From A Wicked Garden

http://www.dailywriting.netWickedGarden.htm
Exercise Completed On April 27, 2006
Just some notes from my very own Wicked Gardening Journal...

Plant a Wicked Garden Here


Insert images of wicked plants


The Wicked Manzanillo Tree-so deadly so poisonous that legend says its shadow could kill you!


Deadly Nightshade, tended by the Devil himself...as the story goes.

List Twenty Wicked Words



Grave, Apparition, Ghoul, Shadow, Tomb, Demonic, Phantasm, Specter, Revenant, Rot
Curse, Hex, Demon, Shiver, Malice, Fiend, Infernal, Abandon, Desolate, Demented

Make some notes about a plant.



The berries from the Belladonna plant are sweet and I read about some cases where children ate them with tragic results. I never thought about deadly fruit tasting sweet, I assumed poison berries would be bitter. Its like the Belladonna plant wants to hurt you.

A plant that murders on purpose. Its a cold blooded killer. I'll bet there's a story there.


Sketch the voiceless woman and the midnight garden


Just Kidding..I can't draw.


Someone replies and explains why the plants are not working. Record their words:
" The plants from the Wicked Garden aren't plants. Not exactly."

Shopping

Writing Prompt: "Take a poetry book...take a line, write it down, and continue from there..." Natalie Goldberg, from"Writing Down the Bones".

"Once upon a mid-night dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore....."

What? Get real. I am really fed up with this whole "feeling sorry for myself" thing. I want to go shopping instead. My goodness, do you really think I sit around all day waiting for some silly bird to drop in and leave droppings all over my house? No, I am a woman with a charge card so I'm outta here.

Now, where to go? Rodeo Drive and Montana Avenue? No, too high-end for my budget. No, this is not just any ordinary shopping trip. I want to swing around Neptune and have a latte with the space aliens, then I'm going to plunge to the bottom of the Mariana Trench and buy some "glow in the dark" antennae from the Angler Fish. (Won't they look lovely on that new purple hat I just bought on Mars?) Hmmm, then it's on to the Philippines to go shoe shopping with Imelda-- she knows all the good shoe stores. Then, I'll stop in Rio and pick up a glittering costume left over from Carneval. (Won't I be a sight when I put all this on?)

When I'm finished, I'll be thoroughly exhausted and will need to head back home to soak my feet. But, just to be nice and because I actually like that old Raven, first I'll stop at Petco and get him a pound of birdseed and a sparkly new chew-toy.

And then it will be back to those dreary books.

Lori (c) April 24, 2006

Chocolate Box Letter

Thursday, April 13, 2006

Dear Heather,

Finding the inspiration for this series of letters in a Chocolate Box is a gift. Thank you. First I feel the need to tell you a little about who I am now. It’s like warming up and stretching your muscles before exercise. I am an unabashed dreamer of dreams. Most of what I would call the “good” things in life have been a dream for me. Do you know the saying, “Better to have loved and lost then never to have loved at all?” There’s a lot of truth in those words but I would add, “Better to have dreamed sweet dreams than to only have lived the nightmare.”

My earliest memories of childhood and my family center around violence. My mother and father fought tooth and nail; they would put me or my sister or my twin brothers in the middle. They not only needed an audience it was like a tag team effort, especially for my mother. I am the youngest of the four by many years. My mother told others that I was her oops baby. What she told me was that if abortion had been legal I never would have been born. My sister, 15 years my senior, and my brothers, 12 years my senior, ruled me with the same iron fist that my parents had raised them with. But they were all grown and gone from home by the time I was 6, so for most of my life I tried to make myself a ghost in that house…unseen, unheard, and most of all unnoticed. To this day, I can pass through a room without drawing attention, I speak very softly and there are few people in this world who have made the effort to hear my voice. Sometimes this is a good thing and sometimes it’s not.

