Sunday Scribblings: Hi, My Name Is...

I stare in to the mirror and draw a blank. Before me, a woman drowing. I run so fast, I don't know where I am when standing still. Wear so many hats, I've lost touch of who is here hatless. Reality can't hit a moving target and denial makes a fantastic running partner.

Hi, my name is... Perpetual Motion.

The first day I sat in the office of my very first (and still my favorite) therapist, she said, "Tell me about yourself." Without thought or hestiation, I launched into a diatribe of attributes (physical and personality), giving the root foundation for each. "Mother's eyes, Father's nose.... Father's angry mumble and Mother's prediliction for clutter."

Years later, that shrink confided "I had never met anyone with so little sense of self." But they do affect us, don't they? The Nature and the Nurture. They all have their say. From gods to parents, from peers to societal norms- every level has a few more rules and guidelines. Everyone says "Don't." Everyone says "Shouldn't." Everyone defines "Appropriate" for you, until you come to this place: Jane Doe, living in AnyCity, USA... and those few simple definitions give you a whole rule book of "supposed to."

Hi, My Name is..... Boxed In

We each have fantasies and hopes. Dreams that we struggle to keep feeding, trapped in the shoebox, hidden in the closet. We sneak it bread crumbs and the brocolli we hid in our napkin. And for what? The having of a hope makes the keen edge of not realizing it even more painful to endure. Then again, what is the other option?

Hi, My Name is.... Despair?

Like a 13 year old, I sit glowering "if only you knew..."
- what I really want to do
- what I really CAN do- if only you'd let me. If only I'd let myself

Hoodies with skirts and knee-high fuzzy boots and BigDog comments "One of the many perks of having Teece in the office that you never know what you'll get with.... (*pause* searching for the word)

A co worker suggest, "her avant-guard style??"

BigDog continues, "... her adventurous take on fashion."

I smile. I shrug. I giggle. I search and hold tight to the compliment, trying to purge from my mind Mitzi, who defined my junior year with the wicked words, "You don't have money and you dress weird. Now go away, we don't need your opinon."

My other boss, she recently looked at my hair, now shades of lavender and said, "I like this one. It's.... (*pause* searching for the word) subtle." Something I have never been by nature. Again I smile. I thank her. I try not read the sneer on her lips.

Hi, My Name is... Unappreciated? Misunderstood? Weird.

Today, I have classes to teach. How can I tell those women to love their bodies, to embrace themselves just as they are if I can't leave these demons on the page? They say "We teach best what we most need to learn," but I haven't figured out how.

Bewildered
Frustrated
Angry, deep within.

I am a volcano ready to erupt
I am a villager, living the in fearful shadow of the volcano
I am the village dog, chained and unaware

Hi, My Name is... (*pause* searching for the word)

Sunday Scribblings: Hair

Ah hair, ever changing, ever growing. Hair allows us to metamorphose, like other creatures in the wild. My hair is the artist's brush with which I paint. Having a mood? Need to reinvent? Hair has a trendous gift of freedom, changing easily at a whim.

I remember helping my grandmother dye her incredibly long thick hair a deep rich brown. It was like a long flowing river of dark chocolate, mysterious and wonderously soft to the touch. I envied her hair, although I would NEVER have the patience to grow mine so long. I cannot committ to one hair style and color for such an extended period of time.

I began dying my hair in high school. People ask me what about my "natural color" and I tell them that I haven't seen it in so long, I can't tell you what it might look like. I point to the roots, coming out deep on my scalp and answer, "it would be something like that, I suppose."

I've been orange, brown, deep brown, red, hot red, auburn, "midnight cherry" and black. Most recently, I bleached it out and became a radient "cotten candy pink". This weekend, I will turn it electric green for the masked ball that I attend each year (don't worry Mom, it washes out.) Someday, I acutally long to shave it all off, and just start over fresh.

Hair is a canvas for expression. It is the easist way to change the girl in the mirror when I need a fresh perspective. Hair can be loud or soft, bright or muted. It can scream for attention, or whisper like gentle velvet in the dark of the night. Hair is sensual and sexy, messy and fun. Style it, spike it, do what you wish (as long as you properly condition and care for it's health). Hair can help you become a master of disguise and a mistress of intrigue. It holds in heat, shields out the sun, gives us a fringe to hide behind on the days we don't feel like meeting someone's eyes. It's touch can be smooth like silk, or bouncy with crisp curls. It seems a source of endless possibilities and sensory experiences.

Sunday Scribblings: Masks

The weekend has been busy and it's nearly 9:30 on Sunday night before I finally get a peek at the Sunday Scribbling prompt for the week.

