"Some people hear voices.. Some see invisible people.. Others have no imagination whatsoever." - Author Unknown.

Friday, December 16, 2011

Decisions, decisions: Part Deux

I worked on this a little today after my appointment with the eye doctor (corneas of both eye were scratched by a velcro strap in the Recovery Room). Because I'm still not allowed to drive my son drove me to my appointment.  I then tagged along with him while he did his Christmas Shopping giving him the benefit of my unsolicited advice & opinions.  Then he brought me home   After all that  'getting all up into his business' I was exhausted and in pain so I took my pain meds and took a nice wee nap with 'The Girls'.  When I woke up I worked on my little project here but now I stumped over 'colors' and blending.

I lack imagination for blending 'colors'

I'll work on this a little more tomorrow

Oh, I can't think about this now! I'll go crazy if I do! I'll think about it tomorrow. ... After all... tomorrow is another day!
~Scarlet O'Hara


Thursday, December 15, 2011

Decisions, decisions...oh my

This is the outline of what I am working on now (obviously I'm no sketch artist). I'm having a wee bit of a problem working out the colors. Do I want to paint/marker them in or do I want to mix up my medium more by using some really colorful paper stock for the cats, maybe paisleys and florals ?
decisions, decisions, oh my...

I'm still not allowed to drive so I had to work really, really hard into 'guilting' my son to take me to the store (exhausting work that was). I need two paint brushes, styles that I don't have. I also need to buy some canvas materials to make my canvas panels.


Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Calling All Artists... Save Money, Starve Less~ How To Make Your Own Canvas Panels

I love 'art' and I have this burning desire to make art, even though my art is very bad art.  I have plenty of desire but precious little money ~so~ 3/4 of my creative juices are directed towards getting what I need for as little money as possible (hummmm....perhaps that's why my art is so bad)? but I digress...
This morning I did a web-search: 'how+to+make+your+own+canvas+panels' and I was fortunate enough to find these youtube videos buried amongst a gazillion search results.

..plus, this lovely young lady is a wonderful teacher..

This makes me happy...

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Chai Tea & Deep Thoughts

Tomorrow I am scheduled for surgery. This particular surgery is small potatoes compared to several of my previous surgeries yet somehow am particularly disturbed by this one.  I feel like it's interrupting my life and my creativity.  I want to stay home and make art...and write bad poetry...and sit in the cemetery and brood....

I made a batch of instant chai tea to give as gifts for the holidays and while I was at it,  I made myself a cup to pout and ponder over...

Instant Chai tea


1 cup nonfat dry milk powder

1 cup powdered non-dairy creamer

1 cup French vanilla flavored powdered non-dairy creamer

2 1/2 cups white sugar

1 1/2 cups unsweetened instant tea

2 teaspoons ground ginger

2 teaspoons ground cinnamon

1 teaspoon ground cloves

1 teaspoon ground cardamom

*** can add 1 teaspoon Allspice & Nutmeg,

1/4 teaspoon White Pepper

*You may choose to omit the French vanilla creamer, and use 2 teaspoons

vanilla extract instead. To do so, mix the vanilla into the sugar, let it dry,

then break the sugar into small lumps. Follow the same procedure as above.


1. In a large bowl, combine milk powder, non-dairy creamer, vanilla flavored

creamer, sugar and instant tea. Stir in ginger, cinnamon, cloves and cardamom.

In a blender or food processor, blend 1 cup at a time, until mixture is the consistency

of fine powder.

2. To serve: Stir 2 heaping tablespoons Chai tea mixture into a mug of hot water.

A Message From Mother

This grey day speaks to me. I can sense her message floating on the wind.
Whispering as she pushing through the naked branches of trees surrounding this house.
Soft urgent whispers swirl around and around...
through the mournful cry of Black Bird and the pouring out of the sky, She weeps out loud for her children; all inhabitants of Earth...

before it's too late....
before it's too late.



Tuesday, December 6, 2011

There's this Tower... in a Cemetery.... in Scotland..


My Very First Painting ~ Tree-Hugger

Okay, so it's pretty awful...but not too awful for a 'first-timer'. hopefully I'll get better.


Marker Rendering

In 1994  I studied Commercial/Graphic Arts at The Art Institute.  Unfortunately, due to illness I had to drop out about half way through the course.  The only medium I ever worked with was Professional Markers.

