Of Demons and Holy Water

Frequently, I have very strange, vivid dreams, but I usually don’t remember them long enough to write them down. Usually, I dream of places I have never been, people I do not know, and in great James Bondian style of intrigue, mysterious happenings, and great feats. I am rarely  in danger per se, but am the one saving the world, rescuing the lost, well, you get the idea. Keep in mind that my dreams are all technicolor extravaganza style full onset smells even.

Last night was different. I was visiting my mother, who sabotaged me at every step of the way once I turned about 11 in real life. I was racing around her house, grabbing table cloths and long kitchen knives so I could hide from my uncle who was going to murder me. My mother came to my hiding place, where I lay beneath the window of the door he was going to come through, and told me to move, taking all 6 knives away from me. I raced to hide under the bar stools in the only dark area, hidden beneath my table cloth. I begged her to give me back my knives, and she returned 2 of them. I was found immediately because she told my uncle where I was when he came through the kitchen door. He pulled me out of my hiding place and started to strangle me. At that point I knifed him, except my nice long kitchen knives were now regular butter knives. Somehow I pierced one through his eye and into his brain while the other I forced into his chest. My mother just stood back and watched. She was not pleased that I had kept myself safe. After all I had just thwarted her plans for me.

I raced out of her house and found myself a bit in the future in a town I have not been to, or maybe I have and don’t remember it. My friends and I were walking from a shopping district into a housing area similar to the ones in New Orleans. We went through the curved, wooden gate into the back courtyard of one of the homes, when a teenage boy with copper colored hair joined us. He closed and latched the gate behind him as we walked to the other side of the pool. Looking across the rectangle of water, I watched as he shimmered and the overlay of teenager dimmed long enough for me to see the demon he was. He seemed to stretch out into a large, muscular, winged demon before my eyes, yet his boy shape never changed. I was still able to see the overlay of human that he was enforcing, the illusion that he was casting. He looked directly at me and told me that he was here to collect us, to dispose of us, to dine upon us. Then he grinned.

Without thinking about what I was doing, I stepped forward and found myself in the middle of the pool. I looked to the demon, then I, who haven’t been to church in literally years, crossed myself and said, “In the name of the father, and the son, and the holy ghost, I bless this water!” The water began to glisten, then to glow softly.

The demon’s eyes grew wide as he replied, “You cannot live in a pool forever.” Then he smirked at me and began stalking over to my friends who had neither moved nor spoken since he entered the gate.

“Your friends will be my snack. You, I shall feast upon after you have had your … bath.”

Then I did as anyone who has ever played in a pool knows to do. I cupped my hands and splashed him with the holy water that I was standing in. The water swelled up, rising in a great swoosh of sparkling wonder, and coated that demon sizzling everywhere it touched. He steamed, then disappeared before my eyes.

Kitten Wars 1/9/15: Tuckered Out Kitty

The tiny cat is all tuckered out from a long day of pouncing on the wrapping paper monster and from stalking the beast in the paper bag. Within moments of setting my coat on the couch, ninja kitty crept in to create her nest, peacefully sleeping away until I woke her by taking her picture. That is a glare worthy offense didn’t you know? But only a one eyed glare.

The tiny cat is all tuckered out from a long day of pouncing on the wrapping paper monster and from stalking the beast in the paper bag. Within moments of setting my coat on the couch, ninja kitty crept in to create her nest, peacefully sleeping away until I woke her by taking her picture. That is a glare worthy offense didn't you know? But only a one eyed glare ;)

Kitten Wars 1/7/15: A Kitten and Her Bag Will Soon Be Parted …

Cleo decided to investigate this over-sized bag as a possible nest for a kitty in heat. It crinkled happily and all was good until she decided to back out. Her paw caught on the handle, trapping the poor kitty inside. In great efforts to escape she made the bag go air born over and over again until she flipped it upside down and raced off.

Cleo decoded to investigate this oversized bag as a possible nest for a kitty in heat. It crinkled happily and all was good until she decided to back out. Her paw caught on the handle, trapping the poor kitty inside. In great efforts to escape  she made the bag go air born over and over again until she flipped it upside down and raced off.

Lust’s Dance

Spinning, whirling confusion sets in

If he doesn’t like her, does she still like him?

Is it love if it set

Is it lust if it stays?

Is it time without end

On the last of all days?

Spinning, whirling, confusion remains

If she can’t stand him, will he stay the same?

Will the next one walk in

Trotting out all his best?

Is it truthful to lie?

Are the lies his bequest?

When the long days are short

And the sun’s fallen down

When the moon parks above

With the stars’ glimmering gown

When he says he will leave her

And she doesn’t believe

Will he sense disaster

Until she conceives?

