Monthly Archive

Our whole family are ‘animal people’, our homes aren’t complete without a pet or two to nurture. The three of ‘Us’ (Mum, Matt, and myself) have 2 cats, 2 birds and a tank of tropical fish.

I’ve talked about our cats before:

Pyewackett

Sweet Lady Skye

We also have the two cockatiels, Bosco and Lady Cosmo:

Bosco

Lady Cosmo

And a thirty gallon tropical tank.

My brother, Jim, has the character dog, Max, short for Maximum Overdrive.

Max

His partner, Carol, has the sweet, elderly Muffin.

Muffin

His daughter Kryssi and her partner, Troy, have 2 dogs and three cats.

Kryssi with Brinkley

Brody

\

The ‘Retard Cat’

Momma Cat

I haven’t gotten a pic of ‘Little Man’ cat yet. He is shy and hides when company arrives.

Matt’s ex-wife and her adult daughter have 2 Chihuahuas, hermit crabs, and tropical fish.

Pepperoncini

And little Pepsi.

gwenguin

A friend popped these into my ‘frig, and I opened the door to a still life meant for sharing….

Araucana, a name as exotic as her eggs. Tail-less Chilean wonder hen, centuries ‘board tall nitrate-trading ships, has stained her egg shells the blues and greens of sky and sea. Every shell is an undeniable remnant of ancient lives.  Cracked open, each reveals color that permeates through to the inner lining, unlike the white of other breeds, there is no clouding of her concave sky…each inner half a planetarium charting the heavens of shipwrecked survivors passed from the hands of  Guarani Indians to Magellan in Santa Lucia Bay, from Dutch pirates exchanging her for provisions in the Hebrides. Now, it is time to seal this uninterrupted journey and cast these shells into the garden where crows and songbirds greedily feast upon them under the stark winter-weary sky. There is serenity in this for blue is a dominant trait perhaps to be expressed in unexpected places.

Pollygraph 

The Bluestockings, a pejorative name for an informal woman’s literary “club” that flourished in the second half of eighteenth century London, was named after Benjamin Stillingfleet’s blue worsted stockings: he was too poor to afford the customary black silk stocking suitable for evening wear. Run by educated, intellectual, conservative women who tried to raise the moral, intellectual, and cultural standards of their time, this group of friends took turns hosting evening’s entertainment where the literary figures of London took the spotlight. Women were often the majority of the guests, and the subject of the evening was often a learned women from the past or the present. Eventually similar ladies’ groups who patterned themselves after the Bluestockings sprung up all over London then all over England.

These upper-middle class women scorned female “accomplishments,” card playing, and frivolous behavior, preferring instead a life of moral and intellectual rigor and philanthropic activities. These women did not pen great tracts railing about the failings of men. They did claim the right to act in the semi-public sphere and they urged women to become involved in philanthropic activities which benefited other women. Following their own advice, they created a number of philanthropic institutions whose aim was to help women, often poor widowed women with children, become economically self-sufficient. source

Before Darryl took sick again, eighteen months ago, I hosted a Salon in my home on the last Sunday of each month. It was a wonderful gathering of like minded women. Everyone bought a plate of food to share and apart from some shared projects that I led we shared our creative endeavours. The diversity was just wonderful and each of us were infused for the next month. I have so many happy memories of those Sundays and plan to establish another monthly gathering in a month or so. I feel compelled to bring life in to this house and this feels like the right way to do it.

In doing a little research, I discovered that there were Bluestockings in other societies as well. In 17th century China, intellectuals, mostly men, held salons and wrote poetry. These brave poets developed a special writing style, a cursive script different from the “official” and “permitted” writing.

This banner below shows a calligraphy scroll from 1629. Quoting from my resarch, “The work, Orchard Pavilion Preface is in the cursive script known as kuang cho, or “crazy grass script”. Kuang cho features gestural, flowing lines that are rough, strung together and hasty yet graceful, displaying the artist’s skill with a brush. This cursive style allowed artists to write with much more abandon than the blocky and very structured lishu , the “official script”.
The text itself refers to a party held at the Orchard Pavilion in the 4th century. A group of intellectuals had gathered to drink wine, write poetry, paint, and admire nature.

I’m not sure yet, still working on the research, but I believe this writing eventually was taken over by women, and was used only by them in secret messages written on fans and embroidered on handkerchiefs. The women’s writing was called nushu by the 19th century. Again, I’m still working on this part. But whether there is a link or not, the idea that intellectuals needed to invent a script that was more expressive than regular writing is a wonderful idea.

Written on a window, soon after her marriage, 1713.

Whilst thirst of praise and vain desire of fame,
In every age is every woman’s aim;
With courtship pleas’d, of silly toasters proud,
Fond of a train, and happy in a crowd;
On each proud fop bestowing some kind glance,
Each conquest owing to some loose advance;
While vain coquets affect to be pursued,
And think they’re virtuous, if not grossly lewd:
Let this great maxim be my virtue’s guide;
In part she is to blame that has been try’d–
He comes too near, that comes to be deny’d.{22} Written on a window, soon after her marriage, 1713.

An Early Blue Stocking!  I have my doubts!  Not even the most modest flirtying allowed!

Tis true, my dears, a little flattery will not come amiss

However blue my stocking I see nothing too remiss

returning flattery with a gentle kiss! 

Fran

Rat

We were sitting around, killing time, and waiting for the usual stragglers. Bert had been bragging how he had just missed the cut for the Fear Factor TV competition by a mouthful of rat even after he’d successfully downed blenderized raw fish! While the other fellows commiserated, the females just let out a collective “Ewwww”! All the females that is, except for Grang – a post-war refugee  from Viet Nam. 

She whispered in my ear, “You want me tell you how cook rat?” Her eyes then searched my face for an answer.

“Sure, Grang, tell us how to cook rat,”  I replied then sat back and watched the faces of the others raster through a myriad of expressions: amusement, incredulity, realization, sympathy, and finally curiosity. 

Grang quickly glanced around the table, then back with uncertainly so I nodded and gestured for her to begin. She spoke hesitantly at first and then gained confidence as she, and we were transported through the process.

