Salon du Soul

Season of Solitude

2007-01-24T08:47:00.000-08:00

Season of Solitude
For Heather and Darryl.

Ivy on the garden wall.
Old stones, if only they could talk.
Last Autumn’s leaves
still beneath the snow.
Branches bare, basic in their nudity.
My thoughts are yet of thee.

Snow covered walks,
pristine, unspoiled.
The shaded tool shed
cloaked in white.
Silence, like a blanket, covers
the sins of yesterday.

Spring rains that cleanse and chase away
the musty smells of winter.
Closed doors and shuttered windows.
A hint of warmth, and then
shoots of daffodils and crocus
bring smiles instead of tears.

Leaves were falling when you left—
Erratic flight in Autumn’s fickle breezes.
I faced the long darkened nights
and shortened days alone
with many tears shed.

The sun is high this glorious morn,
its light, spring’s promise
of hope renewed,.
I see a shadow and there you are
just like you used to be—
I cannot touch but I can love,
what more is there to say,
until we meet again
upon that other sunny shore.

Vi Jones
©January 24, 2007

Come With Me Now

2007-01-10T07:35:00.000-08:00

Come With Me Now—

My mind is at peace as I lay here in the sun,
my back on the grass in a meadow of gold.
So high in the mountains and near to the Gods,
belonging to Nature and life all around.
The orchestra plays,
the music is sweet.

The forest below in green every hue
is home to only a specialized few—
the deer and the elk, the wildcat, the hawk.
They’re companions of mine as I rest from a walk.
Tiny flowers around look so terribly frail
but they’re stronger by far
and stand many a gale.

Come with me now
to soothe tortured minds
and heal life’s deep scars.
Come join me, my friends,
on mountains so fresh.
Come smell the wild flowers
and reach for a star.
Make true your dreams
of peace, love, and care,
so precious a gift
that today is so rare.

Come with me now—

Vi Jones
©January 9, 2007

WHEN THE SICKNESS IS YOUR SOUL

2006-08-25T19:46:00.000-07:00

By Anita Marie Moscoso

From The Soul Food Alphabet Project

“F” is for Fire Filled Forge

http://www.dailywriting.net/Alphabet/F.html

When Morgan Gamble was 12 he pushed a classmate over a railing when she was trying to collect leaves on a class field trip for a project. The Project was a little booklet of local native plants and the little girl- Ona Crocata, fell to her death to the rocks below the bluffs.

In the spirit of true American Justice the police talked to Darren Marks, the bad kid who lit fire crackers in the bathrooms and smoked his dad’s cigarettes during recess behind the gym, they talked to Crystal Barker who’s Father was in jail and they talked to the Simon Ledbetter, one of the Park Maintenance staff who spent his weekends at Peace Rallies at the University in Feverfew.

The Police were about to resort to using a Ouija Board if need be to talk to a few of the executed criminals who took their last breath up at the Prison in Fallen (the next town over) because that made more sense then to even think about questioning Morgan Gamble, who was not only seen walking up the path to the cliff tops with Ona, people actually saw him running down the path after Ona hit the rocks below.

Morgan Gamble played baseball and was a Boy Scout and his older brother was a first year Med Student and his high school age sister a cheerleader. His Mom’s name was Betsy and his Dad was named Skip and they had two cars and one of the biggest, newest houses built in the newest and best new town of Ransomville.

Why on Earth would you spend time talking to a boy like Morgan who came from a family like the Gambles about the Murder of a little girl with perpetually tangled hair and socks that didn’t match and clothes that her Mother bought at the Neighbors In Need Charity Shops?

In the end a lot of people thought that, so Ona Crocata’s death was ruled a suicide.

After all, it was decided what else could it have been?

The stars that filled the sky lined up for Morgan Gamble: he got to grow up and get married and have a wife and a home of his own while Ona Crocata, wrapped in a simple white sheet and dressed (the dress had actually been carefully draped and pinned around the little girls smashed and ruined body) in her Mother’s best Easter dress turned to dust and bone in her simple pine casket at the Leaning Birches Cemetery in Larkspear.

Despite the fact the Sun and the Heavens smiled down on Morgan his eyes were closed to all of it. He didn’t see it; you don’t need to have open eyes to look into yourself 24 hours a day seven days a week.

Ona Crocata eyes were always opened.

And they were always looking out.

Morgan’s wife was named Ginny and the only difference between Ginny and his Mother were their voices. Betsy Gamble talked high and fast and Ginny Leonard-Gamble talked high and ultra fast so listening to the two of them at the same time was sort of like listening to a table saw running none stop for hours on end.

Morgan didn’t care as long as that high pitched whine wasn’t heading in his direction.

Only last Monday not only did that high pitched intolerable whine head his way it ran down his throat and he almost choked on it. The Whine was magnified a hundred times over and the sound levels could only be compared to standing next to a jet when it takes off.

God, what was that noise?

Then he remembered- Monday night was The Book of The Month Club night.

On book club night Ginny and her friends sat around in their living room and talked about plot lines and drank some wine, they talked about character motivation and then they drank more wine by the time they got around to talking about what the book meant they were all blasted which was good because the only thing worse then listening his wife’s book club talk was listening to them talk sober.

At least this way they were sort of amusing.

It made up for the screaming headache Morgan got when they were around.

Morgan managed to make it from their indoor garage with minimum pain when two little words drifted up from the living room to the entrance way as he closed the living room door.

“Dog Girl”

His face turned red and he looked up and around to make sure he wasn’t the one who had said those words out loud.

Then he heard it again only much louder this time, “Dog Girl”

He followed those two words into his living room and smiled his best toothpaste ad type smile to his wife and her friends and said, “You all sound like Junior High school girls…what’s this Dog Girl talk?”

“It’s our book of the month “Ginny tried to say “it’s a ghost story.”

“About a Dog Girl? What is that some kind of New Age Hippy Chick in search of her inner animal or something?”

They all laughed like they were suppose to and Morgan preened like he was suppose to and then Mr. Good Humor Man left the room, “No really, what kind of story is it?”

Ginny saw her husband’s face turn to a cold hard mask right in front of her friends for Pete’s Sake, how could he? So she tried to focus her eyes and get serious so she could get him out of the room.

“ It’s about this little girl who was murdered, when she comes back as a ghost she doesn’t know she’s dead and when she figures it out she kills her murderer.”

“Really.” Morgan held his hand out for the book. “Why is it called Dog Girl” was she ugly or something?

Ginny shook her head and the motion almost made her get sick. “No, that’s what he called her before he shoved her over the railing…Dog Girl.”

Morgan looked at the book and on the cover was a Walnut Tree growing over the edge of a cliff. “ No one could’ve known that, what it felt like to put his hand against the small of her back and feel that little push… no one except for Dog Girl and …”

“Morgan!” Ginny shirked as Morgan quoted the book “you’ve done it, you actually read a book!”

“How does she kill him?”

“He starts to see her everywhere, at the Park, playing with his children, in the Mall. She becomes as real to him as anybody and it makes him crazy.”

“Sees her?” he asked

One of Ginny’s friends chimed in, “He sees her everywhere. So he goes out to the Cemetery to find her grave and dig her up and it’s gone. Dog Girl is gone and so are her grave and tombstone and all.”

“ So, “ a high pitched voice grated against Morgan’s brittle nerves “ he goes out to his garage closes the windows and puts rags under the doors and such and starts his car and dies from carbon monoxide poisoning.”

“And just when he thinks he’s finally free of Dog Girl he sees her through the exhaust just outside of the driver’s window and he knows just as he dies it’s only the beginning. Dog Girl is never going to leave him…ever.”

Morgan nodded and for the first time in years, maybe for the first time in his life he looked outside of himself and all he saw was Ona “Dog Girl “Crocata.

He decided it would be best if he got use to it now because he had the feeling that was all he would be looking at for a very long time.

Auffer the Children- finale

2006-08-12T20:20:00.000-07:00

PART 6

He felt the first ticklings of the girl’s Change arriving, and began to send a matching response. Every moment he was awake he kept thoughts of her in his mind’s eye.

As he was out and about of an autumnal day he stumbled across her scent, ripe and compelling, he began to follow this to the source. At last he saw her, from the way she held herself he could see the worry and doubt in every line of her.

She looked at her latest meal, she had enjoyed every drop, without thought of the younglings. Agitated to the point she was unaware of her actions, she involuntarily hissed at the secrets within the shadows.

The urge rose in him, primal and insatiable, and he fought it down with great effort. He truly enjoyed his time with every female who had accepted his advances, and he was determined to make their time something to be savoured.

There was a quality of childhood games in the suit, advance and retreat, innocent touches. While all clan members could witness the courtship, the consummation would be private and remain so.

But, he must gain her acceptance, and trust, in time for the Change. Her scent grew stronger, and his own desire led him to her Home.

She stood in an open space, alone and aloof, her head tipped back. There were three other men in attendance already, yet two hissed before leaving in frustration.

The one that was left, locked eyes with him, it was perhaps two breaths and the third looked away in defeat, then slid into the shadows.

She turned to him, her eyes were as intense as an Elder’s and an air of distraction swirled around her. “How did they, and you, find me, and…”

“It can’t be that Time yet, I still have younglings to feed!!” Her voice was desperate, the cry of the hunted.

“I want to help.” He offered proof in food, good and fresh, enough to feed them for days.

They were gaze locked, and motionless, then she turned her hands palm up, as the Laws prescribe.

“I accept your Suit.” She would now be with him until her first birthing was survived, and she had enough help without his presence.

Then she would have the option to accept or refuse his suit again. After three acceptances they were legally an accepted pairing.

“Now, my dear, give me nibbles then let us feed the younglings until they fall asleep feeding.” The traditional nibbles were barely hard enough to draw blood. Their blood was mingled, and they were now engaged in the fashion of their People.

He began to feed the younglings with the confidence of experience.

She looked at the younglings, slurping their food greedily. With a sigh of relief she buried her fangs in her scarred wrist and then offered it to the nearest mouth in the writhing cluster of youngling Vampyrs, in the thicker larval sacs their only truly recognisable feature was their gleaming fangs.

Suffer the Children-Part 5

2006-08-12T02:23:00.000-07:00

PART 5

Brother was maturing too quickly, mastering things he should not have for years yet, and he thrived on it. He grew, seemingly, every day. He had flawless taste, and a daring sense of theatrics.

Tonight he looked his ragged best, every inch the lost child he was. She knew where he was going, the truck stop at the far border of the area they could search in one day.

Always, always sneaking, and making do, they were slowly fading towards extinction. Sister was weaker all the time, and as the younglings grew they needed food in distressing quantities.

Already the rumours were spreading, tales of ghosts, and curses were roused and settled into everyone’s thoughts. They would be found out too soon. And that would be the end of everything that they knew.

He carefully faded into the background while he was searching for food. There were less and less chances for good food, and he lived with a grippe of fear niggling at him every second.

Often he let food pass by for one of many reasons, not the least of which was safety. Sister played the Laws almost every time they slept and had them answer questions about them that she tossed at them randomly.

One man watched him every night, noting every detail, his sun blonde hair, sleepy violet eyes, and a dimple clinging to the corner of his full-lipped pout. He had skin the colour of gold dust in the wind, the texture seemed to be burnished, yet he was still pale and delicate of frame.

He wore clothes in shades of butterscotch, cocoa brown, antique gold, and creams. When he wasn’t playing the pitiful stray child, he dressed like a miniature executive, impeccable and immaculate clothes draped elegantly from his shoulders.

His clothes were a camouflage; no one really noticed a well-dressed, polite young man slipping quietly through a crowded restaurant.

Occasionally, someone would feel his presence, and rarely, know, that was when he would put into practice the ways and whys of distraction.

Finally, second Brother was old enough to start looking and he stuck by Sister’s side for as little time as they dared. First brother was free to seek another territory and start his own life. But, he took a share of the younglings with him, to ease Sister’s burden.

Even with the drop in hungry mouths to feed there was still a struggle to stay barely alive. When he could, first Brother brought food to Sister’s brood.

At the same time he worried. He could see the beginnings of The Change coming upon her.

Soon she would have no choice but to seek a mate and who would want her?

She still had so many hungry younglings, and was nearly ready to start on her own clan. First Brother embarked on a Quest, to find a fit mate for Sister.

It seemed that everywhere he went, he could find no one, just hints and half-perceived intuitings. The Moon waxed and waned, then waxed and waned again and no one had appeared that he deemed worthy of Sister.

It was now becoming imperative that a mate be found, the Signs of Imminent Change were clear. Sister began to solidify, despite the denials she had forced on her system. Her figure had bloomed and now she was becoming provocative in her mannerisms.

She was embarrassed, and at the same time sorrowful. She too, knew what was happening. Soon she would have to send out the call. She didn’t want to, she wasn’t guaranteed of finding a fit mate in all this lonesome, or even a poor one.

(Tomorrow, my dears, will be the ending of my tale. I hope that you have enjoyed it. Thank you for sticking with me.)

Suffer the Children- Part 4

2006-08-10T14:30:00.000-07:00

PART 4

He knew they were out there, the orphans, and he knew he must find them before any more younglings were lost. Who would have thought someone that young could have accomplished what the girl was doing?

He reached out, seeking a connexion with her, a way to channel strength in her direction. All he sensed was the sleeping patterns of the orphans.

He sighed in frustration then slowed his mind until he was in a conscious Alpha State. He tasted the restfulness she had created and gifted to her charges.

The rift had gone on far too long, children were never meant to bear this much responsibility. She should be dreaming of the first time she is allowed to be out with a young man, not struggling to feed that many rapacious mouths.

Knowing it futile to rue the past, and practicing it are two very different things. As he walked the streets his thoughts remained on the girl; what she could become, given the chance.

He insinuated himself in the rhythms of her dreams, and sent thoughts of acceptance, and the desire to help. Still, he was kept from knowing where they were.

His own sister had run away with her lover when Father had forbid them to court. As a consequence, the first time his sister had birthed she died of the effort, leaving a mate prostrated in grief.

The loss was felt through all the Clans, so much hope had been focussed on his sister. She had the chance to help secure peace with the Western Clans, she wedded a Western Clansman, aye, but it was a serf, not the heir apparent.

Now, another rebellious woman’s passion, had orphaned her first birthing, it was her eldest, a daughter, that Shone, she had the Gift of the Blood. She should be pampered, and protected; not shivering on shadowed byways struggling to be an entire family through her slight form.

He knew her Blood ran true, he had felt her Dance, and the energy she could harness. For all those years he had always thought no one could outshine their Mother, until he felt the touch of that lovely lass.

“Ah, Damn!!” He scowled at the night and a cat snarled his way up a tree, every hair rigid with fright. A gleam of feral eye and flash of teeth meant to kill, then the cat was gone, fled to another portion of its territory.

His restless wanderings took him to quiet, affluent neighbourhood. Behind doors so quick to open was where that girl should be going.

Suffer the Children- Chapter 2 & 3

2006-08-09T22:02:00.000-07:00

PART 2

Brother was almost shaking in excitement, anticipating his first time along with Sister, He thought she had taught them well, even the slower children understood what she teaching. This would be the test of her skills, if he succeeded, she would be more comfortable with taking the ones that were old enough to go out and search along with her on a regular basis.

He had so many ideas to help in their unusual situation, yet many rules held them fast in this draining state. How wonderful it would be to see the young ones go to bed with full tummies every night! Ah!!! To finally be able to see them growing, and maturing as they ought!!

Everything he had learned spun in his head, while his pores contracted in excitement, his pale skin appeared to have been polished like marble. At last he would start to help, as he had dreamed of doing for longer than Sister would ever know.

As soon as he would be able to search on his own, the next oldest Brother wanted to go out. That would surely turn the tide, and then they would be able to move to the city. They would have so many opportunities there, far more than here in the middle of nowhere.

Before he was truly aware of it, he and Sister were on their way, moving so easily that he felt as if he were floating a few inches off the ground. A wave of euphoria shook him until he was getting light headed and couldn’t help a giggle of delight.

Sister kept a portion of her attention on her sibling, it couldn’t be predicted how someone would react to their first taste of adulthood. She felt that her brother would take to it so easily that she would soon be taking another sib along.

After they had spent weeks polishing his attention to detail and sense of timing, before they went looking for food. He was pleased that everything he had pointed out was a possibility, surely he would settle into his role fast.

Having both of them working as a team, they were able to find more food, not always what they wished, but there was no more going to bed with empty tummies. At last the younger ones began to grow, still too slowly, but they were growing.

It wasn’t two full months before he was allowed to go out on his own. Determined to prove himself capable of being a provider, he carefully selected the food he knew would be best for everyone. The first time he found good food, he showed up at home with all pomp and circumstance, and found that the smallest of the younglings had Passed Over.

While the others fed messily, and talked between bites, with food smeared on their faces, Brother took the tiny girl and prepared her to be interred. He styled the honey blonde hair, and thought of the times she had look up to him so trustingly, full of confidence in her oldest brother.

When Sister returned she wept openly, bidding her farewell to the child curled in a foetal shape. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy as she rocked the child, crooning broken snatches of song between her sniffles.

Finally, Brother was able to wrest the body away from her, and carry it to the place reserved for those who had Passed Over. As Sister wept softly, with too many young ones crying for her, he placed the Traditional Cover on the Resting Place and whispered a sad prayer.

The clan walked slowly back to their home, and tried to rest, despite the sadness staining the air. Sister heard many restless sounds as she was begging for sleep.

It didn’t take long for her to accept that it was going to be one of those nights. Sighing slowly, she slid, snake silent, from her bed and stole her way to the stereo in the dark. She tapped the speaker button off, and plugged in the headphones.

Part 3

Rapt in velvet darkness she joined with the music, swaying and posturing shamelessly, in the womb of sound she sought surcease. She felt as though she were floating above the floor, and was but feathers away from flight.

