On being trolled.

We all come across some strange people on the internet. They may be so private that you wonder why they venture into the virtual world. Others have mental health issues, and may be aware of them or may be not.

I encountered a person on twitter. Well my account did. At the time I wasn’t using my twitter account but it seems someone else was. Anyway, the person encountered seems to exhibit narcissism and paranoia. As I cannot remove this from my Google profile I may as well blog it. I have laughed about this. His machinations are rather fantastic. I’m glad his account was eventually suspended. When my laptop crashed, and it had to be replaced, I started to use twitter again. I had notification that something odd was going on and I read my tweet history. Someone had had fun, but my whole life was terrorised as the troll claimed to have phoned my daughter’s school. But enough from me.

Two-months+ of continued harassment (with images, tweets …


Five Leads for Self-Help with

Take control of finding the information you need to add features and solve problems with your blog.

Source: Five Leads for Self-Help with


Iggy Pop remembers lifelong friend David Bowie: “He resurrected me”

Members of Sonic Youth, Arcade Fire’s Win Butler, Chris Cornell also pen tributes.

Source: Iggy Pop remembers lifelong friend David Bowie: “He resurrected me”


Competition 2016

Source: Competition 2016


Winter window—a poem with art

Meta/ Phor(e) /Play

Winter window

Outside the opportune window one pink
head survives above geranium leaves
blowing in the winter wind, covered with
cold rain dropped from dimmed desire. The basil
released its hope in the face of the war—
forces of December and January—
mere stalks rising above the window box,
darkly silhouetted, backlit against
blind clouds.

— — — ——And drought dropped across the shoulders
of Judea, Samaria’s back—the
Occupied West Bank. It fell off the head
of the Galilee, the Golan Heights’ arms—
all collapsing to dust beneath war’s weight.
The Negev desires its few drops, water,
not blood.

— — — ——This cold rain has its soft purpose,
offers some possibilities—for all
thirst, for all dry mouths—for soothing rain fall
to redeem the seeds that will grow again, in
fresh dreams of seven promising species,
land with milk and honey flowing between
strangers and cousins who light bonfires for
warmth, not war—a light unto all nations.

————Michael Dickel

— — — ——

Water-color like image of a pink flower, green leaves, leafless tree trunks in grays in the background Winter Window

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University of South Dakota Poem

Source: University of South Dakota Poem


David Bowie’s final photographs

The music icon posed for his longtime photographer prior to his death.

Source: David Bowie’s final photographs


In the Enchanted Tower by Edith Nesbit

Source: In the Enchanted Tower by Edith Nesbit


Writers on David Bowie, the Power of Music, and Finding the Courage to Be Themselves

Writers respond to the death of David Bowie and share personal stories about how his music empowered and encouraged them to be different, to take risks, and to come into their own.

Source: Writers on David Bowie, the Power of Music, and Finding the Courage to Be Themselves


David Bowie

Star Man took the train
to be with Major Tom
no longer waiting.
In the sky. The stars
look very different
Chrissie Morris Brady
Post Uncategorized

Bowie Tribute


January 11, 2016



After dark, stars glisten like ice, and the distance they span

Hides something elemental. Not God, exactly. More like

Some thin-hipped glittering Bowie-being—a Starman

Or cosmic ace hovering, swaying, aching to make us see.

And what would we do, you and I, if we could know for sure


That someone was there squinting through the dust,

Saying nothing is lost, that everything lives on waiting only

To be wanted back badly enough? Would you go then,

Even for a few nights, into that other life where you

And that first she loved, blind to the future once, and happy?


Would I put on my coat and return to the kitchen where my

Mother and father sit waiting, dinner keeping warm on the stove?

Bowie will never die. Nothing will come for him in his sleep

Or charging through his veins. And he’ll never grow old,

Just like the woman you lost, who will always be dark-haired


And flush-faced, running toward an electronic screen

That clocks the minutes, the miles left to go. Just like the life

In which I’m forever a child looking out my window at the night sky

Thinking one day I’ll touch the world with bare hands

Even if it burns.




He leaves no tracks. Slips past, quick as a cat. That’s Bowie

For you: the Pope of Pop, coy as Christ. Like a play

Within a play, he’s trademarked twice. The hours


Plink past like water from a window A/C. We sweat it out,

Teach ourselves to wait. Silently, lazily, collapse happens.

But not for Bowie. He cocks his head, grins that wicked grin.


Time never stops, but does it end? And how many lives

Before take-off, before we find ourselves

Beyond ourselves, all glam-glow, all twinkle and gold?


The future isn’t what it used to be. Even Bowie thirsts

For something good and cold. Jets blink across the sky

Like migratory souls.




Bowie is among us. Right here

In New York City. In a baseball cap

And expensive jeans. Ducking into

A deli. Flashing all those teeth

At the doorman on his way back up.

Or he’s hailing a taxi on Lafayette

As the sky clouds over at dusk.

He’s in no rush. Doesn’t feel

The way you’d think he feels.

Doesn’t strut or gloat. Tells jokes.


I’ve lived here all these years

And never seen him. Like not knowing

A comet from a shooting star.

But I’ll bet he burns bright,

Dragging a tail of white-hot matter

The way some of us track tissue

Back from the toilet stall. He’s got

The whole world under his foot,

And we are small alongside,

Though there are occasions


When a man his size can meet

Your eyes for just a blip of time

And send a thought like SHINE


Straight to your mind. Bowie,

I want to believe you. Want to feel

Your will like the wind before rain.

The kind everything simply obeys,

Swept up in that hypnotic dance

As if something with the power to do so

Had looked its way and said:

Go ahead.


In Space, Spaced Out

Bones lose density without gravity

This is a serious matter, not to be taken lightly

Blood fails to reach the brain

We must bear this in mind

Space cannot be navigated by the light headed

The semi conscious, on a journey with a faint map

Think on this seriously, it is not a joke

Spaceships lost in the heavens is a hellish consequence

Sentient beings drifting half conscious is senseless

Concentrate your thoughts so that we do not scatter

Debris in the galaxies, cleverly made

And stupidly lost.