It’s been a rough few days. I am very happy to report that my nearly 80-year-old father is now bionic. On Friday night, he was admitted to the hospital with a heart rate that was below 50bpm and was dipping into the 20s. Tuesday, they put in a pacemaker. He is coherent again and a much nicer color. But now he’s cranky that they aren’t going to let him go back to work immediately. I’m of the opinion that he needn’t ever go back, but that’s not the way he is made.
In any event, I’ve been a little lax on this blog. And the house really needs to be cleaned. And the reading list is sort of daunting. So there’s the usual backlog of work after anything to do with hospital stays. But at least I got the garden cleaned up in between pacemaker installation and today’s electrical storm. Lugh is throwing down with that lightning spear of his this week!
for 21 July 2021
You can respond in the comments below or make a Twitter post to the Wednesday Word. Either way, begin your response with #storm. Your response can be anything made from words. I love poetry, but anything can be poetic and you needn’t even be limited to poetics. An observation, a story, a thought. Might even be an image — however, I am not a visual person and I am utterly uninterested in GIFs. A picture is not worth a thousand words to my mind. In the spirit of word prompts, it’s best if you use the word; but I’m not even a stickler about that. Especially if you can convey the meaning without ever touching the word.
If responding in Twitter, you are limited to the forms of Twitter. I would prefer that there be no threads because that is difficult. So if you have something long, post it in the comments below. That said, please don’t go too long. Keep it under 2000 words. I’m not going to count, but I’m also not promising to read a novel. Unless it’s really good!
If I receive something particularly impressive, I’ll post it next week. If not, well, that’s fine too. I know you all are busy. But if you’ve read this far, then I’ve made you think about… storm.
the crash into silence the maelstrom of our making approaches whirling eddies of annihilation being vanishing into the void they will never return and what is the cost of the loss of a butterfly the broken wings that ne’er beget the winds what is the toll taken when the hive is forsaken how will we know our deprivation when we do not know our plenitude the storm approaches but we will not see until we feel the menacing silence
©Elizabeth Anker 2021