A faint, reminiscent smile hovered in her cheeks, and her cheeks were modelled by the shadow of eyelashes, even her head moved with the music.

With her mouth parted a whisper and her hips swaying in smoky counterpoint, the hemline of the faded thin nightshirt began to move as if alive. Were anyone to see her she would seem a vision, something perhaps elfin and fey.

Her big toe and a sliver of sole were all that was connecting with the soft carpet. When she leaned back her hair spread like ice shards on the carpet.

At last, the song arrived; it called to her restless spirit and drew the most sensuous motions from her heart. She slowed, breathing through her open mouth.

She seemed to be rocking herself in the shadows, until the guitar cried through her.
She went from provocative to pleading with a tilt of her hair, and her arms uncrossed. Her hands moved with the sway of warning cobras, slowly moving Heavenward.

“Darkness, darkness,
Be my pillow…”

Robert Plant’s evocative treatment of the lyrics unclenched her heart and she was lost between the notes, begging the presence of each one, moving in a glory of understanding.

“Take my head
And let me sleep.”

Her face was highlighted with tears, and her fragile hands were beseeching blurs of pallor. She looked the ghost of some danseuse, dead of broken dreams.

Limber and utterly focussed, she slid into the harmonics of Plant’s “Little By Little”. Her mind went into deep Alpha state, and the relaxation spread outward to soothe everyone into gentle sleep.

When every breath was slow and even, she began to change her movements until she swayed almost imperceptibly. At last the sweet sag of sleepiness coiled through her muscles, she crawled gratefully into her bed and closed her eyes.

Suffer the Children

2006-08-08T20:26:00.000-07:00

PART 1

She hadn’t known a moment without worry since the last of the adults had Passed Over. She alone was responsible for two-dozen hungry mouths, there was never enough to go around, and often she went without so the children wouldn’t be hungry. Food was hard to come by in the middle of nowhere, until she got old enough to move the whole clan closer to a big city they would have to make do.

Food was searched for as often and as much as could be dared; always, always with the fear of getting caught nagging at her and disturbing her concentration. Without her all the children would die, and that was unthinkable, she would die before letting the little ones wither away from constant hunger. With as little food as she was able to find there was never enough to fill everyone’s bellies.

She pictured herself, her translucent skin, depthless black eyes and cloud of silver blonde, wavy hair suited the cast of her features. She closed her eyes; they were what ancient Oriental cultures call ‘Dragon’s Eyes’; long, slanting, heavily lashed, and seeming to be half-lidded all the time. . Her eyes were the sort that compels you to lock gazes and listen. Pursing her lush mouth briefly, the lips startlingly red, teetering on the edge of a smile at all times, with a small frown between her eyebrows she checked every youngling tenderly.

All her clothes were carefully chosen to play off the striking colouring she had, black, deep blues and greens, occasionally crisp white or the shade of a blood ruby. She chose styles that were flowing and made of light, soft materials accentuating the ethereal, almost incorporeal quality to her appearance.

A trick of light could have her looking old far beyond her years, as though she had already seen how ugly mankind could be. Her habit of ducking her head when she began to smile loaned her an air of old fashioned shyness. Blessed with a soft, sweet voice, her words fell like flower petals to drift slowly into your consciousness.

Tonight it was bitterly cold, and sleet fell, sharp blades of frozen rain that slapped against her cheeks; standing in the night air, feeling numb and woozy from hunger; she looked up at the sliver of a waning moon, distant and uninterested in her situation. There had to be food out here somewhere, there just had to!!

Knowing that she was far too tired, and battered by the elements, she listened, and searched the darkness with desperate eyes. There! She’d located some food; the children wouldn’t be as hungry tonight. Her search was always brief, and carefully orchestrated to avoid damage to the food. It was not enough, but it was all she could get on her own.

Tonight, however, there were problems actually getting her hands on the food; by the time she had it in her hands she knew she would have to hurry to get it home in time for them to go to bed at a decent hour.

Back home, she patiently fed all the younglings while they cried in hunger and desperation. There was barely a mouthful, maybe two, for her when their hunger was muted. As late as it had grown, there was barely time to settle all the littlest ones to sleep, and send the middle third, before she and the three oldest ones bid sweet dreams to one another.

Disturbing her restless sleep, the voice of hunger resonated through her, straining all joy from her dreams, and leaving bitter whey in her memory. Her own voice was slurred, falling upon deaf walls and soundless bed. Over and over she awakened, then, hissing in frustration, struggle to return to her rest.

Another night, the same as any other, except for expanding their search areas, hoping to have the efforts pay off quickly. By accident, she had discovered the diner, and marked it mentally as a place to get food for the younglings. Tonight, everyone had fed well, and she had even managed to soften the hunger-cries in her bones.

The little ones had drifted off with the rosy cheeks of good sleep, still snuggling with the older children. Everyone felt the glow from a truly good meal there had even been laughter, so rarely heard recently.

All the clan had been able to bed down comfortably and drift into restful, healing sleep. She even noted a soft flush in her cheeks, “Now that is better, we’re supposed to look like this all the time.”

”I’m old enough to help Sister, It will get better then.” The next oldest, a tall, lean boy with wavy masses of nearly black hair, and catlike golden brown eyes, already marked by their struggles.
“Not yet love, you’ve still more to learn. If you don’t learn it, you will never be able to make it in this world.” Her voice was soft, pitched low enough to not disturb the young ones.

“Please, you’re always so tired, and pale. I get afraid that you won’t come back some morning. I need to help.” Already the young man knew how to get his older sister to let him do what he wanted to.

“All right, you can come with me, there are things that you can’t understand until you have seen them firsthand” She sighed, and tossed a smile to him. “You must give me your Blood Oath that you will do exactly what I say, without questions.”

He paused for a long moment, he could hear the hum of the power lines overhead. “I give my Blood Oath, I will do as you say.”

Sister sighed, knowing what a shock her brother was in for. Everything he had gotten drilled into him from the very beginning had best be clearly understood. When they were in the middle of looking for food was not the time for him to become rebellious, or worse, impatient.

{Don't worry my dears, I wrote the whole tale before I posted a word...}

That's Where She Gets It From!

2006-07-31T22:02:00.000-07:00

From The following exercise at the Soul Food Cafe
Box of Chocolates
‘Lessons and Philosophy from the Bear of Very Little Brain’

http://www.outbackonline.net/choc%20box/choc_pooh.htm

Fe, fa, fi-fo-fum

I smell the breath of an Englishman

Let him be alive

or let him be dead

I’ll grind his bones to make my bread

And wrapped around these Merry Little Lines was a tale about Cannibalism, Breaking and Entering (or as they refer to it on the Cop shows “ B & E”) and cold blooded murder (okay, I’d settle for Manslaughter. Or would it be Giant Slaughter?) Regardless, that Giant wouldn’t have ended up dead at the foot of the beanstalk had a certain little Englishman not been snooping around places he didn’t belong!

Back to the story…before I learned to read my Mom use to buy me these children’s books called “ Golden Readers”. They were easy to read (and by that I mean easy for the Parents to read.) The Fairy Tales were written at about an eight year olds reading level.Back in the day they were nice little books- I still have a few of them on my bookshelf. They were bound with string, not glue or paste and the pictures were wonderful.

Lots of detail, no pastels and they didn’t use block type. So no matter how little you were you felt like you were reading a ‘big kid’s book’.

And if you couldn’t read you may have done what I did: I use take the books and make my own story up to fit the pictures.

The thing is I ALWAYS saw more then what was actually there and by the ripe old age of five I was already addicted to a TV show called Nightmare Theatre. They played old horror and ghosts films every Friday and on Saturday afternoon they had a matinee.

I guess you can see where this is going…

Jack and the Beanstalk? Ha, How’s about Jack the Little Ripper?

I hated Jack.

He was mean and sneaky and remember the Harp calling out for the Giant? I thought she wanted to stay and I just knew that little Jerk Jack was going to take her down the Beanstalk and she would never see her castle again (well, that’s how I told it.)

I would read about Jack throwing all the stuff he stole from the castle down the beanstalk and just before he gets caught the last time he slides down the beanstalk, grabs an axe and he starts chopping and hacking until down comes the beanstalk and before you can say ‘busted’ the Giant crashes after it and dies.

So in the end Jack is sitting at this table and the harp is crying and Jack’s Mom is serving him stew (which I was convinced contained some Giant along with the chickens he stole…why NOT eat the Giant? He ate everything else he lifted from the Castle!)

Remember Jack swinging the axe? I do, I can still see it. So how does it end?

The last picture in the book is of Jack at the table with the stolen harp and the chunky stew.

That picture finally got to me in a big way.

I remember taking my little copy of Jack and The Beanstalk and tossing it under my bed where it STAYED.

That’s right…everytime I found it on my bookshelf or in my toy box I’d take that sucker and throw it under my bed because everytime I saw it I could hear that line over and over…the only one I remembered after my Mom read me the book (which I didn’t buy for a minute that malarkey she read was true)

Fe, fa, fi-fo-fum

I smell the breath of an Englishman

Let him be alive

or let him be dead

I’ll grind his bones to make my bread

It was never a Giant’s Voice I heard when I ‘read’ my little Golden Book. It was always a kid’s voice, a little boy’s voice. It was laughing the entire time and it wasn’t a happy laugh.

Fe, fa, fi-fo-fum

"The Real Dread Pirate Roberts" (Inspired by The Pirates of the Caribbean 2)

2006-07-12T10:26:00.000-07:00

Last night the History Channel premiered an interesting documentary on The True Caribbean Pirates, and, naturally because Jon is on the island that was once Hispañola (now the Dominican Republic and Haiti), and because we recently saw The Pirates of the Caribbean 2, I wanted to see it and who they showcased in the documentary. Of course, they had the inescapable, infamous and oft-mentioned pirates. You know, Blackbeard, Henry Morgan, Anne Bonny, Calico Jack(?)... And they named a few that were reportedly famous, dangeous and highly feared--but I'd never heard of them. Like Black Bart Roberts, for instance, whom I like to refer to as..."The Real Dread Pirate Roberts."

I had no idea he existed, but mmmaann he was ruthless, merciless and the most successful pirate ever in the Golden Age of Piracy. On par or more with Blackbeard, and I'd always thought Blackbeard was the biggest and most frightening scourge of the sea! But it appears Roberts was.

The Real Dread Pirate Roberts was born in Pembrokeshire, Wales, May 17, 1682. At the age of 37, while the third mate on board the slave ship, The Princess of London, pirates overcame the ship and forced him into piracy because of his skills as a navigator. Six weeks later, after the death of Captain Howell Davis in battle, the pirates elected him as their new captain, and he accepted. His first act as a pirate captain was to lead his crew back to El Principe to avenge the death of their old captain. Under the cover of darkness, he and his crew landed on the island, attacking and killing the majority of the male population and stealing all items of worth they could carry. Though his career as a pirate was short--only four years long--Roberts, as I said before, was the most successful. He captured a remarkable total of 456 ships, once twenty-two at a time. He raided off the coasts of Africa, Brazil, and Newfoundland; and I think, was said to dress in scarlet red.

He was also atypical for a pirate.

He was a teetotaler; he preferred tea instead.
He loathed drunkeness and louts, cruelty and profanity.
He was always well-dressed.
He had excellent manners.
He forbade excessive gambling between his crew.
He held Sunday worship service onboard ship.
He was always clean-shaven.
He treated those he met with the utmost kindness and respect. (Uh...oook? Maybe those not victims of his acts of piracy?)
He had excellent, beautiful handwriting.
Being a lover of music, he had on board hired musicians.

Black Bart, in accordance with his "gentlemanly" ways, wrote 11 Shipboard Articles, or his own "pirate code of conduct" in 1721.

Every man shall have an equal vote in affairs of moment. He shall have an equal title to the fresh provisions or strong liquors at any time seized, and shall use them at pleasure unless a scarcity may make it necessary for the common good that a retrenchment may be voted.
Every man shall be called fairly in turn by the list on board of prizes, because over and above their proper share, they are allowed a shift of clothes. But if they defraud the company to the value of even one dollar in plate, jewels or money, they shall be marooned. If any man rob another he shall have his nose and ears slit, and be put ashore where he shall be sure to encounter hardships.
None shall game for money either with dice or cards.
The lights and candles should be put out at eight at night, and if any of the crew desire to drink after that hour they shall sit upon the open deck without lights.
Each man shall keep his piece, cutlass and pistols at all times clean and ready for action.
No boy or woman to be allowed amongst them. If any man shall be found seducing any of the latter sex and carrying her to sea in disguise he shall suffer death.
He that shall desert the ship or his quarters in time of battle shall be punished by death or marooning.
None shall strike another on board the ship, but every man's quarrel shall be ended on shore by sword or pistol in this manner. At the word of command from the quartermaster, each man being previously placed back to back, shall turn and fire immediately. If any man do not, the quartermaster shall knock the piece out of his hand. If both miss their aim they shall take to their cutlasses, and he that draweth first blood shall be declared the victor.
No man shall talk of breaking up their way of living till each has a share of 1,000. Every man who shall become a cripple or lose a limb in the service shall have 800 pieces of eight from the common stock and for lesser hurts proportionately.
The captain and the quartermaster shall each receive two shares of a prize, the master gunner and boatswain, one and one half shares, all other officers one and one quarter, and private gentlemen of fortune one share each.
The musicians shall have rest on the Sabbath Day only by right. On all other days by favour only.

It was only a year later in February of 1722 that his (relatively) young life was cut short. (He was in his early 40s, remember.) Captain Roberts was killed instantly off of Cape Lopez, Gabon, by cannon grapeshot, which caught him in the throat while he and his crew battled Captain Chaloner Ogle's man-of-war, the HMS Swallow. Ogle had been sent to West Africa to capture and arrest pirates. It was Robert's long-standing wish to be buried at sea, thereby avoiding any capturing and displaying of his body by the victor. So, mere minutes after his death, his crew threw a sheet over him and bound his body in chains, throwing it overboard. (His skeleton most likely resides in chains and a sheet on the bottom of the ocean floor somewhere still today.) Fifty-two of his 254 pirate crew were hanged after the battle. His motto was "A merry life and a short one." It has been speculated since that most of his crew was drunk when the Man-of-war came upon them.

One of Black Bart's two flags.

Seafaring Legends (Inspired by The Pirates of the Caribbean 2)

2006-07-12T10:22:00.000-07:00

For the most part, the teasers and trailers for the show reveal Captain Jack Sparrow has a debt to pay to Davy Jones, and that price or debt is his very soul. *voice goes very deep and eeerie on that last word* Nnoo, not Davy Jones from The Monkees--ha ha ha--but the infamous Davy Jones of "Davy Jones' Locker."

In the movie, Davy Jones and his oceanic undead crew manned the phantom ship, The Flying Dutchman. They also had control of the...Kracken...the horrifying mythical sea monster, whom they summoned to destroy any ship on which any particular captain, crew or individual sailor who had dared incur Jones' wrath was.

Also for the movie, the writers had created their own history or legend for Davy Jones. Not knowing that much about him, but being familiar with the phrase:

"He's gone to Davy Jones' Locker!"and knowing what it means, and also knowing something about the Flying Dutchman, their (the writers') mish mash of sailor lore had me wonderin'--yes, *half smile* my mind is almost always comin' up with new questions--and wanting to know more about both. Er, Davy Jones and the Flying Dutchman, of course. Sssoo here we are!

Watching the movie, and knowing the lil I knew about each--the captainship of Davy Jones of the Flying Dutchman didn't ring true--I wanted to find the truth and separate the two legends. According to a recent article in the Hartford Courant newspaper by Susan Dunne, Davy Jones is a spirit of the briny deep who lives on the ocean floor, gathering the bodies of those who die at sea into his locker. He's "'the fiend that presides over all the evil spirits of the deep, and is often seen in various shapes, perching among the rigging on the eve of hurricanes, shipwrecks, and other disasters to which seafaring life is exposed, warning the devoted wretch of death and woe'" (quoted from Thomas Smollet's novel The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle). He's the one the most superstitious of sailors would rather not discuss. Oh, they'll refer to Jones and his dwelling place, all right, but they'd rather leave him an indefinite, unbodied character who keeps to his home, or locker, at the bottom of the sea.

No one knows, really, how he became a feared legend. Some say Davy Jones isn't real. Some speculate he was a pub owner, who allegedly shoved passed out drunken sailors into his ale locker and then dumped them on board any ship that happened to pass by his port town. Others say the name Davy Jones is a mangling of Duffer Jones, a sailor famed throughout the seven seas for being so nearsighted that he often fell overboard. *tries not to laugh at that picture* (I wonder how many times someone yelled, "Man overboard!" And another sailor complained, "Not again!" and another might have said, "It's Jones, isn't it?" in a knowing, resigned tone of voice. Then they would have had to fish the poor guy out.) According to yet another group, Davy might be the Anglicizing of the West Indian word, dubby or duffy, meaning "ghost."

But only the most wicked, hellbound pirates need fear the full wrath of Davy Jones. Though their bodies go to his locker, it is generally believed that a Christian sailor's soul goes to the Fiddlers' Green. In that fine place, an old salt's grog mug and tobacco pipe are always full and beautiful maidens dance forever on a sunny, verdant hillside to the tune of a fiddle.

The Flying Dutchman, if some of you are familiar with the tale, is a tragic one. That much is agreed upon. What isn't agreed upon is whether or not the legend is based upon a real ship and crew. Or rather, on a couple of novels. (Though if sailors through the years have reported sightings of a phantom ship with a spectral glow about it, I'm more inclined to believe them and say it was an actual ship.)

