By the way, all works are my own and I take full responsibility for their content.
She did not simply like to read. She read voraciously, fiercely, carnivorously. She would lie in wait and pounce on unsuspecting books. She would rend and tear the paper-flesh of fiction and nonfiction alike, leaving barely a binding or a smear of ink, then lie down in the shade, sated. -- 5/28/2012
Pussy is Goddess.
Most don’t truly understand this. Not most women and certainly not most men. Many sense it on a subconscious level, but few grasp the true nature of the Goddess. Terrifying and compelling, to be consumed completely by the fires of worship. Sacrificial offerings have to be made.
The bartended set two glasses on the bar in front of us.
“What’s this?” His eyes left my face for the merest nanosecond as he reached for his glass.
“Sex with the Goddess. Absinthe and damiana liqueur.” I lifted my own glass and sipped.
He continued to stare into my eyes. “I’d rather have the real thing.”
I stood at the bar, sipping my drink. My body hummed, electric. Even though he was sitting, and I was wearing 3-inch heels, we were still eye-to-eye. His eyes were cerulean, the color of a cloudless summer sky. I held them captive with my own. I turned my body to face him, standing in the V between his knees, close enough to feel his heat. “We’ve talked about that. Not a good idea. A dead end.”
Without responding, he reached around and cupping my hip in his hand, pulled me in close so that our torsos were touching. He took my hand and held it against his cheek for a moment. It was smooth and closely shaved and warm. Never taking his eyes from mine, he lightly kissed my fingers. His lips were as warm as his cheek. Gently, his opened my hand and touched his lips to my palm. I held his gaze with icy resolve. He delicately bit the pad of each finger in turn, sucking lightly on the thumb.
“You’re playing with matches here, little boy.”
His gaze never shifted, challenging. “What are you going to do about it?”
My eyes never leaving his, I moved my fingertips across his lips, barely parting them to feel the moist warmth within. I leaned in close to his cheek as I moved my hand up the opposite cheek, around his neck and into his hair. Flexing my fingers gently on the back of his head, I breathed slowly across his cheek, down his neck and back up, to whisper in his ear, “I’m going to burn your fucking house down.” I clenched my fist in his hair and jerking his head back and covering his mouth with mine, kissed him hard and long, drawing a low moan from him as I tested his will with my tongue.
His body’s response was the expected one, and just as I felt the vibration pass through him, I released him and stood back. “Meet me outside.”
The bartender lay the tab on the bar for him to sign as I walked away toward the door, not looking back.
The Battle
Mother Night passes her hand above the field…
A mist rises;
Warriors gather…
The battledance is joined.
Shields clash;
Armor to armor.
Fiery flashes as the banners catch flame
From the sparks that fly
From metal grinding on metal.
Steam rises from the sweat and blood
To mix with the mist.
‘Til foe and friend alike
Are obscured.
Amidst the smoke and the crash,
A scream…
A low murmur rides the silence in its wake,
Billowing out into a victorious thunder.
First kill is made;
The battle is won.
The mist parts and the warriors withdraw
Into the dawn…
To sleep and heal
And make ready their swords…
‘Til Mother Night rises again.
Yavonne
Yavonne
I stood beside the bed in the dark and looked down at him. How is it a 38-year-old, 6-foot, 210-pound man can look like a 5-year-old in his sleep? Must be a lack of conscience -- or at least a clear conscience. So sweet an expression, so free of worry, so innocent. I was torn between wanting to stroke his cheek and smothering him with his own pillow.
In the end, I did neither. I laid the envelope on the nightstand and silently left the bedroom, the house, and my own quiet Hell.
I walked the half-mile to the entry of our subdivision where Lisa waited. As I opened the car door and got in, thunder cracked and the angels wept.
"Are you OK? Did he try to stop you?"
"No." I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and thought, But he might have if I had told him.
I was still in bed in Lisa's guestroom the next morning when the phone rang. The bedside clock read 6:15. I could hear Lisa's voice through the closed door.
"No, Will, I'm sorry. She doesn't want to talk yet. . .I'll tell her you called though. . .I'm still your friend, too. But. . .Will, please. . .Fine. I'll give her your message." He must have said something ugly, that last comment had a sharp edge to it.
