acronyms annoy the shit out of me. People have gotten so lazy, that now their fingers get too exhausted to type full length words. It takes too much out of their super important texting time I guess. A rough world that our dear texters live in, that they can’t even muster up the energy to write real words.

Oh, for the time where people spoke in full, lovely sentences flowered with those words like jurble, pussyvan, wonder-wrench, spermologer, curglaff, queerplungers, and many other marvelous words that have become obsolete. It seems that our English words have a life span, and acronyms are in! Where did those days go, might I ask, world? Oh where, where, where?! (Shaking fists despairingly at the general area)

When I see a text filled with such garbage like, “BFF, OMG!, WTF, 2NITE, WTPA, and, my personal favorite, those long acronyms that I have no idea what the fuck mean such as, OMGWIGOWY, or YWU?LGTTMAH, etc., etc., etc. Makes me want to hurl when I see such language trash. It’s like people’s brains have dumbed down considerably when technology took over.

Real words are such a glorious thing, why would people want to screw with them. There is a whole world of them out there, and many that have gone off in obsolution to the world of unicorns and fairy dust- where I am sure they are more appreciated. I am going to give you a gift, and compose a list of 20 words that should re enter our English language:

And I Would Say Just 20 Words…

1. Groak- To silently watch someone while they are eating, hoping to be invited to join them
2. Hugger-mugger- To act in a secretive manner.
3. Crapulous- To feel ill because of excessive eating/drinking
4. Snowbroth- freshly melted snow
5. Jargogle- to confuse, bambozle
6. Apricity- the sun’s warmth on a cold winter’s day
7 Twattle- to gossip or talk idly
8. Elflock- tangled hair
9 Gorgonize- To have a paralyzing or mesmerizing effect on someone
10 Cockalorum- a little man with a high opinion of himself
11 Snoutfair- a good-looking person
12 Jollux- slang for a fat person
13 Curglaff- the shock a person feels when first plunging into cold water
14 Brabble- to argue loudly about something inconsequential
15 Lunting- walkiing while smoking a pipe
16 Beef-witted- stupid or imbecellic
17 Monsterful- wonderful and extraordinary
18 Callipygian- having beautifully shaped buttocks
19 Quockerwodger- a wooden puppet controlled by strings
20 Lethophobia- the fear of oblivion.

The Fifth Taste


Ever since I started the art of meditation, allowing my body to fully imbibe the energy of life; my soul to connect to an elevated ambiance of life’s force; and my mind to come to a state of complete peace and calm, my entire life, perspective, and outlook on the world has shifted considerably. It’s like I wiped the fog off of my mirror, and I see things more clearly. The things that used to frazzle me don’t anymore; the dam that blocked the flow of ideas is beginning to crumble bit by bit; and I find that I have less need for my usual mug of morning coffee from being on the high of the meditation buzz.

It is probably the best practice that I have let into my life. There is a certain clarity of mind I get, a sense that I can accomplish anything I want to in the whole world, that I can make it to the stars, and nothing can hold me down from getting everything that I dream. When my mind is filled to the brim with the smog that sometimes cloud over the pathway to my dreams, taking that 30 minutes to clear out the fog and cobwebs that threaten to permanently settle and make my brain lounge in a dormant lethargy, my life becomes easier.

I don’t know why I never made it a permanent practice in my life before; if I had, then I probably would have had less trouble finding the road signs for the right way to go. I definitely strayed the path a few- scratch that- more than a few times. But now, meditation has become my Northern Star when it comes to my voyage of life.

At present, my conditions don’t allow me to be choosy about where I have my “sanctum sanctorum” for meditation, but I have found a small niche tucked away to enjoy this 30 minutes of perfection just me and life. It’s on my small porch, and the view is not that great- just a couple of ugly houses- but it’s mine and mine alone, for me to just clear out the clutter.

Where I truly love to meditate is out in nature. A friend of mine, during the beginning stages of our acquaintance, made an intuitive comment about my personality that she had no idea about, but was spot on about. She told me that I was the type of writer whose writing was affected by my surroundings, and that I did my best out among the wild things- in other words, nature. That’s where I feel most at peace with the world, and one with my creativity. There’s something so alive about the open spaces, and my body seems to immediately absorb much of its aliveness.

My point to all of this is this: My life will never be the same again, thanks to meditation. Meditation has become my lifesaver.