In each version of the story, the captain's name is different, but his iron resolution and his crew's and ship's tragic fate is the same. Whoever the captain was, and whether or not he was foolhardy, stupid, arrogant and proud in his refusal to stay in port till after the storm blew over, or whether he and his crew were caught unawares by a sudden hurricane is debatable. What is agreed upon in the various versions of the legend is that the captain vowed to get 'round the Cape of Good Hope (or Storms), that no storm (nor possibly God) would stop him from making his destination and he'd sail till Doomsday if need be. And to this day the Flying Dutchman continues to sail as a ghost ship, trying to make it around the Cape.

Over the years many people claimed to have seen the ghost ship off their shores, but no sensible captains would or will take their ship near the spectral ship if spotted, because it's believed something terrible would or will happen aboard their ship if they did/do.

The most interesting and well known sighting of the ship was made by the King George V of England, when he was a prince and crewman aboard the HMS Bacchante in 1881. The sighting was recorded in the ship's log, telling of how the ghostly apparition seemed to glow red and of how they could make out all her masts, spars and sails. When the HMS Bacchante sailed closer the vision seemed to disappear, in the manner of a mirage, and the sea was unnaturally calm in that spot. Later that day, the crewman who had first reported the ghostly sighting, fell to his death from the crow's nest.

Another sighting that gives truth to the legend occurred in 1939, when hundreds of people saw the ship off the coast of False Bay. It appeared to be sailing towards the shore at Muizenberg and seemed likely to end up on the beach. Then suddenly it vanished! Into thin air. Many people were convinced that it was the ghost of the Flying Dutchman, still trying to make it 'round the Cape.

Thinking of our Anita Marie

2006-07-05T11:27:00.000-07:00

Mum, Matt and myself are addicted to 'junketing', which is our euphemism for touring the local secondhand stores. Not only do I take my cheque-book, I also take my trusty digital camera. I have started collecting pictures of thinks I call "Frighteningly Fugly Finds", the last time that Matt and I went junketing I found the... whatever these critters are... below.

They gave Matt and myself pause, and I had to take a picture, to share with Anita Marie. If anyone has an idea of what these little horrors are supposed to be, I would love to hear it!!

B is for Block

2006-06-29T19:02:00.000-07:00

B is for Block

All of us have been creatively blocked. That is an understatement for many of us. I write this today because I am blocked. Ideas are eluding me even with the wealth of prompts being presented to me on the blogs. Words won’t come. Images won’t coalesce in my mind. I cannot focus to read. My mind drifts.

So what do you do? My suggestion is the standard cure of writing about the block. But sometimes that is even hard to do—like right now! If you should also find yourself in this situation, even if it is just going through the motions, even if what you write or draw is absolutely awful—do it anyway! If you get out of the habit of creating, you will have a hard time getting back into it. Do not lose momentum in your creativity because some jackass in your life has kicked you in the teeth. Do not lose what you have gained because life has thrown you a curve ball. Pick up the blasted ball and throw it back! (Metaphorically speaking!)

Step away from the problem or person who is stifling you. Go on a vacation if you can afford it. If you can’t, walk to a park. Breathe. Meditate. Pray. If you are a spiritual person and have a particular faith tradition, draw on it. If you have a higher power, call on it. Use the block as a means of transmutation of your creative self. Make it an alchemical process of the soul.

But whatever you do, do not put down that pen, that brush, that whatever. Do what you need to do to keep your creative spirit alive. It's a matter of survival.

LGloyd © June 29, 2006

Faerie Tale Myths: "Hotter Than Hades"

2006-06-27T16:18:00.000-07:00

Faerie tale myths: Are they true...or debunkable?
L'Enchanteur Magazine tests various faerie tale myths to see if they can hold up in modern times.

By Bella Von Prince
L'Enchanteur Special Sections Editor

Part II: Is the Underworld truly the hottest place, or did Hades get a bum rap?

Growing up, every summer when days got to a sweltering point the phrase, "Hotter than Hades..." was heard quite frequently around our house. In fact, it's still used whenever the temperatures climb high or when something is supremely hot to the touch. Hades, of course, being the polite term for Hell, that sulfurous pit of endless torture, gnashing of teeth, clawing and wailing, brimstone and fire.

Growing up I was taught a slightly different view of this place, and being the lover of myths and legends that I am, well, I learned to ponder over and see how other peoples--past and present--view the Afterlife or Underworld. I've studied and read many myths and legends from various cultures, and most every one has held some degree or other of fascination for me.

As a child and continuing into high school, the Greeks and the Romans were the ones who held the greatest interest for me. I would check out children's books and later books for young adults, which were compilations of myths revolving around the spotlighted gods and goddesses. I soon had my few favorite myths that I read over and over till I had them memorized, instead of reading the entire collections again when I checked them out. One of the myths that has held a constant interest for me through the years is one of the only myths where we see the taciturn Hades as a main character or as having a pivotal part in the events taking place in a tale. Sometimes known as the Abduction... or Rape of Persephone, this myth is better known as Demeter and Persephone, for the wanderings and experiences the Earth goddess has as she searches for her beloved daughter.

According to the Greco-Roman view, Hades (or the Roman Pluto) is a loner, a taciturn, saturnine, yet wily and just ruler of the Underworld. As for the Underworld itself... It doesn't sound like a fun or happy place very often. It's a dark, vast realm with many sections:

Elysian Fields (contrast the Christian Paradise or Heaven)
Tartarus (compare the Christian Hell)
Plain of Judgement
Palace of Hades (of which doors Cerberus, the three-headed dog, guards)
Grove of Persephone
The Elm from which False Dreams cling
Vale of Mourning
Asphodel Fields
Pool on Mnemosyne (memory)

And five rivers:

Acheron (the river of sorrow)
Cocytus (lamentation)
Phlegethon (fire)
Lethe (forgetfulness)
Styx (hate)

In the sources I used for this article, Acheron is said to be the river dead souls gather by to wait for Charon to deliver them to the other side. But from what I remember as a youth, it was the River Styx Charon traversed for the price of a coin. Not Acheron. Then again, one of my sources also said the Greeks weren't too particular about the geography of their Underworld.

Being the Christian I am, and knowing something of other cultures' and other religious views of the Afterlife, I think Hades--both the god and the place--got a bum rap. In the few stories or myths they're mentioned in, he and his realm are spoken of in fearful tones, and the shades or souls of those whom heroes go down to rescue or to visit with while on quests sound so melancholy and somber, one gets a depressing impression. In the stories I've read, Hades, though wily, has never been intentionally cruel, and the Greeks and Romans themselves depict him as a just ruler of his domain.

As for the hotness of his realm? I never read, that I remember, of it being so or being cold or freezing. Besides, if Tartarus is the equivalent of our Christian Hell and the Elysian Fields are similar to our paradise or heaven, Hades definitely can't be considered the same as the Christian H-E-double hockey sticks. Hades is the Afterlife, where all souls, good and evil, go to be judged and sorted out according to their deeds. The saying should be "Hotter than Tartarus..." I think I'll use that from now on.

Consider this myth debunked.

Fun Under the Sea

2006-06-25T10:03:00.000-07:00

Under the Sea
The seaweed is always greener
In somebody else's lake
You dream about going up there
But that is a big mistake
Just look at the world around you
Right here on the ocean floor
Such wonderful things surround you
What more is you lookin' for?

Under the sea
Under the sea
Darling it's better
Down where it's wetter
Take it from me
Up on the shore they work all day
Out in the sun they slave away
While we devotin'
Full time to floatin'
Under the sea

Down here all the fish is happy
As off through the waves they roll
The fish on the land ain't happy
They sad 'cause they in their bowl
But fish in the bowl is lucky
They in for a worser fate
One day when the boss get hungry
Guess who's gon' be on the plate

Under the sea
Under the sea
Nobody beat us
Fry us and eat us
In fricassee
We what the land folks loves to cook
Under the sea we off the hook
We got no troubles
Life is the bubbles
Under the sea
Under the sea
Since life is sweet here
We got the beat here
Naturally-e-e-e
Even the sturgeon an' the ray
They get the urge 'n' start to play
We got the spirit
You got to hear it
Under the sea

The newt play the flute
The carp play the harp
The plaice play the bass
And they soundin' sharp
The bass play the brass
The chub play the tub
The fluke is the duke of soul
(Yeah)
The ray he can play
The ling's on the strings
The trout rockin' out
The blackfish she sings
The smelt and the sprat
They know where it's at
An' oh that blowfish blow

Under the sea
Under the sea
When the sardine
Begin the beguine
It's music to me
What do they got? A lot of sand
We got a hot crustacean band
Each little clam here
know how to jam here
Under the sea
Each little slug here
Cuttin' a rug here
Under the sea
Each little snail here
Know how to wail here
That's why it's hotter
Under the water
Ya we in luck here
Down in the muck here
Under the sea

Mannheim Steamroller

What is it about the sea? Why is she so alluring, so mysterious, so jealous? She gives life, sustains it and offers freedom, yet can take them away on a whim. She offers us adventure, excitement, intrigue and danger. She's calm at times and can be benign; she's capricious, wild and tempestuous at others. She's a whole other realm men must explore. She's a demanding mistress who guards her secrets well. She has the most interesting mythology to my mind: Atlantis, the Kracken, the island Pacifica (sometimes known as Lemuria or Mu), Neptune or Poseidon, the Celtic selkies and of course, the merfolk.

The sea commands respect; she doesn't tolerate fools easily. She demands love and loyalty from those who choose her as their mistress.

I guess, for me, her allure lies in her mystery, in the creatures she sustains and in the legends surrounding her. Because the seas or oceans are so many fathoms deep in places, we've only got a relatively small percentage of their floors mapped. So, there surely are many mysteries or secrets yet to uncover or to reveal. Like the possible existence of a prehistoric pleisiosaur (Loch Ness Monster). And if Nessie really does exist--and I'm sure she does--WWWOOOWWWW! Her existence would open whole new possibilties that the seas have protected from men's sometimes all-consuming, destructive curiosity. If she exists, surely other prehistoric animals could have survived these thousands of years. What discoveries they would be!

And the location of Atlantis? Scholars, historians and archeologists would have a field day if this was truly ever discovered. (Yes, I believe this too existed. 'Course, all that's left of it are tumbled stones and long-abandoned ruins on the ocean floor most likely. I doubt a glorious dome or force field of some kind is protecting it from the ocean. *wistful sigh* But wouldn't it be fun and exciting to discover, as it has in legends, it had survived? In searching for more images for the video which prompted this entry, which you can find *here by the way, I saw a painting called Atlantis, the Birth of the Mermaids. Wouldn't it be something if by chance after sinking, Atlantis had become the birthplace of the merfolk? Ok...now that is fanciful thinking and pure imagination, but oh, how wonderful that would be!)

Speaking of merfolk, most of the myths or tales I've come across regarding them show them as having the same temperament as the seas they live in. In almost every story the mermaids are playful, capricious, seductive, mysterious and often dangerous. Some, better known as Sirens, lure sailors to their deaths; while a few others, like the Little Mermaid, save them from drowning and who sometimes end up falling in love with their rescuees. As a child I was entranced with the idea of mermaids; I wanted be one myself. I still think it would be novel and fun to be a mermaid. Though I don't want any green hair, like kelp or seaweed, or light green skin. I would want a pearlescent purple tail, with my scales traveling up my human ribs and sides a bit to cover my chest for modesty. I would want a small conch necklace, threaded and tied around my neck with a strong piece of kelp or seaweed. I wouldn't mind a hair comb studded with pink and black pearls to go in my flowing, long dark brown hair. As for my eyes? I guess they could remain the sea green they are now. *smiles*

I love most animals, though the ones of the sea fascinate me the most. I have four favorite types, each in their respective realms. On land, it is the big jungle cats I gravitate to. In the air it is the Golden Eagle or Pereguin Falcon or Snowy Owl--like Harry Potter's Hedwig. In mythology it is the unicorn. In the sea it is the dolphin or Orca whale. If I'd chosen a career in the biological field it would have been in marine biology.

The sea is a realm I would love to explore had I the means and the resources and a way. And to be honest, I hope the sea won't ever completely give up her secrets. Her continuing mystery is part of what makes her so alluring, so magical. But I still would love to explore her.

Emissary from the Sea

2006-06-17T19:18:00.000-07:00

Brown Pelican (Pelecanus occidentalis)

I have been feeling a little down in the dumps this week and today particularly so. But, it was a hot and beautiful day so I decided to go down to the ocean, to an area that I've been wanting to photograph. I literally came around a corner and found this pelican sitting on a railing. I kept waiting for it to take flight but it let me approach. When I got about five feet away, I became fearful (these birds are BIG) so I stopped.

It was almost as if this magnificent bird had a message for me, but I don't know what. Look at that expression! Does anyone understand Pelicanese? Anyway, I felt very much encouraged after the encounter.

Image: L Gloyd (c) 2006

BURNSTONE

2006-06-17T17:41:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago Heather sent around a post with handprints on a cave wall. I've been going back to that picture over and over again and what I liked was that the handprints looked burned into the stone.
I thought Burnstone and this is the story it inspired!
amm

In Burnstone, Washington one of my favorite places to visit is the Tymbal Cemetery and Funeral Home.

Tymbal is a pauper's cemetery from the old days so it's not great shakes. No fancy monuments, no fancy gates but there are trees and they’re covered with ivy which is nice because the trees have been dead for years and they don’t put leaves out anymore.

The sad thing is everyone forgot the Cemetery was there and for awhile the City of Burnstone Streets Department used Tymbal as a storage place for their work trucks and they used the Funeral home as office space until someone realized all those garbage trucks and lawn mowers and a bunch of other maintenance tools were leaking oil all over unmarked graves.

So before you could say ' desecration ' the City decided to build a new maintenance facility for the Street Works Department and without as much as a backwards glance they left the graveyard to choke on weeds and nettles and blackberry bushes.

Looking back, it was sort of odd the way the weeds came back so fast.

Anyway.

About a month after the big move a young woman named Tamus Bloodroot slammed her car into one of the dead trees near the cemetery entrance and she never left.

She never left because no one ever found her.

They found her car, they found the door open and they found a large pool of blood about three feet away from the crash sight.

But they never found Tamus.

The day after they found her car stories about an injured woman, who was identified as Tamus, asking for help at the side of the road started up. Some people said they actually stopped for her and picked her up and talked to her and she always said the same thing, “ can you help me now. “

When they turned to reassure her that’s what they’re doing she’d be gone.

You can imagine Tamus Bloodroot's family was pretty upset that they're daughter had become an urban legend and people were suppose to be talking to her ghost.

" I doubt " her Father had screamed into the face of a reporter doing Halloween stories for the evening news one year, " that if my daughter could come back from the grave she'd spend all of her time asking drunken teenagers for rides to the hospital."

That was true, in life Tamus wasn’t the sort of person who asked for anything, she’d tell you exactly what she wanted and if you didn’t come across…heaven help you. The girl had a temper and the holes in her bedroom walls and her trail of broken relationships were solid proof of that.

Life went on after that… even Tamus Bloodroot went on, people never stopped seeing her and they all knew she was out there asking for help.

Bryony Middleton and his family live out on Cemetery Road. He’s lived out there his entire life
And he knows that stretch of road so well he could drive it with his eyes closed.

That’s something he did almost every Saturday night after and evening on the town with his friends. He’s sort of famous around here for that, you might not know Bryony’s name or anything about him but you’ve heard of the ‘ guy who drives passed the cemetery in his sleep on Saturdays’.

Anyway it was one of his 10 or was it 12 kids that said to him after finding him and his truck at the end of their driveway one morning " if you're going to drive when you’re sleeping Daddy, at least wear your seat belt."

Not to be mean, and Bryony loved his 10-12 children a lot even if he forgot their names and didn't know exactly how many of them there were, but on more then one occasion Bryony was heard to say, " Geeze, my kids, you know they're okay as far as rug rats go but they sure aren't the sharpest tools in the shed, if you get my meaning."

But this time Bryony’s kids were right and on that winter evening out on Tymbal Cemetery Road his kids were the sharpest tools to be found in any shed anywhere on the planet.

The roads were iced over when Bryony left the " Corner Tavern " only he didn't notice. I mean he was sliding and tripping a lot...but you know he'd chalked that up to the liquid refreshments he'd indulged in for the past four hours.

So Bryony got into his truck and tried to buckle himself in, but he couldn't make the lock work so he put the belt on and tied it closed and then he took a roll of duct tape and somehow managed to tape himself to his seat.

I'm not kidding I wish I were. Like I said, Bryony loved his kids and he'd do any for them even if they only had a handful of brain cells between them.

Then he turned the key in the ignition (he always left it in because it was pretty hard for him to fit that key into that little hole after a long evening out) and he took a sloppy left and turned out onto the unlit road, marked as Old Burnstone Highway but known unofficially as Cemetery Road by the locals.

He was halfway home and nearly asleep when he came to Tymbal Cemetery and saw the Funeral Home with the tape on it’s cracked windows. Bryony mistook it for his house and in a panic he jerked the steering wheel and sent his truck into the ditch that surrounded the cemetery.

Like I said, Tymbal’s is a Pauper’s Graveyard and there are no frills about it. The people out there were forgotten in life and they were forgotten in death too.

So the residents of Tymbal's have numbers, not names and they have pine boxes made at the Prison in Fallen not fancy caskets with brass handles. And there is no fence surrounding the cemetery just a ditch cut into a “V” shape and it's lined with jagged sharp rocks that were once the face of an old Mansion that burned to the ground about 100 years ago.

The Old Mansion was wasn't a good place and it’s owners were sort of an embarrassment to the City so after the fire Burnstone hauled off a mountain of debris and they decided to put it to good use.

Anything they could salvage went into the construction of The Tymbal Funeral Home and Cemetery.

The " fence" is what Bryony hit that night. His truck went into the ditch head on and then it flipped and rolled and finally stopped almost in the middle of the graveyard.

Taped and tied to his seat Bryony was bruised and beaten and good thing he was sitting upright because if he'd been in any other position he'd probably have choked on his own vomit, of which he apparently lost a lot of that night.