“If there is a choice, it is better to trap rats in the field as almost always, when their stomachs are opened, they are found full of grain and plant seed and their meat is more nutritious and less likely to be diseased or parasite laden. Unlike rabbits, the skin of the rat adheres tightly to the muscle. The best way to remove hair and skin is to build a small fire of straw or dried grass and lay the body directly on it, turning rapidly until all the hair is singed. That will also loosen the skin from the meat so it peels off easily once the head, legs and tail have been removed.”

“Dress the carcass by carefully removing the entrails and then splitting it much as one would split a chicken. The meat and bones are then hacked cross-wise into chunks, and the pieces placed in a container to be well mixed with coarse salt, garlic, onion, curry powder and lemon grass. Allow them to remain so for an hour or more, being careful to stir periodically to make sure all the pieces are well covered.”

“When following that method, it is unnecessary to wash the meat if it has been carefully wiped with a damp cloth before hacking into chunks. The meat can then be pan fried or grilled.”

“Another recipe is to put chunks into a pot, cover them with coconut milk and water, add dry mushrooms or other vegetable material that may be available as well as desired seasonings, then simmering until tender. If noodles are added, do so towards the end of the cooking time or serve with rice. Almost any recipe for chicken or other game works well. It is just a matter of getting the meat while still fresh. A live trap is best to use as the animal can be kept alive until meal preparation.”

***

I opened the storage shed then paused a moment and stared at the shelf before pulling down the smaller of the two cage-traps….

Bird flu had spread so rapidly it caught most of us off-guard. We were secure for the time being, as yet un-pillaged by our neighbors. Still, the food stocks are dwindling and soon they would be gone. There was no sign that services would soon resume; hundreds were sick and many more are dead. The entire infrastructure had been disrupted; no deliveries were being made because no one was willing to take the risk — everyone was too frightened to leave home,  to make contact with others.  We were all hunkered low. When the grid failed it was not sabotage, just desertion from duty … predictable under the circumstances.

So now, it is time to test my skills. 

~Pollygraph

I’ve been doing quite a bit of research into the Blue Stocking society in order to write a short story about them. But I’ve found that this project has really taken on massive proportions for me. It’s no longer a short story but seems as if it could be a novel. So I’m excited about that. And at the same time, I’m sorry I’m not able to share what I’ve written so far. I’ve realized that in order to understand the significance of The Society, a person needs to understand the historical atmosphere they lived in. It was a time of social upheaval. I’m very interested in it, and I see many parallels to today’s society. I had really hoped to share a short story with all of you on this first meeting, but as I’ve mentioned, it is a work in progress. I highly recommend, to anyone interested in history, the period of time that the Society began is worthy of an in depth study.
-Literary Bohemian

Greetings! Welcome to the first official meeting of the Bluestocking Society. Thank you for Anita Marie for the concept and to Ninjacat for this week’s topic.

So, here it is:

“Who the Blue Stocking Society was in the past and who we are today. Share your writing, art and your voice about this amazing society.”

You can add your comments below OR you can add a whole new post and categorize it as Blue Stocking Society/BS 26.01.07

If you would like to be added to the Taverna, please let me know.

Lori

I am alone.

Unto the very core of my being,

Down to the marrow in the bone,

And I have known it,

Heard it in the wind,

Felt the ghastly moan

Of being cut off,

Cut out;

Age four - I saw

The chasm and the caverns

Deep below;

You would have thought

I could at least consort

With other ghosts -

There were none there

And if they were they hid

In shadows, spectres still;

So this is why I know

It cannot change,

Or ever will.

There is a path where trees and flowers

Form bowers of solitude

For lovers, friends, companions;

I don’t go there,

I do not know the way

And would be shunned;

Invisible:

Since age of four

Who locked the door

To make me live this way?

Alone - from being a child,

For all my life - lost

Searching for a key, an opening;

I am far inside myself,

Apart - beyond the reach

Of fingertips

Or outstretched arms:

Today is yesterday.

Jan

thoughts on the
playful light waves
to where it is darkest
in this the universe

taking with them
our thoughts
prayers and wishes
light and enlightenment

entwining forever
all from a lit candle

Aletta Mes

The fullness of loving and being loved
like a mountain lake
whose falls plummet down the mountain
taking chances
and always landing in the safe arms
of beauty

I’m with you this day as you celebrate
Life and love

Here’s to hearts connecting
Smiles and laughter
Holding hands and hugging tears

I’m knowing you’re held in light and love
As is your beloved Darryl.
I burn a candle in my sacred space
to light his path as well as yours.

Anne

May your journey to the field of rushes, the stars and beyond
be an awakening of great joy!

May the Goddess take your gentle hand and lead to the weighing of the heart
where it is found light as a feather

Hear my prayer O rider of the eternal night
Dear one of the sweet lady Heather

May universal energy embrace you, caress your tears and show you
a new beginning

lunagirl

I wrote this poem about the love I feel from and with my boyfriend.  From all I have seen and heard of Heather and Darryl and the love they share, it seemed appropriate for them too.  I hope all of you enjoy this, especially you Heather and Darryl.

Cyn

What is that beautiful sound?
It is like a soft, low, gentle humming
That envelops me in its strong, soothing embrace
It enters my mind
And permeates every part of me
I feel awash in warmth and security
comfort and pleasure
It is the sound of love
It is the sound of you
Filling my heart and soul with your presence
with your goodness
with your tenderness

Season of Solitude
For Heather and Darryl.

Ivy on the garden wall.
Old stones, if only they could talk.
Last Autumn’s leaves
still beneath the snow.
Branches bare, basic in their nudity.
My thoughts are yet of thee.

Snow covered walks,
pristine, unspoiled.
The shaded tool shed
cloaked in white.
Silence, like a blanket, covers
the sins of yesterday.

Spring rains that cleanse and chase away
the musty smells of winter.
Closed doors and shuttered windows.
A hint of warmth, and then
shoots of daffodils and crocus
bring smiles instead of tears.

Leaves were falling when you left—
Erratic flight in Autumn’s fickle breezes.
I faced the long darkened nights
and shortened days alone
with many tears shed.

The sun is high this glorious morn,
its light, spring’s promise
of hope renewed,.
I see a shadow and there you are
just like you used to be—
I cannot touch but I can love,
what more is there to say,
until we meet again
upon that other sunny shore.

Vi Jones
©January 24, 2007

(Photo by Robin. 2006)

In China, the flower meanings for the peony are happy marriage and most beautiful.

I’m new here, but from what I’ve picked up I believe Darryl and Heather had a combination of the two, making for a most beautiful happy marriage.