My parents both drank but my Dad was proclaimed the alcoholic and he was an alcoholic. My Dad was my salvation, my hope, and my beacon of light. He is the reason I survived and he is also the reason I almost didn’t survive. When my parents would fight it wasn’t unusual for weapons to come in to it. My mother was fond of knives and using my brothers to fight her battles. My father finally armed himself with a gun. Physically, I stayed out of the battles but when they raged with shouts and cursing and many times shots fired into the ceiling; I was a forced witness to the action. During one especially nasty encounter, I was hiding in my room when the shot that rang out came through the wall and only missed me by inches. There’s a voice in my head that wants to say, “So what.”

“There are lots of people who have experienced violence.”

I have to still that voice because this was my home, and these weren’t strangers, and I had no place else to go to get away from it.

My Dad was my best friend. He took me away from the meanness as often as he could. We fished together. He taught me how to bait my hook and how to set my line and how to take a fish off. He taught me to listen for the song of the bobwhite on a cool spring day. He taught me to watch out for snakes and snapping turtles. Those were the times when I smiled and laughed and was glad to be alive. Two fishing trips in particular stand out in my mind. The first was when I was about 10 years old I think. It was a beautiful Saturday morning and while most of the kids I knew were at home watching cartoons, I was at the lake with my Dad. By this time I was becoming a pretty good fisherman if I do say so myself. Dad and I would have contests to see who could catch the first fish, the biggest fish, the most fish, and so on. I wasn’t having much luck that day. My Dad had eased out onto a log that was partially submerged in the lake and to hear him tell it he was matching wits with the granddaddy of all fishes. When suddenly he leapt straight into the air, did an about face, and landed back on the shore. I saw this and ran over to find out what was going on. He was pale and shaken. I looked down and realized he was standing there with only one shoe on. In my ten-year-old mind that struck me as extremely funny and I laughed. I asked him what happened and he raised his arm and pointed out to the end of the log he had been standing on. There was his other shoe with the biggest snake I have ever seen curled up around it. His shoe was still tied. It was a cottonmouth water moccasin, a very poisonous snake. We sat on the shore together for a few minutes while my Dad calmed his nerves. Then he got a long tree branch and retrieved his shoe. We kept on fishing that day and while I don’t remember the fish we caught or didn’t catch, I remember Dad jumping out of his shoe.

The other fishing trip that I most often remember was one we took when I was about 14. For three years my Dad had been teaching me to drive going to and from our favorite fishing spots and that summer one of the more violent battles in our home had resulted in a broken leg for my Dad. He was in a cast from his foot to his hip and I became the designated driver. Since my mother had steadfastly refused to learn to drive a standard shift, I was the only driver. I drove my Dad to work, I drove my mother to the grocery store, I drove back to pick Dad up from work, and I drove us to our favorite fishing places. One of our favorite fishing places was a lake with a small island in the middle of it. Weeping Willows grew on the island with long branches reaching out over the water. It was a hot day the kind of day when every living thing seeks the cool of some shade. My Dad propped himself up on his crutches and cast his line just under the fingers of those willow trees and man were the fish biting. It felt to me like he would sing out, “Caught another one, Doll Baby!” every few minutes. I would run over to him, take his fish off the line, and he would cast and sing out again. I was getting so frustrated; I didn’t have time to fish myself. I kept trying to get farther and farther away from his calls to me but that only meant I had farther to go in the heat to help him. I was sucking down the icy cold soda he had bought for me like there was no tomorrow. At long last he decided to take a rest and give me my freedom. I walked all the way to the other side of the lake and the island hoping it would be awhile before I was pressed into service again. I readied my line and made my cast. I knew it was a good cast from the minute the line fed out. My lure arched across the water and slid underneath the fingers of the willows slicing the water like a perfect dive. No sooner had my offering started to sink than BAM I felt a fish hit my line. I had the biggest fish I had ever felt pulling on my line. I was so excited I almost peed my pants.

I yelled out, “Dad, Dad, I’ve got one and man it’s BIG!”