When he was done he considered his options.

He could cut himself loose but more then likely he'd end up stabbing himself to death because at the moment one of his eyes was swollen shut and the other, well you know Bryony should probably be wearing glasses but he doesn't.

Plus the crash had done nothing to sober him up he wasn’t sure he could find the business end of the knife if he wanted to.

" Poor Daddy, " he could actually see one of his many children saying to his unborn grandchildren " he survived the worse car accident ever and he ended up stabbing himself to death trying to cut himself loose from his car seat. No, he wasn't trapped. Somehow he taped himself to his seat. No I can't explain it. I loved my Dad but he wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed if you get my meaning."

So Bryony figured all he could do was sit there and more likely then not someone would see him from the road in the morning. Resigned to a long cold smelly night he was about to try to catch some sleep when he saw the woman standing next to his car.

She was facing away from him and the way she was standing was wrong. Her shoulders were twisted and one of her arms seemed to be hanging a little lower then the other. At first Bryony thought she was tilting her head to the side like she was listening for something, but then he realized her head wasn't tilted it was flatter, much flatter then the other side of her head.

All Bryony could think to say was, " heck of a night, ain't it? "

" Can you help me now? " she said to no one " can you help me now?"

She started to turn and Bryony knew, he just knew that the front of that woman was going to look worse then the back and he didn't want to see that.

So Bryony did all he could think of to do. He turned the key, gave his battered truck some gas and there is a Heaven because it screamed (more then likely it was Bryony doing the screaming) to life and Bryony drove it blindly through the cemetery and towards the road…and the fence.

Only he never hit the fence, he never even made it out of the cemetery because before he hit the ditch he hit a tree and when he did the world around him exploded.

It was three of Bryony’s kids that found their dad and his truck the next morning. No, he wasn't dead; Bryony is made out of tougher stuff then that. Plus, I'm sure that with his dietary habits of fried food and alcohol he's pretty much preserved himself alive.

Which was good because Bryony had a story that people from all over the county wanted him to tell over and over again.

First of all the woman in the Graveyard, Bryony figured, wasn’t saying " Can you help me now " she was saying " Can you help me down " and he figured that out because on the night Tamus Bloodroot hit the Tymbal ‘fence’ she wasn't duct taped to her seat the way Bryony was so she smashed through her windshield and was thrown up and out of her car...

And straight up into a tree covered with Ivy.

That’s the story of Tamus Bloodroot and that’s how it ends…with parts of her raining down onto the hood of Bryony Middleton's truck.

The story about Old Burnstone Highway hasn’t ended. Earlier this year it earned this label as the most dangerous stretch road in the entire state of Washington.

It’s not a main highway and you can’t find it from any major roads but over 300 people have died along it this year alone. I mean, people from Arizona and Texas visitors from other countries in rental cars have met their end out there an if they don’t die in the wreck they can’t explain why they were there…at dark.

They never say though that they were lost.

Funny, isn’t it?

On Labyrinths

2006-06-08T19:18:00.000-07:00

On Labyrinths

Spirals and circles are recurring shapes in nature: nautilus shells, sand dollars, the moon and sun, human DNA. It is not surprising then that circles and spirals show up in the art and religion of many cultures throughout the world: the Tibetan mandala, Native American medicine wheels, prehistoric petroglyphs and European labyrinths.

A labyrinth is a circuitous pathway spiraling to a center. Unlike a maze, a labyrinth has a single path to the center with no dead-ends or detours. There is only one way into a labyrinth and that same way leads back out.

Labyrinths were created in Europe and the Mediterranean region well before the Christian era, but the most prominent ones were constructed during the medieval period, many in churches. The most well-known labyrinth today is found in Chartres Cathedral. The Chartres labyrinth is constructed of colored tiles and laid into the floor of the cathedral's sanctuary.

In the early medieval period, many Christians made pilgrimages to the Holy Land. As travel became more expensive and dangerous, labyrinths were constructed in these cathedrals to provide an alternative to the pilgrimage. Walking a labyrinth became a symbolic journey to Jerusalem. Later, labyrinth walking became, more broadly, a metaphor for the spiritual walk through life and became a form of moving prayer or meditation.

Labyrinths fell into disuse after the medieval period; however, in the last ten years labyrinth walking has experienced a resurgence of popularity in some American churches. Labyrinth construction projects have sprung up across the country as parishioners and other spiritual seekers enjoy the benefits of this contemplative practice.

The process of walking the labyrinth is simple. The walker begins a slow, deliberate walk into the labyrinth. Many of the American labyrinths are based on the Chartres model that has a full course of about two-thirds of a mile. Walking this distance, spending time in the center and walking back out can take anywhere from half an hour to several hours. It is entirely up to the walker. There is no right or wrong way to walk a labyrinth, but the pattern that many walkers use is spending time during the walk towards the center to meditate or pray about a concern, make a personal confession or reflect on things that could be made better in the walker’s life.

Reaching the center represents meeting the divine presence and usually involves the walker spending some time meditating or praying in the center. Finally, the walk out is a time of spiritual, emotional, and, according to some walkers, physical healing or refreshment.

Walking a labyrinth can be adapted to whatever spiritual or emotional need in front of the participant. Labyrinths can be found in urban settings, manicured church gardens, by the sea or in the wilderness. The location is not important. It is the journey that matters—a symbolic pilgrimage towards spiritual wholeness.

The Alchemist

2006-06-06T10:16:00.000-07:00

If I were an allegorist,
symbolism would prevail.
But I am just an alchemist,
mixing words creates my
tales.

A voracious writer I have
become, greedily capturing the
written word. Where would I
put my thoughts, if I couldn’t
make them heard?

Poems I find do well for me, as
I give my pen dictation. Words
have a chance, ideas birth, I
allow them their gestation.

Each day for me begins anew and
offers endless choices, of what I’ll
put upon the page, as I give my
feelings voices.

I look around wherever I am at the
possibilities I see. Word painting
efforts abound in me, unfolding
mysteriously.

On my love for words I’ll quit my
praise, and speak of them no
further. I’ll still write them down,
without a sound, no more
utterance or murmur.

gret ©

Dinner with the Captain

2006-06-05T17:57:00.000-07:00

A couple of young crewmen, swarthy, fit, and no doubt hand-selected by Captain Wilder for their ability to handle all manner of shipboard tasks, helped me on board and directed me to my private cabin. After stowing my gear, I found my way to the galley. The cook fixed me up with a steaming bowl of salmagundi and some hardtack and then directed me to the captain's dining room. Apprehension overtook me-- I had heard about Captain Ebony Wilder-- she was also known as the Wild Wench of the West Winds-- sometimes she blew soft and fair and other times with gale-force fury.

I tapped lightly on the door. "Don't just stand there like a little mouse! Come in! We don't stand on pretensions around here!"

I opened the door, carefully balancing my bowl of stew and hardtack, and entered.

"Ah, it's YOU! I've heard about you! Sit down."

"Yes, maam."

"Captain, if you will, I'm too young to be a maam."

"Yes, maam, er-- captain."

"How do you like the Salmagundi? The goat meat is a little gamey but the anchovies are fresh."

I swallowed hard. "Good-- real good-- I love gamey Salmagundi." I took another spoonful and forced a smile.

"So", said the Captain as she leaned back in her chair, booted feet propped on the table, "Matilda tells me that you've pinched a few of her tail feathers." I felt my stomach ball up in a knot.

"And, that horse of yours left her to pay quite a bit of a bar tab." As nervous as I felt, I still had trouble stiffling a chuckle--Albert!

"Well, Captain, if you would like me to pay... how much does he owe?"

"Four-hundred and fifty-seven Lemurian shekels."

I gulped. "Um, there may be a bit of a problem with that--I'm having a cash-flow problem....."

"Tosh! I won't hear anything of the sort." Captain Wilder leaned forward and winked her unpatched eye at me, "I love it when someone pulls one over on that old bird. She deserves it most of the time."

In the distance, a squawk sounded and a voice said "I heard that!"

"Shut-up, Seed-Spitter!" the Captain roared and then she turned back to me, "Now, I hear-tell that you are on your way to the Abbey and the Cave of the Ancestors."

"Yes, that's true. I'm told you are headed that way."

"Indeed. Did you also hear about the Bog People?"

"Ah, a little something. Can you tell me more?"

"Vile people. They live in the bogs along shores of this inlet and on an island in the midst of it. Very difficult to get around them. We're going to have to fight our way through. You up for a little excitement, darlin'?" The Captain chuckled again.

"I can hold my own," I said, lifting my head with more confidence than I actually felt.

"Good, because if they take you captive, you will regret it."

"Why? What do they do to captives?"

"Feed then alive to the Taraka?"

My eyes widened.

The Captain laughed again. "I love to tell people that to see the reaction. It's not true."

I relaxed a bit.

"The bog people strangle you first, then feed you to the Taraka. Ha!" The Captain nearly fell off her chair. When she had pulled herself together, she said, "Not to worry, dear. I've sailed this inlet a hundred times. They haven't gotten me yet..... crewmen-- that's another story, though!.....Darlin' have a glass of wine, you don't look so good."

LGloyd (c) June 5, 2006.

Sea Oats Plein-Air

2006-06-04T12:18:00.000-07:00

Sea oats stand at attention resisting brisk,
salty winds with their fancy footwork as
they create an alchemy of pleasure revealing
heaven in more than one place.

As if Monet whispered in their ears their
silky, golden tendrils, like fine sable brushes
watercolor the early morning sky with hues
of magenta, burnt sienna, and aquamarine.

These artisans of the sea awaken the yawning
sun as breezes form opalescent waves that foam
along the silver strand as their alfresco masterpiece
beckon to the waiting dawn.

gret ©

Bon Voyage

2006-06-04T10:11:00.000-07:00

I bid Albert goodbye at the landing in the Pirate's Cove. As much as I wanted him to come with me, he assured me that a horse at sea was not a good situation for all parties concerned. Also, he seemed to suggest that there had been a parting of the ways between he and Matilda and it was best that he not be on board-- something about owing money-- I didn't pry further. Albert promised that he would find a way to the Abbey and would meet me there.

I kissed him on the forehead and scratched him behind the ears, then I boarded my small skiff and headed out towards the Calabar Felonway, anchored in the cove.

As I rowed onward, I noticed something glimmering in the morning sun light. It was cobalt blue, bobbing in the water, and as I got closer, I could see it was a wine bottle. I grabbed the gaff in the bottom of the skiff and reached for the bottle. When I finally got hold of it, I held it up to the light. Inside was a small scroll.

I pulled out the cork and removed the scroll. It was parchment, old and stained, and the writing was somewhat hard to read. In dark brown script, which looked like dried blood, were the scrawled words: "Beware of the Bog People......"

Before I could finish reading, a voice from the Calabar hailed me: "Avast ye scurvey wench, what's takin' ye so long." I shoved the scroll into my knap sack and quickly rowed on.

Image and text: Lori Gloyd (c) June 4, 2006

Write a story for a bottle

2006-06-03T16:58:00.000-07:00

You have all heard of messages in a bottle. Well now it is your chance to write a story to go in a bottle that le Enchanteur can keep in her cabin on board the Calabar.

After yesterday's tantrum Enchanteur seems much more tranquil and her cabin appears idyllic but it would be well to be cautioned that she is a shape shifter and can change with the breezes that puff up the Calabar's sails.

Keep Enchanteur happy by doing a bit of the Arabian Nights style story telling and create some stories to go in bottles. Of course it would be fun to have decorated bottles to match the stories.

Faces

2006-06-01T15:41:00.000-07:00

Faces...yesterday, today and tomorrow

image gretchen L. (c)

all is One

2006-05-31T15:44:00.000-07:00

all is One

image Gretchen L. (c)

Rhetoric

2006-05-31T13:44:00.000-07:00

The art of using words effectively.

What you will read in the following is how the writer deems to see the world and how world the “conspires to blind the writer.” These are simple words, but with profound meaning.

Let us take, for example, the word “apple.” You go to any grocery store and you can buy apples, a simple enough act, right? Many varieties are available, highly waxed and stacked in bins of various geometric patterns, alight in shades of reds, greens and yellows. In its basic sense you take them home, eat them and your brain tells you that you ate an apple. However, you really have not, not in its strictest sense. You may have eaten it, but have you really tasted it? Unless you live where you can have access to roadside stands or go to growers’ orchards and pick firsthand the freshest apples from the tree, you have not really eaten an apple. You have tasted a lie. Real apples do not make it to grocery stores. What you see there are the “apple-shaped frauds that are waxed and preserved and fixed like bugs in formaldehyde. Most people have never really tasted an apple.”

What else in your life has been lying to you? What other excuses are out there masquerading as the real thing, saying that you have lived and experienced the world, when in fact you have been led around in blinders? As long as you follow the mainstream, you are subject to someone else’s rendition of what is real. Unless you have been to Alaska in the middle of a salmon run, fished for these glorious creatures, gutted it on the spot, wrapped it in tinfoil laced with butter, and buried it in hot coals to cook, you have never tasted real salmon.

What does all this have to do with writing? Simply this. If you have never tasted a real apple, you can never write about an apple that is real. If you’ve never been out in a cold November rain letting the rain soak through your clothes, or wipe your nose cold and dripping, letting snow form icy strands in your hair, how are you going to write about characters that live? They’ll only be seen from the inside of a heated room, or through an early morning windowpane damp from dew. If you have never lived it, how are you going to write about characters that live?

Real life is not free, but if you care to look, it can be cheap. Here is real for you. Turn off the television, go outside, and get by yourself. Feel the breeze blow across your face, look up at the sun with your eyes closed, taste some ugly fruit at the local produce stand. Bite into some runt Thompson seedless grapes your neighbor grows in his backyard. Ride a bike, smell the air around you, even if it’s not always pleasant. It’s better for your writing than recycled air-conditioned air. At least once, give yourself something real to hold on to, because if all you know is someone else’s perception of life, how can you write from within your own self? That’s the only true way there is.

In closing, I would like to add if one takes the above literally it would be an impossible task. All this was meant to be was an exercise in perseverance in becoming more aware of what we do write, stay in the moment, objectively stir our muse, and use our innate intuition to make our point. Good luck and happy writing.

gretchen L. ©

A Wonderful Invite

2006-05-30T14:43:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone,

I just received a wonderful invite from Cuore di Luna, (thank you so much) to join here at the Salon, so I thought I'd say a quick word or two. As time goes along I shall visit often. When my muse gets in the right mood there's no stopping me. I appreciate the welcomes and hellos and I look forward to meeting all of you.

My blog is new so there isn't much there, but it will fill up as I get going. And just for fun, this afternoon I made this collage. Well, I hope to chat with you soon, take care, and keep your muse amused.

hugs,
gret

image (c) gretchen

AVAST YE SCURVY SEA DOGS!

2006-05-15T20:44:00.000-07:00

AVAST YE SCURVY SEA DOGS!
YOU CAN BE GOOD LITTLE ARTISTS AND WRITERS
OR
YOU CAN FOLLOW ME AND THE CREW OF THE CALABAR FELONWAY
IN OUR SEARCH FOR
THE DEAD MAN'S CHEST!

( just don't tell Heather I've arranged this little side trip or she'll have me and my crew walking the plank before you can say shiver me timbers!)

Ask Anita Marie for an Invite and become one brave and foolish Souls that will venture into the treacherous dark Lemurian Waterways aboard the Mysterious Buccaneer Ship The Calabar Felonway in search of the infamous Dead Man's Chest.

FOR YOUR INVITATION CONTACT (and for your secret Buccaneer instructions...shh don't tell anyone)Anita Marie
gargoyle642001 at yahoo.com

A Brief Note on Detours

2006-05-13T17:29:00.000-07:00

A Brief Note on Detours

I wanted to see some Bog People today.

My local natural history museum has an exhibit about the Bog People culture of north-western Europe, and I was hoping to get a glimpse of the peat-soaked remains of some of my distant ancestors. (“Hey, there’s Uncle Ingmar!”) However, unknown to me, a 10 K Run that had been organized to occur in the vicinity of the museum. As I tried to get to there, I got caught in a tangle of blocked-off streets and crowds of people. I finally gave up and turned around.

Being somewhat miffed at having wasted the gasoline (I’m not kidding) and disappointed at not seeing the Bog People, I tried to salvage the trip by detouring to another museum in the general area. This museum is dedicated to displaying the remains of Ice-Age fossils. When I arrived there, I was delighted to discover that the park area around the facility was being converted into “Pleistocene Garden”, displaying the modern-day descendants of the native plant-life from the Ice Age.

I felt myself being transported back in time 25,000 years. I imagined I saw a giant sloth lumbering through the brush and thought I heard the trumpeting of a distant mastodon. And, I even think I caught a flash of the tawny hide of a saber-tooth cat slinking through the tall grass.

At the risk of sounding clichéd, if there was a lesson to be learned today, it was merely the reminder of that adage, “it’s the journey, not the destination, that’s important.” I went looking for one thing and ended up with something better.

Text and Image: Lori Gloyd (c) May 13, 2006

Faerie Tale Myths: Somewhere Over the Rainbow

2006-05-10T20:59:00.000-07:00

Faerie tale myths: Are they true...or debunkable?
L'Enchanteur Magazine tests various faerie tale myths to see if they can hold up in modern times.

By Bella Von Prince
L'Enchanteur Special Sections Editor

Part I: An actual dreamer's land found over the edge of the rainbow--or not?

Somewhere over the rainbow
Way up high
There's a land that I heard of
Once in a lullaby

Somewhere over the rainbow
Skies are blue
And the dreams that you dare to dream
Really do come true

Some day I'll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far behind me
Where troubles melt like lemondrops
Away above the chimney tops
That's where you'll find me

"When the going gets rough, the tough get going." No one likes troubles or stress. If they're hard enough or too numerous, even the most pragmatic Type A personality will choose to escape...even by doing the very thing he or she makes fun of the Type B personality for: dreaming.