Happy trails, Darryl.

 Astral Dance

Silver cords weaving

astral souls dance together

a soul is rising.

Karen

The best way to celebrate life is to live it –
and we start anew,
with friends gathered ’round to toast a few
and share stories of full living

the Bard of Lemuria
………………………………………….

THIS VOICE and MORE

It was a large church, but not as large as it pretended. Services were well attended – at least when the choir sang, and even the most boring sermon could be endured to hear the grand organ play. Not at the same time, of course – for the organ was really too grand for the church, and when properly ‘let loose’ no choir could compete. A smaller organ hidden behind the pipes served to help them out.

The giant pipe organ had been carted over the Rockies by wagons and mules – way back about 1886. It was supposed to go to the new cathedral in Sacramento, but wound up here instead when the wagons broke down and winter set in. So, this local church was modified to hold her, with pipes running from the basement to the loft – some as big round as a man’s thigh, others as tiny as a twig – 270 in all filling the entire end of the church. the consol had four tiers and took two people to play – with a third man stocking the steam boiler down below. Magnificent! Of course, today it uses compressed air and can be played at any time – except when the choir sings.

Those castle-spire pipes does make a fine backdrop, though, when the voices ring out – the forty members ringed in a double row behind the consol where the organist sits just for show. And they work hard at it, practicing two nights week; and many folks say they are better than any choir ever heard this side of Salt Lake City. Their range and counterpart was phenomenal – the sound almost having a soul of its own – almost like a strum on a dulcimer – binding solo voices and harmony groups together in a magical weave beyond what even they expected. The choir I mean. Us out in the pews expected the best of everything, else what is church-going for?

A couple of years ago a visitor heard them sing and arranged for their participation in an out-of-state contest for choirs – Choral Jubilee or something. They did really well, third place – with some saying they were not ‘up to snuff’ – nervous maybe. We were all pleased enough, but the choir set about preparing for the next year. All this meant to us was having to hear the same songs over and over again, but with that organ playing some I could endure anything. And they were really good, you know – better than we deserved for certain. I got to go along on the bus the second year.

Well, they won this time, but I have to admit they still didn’t sound as good as back home by the organ – silent though it was – and I began to wonder of the why of it – others too. Me being a reporter and all, I decided to check it out – going to different practices and all. I discover that they did sound different in the practice room. What’s more, they sounded different during a different service! I had always attended the eleven o’clock gathering so that Angie and I could go out to lunch after – but that’s another story. That’s when they normally sang as that was when the Bishop usually made it; but with extra practice needed for the competitions the sang twice or more each Sunday. This meant more lucky parishioners, I guess, but they didn’t get the grand organ, with old James only up to one playing. The nine o’clock service had guitar and flute instead – alright I guess, but hardly the same. Anyways, the choir was wonderful, and no one knew they were getting second best but me – the choir not able to really hear themselves, of course.

I pulled some strings at the news bureau and got some recording equipment set up one Sunday and captures they performances. After listening later, the sound engineer agreed there was a special quality in the mid-day service missing in the others. Some digital analysis concurred – the other two performances were almost identical – only ‘my’ service was a tad bit better, richer, whatever. maybe someone has some equipment capable of separating out single voices – we didn’t, so I let the story slide by, seeing as how no one really cared except me.

One Sunday, though, I hung around late because I had dropped my keys inside – thought to wait until everyone left before crawling around the floor. So Lars didn’t see me when he came up the basement stairs. Didn’t know that I watched him take some music sheets from the podium. Didn’t know much, actually. Lars is a good sort, but kind of slow – war injury way back I’ve heard. He was the janitor and gardeners about the grounds – waving at everyone, but never saying much. He was mostly deaf amongst other things, but the church was blessed to have him, and didn’t have to pay him much with throwing in a free apartment over the garage. I’d complimented him a time or two over his flowers and well tended walks, but never got more than a little bow and a grin. Something didn’t fit – thought I’d check it out.

Next Sunday I went early and sat behind some boxes of emergency food in the basement. Sure enough, Lars arrived just before eleven and sat in a chair next to the big organ pipes sticking through the floor. He was silent until the grand organ stopped – I could feel those tubes pulsing from across the room – kind eerie feeling the heart of the sound down here with the notes coming out upstairs. Then the little organ started – barely heard except through the now silent pipes – and Lars began to sing along. He did not sing all that loudly, but I closed my ears against the tears for the beauty of it! Each deep note was like a waterfall in prayer, and his higher range could cause birds to gather in awe. I don’t think he knew he could best most opera I have heard – and maybe he didn’t have the power for it, his being kinda frail and all. But here – those giant tin pipes swept up his voice and amplified it across the church above – not a single voice like the unknowing singers in the choir, but twenty-four voices modulated slightly in pitch and color and wonder. Fully a third of the spectacular presentation the Bishop applauded came from a tiny, seventy-year old man in the bowels of the earth.

I’ve never told anyone of this ‘til now – just coming as I have from laying flowers on his grave – not many people there at the service to recognize his forty years there. So, I have to tell, I guess – as they will surly know next Sunday when more than fresh flowers are missing. And I’ve been wondering how much we miss of what’s really going on with people because we look for the grand organ and the prize winning choir and the towering steeple — and never hear the simplest of prayers that somehow touch our souls.

I look about … knowing you are more present than ever … and see you smiling and happy … suffused with the love that is your true essence. And I thank you for the blessing of you.

Donna 

I have not been here long (at the Soul Food Cafe) however, because of Heather’s sharings about her life with Darryl, I am getting a sense of Darryl’s character. And when I was doing a little web browsing before heading to the Tavern, I came across the item below. My intuition suddenly shouted–this is Heather and Darryl’s philosophy about life! How they have lived. What an example for all of us!  In the face of death, let us honor the sadness of loss and remember how he lived.

Dawn  (Cheshire)

                                                                                                                                                                            WHAT IS LIFE?

Life is a gift, accept it. 
Life is an adventure, dare it. 
Life is a mystery, unfold it. 
Life is a game, play it. 
Life is a struggle, face it. 
Life is beauty, praise it. 
Life is a puzzle, solve it. 
Life is opportunity, take it. 
Life is sorrowful, experience it. 
Life is a song, sing it. 
Life is a goal, achieve it. 
Life is a mission, fulfill it.