The door to the guestroom -- my room for the moment -- began to open. I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep still. After a few moments of silence, the door closed again. Lisa, bless her, was the very best kind of friend. Loyal, caring, ready to help no matter what. But also ready with a motherly lecture if she felt you needed one. I was fairly certain she'd think I needed one now. She might have agreed leaving Will was best for me, but she strongly disapproved of the way I left.
I know I took the coward's way out. But I couldn't bear to confront Will with my feelings. Mostly I was just scared he'd manage to talk me into staying. After all, what good reason could I give for leaving. Will was perfect. My life with him was perfect. Just. . . perfect.
I remember when I told this to the therapist. . .that first one. She had actually laughed. Will and I had only been married a year and a half. I can still smell the cheap potpourri she had out on the table. Everything in her office was carefully contrived to obscure the room's real function. Ambient lighting, unobtrusive classical music, soothing color scheme. The inevitable desk sat hidden in a dim corner, while what designers call a "conversation grouping" of couches and chairs was clustered in front of bright windows that overlooked a beautiful courtyard. Each and every aspect deliberately structured to produce a calming effect. To make patients -- excuse me, clients -- comfortable and forget the woman they were spilling their guts to was actually dissecting and analyzing every tone, nuance and flicker of movement. All at $200 for 50 minutes. Guess they must need that extra ten minutes to encapsulate your neuroses.
Goodness, we're not bitter, are we?
That therapist listened to me exactly 32 minutes before she laughed. She thought she was being reassuring and congenial. Yeah, right.
"Oh, everyone feels that way from time to time, dear. You're perfectly normal. It's referred to as 'the end of the honeymoon'. Reality is setting in, that's all." She reached over and patted my arm. "I know it's such a relief to hear. But you'll still need help adjusting to married life. Make an appointment for next week on your way out."
We didn’t even get the full 50 minutes. She had me pigeonholed in just under 40.
To his credit, Will insisted we not go back to that idiot. Even though, deep down in his secret heart, he wanted to agree with her. Will wanted the problem to be simple, something lots of couples go through. If it was normal, then it really wasn't a problem, was it?
But there was a problem. I knew it. Will knew it too. No matter how many therapists say everything's fine, sometimes what's pretty on the outside is really nothing but papier-mâché -- hollow and empty.
**********
8:15 am. I could get up safely now. Lisa should be the only one home. As I opened the door into the hallway, I listened. Stillness. A distinct lack of bustling family-type sounds. That was a relief. No uncomfortable questions to answer. No "Von! What are you doing here?" No "Why did Aunt Yavonne spend the night without telling us?” No "Where's Uncle Will?" I seriously doubted my abilities to deal with such innocent questions.
I walked into the sun-filled kitchen with its painted handprints all over the walls. Lisa and Ted did that themselves. I could remember Lisa laughing about how they bickered over whether the colors should be random or in a set pattern. That was over ten years ago and Lisa still got dreamy-eyed when she talked about the way they had argued until finally they had simply made love on the kitchen floor amidst the paint globs. She swears up and down that was when their second child, Anna, had been conceived.
I poured fresh coffee into the cup that was waiting on the counter just for me. It even had my name on it. Looking around I picked out the differences between my own kitchen and this one. Here, the breakfast table was still cluttered with dishes, the sink held a pot from last night's dinner. The windows could have used a good scrubbing and the floor could too. To top it all off, there was a fresh pancake-syrup-handprint on the refrigerator -- just about 6-year-old Jonah's size. They often say the kitchen was the heart of the home. Here it was in practice. Lisa was a flake and sometimes a slob, but she cherished and enjoyed her family and home.
My own kitchen -- mine and Will's -- was gleaming chrome. Everything spotless and decorator perfect. Straight out of a designer magazine, right down to fresh flowers every week, professionally -- but casually -- arranged. And not just because Will wanted it that way. He would have been just as happy in a kitchen like Lisa's. No, the perfect kitchen was for me, even though Will did most of the cooking.
"I know you're in there!"