This got me a B grade.  My Instructor said that I 'overworked the Jacket losing the highlights in the process.
I am going to try my hand at Mixed Medium Art.....

I don't expect I will be any good at it but that's not really the point, is it?  Art is cathartic....


Back To The Drawing Board...

...but not really because it's missing in action.

Several months ago I dug up my old art bag from when I was a student at The Art Institute (Pittsburgh) just to discover someone has rummaged through it.  Much of m y work was ruined plus my 'drawing board' and  aluminum T-Square missing.  Now members of my family just don't get that as far as I'm concerned,  this is a 'Hair-on-Fire' catastrophe.  My income is  well below the poverty level -and- T-Squares & Drawing Boards are obscenely, ridiculously, unjustifiably  expensive.

So...I went to Home Depot and bought a piece of plywood 24 X 24, duck-taped the borders and papered taped  poster board on the front the same as I did while going to The Art Institute.

Drawing Board:
Arts & Craft Stores:  $50.00 & up
but a 24 X 24 piece of plywood from Home Depot: $8.35

The T-Square was $9.00  at Michael's with a 50% off coupon.

Happy as-a-pig-in-shit:  Priceless


Thursday, December 1, 2011

To Any Reader

Whether upon the garden seat
You lounge with your uplifted feet
Under the May's whole Heaven of blue;
Or whether on the sofa you,
No grown-up person being by,
Do some soft corner occupy:
Take this volume in your hands
And enter into other lands,
For lo! (as children feign) suppose
You, hunting in the garden rows,
Or in the lumbered attic, or
The cellar - a nail-studded boot
And dark, descending stairway found
That led to kingdoms underground:
There standing, you should hear with ease
Strange birds a-singing, or the trees
Swing in big robber woods, or bells
On many fairy citadels:
There passing through (a step or so,
Neither mamma nor nurse need know!)
From your nice nurseries you would pass
Like Alice through the Looking-Glass
Or Gerda following little Ray,
To wondrous countries far away.
Well, and just this volume can
Transport each little maid or man,
Presto, from where they live away
Where other children used to play.
As from the house your mother sees
You playing round the garden trees,
So you may see, if you will look
Through the windows of this book,
Another child, far, far away,
And in another garden, play.
But do not think you can at all,
By knocking on the window, call
That child to hear you. He intent
Is all on his play-business bent.
He does not hear; he will not look,
Nor yet be lured out of this book.
For, long ago, the truth to say,
He has grown up and gone away,
And it is but a child of air
That lingers in the garden there.
~ Robert Louis Stevenson A Child's Garden of Verses 1885

Thursday, November 24, 2011

Thoughts for the day...

'Trust in what you love, continue to do it, and it will take you where you need to go''.
~ Natalie Goldberg

I am an artist, not necessarily a 'good' artist.  In fact I would say that I'm mediocre at best but I do enjoy making 'art'...well, maybe the term 'enjoy' is not quit accurate; I 'need' to make art in some form, be it greeting cards, jewelry, marker renderings and even sometimes writing very bad bad poetry.... I am compelled to make art. When i'm not making art I am restless.

I've been wanting a Lightbox for years. I kept telling myself that I would make one...and I could too -But- I never got around to it.  Always something got in the way...

So yesterday...

I went to The Joann's Fabrics website typed in my zipcode and then 'Lightbox' in their search engine and up popped a pretty nice Lightbox on sale for $35.99.

So I went to Joann Fabrics.  Turns out...

They- did- not- have- that -Lightbox.   In fact they didn't have ANY Lightboxes because they no longer carry them. Nice huh?

So  I drove to the opposite end of town to Michael's.  Michael's had one Lightbox. Just. One. Lightbox.  It was $99.99 -but- I was armed with a coupon for 40% off....so....my beautiful Lightbox ended up costing me approximately the same as the $35.99 would have after factoring in the shipping cost.    
So yesterday I went to Michael's Arts & Craft Store and I bought a 'lightbox'.  

Maybe I will make a Lightbox and take this one back...

Nah, the spirit is willing but the flesh says: 'Nah-uh'.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

The Giving Tree ~by Shel Silverstein

When I first read this story it made me cry:  There are disputes as far as interpretations go.

I have my own interpretation:
The Giving Tree parallels our beautiful 'life giving' planet; a living organism.
The Boy parallels Mankind; takers, exploiters, destroyers.

The ending~ The planet has been stripped of 'life'. Mankind will die.

Someone not a morose as myself could interpret The Learning Tree as a story about 'unconditional love'.

