The meandering lavender is currently bathed in late afternoon sun, it twinkles with a celestial frittering of iridescent wings of furry bumble bees. Apparently it’s been hailing apricots this year for our neighbours (as previous post cherries too – humph). Hence I ‘haled’ some for us.
Much of West Country is currently colonised by the annual arrival of two distinct ‘grockle’ parties. The youngsters of the first mostly face planted into their new, hand-held games whilst sporting the newest, dayglow-white, super-market soccer strip aux season. Off set by the shrill, high-pitched, saccharine screams of demanding little princesses refusing to remove their acrylic gossamer ribbonage and bustle ripped frocks. The princesses spend their days cheerily whacking their gaming siblings with their ‘mine doesn’t work’ faulty wands. We learn never to underestimate the gravitational pull of a half-price, closing down, sale in a wand wealding shop.
The other group flaunting spotlessly polished Hunter wellies as they do ‘The Aga Trek’ as they…
Who’s your hero? I mean which author rocks your world and makes or has made a difference in your life.
From Shakespeare to King, Cormac McCarthy to J. K. Rowling who does IT for you?
Mine is Stephen King the Master Story Teller he does IT for me pun intended. He is prolific at a book-and-a-half per year over thirty-plus years and still finds time to read seventy books per year. The man knows how to tell a story that captures his readers and makes them late for work, dinner, and their dentist appointment. His best book for me was his memoir On Writing. But his fiction is what he’s known for, so I have to say The Stand was his best for me. Running a close second is The Dark Half and Alexis Machine as the ultimate anti-hero.
I think Cormac McCarthy is my hero for using minimal punctuation and getting a Pulitzer (I’m dashed off a cliff onto sharp rocks for missing a comma) and telling such a dark tale that not a pinprick of light is allowed in. It’s not gratuitous either the horror of it all. The characters situations go from bad to worse and then worse than that. If something good does happen like a guy falls in love, then he finds her on his stoop with a slit throat (as in All The Pretty Horses). And if the Brothers Grimm weren’t grim enough, Blood Meridiantakes horrific antagonists to a level outside your… your… imagination.
I love my heroes dark or not. I have a thousand more for everything from music to faith to food and parenting. I love my heroes (I did say that didn’t I?)
Great post and thoughts on walking through the impossible with HIM. Phillipe Petit became a personal hero of mine, not because I admire him for what he’d accomplished, but because for him it was cheating the impossible and act of creativity. He never saw what he did as stunts or daring, but creating something that never existed. Yes, my walk is with God and it dares to walk through the impossible.
“‘Why?’ That is the question people ask me most. Porquoi? Why? For what? Why do you walk on the wire? Why do you tempt fate? Why do you risk death? But, I don’t think of it this way. I never even say this word, death. La mort. Yes okay, I said it once, or maybe three times, just now… But watch, I *will* not say it again. Instead, I use the opposite word. Life. For me, to walk on the wire,thisis life. C’est la vie.” — Philippe Petit
There’s such a glorious tension in living life on the wire. It’s not meant for the faint of heart. Or mind. Or body. Stumbling upon Philippe Petit’s insane story about his passion for wire-walking really got my gears turning. Why would a man from Paris dream up a walk across the void between the New York Twin Towers? (What!?…
Last night I lay in my bed but I couldn’t get any sleep
I got up and checked the clock. It was nearly three
I stepped outside and I beheld a star-studded sky
Made me wonder at my significance and purpose in life
The road was quiet and peaceful. The winds were blowing soft
I wondered if this is what paradise is all about
Just then my paradise was disturbed by the sound of bullet shots
I think it came from my home but I wished it didn’t
I rushed to the scene and the horror enveloped
Father, he was dead
Mother, she had a bullet in her head
Brother, he was gone
Sister, she will never wake up now
I knelt at my mother’s bed and I held her hand
“Why did she have to leave me all alone?” I began to cry Just then an arm grabbed me…