How Many Words…

How Many Words…
By Jennifer Kiley
©transgraphics by j. kiley
Created 01.31.13
Posted 01.31.13

angels among us by j. kiley © jennifer kiley 2013

Garrett Hedlund—Timing is Everything

whitney Houston-I will always love you

k.d. lang—crying

each of these songs hold an impact for me. as I was falling asleep the other night I listened to whitney singing and I started to tear up then began crying. as I said each of these songs hold as special meaning as the poem I wrote carries special meaning for me. it may be one person or my muse who is more than one person who is with me, guiding me. sometimes she goes away but always returns when I least expect. this always puts a smile on my face and gives me a feeling of warmth and joy inside my heart and soul. jk the secret keeper

“Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: “What! You too? I thought I was the only one.” ― C.S. Lewis

“Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. “Pooh?” he whispered.
“Yes, Piglet?”
“Nothing,” said Piglet, taking Pooh’s hand. “I just wanted to be sure of you.”
― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

“If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you.” ― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you…I could walk through my garden forever.” ― Alfred Tennyson

“We’ll be Friends Forever, won’t we, Pooh?’ asked Piglet.
Even longer,’ Pooh answered.” ― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

“Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art…. It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.” ― C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

mindful words

mindful words
post created by jennifer kiley
poster by j. Kiley
posted 01.30.13

l’affiche attentives de mots par j. kiley ©jennifer kiley 2013

Vaughan Williams—The Lark Ascending

“Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind.” ― Rudyard Kipling

“Words can be like X-rays if you use them properly — they’ll go through anything. You read and you’re pierced.” — Aldous Huxley, Brave New World

“I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.” ― Arthur Rimbaud, Complete Works

“A word is dead when it’s been said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day.” ― Emily Dickinson

“She had always wanted words, she loved them; grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape.” ― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

“A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language.” — W.H. Auden, The Complete Works of W.H. Auden: Prose: Volume II. 1939-1948

“A book is more than a verbal structure or series of verbal structures; it is the dialogue it establishes with its reader and the intonation it imposes upon his voice and the changing and durable images it leaves in his memory. A book is not an isolated being: it is a relationship, an axis of innumerable relationships.” ― Jorge Luis Borges

Happy Birthday Virginia Woolf on 29th January 1882

Happy Birthday Virginia Woolf
29th January 1882

Excerpts from A Writer’s Diary
Written by Virginia Woolf
Post Created by Jennifer Kiley
Posted on 29th January 2013


This explains in Virginia Woolf’s words the major reasons why it is an essential means to learn writing by keeping a writer’s diary. You exercise your mind, no censorship, and someday you can use to create your own autobiography. These excerpts are helpful to read. I went through Virginia’s book The Writer’s Diary, to review these passages. They are words that are inspiring. Reading the complete book is even more enlightening. But for now check these lines that Virginia Woolf herself wrote unedited, free flow, stream of consciousness and shows a great intelligence. It opens with a words from Virginia Woolf’s husband Leonard Woolf in the Introduction to A Writer’s Diary. I’ve read through so many of Virginia Woolf’s books and in this book, I find a real understanding of her, that makes me feel as if I can hear her voice speaking through her words. — Jennifer Kiley

Virginia Woolf 1

Leonard Woolf’, Virginia’s husband writes in the introduction to A Writer’s Diary:

The diary is too personal to be published as a whole during the lifetime of many people referred to in it. It is, I think, nearly always a mistake to publish extracts from diaries or letters, particularly if the omissions have to be made in order to protect the feelings or reputations of the living. The omissions almost always distort or conceal the true character of the diarist or letter-writer and produce spiritually what an Academy picture does materially, smoothing out the wrinkles, warts, frowns, and asperities. At the best and even unexpurgated, diaries give a distorted or one-sided portrait of the writer, because, as Virginia Woolf herself remarks somewhere in these diaries, one gets into the habit of recording one particular kind of mood — irritation or misery, say — and of not writing one’s diary when one is feeling the opposite. The portrait is therefore from the start unbalanced, and, if someone then deliberately removes another characteristic, it may well become a mere caricature.

virginia-ygVirginia Woolf’s—A Writer’s Diary Excerpts:

January 20th, 1919, Woolf at 36-years—9 days before her 37th Birthday

I note however that this diary writing does not count as writing, since I have just re-read my year’s diary and am much struck by the rapid haphazard gallop at which it swings along, sometimes indeed jerking almost intolerably over the cobbles. Still if it were not written rather faster than the fastest type-writing, if I stopped and took thought, it would never be written at all; and the advantage of the method is that it sweeps up accidentally several stray matters which I should exclude if I hesitated, but which are the diamonds of the dustheap. If Virginia Woolf at the age of 50, when she sits down to build her memoirs out of these books, is unable to make a phrase as it should be made, I can only condole with her and remind her of the existence of the fireplace, where she has my leave to burn these pages to so many black films with red eyes in them. But how I envy her the task I am preparing for her! There is none I should like better. Already my 37th birthday next Saturday is robbed of some of its terrors by the thought. Partly for the benefit of this elderly lady (no subterfuges will then be possible: 50 is elderly, though I anticipate her protest and agree that it is not old) partly to give the year a solid foundation I intend to spend the evenings of this week of captivity in making out an account of my friendships and their present condition, with some account of my friends’ characters; and to add an estimate of their work and a forecast of their future works. The lady of 50 will be able to say how near to the truth I come; but I have written enough for tonight (only 15 minutes, I see).