The voice just outside the backdoor startled me bad enough that I sloshed coffee onto the floor. I took a deep breath as I realized it was Lisa yelling from the back deck. I tore a paper towel off the roll that stood on the counter (in my kitchen the paper towels sat on a spindle, inside a cabinet) and mopped up the spilt coffee.
"Von? You are in there, aren't you?"
"Don't get your panties in a wad. I'll be right there." I refilled my coffee before walking outside onto the deck.
Out on the deck, Lisa was sitting in her usual lotus position on her favorite quilt. She was concentrating on the Tarot cards she was dealing out in front of her.
I sat down in the only chair on the deck. "Planning your day?"
Without looking up, she turned over another card, "No. Yours."
I sipped my coffee. "So, is the Earth gonna crack open and a thousand fiery demons reach up to drag me to the depths of Hell?"
Lisa still didn't look up. "We’ll know in a second." She took one last card from the deck. From where I sat, I could see it was 'The Hanged Man'. Sacrifice. A chill ran through me. I slipped out of the chair to sit on the quilt beside Lisa and see all the cards.
"Does that mean I'll have to make some sort of significant sacrifice?"
Lisa tapped The Hanged Man card on one bare toe while she studied the layout before her. "Mmmmm. . .or maybe you've already made it."
Already made? I thought of everything I had sacrificed in the last 10 hours -- my home, my security. . .and, of course, Will. He had been offered to the gods just as surely as if I had cut out his heart or thrown him into a volcano. I had deserted him . . .in the dark of night. . .like a thief. . .like a coward.
Deserter. . .coward. . .wretch. . .what kind of person was I? Will had given me everything. Not just possessions, but his time, his attention, his whole heart and soul. What had I done? How could I possibly commit such a heinous crime against this man?
Swear to God, sometimes Lisa really is psychic. At the very moment I had recognized the true evil of my deeds, she grabbed my wrist and brought out of my twisted daydream.
"Keep it in the now, not the may-be,” she looked me sternly in the eyes and gave me a pinch to cement her point.
"Ow!"
"Now back to the question I was trying to ask while you were zoned, 'are you going to work today?'"
I hadn't thought about the office. Should I go in? More than likely Will had already called there looking for me; ergo, it stood to reason that the office grapevine was working overtime speculating as to why he's anxious to be in touch at this time of day. Too many awkward stares and whispers. "No, I don't think I'll go in today."
Lisa gave me another of her motherly "I disapprove" looks. I lowered my gaze from hers pretty quick. She lowered hers back to the deck in her hands and the cards on the quilt. "Whatever. But you have go in tomorrow. And then you have to talk to Will."
"I just can't. . .not right now." The thought of confronting Will -- face-to-face or even by phone -- was unbearable.
"Not right now often rots into not ever. And Will deserves better than that." She had the guilt thing down better than my mother. "You deserve better than that too.” She gathered up the Tarot cards and slipped them back into their little velvet sack with the silver cord drawstring. She stood and pulled on the quilt, forcing me to get up.
"I guess you can make yourself useful around here while you play hide-and-seek with your emotions. I'm in charge of snacks for Jonah's class this week. So you can be assistant cupcake-hander-outer. . .today."
By the time we had handed out all the cupcakes I was wishing I had gone on to work and faced the Inquisition there. Fifteen squealing, giggling six-year-olds. How did Lisa stand it? I mean I love Jonah, but there’s only one of him. Get a bunch of the little beady-eyed crumb snatchers together and the pack mentality takes over. It was no time before they had me pegged as a newbie and unsteady. Three or four of them quickly culled me from the herd and kept me cornered while they wore me down with questions and more information than any one person needed to know.
“Did you know flamingos are pink because they eat shrimp?”
“My grandpa has hair growing out of his ears.”
“My grandpa can blow smoke out of his nose. He looks like a dragon.”
I learned fast the questions didn’t require answers. Really, they came in such quick succession, there wasn’t time to answer. Some left me speechless and unable to answer anyway. Like little Ashley who asked if I was really Jonah’s aunt.