Synchronicity being the funny thing that it is.... I notice this prompt as we are watching "Labyrinth", in preparation for "Labyrinth of Jareth", the annual masquerade ball which I attend each year.

Watching this movie when I was young, all I wanted to do was disappear inside of it. Travel its various terrains and meet its random denizens. How wonderful and amazing that someone else had a similar thought, so much so that they manifested the event. Of course, like all such celebrations, the labyrinth has morphed and become its own entity.

Costume is required (or at least formal wear with a mask.) "Elaborate costumes" are recommended. And believe me, it is very clear that some folks work on their outfits all year long and make quite the showing. While some creatures are straight out of the movie, others are a wide variety of goblins, pirates, and fairies.

In the room, packed full of masked beings and living fantasies, one can completely lose oneself. Drop into the dance, listen to the bands, watch the shows, and disappear into another world, unrealted to reality. Masks and costumes have a built-in freedom that releases us from the mundane and opens a door to what we wish would be.

For beautiful masks and other such artistry, be sure to check out the pictures from years past.

Sunday Scribblings: Second Chance

The jingle of the visitor bell was as stereotypical as the musty smell of the little curiosity shop. The thought humored Doreen as she entered the dimly lit store. Despite its cramped quarters, the shop felt like a safe haven from the haggard and hurried streets of the city. Furthermore, it was the sort of place where no one came looking for anything or anyone in particular, and as she was busy hiding from her wreck of a life, “Second Chance Curiosities” seemed a perfect place to spend an afternoon…. Or at least the next 15 minutes.

As she was wont to do, she dragged her hand along the surfaces of items nearby, feeling the rough covers of old books or the crisp synthetic quality of baby doll hair past its prime. The shelves were uncharacteristically dust-free, and she appreciated the care the owner showed in displaying his wares, however dismal they appeared. Leather cracked around the spine of what looked to be a weather-beaten journal, and Doreen longed to read the pages. Picking up the book, she closed her eyes and held it to her chest, breathing in the stale warm smell of old pages and imagining what treasures it might hold

“Memoirs of a Civil War Soldier,” a voice whispered.

Doreen looked around startled to be caught in such reverie, but found no one. She caught movement in the corner of her eye, and did a double take, only to see a small grey spider scurry across the edge of a wooden shelf.

“Hello?” No response came

After a moment of silence, when it seemed that she really was quite alone, she brushed off the disturbance and tried to go about her browsing. She set the book on the table without much more thought and continued down the row.

At the back of the shop, past a splendid display of rusty shields and ancient masks, Doreen stopped in awe at the vast array of snow globes spread along 3 tall bookcases. Everything else in the store had been dust-free and tidy, but these shelves and their inhabitants glowed as if they were polished hourly. In each miniature glass planet, a blizzard whirled around tiny monuments and their petite patrons. Some were recognizable, like the Eiffel Tower, or St. Basil’s. Others seemed tribal or aboriginal in nature. A small handful seemed celestial or downright alien. Despite this assortment, Doreen found herself drawn to one that was terribly mundane. In the swirling snow sat a figure alone. The tiny woman was brightly dressed against her colorless backdrop, and her posture and facial expression embodied a passionless calm.

“That one is called ‘Blank Slate’.”

Doreen almost dropped the glass orb at the sound of the voice. However, this time when she looked up, she found she was not eerily alone anymore. A small bespectacled man with slate grey hair and mustache had appeared at her side. Doreen was frightened and embarrassed to have not heard him approach and tried to cover this with a note of irritation.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people so,” she stated. “At least not when they are holding glass.” She added a small laugh to soften her words, as she realized that she was being unnecessarily rude to someone who was, no doubt, the owner of the establishment in which she was currently a guest. The gentleman simply smiled.

An awkward moment of silence passed between them, making Doreen suddenly uncomfortable in these dimly lit cramped quarters. Still, she wasn’t ready to let go of the globe in her hands, so she fumbled over words until she managed to ask, “Is this for sale? I mean, how much is this? I want to buy it. I mean, I … might be willing to buy it… if the price is not too high.”

Again the grey haired man smiled. “They are very special to me,” he said, nodding his head towards the globes. “I’m not one to easily part with something so….” His pause was longer than needed and his eyes met hers with a jolt that chilled her. His smile grew larger. “But for a young lady who needs a ‘Blank Slate’, I can make a deal.”

He turned and shuffled towards an antique cash register. His legs were rickety, and his skin seemed tissue thin. Aging had taken its toll, but Doreen guessed that he wasn’t a very handsome man in his youth either. He had a bit of a greasy peddler feel to him, like an old time salesman, or the carney barker who calls you to the view the Freak tent. He seemed as much an old oddity as the items he sold, only he was in much more disrepair. Still, he was going to make her a deal (or so he said), and so Doreen put her disrespectful thoughts aside and followed him to the counter.