March 9th, 1920—Woolf at 38 yrs.

In spite of some tremors I think I shall go on with this diary for the present. I sometimes think that I have worked through the layer of style which suited it — suited the comfortable bright hour, after tea; and the thing I’ve reached now is less pliable. Never mind; I fancy old Virginia, putting on her spectacles to read of March 1920 will decidedly wish me to continue. Greetings! my dear ghost; and take heed that I don’t think 50 a very great age. Several good books can be written still; and here’s the bricks for a fine one.


April 20th, 1919, Woolf at 37 years

I got out this diary and read, as one always does read one’s own writing, with a kind of guilty intensity. I confess that the rough and random style of it, often so ungrammatical, and crying for a word altered, afflicted me somewhat. I am trying to tell whichever self it is that reads this hereafter that I can write very much better; and take no time over this; and forbid her to let the eye of man behold it. And now I may add my little compliment to the effect that it has a slapdash and vigour and sometimes hits an unexpected bull’s eye. But what is more to the point is my belief that the habit of writing thus for my own eye only is good practice. It loosens the ligaments. Never mind the misses and the stumbles. Going at such a pace as I do I must make the most direct and instant shots at my object, and thus have to lay hands on words, choose them and shoot them with no more pause than is needed to put my pen in the ink. I believe that during the past year I can trace some increase of ease in my professional writing which I attribute to my casual half hours after tea. Moreover there looms ahead of me the shadow of some kind of form which a diary might attain to. I might in the course of time learn what it is that one can make of this loose, drifting material of life; finding another use for it than the use I put it to, so much more consciously and scrupulously, in fiction. What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk, or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. I should like to come back, after a year or two, and find that the collection had sorted itself and refined itself and coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously do, into a mould, transparent enough to reflect the light of our life, and yet steady, tranquil compounds with the aloofness of a work of art. The main requisite, I think on re-reading my old volumes, is not to play the part of censor, but to write as the mood comes or of anything whatever; since I was curious to find how I went for things put in haphazard, and found the significance to lie where I never saw it at the time. But looseness quickly becomes slovenly. A little effort is needed to face a character or an incident which needs to be recorded. Nor can one let the pen write without guidance; for fear of becoming slack and untidy. . .

virginia-woolf 3October 25th, 1920—Woolf at 38 yrs.

Why is life so tragic; so like a little strip of pavement over an abyss. I look down; I feel giddy; I wonder how I am ever to walk to the end. But why do I feel this: Now that I say it I don’t feel it. The fire burns; we are going to hear the Beggar’s Opera. Only it lies about me; I can’t keep my eyes shut. It’s a feeling of impotence; of cutting no ice. Here I sit at Richmond, and like a lantern stood in the middle of a field my light goes up in darkness. Melancholy diminishes as I write. Why then don’t I write it down oftener? Well, one’s vanity forbids. I want to appear a success even to myself. Yet I don’t get to the bottom of it.

virginia-woolf 2

June 14th, 1925,–Woolf at 43 yrs.

A disgraceful confession — this is Sunday morning and just after ten, and here I am sitting down to write diary and not fiction or reviews, without any excuse, except the state of my mind.


December 29th, 1940—Woolf at 58 yrs.

There are moments when the sail flaps. Then, being a great amateur of the art of life, determined to suck my orange, off, like a wasp if the blossom I’m on fades, as it did yesterday — I ride across the downs to the cliffs. A roll of barbed wire is hooped on the edge. I rubbed my mind brisk along the Newhaven road. Shabby old maids buying groceries, in that desert road with the villas; in the wet. And Newhaven gashed. But tire the body and the mind sleeps. All desire to write diary here has flagged. What is the right antidote? I must sniff round. I think Mme. de Sevigne. Writing to be a daily pleasure. I detest the hardness of old age — I feel it. I rasp. I’m tart.


Exactly three months later, on 28th March 1941, Woolf filled her pockets with stones, walked into the River Ouse near her home in Sussex, and drowned herself.