“I have an Aunt Susie, but she isn’t really my aunt. She’s really my mommy, but Granny makes me call her Aunt Susie. Granny took me away from her when I was a baby ‘cuz she was a baby too and Granny says she didn’t know how to take care of a baby and she might drop me or feed paint or something.”
How do you respond to something like that? I must have looked like a deer in headlights, because the teacher rescued me fairly quick after that.
**************************
Later that afternoon, I felt almost normal again as Lisa and I sat on the back deck drinking wine and eating leftover cupcakes.
Lisa laughed as I told her the things the kids had told me.
I was so relaxed that I didn’t think twice when the phone rang. At least not until I heard Jonah exclaim, “Uncle Will. Aunt Von came to my class today…Yessir, she’s here…Are you coming over?”
I started to panic. Lisa touched my arm. “Don’t you move. He’s already been told you’re here. You wanna explain to Jonah why you won’t talk to his Uncle Will?”
I was stuck.
03/23/91
The doorbell rang and a young man in a messenger’s uniform handed Mother a small envelope. Mother thanked him and closed the door. She opened the envelope as she walked back into the kitchen to finish fixing breakfast.
Ghost
(A short, short story I wrote probably back in 1984 or 1985.)
The circle is cast,
Hand to hand,
From sister to brother,
To lover and friend.
We come together,
Magic to start.
The circle is cast hand to hand,
Heart to heart.
BNL ~5/3/13
Silliness abides in my soul.
Gloom is a ghost in the walls and doubt is bats in the attic.
But whimsy is the fire on the hearth.
BNL -- FB status 8/5/2013
Odd (and old) poetry bits
04/96
In a world of trouble,
In a world of strife,
Nothing bursts a happy bubble
Like just living life.
04/96
Bugs
Greenbugs blackbugs redbugs yellowbugs brownbugs
Purplebugs stripedbugs spotted bugs
Shimmerybugs summerybugs
Goodbugs badbugs otherbugs
Somebugs
Bugme.
04/96
Doorways open in
Or they open out.
Depends on which way
You're headed.
07/30/89
Shades of black and gray,
The only brightness –
Flashes of lightning
Lighting my fears.
Fears that have no voice,
But they scream;
Fears that have no eyes,
But they stare.
03/23/91
Tempestuous child –
Clouds fill my mind like Thoughts;
Eyes of Lightning flash;
Thunderstorms of Tears;
Worlds drown in the Deluge;
Cyclones rampage in my Soul.
excerpt from Auntie Amanda's Book of Manners
“Your Auntie Amanda has invited you three for tea and snakes this afternoon.
We jumped out of our chairs and ran a circle around the table. “Yea!! We’re going to Auntie Amanda’s for tea and cakes!”
Mother frowned slightly as she looked at the note. “Not tea and cakes. Tea and snakes.”
We three stopped dead to stare at Mother. Slowly, eyes and wide and mouths agape, we turned to look at each other. “Yea!! We’re going to Auntie Amanda’s for tea and snakes!” and ran ‘round the table some more.
Archaeology -- a poem
I wrote this as the final assignment of an online archaeology course. It sums it up (for me) quite nicely.
Archaeology -- a poem
I wrote this as the final assignment of an online archaeology course. It sums it up (for me) quite nicely.
Archaeology
Discovery, elation
Disturbance, destruction
Racing against time, nature, thieves, and bureaucracy
To rescue the past for the future.
Invisible Girl -- a poem
Invisible Girl
Ghost
Shade
Transparent
Unseen.
Murmur
Whisper
Voiceless
Unheard.
Invisible girl,
Dismissed.
~~ BNL 9/16/13
Marbelous ideas
Ideas roll around my mind like marbles loose on the warped floorboards of the attic, tracing ghost trails in the dust, barely discernible and difficult to follow, almost impossible to unravel from the paths of other ideas.
I am a poet; I have been for 30 years. I love words -- how they sound, alone or strung together in chains; how they make my spirit vibrate, the way you feel the cello in your chest. Words resonate in my soul and echo in my mind, like a delicate concerto for strings.
Sometimes words fall from my pen to the paper like drops of water from a leaky faucet. Sometimes someone tightens the washers and the drips dry up. Other times the washers give way completely, and the words spew everywhere, drenching me, the floor, the walls, and the ceiling, leaving me to mop them up with paper.
