Thursday, May 30, 2013

It is so easy, while going through life, to create an indelible picture of oneself as good and, if not clever, at least average in intelligence. One may, if one is careless, begin to think they have lived a relatively good life – in spite of the occasional rough spot one either created for oneself or pride in navigating a spot others create for one.

An essential necessity of getting along with others is the ability to laugh at ones own short comings (which may only be done if one admits one has such, of course), so it is with complete candor I admit to making fun of myself or saying something to allow another to feel somewhat amused in dealing with me.

All of that said, the other day I eMailed a person thought friendly to myself and I poked a bit of fun towards myself.

The response surprised me.

Using my words in conjunction with their own they responded to my sally. I felt there was something in the choice of words sent me and dwelt upon one in particular. I couldn’t think of why that particular word, nor what they meant by it, as none of my beliefs touch upon it.

The word:

war·lock

/ˈwɔrˌlɒk/ Show Spelled [wawr-lok] Show IPA

noun

1.

a man who practices the black arts; a male witch; sorcerer.

2.

a fortuneteller or conjurer.


Origin:
before 900; Middle English warloghe, -lach, Old English wǣrloga oathbreaker, devil, equivalent to wǣr covenant + -loga betrayer (derivative of lēogan to lie)

I have corresponded with this person for some time and thought ourselves friendly.

_____

From the reaches,

Ten Whiskey

About tenwhiskey

User tenwhiskey is also the author of this blog. He currently lives in small town Kansas in a semi-retired condition. His kids are married and gone (thank you). An empty nester. Divorced. Very happy with life as it is. Ten Mile maintains a personal blog here, writing of events as they appear to him; commentary, and opinions abound. He deviates into fiction as the mood strikes and creates flash fiction stories and short stories. He will not warn the reader when he drifts from fact to fiction. He feels adults are, generally, smart enough to figure out which is which. He does, however, attempt to make his fiction sound as true to life as possible. You have been warned. He, as time permits, writes and occasionally sells writing. More often than not he gives it away to various non-paying publishers of Ether Magazines, forums or for entertainment on a wall for in need of a hand friends. He likes candy, pies and a certain amount of strife. In the matter of strife - in his yourth on the farm, he became embroiled in a slinging fight. The fight involved lath as a launcher, fresh cow patties as ammo and it was a six way free for all. A little mud only adds (Umm?) a certain taste to life.
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