“Reel him in, Doll Baby,” came the reply.

I started reeling that fish in when all of a sudden my line went slack. I would have cried except there’s no crying in fishing. I did hang my head though and quickly wipe away a rebel tear. I kept reeling in my line to prepare for another cast then about six feet from the shore my line jerked again…THE FISH WAS STILL THERE. It had been running towards me.

“Wahoo,” I shouted and brought it in to shore.

I caught a Big Mouth Bass that had to weigh in around six pounds. In my 14 years that was the biggest fish I had ever caught. I was so excited that I ran around the lake to show my catch to my Dad. I will never forget that day or how it felt to catch that fish. Most of all I will never forget the smile on my Dad’s face and the good for you hug. I don’t have very many pictures of my Dad but the one I carry in my heart is the one of him standing there on those crutches smiling at me.

Melody

Thursday, April 20, 2006

Dear Heather,

The last little bit since I wrote the first letter and moved into the manor has been filled with turmoil for me. I’m hungry and I’m facing homelessness. I emailed my son and there is little doubt in my mind that he will send me what ever he can afford as soon as he can send it. It was a struggle to get myself to finally ask him. I had to wait until I was hungry to do it. It is hard to feel like a burden to your child. As I wrote those words, the phone rang and the first word out of my mouth was shit because I didn’t want the interruption. It was my son calling he sent me enough money to help me save myself.

He said, “I love you.”

I burst into tears. And that’s where I am now. I’m going to save this, go to Western Union, then the grocery store. I’m going to eat something, feed my dogs then I’m going to revisit this letter. I know I can’t fix what I don’t acknowledge…I can’t acknowledge what I don’t understand. Thank you for building this site and hearing my voice.

Friday, April 21, 2006

When I got home yesterday, I fed the dogs, ate something, and sat to write my son a thank you. He emailed me back with the following words.

“I love you, and you know that if it is within my power I would do anything for you. We are both very proud and I know that you don’t want to have to ask for help, but I love you.”

I think sometimes that there are as many shades of love as there are of silence. After the summer of casts, driving, and fishing things began to escalate even more at home. I was past a point where I could stand witnessing it anymore. I started going out the door, window; any exit I could find and staying gone as long as possible. In the beginning, I had somewhere to go. I could show up at my best friend’s house at any time of the day or night and I was welcomed. Even when I would show up at 2:00 in the morning, her mother would just hug me and tell me to come in and go to bed. They never asked me, “Why,” They just took me in. They would feed me and make sure I was warm and safe. Then when I was sixteen her parents went through a crisis of their own. They moved to Washington State from Mississippi. When they left, I felt like I was utterly alone in this world. Dad’s bouts of sobriety were getting shorter. My mother and siblings resented the fact that I didn’t want to participate in the madness. I know what hell is; I’ve been there time and time again. I’m still waiting for my little piece of heaven. Or I guess what would be more accurate would be that I’ve learned to find little pieces of heaven in everyday things. I can turn having a cup of coffee into a spiritual experience.

Anyway, after my best friend moved away, I would sleep under a picnic table in the park to have some semblance of peace for a short time. I was a refugee in a country that had not yet discovered terrorism. The harsh voice inside me that helped me survive is saying, “So what,” again. I lived in a small town and no one ever bothered or molested me there…I found a small measure of peace. It got to the point however, that all I wanted was to be out of my parent’s house and like too many teenagers; I set about doing it the wrong way. Instead of doing it with education and independence, I ran away. I went from the frying pan to the fire.

I have to look for a job so I’m going to end this for now. If you don’t mind; I will continue to visit this later. Thanks…Mel

Spiders

These are just fun little exercises that I do when I should be writing!

Just kidding!

I've played the guitar for over 30 years and there are days when I go over scales and riffs and chord progression as well as simple 'exercises' to keep my fingers in shape.

These exercises are called “Spiders” and the “Spiders" make no musical sense. They're designed to keep your brain and hands 'toned up' and working as a team.