A bit of haggling and $20 later, Doreen found herself carrying home her new treasure, wrapped in paper and plastic. The globe drew her in, and she wanted very much to see it up close again. She waited until she was safely seated on the subway train before she began to unwrap it. Holding it in two hands, she was mesmerized by the tiny woman and all her vast possibilities.

“A blank slate…. A clean slate… a second chance,” Doreen murmured to herself as if the words would conjure such a state for herself. She locked eyes with the petite figure and wished with all her might that it might be her. 7 years ago, she’d moved to this city, desperate to run from her mistakes and shame. 7 years she’d spent fighting demons and stuffing regrets. 7 years, and all she had to show for it was a dismal job that barely covered rent on the one room apartment she’d spent 7 years hiding in. Her list of failures in love and life was overwhelmingly long, and she’d found it easier to wallow in mediocrity than it was to just forgive and move on. 7 years that brought her face to face with the fact that the old adage was true, “Wherever you go, there you are.” And here she was- on a subway, bleary-eyed with tears, wishing she were that calm little woman in the white-out world of her blank slate.

The subway was oddly quiet, and so Doreen didn’t notice when she missed her stop. She didn’t notice the people who got on or off. She was nearly invisible, in her back corner of the train, focused on her little glass world. She felt herself slipping away, imagining endlessly what she might do were she that woman in the globe. She pulled her thin sweater tighter around her, and snuggled tighter into a ball as she felt the temperature drop, but her gaze never waivered from the face in the snow. Harder and harder she wished and wanted. More and more she dropped into that place of possibility. Real life seemed to fade from her thoughts as she dreamed and hoped and desired and irrationally craved the life of that calm figure in the whirling snow. The glass grew foggy with her warm moist breath as the truth of the subway drifted further and further away. Her fevered prayers for a blank slate erased the hard lines of reality until everything else vanished. And then Doreen simply disappeared as well.

No one remembered the small girl on the subway that night. At least, they wouldn’t have if any one had asked. But when the conductor did a walk through at the end of his shift, and found the lone snow globe in the corner seat of the last row of the last car, he didn’t question. He merely assumed that someone had carelessly forgotten; their lives too full of other matters of consequence. He tucked it under one uniformed arm, and walked off to clock out.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The jingle of the bell as she opened the door was just like a spooky scene from a movie, Annie thought as she dipped into the tiny curiosity shop, and Annie loved movies. She loved all things having to do with escape. Her job was dreary and monotonous, the heat outside unbearable, and her lunch time walk had found her wandering in search of a midday vacation. She felt like a soul possessed by the singular urge to ‘get away from it all’, and that craving for something new had led her feet to the tiny store she’d not noticed before. A twinkle caught her eye as light reflected on some glass at the back of the store, and intrigued, Annie walked towards what seemed to be a shelf full of glass orbs.

Sunday Scribblings: Ocean

When I was young, I had many dreams that occurred like memories of another life. They had no action to them, and they repeated themselves over time. It's like hoving over a snapshot.... only I could feel the emotions of the moment. This writing comes from one of those dreams.
She stood on the weathered dock like a ghost, pale grey and lifeless. Her long skirts hung with the weight of multiple layers of wool and petticoats, sodden with unrelenting rain. Only the crisp blue of her eyes seemed alive, constantly scanning the endless horizon of swirling water.

Some called her “The Watcher”, others “The Widow,” though never the latter when she was nearby. Even the slightest inference that he wouldn’t return was met with glaring blue steel from those vivid eyes. Death was not an option in her world. Just endless waiting for the proper conclusion.

Wild winds whipped stray pieces of hair about her face, lashing her skin with cold, wet wisps that had escaped her untidy bun. Around her shoulders was a tattered crocheted shawl that provided no protection or solace from the storm. And yet, she seemed unaware of the squall around her. She just stood, stone still against a large wooden post, and stared out to sea.

The Nor’easters had come early this year. Late enough in the season that wise and wealthy crews had finished their haul and come in… but early enough to catch small fishing boats who had stayed too long. Unlucky were those working class men whose livelihood depended on their haul. Some had returned. But a few remained asea, above and below the waves.

One long pale hand, cold and wet, reached up as if with a life of its own, to the locket she wore. Old beaten metal full of hope, she clutched it whenever her thoughts were darkest. Day after day now, she’d watched ships larger and stronger than his, come limping home, battered from the gale. She was dockside when the dawn broke, and still at her post when it slipped below the horizon again, but still no word had come. No sign. No affirmation. Just raging waters and bleak barren skies.

