Tag: memoir

The Weekend: A 6 Word Memoir

This is turning my mind into a shards of pretzel.  So, I thought I would ask you, dear docuDharma community, to play.

My friend posted this on her blog:

This morning, my cyber-friend, Lilli, over at Bookbabie tagged me for a new meme. This time, it’s a six word memoir, inspired Hemingway, who once bet ten dollars that he could sum up his life in six words. He came up with: For Sale: baby shoes, never worn. For more examples, check out Not Quite What I was Expecting: Six Word Memoirs by Famous and Obscure, written by Larry Smith and Rachel Fershleiser. Fascinating!

Here are the meme rules:

1. Write your own six word memoir

2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like /snip

And she sent this to me asking me to participate.  I took the liberty of omitting the other rules that relate to tagging others and posting the meme on your personal blog and making something that resembles the dreaded chain letters of yore of out this.

So I’ve been thinking about composing my ultimate six word memoir.  Unsuccessfully so far.  I have only these three for starters:

1.  I dream.  I read.  I write.

2.  Breathing: I notice I am thinking.

3.  Talking to myself.  Nothing to report.

I don’t feel this expresses my essence.  Not yet.  But I’m going to continue working on it.

I suspect chardonnay or some other device (your choice) might be helpful in illuminating this process.  I’m not sure about that.

Regardless, I hope that you, my creative and inspired docuDharma community, will play and will astound us in the comments with your very own six word memoirs.  It is, after all, the weekend.

Let the games begin.

Chanukah memories: We all shine on.

Oh, John.  

Chanukah: first memory

This isn’t my earliest Chanukah memory, but it’s always the first that comes to mind.

In the house I grew up in, where my parents still live, the dining room was originally a narrow room barely larger than the rectangular table (seats eight, if you squish up). What saved us from growing up claustrophobic were the identically-sized kitchen, separated from the dining room by a narrow counter (not quite an island. An islet, perhaps. Or a sandbar) and a bay window.

crossposted over there