So here's some “Spiders" for you guys to work on, have fun!

Anita Marie


1.

List six flowers and then use all six in either a paragraph or short story.

2.

Write a paragraph and end it with, “except for the clown.”

3.

Finish this:

When I'm in an orange mood I...

4.

Post your favorite exercise at the Salon du Soul!

Home Is Where The Heart Is

http://www.dailywriting.net/Farmhouse.htm
Completed on April 16, 2006



Back along on Deception Road is a little farmhouse that no one lives in.

After the house was built and then put up for sale the orchard out back died, the little vegetable garden died and all of the pumpkins and squashes and tomatoes rotted right on their vines.

Even the flowers in the window boxes shriveled up and turned to dust within a day or so after they were set out and all the little farmhouse could do was slam its doors open and shut and make the clock in its kitchen strike twelve over and over again.

The man who built the farmhouse, Travis Janosik, use to stand out at the road and wonder what the hell was going on in there, why was it that nothing could live near that place without giving up the ghost.

There was nothing about Travis that would make you say, ‘you know that killer house? The one on Deception Road? It was built by Travis Janosik” and the person you would be talking to wouldn’t reply, “ Well of course it was a strange house. Look who built it.”

No, the house turned bad all by itself and this bothered no one more then Travis. What bothered him more than that though happened when the house was two years old.

That’s when someone actually bought it and moved in.



The ‘someones’ who bought the farmhouse were the Korbar Family.

Travis use to drive out to Deception Road and park across the way from the Farmhouse and watch it. He’d see Darius Korbar working the vegetable garden or see him sitting on the porch with one of the many children he and Mrs. Korbar had and they acted like any other family living in those hills.

Unless of course you really watched them the way Travis did.

At first he had no interest in the Korbar family. His interest was in that house and what it was up to now. It didn’t have to settle for killing plants and the odd field animal that got to close to its walls. Now it had the Korbar children who scuttled around the property in their ill-fitting clothes.

At least that’s how it looked but then Travis realized it wasn’t the clothes that didn’t fit right, it was the bodies inside the clothes that weren’t right.

The children’s heads were to large for their small bodies and their hands and feet didn’t seem to be the same size and when they talked Travis felt the hair rising up on his arms and the back of his neck and that’s when he’d cut his daily vigil off.

Once Travis saw Mrs. Korbar come down the front steps with a tall glass in her hand and make her way to the garden to where Mr Korbar was working. She handed him the glass and he kissed her cheek and then she made her way back up the steps and Travis watched her but didn’t notice that as she climbed the steps her head was tilted slightly backwards and her back was straight as a pole and she never bent her knees.

It was like she was gliding up the steps and not walking up them at all.




Towards the end of the summer the gardens were dead and rotten and Mr Korbar was out there working it like it as if it were alive and thriving. The ground was water logged and moldy with green slime. The vegtables were rotting and decayed and you could actually smell it when the wind shifted.

On top of the fact that Travis was watching a man harvest from a garden full of rotten vegetables he was also sure that some of that smell was coming from Mr Korbar too.



Travis promised himself after that visit he wouldn’t go near the Farmhouse on Deception Road. Something was wrong with it, something was wrong with the people living inside of it and Travis was certain if he didn’t stop going over there something would be wrong with him too.

Of course, it was too late because that something had already happened to Travis and he found himself standing at the end of the drive leading right up to the Farmhouse the next day.

He wasn't there for long before Mrs. Korbar came down the steps and met him with a basket of rotting carrots and maggot filled tomatoes on her arm.

“ We never got the chance to thank you for building this wonderful house Mr Janosik. Its perfect and we love it so.”

Travis was looking into the basket of dead and decaying vegetables and he said, “ How could you love it so? Nothing can live inside of that thing…”

And Mrs. Korbar said, “ Well, Mr Janosik nothing does…”

Mystery of a poem

Critics

This montage image is a representation of how both my inner critic and a few outer critics make me feel-- like I'm being chased by a very hungry monster.