Author Unknown

( mournful & never ending remembrance ~Edgar Allen Poe~ )

I am a soul

I know well that what I shall render up to grace

Is not myself

That which is myself

Will go elsewhere.   ~Victor Hugo~

Love To Both of You, Patricia

I have piggy backed my spirit
to the little sparrow
which wanted so much to take me

to be with friends
to celebrate
and
to send

a friend on a voyage
while making sure
his beloved is
well taken care of
so he need not worry

 aletta

From one Rider to another,

I’d be honored if Darryl and Heather

Would Fly

The Colors of The Moscoso Family

on this day

January 24,2006

While Darryl’s friends are revving up the engines, Kent and I honored Darryl’s spirit by taking a memorial motorcycle ride by the cold winter Potomac. The bikes took a while to warm up, but it was a good way for us to be with you. I took pictures on the trip, and posted them to an unpublished page of my website. Or, if you prefer, you can cut and paste this into your browser: http://quinncreative.com/id35.html There is a link at the bottom of my page that will return you to the Temple of Solace.          Kent waving goodbye to Darryl:

Motored guests have come in order to honor their brother and comrade.

My offering of comfort food is deep, dark, gooey, extra-chocolately brownies.

Lori

Guess who’s coming to dinner?!!!Heather, I thought that maybe now was the perfect time to introduce you to all my gang. Each and very one of them has being listening to the tales and lore of Lemuria, and at this time feel as if they are as much part of the community as I am!! So it seems fitting to bring them along to visit you today on this very meaning ful day in your life. Allow me to introduce them to you, starting from top left and working clockwise:Sorcha (16 years old and my eldest); myself; Orla (5 years old and the youngest); Donnie (my husband); Grainne (12 years old and the middle child); Meabh (8 years old, second youngest); and Eoin (14 years old and my only son).What are we listening to? — It had to be one of the great love stories, like yours and Darryl’s, so we chose Puccini’s ‘La Boheme’.

Lady Sybil Riversleigh, Commander of the Soul Food constellation, has requested that members of her fleet participate in a special celebration.

Fleet members are travelling from all over the Empire to be with her on this special day. We travelled in the starship, the ‘burning candle’ together with representative members of the Sisterhood of Ravens who are more usually to be found splashing around in the fountains in Bruges.

Musical accompaniement is provided by the fabulous Barb Jungr singing songs from her first CD “Bare”.

We bring carrot cake for comfort and nourishment together with water from Jacob’s well to share in the sorrow and joy that this day may bring and wish Darryl “bon voyage”!

with love from Traveller and Paul

What is lost,

Oft returns.

Replaced

in life renewed
What good fortune,

Mankind can,

Hold memories,

Unchanged.
All who once lived,

began a legacy,

now ripples through eternity.
aletta mes - for Heather and Darryl

During these subdued, reflective days, I am sitting in the Muse’s Lounge, just off the main dining area of the Taverna. I am sketching while seated in the deep cushy chair near the fireplace. In the comforting and intimate warmth of the lounge, I allow my inks run wild, letting the colors and shapes find their own life.

Cellular Arrangement in Blue and Orange

Digital Construction, Lori Gloyd (c) 2007

The elven folk, dear Imogen refused to leave their flower so I send them to you in a flower dance:

Fran

and such a change from the lurid stuff you see on the newstands - an Ancient World newspaper.

gailkav

(Mural on Tommy’s Joint in San Francisco. April 2006. Photo by Robin)

Hungry and in need of lunch, I wander into the Taverna di Muse to find they do, indeed, serve great big beautiful sandwiches.

On the menu today:

• Hoagie (Philly area in the U.S.): Italian meats (ham, cappicola, and salami) and cheese (a good, aged provolone) served on a wonderous roll that can only be found in the Philadelphia area, filled with lettuce, tomatoes, and onions, seasoned with oregano, oil, and vinegar. Hot cherry peppers optional.
• Bacon butty (U.K): Bacon on buttered brown bread. Served with or without brown sauce. May substitute the Chip butty: A liberal serving of chips (french fries) sandwiched between two slices of buttered white bread. Sauce (tomato, brown, chip-shop curry) available upon request.
• Gyros (Greece): Lamb or chicken served on pita bread with tzatziki, tomato, and onion.
• Tea sandwiches: Available today — Watercress; egg and mayo; smoked salmon; cucumber; fruit jam; and curried chicken. Mix and match sandwiches as desired.
• Sandwiches de miga (Argentina): A Taverna di Muse special guaranteed to fuel you up for the nighttime tango. Miga (a thin, crustless white bread) filled with thinly sliced meats, cheese, tomatoes, eggs, green peppers, lettuce, and asparagus, slathered with mayonnaise.
• Barros Luco (Chile): Beef and melted cheese.
• Sandwich mixto (Cuba): Also known as the Cuban Pressed Sandwich. Made with Cuban bread, liberally buttered on both sides, filled with dill pickles, roast pork that was marinated in mojo (a garlic/citrus marinade) and slow roasted, ham, and swiss cheese, all pressed and heated until the cheese is melted. Served the traditional way with yellow mustard. Sorry, no mayo on this one or it wouldn’t be traditional!
• PB&J: Peanut butter and jelly. Your choice of jelly, jam, or preserves.

Don’t see something on the menu you’d like? Please feel free to add to it. I’m sure the Taverna can provide, both real and fanciful.

(Thanks to Wikipedia as a source of information on various sandwiches.)

just off of the ’smoker’s porch’
through the elegant French Doors of the Tavern’s charm
is a special tree called “The Cuff”

Frozen there for a ‘breath of time’
is the visage of a man who didn’t pay his bar bill,
saying, “Just put it on the cuff!”

Just a myth I am sure,
but …

faucon

One of my animated walks, this time on a very cold day. Now I’ll just still here for a bit, and warm myself.  I hope the Dalmation also found a cosy warm spot by his master on such a cold night.
aletta

Bella Mama, the Lemurian Rose, sings for me, to Darryl.
She is wearing Lapis Lazuli 

Have I told you lately that I love you?
Have I told you there’s no one else above you?
Fill my heart with gladness, take away all my sadness,
Ease my troubles, that’s what you do.

For the morning sun in all it’s glory,
Meets the day with hope and comfort too,
You fill my life with laughter, somehow you make it better,
Ease my troubles, that’s what you do.