Only later, when the soaked pages have dried, do the words begin to vibrate. They must cure into the chains that become vibrating strings to be plucked and stroked. resonating and echoing in the chest, imagination, and the spirit.
THE CONTEST
You could hear the crack of glass on glass as the aggie flew from the boy's fingers and struck the marbles, sending them off in different directions.
"Ha! I won!" cried the boy.
"It wasn't a fair shoot!" said the opponent moodily.
"It was too, and you know it, Jamie Gregg!"
"Was not," Jamie said quietly so Steve wouldn't hear. Steve being a year older and three inches taller, Jamie was careful not to make him angry. Twice already that summer Steve had laid into Jamie with a vengeance for something phrased wrong.
"Well, I won and I get to keep the marbles. " Steve said arrogantly, daring Jamie to argue.
"You can't keep the marbles. They're mine. They were a present from my brother, David. He'd get mad if I lost them." Just thinking of what would happen to him if he didn't bring home those marbles made him pale. They weren't a present, just David's, taken while David was away at camp.
"That's too bad, wuss. They're mine and I'm gonna keep 'em."
"Whattaya say we have a contest for them?"
"A contest? What kind of contest?"
"You know, the kind where you see who's the best at everything kind of like the Olympics."
"The Olympics, huh?" Being three inches taller and having a good twenty pounds on Jamie, Steve felt pretty sure of chances for winning just about any physical contest. "Sure, okay. We'll have a contest."
"Okay. So, whattaya want to do first?"
"First, we'll see who can throw the farthest."
"Yeah, and then we'll see who can spit the farthest and then who can run the fastest."
:And who can hold their breath the longest!"
"All right! Let's start."
They began with throwing rocks. Jamie won that one. His brother, David, was the star pitcher for the high school and had been coaching Jamie before he left for camp. Next was spitting; Steve won that event. He had studied the way his grandfather spit tobacco.
At the halfway point in their mini-Olympics, the boys were tied one to one. They began the second half. They ran from the market on the corner to the end of the street by old Mrs Sanders' house. Jamie won that one too. Steve wasn't as used to his newly-long legs as Jamie was to his old short ones.
"We might as well say I won, Steve. Two out of three. There ain't no way you can beat that."
"I can tie you, though. And then we'll have to do something else."
"Okay. But I bet you can't do it."
So air was sucked in and held trapped in cheeks that became red from the effort. Ten seconds…fifteen seconds…thirty…forty…forty-five…Jamie exhaled suddenly and gasped for air.
Steve's breath exploded in laughter. "I told you! I told you! It's a tie. Now we got to think up something else."
"I don't know, Steve. It's getting late. My mom's expecting me home soon."
"I know! We can throw houses!"
"Come on. Not that. That's messing with somebody else's stuff and that's not right." Jamie was reluctant because the last time it is was Brian Weston throwing with Steve, and the sheriff found out. He told Brian's folks, and Brian's was grounded for the rest of the summer.
"All right, chicken. We'll just say I won then, and I'll keep the marbles."
"Okay, okay. We'll throw houses." Jamie looked around to make sure no one was around to tell on them.
"You go first, since you're so chicken."
So Jamie chose a house. He found a good handhold so he could get just enough leverage, braced himself, and heaved upwards as hard as he could. He watched as the house landed just a few feet from where he was standing.
"My turn, wuss. Steve walked to the house he had chosen and hoisted a corner. Like Jamie, he braced himself and heaved. This time the house flew through the air.
"I won! I won!" Steve crowed triumphantly as the house pitched end over end, obviously going farther than Jamie's had gone. "The marbles are mine!"
Even as he gloated, though, Steve's eyes grew wide with horror as he watched the house land on his prize, the coveted marbles, and they heard the audible crunch of crushing glass.
Moral: Those with glass stones shouldn't throw houses.
And he asked, "How can one grieve for something they never knew they lacked?"
And I answered, "One cannot; for it is only the discovery of that which was lacking and anticaption of the place it could have held, that makes appreciation and grief possible."
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