It is spinning, twirling

Out of control

Life everlasting

Lust’s dance …

impossible

Kitten Wars 9/17/14 The Pounce is Strong in This One

I came home to one very playful kitty (Cleo) and one very affectionate cat (Teeny). Now, Teeny has only recently become an affectionate every day cat. For the last week she has begun waking me at 6 AM, whether I want to get up or not, by coming up to my face, bumping it, purring, and prrruupping at me until I either get up or move her away. If you haven’t had a determined cat before, well, let me tell you, moving Teeny away is no easy feat. Oh, you can pick her up and place her off the bed, on the other side of the bed, etc while remaining under the covers. This does not deter her in the least when she wants you to get up. She knows when my alarm should go off and is determined that I get up out of my cozy nest of blankets. No amount of moving her, removing her, or discouraging her work other than placing her on the other side of the bedroom door. But, then she begins scratching at the door until you let her back in. So its either get up or have one affectionate cat all over you until you do get up because you simply cannot breathe with all of her bunny fur in your face.

But, I digress. Cleo was in a very playful mood when I got home and was gleefully pouncing on everything that moved and some that didn’t. If a shoe lace fell, Cleo attacked. If the shadow moved, Cleo attacked. If Teeny shifted her eyes, Cleo … attacked. When Teeny first came into my home in June, she was a grumpy grande dame who generally hissed at anything that she didn’t like. There were days when I believed that all she knew how to do was hiss and spit, run and hide. Those days, I am glad to say, are long gone. When Cleo attacked Teeny, rolling her over, Teeny rolled over and continued walking over to get her rub. Cleo attacked again, pouncing over Teeny this time and was completely ignored by the cat on a mission.

So, Cleo changed tactics. Instead of wrestling and pouncing, she decided to batt at Teeny’s ear tufts. Maybe this new maneuver would gain her the attention she craved. Teeny leveled a look on Cleo that any teacher would have been proud to own, stuck her paw on Cleo’s head and pressed down much in the manner of the Pope when he is blessing someone. I got the feeling she was telling Cleo something important. So Cleo backed up a tiny bit to rethink what she was doing, but when Teeny prepared to leap up to the bathroom counter, she just couldn’t control herself any longer. As Teeny’s back hips quivered in the “jump ready” stance, Cleo pounced for all she was worth. The two wrestled for a few moments, then Teeny, pinned Cleo with her paw and put her nose on Cleo’s, looking her directly in the eyes. Momentarily mesmerized, Cleo lay there just long enough for Teeny to make the leap to the counter to get her rub.

Where to write?

I looked at a friend’s post this morning and it made me think. Where, if I could choose any place, any time, would I go to write? I found that my answer was perhaps too simple for the question. I write where ever I am. Having a set place, time, group doesn’t work for me. When I have inspiration, when I have an idea, when I have a problem, I write. It doesn’t matter where I am or what I am doing. I note it down. I put it on my cell, on my flash drive, on a paper napkin even. I do this because if I wait even 10 seconds, I might lose whatever it was that made me want to write it down in the first place. My son is very familiar with me writing, sitting next to him on the couch, while he is watching TV. The raised finger tells him to hold his thought until I can finish what I’m typing. He and I have learned to work it out so that we are together, not separate. He knows the rules of “engagement” with me once my computer is open and I’m typing. In return, I try to respect him when he is deep into a game, anime, or video about one of his games.

So, in reply to the question where would I choose to write? How do you take a picture of everywhere?

Thoughts on “Songbird”

“Songbird” was written in part about an old friend from UGA as well as something that I used to do in the drama building. Back then the theatre people and the music people shared the same building. It was an old lady with beautiful granite/marble stairwells that echoed perfectly. I was extremely shy back then, but those stairwells called to me as nothing else did. Whenever I would have a lull between classes and knew that no one should be going up to the third floor, I would sing songs that filled my heart. As soon as I heard someone open one of the doors, I would scatter through the closest of the four doors to either the outside, basement, lobby, or third floor and make myself scarce. I tried assiduously to not get caught. In the five years I was there, I was only caught singing once by someone who had a feeling it was me. He literally timed me out of one of my classes just to verify that it was indeed me singing in the stairwell. It was then that I found out that he and several others had been listening to me sing for quite sometime. I was thoroughly embarrassed at being caught, but extremely thrilled that someone was listening considering that I was truly only singing because those stairwells begged for it.

The old friend that actually brought the story to mind was one who would play jazz and ragtime on the practice pianos. In my story, James is him in my mind, all grown up. My friend would play at all times of day and night changing pianos each time. He couldn’t help playing any more than I could stop singing. It was who we were at that time. He wore a brown trench coat, a long grey-tan scarf, and I believe a fedora, but it could have been another style of hat. He was always dressed as nicely as he could be. Despite the obvious quality of his clothes, they were threadbare and patched. He carried himself with a natural pride of knowing who he was, even when he was diligently watching for any night watchmen. It was several month before I ventured into the practice room where he was playing “Tea for Two” and introduced myself. Actually, I should say that he introduced himself, as I was too shy to say much of anything. I believe he knew I had been sitting close by listening for quite a while as he nodded at me like an old friend.