A Wishing Tree for Lucy


” If a wishing tree there were,

I would wish for two dozen soldier men,

Wearing gold buttons, red coats, and shiny black boots,

To play at battle daylong,” said brother Ben.

“If a wishing tree there ever was,

Lovely dresses of every color, hue, and shine,

With matching ribbons and petticoats,

Would be my darling wish,” said sister Caroline.

“If I ever meet a wishing tree,

My deepest wish would be,

A giant house full of sweets and pastries

And pizza,” said chubby Billy.

“What would you wish for, dear?”

Those three asked she,

A freckled-faced, red-haired sprite,

Their sister, a girl named Lucy.

“Lemme think a mo,” she said

And think and thunk she did.

Though only a lass of five or six,

She owned a quick wit and sharp brain, she did.

It was suppertime, when her fork dropped,

Her eyes lit up, and a grin from ear to ear.

“A wishing tree, a wishing tree, a wishing tree!

One there is, on the hill yonder there!”

“Come with me family dear,” said Lucy

And I will tell you my wish.”

To the tree, the family ran,

Followed by Bertie their cat, and Lars their goldfish.

They all arrived at the tree,

Whose golden leaves looked like stars.

Lucy sat herself on the old bench,

and quaintly crossed her knees.

The family waited with breath baited,

Until Lucy gently spoke,

“Dear, good wishing tree, here you stand,

The most beautiful tree in all the land.

I have only these simple requests:

Let my family feel love forever,

Let us never be selfish or unkind,

Let our hearts be always filled with the wonder of the day,

And, let our souls be eternally merry and gay.”

I Have a Writing Gig!


Greetings Friday,

As a co writer for what I am dearly hoping will be a best seller, I find that I am hard pressed to find the time to keep up with my blog. I am presently writing this at 10:30, the yawns coming at every couple minutes, and my eyes slowly drooping over into desired sleep. But, I promised myself that this time, I would be more consistent with my posting, and not allow my blog to fizzle out like the many others previously. Thus I continue, though sleep threatens to snuggle me in its blissful embrace.

Fate has chosen to hand me a golden opportunity in the form of my first, real writing job. And not just any job, but a co writing job writing a book. Not just a measly book, but a many hundred page book. And not only one book, but three books. This is a writer’s dream come true- well one of many. Not many fresh-off-the-block writers can say that the first job they landed was a honest to goodness book writing gig.

So, sorry to cut this short, but I must go to sleep if I want the creative juices to marinate my brain so that fresh ideas and inspiration can sizzle and pop tomorrow morning. Adieu and bon nuit!

The Girl and Her Guitar

Olivia Quillio Interesting in 2011 by Ashley Dzingle

She sits on the street corner, thrumming the chords in a thoughtful manner. A young, pretty-faced girl of college age, her fingers move like a choreographed dance over the strings of her mandolin. She looks so at peace sitting beside the dirty brick wall wearing a colorful dress- it suits her quite nicely, I might add- her dark hair falling loose and free about her shoulders.

Her name is Daisy Whittaker. Born and raised in Austin, Texas, Daisy has just completed her second year of Architecture and Engineering at Princeton University. She moved to Princeton, New Jersey three years ago from Austin, where she had been living with her parents and three younger brothers. Her father, Thomas Whittaker, is also an architect, and he instilled a passion for it into his eldest daughter ever since she could remember. Her mother, Emma, is a photographer and painter, who owns a art gallery in the hip downtown of Austin.

Daisy was gifted with both sides of the gene pool a sharp, keen mind for architecture from her father, and creativity and artistic genius from her mother. From a young age, Daisy has been taking piano lessons, and can play quite well. But she found her true musical passion in the mandolin. Having the gift of a musical ear, Daisy picked up the skill to play the mandolin at the tender age of 11.

She loves music and, along with her studies of architecture, has pursued it- though, more as a hobby than a career. At 16, Daisy was hired to play background piano at many hip, ritzy restaurants. Not only that, but she pursued her love of the mandolin by performing her songs and compositions at many open mike nights.

When she graduated high school, Daisy decided to pursue a career in architecture, and moved to New Jersey. Along with the money she had saved from her pianist job over the years, and a tuition check from her parents, Daisy was able to pay for her first year of archaeological studies at Princeton. Taking an after school job near Princeton, Daisy continued in her musical pursuits at Dr. Lou’s Place- as well as taking a bartender job at Black Horse Tavern. This allows her to continue to pay off her college costs.

