Words Down Pat

Cussing creativity

When I was growing up, we didn’t cuss in our house. When my dad slipped up and said the sh-word, or Mom, lady that she was, said “hell” or “damn,” it was a cause for gasps all around. So, in my linguistic naiveté, I used to use words I’d heard that I thought sounded like cussing.

Let me clarify the difference between cussing and cursing. Cussing is using bad words, while cursing took it to another level. Cursing was calling down God’s
wrath upon someone, wishing evil to befall them. Cursing was strictly off limits, therefore. And you didn’t even have to use cuss words to do it. The curse could sound something like this, said to a nosey little brother: “If you ever read my diary, I hope your nose turns blue and falls off.”

One of my favorite existing words was Phenobarbital. Another was paregoric. Since my dad was a pharmacist—we call ‘em “druggists” back then—I suppose it was only fitting that the worse sounding words in my vocabulary were medicines. Diarrhea sounds as bad as the actual condition. When really angry, I’d draw out the third syllable in a growl. It sounded pretty much like cussing to me.

Somehow fiddlesticks or shucks didn’t sound quite ominous enough; darn was a mite better. I’d really step up to the big time if I used darnit or dagnammit. When I ran out of cuss-like words, I started to make them up, or combine words to make an original cuss word that no one knew was actually cussing.

Some of the ones I coined had harsh consonant sounds, sometimes with a real word sandwiched in between two nonsense syllables, the longer the better. Gara-drat-tation. Pan-drak-ton. Dang-crip-ity. Sounded pretty bad at the time, but perhaps some lexicographer will discover that my youthful cussing creativity was actually genius and include them in a Cussing Dictionary of English Speaking People. It could happen!

Blogging the Blog

Hi there.  I know, I know, it’s been a while since I posted anything.  But I attended the Jubilee Writers’ Conference at the Terrebonne Parish Library on Saturday, and one of the sessions was on blogging.  Sooo, I decided that I should do this more regularly.

Here I am, then, staring at an almost-blank little box that cries out to me for a line or two of little black letters to make it less blank.

In the news this week is the story of some bloggers who blog themselves to death.  Fatal and near fatal heart attacks have been noted from around the country.  Bloggers who spend practically every waking moment keeping up with their blogs are endangering their health, so the article claims.

Round-the-clock Internet activities of any type could be life-threatening, though.  What about the kid who stays up all hours of the night to play video games?  Or the myspace or facebook addict who checks his/her page 15 or 20 times a day to see if there are any new messages?  And then there are those who post their profiles on dating sites and are constantly vigilant for new matches.

Never fear, friends; that’s not me.  Extreme blogging is not a sport I will succumb to any time in the near future.  Extreme anything is, well, too extreme for me.  I prefer moderation or at least management of my time.

Hmm, I haven’t played Peggle Master since last night.

wordsdownpat’s my name, writing’s my game.  (Okay, I know it’s corny, but it’s the best I can do at this point.)
Pat

Fear?

I

fear

nothing

walking alone

on a deserted street

heels click on the pavement

behind me

not my own

spiders in the woodpile

disturbed by activity

scurry in fright

or stand in defiance

their defenses apparent

shadows on the wall

coat draped on a chair

sinister intruder within

tree branches in the wind

lurking voyeur without

broken railing on a bridge

nothing beneath me

that supports

the idea of crossing

car spread-eagled in air

empty house

anticipating an arrival

that never comes

silence spreading

its muffled roar

okay

so I lied

© 10/17/99  Pat Hornsby Crochet

Cliche’ Chatter #1

Cliche # 1: Putting someone in their place.

This one really gets to me for several reasons. The basic thing is that it’s bad grammar. It should read “putting someone in his or her place.” But that would ruin the flow of it, wouldn’t it?

Getting back to the saying itself, you must assume certain things before you can put someone in their (shudder) place. Does that person really have a place? There are homeless people on the streets everywhere, and others who only rent their homes. So doesn’t that make them immune to anyone’s putting them in their place, since they don’t have a place? Furthermore, we have to assume also that the person who is doing the putting actually knows where that person’s place is. Oh, I realize that the “place” is probably not a physical place, but who says it isn’t? Mightn’t that be the origin of the saying?