~The Giving Tree~
by  Shel Silverstein

Once, there was a tree…
And she loved a little boy.
And every day the boy would come
And he would gather her leaves
And make them into crowns and play king of the forest.
He would climb up her trunk
And swing from her branches
And eat apples
And they would play hide-and-go-seek.
And when he was tired, he would sleep in her shade.
And the boy loved the tree… very much…
And the tree was happy.
But time went by,
And the boy grew older.
And the tree was often alone.
Then, one day, the boy came to the tree and the tree said:

~”Come, Boy, come and climb up my trunk and swing from my branches and eat apples and play in my shade and be happy!”

~”I am too big to climb and play” said the boy. “I want to buy thing and have fun. I want some money.
Can you give me some money?”

~”I’m sorry”, said the tree,”but I have no money. I have only leaves and apples. Take my apples, Boy, and sell them in city. Then you will have money and you’ll be happy.”
And so the boy climbed up the tree and gathered her apples and carried them away.
And the tree was happy…

But the boy stayed away for a long time… and the tree was sad.
And then one day the boy came back, and the tree shook with joy, and she said:

~”Come, Boy come and climb up my trunk and swing from my branches and eat apples and play in my shade and be happy.”

~”I am too busy to climb trees,” said the boy. “I want a house to keep me warm”, he said. “I and want a wife and I want children, and so I need a house. Can you give me a house?”

~”I have no house”, said the tree. “The forest is my house”, said the tree. “But you may cut off my branches and build a house. Then you will be happy”.
And so the boy cut off her branches and carried them away to build his house. And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time…
And when he came back, the tree was so happy she could hardly speak.

~”Come, Boy” she whispered, “Come and play”.

~”I am too old and sad to play”, said the boy. “I want a boat that will take me away from here. Can you give me a boat?”

~”Cut down my trunk and make a boat”, said the tree. “Then you can sail away… and be happy”.

And so the boy cut down her trunk
And made a boat and sailed away.
And the tree was happy…
But not really.
And after a long time the boy came back again.

~”I am sorry, Boy”, said the tree, “but I have nothing left to give you – My apples are gone”.

~”My teeth are too weak for apples”, said the boy.

~”My branches are gone”, said the tree. “You cannot swing on them”.

~”I am too old to swing on branches”, said the boy.

~”My trunk is gone”, said the tree. “You cannot climb”.

~”I am too tired to climb”, said the boy.

~”I am sorry” sighed the tree. “I wish that I could give you something… but I have nothing left. I am just an old stump. I am sorry…”

~”I don’t need very much now”, said the boy. “Just a quiet place to sit and rest. I am very tired”.

~”Well”, said the tree, straightening herself up as much as she could, “well, an old stump is good for sitting and resting. Come, Boy, sit down… sit down and rest”.

And the boy did.
And the tree was happy…

The end.


Saturday, November 19, 2011

What A Wonderful Way To Look At Our Lives....

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

- Desiderata, Max Erhmann


Friday, November 11, 2011

'Life' ~So Many Questions, So Few Answers....

Having been caught up in life's chaos and drama I haven't posted much at all lately.  Truth is that I haven't been feeling well either.  I've recently been diagnoses with Fibromyalgia &  Hoshimoto's Disease along with dealing with chronic pain from my previous back surgeries (which now is actually manageable).

This week I've had wee 'scare'  My PCP send me to an ENT Specialist. I have a huge lump under my ear at my jaw-line.  ENT Specialist informs me that he thinks it could quite possible me a malignancy.  I have an appointment in the 15th for a CAT Scan w/ contrast.  We shall see...

-but- prior to this news I've been doing a lot of thinking over the past year or so:

  • what has my life meant?
  • what have I ever done to make this world a better place ? 
  • How will my Son's remember me?
  • do I have enough 'time' left to make even a modest contribution to this beautiful planet?
As a result of my cares & concerns about The Human Condition, the destruction of The Planet, the brutal way we treat our Non-Human brethren...My family thinks I am 'crazy' and this makes me sad....not because they think I'm crazy, for I care nothing about that -but- for the fact that the concept of treating this beautiful planet and it's creatures with Love, Respect & Dignity is thought of as 'crazy'. 

That's what  breaks my heart.

'Life' is Sacred and deserves to be treated as such.

