The Blogger Expounds on Writing, Words, Memories and the English Town of Shrewsbury

Cybill Shepherd around the time I "remember" us being in a relationship 

Writing is a release. It lets out things you’ve been keeping bottled up. It’s also a great means of self-discovery. When it’s really flowing you end up revealing things about yourself that you didn’t realize were there.

They come out. Some good. Some not. Some words are just that, but others have meaning behind them sometimes beyond what you can grasp. Our minds can be limited in what they perceive the first time you try to understand something. But they also can unlock worlds.

Brains are funny things. Great tricksters they are at times. Our memories are/can be faulty. It’s said that when we think about something in our past we remember our last memory of it and not the incident itself. I suppose that’s different if you hadn’t thought of something since it happened. It’s best not to put complete trust in our memories. For example maybe my memories of making love to Cybill Shepherd in the mid 1970s are faulty. Maybe it wasn’t a daily event for several months. Could it even be that it never happened? Similarly are my memories of  sexual encounters with Linda Ronstadt in 1973 based in reality? Or Stevie Nicks in 1972? Diane Keaton in 1979? Then there was Lola Falana in the late Sixties. And in the 1980s I had an on and off thing with Heather Locklear -- if memory serves.

I’ve digressed as I’m want to do. Writing is like that. Either you have a laser like focus or you meander and when the latter you can't trust where you might go. But as long as it’s somewhere it is — as they used to say — all good. I guess some people still say “all good.” Do people say “mad respect” anymore? Did they ever? I’ve wrote before about how I miss “funky” and “jive turkey.” Bring those back. “Right on” and “power to the people” left us too soon. Groovy was around just as long as it need to be. Same with “far out.” Both very much of their time. When I was kid things we liked were “boss” or “keen.” You know what’s always been around (not literally always, but since the late 1920s) is “cool.” And I mean in it’s present form. Although now we also use it for “are we cool?” Like is everything okay between us or do you now understand what I was saying.

I remember about ten years ago two of my colleagues were using “cute” for something that would be normally be called “wonderful” “really nice” or “terrific.” I didn’t approve of this and was grateful that it never caught on. But just the other day another colleague used it but was called out by another. Let’s keep “cute” where it belongs: describing puppies, toddlers and girl’s haircuts. Thanks.

The British have more interesting expressions than Americans. We say “thanks.” They do to, but they also say “cheers” and the informal, “ta.” Three ways as opposed to our one. I also like things being “a bit of a muddle.” In sports we say a team has won six in a row or six consecutive games. The Brits say those to, by they also say “six on the bounce,” “six on the trot” and “six on the spin.” Three extra ways of saying it. British sports announcers put their American counterparts to shame.

An American: “and we’re tied!” British: ‘the two sides are back on level terms.” American: “he’s hot right now!” British: “he’s very much the man in form.” 

Yesterday was St. Patrick’s Day. I’ve never understood the day’s popularity aside as for an excuse for amateur drinkers to get plastered. You’re expected to wear green. Why? I’m not Irish. Most people aren’t. Are we really honoring Irish culture? Don’t think so. March 16th was Saint Urho’s Day. I didn’t insist that anyone wear blue and white or drink blue beer. It’s a silly holiday — just like Saint Paddy’s day. 

I thought I was finished writing but then I thought: what will happen if I start another sentence? Let’s see where it leads and here we are with no place to go and plenty of time to do it. Empty space being filled by words strung together. Like the time I got on the wrong train as I was going from London to Wales and ended up in Shrewsbury. That’s where I realized my mistake and got off the train. For some reason I held my error against Shrewsbury and have always rooted against their football team. Looking it up as I just did I discover that it’s not a bad looking town (I only saw it at night). In the West Midlands. Has a rich history, is by a river and hosts a two-day flower show and the annual Shrewsbury Folk Festival. Then there’s this: “The Old Market Hall cinema opened in 2004 in the prominent Tudor market hall positioned in The Square. The independent cinema features daily screens of films from around the world along with a cafe and bar.” Sounds worth a visit. As for that footie team that I referenced, Shrewsbury Town have never played in the top flight of English football nor have they ever had a as many as 20,000 fans at any home match. Not a glorious history but they’ve pulled a few upsets over the years and had a few players who went on to stardom — elsewhere. 

So how’d I get to Shrewsbury? (Funny answer: by train.) It’s what happens when you have no direction. What’s the old saying? Something like: if you don’t know where you’re going you’ll end up somewhere else. 

That’s for sure.