There’s a love less defined,
And its yours and its mine,
Like the sun.
And at the end of the day,
We should give thanks and pray,
To the one, to the one.

Have I told you lately that I love you?
Have I told you there’s no one else above you?
Fill my heart with gladness, take away all my sadness,
Ease my troubles, that’s what you do.
There’s a love less defined,
And its yours and its mine,
Like the sun.
And at the end of the day,
We should give thanks and pray,
To the one, to the one.

Have I told you lately that I love you?
Have I told you there’s no one else above you?
Fill my heart with gladness, take away all my sadness,
Ease my troubles, that’s what you do.

Take away all my sadness, fill my life with gladness,
Ease my troubles, that’s what you do.

Take away all my sadness, fill my life with gladness,
Ease my troubles, that’s what you do.

I was just browsing through some fashion images (my secret passion) and i found this. It immediately reminded me of the Blue-Stocking Society.

-Literary Bohemian (ninjacat)

by anita marie moscoso

Inspired by the Soul Food Cafe Prompt

“M” is for Myth

Alstona Kamacho’s clock is an Armageddon clock-that’s what she told everyone at her office.

She also told them on the first day she brought it in that if the clock stops the world will end. So for the past 20 years everyone she works with goes out of their way to make sure  Alstona’s  Tacky Ticker doesn’t wind down. 

At first it was fun to find a way to make it first to avocado green clock with the pink feet and the silver mushroom bells sitting sideways against face so that you could be the one turn the little silver key  and save the entire world

Then it got to be serious.

When Alstona’ s six co-workers heard the little gears slowing down and just before second hand made this pop sound when it skipped past the glow in the dark five they’d already be pushing and shoving, tripping towards Alstona’s desk.

One year Barnell Bloss fractured right arm when he tried- and failed to clear Fales Digby’s desk to get to Alstona’ s Armageddon clock.

Of course he didn’t clear Fales’ desk because Fales was sitting at it and when Barnell raced by it was more the Fales could stand.

He’d reached up and slammed Barnell down and Fales had been the one to save the world that day.

In any other office on the face of the Earth that stunt would probably have ended in some sort of legal action.

But Lonsdale and Mead’s wasn’t  like anyplace on the face of the Earth- it didn’t have an Armageddon clock sitting on an employee’s desk.

Delia Wing was a Courier from All City Express, she had won the Lonsdale and Mead stop in a lunch time card game at All City.

 But that was nothing new- drivers at All City had been known to pay each other cold hard cash just for one trip because everyone in the city of Mayweed knew the L & M staff were a bunch of whack jobs.

What can you say? Nothing broke up the day like getting the chance to see a bunch of desk jockeys beat the snot out of each other to get to this cheap and nasty windup clock first. 

As you’ve probably guessed by now Mayweed was short on entertainment venues.

Delia’ first trip into L & M was on a Friday and there they were- all seven of them sitting at their desks, working on the phones and doing data entry and the entire time they all had at least one eye on the Receptionist’s Desk.

At least that one eye looked alive and alert because the faces they were housed in were pale and all of the worker’s hands were twitching and shaking.

Delia decided right then and there she didn’t want to go back to L & M- all of those people looked like they already had one foot in the grave and she was afraid whatever they had might be something you could catch.

But first Delia had a job to do.

She went over to the receptionist’s desk where the clock was sitting and cleared her throat, ” Package for you. “

Alstona looked up and reached for small box a in Delia’s hand.

” So that’s the clock. ” Delia said.

” That’s the clock. “

” So, if you’re sitting there how come they….” Delia pointed to the rows of desks behind Alstona ” race to wind it up?  Why don’t you do it yourself?”

Someone said from the back of the office, ” because she doesn’t care anymore…she wants the world to end.”

From a little closer to where Delia and Alstona were another voice said, ” she’s nuts “

And everyone agreed.

Delia never actually saw the L & M people racing to the clock but on some days she thought they looked more nervous and pale then on other days and she figured that must have been at about the time the clock was probably starting to wind down.

Then one day, even though she had nothing to drop off and no one had called in a pickup Delia went into the Office.

” Nothing to pick up? ” she asked Alstona.

” No. ” the Receptionist said.

Delia didn’t want to leave and she didn’t want to be there but for several nights Delia would wake up to the sound of ticking and she’d have to bite down hard on her lip to keep from screaming out loud.

So she decided to get this over with.

” It’s a joke…right? ” Delia asked.

” It certainly is ” a woman who sat directly behind Alstona said. She had heavy dark circles under her eyes and her blouse was inside out. ” It’s the funniest joke anyone could have ever come up with and I’m sick to death of it.”

Then a man said, ” I say we let it go…we just let go.”

Alstona turned around and she said, ” didn’t I say it would come to this?”

The six staffers nodded and Alstona looked up at Delia and nodded, ” it’s a joke and I’m going to end it. “

Then Alstona reached over picked up the clock and smashed it against her desk over and over until her hands were cut and bleeding and the clock was mashed flat.

” It’s over, right? ” Delia asked. ” The joke is over. “

Alstona said quiet as a Cemetery at Midnight, ” it certainly is.”

Outside a dark cloud crossed in front of the Sun then the ground shook just a little…

And that was

The End

I thought this little post from my Webster’s Word of the day post might inspire some conversation.

amm

The Word of the Day for January 13 is:

bluestocking \BLOO-stah-king\ noun
: a woman having intellectual or literary interests

Did you know?

In mid-18th century England, a group of ladies decided to replace
evenings of card playing and idle chatter with “conversation parties,”
inviting illustrious men of letters to discuss literary and
intellectual topics with them.

One regular guest was scholar-botanist Benjamin Stillingfleet.

His hostesses willingly overlooked his cheap blue worsted
stockings (a type disdained by the elite) in order to have the benefit
of his lively conversation. Those who considered it inappropriate for
women to aspire to learning derisively called the group the “Blue
Stocking Society.”

The women who were the original bluestockings rose above the attempted put-down and adopted the epithet as a name for members of their society.

SEED: “Your challege - find a seed”

Fitzgerald TITLE:
knowing that a a seed
can bloom into a childs smile.

There are those who find pleasure
in pruning trees and potting soil –
not I.