Even though it's cold outside right now...I am going to get dressed, go outside and sit on the ground, rest my back against a tree and let her vibrations heal my mind & body.....

okay...so maybe I am a little crazy *wink*


In Flanders Fields


In Flanders Fields

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (
Canadian Army

In Flanders Field - Copy of Signed Original
Courtesy of Bee MacGuire
Obtained From TheMcCrae Museum of The Guelph Museum

McCrae's "In Flanders Fields" remains to this day one of the most memorable war poems ever written. It is a lasting legacy of the terrible battle in the Ypres salient in the spring of 1915. Here is the story of the making of that poem: Although he had been a doctor for years and had served in the South African War, it was impossible to get used to the suffering, the screams, and the blood here, and Major John McCrae had seen and heard enough in his dressing station to last him a lifetime.
As a surgeon attached to the 1st Field Artillery Brigade, Major McCrae, who had joined the McGill faculty in 1900 after graduating from the University of Toronto, had spent seventeen days treating injured men -- Canadians, British, Indians, French, and Germans -- in the Ypres salient.
It had been an ordeal that he had hardly thought possible. McCrae later wrote of it:
"I wish I could embody on paper some of the varied sensations of that seventeen days... Seventeen days of Hades! At the end of the first day if anyone had told us we had to spend seventeen days there, we would have folded our hands and said it could not have been done."
One death particularly affected McCrae. A young friend and former student, Lieut. Alexis Helmer of Ottawa, had been killed by a shell burst on 2 May 1915. Lieutenant Helmer was buried later that day in the little cemetery outside McCrae's dressing station, and McCrae had performed the funeral ceremony in the absence of the chaplain.
The next day, sitting on the back of an ambulance parked near the dressing station beside the Canal de l'Yser, just a few hundred yards north of Ypres, McCrae vented his anguish by composing a poem. The major was no stranger to writing, having authored several medical texts besides dabbling in poetry.
In the nearby cemetery, McCrae could see the wild poppies that sprang up in the ditches in that part of Europe, and he spent twenty minutes of precious rest time scribbling fifteen lines of verse in a notebook.
A young soldier watched him write it. Cyril Allinson, a twenty-two year old sergeant-major, was delivering mail that day when he spotted McCrae. The major looked up as Allinson approached, then went on writing while the sergeant-major stood there quietly. "His face was very tired but calm as we wrote," Allinson recalled. "He looked around from time to time, his eyes straying to Helmer's grave."
When McCrae finished five minutes later, he took his mail from Allinson and, without saying a word, handed his pad to the young NCO. Allinson was moved by what he read:
"The poem was exactly an exact description of the scene in front of us both. He used the word blow in that line because the poppies actually were being blown that morning by a gentle east wind. It never occurred to me at that time that it would ever be published. It seemed to me just an exact description of the scene."
In fact, it was very nearly not published. Dissatisfied with it, McCrae tossed the poem away, but a fellow officer retrieved it and sent it to newspapers in England. The Spectator, in London, rejected it, but Punch published it on 8 December 1915.
Thanks to Mack Welford for reminding me of this great poem.
Updated: 12 November 2008 Updated: 9 November 2009

Friday, November 4, 2011

Creativity In Action

A good read.
An old Italian gentleman lived alone in New Jersey . He wanted to plant his annual tomato garden, but it was very difficult work, as the ground was hard. His only son, Vincent, who used to help him, was in prison. The old man wrote a letter to his son and described his predicament:
A good read.
An old Italian gentleman lived alone in New Jersey . He wanted to plant his annual tomato garden, but it was very difficult work, as the ground was hard. His only son, Vincent, who used to help him, was in prison. The old man wrote a letter to his son and described his predicament:

Dear Vincent, I am feeling pretty sad because it looks like I won’t be able to plant my tomato garden this year. I’m just getting too old to be digging up a garden plot. I know if you were here my troubles would be over. I know you would be happy to dig the plot for me, like in the old days. Love, Paopa

A few days later he received a letter from his son.

Dear Papa, Don’t dig up that garden. That’ s where the bodies are buried. Love, Vinnie

At 4 a.m. The next morning, FBI agents and local police arrived and dug up the entire area without finding any bodies. They apologized to the old man and left. That same day the old man received another letter from his son.

