Category Archive

The Practice of Poetry(Robin Skelton, once my teacher, a guru, wizard, and  poet-this book is always in use for the classes I still teach)

Possession (the novel of research and librarians, greed and determination)

Benang (  Perhaps the  most imaginative historical novel I have ever read, the story of the aboriginal people in Australia)

Chaos (James Gleick makes the history, science and art of chaos theory understandable for those of us who, perhaps we were girls missed out on  physics courses in our education)

Narrow Road to the Interior (Hamil translation of Basho reminding me of a world that once was so very gentle)

And and extra for an old woman’s vanity:  Flight Patterns, my own book of poems by me!

Okay… here are 5 books off my shelves…

1) The Enchanted Broccoli Forest

2)  Montaillou: The Promised Land of Error

3) The Blithedale Romance

4) Desert Solitaire

5) I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

Let wayward fingers
prize words out of the ether
minus thought
drift on the edge
across the final bar
that fences the horizon
only the white flag
signals trust
I hoist the blank page
and hope
there are words, and wordlings
far beyond my minding

I’ve posted a dance in the Atelier, painting for blog day

Here the dancers

I thought Tavern patrons might be interested to know how women’s liberation affected astrological readings.
Before the 70s, astrology was mainly concerned with a male view of the world - the Moon and Venus were the feminine, all the other bodies were male. So in a woman’s chart, and astrologer would look only at two planets and the ascendant to determine the qualities of a female client. Everything else in her chart was male influenced. Mars was the kind of men she attracted, the Sun and Saturn were powerful males, Jupiter male mentors and teachers and so on.
Of course, many women in fact did express their own male planets quite successfully, but they were considered an abberation. Now we look to see if a woman expresses these male qualities herself, or whether, through conditioning or lack of self esteem, she simply projects them onto the men in her life.
Let’s have an example, from, of all places, Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. Eowyn, the shield maiden of the Rohirrim, obviously has a very strong Mars and Sun. She longs to perform deeds of valor, and show off her prowess with a sword. But the dominant male in her life, King Theoden, wants to keep her away from battle. She meets Aragorn, a powerful warrior, and falls in love with him. Once more consigned to the sidelines, Eowyn takes destiny into her own hands, dresses as a man, and goes into battle against the forces of Mordor. As it turns out, she is just what is needed to turn the battle, but she is wounded and is taken to Minas Tirith to recover. There she meets the young captain of Gondor, Faramir. Having proved herself in battle, and rid herself of the need to project her desire for glory in battle onto someone else, she is free to find real love with a man more suited to her emotional needs. (One wonders how a quiet Oxford don had such insight into a woman’s heart - his wife must have been quite a woman!)
The astrologer would say that, until she was able to express Mars herself, she had no choice but to project Mars onto the men in her life and fancy herself in love, when all Aragorn represented was what she wanted to be.
So today we take it for granted that many women - high profile sportswomen, even those sent to war as soldiers - will express their own Mars.
As well, there is now a discipline of astrology called Goddess Astrology, which is a purely feminine centered form of reading. Here we draw on the asteroids Ceres, Juno, Pallas and Vesta to flesh out the feminine side of a chart.

I let my inner critic have free reign this morning, and then punished her thoroughly for having the audacity to be so demanding. I had a day off from work, and I awoke with plans, but one look at my basement craft area turned that into Plans, and the critic took over as I stood meekly back  in the corner and let her go. I did slyly suggest that she recruit some help, though.

We called upon the lone child home, the 16 year old off school for Good Friday, and grumpy because his track meet was cancelled, to be the helper. A verbal tussel later, he was fervently wishing for his coach to call and tell him his track meet was on again (no such luck for him) and was helping us- me and the inner critic, who was very grumpy with all comers.

Well, this is where the critic got her comeuppance.  She wore herself out playing not just inner critic, but outer critic as well. While the boy-child did indeed help, he did so like a 16 year old boy. The critic was fuming, but I reminded her that this was a big job and we needed help. So, while picking up other people’s belongings and putting these in the correct room, sorting out books to give away, cleaning out a closet, and sweeping, my inner critic dealt with the fact that getting a 16 year old boy to do something he doesn’t like, and do it your way, is very like herding cats. She told him so, while I stood in the background and snickered.  He beamed up at us innocently.

By the end of the morning, the job was done, and so was my inner critic. She was so exhausted from trying to get him to actually cooperate and stay on task for two minutes running that she packed it in for the day. She did not come up with 75 other tasks to do (which she normally does). She did not tell me that the job wasn’t perfect (which she always does). She simply left, and I washed up and headed for my writing. By the way, I should also be able to reach my papers and stamps and fabrics again, so she did accomplish something!

