If I could have it – oh how I craved – then I could examine it, trace the loops and whorls with my hungry eyes; learn the intricate diagram of his identity.  

Somehow that would satisfy, albeit temporarily, my painful thirst to have him near to me, to be with him.  It may be in the smallest of means, my way to hold him close, to see him. I thought it could possibly dissipate the continuous aching for him; it would be my link, the connecting silver thread to my far-away love, and provide me with some comfort.

Each moment that I miss you pulls the edges apart little by little, bringing fresh blood and constant, throbbing pain.  Each awakening to a new day only reminds me of other days spent with you, and the time I wish I could share with you.  When I close my eyes at night another tally mark is made on an invisible but all-too-real page in a book of more blank pages whose count is unknown to me.  

Time is not my healer, not a gentle and silent physician who visits daily to sooth me.  It is a cruel master that I must follow over and over again to a room where I am whipped mercilessly.  Then it shape-changes to a strict schoolmarm slashing at my past mistakes in red ink.

It is an empty theater whose stage hosts specters depicting scenes of my memoirs; and sometimes acting out weakly and sadly scenes titled “I wish”, “If Only”, and “Maybe One Day”.

Right after I set eyes on it  I thought ” Wow. I should start my Christmas Shopping today.”

 The thing of it is I have this reputation in my family  as the person who forgets birthdays ( including my own ) I can never remember what month Easter falls on and nobody wants a Valentine card from me because they are sure when they open the card they’re going to find a picture of a real heart with ” I Love You ” written in magic marker across the top of the card ( so as to not interfere with the picture itself- of course ) in fancy script lettering.

I guess that in my family I bring drama to the big days.

If it weren’t for me, the people I love the most, the people who I DO want to spend the holidays with, would be out there celebrating traditional holidays in traditional ways. I wouldn’t wish that on anybody. Well, maybe my enemies and haters who made fun of my friends who were running for office this year but would I wish a Hallmark Holiday to my nearest and dearest?

No way- not this girl.

I think my role during the holidays- especially at Christmas is to add a little pizzaz to the day

www.nataliedee.com

If it weren’t for me who would be there at the Christmas dinner table to say, just as the turkey was being carved, ” wow, that brings back some memories “

” And exactly, which ones would those be? ” somebody ALWAYS asks to a chorus of face palming that rounds the table at lightning speed.

So maybe I will do a little shopping and maybe I’ll wake up on Christmas Morning and decide that this year I will not tell urban legends like the one about the archeologists who discovered this pyramid with these alabaster  jars full of honey in them- the honey was so well preserved that they were able to eat it- and when the jar was empty they saw stuck to the bottom of the jar a little bundle that turned out to be a mummified baby.

Yes. That’s the ticket. Maybe I’ll celebrate Christmas like a normal person.

Or.

Maybe.

I.

Won’t.

so you know what that means to me.

That’s right.

Its time for absolutely nothing but mindless fun.

Here’s my contribution to the season.

You are welcome.

Ho Ho Ho.

 Remember

If you are watching this where it is cold

drool will freeze.

****

There are a few strong childhood memories that periodically percolate from my memory.

For example, when I was about three years old I crashed Julie Pierce’s birthday party much to the mortification of a certain nine-year old relative who shall remain unidentified. I have a flash of recollection of this — being lodged under a redwood fence — hearing shrieks of protest and laughter from the party-goers. The aforementioned nameless relative exacted her revenge when I was five years old and she and a friend tied me up, gagged me, and hid me in a bedroom closet. This memory is a little clearer and does a lot to explain why I am slightly claustrophobic to this day.

But there is one event that stands out with extraordinary clarity and had a profound effect on my development as a creative person.

When I was about eight years old, a group of us neighborhood kids were hanging out in Kimberly’s backyard. Unlike the rest of us who lived in houses, Kimberly was cool and lived in apartment complex that had lots of passages around the units and between the carports. With its labyrinth of hiding places, it became our favorite place to be whenever we felt in the mood to create imaginary worlds and act out make-believe dramas.