Dear Papa, Go ahead and plant the tomatoes now. That’s the best I could do under the circumstances.
Love you,
---------------- via Maher Zain.
The moral of the story is: Wherever there is a will, there is a way - so never lose hope :)

Thursday, September 8, 2011

This Morning

A cool breeze floats in through my bedroom window
carrying in with it the muted sounds of the traffic and chirping birds
I am straddling a dream
half in
half out
you and I
holding hands
fingers entwined
strolling down Wellesley Road
our destination,
Leven Promenade
gradually the sounds of the traffic are no longer muted grow louder
and our entwined fingers fade away..
... you slip away from me... left behind in my dream
as I am brought back into my empty room
wrapped in the chill of loneliness


Saturday, August 6, 2011

I Loved You In Life. I Love You In Death.

Matthew -and- Our Shared Little Love Interest, Milo

Your heart that's been stilled and silenced
Beats on in mine

My Love
My Soul-Mate

I loved you In Life
I Love You In death,

I'll Love You In eternity.

Friday, July 22, 2011


I drove David (my son)  down to his local Union Hall this morning for a class. But first he wanted to stop at BP to get coffee. While I was sitting in the car waiting for him I noticed two older men standing on the walkway chatting & drinking their coffee...the one man looked  just like Matthew, my deceased husband, his eyebrows, mannerisms, the way he was drinking his coffee, his hairline... I was mesmerized.   He caught me staring at him so I apologized & explained.  He was very sweet about it.  But now it's set the mood for the day...For the life of me, I. Just. Can. Not.  get past Matthew's Death.   'Grief' is like being marooned on a deserted island... a very lonely place.

Thursday, June 30, 2011

Friday, June 10, 2011


This is something I wrote in 2003 not long after leaving Scotland, missing Matthew my husband, my friend, my soul-mate. We were casualties of a government bureaucracy.


She lies in a soft bed of sweet summer grass
gazing up at the stars as memories of him tug at her 
tucked tightly under a blanket of want and loneliness
with silver moonbeams dancing across her face
thoughts of him glow like burning ashes floating up towards the heavens
she wonders where under the stars does he lay his head?
and does he grieve for her as she grieves for him?

somewhere, far away,  under the stars….

He lies in a soft bed of sweet summer grass
gazing up at the stars as memories of her tug at him
tucked tightly under a blanket of want and loneliness
with silver  moonbeams dancing across his face
thoughts of her glow like burning ashes floating up towards the heavens
he wonders where under the stars does she lay her head?
and does she grieve for him as he grieves for her?

P. Najafabadi

Please do not copy or re-print anything from this blog without the written permission. Thank you.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Seasons of waiting

A  shadow sits alone
on a hollowed out log,

in a place that's never had a name


The moon swallows the sun,
daylight vanishes,
and still the shadow sits alone
on the same hollowed out log
in the place that's never had a name


Seasons melt away,
Springs drip into summer
summers into fall
falls into winter
and still the shadow sits alone
on the hollowed out log
in the same place that's never had a name


More time passes,
and there are no more moons to swallow the sun,
and no more seasons to drip into the next
and still the shadow sits alone
on the hollowed out log
in the place that's never had a name


Limping by is a broken creature, one who's heart has become entangled in wounds and woes,
discovers the shadow who sits alone
on a hollowed out log
in a place that never had a name


In a act of kindness the wounded creature sits down next to
and embraces the weary shadow
who sat so long alone
on that hollowed out log.
in that  place that's never had a name


through dry cracked lips the creature leans in
and whispers sweet soothing words to shadow
and the two entwine,
shadow is lifted from the hollowed out log
freeing her from the place that's never had a name,
the wait comes ends

Shadow and  Creature proceed forward as one
following a path to a sweet place that's always had a name
leaving behind the hollowed out log
an orphaned child of  'wound and woe'.


Please do not copy or re-print anything from this blog without the written permission. Thank you.

A New Challenge: I'm Going to try to read 100 by December 2011

I Found a blog with the following challenge:  I will be joining in with the Book Chick City’s reading challenge for fun! The rules are simple:

• Read 100 books by 31st December 2011
• Only print books & ebooks count – (no audiobooks)
• Any genre
• Twitter tag: #100booksinayear
• Anyone can join at anytime

Considering that it's already a week into June I don't expect to meet this the grandiose  challenge of reading 100 books in 180 days but it sounds like fun to try.

Sunday, May 29, 2011

...And The Dog Ran Away With The Girl

This morning while still laying in bed  I began mentally mapping out my day. Far more often than not the whole 'mapping out the day thingy'  ends up being an exercise in futility.  Even so, in my eccentric corner of the world  I live on this lilliputian land of 'Perpetual Hope' and this little crumb of magical thinking is what allows me to make plans.