I would rather find a seed
that’s fallen on stoney ground;
and by carrying it to safety
change its future and mine –

for the challenge of life
is not to grow the tallest tree,
but to make a difference –
by faith.

papa faucon

Munich in October is dazzling. Clear blue skies, crisp weather, not so many tourists. I was there on business mixed with a little sightseeing. I found myself in the center of town at the Rathaus (rhymes with naught-spouse) and translates, literally, as  ‘advice house’, or city hall. It is located on a huge square, complete with fountain, cobblestones, a bookstore and several restaurants. At noon, the Rathaus tower comes alive with a giant Glockenspiel in which music plays, mechanical figures enact scenes and then a bell tower strikes 12 times.

It lasts about ten minutes and is loud, impressive and worth watching. I came early and picked up a mystery novel in the bookstore. My German vocabulary needed some work, and reading a mystery always keeps my interest.

As noon approached, I took the book and wandered over to the fountain, leaned against it, and alternately dipped into the book and people-watched. As business trips go, this one was ending well. I looked around at the Germans crossing the square, going about their business.”

What a tourist you are,” I thought to myself. Unlike the German women, who dressed in smart suits and walked steadily across the uneven cobblestones in sensible heels, I was dressed in a trench coat and black sneakers, I must have looked like a complete stranger. Oh, well, I am a stranger now.  I opened the book and got lost in the story.

With five minutes still to go, and buried in the German mystery, I didn’t hear what the man who had come up next to me had said. Thinking he must have asked me the time, I turned and said, “Bitte?” (Pardon?)

He was taller than I am, maybe 6 feet tall, stocky but not fat, and had on a trench coat similar to mine. He wore a hat and dark glasses. He looked at me and said, “There is an excellent eye doctor in Switzerland.”

I looked at him. He had spoken in English. I had no idea what he meant. I checked the cover of my book to see if he was referring to something there. No luck. I looked at him and said, “I’m just here to see the clock strike noon.”
The stranger nodded and said, “The eye doctor will be leaving soon.” It made even less sense than his last statement. Suddenly a tiny voice in my head said, “This guy is a spy. He’s meeting someone who looks like you. And you just gave him the countersignal.” That possibility was really far fetched.

Before I could make up an answer, the clocktower sprang to life. I jerked in surprise at looked at the direction of the clanging of the mechanical doors as they swung open and the music started. The split-second was enough. When I turned back to the man, he was gone. I never saw him again. And while I’m sure there is an excellent eye doctor in Switzerland, I will never know where he is.

“Hello.”

“Hi.”

“So… you came back…. we will be allowed to meet here for every session….obviously, we don’t know how many there will be. You’re not compelled to see me… we can stop this when ever you please…. I need to be sure you are aware of that…it’s important.”

“I know I don’t have to come… I know I can walk out whenever… but let’s not pretend I can walk out of here and that would be the end of it…. if it frigs me off I’ll stop…. you need to be aware of that… but I know what the consequences could be if I chuck it in.”

“Hm… well, let’s not jump too far ahead of ourselves I have no real say in what ‘might’ be….I’d like to think we’ll make real progress….. but I can’t make you see me….and I can’t make you talk….. I don’t subscribe to coercion…. okay?”

“The elderly gentleman and young girl were seated in a delightful little nook at Table 42 and 3/4; it was going to be their quiet place where they could have people close by but not be heard. He had known she would like it away from hospital offices and the formality of checking in with his secretary - not to mention disturbed patients arguing with nurses, each other and people who were the products of a delusional mind - not actually there. It was the quiet time, a sliver of calm before the bustle of day became the energy of night. A few people dotted up and down talked almost in whispers in deference to hush as light drained from the sky.

“You told me last time that it would be easier for you if I opened the conversation.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, you were quite adamant about it. Have you changed your mind….. would you like to begin….. something troubling you more than usual?”

“No.”

“No you haven’t changed your mind or…..?

“Just start! Okay… start… ask me something… you want to know stuff… you know what you want to hear…. fire away, ask!”

“Hm….. what do I want to hear?  I don’t believe there is anything I “want to hear”  …..  what do you want to tell me… other than not really wanting to tell me anything.”

“If I am admitted to hospital again I’ll be sectioned… you know that don’t you… it’s not like I jumped up and down saying please let me have a new shrink…. it’s not like we had a cozy meeting and I begged them to let me do this - again…..  I am not going to let them section me…. not ever! So pick up a thread from last time and… and…. let’s see where it takes us.”

“You don’t like the ‘jargon’ do you…..  although I have to say you’ve learned it well…. you fairly spit the words out…”

“The jargon has been poured into me for years! I would have had to be brain dead not to pick it up - and let’s face it…. they tried brain death so please, pick a topic, any topic …. I really don’t care!”

“You appear to be agitated…… “

“Agitated… appear…. would you like to swap places? Would you like to be in my position … you’re going to interrogate me for God’s sake…. it’s incredible that you can say that! It’s funny! ….. do you think the Spanish Inquisition looked at their victims and said ‘ah ah signorina, yous appears to be aghhitated’…. how would you like me to appear… how, how…. come on, give me a clue!”

“Your hands are clenched again… do you want to lash out? ….. do you want to hit me with your fists?…..”

She jumped to her feet and glared at the elderly doctor almost unable to contain herself, shaking with rage and exasperation, twisting her fingers in knots, tugging her hair, knocking the table legs which rattled cups, saucers and cutlery so much they could have danced a conga before leaping to a violent death on the stone floor…. he sat back and watched the child explode in front of him, fuming, furious, desperate….anguished.

“Let’s start again…. I’m sorry, I’ve distressed you…. I’ll get you a drink…. please…. I know this is hard but you need to relax your body, be calm….”

Within a minute there was milk, coffee, bread, cake, bits and pieces, ‘nibbles’ - placed in the centre of the table by someone who virtually ghosted in and out with the tray. There was quiet for a while, he sipped coffee, she gulped down milk and toyed with the food.

“You told me last time about your fear of choking. Do you remember how that started…. had you experienced choking when you were younger?”

“No…I don’t remember any choking.”

“What happens when people choke?  If you never had an experience of choking what is there about it that would make you so frightened?”

“You can’t breathe…. when you choke… you can’t breathe…. your head wants to explode like it’s swelling up into a giant ball and… there’s no air.”

“Hm….. you told me some things were more ‘dangerous ‘ than others… sharp things…. why sharp things….what makes them special…….. ?”