This particular day Inez, her three younger sisters, me, Kimberly and Val were all standing in a little grassy area behind Kim’s building telling each other scary stories. I had started the ball rolling by telling everyone that dinosaurs had not really died out, they were real, and some grown ups I knew had seen them roaming around our neighborhood. Inez and Val, who were my age, said I was making it all up and to stop scaring the little kids. After brushing me aside, Inez commenced telling a story to the rest of the group — something about ghosts or vampires — I really don’t remember what she was saying because, in my miff over having my story dismissed, I slowly extracted myself from the group.

I slipped out of the yard, around the entire building, and up a narrow passage that led to another entrance to the yard. The passage was partially obscured by the large leaves of a dwarf banana plant. As Inez was finishing up her lame excuse of a story, I grabbed the leaves, shook them as hard as I could, and let out a giant ROAR!!!!!.

Shrieking kids went running in all directions and Inez’s littlest sister, Aggie, just out of diapers, began wailing at the top of her lungs. I scurried back out of the passage and intercepted the band as they came tearing out of the yard. I was nearly in tears myself as bent over in laughter.

“What so funny?,” Inez growled at me as she tried to comfort Aggie. “There’s a dinosaur back there!”

Between laughs, I tried to explain that I had made the sounds and the ruckus in the banana leaves.

Inez who never liked to be wrong about anything glared at me and said “No, there is a dinosaur back there. YOU said there were dinosaurs around here. And we just heard one.”

As bossy as she was, Inez, I knew, was not stupid, so I had a hard time believing that she had believed me. But the other kids — the little ones — were absolutely terrified, so much so that I did get in some trouble over “telling tales” and scaring the daylights out of them. Did I feel bad about scaring them? Maybe I did feel a little bad for making Aggie cry…. But the rest, especially Inez, not so much. I even remember feeling a little superior for having told a good story and making them believe it enough to go running in terror.

So whenever I am in the mood to write a story or create an image, I draw upon this memory. For a few minutes, I made Inez, Kim, Val, and all the rest of them suspend their disbelief. If I can do that same thing again with writing or making art, then I’ve been successful.

Yeah, a story told well can be quite empowering.

Lori G. (c) 2010

]]> http://101nights.wordpress.com/2010/12/20/behind-the-banana-plant/feed/ 10 lorigloyd t rex http://101nights.wordpress.com/2010/12/11/because/ http://101nights.wordpress.com/2010/12/11/because/#comments Sat, 11 Dec 2010 04:18:03 +0000 Anita Marie http://101nights.wordpress.com/?p=1034 ]]> Inspired By

The SFC Chocolate Box Prompt

:::: Abandoned Past::::

Tonight I was thinking about shadows.

And ghosts.

Ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties are hard to write about, difficult to understand and for the most part, they are not pleasant to look at or be alone with.

 Ghosts and shadows and the things that go bump in the night not only cause ripples in dark blue lakes set smack dab in the middle of  forests frequented by unicorns that burp glitter and maidens who- to be honest I don’t KNOW what maidens do-stroll around all day thinking beautiful thoughts I suppose- ghosts and shadows and ghoulies challenge reality.

Here is my reality: when I write about cannibals or Morticians who arrange funerals for Zombie Queens and Werewolves who love chocolate so much that they go trick or treating on Halloween I am not writing about monsters. I am writing about real people who don’t see the world the way everybody else does. I base those characters on the people in my life who collect key chains and grow Chia Pets. they like turkey flavored soda pop and  believe, with all their hearts that aliens are real and that UFO’s are not science fiction but science fact.

That is why my monsters are so human and that is why they will never be the dark matter in my stories- I leave that role to the people in my life who are narrow-minded, vicious, cruel, and hypocritical. I don’t give people like that the luxary of a mask in my stories.  To be fair though  they inspire me to- but for the most part they inspire me to see them into the next world at the hands ( or paws, or claws or pointed teeth ) of the people they have wronged in real life.

I have been made aware that some people only chose to see beauty in their world I have been advised to do the same and to- how do the kids put it nowdays.

Oh

STFU and quit writing the weird stuff.

Its ugly, I have been told

Well.

I don’t think my stories are ugly, I think they are beautiful in their own way and I am proud of every single word- even the not so perfect words I have written .

My stories are not afraid to be themselves.