This morning's ritual ushered in something that I was completely unprepared for. I don't know how any one could have been prepared for such an episode. Even as I lumbered through residual sleep I am mentally penciling in the days agenda. I prioritize by the order of importance, from most important to least important. I do this because my mind is far more ambitious than my body.   First in order of the day is to go to the nursing home to visit with my mother.

I don't quit know how to describe this other than it seems like my mind has a mind of it's own. First I'm thinking about visiting my mom then my mind starts inching away, at first it was real slow and sneaky-like so I didn't take notice. Then with an abrupt jolt it just took off,  dragging me behind like a cartoon drawing of a sixty pound kid hanging on to a leash attached to the collar of a two hundred pound Great Dane, a Great Dane that's in hot pursuit of cat. There's just no stopping that dog. Oh how I hate that.

This damned dog dragged me through  bristles and briars to a place that I never wanted to go to again.  The fallout from this, well, let's just say,  I'll be spending the next few days pulling thistles out of heart & soul.   If only it were possible to kill a memory.

Some people should never be allowed to have children.

Saturday, May 28, 2011

Betrayal, Through The Eyes Of An Eight Year Old

The year is 1963.   She is eight years old.  The songs over the airwaves were;  Johnny Cash's  'Ring of Fire',  The Beetle's 'I Want To Hold Your Hand' ~and~ 'She Loves You' along with  the black & white images of The Clydesdale Horses trotting  to the 'Budweiser Jingle'.  Those are the sounds that dominate her memories of that year.  Today when she hears one of these songs  her whole body reacts to it. Her muscles tense,  she can feel the oppression from the heat and the thick, heavy air that makes it difficult to breathe.  The first sensations to arrive are heightened anxiety and a sense of danger and then the unwelcomed memories start to punch their way to the surface. That's the sequence and it always seems to be a sneak attack. What's so puzzling to her is that she finds herself both drawn to and repelled by those melodies at the same time.

The place was Tampa Florida.  She even partially remembers the address; 11004 61st Street,  but she can't remember the zip code.  She  remembers the first three numbers of their phone number,  988-.    It was a place were grotesqueness and exquisiteness existed simultaneously and she often wonders how that's even possible.  This is the place where all of her nightmares, creativity and love of nature was born.  She both loves and hates this place at the same time.  She's pretty sure this paradox is where she came into being.   Her life,  such a contradiction.

They lived behind an Orange Grove.  The Grove was a place of haunting beauty. From the branches of orange trees hung  silver-blue moss. It was a kind of beauty that's indescribable, especially in the early morning when there was a misty fog floating on the air giving the grove an air of enchantment.   The moss looked like what she imagined the hair of a fairy would look like.  Long blue-grey strands with silver highlights  twisted and curled around each other.   If you looked really close you would see tiny, almost microscopic ruby red bugs scurrying up and down the strands.  She remembers thinking that they in themselves were beautiful and she was absolutely fascinated that creatures that tiny even existed. How in the world could something that small be alive?

This particular day was oppressively hot and the air sickeningly thick.  Just over yonder there where dark, angry looking storm clouds gathering,  physically and metaphorically.  Before the storm ever reached their little green colored aluminum house the air inside began to feel as though it were popping with static electricity that was being generated by her mother's anxiety.

 Her mother was terrified of  lightening.  She was so terrified that she was willing to sacrifice her child to electrocution to save herself.  When a storm was  in progress her mother would seek the safety of the corner of the long blue sofa furthest from the big picture window in the living room.  From the sofa the girl's mother would instruct  her to go around the house to first turn off at the switch all of the electrical appliances, the television, radios, lamps, etc.  and then to unplug all of the cords from the outlets.

The girl wasn't  afraid of the storms and at the tender age of eight she was oblivious to any danger.  Oddly enough, none of her mother's fear & anxiety ever influence her as far as thunder & lightening are concerned, not then and not now.   She does remember loving the arrival of thunderstorms because it always meant that she had her mother's full attention, so, she was quit happy. Obviously, in the girl's childish mind she didn't know at the time that her mother was using  her as a distraction, that it  never was about being a mother-daughter bonding activity.

On this particular day during this particular thunderstorm her mother taught her a song. The girl thought it was hilarious because it had a bad word in it.   "Oh the monkey wrapped his tail around the flag pole to see his ass hole" and those words were sung to The National Emblem March and the girl and her mother sang it over and over again, giggling until the storm past over.

