The Wasphouse

We used to have GOOD toys ...

Wed, 06 May 2009 04:14:36 +0100

I’m baaaaaack!

Fri, 17 Apr 2009 21:27:50 +0100

Tho this is an offshoot of MuSsBloG,
a spin-off of sorts,
It's always been my favorite -
like Summer and wearing shorts.

It's a hidden part of the MuSsBloG crap
a place you forget about on your websurfing "MaP"
but a place I got to verbally stomp and clap
and make noise and rant
except for those days when I'm tired
and don't wanna ... or I can't.

But a Friday night shouldn't be TOO hard
to muster a few phrases plus or minus a word
and a rather easy time for the bard
to say what he wants and not be heard.

Thanks for ... what memories?

Wed, 05 Sep 2007 03:39:17 +0100

This collection has not gotten bigger, it seems, for a while, or at least not on this page. The lack of 'memories' in this Wasphouse collection is, trust me, more due to distraction than age.

See, you have to have 'free space' In your head . . . like on a computer's hard drive. and When your hard drive is full your creativity is dull and the output levels take a dive.

But fear not, the memories and stuff are still there, just being stifled by bullcrap and stale hot dead air. Some day when things are a bit more sssslow and words more easily FFFFlow it'll be so too much easier to come up with more verbal fare.

Your Modern Scotland

Sun, 05 Aug 2007 12:52:35 +0100

Update -- O'dear, o'dear It does do appear That in Scotland, see, Not to you and me The word that is "blog" means (to those in a "fog") something like "essay" or maybe report ... So if you plan to submit to the "Sunday Herald" from anywhere other than the "Home of MacLeod," Abort. Abort.

When I was a young lad of not much height,
I didn't travel but had space to run around.
Though I never went to Scotland, I dreamt at night
of kissing that stone with my head upside down.
I grew up with and learned from Scott, my big brother,
that life is all one big "Scottland," a place
full of whatever you want with none of the other,
no borders and all open space.

For me, Scottland means one simple thing.
It means what Shakespeare had said.
It means that all the whole world's a stage where we sing
until we quit or we're dead.

So, now why would an American,
a full-blooded Yank,
write a blog about Scotland, you ask?
It's because of The Sunday Herald's
offer: a nice room,
a stiff drink,
and a class.

"That's where you come in," they said to me
and as they laid out the rules for their game,
and as I read their words from a couch in Italy
I thought "Oh they're SO calling my name."

They said "So! You think you can blog?"
I thought "Sure I can! But - uhhm ... no, wait ...
... do I qualify for the drink, the class and the nap?
I think so but it doesn't so state!"

You see, when I realized this "Herald" was in Scotland,
and not in the Beantown I've never seen
I thought "How could I know of Scotland's arts
or of Scotland's 'creative scene?'

But, that's when I remembered what I learned in Scottland:
it's all the same no matter what country you're in.
So blogs on the Internet can be posted to and from anywhere,
and it doesn't matter that I'm American.

It doesn't matter that I've never been to a place
that I'd love to, but never, have seen.
It doesn't matter that there's 1,343 miles
between Naples and Aberdeen.

What matters is that, no matter what anyone says,
not even that 'Braveheart' guy, Mel,
Scotland's a beautiful place to see and behold
and naysayers can all go to ...
Google.Com and look at Scotland themselves.

To the Editors of 'The Sunday Herald' I say:
I hope you enjoyed this piece!
I'd love to blog a sequel but I'd need to stay
in the modern land you call 'Scotland'
with no borders and only 1 not two "t's."

-- JM

This Was To Be A Book ...

Tue, 24 Jul 2007 00:23:11 +0100

This was to be a book, a collection of pieces about my childhood for my kids, nephews and nieces. But by the time I figure out how that's done and get it into print I would forget everything I was thinking of and it would all be a faded squint. So I decided to put all that stuff here if I can remember and find what I've got And it's all called "The Wasphouse," In honor of my big brother Scott. "Scott? What? What's he got to do with a wasp?" Well, I remember and may be the only one to remember the shed behind the house with waspnests all over the ceiling, 1000 more than 1. It wasn't really a playhouse and now it's no longer there. A dilapidated old rickety woodhouse full of tools, oats for the horse and stale air. There were parts of old bikes and what must have been gardening and farming tools, and things the likes of which I'd never seen. I can't remember all the stuff I saw in that place or which things were really there. But I do remember the feeling of the smile on my face and that all of it, even the scary waspnest ceiling, was cool! I didn't care! Scott and my sister, Anne, I recall, though I remember he more than her, Dared me to eat the horse's oats, "Eat 'em all!" They were actually, as I still remember, pretty good like stale cereal and sweet! For the life of me, I couldn't figure why this was a 'dare' and not a treat!! And then there was the electrified fencing or gear that was there for that stuff. I was dared, once again, "Hold this! Touch that!" I decided to call his bluff!! I grabbed a hold, I don't remember a shock. But I remember being scared like hell when I saw a spark connecting my legs just below my - knees. That made me afraid and I ran. I didn't tell. Yes, so I blame it all on my big brother this weird imagination of mine. O'what would have happened if I'd told Father & Mother and he'd gotten in trouble and then towed the line instead of doing what he did best ... ... playing in The Wasphouse beneath all those scary nests. - JM