August 27, 2001 - B

"My Own Different Path"

Itchy Feet

And could I know the power?
And could I know the surrender?
Am I that elastic?
Or am I just a
wide-eyed child,
wondering the world of the weird?
What is weird?
Who defines it?
If you get there,
can you get back?
But there's a well beaten trail
outside the door of my mind.
Journeyers have come and gone
years now,
centuries, even, before me.
Tell me what it is you think is weird.
For this definition,
everyone has another.
Still, I wave to those making the path.
My own different path
is calling me.
Itchy feet are wanting to dance
on its lesser worn trail.
Yes, I shall leave that door of caution behind.
Follow me if you dare,
or just wave.
I will wave back!

JAL, 8 - 25 -01


 

August 29, 2001

"Angry"

Going off in 'daydream' is particularily lovely when cuddling with Laura. I never feel so sensuous and so alive as when indulging in a little 'Mischa' personality, 'Mischa' being the name Laura has given to this aspect of my personality that wants expression. And we did, on my day off, Monday the 27th, have a splendid time of intimacy. Laura is feeling more energetic, having gone back again on estrogen, and the future is looking rosier. In times past, she would often be too tired, however much willing. So I anticipate our romantic times together.

All of this so lovely, and for a bit of liberating enthusiasm, is so happily available. But a minority of mortals are not so in agreement on the benefits of such. A site I normally enjoy very much for its Zen quotes had one yesterday that didn't sit well with me. It began thusly:

In the early days many sages stressed the follies and dangers of impurity.

The author encouraged that ''delusion, perverted views, and bad thinking habits [be] eliminated. I'm not sure what exactly Master Kuei-shan Ling-yu had in mind by 'impurity', but I know what some people striving to be spiritual masters claim it to be. They do not think spirituality and sensuality can co-exist. And a great deal has been made of what they consider 'perversion'. Time spent in daydreams, the kind of fantasies that sometimes lead to sensual explorations, okay, I'll be more BLUNT here, sexual explorations, is often at the top of their list of 'SINFUL' things. I remember too well the screaming of angry men in pulpits, and how I often felt myself to be their target. I don't pay much attention to them anymore. But when they scream that loudly, and those 'fundies' did, their screams echo a long time, and are too easily recalled in memory.

So I wanted to answer them. I felt angry yesterday morning, and took barely enough time before rushing off to work to jot a quickly received poem. It felt good to express those otherwise buried, and not-well examined feelings.

The Libraries Will Not Be Toppled Again

And if I have an answer to give,
it wouldn't be in trembling,
it would be in a quiet voice,
but with no hesitation.
There is no cause for evil in such joy,
delighted rapture,
the happy sigh.
To those who would deny such travels,
I cannot speak your language,
cannot think your language,
and certainly can't understand
your harsh sounds.
Take what anger you have,
and think how it could be replaced with joy.  
The Creator above
is not so angry.
But you imagine him so.
I say She is not.
Life force needs such push,
the growth of every living thing
from the stirrings of such passion.
Or how did you think it all
came into being anyway?
Save your anger for someone else.
See what real evil deserves it.
You might be surprised at those 'in power' -
a de-throning, perhaps.
Re-examine, and learn.
The libraries will not be toppled again.

JAL, 8 - 28 -01

The libraries, of course, refer to such as the library at Alexander that were destroyed by religious zealots.

 

August 30, 2001

"Where To?"

What now,
the beginning passion,
Where to,
does this path lead?

You are only at the beginning . . .

I'm not sure what lies ahead in my future, creative or otherwise, but Laura has a new ambitious project underway. She has a whole story in mind to illustrate, starting with the intriguing premise of what might one be like, if they could begin life with ALL the knowledge gained from previous lives. Oh yes, and it features magical creatures such as a cute little black dragon as well. Below is a sneak preview of the gorgeous main character.


Don't you want to know what HER adventures are going to be?

 

August 31, 2001

"No Longer 'Made For Walking'"


sandals, no longer 'made for walking'

There's an old Nancy Sinatra song, ''These boots are made for walking, and that's just what they'll do. These boots are made for walking, they'll walk all over you . . .'' I don't remember the lyrics to the staccatoed tune well enough to know why she wanted to enact revenge over her particular subject. But the tune, with its crisp beat, is memorable.

These sandals, however, are no longer made for walking. I had them a long time, and they served me well. They were the first pair of Birkenstocks I'd ever bought. I needed sandals, for the hot weather here, and was curious about this popular brand. I soon learned, after the initial break-in period, why they are so acclaimed. They really do mold to YOUR FOOT, and thus, fit like no other shoe. It was at least thirteen years ago, when these shoes were unscruffed and pristine. They've since been resoled, and I thought they'd last forever. The ankle strap had a permanent curve, exactly matching the curve of my foot. But the beige leather is just too old and cracked, I suppose.