We sat saying nothing as he went through all sorts of ragtime, jazz, and blues. After a while, I sang softly to something he was playing, he grinned and from then on played things that I might know. It wasn’t until a good while later that I found out that my extremely talented friend had been living where ever he could for the last few years. He had put his degree on hold due to a family misfortune and was all alone in the world. As I was living in an all girl’s dorm, I had nothing to offer him other than a warm meal and friendship. He took the friendship, declining food, saying that I was a student, too and couldn’t afford it.

So, “Songbird” was made for that time, that place. It is a mix of what could have happened, could have been.

Crafting the Change: In Reply to Goddesses and Doormats #queenofallevil 7/30/14

Lately I’ve read a few pieces written by queenofallevil that are really hitting home. She writes about empowering yourself and refusing to belittle who you are to someone else needs or expectations. She talks about how to achieve self-realization in a very straight forward manner. While blunt and to the point, what she says needs to be heard, read, understood, and used by so many of us. When you come from any sort of dysfunctional relationship, whether it was how you grew up or was a romantic one, the first step is to be aware of what happened to make it dysfunctional and eradicate it.

Personally, I am one of those people that over-cares and over-does. In my first marriage, my husband-to-be actually told the priest that the reason he was marrying me was because I made everything work. I made it easy for him to live his life the way he wanted to. In essence I was his executive assistant to be, not his future wife.

Being a helpmate is not a bad thing, but when I took care of all of the details constantly for someone who, while admitting that I did so, continued to use me in this manner without trying to change what was going on, I lost track of who I was. He did not want me to work saying that the military was taking care of everything and would stop if I worked a true job, so I was allowed only a small job to cover extra expenses. Over time my sense of self-worth and id just dissolved into who my mate needed me to be. I lost my voice, not physically, but mentally and spiritually. I left my interests and hobbies behind so that I could help him achieve his goals. I buried myself in his needs and wants to the point that others didn’t even know if I could talk or express an opinion of my own.

The best thing I did during that relationship was to go back to school during which I fell into my profession. I started out as a voice major. It was something that I loved, but something that was costly in time. He didn’t mind that I sang and practiced all the time. It wasn’t until I changed my major to speech pathology that things truly got rough.

During my second year of classes, I started getting job applications constantly sent to me with salary quotes. After he picked one up and read that I was going to make more money than he did, well things started getting rough. No longer did he allow me time to study or do my projects. I had to squeeze in all the extras that a graduate student is required to do during the hours that he was not at home because once he got home, I was required to be available for him at all times.

It wasn’t until he left on a year-long duty overseas, that I realized that without him and his needs, I didn’t know what to do. I was finishing up my master’s degree at the time, about to intern, when I finally got angry enough to do something about it. I realized that I didn’t want to continue to follow him around anymore. I wanted my own career, managed by myself without his interference or even his input. I wanted out in a big way, which was my first indication that something was truly wrong. I was growing out of the doormat stage of that particular relationship, unfortunately I had not grown enough to recognize and stop the pattern.

My first dysfunctional marriage led into my second one in which I continued to be the care-giver, the organizer, the doer of the relationship, and in this case one more step … the provider. Focusing on what had to be done and how to do it, I made it to where my second husband didn’t believe that he needed a job at all. He simply stayed home, played on the computer, or played at creating items for his hobbies. Was it entirely my fault that he chose this venue? No, but I made it easier for him to do so. After all, why work for someone else making a little bit of money, when your spouse has made it so simple to just stay home and have fun. I won’t say that we could afford what he was doing, we truly couldn’t but that part never truly bothered him, only me as I began the spiral of exhaustion of mind, body, and spirit.

So, this cycle repeated itself, in a slightly different manner, but the result was the same.

My lesson is to become less available to everyone else’s needs around me. It is very hard to not be the person that has the supplies, has the answers, and knows how to fix or do whatever needs to be done. It is harder still to stop wanting to help everyone around me. As a natural care-giver, I need to work socially on what I do professionally … teach others, not do for them.

As a society, we use the word help in a very positive manner in which the person helping is supposed to be doing a good thing. We have created a generation of people who have been brainwashed into being the end-all and do-all of their families and relationships, but this is not necessarily a good thing. In response to the care-givers, we, as a society, have also created a generation of users; people who think nothing of running their helpers, the ones who love and care for them, into the ground from all of their demands both necessary and unnecessary.

So, in reply to what queenofallevil is writing about, I believe that the answers lie both within and without. People need to recognize their dysfunction and work to alleviate it, but the change is not just for individuals. We, as a society, need to acknowledge the dichotomy and work towards crafting the change.