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

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

Raven and Pig

Note: This makes me very sad.  I wrote this  after watching a documentary about animals bred, raised and slaughtered for food.  One particular pig stood out for me so this is her story.  There are no happing endings here.    I will be forever haunted by what I saw.  This piece is copyrighted so please do not copy it unless by permission.

Raven and Pig  
by P. Najafabadi 

Raven sits at the highest point in the tree,
stretching out shining black wings to be warmed by the sun
he looks down
watching, waiting for Pig

It is her turn

Pig doesn't understand what's happening
she just knows that she's afraid

she can hear the screams of other pigs
she senses their fear and it feeds into her own

she smells the hot coppery scent of blood in the air
mixed with terror

the man screams at her

he beats her across her back with his stick

he kicks her

she is so terrified  her bowels let loose right where she stands

she turns around  trying  to escape the man

in her panic she slips on her own excrement and falls on her side

the man is enraged

and he continues to beat her with his stick
and kicks at her as she struggles to get up

bruised and bloody

in pain and terrified

she is herded to an awful place

jammed into a filthy, bloody box

 a bolt is rammed into her head and she is stunned 

her leg is shacked

she is hoisted by one leg into the air 
and her throat is  cut

 still conscience

she struggles violently while suspended helplessly

as the blood gushes from her neck
hot and salty it stings her eyes

Raven waits patiently for the precise moment for when Pig gives in to death

then lifts his head towards heaven
releases a long scream  in protest of her murder

then he sweeps down gathering her essence

and carries her away on his shining black wings

away from wicked men
whose hearts are hard and eyes too blinded by greed
to see Pig and her sweet sensitive spirit
for the gift that she was.

Raven looks down on the empty shells of men knowing that they are already long dead

for they had murdered their own souls the moment they murdered their first pig

P. Najafabadi
Jan. 19, 2011


Monday, May 9, 2011

Surrender ©

Surrender ©


Alone, a frail old woman slowly undresses in front of a cloudy, black speckled ancient looking mirror that belonged to her great grandmother. She contemplates the age of the mirror as she reaches up with her old fingers that are no longer the nimble fingers of her of her youth  and she  fumbles with the  tiny buttons on the traditional high collared blouse that all the old women in her village  tend to wear. 

Staring back at her from behind the black speckles is the reflection of a woman she barely recognizes as herself.  Her thin lips tremor as she silently counts. She figures that the mirror   must be well over 200 years old now,  and she sighs heavily and whispers to her reflection  “I look like I am over two hundred years old”.    She leans in closer towards the mirror to get a better look and notices that her white hair is so thin that it barely covers her pinkish scalp. Her eyes are sunken and a teary looking faded grey and her face is  deeply lined. Large brown spots are scattered about her forehead, cheeks and chin,  blotting out what was once a creamy completion. Once upon a time she was considered to be a real beauty.  She Reaches up and lightly touches a sharply protruding cheek bone with gnarled bluish tinted  fingers.  She gently slides the tips of her fingers across her face  causing  loose, paper then skin to bunch up under them.  She notes that the skin on her face looks as if it was  haphazardly  draped over  facial bones much like an old thread bare dish towel that's been carelessly tossed over a pile of rocks and She thinks to herself: 'so this how old age decorates a face' and she sighs again, only this time her sigh is much deeper and longer.

With a shuffling movement She turns away from the mirror and looks around the room. It's a cozy, welcoming room that's furnished in the style of a bygone era. Her gaze floats across the room like a feather riding a slow breeze, floating downwards, gently  bouncing off of  treasured mementos . With faded ,watery eyes her  gaze rest on one knickknack after another,  just long enough  to coax free a memory. Some of the memories are  sweet and precious while other are riddled with grief and regrets. 

In a dream-like state she is whisked away, carried to a mystical place of long ago where old familiar sounds and smells still dwell, locked in little bubbles like snow globes. Her senses come alive as a lifetime of memories burst free,  twisting and swirling in her head.   Lost in the echoes of her past she watches as a million events  spin a unique tapestry,  each golden thread is intricately woven into the lives of others. Each person is connected to another until the circle of purpose and reason slowly tightens into a million knots and before her face all of those knots morph into what was her life.

Just outside her tiny cottage the bright, cheery warmth of a golden sun belies the impending shorter days and longer nights as autumn quietly surrenders to winter.  Seagulls fly over head, each mournful cry mingles with the others into a magnificent symphony, a symphony like no other .

Off in the distance, behind her cottage is a gnarled old tree that was once a lush green and filled with abundant life. It now surrenders her magnificent canopy. Her Brightly colored leaves drop off. In a silent dance they twist and swirl as they  float to the ground. The earth below, now decorated with the old tree's sacrifice of multicolored opulence in commemoration of autumn’s last days.

Still standing by the ancient mirror the weary old woman struggles to pulls herself out of a trance like state. With quiet resolution she accepts that she, like autumn has come to the end of  days. She  removes her precious pearl earrings one at a time, absently minded she caresses their satiny smoothness with her gnarled old fingers and with great tenderness she sets them on her dressing table and shuffles over to her bed and crawls into it. 

From her bed she can hear the sea's continual low, rumbling sound as frothy waves roll over each other in a frantic race to reach the beach,  gliding over the sand making it look like satin. As the spent waves tumble back into the sea they leave behind little jewels.  Beautiful stones embellished with intricate colours and patterns, sea glass and empty shells that were once filled with life.

The old woman closes her eyes.  Clutched tightly to her breast is they tapestry  that holds the of memories of her long life and  she slowly drifts off, silently releasing all of her sweet memories.  So many memories.   Like a beautiful waltz that is danced to the symphony of  the seagulls and the sea  they twist and swirl until they fade into nothingness as she surrenders her final breath .

This Story is Copywrite Protected
by  Najafabadi