Her petite lips moved, whispering prayers to any who would listen. To God, that he might protect him. To Poseidon, that he might return him. To Davy Jones, that he might reject him from a water grave and send him back to the surface. And in her blackest moments, though she would admit it to no one, she would pray to the Sirens, that they might recognize a good man, and care for him if they could not send him back.

Time became meaningless. Aging, pointless. The universe had frozen in this moment….. eternally waiting, praying, searching. And bit by bit, she is eroding, like the shores and pier pilings, her hopes dashed on the rocks in endless waves.

*picture from this website

Sunday Scribblings: Secret Identity

He’s saving lives, I know he is.

He wouldn’t want you to know it of course, and I’m probably breaking several International treaties by mentioning it at all, but I don’t want him to be so misunderstood.

I’d like to say he uses his powers only for good. I’m sure all mothers would. But I can’t promise you what I don’t know. He slips away, through a rip in the fabric of time and space. He vanishes without a trace and you can turn the whole house upside down and never find him. But hours later, he comes sauntering out of a room you’ve checked a dozen times and he flops across the green plush sack, exhausted with a long day’s work.

Mind you, no matter how relaxed he seems, he’s never unaware. Let a strange set of footsteps sound on the stairs outside the apartment, and he’s 2 feet in the air and then POOF, only a cloud of well shed hair appears in the space he once occupied.

Friends jokingly call him “Snuffilupugus” because only Tag and I can ever see him, but I swear he’s real…. And so much more than a mere house cat. He’s Double-O Dobby, secret agent…. And somewhere right now, he’s sipping a dry martini and saving the world.

(see the tiny eyes in the dark... that's him)

Sunday Scribblings: Yummy

WOW.. what an easy prompt for me.

For years now, my alias has been YummyTeece. It came as a combination of my then boyfriend's nickname for me (Teece), and my favorite word, Yummy.

To me, Yummy is about so much more than taste. Yummy is the epitome of all things good. Sunshine after a rainstorm is yummy. The smell of newly-mown grass, which stirs memories of childhood's carefree summers... That's yummy. The warm glow of a first date gone wonderfully right... you know, that cloud you walk on for week after? That's the essence of being embraced by a big pink bubble of Yummy. It's the feeling of being loved, the feeling of self-confidence, the feeling of entering a room and stopping all the traffic in it.

Maya Angelou captured it when she said:

"The span of my hips
The stride of my steps
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me."

Phenomenal women are Yummy!


Therfore when I embraced "YummyTeece", it was my way of speaking into the Universe the idea of me, to my highest power. Me at my most invincible. Me at my most self-loving. Me at my most courageous. Me- unfiltered, undiluted and unfraid.

I put Yummy out there to others when I meet them and have this conversation. I challenge them to find the Yummy in themselves, to embrace the Yummy in others. Paint the whole town Pink, a warm yummy bubble-gum pink of sugar sweet honesty and love.

Yummy....

I'm in such a better mood now. THANKS SUNDAY SCRIBBLINGS!!

Sunday Scribblings: In the last hour

In the last hour of the night, before sleep overtook her active mind and dragged her beneath, she made a list of all the things yet undone. She wrote from her heart, pouring out beliefs and goals, evacuating the small crevices where hope still festered in a largely bitter existence. She dredged up the very crispy bits at the bottom of the cauldron of her being, and she penned each half-burned dream onto cream paper, in a flowery round script aided by the easy flow of her purple gel uni-ball with the chewed up cap.

The last one stood out most harshly, mocking her with its incompleteness: "Fall in love"

In that last hour of dark dim lighting and deep heart stirrings, she mourned her many abortive attempts to lose herself in connection with another. To allow her walls to sink completely and leave herself, not defenseless...but open, to the experience of sharing. Instead of a history full of Hallmarkian tenderness, she looked back on a catalogue of grossly co-dependant relationships, thick with abuse and irony. The 'been there, done that" list of her heart's attacks read like a baby name book, only one where "David" didn't mean "beloved", but more "raving jackass" and "Tony*" was less "priceless" and more "psycho."*

A throaty humorless laugh escaped as she admitted defeat in all games important to her. Her family, broken as it was had left her behind long ago, and her friends had disappeared into a sea of unfortunate excuses. The only element of her life with harmony and humor had passed one week ago today, at an unforgettably sad moment in the vet's office, and now she sat in a lifeless room, in the silence of a falling night, wishing to blot out any memory of her existence at all.

She took the pages where she'd written all her failures and carried them to the bathroom, setting fire to them with a thin yellow plastic lighter someone had left on her desk at work. The low flames blacked the edges of the paper as they consumed their way across the written words, leaving ash and embers in their place. She discarded the remnants into the open toilet and chuckled once again as she realized how quickly and easily it could all be flushed away.