Lori (c) April 14, 2006. Component images taken at the Los Angeles Natural History Museum.

My Medicine Bag

My Medicine Bag?? Yes, I’ve had one for about 10 years now and I wouldn’t part with it. What is in it and why? Okay, I’ve taken innumerable pics of the Medicine Bag itself, and all the contents. Now, how to make a cohesive whole out of the assorted oddments in my Bag.

First:
The Medicine Bag…


and all its contents.



Yes dears, I know, you really can’t see it all thisaway, fear not my fellow artistes, I thought of that! I have taken pictures of all the contents and I’ll share them through this post.

Let’s begin with the bag of herbs that I carry in my Medicine Bag. In this bag I have put, Laurel for protection, Rose of the Sea for remembrance, Matricaria for enhance calm, and Salvia for purity. This adds a delicate scent to my Medicine Bag.


I was given the tiny chunk of meteor, and it resides on my Bag because, like the song says, “I am made from the dust of the stars, and the ocean flows in my veins. “We are all part of this lovely world and glorious Universe, and this is my diminutive reminder of that.

Then comes my natural crystal, to help me focus on what is truly important in this life. It goes from cloudy to incredibly clear with strong facets and a point at the business end of it.


I added a perfectly balanced lead crystal to assist me in attaining balance in my everyday life. He warms immediately to my touch, and I feel a delicate bond with him.


There is my tiny tablet of Kyunite, to remind me of the futility of worry about anything. Hmmmmmnnnhhh…. I need to look at this pic far more often*laughing ruefully*.

I carry a small chunk of iron pyrite (Fool’s Gold) as a reminder to never value anything on just its externals.

I added a man-made industrial diamond to remind me to forgo arrogance. How could the average mortal dare be arrogant in the face of any deity?

I always carry my natural crystal pendulum for meditation. Hold her up, let her begin to swing all of herself and watch the stately sway.

I tucked a tiny knapped piece of Flint in, so I always remember the difference between a tool and a weapon,


And last but never, ever least is my green plastic army man, to remind me to always nurture the child within. Besides my brothers and I loved playing with the green plastic army men when we were growing up!!! Now you know what a Professional Crazy Lady carries in her Medicine Bag.

Big Wednesday

Prompt: “Think of a place that has the mystery or beauty of a poem to you.”

Big Wednesday

The local newspaper called it “Big Wednesday,” a day when the highest surf in memory thundered onto the beaches of Southern California. Fueled by a series of Pacific storms thousands of miles away, these 18 to 20 foot waves drew masses of observers entranced by their size and ferocity during a two-week period last December.

On Wednesday a few days before Christmas, I was on holiday break from work and, ironically, suffering from a nasty cold. Driving home from the doctor that morning, I took the coast route and saw first-hand the surf and the people. I stopped at home long enough to grab my camera and a fresh box of tissues and headed off to the beach. I knew it was unwise to risk pneumonia for the sake of a few pictures, but I felt compelled to go to the water.

I parked and starting walking along the bike path, snapping shots, until the beach narrowed and ended at a rocky jetty. A yellow police tape barred my progress. I had overheard from some locals back up the path that a woman had been knocked off the jetty rocks the day before and had suffered a broken leg. I stopped for a moment and then began looking for a way to get around the tape. At that moment, I chanced to look behind me towards the parking lot and saw a motorcycle cop watching me. With the slightest shake of his head, he communicated a silent “Don’t.” With an embarrassed smile, I nodded to him and turned back, stopping just long enough to catch on camera a breaker coming over the jetty rocks and spraying the bike path with foam.

At that point, whatever enchantment that had enveloped me broke as well, and I realized the risk I was in. I was feverish and shaking and I was standing only a few yards from waves that could break bones. I quickly packed away my camera and hurried back to my car.