It could be that way back when (mercy, another cliché) people knew where everyone lived and putting people in their place meant escorting them home safely after a jousting event or an evening sitting out on the veranda watching a meteor shower. It could be a kinder, gentler act than the phrase has come to mean.

We could also look at it from the point of view of the puttee, rather than the putter. I know I would be much more comfortable if someone put me in my own place. That way, I wouldn’t have to pretend to be someone I’m not. In relation to the physical idea of “place,” I would be even happier if someone put me there, in my place. And paid the rent too while they’re at it.

I would imagine that this discussion of the cliché has somewhat confused you. Don’t worry; it confuses me too, especially when I have no clue where my place is.

Portrait of a Lady

PORTRAIT OF A LADY

iceberg met Titanic
the day she was born
brightly-colored wings of steel
adorn no fragile butterfly
*
raised in the deep South
the essence of a lady
unfaded by years
of summer sun
*
eyes brown and warm
as flowing bayou water
caressing the banks
moving inexorably on
*
delicate hands
blue-veined on white
gentle fingers
flit to adjust silver widow’s peak
*
waltzing
with Dad in perfect synch
skirt billowing
whirling wings
*
velvet covered voice
with inflexible core
quick to comfort
quicker still to laugh
*
tragic metamorphosis
butterfly into cocoon
*
Dozing off
mouth agape
unladylike snore
droning
*
puzzling chores
frying eggs
toasting bread
brushing hair
no longer automatic
*
rambling speech
vague protestations
wasting body
drooping posture
shuffling gait
vacant stare
*
agonizing denouement
unspinning the life
unraveling the tapestry
so richly colored
*
cruel fate
to steal the mind
and leave the soul

*** END ***

(c) 9/3/99 Pat Hornsby Crochet

The Rhyming Man

he lays down tracks
kicking up dust
like hot rods
dragging on a country road

his guitar twanging
gravelly voice caresses
the melody,
bending the rhyme
to fit the time

spinnin’ dreams
tappin’ rhythms
on the back porch of the world
the rhymin’ man sits rockin’

(c) 10/12/99 Pat Hornsby Crochet

Ten Things I Learned from My Cat

1. If you stare at someone long enough, he will eventually notice you.

2. If you don’t want to wait for someone to notice you, brush up against his leg.

3. If brushing up against his leg doesn’t work, bite his ankle.

4. Howling about your problems gets you noticed, but sometimes it’s with a shoe.

5. Sleep all day and play all night.

6. Practice being aloof; you never know when you might need it.

7. Shedding hair is better than hacking it up.

8. If you sound bad enough when you’re hacking, no one minds that you cough up a hairball.

9. Bury your poop; no one else wants to see it.

10. Playing with dead animals is not an acceptable pastime.

In the beginning…

Not as earth shaking as Genesis, but new beginnings are exciting, and this, my initial post, is definitely that. It’s the starting point of my _serious_ writing career, with all the pitfalls and promontories that come with it. Of course, I’m hoping there will be more hills than valleys, but I’m willing to adventure out nevertheless.

A writing career is a goal, a hope, a fulfillment, and a necessity, all at once. That it is goal and hope is obvious, but the fulfillment and necessity might be more obscure. A career in writing will signal that I am ready (or almost ready) to move on from my teaching career and embrace another. The necessity is that for as long as I can remember, I have been compelled to write–in prose, poetry, and drama. Although I’ve written and been published, I feel I’ve arrived at a place that is both an ending and a beginning.

Thanks to youngest son Brad, computer geek extraordinaire, for setting this site up for me. And future thanks to oldest son and graphic designer Glenn Jr., who I’m sure will tweak the website until one or both of us is satisfied–like that’s going to happen any time soon… Perhaps I should mention my middle son Lee, who didn’t do anything directly to enable this site, unless you count giving me the inspiration to follow my passion in theatre and writing as he did his in music.

Attack with passion, follow through with hard work, and hope for the best: a philosophy that has served me well in the classroom and on the stage. I am confident it will continue to function as I begin, again.