Turning to the counter, she saw collected there a bevy of medicinal remedies for a hundred imagined ailments, and like mixed jellybellys, popped any variety of color and shape into her mouth. Lowering her head to the spout of the rusty faucet, she drank only as much water as she needed to swallow the caplets and tablets that held escape in their grainy pharmaceutical hands. And then she returned to her room, and her bed.

In the last hour of her life, she rested her head on her pillow and wept until the pain faded away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* it's a work of fiction. No offense meant to any Davids or Tonys. Well, ok, no offense meant to any Davids, and to 99.9% of Tonys. That .1% knows who he is.

Sunday Scribblings: Hero

What does it take to be a hero? Daily courage, or just an extraordinary moment? Firemen are certainly heros, as are police officers, and our troops overeseas. Is it about risking life and limb? OR just going beyond what normal life would ask of you?

This weekend, I saw "Stranger than Fiction," an interesting film wherein Will Ferrell plays an ordinary man who seems mysteriously to be the central character in a book which will end with his death. An unlikely hero, Harold Chik is an IRS auditor, living a rather humdrum experience, ruled by numbers. However, when he overhears the Narrarator's voice in his head mention his untimely and impending doom, he leaps into action to find the hows and whys of his death, and see if it can be stopped (or at least postponed.)

I went to the movie seeking an entertaining story that would allow me escape from my own daily routine, but found instead a film that wouldn't let me stop thinking about it afterwards. Would I, like Harold, seek out the cause of my demise and fight it? Would I live those last few days as if I were "truly alive", fullfilling the wishes of myself and others? Could I dedicate myself for that time to eat a juicy and succulent life, and so at the end, feel that death, however untimely was neccessary and not in vain?

and if I could do that under those circumstances, why do I not do it now? Why am I not living each day fully and vibrantly? Why do I find myself forever postponing and timing things out..... "well, in two years, i'll be mostly out of debt. I can do what i love then..." How many years have I, have any of us, wasted in that process?

Hmmm, hold on.... There have been moments. I've not spent it ALL looking ahead or behind. I have had a dabbling here and there of being completely and totally present. Where I've been as alive as alive gets, and enjoyed the view. In 2003, I participated in APLA's Marathon Training program. For 7 months of my life, I ran and fundraised to help people in the Los Angeles area who are afflicted with HIV and/or AIDS. And in the end, I did something I'd long wanted to do. I finished a marathon.

Right now, my friend Amandarin is participating in that same project. And while I do not envy her "runner's knee", her aching hips, her heat exhaustion, her recent shoe-blow out, or her constant struggle to fundraise..... I do know that there's not a feeling in the world like running that marathon. Oh, not just the crossing of the finish line (which admittedly is pretty spectacular). No, I'm speaking of another moment, one unlike any I'd ever known.

December 14th, 2003- I was running mile late-teens/early twenties, huffing and pained and wondering if I'd make it when I passed a group on the sidelines. It was a large bunch of yellow-shirt wearing APLA supporters, cheering and hooting and beliving in me. They held signs of all natures. "You can do", and "You're a hero". I smiled and waved. Then I saw him. He was tall and gaunt, and didn't look as if he had much energy left to be standing, much less cheering and waving a sign. But he was giving it all he had. And in his hands was a simple piece of posterboard, which read "You are saving my life. Thank you." Tears streamed down my face, and my pace quickened just a bit, and in that moment, I felt just a little bit like a hero.

So Amandarin, I wish you that moment. That one and a hundred more as you face this monster ride called "training to run a marathon". It's HELLA not easy, but it's worth it.

And to anyone whose reading this.... if you're looking for a hero to support, check out this lady or the team she's running with Phat Girls Running. Or go directly to APLA, and read about the hundreds of heros they train regularly.

Or try the Lukemia & Lymphoma Society's Team in Training The disease is different, but the love and caring and determination is the same.

Or Feed a hungry animal

Whatever it is that makes your heart weep and sing at the same time, go find it and support and be a hero for someone else. Cause I'm thinking THAT's what makes one heroic.... not JUST the courage or the passion.... but the ability to give and do that for someone else.

Here's to making the world a better place.

Sunday Scribblings: Monster

There’s a monster that lives in my head.

Gruff voiced, he tells me that being lost all the time is to be expected; nobody gets to have a job that makes them happy. He tells me that I need to buck up little camper, and not whine to everyone.

He says fuck off to people I care about, and right now, he’s just telling me to curl up in a dark corner of my room, with a bottle of anything that will make it all fuzzy.

There’s a monster that lives in my head… And he hates you all. He hates me too. He says it doesn’t get any better, and he says not to bother trying.