Sometimes, when her time is free from job and studies, Daisy heads over to Prospect Gardens- her favorite spot in all of New Jersey. Spending lovely hours sitting on one of the benches reading, studying, playing her mandolin, or sketching. Sometimes, Daisy will just take a stroll, wandering about with her own thoughts, or even have a picnic in the park with her good friends and her boyfriend Rick. Young and full of potential, Daisy Whittaker enjoys her busy life.

Memory Land


Though the years go sailing by,

From the rosiness of youth to wrinkled sagacity,

There is the single thing that reminds us of our purest self,

That grew within us; the truth that was, and that used to be.

Memories of the happy times.

When the world was our stage to command.

Hot cocoa, on a chilly Winter’s Eve.

Walking down Memory Land

Times of sadness and grief,

When we knew the child’s honor, and had no shame to cry.

Not allowing the world to break our strong will to be,

But letting the wind lift our wings to fly free, free.

Memories that last forever.

The very first spring that we walked among the flowers.

Our first breath of life

That diamondy beauty of a melting cube of ice.

Nature’s smell after the first rain.

The aroma of aliveness and raw sensuality.

Sitting round an oak log fire, under a stage of stars,

The feeling of true freedom; not the stifling sensation of being caged behind bars.

Yet, when out of childhood we step,

Into that age when we are supposed to be wise.

We lose the true wisdom that lies buried within us.

And we view life with world-selected, cynical eyes.

Childhood dreams buried deep down, in the core of our souls.

Our memories just fleeting symbols of who we once were.

Our truest self hidden behind a mask of false humanity,

That hopes to break out- if our will is strong enough- and again fly free.

We Didn’t All Start Out Brilliant

time concept, selective focus point, special toned photo f/x


Greetings Friday,

Might I just add for starters that I am a huge fan of my brother’s blog. http://andypeloquin.com/ Coming from a family of educators and writers, and we two and another of our sisters are three of the few who got the inborn writers gene. Daily, I read each blog post that he writes so geniously, and I am constantly amazed at his skill with the writing craft. He is definitely a writer whose opinion I value highly - amongst many others.

That’s just a tidbit I wanted to add, having just read an extremely genius post of his, but I don’t know if you really want to hear me harp on how much I admire my brother, so I will move on.

I have started so many blogs ( I’ve lost count) with the good intention of consistently posting posts full of brilliant wit and pithiness like so many other bloggers/writers around me. There are so many incredible writers out there that are genuinely brilliantly creative and geniuses with the written word. It is rather intimidating to a blossoming writer such as myself, but what the heck, I always love a good challenge.

With all the blogs I started and quit, there was a firm reason why they never met their true fruition and purpose. I was trying to be like everybody else out there, rather than be like me, a writer with my own ready-to-be-unlocked potential. When I tried to hard to force myself to be the perfect and witty clone of others, then I never felt satisfied with my writing. What I wanted to say, what was yearning to come out of me, was kept caged inside a metal box of stifling need to keep my untapped genius locked away, so that I might be welcomed by other writers.

Never feeling like I was good enough to keep up with other writers, like they would hate what I would have to say, I held it tight within me. Thus, the many blogs started for a limited time, and then ended with a discouraged sigh. Yet another failure in my journey to writerhood I thought. Then, after I had enough, that’s when the epiphany came to me, and my eyes were opened, as were the creative floodgates.

Why do I feel the desperate need to be exactly like someone else. I am not them, I am me. I have my own potential that is dying to come out for a breath of fresh air, potential that will take all the way to my dream, riding on the back of the stars. Who cares what other writers think? Yes some may hate my style, but others may not. If there is at least one person who believes in my writing like I do, than that will be enough for me. They all started in the same, uncertain place where I am right now, but then see where their fearlessness to write what they wanted got them. To the best seller list.

It all makes sense to me now, which is why this blog has a longevity of life that far surpasses that of my previous blogs. I am writing what comes from within. Sure, some of it may have its errors and faults, but hey, I am working, and practicing, and yet perfecting my art. Give me some time, and I just might surprise you yet. That’s the journey of a true writer. We didn’t all start out brilliant.