Why do some of us do such foolish things? When nature displays herself, many times we run toward her and not away. I told myself I was an artist seeking the capture of that “perfect moment in time.” But, if truth be told, I think deep down I was exercising that time-honored human flaw of hubris. I was shaking a fist at nature that day. Fortunately, she took no notice.


Lori © April 11, 2006 Photos taken at Manhattan Beach and El Porto Beach, California, December 2005.

Many Harbours…

For my writing prompt today I took the Anchorage page from Soul Food Café

Cobh

I have always loved harbours – those safe sheltered bays where the fishermen bring in their daily catch and you can look out across the endless sea.

Perhaps that was because I was born in one – Cobh in Ireland is a gorgeous place, with a row of houses along the quay holding each other up like drunken sailors. The smell of the ocean permeated everything. Boats and talk of boats were the wellspring of life there.

Cobh is where my father and his three brothers set sail one golden morning in an oversized rowboat they called the Black Hawk. For sails, they took the sheets off their mother’s washing line and rigged them up. They sailed into Cork Harbour and went ashore to impress the ladies, which they did by swaggering and telling them that the Black Hawk was moored below. They didn’t tell them it was a rowboat with sheets for sails, of course.

After a magnificent day, the four young men got back into their boat and returned to Cobh, where they found their mother on the dock waiting for them, arms crossed, toes tapping. She had spotted her missing sheets sailing out to sea early that morning. The resulting hullabaloo was just another of those glorious things that makes living in a small harbour worthwhile.

Dumbarton

I loved Scotland from the first time I saw it. Dumbarton was home for four years of my life and my time there is filled with happy memories. Not strictly a harbour, Dumbarton was a ship building town on the junction of the River Leven and the Clyde, so it had the smell of the ocean and tradition of boat building that went back centuries. While we were there, the first hovercraft was built and launched – unfortunately it didn’t go too well first time, because the big black bag that kept it hovering sprang a leak.

My daily ramble was over the bridge with my dog Lucky at my side and into the town itself, buy a couple of baps (lovely soft floury Scottish bread rolls – one for me and one for Lucky) then head down to the shore of the Firth of the Clyde, and walk for miles, enjoying the brisk air and the splendid loneliness.

Peterhead

Peterhead was a Scottish harbour I only managed to visit once, but I have never forgotten it. When we arrived, the fishing boats were coming in and unloading their catch onto the shore. There was a thriving fish market and we bought fish straight from the sea.

Down at the harbour I met the crew of a Russian fishing boat that had to put in because of bad weather. The Russians were not allowed to sell their catch, so one of the crew, a very handsome young man, gave me a huge live crab from the ocean.

``I’ll to send you down there more often,” my father said appreciatively as we tucked into dinner that night.

Sydney

My first sight of Sydney Harbour in 1969 had to wait until the fog lifted. We had arrived during the night and first thing in the morning I went up on deck – the fog covered everything but the arch of the Harbour Bridge which loomed over of the grey cloud like some strange prehistoric beast.

It has changed so much since then, but it is still magical. When we lived in NSW the children’s favourite jaunt was to cross the harbour from Sydney to Manley on a public ferry. For a couple of bucks fare, you get the same views that rich people pay hundreds of dollars for in luxury cruise yachts.

The ferry starts from the terminal in Sydney Harbour and cruises out under the bridge. Wait a few heartbeats, then look back. The view is spectacular. With cameras clicking all around, I never got tired of drinking it in.

There’s always a lot of activity around the Harbour – we’ve been to Chinese New Year festivals, free music shows, art shows – whenever we went down to the Harbour, there was always something going on.

I never imagined anything so vast or so beautiful was hiding under that fog.

What does a harbour symbolize to me? Not just safety and shelter, but the promise of adventure – it sits on the edge of the sea, and at night a harbour is an even more magical place because it seems to sit on the edge of the planet – not only does the sea open up the world before you, but the stars open up the universe. The earth is a great ship sailing through the seas of space – a harbour brings me closer to God and eternity than any other place on earth.