He’s a grouchy old bastard, that monster in my head. And today, sadly… he’s been winning.

I guess that's why I'm writing this.... so he knows that although I hear him, I don't want to listen. So he knows that I'm stronger than I used to be, and I don't cave so quickly. It's my little way of saying "thank you for your contribution... now shut the fuck up!"

Sunday Scribblings: Who else Might I have been?

A thousand times, I've looked at the events of my life, the good, the bad and the VERY VERY ugly, and wondered what I would have become without them.

The Evil Arachnid.... *snort*... bastard of an ex-fiance that haunted me for many years. What a long and painful saga that was. His fury and domination, his brilliantly-mechanized manipulations, his stupidly blatant lies.... There are many who think my life would have been better had I never involved myself with him. But I can't agree...

*trembling*

Can I really do this? Can I really discuss all that happened there? Perhaps I don't need to. This isn't "Rehash your crapiest memories"... It's "Who else might I have been"

His lies taught me to always seek truth.... and to always offer it.

His betrayals showed me HOW painfully a heart can be torn and abused, without completely breaking. It was a slow death, that I allowed, because inside, there was a feeling of deserving punishment.

Why did I accept the ring, even after years of pain and lies? Well for one, I had some fear for my physical being if I said No (He was not fond of rejection). But more than that, I had been "caught" in some less than stellar behavior and lies of my own.... and I could not have the failure be my fault. Ah co-dependence, at the height of my addiction.

At the end, it was a near-religious theatre experience that pulled me from my years of pain and self-despair, and helped me rise to a moment where I discovered that there are beliefs that we can hold sacred long after they serve us. And it only by the painful sacrifice of these tenets, that we free ourselves of self-imposed chains, leaving ourselves naked and vulnerable in a new land, full of possibilities.

From the fall of 1994 til June 13 1999, the education was enormous.... as was the gut-wrenching pain. Still, on the other end of it, I'm so much more. Who might I have been? I might have been a liar. I might have been a victim. I might have been afraid of being alone. I might have been broken. I might have been beaten down. I might have been forever ashamed. I might have been a ghost, a grey and vacuous shell of all what I could be.

X-tina said it best:

After all of the stealing and cheating
You probably think that I hold resentment for you
But, uh uh, oh no, you're wrong
'Cause if it wasn't for all that you tried to do
I wouldn't know just how capable I am to pull through
So I wanna say thank you

'Cause it makes me that much stronger
Makes me work a little bit harder
It makes me that much wiser
So thanks for making me a fighter
Made me learn a little bit faster
Made my skin a little bit thicker
Makes me that much smarter
So thanks for making me a fighter

Sunday Scribbings: Hotel Stories

She wakes, ten minutes before the alarm would go off, if she were at home. The sunlight steaming through the window hurts her eyes. Damn, this means that getting vertical is required.

With a painful squint and a bit of a stumble, she drags her heavy body over to the window, pulling drapes to block the infernal brightness. Staggering, she returns to the bed, surprisingly comfortable with delicate linen sheets and a down comforter she pulls around her like a lover's arms. In the fog of her brain, she struggles to remember the night.

The Masque was set to begin at 8pm. It had said so on the dark embossed invitation that had mysteriously appeared at Johanna's abode the week before. Unusual, but not unheard of, Johanna was used to surprise gifts from admirers. Usually she ignored them. Attention was always lovely, but replying might obligate her in some way to return their affection, and Johanna had no intentions in doing that. She was focused, enterprising, dilligant, ambitious. She had no time for dalliances, and certainly nowhere in her blackberry-dictated schedule was there time set aside to fall in love.

However, the grandiose quality of the invite, promising not only a masked celebration, but accommodations at the new Palácio de Amor Perigoso, was simply too good to pass up. And she was SO in need of a weekend retreat, after the presentation she'd put together for the board this week. She needed girly moments at a 5-star spa, and a little celebrity treatment. Not to mention that events like this were like crawling with the most important people, and she longed to be one of the "power players".

Perfection takes time, and it was easily 9:20 before Johanna made her appearance. Hair coiffed just so, she exected to be, as she so often was, a belle of the ball. However, upon arriving it became clear that it was no ordinary evening... no ordinary celebration. Sumptuous red walls, with wrought iron sconces holding dripping candles of shiny black wax; the room was most extrodinarily decorated in half dressed bodies of all shapes and colors. Sparkling fairies, scandalously naked tree nymphs- from fantasy to fetish, an array of forms swayed and undulated to the pulsing deep beat of the otherworldly music pouding from the speakers. No celebrity faces, no power players. Just bodies, estatic in a near carnal way. Johanna, in her ornate gown of shimmering ivory, felt instantly out of place.