“They’re pointed… sharp things are pointed….. that’s why they are more dangerous. You can swallow a long, pointed sharp thing… it’s possible…. you are terrified… you can’t breathe….your air passage is blocked.”

“Hm ….. is that how scissors are on your list… even though they can be large and clumsy? You mentioned wasps and bees….  you thought they might pass your face and you would swallow them….. have I got that right?”

“Yes… they have stings, the stings are sharp and pointed…. it would be very dangerous to swallow one… I hate them near me.”

“It wouldn’t be nice to swallow a bee or a wasp…. wouldn’t you be in more danger of being stung….  most people are afraid of being stung… wouldn’t you know if one flew into your mouth? Is there a way maybe that you could prevent that from happening?”

“Yes…. I can keep my mouth covered… but…. it doesn’t work. If I panic and I’ve heard them buzzing I get convinced I’ve swallowed one…  convinced…. it doesn’t sound logical does it… it sounds weird.”

“It sounds distressing.”

“When a wasp or a bee flies near me I have to count…. you know… like I told you last time…1 to 6 and back and on and on…. if I panic I can tell myself I didn’t swallow a wasp because I counted…. it’s tiring…. a nuisance…. it never stops.”

“What happens when you panic? Can you describe it to me……take your time.”

“I know it’s going to be bad when I get a sensation of anxiety…. I feel my body going weak and then I start to shake…. it’s like an electric shock going through me and that’s so scary becuase I panic more and lose the feeling in my fingers and toes…. like I’m going numb all over. It makes me feel like I can’t breathe so I have to breathe faster and that makes my head swim as though I’ll faint. I’ve read books about it, I know now why it happens - I can’t always stop it from happening but I do know about it.”

“And that happens … how much? How often?”

“Every day, I don’t know how many times per day, I don’t keep track…. as many as 5 or 6 times…. in a bad day.”

“You say when these attacks happen you feel like you can’t breathe…. what’s that like?”

“It’s terrifying, I fret constantly about the chances of me fainting or being unconscious… it’s a vicious circle…the more frightened you feel the things happening to your body get worse, when they’re worse the panic increases. You’re supposed to get a paper bag, scrunch it up, hold it over your mouth and breathe out so that you can ‘breathe in what you breathed out.’ I tried it …it never worked.”

Why’s that do you think… it sounds sensible…. I’ve had patients who’ve used the technique successfully….. why doesn’t it help you?

“Well it wouldn’t help me would it….. I fail at everything…. I probably don’t do it right…. I’m thick…  stupid… useless!”

“I wouldn’t say that … you’re being a bit harsh on yourself… there can be numerous reasons for why some things don’t live up to the theories behind them.”

“Really….”

“Are there other things you can choke on besides sharp ones?”

“Yes… everything can choke me… except breakfast… I never get frightened at breakfast…I don’t know why breakfast is safe so let’s not analyse it.”

“Hm…. okay…. we’ll leave this for now… perhaps we’ll come back to it another time.”

“Anne… what came first… the fear of choking or the counting…. can you remember?”

“Counting…. counting…I’m sure.”

“Do you know how old you were…. why you counted?”

“No…. I’m not certain……before I was 9….number 6 was important years before then…. it turned into complicated 6’s when I was eleven….. the numbers had to be earlier…I needed the safety.”

“The safety…. when did you start to feel unsafe…. do you recall that… do you remember why you weren’t safe?”

“The counting ….. I think it mixed with the dream…. maybe… probably.”

“And the safety…. do you know why you didn’t feel safe… what was so frightening you couldn’t tell anyone? Children who are frightened usually rush to mum or dad so they can be reassured, they don’t normally keep it inside them….. why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“Why? I don’t know…. I have an idea… I don’t….I’m not…. “

“I think you probably do know….. what made you so frightened? So scared you had to count and have recurring dreams…. I think you can remember, tell me.”

“My parents… for different reasons… my parents, I love my mam… I hate saying this, it’s like a betrayal, I love her to bits….. but….she scared me, she hit me…. a lot. I didn’t love my father then, I don’t love him now….I hate him. I’m tired now… please… let me go … I’ve said enough.”

Jan

“We need ta go grocery shopping,” her roommate Shannon’s voice called out as Aohkii walked in. Her words dropped in the matter-of-fact way she had of holding her statements in front of her like a shield. Shannon was a Taurrean woman. She was lonely, shy and needy, but when she smiled, a thousand ships were launched in her honor.
“Yeah, I know,” Aohkii replied and giggled. “God, how long has it been since we last had enough money to go on an actual grocery shopping spree?”
“Too long,” Shannon moaned. “But come on! I’m soooo sick of Top-Ramen and peanut butter sandwiches. When do you get paid,” she asked as she slammed the cupboard doors and shuffled towards the kitchen table where Aohkii sat.

read more at http://www.literarylady.wordpress.com/

Rebecca Reddy-Androvsky-Smith

Having Becky around was a “mixed bag” shall we say; a phrase, had she heard it, that would have led to her poining out it was a triple-entendre – maybe more with a flourish of different language translations thrown in for spice. Such a wealth of experience and knowledge was of considerable value and mirth – if one had nothing else to do. Being around her was like eating honey with a spoon. It wasn’t just that she always had a better story, or something to add to any conversation, or could answer any question – as long is it was a triviality; it was that she was usually right. This in our society is unforgivable!

Yet she was – forgiven that is, for “Smith” means “Smith Brother’s,” “Reddy” as in ancient Irish royalty, and “Androvsky” as more medals on his chest that you have silverware in your drawer. Besides, she was ninety-three when I invited her to a luncheon, and that alone counts for something. Her chauffer dropped her off at precisely four minute to the hour, and would magickally re-appear when she decided to disembark. I had placed a special chair aside, knowing she would select another – based on some arcane projection after scanning the guest list. From her ‘high point’ advantage that made no sense to me, she would sally forth with feral acuity to be part of only the most exciting conversation. Here slender cane ‘parted the seas’ on her way to offer ‘words of stone’ and sagacity. Many guest rolled their eyes at her presence, while being slightly jealous that she had come; or of me for having dared to ask her.