And so I was a bit dismayed when I looked downwards at my foot, and found the ankle strap broken in two. Thirteen years of service, and I shouldn't complain. But, you know, I expect things to last forever. Still, I bid a fond farewell to these old shoes, which have cushioned my feet over many paths through out these years.

 

September 3, 2001

"The Magic Within Me"

This afternoon, when napping with Laura, I awoke from a most powerful dream:

I was as I was as a young girl. I was with Gramma and someone else at her house. Was it my Aunt June? We were gathered around something in the center. Was it a deck of tarot cards laid out in a foreboding pattern, a clue to something awful at work? The door bell rang, and Aunt June said, ''Oh that's the hiijra who has a 'friend' next door,'' (Hiijra being the Indian present day ancesters of the ancient Gallae, male priestesses of the Goddess). ''He comes to visit his 'friend', and now he's visiting us.'' I ran to open the door, and found a tall personage there, somewhat thick in the middle, with great long hair. S/he had a variety of raiment piled on he/r, robes, and such, dressed for northern climate, at the very least. I reached up and touched the long loose braid of hair that reached to he/r waist. It was thick and coarse, dark brown with streaks of gray in it. I felt in awe to be touching the hair of this fascinating creature.

Next comes the reason of the visit. It turned out Aunt June and Gramma were seeking he/r assistance on some matter, perhaps what the cards were pointing to. I do not recall the nature of the problem, but that magical assistance was required.

At this moment, there is a strange transformation. I am the hiijra, about to summon the divine forces. I am circling around from the waist up, causing my hair to come loose from the braiding. My hair swings wildly around me, as I circle faster and faster. I feel the magic power swell up through me, through my feet, and out through the ends of my hair strands. Whatever needed fixed will surely be set right by the forces I am calling. I am near struck down by the power, and it is only my twirling that keeps me upright.

I know this dance is called by some the Sufi dance, as I whirl and twirl to channel the power.

At this point I awaken to the present day world.

Perhaps this dream is telling me I have magical abilities within me that I am just beginning to be aware of. I would like to think it is, at any rate.

 

September 4, 2001 - A

"One Can Only Hope"

New clean sheet . . .

When to the morning's prayer, I start the day with a searching awareness. What shall be worthy of being set to print? No doubt many items are lost, and without good reason. Still, we gather what we can, and that is all we can do.

What to make of a dream like yesterday's? The repercussions echo in my mind a thousand times over. I remember as a child, Gramma telling me I had a 'gift for prayer'. Within her Christian framework, this is as best as she could visualize it, and it might be sufficient. Still, to the understanding of what I have within me that might 'make the world a better place', other icons have been set in place by others who call such things 'magical'. Who is to say what is right?

I don't wish to argue over semantics. Still, Laura has read somewhere that suggests a 'gender varient', or some other such unusual child, is often born to a mother 'in stress'. And certainly the recipe for stress was there in my birth family. Father who felt he never matched up to the worthy respect of his elder brother and sister, always out of place, awkward, marries woman who his family does not like. A divorcee, and from that, suspect. Still, he hoped to find some sort of stability with my Mother. I'm sure they started out that way. She could provide the strength he may have felt he lacked? All supposition at this point, and looking back can never create the full reality of what was at the beginning. Still, they began in love, and it is apparent from early pictures, this was the case. What could have transpired from there to tear them apart?

I remember as a young child, counseling Dad many times that he should not divorce my Mother, that divorce was wrong, and he would be patient for a little while longer. An odd memory of the song, What The World Needs Now Is Love, Sweet Love, being sung to include the words 'more love for my Mother', can't be confabulation, not all of it. But what transpired that I could no longer be the stabilizing force? Too great the fields of dissent, too great and I couldn't hold them back any longer. I did not understand until now just how hard that divorce was on me.

So if I am meant to be the calming source to ease the chaotic energies, then how best can I achieve those ends? Never for once, forgetting how easily I might fail...


Tower card, from the tarot
that's how it was, things falling apart . . .

That, perhaps, might be my karmic purpose, among others. It all sets me to wondering, and so I wonder. On a still dark morning, wonder is not all bad. Still, I begin cautiously, with prayer, and await what lies before me. Magical or not, there are still the pressing day to day concerns. There can be a stability in that, one task leading to the other. One thing is sure, I feel a sense of a growing confidence I did not have when young. Perhaps that is another meaning of the dream. Note the whirling, twirling dancer had GRAY streaks in that marvelous mane of hair. Wisdom (and power) may come with age. One can only hope.

 

September 4, 2001 - B

"Seven Years Was Long Enough"


That haunting image . . .