With a body posture that betrayed none of the trepidation she was feeling, she crossed the room, heading to the bar for a bit of liquid courage. The dense mass of bodies was difficult to navigate at best, and she had just managed to slip by two pony-esque characters who were lost in each other's sweat and passion, when she found her way barred by a large red chest.

"The musculature is impressive," she thought somewhat haughtily to herself as she let her eyes travel from abs to pecs to the spectacular face attached to it all. Deep crimson body paint covered every inch of naked flesh, and there was tremendous temptation to check lower and see if the god had at least worn a loin cloth.... but the striking dark eyes that watched her intently took all her attention and robbed her of further thought.

"Good evening Johanna", his voice flowed like melted dark chocolate, seductive and tangible, coating her flesh in tingles and twitchs and the irrisitable urged to be touched. Johanna briefly registered that the thoughts now screaming through her mind were not ones she normally allowed herself, but within his physical presence, all she could sense was the salt of sweat and iron-like aftertaste that blood leaves in your mouth. She for an instant wondered if she'd managed to bite her tongue. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it in stunned speechlessness. Opened it again thinking she'd found words, but closed it almost as quickly, realizing that if she articulated her thoughts, she would not be able to stop the decadant, and completely unlady-like proposition that begged to be spoken.

He chuckled. A deep low rumbling like thunder in a night sky storm.

"My sweet fish, standing there.... desparate for a breath.... feeling so out of your element." He walked around her. With all the gyrating madness that swam around them, he seemed unaffected... untouched. As if the mass of flesh parted to allow him passage. He slipped behind her, so that he could quietly whisper into her ear, his sensuous tones having an even more primitive effect on her when accompanied with his hot breath. "These are dangerous waters. Far more powerful than any of the pinstriped suits you spend your days with." He brought his hands up to her shoulders, and the first touch was explosive in her blood. Trembling, she fought back the fear that she was, for this first time since she could remember, completely out of control.

Strong red hands began to slide her gown from her shoulders. "Ease into the water, my sweet Johanna." Quivering, shaking, her mind screaming "No" as her body played traitor, she could no more stop his hands than she could stop the ragged breaths escaping her. All around, the music swelled and pulsed and pulled at her gown. The heat of the dancers, the taste of the sweat, the colors whirled madly, as .....

*sound of a knock* "Maid Serivce"

Johanna bolted upright in the bed, her head pounding with the movement. Disoriented with pain and dehydration, she angrily responded "Not Now", before flopping back down on the pillow. Instantly she was sorry and a little nauseous. "What a fucked up.... ugh." She rose, slowly this time, and staggered towards the bathroom. What she needed was a shower, something to rehydrate her body and wash this filthy used feeling from her soul. "MUST remember not to do shots of Jagermeister at the next party, " she grimly chuckled to herself, as she turned on the water.

Standing, she caught a moments relection in the 3 way mirror. Down the small of her back were 4 long red scratches, nearly animal in their nature. For a moment, there was a fire in her groin, and then a cold chill in her blood as she desparately sought for the difference between truth and dream. There were no answers in her foggy head, and as she stepped into the shower, she found no comfort in the warm water streaming down.
*************************************

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Sunday Scribblings on Monday: Two Peas in a Pod

Completely Free-Form Stream of Consciousness

Two Peas in a Pod
Coupling
Connection

Bright green bouncing thoughts, enclosed in a hug
Lover in a warm verdant salad
Alive
Life

Hiding out with friends, making pillow forts and giggling
Giggling, a word, a sound that seems to be written merely for the joy and use of little girls who still believe in unicorns and mermaids
27 years later, we don’t giggle as much, but oh the tales we can tell

Two Peas in a Pod with completely different genetic coding
Yellow peas, green peas, wrinkled peas and smooth peas
Bio 101, time spent looking at dominate genes and how
Some peas are wrinkled
And I have brown eyes

Brown eyes… Bane of my existence. Always wanted Daddy’s blues… but *sigh* brown was my luck of the draw.

Brown like ground
Like chocolate chip cookies
Like puppies
Earnest and eager
Warm wet brown like the Great Mother herself,
Pushing up crops
Churning out peas
Peas in a Pod
Friends
Lovers
Whatever

Peas in a pod… that human need to not be all alone in this mess.
This salad
This entrée
This vegetable farm

Little bit of sun on a damp mound of Earth…
Bursting with possibilities, potential and zesty wholesome flavors

Sunday Scribbling: Mystery

So I type the title, and then sit quiet for a moment at the keyboard..... Mystery. What does it mean? Is there one that intrigues me? What would I like to know?

And then in an instant of rememberance, She comes to me.... an old friend. A creature so close to my heart, so real for me that it's hard to remember that to many people she is a "mystery." To me she is unquestioned reality. She exists. She is, and by her being places are made more magical. She is Nessie..... my long time love and focus for fascination.