She would always come if I asked, you must know; for I knew a secret about her past – and she some of me. And if I told you the truth of it you would not believe anyway, though I am tempted. Perhaps in a book someday …

For now she turns and winks at me – revealing the dimple of a child that none but I can see. Yes, I love my daughter – and sad that none must ever know.

papa

My interpretation of a beautiful and admirable humanitarian
-NinjaCat

Few people give me notice at the corner of the bar, where the chandelier’s hauteur scarcely reaches, and even the piano’s notes are more of space that melody. Yet, I know that were I not here, having over-reached my time – it would be noticed and another sought to fill this corner space. My name? Before coming here I was of labels rather than identity – but one self-assured lady caressed me with a smile, saying, “Hello Sperggie,” and that name has served me since.

I believe my essential function, acceptable to the staff, is to prevent someone sitting here and falling asleep – it is tavern business after all – and while some may choose to talk with me I am not required to answer – which suits the speaker well. So I have lots of time to observe the patrons and workers too, my senses like antennae aquiver with the dynamics of chit and chat. As I am always distant from the oft whispered exchange, I rely on non-verbal clues as to what is meant, rather than expressed. This is to say I listen with my being rather than human ear – and know better than any other in this place, the substance of their fear.

Many come here to escape without embracing any ‘from what’ contemplation – somehow hoping another will understand, even if they don’t. And this is indeed the magick of two heads close in sympathy – if only for a little while; for hearts and spirit hands must also touch when the tables are small, and a candle the centered light. This sought closeness is often hidden behind forced laughter and feigned interest in some subject of popular excitement; yet even then there is enough love or respect that “whenever two or more are joined …”

Because my soul has a thousand eyes I can perceive the quiet crescendo of energy that flows from each exchange. It fills the room like a faint perfume, sensed by all yet unidentifiable. Sadly, this miasma of love’s intent can also be swept away and dispersed by a single discordant thought in which one person may decide that life is ‘about them’, rather than about humanity. The, by instinct alone another person will do something to fill the absence of this flow of bon hommie with bold action. The sultry woman drags her companion onto the floor to dance. A man bursts out with a birthday song and offers to buy a round. The piano player changes to a jazzy pace – or the clinking of glasses behind the bar becomes more than simple chance.

Well, that’s just a slight observation from one who listens more than speaks – but what do I know? I am only a potted Asparagus Fern hanging from a chain.

faucon of Sakin’el

Literature is art, is beauty, is life. That was Aohkii’s motto. She stuck to it too; come rain or, well, more rain. That year, the rain had seemed endless. After the first week of it, dripping and drizzling its constant rhythm, she began to notice the intricate patterns it made while pirouetting down from the sky. At times, it would drift this way or that in the wind, racing. A month since the sun last shone, she had got into the habit of making room in her book bag for a set of pants, a scarf, hat, and an extra pair of socks. Her bike ride to work was more than a mile away. Often, a large car driving by would spray her with a combination of rain and mud. It never lost its humiliating quality, but she would have been soaked no matter how far from traffic she rode. Her workdays at the bookstore habitually began with a trip to the bathroom to change into dry clothes. They ended with a shower to wash away the cold drops of moisture her hair and clothes had diligently gathered during the ride home.
“Art is beauty is life,” she thought as she glanced around her small tiled bathroom. She stepped out of the shower and rubbed the steam from the mirror. Her self-reflected gaze triggered a different emotion for every mood she contained. That afternoon, it shone brightly. There was none of the usual angst. She brushed away the taste of cigarettes that had accumulated on her teeth and tongue during her afternoon lunch-break.
Once upon a time, Aohkii had started smoking as a self-challenge. “I want to know what its like to be a smoker,” she’d declared while in her last year in high school. “I want to know so that one day I can put it into a novel. Its research,” she mused to her friends. Before long though, the nicotine had taken its hold on her soul. Smoking had grown from research into habit and then addiction. The one-year-plan to smoke had come and gone, as had the year after that. Now, in her third year of smoking, a cute guy she’d met at one of many campus parties had, after hearing her reasoning, replied, “Well…. now you REALLY know what its like to be smoker,” and had laughed and lit her cigarette for her. The experience left her feeling chagrined and yet, even after sleeping with the man, she lit up a cigarette and pushed the feeling to the back of her mind.
The sound of rain continued its fantastic lullaby. Inside the little bathroom, Aohkii secretly admired the constancy of it and the talent it had to bring people together. Olympia certainly would not be the same without the rain. The little college town was full of writers, artists, punks, bull-dike lesbians and general all around creative types. Because of the rain, students would crowd into various coffee and bagel shops, bookstores, and seedy restaurants to write and read or sketch while drowning proletariat troubles away in chai-tea lattes or espressos.
They weren’t pretentious arty types. They were hopefully pessimistic arty types. Kurt Cobain had died, or was murdered, depending on how you saw it. The end of an era had come. Grunge was on its way out and cell phones were on their way in, as were children whose toys were computerized and adults hungry for the war machine to begin again its locomotive roll across the planet. Generation X had begun to streamline the way to fast becoming millionaires. Generation Y was still in elementary school. “What about those of us stuck in between,” she wondered as she dried the remaining moisture from her body. “Generation X.5” Aohkii wrapped the towel around her head and wandered naked into the dining room.
-ninjacat

www.literarylady.wordpress.com

***Due to the fact that children might view this work, I will not be posting the rest of this story. However, if you’d like to read it please visit my room at wordpress (see above address). I would love to have you over to sit back and read, or just to leave a comment.

Born into a family of entertainers, singers, musicians, dancers and such, now wonder that the drama would start early. She may be only three, but the drama has taken generations of perfecting. One can only wonder, in twenty years, if the family survives the drama queen antics…

more photos

aletta

Deep within midnight’s hour, her story consumes her.
-ninjacat

The Management of Il Taverna di Muse would like to thank all the participants at Sibyl’s First Salon.    We had a rollicking good time and hope to do it again in the future.  

Sybil, I have destroyed the video of you dancing on the table so you need not worry about it showing up on YouTube.   To the woman in the neon-pink feather boa, you left behind your boomerang.  You may retrieve it at Lost-and-Found in the foyer.  Pretty cool trick you did with it —- you must be double-jointed!

The Taverna is open 24/7 and stories, poems, reviews, art, and photography may still be posted at the Salon. 

Cheers!

Lori Gloyd, Tavern-mistress  

a moment in time, a site containing pathways to all time?
peacebird

Memories of warm summer nights, sitting on the bench circling the tree on the village green and gazing up through the branches into the night.
peacebird