In the immortal story, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum, young Dorothy is beset by a grievous problem: the awful Miss Gulch wants her aunt and uncle to get rid of her beloved dog, Toto, for having bit the ill-tempered witch. In spite of everyone's protests Miss Gulch "dognaps" Toto and Dorothy goes after her to rescue him. Upon being reunited with Toto who escaped, Dorothy starts for home as a tornado touches down and heads her way. She races for home and somehow trips, falls and hits her head. When she comes to, we along with Dorothy and Toto, are lead on fantastical journey to find "our" way back home with Dorothy.

Somewhere over the rainbow, in troublesome times we all hope and dream there is a magical land to which we can escape to...if only for a lil while. Until our troubles become more bearable. A place where, as the song says, troubles melt like lemondrops/Away above the chimney tops/That's where you'll find me. A place where there are no worries, no responsibilities, no Miss Gulches. A place that appeals to us uniquely and individually.

Does such a place exist? Or is it only in our dreams? Scientists will say no, it is only a myth. They'll tell you a rainbow is created when light is refracted by or through water. That a rainbow is an intangible thing only and fades too quickly to explore its end or edge. Perhaps so, but there are people, honest people, who swear they have truly seen the Little People and seen faeries flitting about in their gardens. There are many things out there, this writer thinks, that we humans have not yet discovered or proved that exist. Who's to say they are wrong, that an invisible world doesn't exist "somewhere over the rainbow?" After all, it's been proven science isn't always right.

And, as far as this dreamer is concerned, an escape over the rainbow, to my own personal land now and then, while it doesn't really melt my troubles away, it definitely relaxes and refreshes me so I'm able to tackle my problems again and conquer them...one...by...one. And that feeling of accomplishment reminds me that I'm glad to be back. That "there's no place like home."

Rue: something wicked this way grows...

2006-05-08T00:22:00.000-07:00

Rue, herb of grace, herb of woe,
On cankered soil and dead men’s bones you grow,
Dark and wicked things you know,
Herb of grace, herb of woe.

Four thieves plundered through the land,
Robbing bodies black with plague;
A lotion kept the Black Death at bay,
One that included the herb of grace.

Your sap can burn the unguarded flesh,
Used as a whip, you can raise a weal.
You look so innocent and small,
But your juice can sicken as well as heal.

Companion of witches and helper of thieves,
The Holy called you Herb of Grace;
But are you a talisman against the dark,
Or do you pave the road to a darker place?

Rue, herb of grace, herb of woe,
On cankered soil and dead men’s bones you grow,
Dark and wicked things you know,
Herb of grace, herb of woe.

A magazine article - Widowhood

2006-05-04T14:12:00.000-07:00

What do you think of when you consider the word "widow?" An old person perhaps, white haired and having reached that stage of life where the present status is to be expected?

Recently I went to meet other widows for Sunday lunch. We were all younger than 55, still looking young and full of life. Each of us had a tragic tale to tell; the beautiful blonde girl at the top of the table, nine months pregnant, struggling to control her beautiful two year old daughter, who had lost her husband in a meaningless motorbike accident; the woman in her early thirties who had woken up next to her dead husband whose 4 year old daughter proudly showed us photos of her Daddy; Simon, widowed less than a year ago who had lost his wife to brain cancer. Simon's wife, knowing that she was dying had kept a journal for her son to read through the long years of his growing up without her, and now Simon had written poetry and had made a memory book to honour her and he brought it to show the rest of us knowing we would understand his need to talk about her - to remember - to share.

One the topics most keenly discussed was the similarity of our experiences after the loss of our partners. Where we had expected kindness we had often found indifference, where we had expected nothing we had often discovered empathy. We had all had experience of neighbours who crossed the street rather than talk to us as if our new "condition" was contaminating. We had all had many so called friends who had promised to ring us "next week" two or three years ago. We had suddenly become invisible. One of the consequences of this invisibility was that there was noone to share our memories with, nobody with whom to say "Do you remember when........." This was especially true for people widowed in early middle age, where the children were grown up and had left for college (as mine had) and where there were no longer many relatives living close by.

Becoming a widow as I did in my early 50s was the defining moment of my life. My husband, to whom I had been married for over 29 years, had just made me a cup of coffee and was going upstairs to the study. I heard a crash in the hall and a strange groaning sound. I ran and found him lying face down on the floor and realised immediately that life had changed forever. I dialled the emergency services and turned him - somehow and with superhuman strength he was able to put his arm around my shoulder and that is how 5 minutes later the paramedics had found us. As I gave him into their care he turned blue and I had to help to try to perform CPR on my husband as the paramedics struggled with their equipment.....all in vain. Within the space of 30 minutes my old life was shattered and I entered a strange world where I tried to make sense of people and events without the man who had been my closest companion and best friend for so many years.

The time that followed remains a blur of misery. Without him everything seemed to fall apart - in the words of WB Yeats "the centre" did "not hold" and I fell into disarray. Even the fabric of the house seemed to conspire against me as the heating system failed the day after the death, the fence fell down, the pipes sprung leaks, the car exhaust fell off.....this was "his" territory and I was adrift.....

I think if someone had reached out then and said "please stay with us awhile," or "would you like to come and share a meal with us" or even "can I come and just sit with you" I might have fared better. There were long weekends where I spoke to noone from Friday to Monday and even one week when I was on holiday when I spoke to noone at all and lost the use of my voice as a result. I struggled with simple things like shopping, walking around the supermarket as late as I dared with my eyes on the ground to avoid making eye contact. I lost the ability to make rational decisions for a while. I stopped sleeping, preferring to stay up all night and watch endless tv programmes about gory operations and near death experiences. I wore dark glasses even when the sun stopped shining. ............

I have recovered a sense of self. Yesterday, with my new partner at my side and my little dog Martha at my feet I stood looking out at an unbelievably blue sea on what must have been the first day of summer and was glad to have survived. At the weekend, talking to other widows and listening to their stories I had almost "gone under" again, I had almost allowed myself the luxury of a downward spiral into grief, but I will not go there again until I have to. I want to make the rest of my life count and thereby honour my late husband's memory. I want to survive and prove that it is possible to do so.

And I want to remind people that it is only a small act of kindness - the sharing of a meal or simply some time - that would have made the loss easier to bear in those early dark days.

Anatomy of Childhood: Imaginary Lands

2006-04-30T18:44:00.000-07:00

Exercise: Chocolate Box
http://www.outbackonline.net/choc%20box/choc_imaginarylands.htm

Narnia has the wardrobe. Landover had a personal ad and magic doorway(?) [can't remember truly, need to reread the series]. Fantasia has a magic book (The Never Ending Story). The Magic Faraway Tree itself is a gateway to other distant, incredible imaginary lands. And the wizarding community of Harry Potter has magic gates in the most unlikely of places.

My own imaginary land, or world, is no different. It has its own gateway too. But it isn't so simple as walking through a wardrobe or running through a seemingly solid brick wall between two platforms at a train station. No, Covano's gateway is quite well hidden...for the moment. Deep in the heart of a circular maze, somewhere in the mists of the land of Psyche is a manhole that leads to a warren of subterranean tunnels. It is a long and difficult journey to make: one must have enough faith and childlike innocence, a sense of determination and adventure to find its location. One must battle inner disquiet, outside distractions and overcome the foible of being a perfectionist. (Namely me.)

Once there in the maze's heart, however, one last requirement is asked for before the Guardians of the manhole will allow a person's entrance into their fantastical subterranean universe. One must swear to go with an open mind and heart and abide by the laws governing the galaxies and worlds found below. If one agrees to this oath, the person is allowed to remove the manhole covering and is given a passport as a record for one's travels before descending.

Guardians of the manhole

My passport to Covano

Why make it so elaborate and arduous a journey to get to the gateway itself, then make it necessary to swear the oath, you ask? Why isn't it as simple as opening up a book and immersing oneself in the imaginary land, like Fantasia? I think you all know--at least, my fellow writers should know--the answers to those questions. Covano is my creation, therefore this is my personal journey being made each time I return to this world. Covano is still being created, still is evolving to what it will one day hopefully be in the world of published literature. Once fully formed, the gateway to this imaginary world of mine might be a simple magical one, perhaps as simple as walking through a rainbow.

Covano with its three moons: (going clockwise) Dyo, the Red Moon and Ursha in the Nova One Galaxy
Covano's inception occurred when I was a junior in high school, its main and only purpose being the backdrop for a unicorn fantasy I was trying to spin. The story, or idea with the unicorns was the main thing, the main story. The only story. But since that rough and simple birth, Covano has refused to be just a world, just a backdrop for one brief--or not so brief--tale. Other ideas for more stories have played about my mind, until I realized one day Covano was more than a backdrop. The tales combined would make up the history of my world; in this sense Covano became a "main character."

Once again, since partaking of the dark chocolate of imaginary lands a few days ago, Covano has called out to me from beneath the manhole in the center of my maze, enticing me to resume its creation and evolution. When it first began in my high school days, it was very simple and small. It was a world surrounded by the Faerie Mists and had only 10 or 11 races:

Elves
Humans
Unicorn People (and their Unicorn companions)
Dwarves
Sprites
Canines
Felines
Goblins
Trolls
Faeries
and possibly Gnomes

Now, as I return to Covano, my oath taken and passport in hand, I find it changing. It has more of an ancient history than I remember, a world government or Council of Rulers similar to the United Nations, three moons as oppposed to five or six and a change in the nations and races themselves from the beginning. A 120 year-long war has also come to light in its history, thanks to the chronicles kept by Elven scholars like Ansen Cree. I have begun again to keep notes, and this time, with the added delight of graphics programs like Paintshop Pro 7 I have been able to make visuals to help bring my imagination to better envision what I see. Below are seven flags from three of the races that still claim Covano as home:

Unicorns and *Unicorn People -- The Enchanted Blue Oak Forest [a possibility as a name?]):
Unitarre

Humans (7 nations):
Zincova

Thorell

Monahann

Kincrosse

Kentorra

Elves (2 nations):
Joran (Woodland Elves)

*The Unicorn People are what some might call "Halfbreeds." They are a new race with an ancestry of both Elves and Humans. Some look totally human, others look indistinguishable from Elves. Still others look like a cross, humans with slightly pointed ears and elven features.

Prompt:write a piece for a magazine .....

2006-04-30T07:40:00.000-07:00

(This is for Mad Hatter...I just can't figure out how to put it there)

Prompt:write a piece for a magazine .....
Rogue Fashion Magazine
This weeks Feature
Diary of a Shoe Snitch

Some guys rob banks, others pharmacies or high-end specialty shops. See, either it depends on the market- if you're a direct seller, or like in my case, your Fence. I got a particularly sweet deal in that department, me and Gertrude Step go back a long ways. She's what you'd call a 'specialist', there's nothing about the shoe trade that gets past her- from imported Chinese tire-tread flip flops to hand-made Italian leathers. Her 'clientele' includes everybody from Hollywood types, to Podiatrists, to greedy little housewives lookin' to be one up on their girl friends. Its all the same to me, I pick up the orders on Mondays, and deliver the goods on Fridays. So you might say it was a bit unusual for me to be headin' for her joint in the middle of the week…..

Talk about the best place to hide a grain of sand being the beach, this dame's got it made. She runs one of the biggest Day-Cares in the City right out of her domicile, the biggest damn boot you've ever seen! The front steps are right where the laces would be, and the main door is shaped like a tongue. I drive around to the back tho', hit the ole garage door opener and drive up into the heel.

She was waitin' for me at the top of the cellar steps, and I could tell by the look on her face I'd better cut to the chase- this broad don't like surprises. I walked all slow and important-like, back around to the trunk, and as I lifted the lid, there stood the garbage can filled to the brim with them stiletto-heeled, red, Italian-leather pumps, I turned around fast, not wanting to miss the parade of jaw-droppin' expressions marching across her face.

From A Wicked Garden

2006-04-27T20:17:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-24T08:55:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-22T01:37:00.000-07:00

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

Anatomy of Childhood: Places of Wonderment

2006-04-20T11:24:00.000-07:00

Exercise: Chocolate Box
http://www.outbackonline.net/choc%20box/choc_wonderment.htm

Dipping into the Soul Food Café's Chocolate Box, I picked the super tasty Chocolate of Wonderment this time. The size of a golf ball, its milk chocolatey goodness was too tempting to ignore. Picking it up though, I received a surprise. A faint rattling came from inside the candy, and I noticed a thin, but very distinct, line marking its circumference. Finding this odd, but remembering the Hershey's or Nestle's "Wonderball" where surprises had been stuffed inside, I gently twisted and pried one half of the chocolate from the other. After some gentle pulling the two halves agreed to separate, and, sure enough, like the "Wonderball" I had lil surprises in the half I held in my left hand. Pez-like candies in the shapes of tiny seashells, crabs, sand dollars and starfish (in pastel colors: blue, green, pink, yellow and orange).

On top of them was a pretty, miniature figurine of a mermaid, or doll. With an elfin face and smile and silky long flowing brown hair, decorated with tiny faux pearls, and eyes as green as the seafoam, the mermaid was enchanting...magical. Her tail and the scales that rose up her sides and ribs to cover her human breasts were a shimmering iridescent blue-green. Captivated by the "toy" I had unwittingly been gifted with, I gently picked her up for closer inspection.

"Pearl," I said softly, with a smile. "Pearl Andromeda..." Yes, a perfect name for my new friend.

This chocolate was indeed a wonderment. A pleasant surprise for one who loves the beach and seas. For one who once wanted--and still does on occasion--to be a magical creature like this, to live in the sea (perhaps in a sand castle or in a castle made of shells), to swim and be friends with its creatures, to claim trinkets and baubles from the treasures of man that have sunk beneath our waters.

Dreaming Mermaid
by Steve Sundram
As a child the realms beneath the ocean waves were Places of Wonderment for me. They're a whole other world, with whole other kinds of creatures; some, I bet, not even discovered. It's a world that invites the imagination and opens up a number of new possibilities. And, because these realms belong to the seas, they share in the mystique, the danger that is a part of the giving yet jealous and alluring mistress or ancient goddess of man. This combination is irresistible to most of us humans.

Here is a tale I found that I think reflects the magic and poignant pull of the sea:

The Mermaid of ZennorThe village of Zennor lies upon the windward coast of Cornwall. The houses cling to the hillside as if hung there by the wind. Waves still lick the ledges in the coves, and a few fishermen still set out to sea in their boats.
In times past, the sea was both the beginning and the end for the folk of Zennor. It gave them fish for food and fish for sale, and made a wavy road to row from town to town. Hours were reckoned not by clocks but by the ebb and flow of the tide, and months and years ticked off by the herring runs. The sea took from them, too, and often wild, sudden storms would rise. Then fish and fisherman alike would be lost to an angry sea.
At the end of a good day, when the sea was calm and each boat had returned with its share of fish safely stowed in the hold, the people of Zennor would go up the path to the old church and give thanks. They would pray for a fine catch on the morrow, too. The choir would sing, and after the closing hymn the families would go.
Now, in the choir that sang at Evensong there was a most handsome lad named Mathew Trewella. Not only was Mathew handsome to the eyes, his singing was sweet to the ears as well. His voice pealed out louder than the church bells, and each note rang clear and true. It was always Mathew who sang the closing hymn.
Early one evening, when all the fishing boats bobbed at anchor, and all the fisher families were in church and all the birds at nest, and even the waves rested themselves and came quietly to shore, something moved softly in the twilight. The waves parted without a sound, and, from deep beneath them, some creature rose and climbed out onto a rock, there in the cove of Zennor. It was both a sea creature and a she-creature. For, though it seemed to be a girl, where the girl's legs should have been was the long and silver-shiny tail of a fish. It was a mermaid, one of the daughters of Llyr, king of the ocean, and her name was Morveren.
Morveren sat upon the rock and looked at herself in the quiet water, and then combed all the little crabs and seashells from her long, long hair. As she combed, she listened to the murmur of the waves and wind. And borne on the wind was Mathew's singing.
"What breeze is there that blows such a song?" wondered Morveren. But then the wind died, and Mathew's song with it. The sun disappeared, and Morveren slipped back beneath the water to her home.
The next evening she came again. But not to the rock. This time she swam closer to shore, the better to hear. And once more Mathew's voice carried out to sea, and Morveren listened.
"What bird sings so sweet?" she asked, and she looked all about. But darkness had come, and her eyes saw only shadows.
The next day Morveren came even earlier, and boldly. She floated right up by the fishermen's boats. And when she heard Mathew's voice, she called, "What reed is there that pipes such music?"
There was no answer save the swishing of the water round the skiffs.
Morveren would and must know more about the singing. So she pulled herself up on the shore itself. From there she could see the church and hear the music pouring from its open doors. Nothing would do then but she must peek in and learn for herself who sang so sweetly.
Still, she did not go at once. For, looking behind her, she saw that the tide had begun to ebb and the water pull back from the shore. And she knew that she must go back, too, or be left stranded on the sand like a fish out of water.
So she dived down beneath the waves, down to the dark sea cave where she lived with her father the king. And there she told Llyr what she had heard.
Llyr was so old he appeared to be carved of driftwood, and his hair floated out tangled and green, like seaweed. At Morveren's words, he shook that massive head from side to side.
"To hear is enough, my child. To see is too much."
"I must go, Father," she pleaded, "for the music is magic."
"Nay," he answered. "The music is man-made, and it comes from a man's mouth. We people of the sea do not walk on the land of men."
A tear, larger than an ocean pearl, fell from Morveren's eye. "Then surely I may die from the wanting down here."
Llyr sighed, and his sigh was like the rumbling of giant waves upon the rocks; for a mermaid to cry was a thing unheard of and it troubled the old sea king greatly.
"Go, then," he said at last, "but go with care. Cover your tail with a dress, such as their women wear. Go quietly, and make sure that none shall see you. And return by high tide, or you may not return at all."
"I shall take care, Father!" cried Morveren, excited. "No one shall snare me like a herring!"
Llyr gave her a beautiful dress crusted with pearls and sea jade and coral and other ocean jewels. It covered her tail, and she covered her shining hair with a net, and so disguised she set out for the church and the land of men.
Slippery scales and fish's tail are not made for walking, and it was difficult for Morveren to get up the path to the church. Nor was she used to the dress of an earth woman dragging behind. But get there she did, pulling herself forward by grasping on the trees, until she was at the very door of the church. She was just in time for the closing hymn. Some folks were looking down at their hymnbooks and some up at the choir, so, since none had eyes in the backs of their heads, they did not see Morveren. But she saw them, and Mathew as well. He was as handsome as an angel, and when he sang it was like a harp from heaven--although Morveren, of course, being a mermaid, knew nothing of either.
So each night thereafter, Morveren would dress and come up to the church, to look and to listen, staying but a few minutes and always leaving before the last note faded and in time to catch the swell of high tide. And night by night, month by month, Mathew grew taller and his voice grew deeper and stronger (though Morveren neither grew nor changed, for that is the way of mermaids). And so it went for most of a year, until the evening when Morveren lingered longer than usual. She had heard Mathew sing one verse, and then another, and begin a third. Each refrain was lovelier than the one before, and Morveren caught her breath in a sigh.
It was just a little sigh, softer than the whisper of a wave. But it was enough for Mathew to hear, and he looked to the back of the church and saw the mermaid. Morveren's eyes were shining, and the net had slipped from her head and her hair was wet and gleaming, too. Mathew stopped his singing. He was struck silent by the look of her--and by his love for her. For these things will happen.
Morveren was frightened. Mathew had seen her, and her father had warned that none must look at her. Besides, the church was warm and dry, and merpeople must be cool and wet. Morveren felt herself shrivelling, and turned in haste from the door.
"Stop!" cried Mathew boldly. "Wait!" And he ran down the aisle of the church and out the door after her.
Then all the people turned, startled, and their hymn-books fell from their laps.
Morveren tripped, tangled in her dress, and would have fallen had not Mathew reached her side and caught her.
"Stay!" he begged. "Whoever ye be, do not leave!"
Tears, real tears, as salty as the sea itself, rolled down Morveren's cheeks.
"I cannot stay. I am a sea creature, and must go back where I belong."
Mathew stared at her and saw the tip of her fish tail poking out from beneath the dress. But that mattered not at all to him.
"Then I will go with ye. For with ye is where I belong."
He picked Morveren up, and she threw her arms about his neck. He hurried down the path with her, toward the ocean's edge.
And all the people from the church saw this.
"Mathew, stop!" they shouted. "Hold back!"
"No! No, Mathew!" cried that boy's mother.
But Mathew was bewitched with love for the mermaid, and ran the faster with her toward the sea.
Then the fishermen of Zennor gave chase, and all others, too, even Mathew's mother. But Mathew was quick and strong and outdistanced them. And Morveren was quick and clever. She tore the pearls and coral from her dress and flung them on the path. The fishermen were greedy, even as men are now, and stopped in their chase to pick up the gems. Only Mathew's mother still ran after them.
The tide was going out. Great rocks thrust up from the dark water. Already it was too shallow for Morveren to swim. But Mathew plunged ahead into the water, stumbling in to his knees. Quickly his mother caught hold of his fisherman's jersey. Still Mathew pushed on, until the sea rose to his waist, and then his shoulders. Then the waters closed over Morveren and Mathew, and his mother was left with only a bit of yarn in her hand, like a fishing line with nothing on it.
Never again were Mathew and Morveren seen by the people of Zennor. They had gone to live in the land of Llyr, in golden sand castles built far below the waters in a blue-green world.
But the people of Zennor heard Mathew. For he sang to Morveren both day and night, love songs and lullabies. Nor did he sing for her ears only. Mathew learned songs that told of the sea as well. His voice rose up soft and high if the day was to be fair, deep and low if Llyr was going to make the waters boil. From his songs, the fishermen of Zennor knew when it was safe to put to sea, and when it was wise to anchor snug at home.

There are some still who find meanings in the voices of the waves and understand the whispers of the winds. These are the ones who say Mathew sings yet, to them that will listen.

Spiders

2006-04-18T14:41:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-16T18:20:00.000-07:00

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…”

Cathartic Writing: Feathers Of...

2006-04-16T13:04:00.000-07:00

Exercise: Indian War Bonnet
http://www.dailywriting.net/IndianWarBonnet.htm

A lit bit of cathartic writing to lift the soul (mine *smiles*), Indian War Bonnet-style.

Draw Indian War Bonnets in your visual journal. Make a list of:

28 times people let you down.
28 times you were disappointed.
28 times people supported you.

The potential is limitless and will lead to great cathartic writing.

I'm changing this a lil, as I got to this exercise by way of this site or sister activity. The activities are similar enough that I felt a blending would be perfect.

My family
Egypt and Cleo (Pets)
Books--> The Mermaid's Purse by Dorothy Keddington, for one
Music--> Only If... by Enya, for one
Chocolate, preferably mint-flavored Dark Chocolate
Most animals (snakes are excluded)
My computer
Proverbs, sayings, quotes, blessings...curses--especially of the Irish variety (Hey, Irish curses are funny! At least, the ones I've read are.)
Unicorns, merpeople, griffins, dragons, phoenixes, etc. Most things fantasy...
Creativity
Fairy tales, myths and legends (King Arthur, Atlantis and now Lemuria--or Pacifica--hold a particular fascination for me.)
Beauty and the Beast; it's my most favorite fairy tale
Movies--> National Treasure, for one
Superman (He's my favorite superhero, not to mention being my first crush.)
Which is why I am an avid fan of Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman
Pepsi--all flavors of it
Stuffed toy animals
Collectible Barbie Dolls
Angels
Seashells
Nutcrackers
Laughter
Christmas
Thanksgiving
Remington Steele
History
The comic strip For Better Or For Worse
Swimming

When a layout's code goes awry
Cleo's pregnancy
When a favorite show gets canceled; seems like this always happens to my most absolute favorites
The end of a great book or movie
When something doesn't go as I've planned it
When a movie or tv series that I've ordered off of Amazon.com is flawed on one or several of the enclosed DVDs
When I don't accomplish all I'd like to during the day
When I spill on or dirty a white or partly white shirt
When I don't get to chat with favorite people online
When the Internet doesn't work
When a movie or book isn't as good as I'd hoped it would be (ie. Mr. and Mrs. Smith [movie] or Night Falls Like Silk by Kathleen Eagle [book])
When I have an accident
When I am not able to buy whatever catches my fancy so intensely right away
When a favorite thing breaks
Gaining weight
When the sterling silver in certain rings I wear start blackening and turning my finger a greenish-black (Which is one reason I prefer wearing gold.)
The first day of the Crimson Curse
When an entry or writing piece I think will get a few comments at least, doesn't
When I lose in a game (I am a graceful loser most of the time, but I sure hate losing to a computer!)
When a favorite VHS movie begins to wear out--which is why I want to convert all of my movie collection to DVDs.
When I can't sleep in
When an image I make doesn't turn out as well as I hoped it would
Writer's block
When a CD only has three or four good songs on it out of 10 to 16
When I reach the end of a tasty beverage
When a favorite book begins to fall apart from much handling and reading
When I can't reach or pick up something I dropped
When a person I admire does something beneath their character

This second one was quite harder than the first. I'm surprised I made it to 28 without longer pauses! And I probably should have labeled this section as "Feathers of Aggravation" instead.

To have the ability to walk sometimes and in the next life
To remain friends with Jason
To fall in love and be loved
To have children and experience pregnancy
To buy the next two books in The Princess Diaries series
To spend a month in Ireland, Italy and Scotland each
To see Stonehenge
For sweet dreams--ones I remember
To see Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest on my birthday this year
To visit Disneyland or Walt Disney World (I've never been.)
To buy Enya's new CD
To write and publish something that will stand the test of Time and be around centuries later like Les Miserables by Victor Hugo
To be remembered for good deeds, as a loving and compassionate individual
For people to understand and see that the disabled are as normal and can be as intelligent as or more so than others
To lose weight
To uncover the truth about Atlantis or Pacifica--now that would be cool
To own all four seasons of Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman NOW
I could have remained 25 for good, LOL
To surprise Mom on Mother's Day
To get better at CSS and html
To have a pet unicorn or griffin or dragon or phoenix--now that would be cool too
I still had my Strawberry Shortcake dolls
I had been able to set up and cement our first presentation plans already, but come Monday I am determined to get most of them finalized
To eat all the chocolate I want without gaining a pound
The cartoons I watched as a kid were still on; they were so much better than what is being aired today
That I had this computer all bought and paid for
That I was caught up on my tithing; I was doing so good too
That I could meet Pierce Bronson, Johnny Depp or the President

Mystery of a poem

2006-04-14T00:14:00.000-07:00

Critics

2006-04-14T00:13:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-12T19:50:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-11T20:14:00.000-07:00

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…

2006-04-05T06:47:00.000-07:00

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.

Prompt: Bully

2006-04-04T21:34:00.000-07:00

I hope everyone is busily writing about a school
yard or work place bully.
Make a list of some of the qualities of a Pitbull:

aggression,power,socially unacceptable behavior,dysfunctional,exploiter of vulnerabilities,path blocker, threatener,hurter,humiliater,stressor.sadistic, harmful, abuser,violent, hostile, opportunistic, fearful, anxious,isolated traumatizer, relentless,torturer,ruthless,
subjugator,offensive, intimidator,malicious, insecure, angry
________________________
What makes a bully? Describe if you can,
is it a woman, a child or a man?

Sara walked with a limp, other than that she was a fairly attractive woman. Slim, naturally blond, and always very well and expensively dressed. The first time she spoke we were complete strangers. She passed me by while I was waiting in the luncheon line, then spun around and jabbed disparagingly at my bag. "You know that's the worse imitation of a Coach bag I've ever seen?", she sneered loud enough to be heard along the entire line.
"It is?" I thought, unaware of what a "Coach bag" was. Maybe she took my puzzled expression for weakness-who knows? However, that was the start of it.

Prompt: Solitude

2006-03-31T15:06:00.000-08:00

This past week was spent aboard and waiting for plane connections. There is no more difficult solitude imo as when alone, thinking of home in a strange city. I read this prompt in my hotel room at the end of an exhausting day of convention activities and it turned my perspective around 180 degrees...what timing! I sat back against the pillows with permission to let my thoughts wander. Thus was born MeeKnott.

1. Me not very good artist

2. But me have lots to say

3. Sometimes me get flash visions

4. Mind trumps Brain? Me not know ‘cept brain functions by rules and mind don’t.

5. If ugly men were pretty women, and pretty men ugly women, would the world be any saner? Me not know.

6.

Traveller 's Inspiration

2006-03-31T10:01:00.000-08:00

I was much inspired by the pics of the hat modification that Carol posted for potential wearing to the Mad Hatter's Party, and tho I am no artist for sure, I was moved to submit my own permutations that her creativity inspired. Please do not hold her anyway responsible lol!

A Place that is dear to my heart

2006-03-29T03:27:00.000-08:00

I have only lived on this shore for the past four months, but it has become the place that is dearest to my heart.

A year ago, I was living far from the sea, in the house that I had shared with my husband for quarter of a century. When he had died suddenly, the home had become a house, a stage set for a play that had ended. My two children were now adults, making their way in the world and I did not know what the future would hold. I had become a prisoner in the walls of this once happy place, suffering from approphobia, panic attacks, a very severe depression and the feeling that my life as well as the life of my husband had ended.

One day, full of sorrow, I decided to "google" the word grief. I found myself in an American chat room where all manner of people gathered to mourn their lost ones and help each other through the dark days. There were women who had lost children, hubands who had lost wives, those who had lost friends to illness or murder.....the room was sometimes difficult but always rewarding and eventually some of the names became friends.

One night a man came online who lived, as I do, in the UK. I had never seen him online before and we barely spoke. When he appeared again a few days later we began to "chat" and it wasn't long before we realised we had a great deal in common, especially as he was also widowed. When I mentioned that I was struggling with aggrophobia and that I had never had this condition before losing my husband he suggested that he could come and visit me, and take me and my son out for a couple of hours just so that I could leave the house. And so began our love story because the man who arrived about two weeks later is the man I will be marrying this summer.

But that is a different story. Suffice it to say that I am now living with him on the western coast of the UK, just north of where my late husband and I had dreamt of living for many years. I walk along the beach every day - it is my daily meditation as I watch my dog Martha run through the waves and play with other dogs, bringing me into daily contact with people who have smiles of welcome on their faces.

I hear the sea breathe regularly, and the beat of my heart echoes its rise and fall. This morning the tide was in and the waves were throwing themselves exuberantly against the sea wall and I felt the joy and peace rise in my mind. There have been dark days as I struggled to adjust to this new life but the daily walk has been healing. One grey day, the sky seemed to mirror the leaden feeling in my heart, but when I looked up there were hundreds of small rainbows falling out of the heavens and I took them as signs of hope. Another day, when snow was falling in flurries across the sands and tears of cold and misery were falling down my cheeks, I turned to look back at the town and it was bathed in sunlight falling through a break in the clouds.

I see ships turning in and out of the port, and am reminded of my late husband who was a merchant seaman, and somehow although I have left what was our home I feel myself more connected with him here.

I am reminded that it is many months since I wrote in my gratitude journal. It is time to begin again. I list my five things without hesitation this time. I am grateful for my love for my new husband-to-be and his for me, I am grateful for the health and love of my two children, I am grateful for my little dog Martha who reminds me daily of how one should enjoy the small things of life and love unconditionally, I am grateful for the chance to live by the sea, a dream of mine for many years, and I am grateful for the chance to begin to write and fulfill the other dream, the dream of a creative life.

My daily walk by the sea is where I medidate, compose poetry, talk to my inner self and listen to the rhythm of the waves as they centre me and work their healing power on my soul. This is where I have, almost miraculously, been restored to myself.

Anatomy of Childhood: Childhood Friends

2006-03-23T11:57:00.000-08:00

Exercise: Chocolate Box
http://www.outbackonline.net/choc%20box/choc_pooh.htm

*lifts the shiny gold lid marked "Chocolates" in brown flowing script off the square box on my desk and sets it aside. peering into the box I peruse the delectable contents, ignoring the two empty spots where I'd already partaken of the sweet candy. mentally playing "Eeny Meeny Miney Moe" I circle my index finger over several of them, deciding shortly thereafter to just take a dark chocolate round covered in chocolate sprinkles. biting into the luscious treat I discover a tasty strawberry filling in the middle. smiling happily and closing my eyes its sweet berry aroma fills my senses, reminding of a doll I once owned as a kid and taking me back to a less hectic time, to when I had that doll and many of her equally sweet-smelling friends too*

*Strawberry Shortcake Theme Song(?)
Who sleeps all night in a cake made of strawberries?
Wakes up bright and early in a cake made of strawberries?
Living, riding in a cake made of strawberries,
Strawberry Shortcake, wouldn't you know?
Who sweeps her floors in a cake made of strawberries?
Lays outdoors of a cake made of strawberries,
Games and chores in a cake made of strawberries,
Strawberry Shortcake, wouldn't you know?

As a girl, Strawberry Shortcake--amongst several over loveable characters, namely that bear with very little brain who's all stuffed with fluff named Winne the Pooh--was one of my all-time favorite toys and cartoons. I loved how they got her and her friends, Apple Dumplin', Lemon Meringue, Raspberry Tart and Huckleberry Pie to smell like the very things they were named after. That was one of my favorite things about them. And I loved the cartoon and Strawberry would always "berry" instead of "very."

"Thank you berry, berry much!"

For my 10th birthday Mom made my cake into an air balloon, where she put my Strawberry Shortcake and Huckleberry Pie dolls into the "basket" of the cake as the passengers. It was awesome.

Eventually as I got older my parents sold my dolls at garage or yard sales--without me being aware of it, or if I was, I stupid to not care or protest. Now that she is popular once again, my parents and I are wishing we still had my dolls, for they were the original Strawberry Shortcake dolls. Meaning they're collector's items now. =os But if I had them, I wouldn't sell them.

The new generation of Strawberry Shortcake dolls makes me berry nostalgic for my dolls. In this one instance I wish I could be a kid again, so I could have an excuse to buy the dolls and have "my collection" again...but to be honest I prefer the originals. I think they were much cuter.

********As I said above, Winnie the Pooh was another kid favorite of mine. One of my earliest memories is of listening to a record on which Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day, or something like that was recorded. I'd listen to that record at my grandparents' farm till I plain wore it out. That was one of my berry favorite stories as a young child. I loved Winnie the Pooh; I loved his simpleness, his friendship with the shy, nervous Piglet and Christopher Robin, I loved the juxtaposition of the child-like thinking and the adult/bachelor life he and most of the other characters lead (except for Kanga and Roo) and I loved the music.

Winnie the Pooh and his friends are classic and timeless. I don't know of any generation that hasn't liked or loved his stories and his world in the 100-Acre Wood. I still like to watch the cartoons featuring Winnie and his pals, and I will be encouraging my nephews and any future nieces I have to read the books and to watch the cartoons.

Unlike many of the cartoons today, the ones, like the two I've mentioned above, are worth seeing and have value (in my opinion, of course,) and would help develop better attitudes and standards in today's children. (Care Bears is another one, come to think of it and for one, I'm happy to see their return.)