In 6th grade, we had to write our first official research paper. Without thought, I chose her. I read about her all the time anyway. Why not put some of that research to good use? But as I dug in to the "offical scientific reports", I was dismayed to discover that many people did not believe. How can you not? How can you doubt that her glorious monsterific self exists, outside of time, free from the hamperings of modern life?

See, I can see her. I know I have seen her. Early on, I used to have images in my brain.... it's a dark night.... shortly after new moon, so there is not much light to guide my way. I walk between trees, densly populated together. Hunched at times, to slip below branches. I can acutally hear the dead leaves and twigs snapping underneath my feet. I am nervous.... not because I am in the dark, but because I know there are people who, if they found me, would hunt me. But here at the lake, I am safe. So near my home, hidden from those that would harm me.... I creep, covered in wool, towards the water, for a clear view of the moon.

As I near the shore line, I see, in the darkness a form, a shape undistinguishable. I pause, unsure. A creature, eyes catch the light. I don't know what it is... but I see it there. And I feel quite sure she sees me. A moment..... long and uncertain, and then I am dismissed, and the eating continues. I don't know what she's eating. I know only that I feel both safe and unsafe. Confused that my eyes are sending me messages my brain has no words for.... Blessed to view such magic.

That image, and those feelings have been with me since I can remember. Childish imaginings? Past Life rememberings? I cannot tell you. I only know: She is real. She is magic. And I have seen her.

As I grew into teenhood, and my analytical brain kicked into higher gear.... I tried again to investigate and theorize on the 'mystery' of my Scottish friend. I came up with a concept, dealing with tears/gaps in the space-time continuum. Holes, underneath the surface of the water, that lead to different times... different lakes/oceans/places throughout the planet's history. Perhaps these 'doorways' connect various waters all through the fabric of time. That would explain why sometimes there are many sightings, and othertimes radar can find nothing large in the Loch. It would also offer up a possible explanation of why the creature has been described so differently over the decades (Sometimes with a long neck, othertimes a short round head. Sometimes a large body with short fins, othertimes a long snake-like body with no limbs). When I first concieved of this, it made endless amounts of sense to me.... and also worked with the fact that since I was 4 or 5, I've been fascinated with 'time portals' (as i child, i would build elaborate 'doorways', telling others that i was going to go 'home' through them).

Imagine my unexpected joy when I ran across the SAME theory years later in Diane Gabaldon's "Outlander" series (I believe it's in the third book "Voyager"). There she has 3 main characters out in a boat on the Loch, discussing time travel and the potential for portals under the surface of the water. My breath was sucked out of my body, and I wanted to find some way of calling Mrs. Gabaldon and yelling, "YES YES.... I had that same theory.... OMG, the fact that at least two of us have this same theory has GOT to give it some real credance, don't you think??" (but I fear such a random call from a rabid fan would not have the reassuring response I was looking for... LOL). So instead, I just let the fact that I was not alone bubble underneath my surface, filling me with joy and further confirmation that Nessie is alive, well and absolute reality.

Sadly I realize that not everyone shares my certainty, and thus She remains "Mystery".

Wanna see if you can catch a peep of the great beastie?? http://www.lochness.co.uk/livecam/
(if you see her, please tell her I send my love)

Sunday Scribblings: "The Books I would write..."

OH... the books I would write... would be full of romance and adventure. They would capture the sensuality of dance, in such a way you could reach out and touch it like a freshly-picked rose petal. They would have mysterious places, full of fascinating creatures and mythical monsters.

The books I would write would capitvate the reader's soul, ignite their passions and invigorate their imaginations.

The books I would write would have a soundtrack of deeply beating drums, and haunting bagpipes.

There would be misty lakes in long forgotten forests, and intense and powerful women with hidden pasts full of intrigue. The animals would talk, the trees would listen, and the very Mother Earth herself would open up her caves and let you descend down into the depths of her core, where she would nuture and teach you and hold you safe when all other things seemed uncertain.

The books i would write would always believe in true love, always champion the honest and faithful, always hold aloft the hard-working, well meaning hero who acts from integrity, even when he's spent his last nickel, drunk his last bit of water, and lost his last lucky marble.

The books I would write would come from my highest self, and exist in such a place, that even if No one else ever read them.... I would be able to take them off the shelf, and leaf through their pages on my darkest days, and remind myself that deep down inside, I am a courageous warrior for hope and a staunch believer in happy endings.

The books I would write would inspire, reach, rejuvinate and embrace the very best parts of me, and by doing so.... renew the spirit that allows me to share that piece of me with all the rest of the world.

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