It was just a matter of moments later when the girl's father came home unexpectedly for lunch. This was a very confusing period in her life because as much as she wanted to love her father  she was terrified of him at the same time, and for good reason.  But she was still giddy from the excitement of the play time with her mother and so she ran up to her father and threw her arms around his hips and hugged him. then she said:  " Listen to this song Daddy", and the girl then sang the funny song that her mother taught her during the storm.   In her childish innocence she was fully expecting that he would join in the fun because after all,  he had hugged her back when she hugged him,  but instead he was enraged and the she did not understand why. Instantaneously  fear and anxiety spread over her like a pall.  To this day the girl can still see his face. The hard lined around his mouth, lips pressed tight, cold steely gray eyes, she can see the tiny beads of sweat on his forehead, she can smell the Vitalis hair cream in his hair & the faint scent of Old Spice lingering on his starched white shirt that had his name embroidered in red thread on the left breast pocket.  Forty Three years later her stomach still knots up when she relives that day in 1963.   He siad: "Where did you learn that?"  She said: "Mommy taught me".  His  head snaps up and he looks towards her mother and he said:  "Did you teach that to her?" Her mothers said:  "No,  I didn't teach her that, I don't know where she learned that from, she's lying, she's lying."  By now the girl is terrified and sobbing, trying to catch her breath while repeating her father over and over  again that mommy taught her that song as he's slapping and shaking her demanding that she tell him the truth.   Her mother, still sitting  in the safety of the corner of the long blue sofa furthest from the big picture window in the living room, watches in silence as her eight year old daughter receives a severe beating for singing the song that she herself taught her daughter and then lied about it.

This was not to be the last time the girl's mother would sacrifice her.

About eight-ten years ago the girl asked her mother why she lied to her father about teaching her that song and  why she sat in silence and watched as he gave her such an awful beating.  Her mother's response was:  "Well, I didn't want the beating". And she laughed as she said it.

Some people should never be allowed to have children.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Word Drivel

I admit, I am utterly devoid of talent when it comes to writing so I'm  going to apologize in advance to anyone who decides to stick around and travel down this twisting, winding road of 'word' drivel.

I've been in a Fibro Flare for the past several weeks so my morning ritual goes like this:

  • Struggle to get out of bed.
  • Go pee.
  • Grab cell phone, book bag,  Miss Molly McGee (dog) & take the stairs one at a time down to the first floor.
  • Boot up the MAC.
  • Put the coffee on.
  • Put Molly on her leash.
  • Take Levothyroxine then wait one hour before taking other meds & having breakfast.
  • Read HuffPost & get pissed off (Part B) Tweet on a separate Twitter account created specifically for Politics and articles about Law Makers that have pissed me off.
  • Let Molly back in, by now she's jumping, scratching & crying at the door (she has issues).
  • Break away from political news before I spontaneously combust due to anger & hostility, moving on to a poetry or (literature <--- I am in shock, I can't believe I spelled that right. Give me just a sec. to bask in this rare moment of achievement).  sorry.
And today while surfing the Net I discovered a site dedicated to Victor Hugo, so reread one of his poems that I adore, Veni, Vidi, Vixi.   I've read it several times yet every single time  something new stands out  (probably due to my dyslexia since it's not written in a pattern common to me).

Veni, Vidi, Vixi

from: Contemplations by Victor Hugo

Translated by: Henry Carrington

I have lived long enough, since in my grief
I walk, nor any arm to help is found;
Since I scarce laugh at the dear children round,
Since flowers, henceforth, can give me no relief.

Since in the Spring, when God makes Nature crave,
I see with joyless soul that love so bright;
Since reached the hour when man avoids the light,
And knows the bitterness that all things have.

Since from my soul all hope has passed away;
Since, in this month of fragrance and the rose,
My child! I wish to share thy dark repose;
Since, dead my heart, too long in life I stay.

From earth's set task I never sought to fly:
Ploughed is my furrow, and my harvest o'er.
Cheerful I lived, and gentle more and more--
Erect, yet prone to bow towards mystery.

I've done my best: with work and watching worn,
I've seen that many mocked my grieving state;
And I have wondered at there causeless hate,
Having much sorrow and much labour borne.