Everyone should be so lucky.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” – that is all/Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’ 

-Keats-

A long time ago I was a Blue Bird.

Blue Birds were Camp Fire Girls in Training,- I never made it through Blue Birds and I never even got close to being a Camp Fire Girl.

The biggest problem I had was that I could never earn those badges- in order to earn those you had to do things like cook or sew and to be honest not only was  I not inclined to do any of those things when I did do them I was bound to warp the directions and end up with some Frankenstein’s Monster of a mess that would stick to the bottom of the brown paper  bag that I’d carry my project to our group meeting in.

My Grandpa asked why on Earth I insisted on coughing up 50 cents for dues to sit around with a bunch of little Blue Birds who had made it clear to him on several occasions when he dropped me off at the meetings, that they were convinced I was showing up because my only purpose in life was to try to’ruin’ their group and he had told them that didn’t sound like his Anita Marie at all.

” Anita doesn’t have to try and ruin anything” He told them. “ She’s got that down to a science.”  

 Well. One day our troup put on a talent show. One little group of girls lip synched and acted out this song called Snoopy Vs. The Bloody Red Baron.

I got a tambourine and learned to sing a song all on my own.

I practiced it, I worked on it, to this day my nearest and dearest who remember me and that song get this twitch on the left sides of their faces when they hear it.

When I was done performing my ‘talent’ my Blue Bird leader’s daughter grabbed my tambourine out of my hand and hit me with it. I mean, she took that thing and bashed me in the head with it so hard I saw stars-  and then she started screaming about how I always wrecked everything.

Years later I was a working musician and I saw her at a club- she pretended like she didn’t know me. But when I was playing my guitar up on stage don’t think for a second that  I turned my back on her.

So here’s the song that got me kicked out of Blue Birds,  banned from Campfire Girls and if she dies before me I am going to show up at her grave and sing this- just for her.

Oh why wait.

::::Marj- this one is for you:::

Inspired By

The SFC Chocolate Box Prompt:

Self Portraiture

In Response To L.G.’s  Challange

For Me Visit

White Owl Island

Meet me at White Owl Island

my friend asked- no- she dared me one night.

She said

the stories about ghosts aren’t real

the ones about the houses made of bones aren’t true

nobody believes that those rumors about the trees that died a long time ago

have a pinch of truth to them

so meet me out on the Island

my friend said with a smile on her face

but not in her eyes.

If there are not ghosts, or spirits or houses made of bones

I asked my friend

who would live out on a dark and faraway place like

 White Owl Island?

My friend did not answer

but

I think this woman does.

And if she doesn’t

she should:

Dancing Shadows

Dancing shadows in a circle,
ghosts of Avalon
casting for the Moon above.
Spirits circling endlessly
within this rare and special space.
The dance quickens,
the drums beat faster
as believing women, together,
call upon the Goddess.

Sacred, silent, circled stones
guard their ceremony
and protect the Spirits
who, at this very moment,
approach and bless
the dancers in their silken robes
who, in turn,
understand that Avalon
is not some distant space,
but a place within
each and every woman’s heart.

The Goddess,
in all her Radiant Glory,
and in all her many guises
appears,
approaches,
connects, and touches
every heart within the circle
while the silent stones
bear witness.

Vi Jones
©March 2002

TRIBAL DAUGHTERS DANCING

Fires burning brightly,
smoke drifting upward
lacing through the branches
to the throbbing sound of drums.

My memories merely
in the halls of time,
remembered only in my genes,
of tribal daughters dancing
beneath Moon’s ivory light.
My glistening body moves
in unison with every other,
shoulders, breasts, and thighs
in the flickering firelight,
rim lit with Moon’s seductive power.

This night
as I sit here
with embers in the fireplace glowing
but smoke no longer rising,
I think of them
though their faces are but shadows
dimmed by centuries of passing.
Still, far away through time and space
I still hear the whispering
as the dancers slowly leave.

What of me, crone that I am?
Alone, but not alone
for they are with me still,
those Tribal Dancers of the Moon.
So come gather you all around me,
fan the flames
for I have stories to be told
memories to be shared
of those long forgotten
Tribal Daughters Dancing.

Vi Jones
©January 30, 2004