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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Off the Cuff / My Other Journal #768019 added December 9, 2012 at 1:12pm
Restrictions: None
Parallel Quirks
My husband and I do communicate, but our communication has taken on a peculiar personality after being together for 46 years. This weirdness came about because we're two very different people, and when you are so far-out different, there's nothing left to argue about. We almost never fight because of the differences, although we still tell each other what makes us tick.
Case in point: (Since my senior moments have been kicking in more often, lately, I am writing about the latest ones.) Last night, I told my knight in shining armor who has a different head than mine, "The StoryMaster  came up with item covers and the place shines like a clip-art museum. I love it."
"Is this something you can use in the house like a duvet cover? The blanket keeps falling off me." 
Believe me, he meant it. To clear his point, although we sleep in the same bed, our top covers are separate though identical. But I digress...
Coming back to item covers, I had to show him my port. He said, "Oh!" Then, looking puzzled, he added, "Just how could you squeeze those pictures in boxes?"
Funny, he showed interest, because he's the man who hasn't fully mastered copy and paste, and he keeps S.O.S'ing me when an ad pops up while he's surfing the net, as to him, everything is a shark.
Then, this morning, he called out to me while I was in the kitchen making coffee and he was reading the news in the living room, agitated, as if the earth stopped turning. "Manny Pacquiao is in the hospital. He's out for good, now."
"Is he the guy in the administration who worked with you?"
"Nooo! Manny Pacquiao! The Filippino boxer."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I hope he'll be out soon," I said, while thinking how in the world he made friends with a Filippino boxer.
"He lost, but he hurt the other guy, Marquez, badly."
So a pyrrhic victory for Marquez, providing a consolation for Pacquiao fans. Although my recall is shot, I vaguely remember my dear hubby watching boxing as if he would jump into the TV with his head bobbing with each punch of the boxers on the screen.
This usually happens while I am buried into reading something on the Kindle or my laptop, totally avoiding the TV, since I can't stand boxing. And of course, we have to be in the same room together, no doubt about it.
Like I said...parallel lives, as in a rhombus, or rather, a huge diamond. 
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