soc: a bamble on a bus

bambling on bus for Stream of Consciousness Saturday #SOCS

There’s lines in a Joni Mitchell song “My idiomatic brain/I was insane/because I had some crazy ideas/like not to ride those double decker buses/ because they had no driver on the top . . . Cheech and Chong break in: “what no driver on the top. . .  Man that chick is twisted.”

Horse pulled double-deckers where call omnibuses. A word I love – and I suppose omnibus in the political came from so many people packed into one space; some may items packed into one piece of legislation.

If you add an s bus, becomes buss which is a kiss, take it away the s and a t and you’ve got something to be bussed, and you can be a bus boy taking the letters away.

Then there was the back of the bus; started a whole civil rights movement, and African-American men weren’t “hey boy” any more.

Put it in front – words like business happen. Mankind was your busy-ness from A Christmas Carol – love how it’s pronounced.

All this bus talk is getting me no where closer to the public transit I need to take today – no a commuter train, not a bus.




This week, Linda asks us to accumulate for stream of consciousness  Saturday.

So I made an alphabeteria of things real or imagined; tangible or intangible I may or may not have accumulated.

accumulator’s alphabeteria

I’ve accumulated

agates, agonies and angsts

ball caps, bags, bs

cares, caresses, crap

demons, darkness, detritus

evil, envy,  ennui

fears, failures, faux pas

giraffes, giants, greed

hiccups, hideouts, hang-ups

illness, ill-at-easeness, inanity

jump ropes, jealousies, jewelry

kazoos, k-rations, kangaroos

lovers, loss, loneliness

mantras, manias, milkshakes

nonsensical, nostrums, neurasthenia

prairie dogs, pain, promises

obsidian, oddities, obsessions

quirks, quartz, queries

regrets, rationales, ratios

sagas, sorrows, stuffies

tomorrows, torment, timidities

u-turns, unicycles, unconsciousness

verities, virtues, vices

wrongs, windows, whimsies

x-rated responses to all the above

years, yawns, yarns

zebras, zeitgeists, zeros


SoCS: “you’re nuts about your yore”

waterhouse a female study


I’ve had my head in days of my days of yore later – not my  specific, personal yore, but the yore I create that’s a pastiche; a mash-up; how Hollywood got it wrong. After years of your career being a historian, and ripping books, tv and movies apart for historical inaccuracies, you think I’d be researching, reading other books in the genre, and all that. I watch stuff on the military channel about siege engines and castle construction and programs of the plague. Swear I’ll read all 3 Ken Follett books on building the cathedral, close my eyes to remember the illuminated manuscripts I’ve seen. Remember watching Brother Cadfael on CBC;  reading hundreds of times  the Once and Future King; devouring Disney’s The Sword and the Stone; and memorizing every episode of Jane and the Dragon.

And now, in my head mind you, I’ve just completed book 3, which means I’ve already forgotten the name of a main character’s dead wife, have plot twists because I’ve forgotten where the story has been.

“Your days of yore are nuts. You’re nuts” my semi-conscious brain says. “Write the damn thing down!” But for so long, stories like that – sagas with twists, turns, and such were in my head only. Stories to fall asleep to. Stories to keep me company. Stories that didn’t need to be real, factual, or even make sense.

When your yore stories are in your head, you can plagiarize, ahem, borrow elements without worrying about law suits or hoots of derision (remember I was an academic). Writing them down, you’re committing yourself to rationality, plots that make sense, characters who have depth (inside you know them so well) and dialogue that isn’t stilted.

Once, I had a wonderous story I studiously worked on. A bit here, a bit there. Pre-everyone had a computer and a laptop. So, on computer, long hand, typewriter. Wasn’t finished, but it might have been. But during a sudden, unexpected move, I lost the manuscript. And the entire idea. Gone. I remember spending hours writing, yet I can’t even see a word of it. I see myself writing, but not what I wrote.

Perhaps that’s why, when writing this and a plot for Book 4 jumped into my head, I didn’t write it down.

My conscious brain just kicked my semi-conscious brain saying “You’re nuts about your yore!”

Ye Olde Streame of Consciousness Saturdaye on your/you’re/yore

© adh a darkened house

SoCS[unday] confessions of an ex murder

For LindGHill’s SoCS, my interpretation (with music) of the “word” of the weekend: ex

Confessions of an ex murderer. If you are looking for a string of ex-boyfriends bodies buried from one end route 66 or the Trans Canada Highway of the other, you’ll be disappointed.  So too if you thought a typo and it was confessions of an axe murderer.

No, there are words spelt with an es or an ec rather ex which makes me an ex murderer when there are enough red wavy lines to be a crime scene on Showcase. So, I can’t write that I go into excentric  extacsy when I drink an expresso  but I can exstatically listen to an ‘80s band XTC and “Living Through Another Cuba.” Note the year 1998. Note the years 2015/2016.

 Living through another Cuba
it’s 1961 again and we are piggy in the middle
while war is polishing his drum and peace plays second fiddle
Russia and America are at each other’s throats
but don’t you cry
just on your knees and pray, and while you’re
down there, kiss your arse goodbye
We’re the bulldog on the fence
while others play their tennis overhead
it’s hardly love all and somebody might
wind up red or dead
pour some oil on the water quick
it doesn’t really matter where from
he love me, he loves me not
he’s pulling fins from an atom bomb
This phenomenon happens every 20 years or so
if they’re not careful your watch won’t be the
only thing with a radioactive glow
I’ll stick my fingers in my ears
and hope they make it up before too late
if we get through this lot alright
they’re due for replay, 1998

SoCS: What’s on second


Sleep seems secondary; it so often escapes me. The second hand ticks by, set to the atomic clock in Colorado.

Up and down; back to bed for the second time. Second trip to the bathroom. Second glass of water will mean third trip to the bathroom.

Second time firing up lap-top to work on posts. Second time clicked publish on two short pieces.

Stuck, for second time, on moving a story forward based on a Microfiction Challenge. Travelers may never get home.

Wait, a second. I can post without guilt (or pretending I’m on Australian time) because it’s Saturday, but not the second Saturday in July.


Written for the first, not second, time for LindaGHill’s SoCS: second


“Who’s on first, What’s on second, and I Don’t Know is on third.” Abbott & Costello

SoCS: if/then: Publishers’ Clearing House Sweepstakes

Publishers Clearing House

If I were neater, I’d win the Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes for sure. I decided that this afternoon, licking and sticking, peeling and placing all the stickers to win $5,000 a week for life. I’m messy as hell. I rip the stickers, or place them off centre. There was a bingo-type card; none of my bingo balls covered the numbers straight up and down. I, shaky with anticipation, leave creases and air bubbles in the tape I use seal the envelope. My return mail sticker is as straight as a line I can draw with a ruler which I can’t (not much better if I use a T-square).

If I were neater, then I would be the one in the TV ads with the giant cheque and balloons. Dancing on my lawn (God I hope not with the dancing!) Rich without many relatives. Rich enough to buy a house. Rich enough to go on vacation. Rich enough to  . . . . actually buy something through Publishers’ Clearing House.  If I were less messy putting together my Publishers’ Clearing House package, I’d be a winner then.

This stream of consciousness is for LindaGHill, SoCS: if/then. Linda, take a vacation – we can take care of ourselves for a while. Least I think we can.