The Hours-Philip Glass

“What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose-knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful, that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. I should like to come back, after a year or two, and find that the collection had sorted itself and refined itself and coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously do, into a mould, transparent enough to reflect the light of our life, and yet steady, tranquil compounds with the aloofness of a work of art. The main requisite, I think, on reading my old volumes, is not to play the part of a censor, but to write as the mood comes or of anything whatever; since I was curious to find how I went for things put in haphazard, and found the significance to lie where I never saw it at the time.” ― Virginia Woolf

“The most important thing is not to think very much about oneself. To investigate candidly the charge; but not fussily, not very anxiously. On no account to retaliate by going to the other extreme — thinking too much.” ― Virginia Woolf, A Writer’s Diary

Shelter Girl

This an innovative poem & quite touching. Violence is too prevalent & invisible. But maybe not so much any more. We need to keep shouting out with the voices we have that Violence has to End. It is true that Domestic Violence does create homelessness. One doesn’t necessarily go to that point when this subject comes to the fore. Great poem DiAnne. And all who commented on your site and those who reblogged. We need to keep the chain of awareness going and spreading it out like a ripple effect. jk Jennifer Kiley… Great poem DiAnne. Will be reblogging to the secret keeper. It fits the subject of Domestic Violence or anything society had for so long wanted to be kept quiet and especially not talked about above a whisper. jk ps. Thank you Niamh for putting another link in the chain that helps to spread the word about Domestic Violence. I have reblogged from DiAnne’s blog and suggested that we keep this message going like a ripple effect. Some of what I have written here is on DiAnne’s blog and some is on mine but also it is original for your blog Niamh. I know the kinds of life we had to live through and Domestic Violence and Abuse is way too familiar. It didn’t have a voice when I was a child and there weren’t people or shelters to turn to or authorities you felt you could trust to tell your secrets to about any of the abuse. So some of us survived in silence and some did not survive at all. This is an important subject about which to shout about out loud. Any form of Abuse needs to remain out in the light and it needs to be stopped and those who are the Abusers need to be made to answer for their actions everywhere.

DiAnne's Scribbles

Shelter Girl
Falling into the “and then some” category of this blog it never hurts to put this out there as a stark reminder or a source for help…
The day she came
to the shelter
She was a sight
for sore eyes.
Children in tow
a half-packed bag,
Evidence of having
left in a hurry.
The first order
of business,
Hugs and comforting,
Then hearing her
story, spilled with
heartbreak and tears.
He had unclothed her
with relentless criticism,
Made her bleed,
Inside and out,
But there had been
nothing remarkable
about him or his opinion,
Because he had never cured
any of her so-called
Somehow she had found
that one remaining sparkle,
That last glimmer of hope,
Bringing her to this place of
warm hearts and helping hands.
She learned this was not her fault,
That the so-called imperfections
Were all his…
© 2013…

View original post 16 more words

Like the Weirdest F*cking Question

Like the Weirdest F*cking Question
Post Created by Jennifer Kiley
©transgraphics by j. kiley
Created 01.28.13
Posted 01.28.13

comme la fichue question la plus bizarre par j. kiley © jennifer kiley 2013

Meryl on Ellen

“Those who do not know how to weep with their whole heart don’t know how to laugh either”
― Golda Meir

“Laughter is wine for the soul – laughter soft, or loud and deep, tinged through with seriousness – the hilarious declaration made by man that life is worth living.” ― Seán O’Casey

Friends are the most important part of your life. Treasure the tears, treasure the laughter, but most importantly, treasure the memories.” ― Dave Brenner


What a wonderful film. From the film clip you get such a sense of a great acting troupe brought together in the similar flavor of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel but in this film no one goes to India but they do have the indomitable Maggie Smith. Definitely, on my film list of films to see as soon as it hits DVD. Bravo & Brava. Looks like a Hoot. jk the secret keeper


Growing old is like watching a balloon expand with each breath, never knowing when that one breath will cause the balloon to pop. As my friends and I age, the subject of how we may need assistance in our old age comes up more often. It is particularly important to those of us who are single; we wonder what will happen to us. An idea we have kicked around is buying an apartment building, where we can all live. It would allow us privacy but we would always have someone close by if help was needed. In a similar situation this sweet movie was about a home for retired musicians. Idyllic days filled with music and singing, building up to the annual charity concert celebration, received a surprise interruption. It was the arrival of new resident opera diva Jean Horton, played by Maggie Smith (Harry Potter franchise, The Best Exotic…

View original post 182 more words

raindrops are falling

raindrops are falling
by jennifer kiley
©transgraphics by j. kiley
created 01.27.13
posted 01.27.13

aller maintenante et vivre par j. kiley ©jennifer kiley 2013

philip glass-in the upper room: dance no. 7

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.” ― Ralph Waldo Emerson

“When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You know that your name is safe in their mouth.” ― Jess C. Scott, The Intern

“The most courageous act is still to think for yourself. Aloud.
— Coco Chanel

“You have your way. I have my way. As for the right way, the correct way, and the only way, it does not exist.” ― Friedrich Nietzsche

“The most important kind of freedom is to be what you really are. You trade in your reality for a role. You trade in your sense for an act. You give up your ability to feel, and in exchange, put on a mask. There can’t be any large-scale revolution until there’s a personal revolution, on an individual level. It’s got to happen inside first.” ― Jim Morrison

“Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one’s definition of your life, but define yourself.” — Harvey Fierstein