Winnie the Pooh Theme Song
Deep in the hundred-acre wood
Where Christopher Robin plays,
You will find the enchanted neighborhood
Of Christopher's childhood days.
A donkey named Eeyore is his friend,
And Kanga and little Roo.
There's Rabbit and Piglet and there's Owl
But most of all Winnie the Pooh.
Winnie the Pooh, Winnie the Pooh
Tubby little cubby all stuffed with fluff.
He's Winnie the Pooh, Winnie the Pooh.
Willy nilly silly ole bear.
...Willy nilly silly ole bear.
Winnie the Pooh, Winnie the Pooh
Tubby little cubby all stuffed with fluff.
He's Winnie the Pooh, Winnie the Pooh.
Willy nilly silly ole bear.

...Willy nilly silly ole bear.

Robert B. Sherman*I tried finding the original lyrics to Strawberry's theme song, but Google's results were berry confusing, so I did the best I could from memory and Google's results.

Anatomy of Childhood: Imagination

2006-03-15T12:59:00.000-08:00

Exercise: Chocolate Box
http://www.outbackonline.net/choc%20box/choc_imaginary_friends.htm

i·mag·i·na·tion: 1a) The formation of a mental image of something that is neither perceived as real nor present to the senses.
b) The mental image so formed.
c) The ability or tendency to form such images.
2) The ability to confront and deal with reality by using the creative power of the mind; resourcefulness: handled the problems with great imagination.
3) A traditional or widely held belief or opinion.
4) Archaic
a) An unrealistic idea or notion; a fancy.
b) A plan or scheme.

One of the greatest things about being a kid is the flights of fancy you have. No one thinks you're crazy when you pretend to go on an African safari and meet up with ferocious head hunters. In fact, an active imagination is almost always expected of kids. Really, many parents and teachers foster and encourage it in their kids and students. According to psychologists, an active imagination is indicative of the ability to focus and concentrate on one activity and that the child has developed his or her own own ideas and isn't over-reliant on outside stimuli.

The world today wouldn't be what it is now without certain people and their active imaginations or minds. If Alexander Graham Bell, Thomas Edison, the person who invented the computer, or Walt Disney all had been simple-minded and unimaginative, then we wouldn't have, most likely, the telephone, the light bulb or electricity or computers. I wouldn't even be typing (or writing, as there would be no Soul Food Café) this entry. And we certainly wouldn't have Mickey Mouse and the gang or Walt Disney World, not to mention Disneyland. And come to think of it, if the Ancients hadn't been curious about the mysteries of Earth and the Universe and they hadn't used their imaginations in developing theories, we wouldn't have the rich, creative folklore and myths they left behind.

The chocolate I chose today--an egg-sized milk chocolate round topped with a crisscrossed white chocolate pattern--was obviously filled with ideas and activities on imagination. More specifically, its sweet chocolatety center oozed ideas on imaginary friends. Strangely enough, or maybe not, I never had any imaginary friends. But I had--and still have--an active imagination. In fact, I still scare myself silly some nights with what my imagination conjures. (That's what I get from watching scary or intense movies or shows like Buffy, the Vampire Slayer. Hey, they had some pretty weird and frightening monsters on that show...and they weren't the vampires.)

No, I never had invisible friends, but my make believe world never lacked fun or excitement. My favorite thing to do when I was little was to appropriate one of Mom's silk gowns and lie on my grandparents' sofa, pretending to be Snow White. (I was/am an emulator.) I would pretend to eat the poisoned apple then "fall asleep", lying on the sofa in sweet repose with my hands folded across my chest as if I were in a glass coffin, waiting for my prince to come. That was my Snow White phase.

Then when I discovered I loved writing (at the age of eight or nine) my imagination was put to use in creating plays I would have my friends, my cousin, my older stepsister and myself sometimes act out. I also had, as I do now, personal daydreams, where I'm superpopular, where I meet celebrities and enter their elite social circles, where I'm a spy and have a dangerous assignment, and of course, different scenarios where I meet my one true love.

Imagination is a great thing--now where did I leave my purple light saber?

Romancing the Ruins: The Real Mary King's Close

2006-03-14T22:49:00.000-08:00

Exercise: Romancing the Ruins
http://www.dailywriting.net/RomancingRuins.htm

Hello there! Back for another update, I see. Come to see what I've chosen for today... What's that? You want another virtual tour? Of another catacomb from the documentary I saw called, Incredible Catacombs? I see, I see...I think I have just the one for you. However, *holds up her index finger in warning* this one isn't for the faint of heart, and it would be a good idea to bring a child's toy or a good-sized sum of money in your wallet. (I'll explain why a little later on.) And of course, as before, if you're claustrophobic it might be a good idea to stay above ground.

Ok folks, today we are headed for Scotland, to Edinburgh. This is one of the places--and one of the sites--I truly want to visit in person one day. (Emma, my English friend, and I have talked briefly and pondered over meeting in Scotland to see some of the sights there before crossing the border and having some fun in her own country.)

The catacombs of The Real Mary King's Close have captured my imagination and given birth to a wistful, yet determined desire for a glimpse of 17th century life and to "meet" some of the people who once lived in the Burgh's closes. They (the catacombs) have an exciting, truly haunting, mysterious and poignant history. I doubt anyone who takes an actual tour of the closes opposite Saint Giles' Cathedral, Royal Mile will be left unaffected by the living history they briefly immerse themselves in. I say "living history" because portions of the houses that line the narrow streets are still pretty much as they were when they were last in use, before the city council in 1753 leveled the upper storeys and built the Royal Exchange (now the City Chambers) over them, using the lower floors as a foundation. And also because some of the people who once called The Real Mary King's Close home...still do.

The Real Mary King's Close consists of four closes, or narrow streets with houses on either side, stretching up to seven storeys high. On the actual tour you will be "guided" by one of four inhabitants who called these streets home.

There's Stephen Boyd, a merchant who owned the southernmost property on the east side of Mary King's Close in 1635. He conducted business from a Luckenbooth at the top of the close, beneath the famous crown of St. Giles.

There's Walter King, whose distinctive uniform marked him as a foulis clenger, employed by the Burgh Council to clean houses affected by the plague.

There's Mary King's youngest daughter herself, Jonet Nimmo. Born in 1622, she lived in fairly affluent surroundings all her life and in the Close since she was seven years old.

There's Agnes Chambers, a maid in the household of prominent merchant burgess, Alexander Cant in 1535. She will tell you about life in the town house on Craig's Close, where things took a dramatic turn.

As your guide, one of these Close residents will

Show you the highs and lows of 16th century townhouse living.

Introduce you to some of the people who lived there in the 17th century.

Take you to the home of a grave-digger's family to discover the truth about how the Burgh Council dealt with the plague epidemic of 1644–1646.

Show you one of the best examples of 17th century housing in Scotland.

Allow you to peek inside the 19th century sawmaker's workshop.

Let you walk in 17th century footsteps along Mary King's Close.

But for the nonce, this is a virtual tour, I mustn't forget. And I'm the one leading it. So, shall we continue? We've yet to meet the most famous resident of the Close. Which reminds me...

Ah good, I see some of you listened to me and have brought toys--teddy bears, dolls, stuffed animals, Barbies and action figures...and cameras. Aaahhhh...I hate to be the bearer of bad news folks, but cameras and video cameras aren't allowed in the catacombs. However, the guide book has plenty of pictures, so if you want you can buy the book. I'd recommend that option.

Why are you bringing toys and money? Good question. They're for a sick little girl named Annie. Hers is a tragic story that has touched thousands of visitors' hearts who've, since 1992, left her toys and have donated more than £2,000 in her honor. But their kindness and largess cannot help Annie. *sad smile* For it is believed the Black Death claimed her young life in the underground streets beneath the City Chambers in the 1600s.

Her presence was first discovered in a small room off the part of the underground alleys beneath the Royal Mile known as Allan's Close by a Japanese psychic who visited Mary King's Close in 1992. She "communicated" with the spirit and found her to be a young girl, heartbroken because she had lost her doll. The story goes that Annie had been locked in the room after she fell sick with the plague. The adults wouldn't let her retrieve or bring her the doll to her themselves.

Touched by the young ghost's tale, the psychic went and bought her a new doll. After placing it in Annie's "room" she sensed the girl was delighted. Since then people have been leaving toys in that room and it's become sort of a shrine. Annie has also been known to playfully tug on women's skirts.

Where do the donations go, you ask? Well, since Annie was a sick young girl herself, it was decided the money should naturally go to Edinburgh's Royal Hospital for Sick Children. The money is going to the TLC campaign, which aims to give the children a small gift when they arrive at the hospital or if they have been through an ordeal, such as an operation.

What was that? Who was Mary King, you want to know. *smiles* A question I myself asked and whose answer I went in search of. She was the widow of well-to-do merchant Thomas Nimmo, who moved to the Close that now bears her name with her four children, Alexander, Euphame, Jonet and William after his death in 1629. She continued, to a lesser degree, his work by selling fabric from her rented forebooth on the Royal Mile.

What we know of her we know from documents and city records, like the 1635 rental, which shows that she rented a "turnpike house with a seller" at the top of the Close and also a "laigh forebooth." Her last will and testament is still extant and therefore, is another source. A section of her home has been recreated with the actual possessions she left to her children--gold rings, silver spoons, gowns, considerable quantities of fabric, ruffs, tin chamber pots, a velvet doublet, a bolster, a wooden settle and many other possessions--and visitors can see all this on the tour. Mary died in September 1644, months before the plague hit Edinburgh, therefore we cannot assume she died from the plague.

The Close had at least five names, long before Mary arrived, and had been called Towis, Livingstoun's, Brown's, King's Close and Alexander King's Close before finally being named Mary King's Close. It was quite unusual for a Close to be named after a woman, and there is no evidence suggesting Mary had been related to any of the other Kings who lived there before her.

If you would like to know more about The Real Mary King's Close, click here.

Anatomy of Childhood: Return To Innocence

2006-03-14T12:40:00.000-08:00

Exercise: Chocolate Box
http://www.outbackonline.net/choc%20box/choc_childhood_journal.htm

I'm having a chocolate attack, in more ways than one. While I've been craving the sweet brown shtuff on the physical (hunger) level, I've discovered I have a hankering for it on a literary and artistic level as well. On a whim, I helped myself to the Soul Food Café's Chocolate Box to see if there was anything there to inspire me. Happily, I have found myself a new project.

The chocolates, I found after sampling several, are filled with suggestions and activities for an exploration into the anatomy of childhood. This was/is inspiration, indeed, and I think it'll be fun to explore the different facets of childhood and to walk down Memory Lane with my inner child. It's always good to remember and to keep in touch with that child, for she/he helps us to be more well-rounded as people. For with this child inside each of us, we will never be old, staid or boring.

Though I'm going to enjoy this new project, and I have said on more than one occasion I wish I could go back to when things were more innocent and simple, in all honesty I'm glad I can't be a child again. I have no wish to be. Oh, I have fond memories--and some not so fond--from that time period, but if you remember, it was hard being a kid! And I think, from watching my kid sister who's only 15--going on 5 or 35, depending on how she behaves--it's tougher in today's world to be a kid. There's more violence, more peer pressure with drugs, drinking, smoking, on being a "couple" or "going out" with a member of the opposite sex, with being popular or cool. Not to mention today's fashions and the "In Crowd's" emphasis on being ultra-thin and sexy.

No, I definitely don't want to be a child of today's world. But I do miss when things were more innocent and simple.

I remember a world where good was ultimately stronger than evil, where courage, justice, love and mercy were woven into the fabric of sky and being; where animals talked as they ought to and the spirits of trees danced. I remember a world where I caught the wind easily in my simple, wild [wanderings] and soared on the wind whispers of deep, real magic. I remember a world made of words, words that painted inside my mind when I was very young, the reality of a forever dream.

~Winnie Peterson Cross~
The Chocolate Box project is the perfect remedy for my longing for more innocent and simpler times.

When I think of the word childhood I'm reminded of the phrase, "return to innocence." And of course, this leads me to the song by Enigma:

Return To Innocence
That's not the beginning of the end
That's the return to yourself
The return to innocence
Love--Devotion
Feeling--Emotion
Love--Devotion
Feeling--Emotion
Don't be afraid to be weak
Don't be too proud to be strong
Just look into your heart, my friend
That will be the return to yourself
The return to innocence
If you want, then start to laugh
If you must, then start to cry
Be yourself, don't hide
Just believe in destiny
Don't care what people say
Just follow your own way
Don't give up and use the chance
To return to innocence
That's not the beginning of the end
That's the return to yourself
The return to innocence
Don't care what people say
Follow just your own way
Follow just your own way
Don't give up, don't give up
To return, to return to innocence
If you want then laugh
If you must then cry
Be yourself, don't hide
Just believe in destiny

I guess *soft smile* this is the first step in exploring the anatomy of childhood. And logically it makes perfect sense. To see, believe or do anything as a child, one must have a certain amount of innocence.

Return To Innocence

A Prompt for this Week?

2006-03-06T12:55:00.000-08:00

Do you, or the characters in your fiction, feel like puppets on a string? Does it feel like someone is pulling ths strings? How can you or your characters be released from the eternal dance on moody Mr ChangeAbout's srings?

2006-03-06T09:35:00.000-08:00

Prompt: Romancing the Ruins: Subterranean Cities"

This post alone could inspire many other pieces of writing." ::nods:: It certainly worked for me. I enjoyed very much!
While reading I remembered something I wrote in response to a picture sent to me by a friend of an old deserted cotton mill in Rockingham County, North Carolina. (Photo courtesy of Vordakgef). I entered the picture and found myself standing atop…

I am paralyzed with fear.
The slightest breeze
stills me in mid-breath.

Somewhere in the distance,
faint sounds of thunder,
brief burst of lightning
backlight the approaching storm.

As the rumblings intensify,
and the breeze begins to whip,
awareness returns, knees buckle,
and I embrace the stone.

My fingers seek purchase
amongst the rocks.
The wind begins to howl
sending icy shards to
pierce my flesh.

Lightning bursts,
as a shutter click,
to document the scene.

And now, as the rain-slick stone
releases me from its grasp
I slide slowly into abyss.

2006-03-04T09:12:00.000-08:00

Prompt: A Place That is Dear To My Heart.

Somewhere, among the many pages devoured,
this project was described.
I have lost track.
Someone should have warned,
a trail of bread crumbs might have helped!
_________________________________________

It has been 6 months, I am still grieving.
How do you prepare for the unexpected?
The pain unfolding with every news cast.
A glimpse of a familiar corner,
twisted and horribly perceived,
throws me back in time.

How often did I visit New Orleans?
Meetings, conventions, vacations, nine may be ten times all told.
I remember the first, as a mildly curious tourist,
the obligatory cemetery tour, the tomb of the voodoo queens.
A hint of the vapors that ooze from the ground,
the buildings, the hot oppressive, sensual air.

Cafe du Monde? I sat as a spectator and a spectacle for the locals,
sipping coffee with chicory, nibbling square donuts.
I am a Northerner by birth, a 'Yankee' as they say.
Not by marriage, or heritage prepared to be captivated.
Somewhere between Jackson Square and Preservation Hall
I fell in love.

Such an extraordinary, unexpected experience,
to find a place so perfectly matched to one's soul.
Someday, I will write volumes of the tantalizing smells,
the foods, the barbaric rhythms of the jazz bands,
the broadness of the river, and the mystery of the bayous.

But, it has only been 6 months, and I am still grieving.

Comprehensive list of journaling resources:

2006-03-02T23:41:00.000-08:00

Writer's Digest 365 days of writing prompts
An excellent resource for daily practice and craft

Diarist.net Prompt-o-rama
The motherlode of prompts, questions, lists, ideas

Journal/Poetry
The National Association for Poetry Therapy
An eclectic worldwide gathering place for those who work with, or simply love, the interface between writing and healing. Kathleen Adams is NAPT President 2001-2003.

LifeJournal
Computer journalkeeping will never be the same with this powerful, user-friendly software modeled after Journal to the Self. Read Kathleen Adams' Top 10 Reasons Why LifeJournal Software is Close to Perfect. Enter Associate Code KA512 when you order your copy of LifeJournal from Chronicle Software.

Cyber Writer
pdf printable files designed for high schoo, students but applicable to all.

Journal for You
A site that instructs, encourages, and inspire young and old to keep journals, with intent to build supportive community to share ideas and tools. Hosted by Certified Instructor Deborah Bouziden.

Journal Magic
This site by Journal Coach and Certified Instructor Sue Meyn offers many interesting and innovative ways to approach your journal.

The Center for Autobiographical Studies with Tristine Rainer
The Center for Autobiographic Studies, directed by The New Diary and Your Life as Story author Tristine Rainer, is a non-profit educational organization dedicated to promoting the knowledge, appreciation, creation and preservation of contemporary autobiographic works.

The Journal Site at About.com with Catherine deCuir
This is perhaps the most comprehensive site on the internet for all things journal-related, hosted by veteran guide Catherine deCuir. Whether you want guidelines for getting started, enough prompts to keep you writing for the next several years, polls, interviews, or tips for specialty journals (e.g. gardening, travel), this is the place.

Writefully Yours, with Eldonna Bouton
Offers resources, motivation, and support to journal writers and creative writers, by Loose Ends author Eldonna Bouton.

Memories and Memoirs
A site dedicated to honoring and preserving memories, and the stories that bring these moments to life.

New Life Stories
Dr. Ellen Moore asks, "What if you invented a new version of your life? Or what if you finally began to listen to the story your soul has been whispering to you all these years?"

Today's Special Is...

2006-03-01T21:01:00.000-08:00

EXCERCISE: LUNCH BOX SPY
http://www.dailywriting.net/LunchSpy.htm
DATE COMPLETED
MARCH 1,2006

I used this exercise to work on a character sketch for a Werewolf Story I'm working on. I love any activity that focuses on dialog and this exercise can be used in to do exactly that. Of course you could follow the directions or you could play with it like I did.
So here's my Lunch Box Interview with Al Dente
Werewolf.

