Remember her? I loved her in Tess and I cried my eyes out and I loved that she had a scar above her lip like me. But that’s as far as the similarities go haha and of course it looks nothing like her but what the heck. She’s beautiful just the same.
Besides I’m delirious and need my coffee.
We’ve all heard that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Do you agree? is all beauty contingent on a subjective point of view?
You are very beautiful to me,
even with all the imperfections that you see.
The too-wide eyes, that loping smile,
the way you wear your hair, your very own style.
Don’t listen to what others tell you,
nor pay attention to what they say you should do,
each line upon your skin a mark of future correction.
Don’t they know that underneath it all, you’re perfection?
A nip here, a tuck there –
beauty at a price, everywhere,
but beneath all that is just decay.
Is that really the game you want to play?
So smile that smile and be brave.
Be yourself – that peaceful soul that you crave.
For you’re perfect just the way you are,
you’re beautiful beneath every wrinkle, every scar
Dry your eyes, and stop wishing to become
like everyone else, empty as a deafening drum.
Stop changing yourself to fit into what you think is true,
strive to be at peace with your soul – just…just be you
And as you look at yourself – so beautiful, so free,
unencumbered by what the world says is pretty,
acceptance can be the most difficult thing, but it can be done.
It’s a hard road, I know – that’s why I’m still undone.
What’s the best (or rather, worst) backhanded compliment you’ve ever received? If you can’t think of any — when’s the last time someone paid you a compliment you didn’t actually deserve?
“Don’t be fooled when someone tells you that you’re photogenic,” my mom said. “It means you’re only pretty in pictures. If you were pretty, they’d say you were pretty, not photogenic.”
Peste! I thought then. That’s what most everyone says I am. Photo-genic.
Since then, I’ve never really believed compliments thrown my way. And because of where I’m from, where the stereotype is that of a caring, loving mail-order bride, or a caring, loving caregiver, housekeeper, or nanny, the only reason they’re probably giving me that compliment is because they want something from me. I once worked at a physical therapy office where we treated these big Hollywood legends, and sometimes they’d bring their camera crew in to document their ‘journey’ to healing.
One day, I got called in from another client’s session to do something for Ms. Former Legend. When I walked into the the cramped treatment room, spotlights blinding and all, she cooed, “Oh, you’ve got such great hands!”
“Why, thank you,” I said. I’m a massage therapist, I thought. Of course I’ve got “great” hands.
She asked me to come over and handed me a nail polish bottle. “Can you fix my nail? The paint chipped.”
I looked around me. Fifteen people in the room, and not one of them could fix her damn nail because they weren’t Asian, nor were any of them, apparently, a manicurist.
So, no, I don’t believe compliments at all. But if it’s about my writing, and it moves you (or not), I’ll pay attention. Just don’t say anything about my hands…
Describe your personal style, however you’d like to interpret that — your clothing style, your communication style, your hair style, your eating style, anything.
Photographers, artists, poets: show us STYLE.
I wish I were prettier so I
didn’t need to put on make-up
just to fetch the mail each day
No need to hide the way
I really feel, know
Nonet: A nonet is a type of poem which has nine lines, with the first line having 9 syllables, the second 8 syllables, the third 7 until the ninth line has only one. Some nonnets may also have an iambic meter (stress on every other syllable).
Finish this sentence: “When I look in the mirror, I . . . “
Photographers, artists, poets: show us MIRRORED.
I’ve been so busy being at Camp NaNoWriMo that I forgot to post my Daily Prompt yesterday, which I had been dying to do since…well, since I came up for air after writing a few steamy scenes with my own muse. I’d like to think that I’m getting better at writing these *ahem* racy scenes (although I do have plot – boy, do I!), but that is neither here nor there…
Back to the Daily Prompt…
So, when I look in the mirror, I see that somehow my features don’t lend itself well to what Disney Imagineers see as the ideal princess. Even if I look back at all the princesses I’ve ever seen on the big and small screen, I’m not close. Not even.
So when this Scottish girl named Merida came onto the scene a few years ago, I was thrilled to bits. Finally! A tomboy princess! Just like me! I mean, except for the ‘princess’ part!
I never played with Barbie dolls. Instead my dolls were soft and plush and sometimes made of paper, but still pudgy little girls and not the overly sexualized visions dished out by the major conglomerates who somehow dictate what beauty is. Instead of playing dress up with princess gowns, I boxed and kicked in my karate gee with my brothers and cousins, played with matchbox cars and model aircraft carriers, getting the tiny fighter jets to land and take off. Then when we could sneak it out of the house and off to the beach, proceeded to lose most of the damn jets when the carrier capsized and my older brother, when he returned from college, was definitely not pleased.
So I grew up as a tomboy and when the princess who sang that “someday her prince would come” appeared on the screen, I would think to myself, oh that’s nice, and move on to other more exciting things – like knocking the beehive off its branch and running like hell back into the house, or racing in home-made wooden scooters with ball-bearings as make-shift wheels sparking against the asphalt and screaming my head off the entire way because no one bothered to install a brake.
Anyway, where was I? Oh, I was so happy when Brave came out and Merida came bursting through my consciousness, this girl after my own heart who could shoot her arrow and let her hair run wild about her, running off in the wilderness and doing what little tomboys did. She said no to getting herself a husband and hated being ensconced in that tight fitting tunic shift and horrible white hooded thingy. That’s my girl, I said to myself.
As I stood in line for the “It’s A Small World” ride at Disneyland for nth time because it’s what Little M wants, and besides, it’s hotter than hell outside and at least the Small World Ride is air-conditioned, I was always beyond thrilled when I turned to my right where the Scottish encampment was set up and little girls lined up to have their pictures taken with Merida and have their little autograph books signed.
One day, I told myself, I will line up along with those little girls and drag Little M with me and say that he’s the one who really likes her and have OUR picture taken together with this beautiful red-haired tomboy princess.
But then, Disney came out with the grown up version of Merida last month and somehow Merida had found her way to Bedford and Brighton Way in Beverly Hills and had gotten herself a MAJOR make-over. And I mean, major make-over. She’s had her eyes brightened and it’s more sultry, a bust lift to further enhance that lower neckline on her new dress that draws in much tighter on her nipped waist and of course, this only enhances the curvy wide hips she’s somehow inherited since, um, “growing up”.
And when a Scottish princess apparently grows up, she sheds the bows and arrows and the quiver that was a staple of her life, because, you know, it’s just added weight when you consider her wide belt with golden button-thing is more important in saving her life – like when she unties it and takes the whole dress off. Yes, that will save many a woman, that’s for sure.
Somehow no one bothered to tell the Disney Imagineers the back story or even the whole damn story, or wait, even just the synopsis of Brave and about the character Merida and what qualities drove her character and made her real, and what her character believed in. No one.
Not a f**king soul.
And all I can say is. What the f**k…?
That’s right, Mr. Buscemi. Just my sentiments exactly.
*Sorry for the obscenities. Sometimes I just have to. And now I shall sneak back into camp and pretend I never left….
Where do your morals come from — your family? Your faith? Your philosophical worldview? How do you deal with those who don’t share them, or derive them from a different source?
Photographers, artists, poets: show us THE SOURCE.