It's just plain weird looking at that picture when my parents were so young. They LOOK so young! Of course, that is from my 42 nearly 43 year old perspective. Back in 1957, she was 28 and he was 26, she was the same age I was when Laura and I first joined our lives together. And, oh yes, I look baby-faced in our early pictures, too.

What if they, (Dad before he died), and my Mother now, could be transported to that day in November of 1957, when they were newly in love? Wouldn't they, with the knowledge they would have now, be able to make their relationship work? Wouldn't they BOTH change?

Laura and I have had a strong relationship, and yet, even so, if we were whisked back to 1987, when we first got together, I know many things would have been different. Many decisions would have had different outcomes, I'm sure.

But you can't go back. No matter what a fascinating thing it is to consider what it would be like to be born with all the knowledge an old person has, it just isn't possible. Only each day, can we begin anew. A life filled with regret is a life filled with sorrow.

I remember as a young child, being spooked by the vibes I'd feel when we drove by my Mother's house. It was dark, deep and intense. In hindsight, I can understand she was deeply depressed by the separation. She'd lost not only a husband, she'd lost a daughter as well. I was spooked.

And, although I didn't recognise it consciously, maybe I did feel somewhat guilty. Even though, when she and I reconciled later at my age of 19, she assured me I had no reason to feel guilty, the doings were all theirs, on some level I surely must have felt guilt.

I wonder, even now, if it weren't for my rising fears at age 19 about my sexuality, and a need to confide in someone who was supportive, WHEN, if ever, that horrible breach that occurred between my Mother and I would have healed. I wonder and I don't like to think about it.

I wonder WHEN I would have grown up to have a changed perspective. At age 12, when they divorced, I was afraid of my Mother. It's only when I had fears greater than those fears that I had the courage to meet again with her and reconcile. So being 'different' has granted me at least this much. I would hate to think of myself as a forty-two year old just now, healing the breach.

Yet stranger things have happened between people. Rifts do get mended, at any age. At any rate, I'm glad I didn't wait that long. Seven years was long enough.

 

September 7, 2001

"It Bloody Well Better"

''What now the gathering gloom? Watch lights fade from every room.'' - * Or something like that. P. M.ESSY! I can feel it, the growing irritation at nothing, everything. Sore nipples and swollen all over, I feel like a large, swollen purple bruise.

I should be sleeping, but find myself restless. An odd energy is vibrating within my legs, that will surely be gone when I need energy to be there later.

I reached for paper and pen, thinking maybe I could exorcise this demon and get some sleep. No, I will NOT be able to function on TWO hours of sleep tonight. This is really getting irritating.

I find myself angry, even. It will really PISS me off if I don't get some sleep. Don't the fates know I need at least eight hours of sleep? I like ten, but will manage on eight. TWO? Never! God help me if I don't get some sleep. You say he's dead, a figment of imagination or whatever? I'm not listening to you, OR or that dang Jesus freak who felt absolutely compelled to rattle off the ''Jesus loves you'' litany at work last night. Unlike the earlier querient, this one was truly annoying. The prior one seemed merely curious, but this was was positively pushy, and revolting. I managed to be cordial, though, while I assured him I'd heard his message many times and managed even to wish him a ''Good luck to you, too'', in response to his ''God bless you,'' as he exited. Argh. Does this man do that EVERYwhere he goes?

The conviction of the insane. Good grief, I don't mean HE was insane, just that infernal need to cram one's beliefs down everyone's throats.

Dear Reader, I don't care WHAT you believe or don't believe. All I care is that you think these words of mine are worthwhile enough to spend your precious time reading them.

Believe whatever you want! Or don't! Whatever works for you. Unless, of course, your tenets involve harm to others. Can't go for that. Other than that, the sky's the limit.

It's a free world, you know? And if it's not, then it bloody well should be.

Argghh! Having exorcised my two cents worth of anger, maybe SLEEP will come.

Or maybe having typed and FTP-ed my two cents of anger to the web, SLEEP will come.

It bloody well better. The world don't want to deal with me on only two hours of sleep. It doesn't.

* - Apologies to Justin Hayward (of the Moody Blues) who wrote that song, 'Nights In White Satin'. (Thanks to Richard, who set me right on the author of this song...)

 

September 8, 2001 - A

"Things Are Just 'Swell' "


'weighty matters', indeed!

No, I'm not really as swollen as the poor lady in the cartoon above, it just FEELS like it!

Actually, things are almost 'swell', in the non-painfully inflated, 50's lingo meaning. I DID get some sleep, the work night went well. At least as far as I know at this point, the night went well. Bad news the next day isn't good, but I expect all should be found fairly as should be.

The store's getting busier, no doubt due to the return of school days, and soon, the snowbirds. This is a good thing. Upper mucky mucks look with favor on a busy store. And, aye, there is no excuse for boredom.

Heavens, we wouldn't want to be bored.

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