I will have to remember this technique the next time I feel that “get your work done, and all of it” version of the critic lurking around, waiting for a chance to pounce. Too many people to work on, and she folds up and goes away!

It seems to me that the last time I came into the Taverna, it was a quiet little haunt. But now? The establishment has turned on the music, and the song is an excellent choice I might add. Let’s all take to the dance floor, and won’t we have fun!

Bo

Do you know Little Run-Along?

Little Run-Along slips around the corner

And leans against the door frame-

“Oh, there you are,” says Mama,

“Run along now and play.”

Little Run-Along brushes her brown curls

Out of her eyes

And sighs

“Yes, Mama,” and runs along.

Little Run-Along wanders up to the fence

And drapes her arms over it.

Papa looks over and says,

“Oh, there you are.

Run along now and play.”

Little Run-Along wipes her hands on her dress

And sighs,

“Yes, Papa,” and runs along.

Little Run-Along drifts into the kitchen

and slides into a chair.

Grandma looks up and says,

“Oh there you are.

 Run along now and play.”

Little Run-Along scratches her leg

 and sighs,

“Yes Grandma,” and runs along.

Little Run-Along climbs the stairs

 and sits on the top one.

Grandpa looks out a door and says,

“Oh, there you are.

 Run along now and play.”

Little Run-Along shakes her head

and sighs,

“Yes, Grandpa,” and runs along.

Little Run-Along plods over to the front steps

and sit on the bottom one.

Her puppy comes over and barks.

“Oh, there you are,” says Little Run-Along,

“Run along now and play.”

Her puppy whines and tucks his tail

And walks slowly away.

Little Run-Along watches him go

And then something catches in her heart

“Wait!” she says, “I’ll come too!”

I meant to say Happy Birthday to Dr. Seuss last week (March 2) but it slipped my mind. (Lots of things are slipping lately!) Anyway it was Dr. Seuss’ 103 anniversary of his B-Day…he’s been dead, regretably, several decades. It was also Cat in the Hat’s 50th birthday the day before (March 1). Such celebration we had, pulling all the old Dr. Seuss books off the bookcase and reading them all in one sitting. We even sent an e-mail birthday card to the Cat. (So did 400,000 other people — can you imagine?)

Anyway, I found a great quote (amongst many others) :

The more that you read, The more things you will know.

The more that you learn, The more places you’ll go.

Dr. Seuss

Happy traveling to you all! Looks like we’ll all be taking off for places unknown! Enjoy!

Barbara F.

(Photo by Robin. 2006)

I saw on the news that Punxsutawney Phil (the famous groundhog from Pennsylvania in the U.S.) came out of his burrow on Gobbler’s Knob today and predicted that we can expect an early spring. Only six more weeks of winter, says Phil. Phil’s prognostication is based on the fact that he did not see his shadow. I’d have been amazed if he had. It’s a gray, gloomy, and overcast day.

Have you ever noticed that colors pop (really stand out) on gray, gloomy, and overcast days? I’ve always thought of it as the gift of the cloudy day, the way the colors become so brilliant (provided there’s no rain, mist or fog to dull them).

But I digress. Phil’s prediction (taken from the official website) is as follows:

Phil’s official forecast as read 2/2/07 at 7:28 a.m. at Gobbler’s Knob:

El Nino has caused high winds, heavy snow, ice and freezing temperatures in the west.
Here in the East with much mild winter weather we have been blessed.

Global warming has caused a great debate.
This mild winter makes it seem just great.

On this Groundhog Day we think of one thing.
Will we have winter or will we have spring?

On Gobbler’s Knob I see no shadow today.
I predict that early spring is on the way.

Of course it’s read in Groundhogese first, then translated into English by one of the Inner Circle. It’s interesting to note that since 1887 when the first official visit to Gobbler’s Knob took place, Phil has seen his shadow 96 times, no shadow 15 times, and no record exists for the remaining 9 times. Looks like early springs are hard to come by.

For those wanting to do a little weather prognostication of their own, here’s an old Scottish poem to help you out:

As the light grows longer

The cold grows stronger

If Candlemas be fair and bright

Winter will have another flight

If Candlemas be cloud and rain

Winter will be gone and not come again

A farmer should on Candlemas day

Have half his corn and half his hay

On Candlemas day if thorns hang a drop

You can be sure of a good pea crop

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

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

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 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

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)

“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

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.