Friday, April 13, 2012


PS (Just not for penguins.)

Introspection? It's a b9tch. Honestly. How do you take a photo of the landscape inside your head?  All you've got is some kind of  strange glow or maybe a graph.  How do I show you the color of cerulean in my head?  Even the Pantone scale could be different for you than it is to me.

How do I show you the color of love?   Is it green or is it read like "cheeries"? 

What color is "sunsilly" anyway?

I've waited so long to take this trip.  Then you didn't come with me so I had to go alone.  It's just been so long and I've come so far. I'm too far. Can't even hear you in my head anymore.  What if I've gone so far that the "gravity" of you has no pull any more. What if I'm free?  Is this what I want? To be so far out there that you are only a dim star. A dim memory?  If I go back will you pull me back in or have I changed?

I remember you, Penguin. Your love of the cold and your happy feet. The sound of you dancing across the linoleum in the morning. How could you be so chipper and so cold at the same time. I asked you, "Are you dancing to beat the cold?" You looked at me but didn't answer. You never did. It was our down fall. All that silence eclipsed every happy beat.


Come one penguins. Please. Please read my blog.

Then? I can close up shop. Go off into the Internet sunset happy.




Dear Penguins in Antarctica.

I hate to whine but you guys are just not helping.  At this point the only continent who's yet to read my blog is yours. Yes, yours. Antarctica has yet to read my blog.

What do I have to do?  I did the penguin dance.  I sang the penguin song.  No, I didn't go see HappyFeet 3D. I was busy writing this blog and doing stuff but that's no excuse for you NOT reading.

You just have to read it. You don't have to post. 

If you do?  I write you a poem. 

Your very own, "She wrote this just for me."  poem.

Come on.


Author Ann

"...In a box, back of the closet, there are letters and photos. If the photos were like youtube videos, I could touch them and the memory would come alive. There's one of you sleeping. Out of focus. You sent it to me when we first stared writing. If it came alive it would be years later. In Dublin, you asleep next to me. I can hear you breathing. Such a short time that we were allowed to see each other then back to distance and voices on the other side of the world. For so long, even after we went our separate ways, a part of me believed that someday we'd be in the same place. In the same galaxy. You'd be there and the world would be right again. Then one day I woke up and wondered wear I was. Got out of bed. Anywhere better than here..."

"...It happens every time I hear an Irish accent. Every time. I turn round to look. I saw my face in the window of a department store in New York. I'd heard it again and turned round to see myself in the reflection. I saw what the rest of the world saw. Clear. I reached out to touch the reflection. To console it. A ghost haunted. The face changed to compassion and then a smile flooded that face.

'What are you looking at?' said the voice. It was inside my head and it made me believe in the Jungian. I believed that somewhere you could hear me. I wasn't just talking to myself. I closed my eyes and felt the coin in my shoe. It was digging into the bottom of my foot. Like the memory of you it irritated. I didn't give up.

You did."

from Long Way Around by C Anne Ford 4/13/12 all rights reserved by the author.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012



Welcome to 12dotsandablot.
Fact and fiction co exist here.
It's a writer's blog.
A fiction writer's blog.
If you don't know which is the fact and what's the fiction?
Do not ASSume.

I'm hungry.

Gonna go eat.


"Who do you think you are?"  he asked.  The look in his eye was fierce and unkind. At that moment? I knew that he didn't care for me at all. Never would. There was no excuse for it. No reason to endure any longer."

From the very short story, "Wrong Way 'Round"

by c anne ford

11 April, 2012


Funny thing.

Of  all the people who've come and gone in the revolving door of life? Not a one of them looked at my boat and dreamed.  Some were skeptics. Some? Just out right complainers.  One came all the way just to say that it was a POS.

I just sat quiet and let them do their thing.

Now that they've all come (and gone) I can sit quiet here in my little Zen garden and think of my dad's boat.  For many many years people came and went. Even the preacher offered to go out on the second trip. "I'll pray for you on the river bank on this first voyage.", he told dad.

So I'm sitting here thinking of of them all and I'm wondering just what I was trying to do.  It took a while but I finally heard that voice of  (my) reason inside my heart.

"You'd be wanting a pragmatic optimist.  A dreamer of stories but a doer of things. Someone who can entertain themselves throught the rough patches but not someone who wants to live there. You'd also be wanting your own so that you don't ever have to settle. Mostly you really don't want someone who'll be asking 'Just who do you think you are?'  nor  telling you that they were gonna' show you your place. No one who you know deep inside really doesn't like you very much. You deserve better."

We all do.

I've seen some hard times and heard worse from others.  What seems to keep me going forward has been the dogged determination not to go backwards.

I used to think that I had to go backwards to appreaciate the things life had given to me. Now I know that's just stupid. 

I'm going forward.

Dare to be different.  Be happy. 

As for Mr. Right?

Nothing has changed.

Never will.

In the mean time?

Got things to do.




Monday, April 9, 2012



I once tried to look on the bright side for this guy on the Internet. He was busy complaining about how his Tuesdays always sucked.

I should have just agreed that his Tuesdays did indeed suck and then "walked away" -- really fast.

For two very long seconds I was stuck in the crap of his life.

Then he said something that has colored my perception of blog life for years.

He said, "I enjoy the piss colored rain so much."

Suddenly every relationship that I'd ever had with a man came into a sharp focus. All this time I'd been sunshine in the middle of a guy's thunderstorm. They liked it and I just got soaked. It was pretty clear that our interactions were NOT making rainbows.

No words of wisdom.

... "


eh. hello?


LOL. OMG, omg, omg...

I have so much to do here. I don't even begin to know where to start it all. The weather's good. Really good.  Like a good hot sauce it''s all pleasant and spicey and good. It's exciting and a bit overwhelming and I know that if I stay here on the Internet writing, I won't get anything done.


I'm gonna have to aske you to read what's here already. I promise to write. Kind of bloggy, postcardy letters from the road.

It's just that I have to be determined.


At least focused for a slacker. LOLOLO>

I know that you understand.


Once again this isn't  the abandonded blog of some failed Internet writer.

It is the blog of a very, very busy person.