Over the lips
passed the tongue
watch out stomach
here it comes.
-Lunch Time Prayer uttered by Students all over the world

Tell me about your lunches.
"They talk too much. ' Don't eat me...eeekkk, help' Stuff like that. Same old same old day after day. Its not exactly stimulating conversation."

What can you tell me about the lunches you eat?
" After awhile they all taste like chicken."

What do you remember about your school lunches?
" Oh, the good old days. Back then I use to love the hunt. Chase 'em down and chow them raw. Now the arthritis is setting in. Plus, there's nothing sadder then a Werewolf with bad eyes trying to catch its lunch. Especially when you trip and your lunch laughs..."

Were there any family jokes about what you liked to eat?

"I went through the alphabet...like all my lunch’s names had to start with the letter " A". After awhile my family started to call me Alphabetti Humanetti. Anyway, the villagers got wise to me and started to number their kids instead of naming them. I almost starved to death"

Who made your lunch?
"Uh...are you kidding? What did you skip biology class? Like you really don't you know where babies come from?"

Were you ever able to buy a lunch?
"This Ogre named Calvin use to sell lunches. He was a nice guy. But the lunches were caged and they tasted funny. Real gamy. They must've been bottom feeders."

What did they stock in the school canteen?
"Most of the time it was Damsels in Distress and Dragon Slaying Knights. By the end of the week they'd stew whatever was left over. It was BORING."

Did you ever slip across the street with your mates to the fish and chip shop?
"Yes, of course we did! And after we ate the cooks and patrons we use to dump the fish back into the Bay."

Did any one in your class have a better lunch than you? What did they have? Were you ever able to swap with them?
"I use to swap Werewolf Hunters for Vampire Hunters with my friend Carl. The Vampire Hunters were my favorite cause they'd try this Kung Fu fighting stuff on me.It was so funny. Sort of like dinner theatre. But the best part were these bow and arrow things some of them carried around. I'd use the arrows for a little something I invented called Hunter Kabobs.
Hunters on a Stick. Gosh I loved those...especially with catsup.

Where did you eat your lunch? Who ate their lunch with you? Did you eat alone?
"Werewolves are social animals you know and we don't like to eat alone. So I eat my friends and family. Oh no wait...I mean I eat WITH my friends and family"

What do you have for lunch now? Do you still own a lunchbox? Do you make your lunch or buy it?
"I skip lunch now and I eat healthier then I use to. I've gone back to my old ways and the Village I live in now has very clean living livestock. And yes I do have a lunchbox. It's that big box behind you with the little gold handles. Very good, it's a coffin. Thank you for noticing."

Who makes the best lunches?
"Those Villagers down the road.... they’re really into physical fitness and they really work on things like running. Wow and let me tell you they can do that darn fast.I mean, no matter how big or small young or old you should see those little legs work!"

Do you eat the same thing every day?
"Of course I do...nature of the beast you know."

Is there a lunch that still haunts you?
"They all do my friend...they all do."

What is the worst lunch you have ever eaten?
"Bob."

What is your favorite place to buy lunch?
"Noses and Toeses On The Pier"

Would you buy from a school canteen?
"Sure I would, especially if they serve Students on Rye."

THE PROBLEM IS THAT THERE ARE TOO MANY STUPID PEOPLE IN THE WORLD AND NO ONE TO EAT THEM- CARLOS MENCIA

Joy of Journaling

2006-03-01T01:41:00.000-08:00

Dan Price is constantly meeting people who wish they kept a journal. Although they understand that having a personal log of their experiences would help them feel more in touch with themselves and capable of facing life's challenges, most have a difficult time sticking with their writing. Price, the author of "How to Make a Journal of Your Life," says that the biggest mistake people make is approaching "journaling" as a job and not a joy.

How to Make a Journal of Our Life

"You have to connect with the passion of why you're doing it," he says. "Once you do that, you don't have to worry that you didn't write in it yesterday or all last week." Here, some ways to find the passion to keep on writing your journal:

Don't force it. Remember when you were a kid and you bought a padded diary with a lock to record your important thoughts — and then you did it for about three days and got bored? "A lot of people think they are going to write every day, and feel guilty when they miss a day," says Price. "If you make it a chore, it will never work." In reality, one of the best facets of journal-writing is that you can abandon it. "The thing about a journal is that it's always there when you need it — it doesn't disappear when it's neglected," says one wise Lifetime viewer.

Record the good stuff too! Rose Offner, author of "Journal to the Soul," believes most people tend to write in their journal during difficult, trying times. "When life is moving along and we're happy, we're not thinking about writing. It's only when we go through a challenge that we pick up the pen," she explains. Offner, who hosts journal workshops, says that although hashing through life's problems on paper can be useful, your journal experience won't be satisfying if it's nothing more than a complaint-fest. Writing about the blessings — the great phone conversation you had with your college roommate, the way your five-year-old looks in her Halloween costume — enables you to cultivate a greater understanding of what makes you happy and how you're evolving. "Sometimes people don't realize how well their lives are going," says Offner.

Take note of the world around you. Take the pressure off the journal-writing experience by tossing the idea that your journal must reflect how unique and brilliant you are. "People act as if their journals are going to be published," says Price. "Do what real writers do: Take notes about stuff that may or may not turn into something bigger." Next time you're riding the bus to work, pull out a notepad and describe the scenery you pass. Having lunch at a café? Paint a verbal picture of the other customers — the girl with the orange hair, the elderly man with a pocket watch — and fantasize about their lives. "Journaling is about slowing yourself down and noticing details about your life and environment," says Price.

Go to the heart of the matter. If you think that nothing in your life is worth recording, Offner suggests you start asking yourself some big questions: Where am I going? What do I want? "We have our own sage counsel within. We just have to stop and take a deep breath and begin writing," she says. "Often by the time you get to the last sentence, you have figured out something important about your life." Another trick: Begin each sentence with "The truth is…" Keep writing that until something bubbles up. Offner suggests that articulating your deepest desires brings them one step closer to reality.

Create a gift for yourself (and your offspring). Price's journals don't just contain words; they also hold photographs, sketches, dried flowers and leaves. "It's more like a scrapbook," he says. By incorporating images and artifacts, you can turn your diary into a beautiful keepsake. Price has kept an entire journal about his kids, combining written text, sketches and photographs. "When my kids are 30, they'll be able to go back and see all that," he says. "They'll have a document of their childhood." My aunt is very grateful that she kept a diary in high school and college. "We think we never forget some events, but we actually do," she says. "I love that journaling has helped me hang on to the memories."

by Linda Plaisted

Red Shoes

2006-02-28T00:29:00.000-08:00

Some people might say that only a woman could write poems about shoes. Actually, I find most shoes uncomfortable, and only wear them when I have to.
But I love the shoe page at Soul Food, and the red stilettoes suggested another character entirely:

When life bites
I have my red shoes.

My beautiful, sexy, expensive red shoes.
I got them in a sale, so cheap, my dear!
Fifty per cent off and if you saw the original price
You’d just die.

Mischa was so jealous of my sexy red shoes
She almost fell off her Blahniks.
She has a shoe-drobe bigger than Guatemala, darling,
Every box labeled with a picture
Of the shoes on the front.
She takes coordination very seriously.

She’s always directing you to her feet
Showing off the latest pair –
It makes me want to pop out her champagne colored eyes
And drop them in her Martini.

But she just stared at my sexy red shoes, my dear,
And her eyes popped out all by themselves.

So now when life bites
I put on my red shoes.

Only another woman would understand.

Romancing the Ruins: Subterranean Cities

2006-02-27T20:20:00.000-08:00

Exercise: Romancing the Ruins
http://www.dailywriting.net/RomancingRuins.htm

It's Februrary for another day and a quarter. Let's "romance" some ruins. The other day Mom had the tv on the Travel Channel, and we were only half paying attention for a lil while as I think we had Mike, Jen and Cannon here for a bit. But after they left and I'd had my lunch a show called, Incredible Catacombs came on. And indeed, the catacombs featured in that documentary were fascinating! Some were quite macabre and gruesome, others were just plain, well, incredible. All carried echoes from the past, reverberating silent voices and footsteps of former generations against the empty rock walls and ceilings. Anita Marie, a new friend of mine from Soul Food, would have loved watching it, I know.

It is one of the featured catacombs that I've chosen to romance today. Travel with me in your mind, if you will, to an ancient exotic realm in the ancient country of Turkey. To the Central Anatolian Plateau, which boundaries (the Eastern and Western) are marked by two magnificent volcanoes, Mt. Erciyes (to the east) and Mt. Hasan (to the west). To Cappadocia.

Cappadocia is unique, both above and below ground. Here the climate is moderate and the soil is fertile, but the exotic landscape owes its unique beauty and mystical magic to the wonders and elemental powers of Mother Nature herself and to erosion over time. Thousands of years ago, eruptions from both volcanoes covered the land with ash and lava, which solidified. The ash became the softer rock, or tufa, while the lava became the harder, protective cap over portions of the tufa. Over the years, erosion has done its inevitable work, carving and cutting into and eating away at the exposed tufa and volcanic rock, forming valleys and gorges and the one-of-a-kind, strangely beautiful "fairy chimneys" that set this region apart from any other.

Didn't know the fairies had set up homes in Turkey, didja? Neither did I. Actually, the strange formations get their name from the sound the wind makes as it blows through the openings. The interviewee didn't describe the sound, unfortunately, so I can't either. =os

Let us go below ground now, to a surprising new world that many (myself included) never suspected existed. To the eerie subterranean cities of Cappadocia. (If you're claustrophic, I'd suggest you stay and enjoy the fairies. I'm sure they won't mind the human intrusion. Much.)

Ok, watch your step, folks, the terrain is rough and rocky--ha ha. We'll be visiting the excavated city of Derinkuyu. Descending 18 storeys into the Anatolian Plateau--don't worry, only eight floors of tunnels are open to the public--Derinkuyu was once the temporary home (in times of attacks from invaders) of aproximately 20,000 people. There were churches, schools, homes, bathrooms, food storage...anything a community needed to survive for periods of time underground.

The eight floors of tunnels open to the public are enough to give you an idea of the sensation of living in a labyrinth like this. The ventilation shafts, circular and descending from the surface to the lower levels, bring home the scale of such an enterprise while the massive circular doors (boulders)--which were rolled across the passages and sealed from the inside by another, smaller rock against the boulders--remind you of the motivation for moving underground in the first place.

Can you not hear the echoes of generations past resounding against the stone walls, floors and ceilings in the soft orange glow of the lamps placed here in modern times? The murmurings, bartering and different conversations of the people as they went about their daily lives in a subterranean world? Can you not imagine the teacher and his students going about their lessons in the cave designated as the school? The monks going about their duties, tending to Christ's flock? The sermons given to the early Christians in the temporary underground church? And all this, more than likely, by the flickering yellow light of candles and/or torches?

I can. Even though it has long been abandoned by its inhabitants and is no longer used as a temporary hideout from would-be conquerors, Derinkuyu and its people are not forgotten by all means, they're still alive and have many stories to tell.

Derinkuyu is not the only subterrean city you can visit. There are actually 40 or so subterranean settlements in the area, though only a few are open to the public. Kaymakli, 10 kilometers to the north of Derinkuyu, is smaller and less excavated, but there are five levels accessible and the experience is pretty much the same.

Boots

2006-02-27T03:24:00.000-08:00

Prompt: http://www.dailywriting.net/SteppingOut.htm

I loved the boot. This is my response to the prompt.

I got my boots.
I got my big bad black boots.

I walk down the street in my big bad black boots
And you can hear me comin’ in the next town.

These big boots, they got att-it-ood.
They hit the pavement like sledgehammers,
They come down like big black pistons,
They got more horsepower than a big V8,
My big bad black boots.

My boots, they changed everything.
Folk used to push me aside,
I was always the end of every queue.
Even when I got there first.
I got stood up more times
Than a shop window dummy.
I was a nobody.

Then I saw my big bad black boots,
Hangin’ off a dead man’s feet.
Didn’t do him no good, but I put ‘em on
And I felt the power drivin’ up my legs.
I started walkin’ in my big bad black boots
And folks stood aside to let me pass.

I ain’t givin’ up my big bad black boots.
I ain’t even givin’ ‘em up for nobody.
Not for Momma, not for you,
Not for that dead man that keeps walkin’ behind me,
Looking for his big bad black boots.

No sir, they my big bad black boots.
I got my boots.

Wicked Words and Spotted Dogs

2006-02-25T18:23:00.000-08:00

Spotted Dog Sundaes
Exercise: Composting
http://www.dailywriting.net/Composting.htm

Completed February 21, 2006

I love to collect words.

Specifically I love to collect morbid, macabre, maniacal words.

I love words that bring to my mind’s eye tombs and fog and phantoms and graves and shrouds and corpses, cats, werewolves, lunatics and ghouls.

I like to say words like embalm, witch, demon, and scalpel, malevolence, mystery, zombie, wicked and wail.

I collect words that make me feel sinister, shadowy and gruesome because I write tales of the strange and supernatural and of horror and mystery.

Once I began a story for the Faraway Activity based on words from my list. Here it goes:

There is a woman who is voiceless from wailing and wasted from weeping and Death visits her from Faraway at Midnight.

“How did this happen?” you might ask me.

Voiceless, wailing, wasted and weeping made me think of an abandoned insane asylum full of abandoned souls and the story of a woman shunned by death and time came to the Land of Faraway and it festers there still.

“Why would you write something like this Anita?”

Its part of my new philosophy on writing and I like to call it “ Operation Just Because”.
I don’t know, those four little words rattled around in my head for a day or two after I listed them and by the third day I sat down and there it was.

“What is this thing you call ‘Operation Just Because ‘? It sounds like you might have an attitude problem there Anita.

Oh, that’s simple; I got tired of trying to explain why I write the things I write. I don’t know why, I don’t care why, they’re stories and they want to be told. I want to write. So it’s you basic win-win situation.

Are attitude and philosophies related? There’s one for the old dictionary. I’ll have to look that up. Before I forget:

Dictionaries are a Writer’s Best Friend.

I don’t use an on-line dictionary for this. It’s not research; it’s a game I like to play when I don’t feel like working.

I get out my well used Webster’s Dictionary and pick a word from my list. Then I list the definition I’m the least familiar with.

Here’s the fun part, I turn the definition into the first line of a story.

Here’s my word and definition- I chose it because I was a Mortician and I never would have defined this word like this:

Embalm: To fill with sweet odors.

Here’s my line:

Alissa took the small plastic bottle of light blue embalming fluid from the shelf behind her and as she unscrewed the lid the light odor of tropical fruit juice filled the air.

It’s a throw away line, but it’s true. I thought embalming fluid smelled like fruit drinks.
So keep up here, that sentence brought to my mind a mortician with her hair tied back with blue yarn and you know, I might keep her and ditch the sentence. That’s okay, because now I have a rough sketch for a character.

See how this works?

Play with words, words are your friends and if they give you a hard time and won’t work for you don’t take them out and beat the snot out of them because they won’t cooperate. Go and have some fun, blow off some steam and then see what happens.

Dance Around In Your Bones

2006-02-25T08:21:00.000-08:00

To start you off I've set up a couple of projects.

If you want to see how I've been working the excercises I chose for myself go to:
the link on the side and click " Salon du Moscoso ".

The idea here is to treat this blog like a Writer's Journal.

Just grab an excercise from the Cafe and see where it takes you. Like the song says " take off your skin and dance around in your bones "

That means go for it.
AMM

Excercise From:Spotted Dog Sudaes
http://www.dailywriting.net/Composting.htm
Compost Words
by Heather Blakey
What does composting and writing have in common? Anyone who really loves to write knows that you have to have a lot of writing miles under your belt if you want to write a novel. Bryce Courtney wrote that one should 'never attempt to write a book until you've written one hundred long letters to ten good friends.' Julia Cameron, who wrote 'The Artist's Way', talks about morning pages. If you have written one hundred letters to ten good friends and kept morning pages for one year this represents a powerful lot of writing compost.

In the world of gardening hot rotters include things like young weeds, grass cuttings, chicken manure, horse manure. In the world of writing there is no better hot rotter than letter writing. When I first began to keep journals I always addressed my entries to a close friend. This seemed to help the words to flow.

The dedicated gardener knows that they have to provide a balanced diet for their compost heap. Most compostors add things like fruit and vegetable scraps, tea bags, coffee grounds, old flowers, bedding plants, old straw & hay, vegetable plant remains, strawy manures, young hedge clippings, soft prunings, perennial weeds, gerbil, guinea pig & rabbit bedding.

For the writer morning pages represent just one of the ingredients that add to a balanced diet. In primary schools most students have a writing work book. This has the same effect if it is used often enough.

As a writer all you need to understand is that, to become an even better writer and to be rewarded with rich blooms, you need to take as much care with your compost bin as the gardeners at the Botanical Gardens.

I love to make special word compost bins with students. These are inexpensive notebooks covered with images of all the sorts of things that you need to feed your knowledge of words and your ability to write.

Grab some glossy magazines and have a think about what you will put on your notebook. Ask yourself what you will use to compost words. Perhaps you will just cut out lots of words and make it look like a magnetic poetry board. It really is up to you.

The main thing is that once you have the notebook you add something new to it every day. Trust me! If you feed your writing compost bin your compost will be ready in no time at all. You will find any writing task becomes so much easier to complete. Any dread of writing will be gone for ever.

Excercise #2

HERE'S A FUN ONE, I DIDN'T USE A CAMERA WHEN I DID THIS, I WENT ON-LINE INSTEAD.
ANYWAY IT'S A GREAT ONE...CHECK IT OUT
http://www.dailywriting.net/RomancingRuins.htm

ANITA