In this world's gaol, where all escape is vain,
Unmurmuring, bleeding, prostrate 'neath the shock.
Silent, exhausted, jeered by felon mock,
I've dragged my link of the eternal chain.

Now my tired eyes are but half open kept,
To turn when I am called is all I can,
Wearied and stupefied, and like a man
Who rises e'er the morn, and ne'er has slept.

Idle through grief, I neither deign nor care
Notice to take of envy's noisome spite.
O Lord! now open me the gates of night,
That I may get me gone, and disappear.

April 1848

Wow.  Just. Wow.

I'm in awe (and admittedly with envy) when I read pieces like this written generations ago when there were no computers with dictionary, thesaurus & spell check software nor ridiculously easy access to great works from great writers.  I am  astounded, Victor Hugo strung ordinary, unremarkable words into this stunning arrangement creating this astounding work of literary art and he did it all from his own genius.

I can not write my grocery list without the aid of my computer, never-mind  poetry or prose... not even bushwa poetry or prose.


Monday, May 23, 2011

A Philosophical Question:

Yesterday I read an article in The Huffington Post about The Rapture. The now  89 year old Harold Camping prophesied that is was to occur on  May 21, 2011 at 6:00 PM. I left a comment on that article because it got me to thinking. And once that ball starts to roll there just ain't no stopping it -so-  I did what I always do, I gave in and rolled with it.

The Rapture,  once again conspicuous by it's absence was also predicted by Harold Camping back in 1994.  Does he believe what he saying?  Who knows?  I don't profess to know what's in this man's head but having been enmeshed in a few Evangelical, Fundamentalist Christion Churches I can guess.  I admit, I'm an opinionated woman so of course I have an opinion for this particular incident and this particular biblical prophecy ......

Below is my comment (I've expanded on my original comment because I have no character limits here):

“I don't understand people & I suppose I never will, I've stopped trying.  All evidence points to there being little to no love or respect for God (if there is a God).  If I believed in God I would be terrified of meeting him after trashing his planet and killing his creatures.  Look at what we've done to the planet.   Look at what we do to animals and look at what we do to each other.  If one loves and respect 'God' one would not harm, destroy, kill or exploit  His creation.  If we loved God there would be no poverty, no  hunger,  no homelessness and we would be taking great care of each other because, after all, we are all God's creatures.  Who would even think to destroy The Mona Lisa?  Isn't God a greater artist than da Vinci?  Yet we think nothing of spilling oil into The Gulf annihilating millions of Living, Feeling Beings all of which were supposedly created by God.  Isn't the Gulf a greater work of art than the Mona Lisa?

If the Bible truly is  'The Inspired Word of God' then we are obviously cherry picking what we are going to obey. After all Jesus did say: Feed the hungry, clothe the naked, care for the sick, the widows & the orphans. I don't see much of that happening. So, maybe, just maybe  there was no rapture because we are not worthy of redemption or Harold Camping is just another false Prophet -or- both.
I have to say,  Biblical Prophecy no longer matters to me  because I can't believe in God.  I can't bring myself to believe in a God who would intentionally create creatures as vile and horrid as 'Man'.  We kill for pleasure and we kill for profit.”   There are of course always exceptions to the rules and there are some very wonderful, altruistic people who walk gently on the earth. They trying to do what's moral & ethical, but the sad reality is that they are vastly out numbered by the wicked, the greedy, the power-hungry who feel it's their 'God-Given right' to exploit of their fellow man, to exploit  nature and her resources and  kill, maim, torture the non-human animals "  Just my opinion.


Saturday, May 14, 2011

A Crisis of Faith

NOTE:  After years of His silence I just had to ask......

Where are you?

Where are you on sun splashed days
and moonlit nights?

on cloudy days
and starless nights?

on rainy days
and stormy nights?

And where were you during my longest days
and my darkest nights?

P. Najafabadi


Just Another Dream

Just Another Dream

So of course, I wrote about it.

I dreamed about it so of course I wrote about it 

His presence was
warm and strong
His touch
gentle and comforting
His kiss
soft and sweet
His voice
thick and warm, like liquid gold
He said: 'I love you'
And I felt his warm breath against my temple
I felt safe and loved

then without warning the fragile wall that separates dreams from reality slowly dissolved
as lucidity pushed it's way in, 
I tried desperately to hold onto him
but like a mist he faded away
and in the darkness of the early morning hours
 cold in my aloneness
And tangled in white sheets
I struggle to remember his face

P. Najafabadi