December 12, 2002

"Gonna Get Better"

I noted with interest an item in Julia's e-mail: ''In December 11th of 361 CE, Julian declared religious tolerance and the RESTORATION of the pagan cults.'' Sadly, he died two years after, so his efforts did not have the success he envisioned. Things went back to 'business as usual', though Eugenius did give it a later weaker effort.

Why I'm time travelling mentally to back then bears no other significance than yesterday, I attempted a spell of sorts, really, just a slighter stronger than usual PRAYER, and doing spells are a pagan idea. Christians just wait passively on their God. They don't say, ''Do, this, damn it, and make it snappy!'' Well, I doubt many pagans are THAT bold.

Still, there are significant degrees of difference. This is MY realm here, where I say any damn thing I want, and precious that is to me. I've been out scouring the web, and I've found new sources for Ricean things, including a lovely set of Salon articles. The one she did on September 16, 1996 was breathtaking as any of the best sections of her novels. In it, she writes of being ALONE:

''But I'm nobody's own. Nobody's own. When I watched my Uncle Teddy die, though the room was full of people, I knew that he died alone. My father, with five of us in the room, died alone.

And some states of awareness have the crystalline clarity of death. We are alone. We write so that we are not alone. But we are alone.''

She speaks of enjoying the throngs that come to her book signings. Then, afterwards, she is ALONE.

''And then the darkness is total.''

She speaks of loving her husband:

''Alas, it is just a matter of loving one who is as strong -- and alone perhaps -- as I am.''

I knew that, looking at Laura. I could attempt knowing her moods and physical pains, but what they felt like, deep down inside, only Laura had that perspective. However, the writer is alone blessed to be able to shed some light on that interior perspective, so that we have SOME idea of what he or she feels like, INSIDE. Inside here, where it's warm, and the colors are light; or it's dark, and we're scared. Or whatever. We might be alone, but then we throw a rock over the wall of our lonliness, with a message taped to it.

And Goddess knows, but it helps. It helps a lot.

I am wishing these days that Anne Rice has found my pages, and maybe even has found a nourishing nibblet or two from them. I have written to her contact address and, after the words of gratitude and later, gratitude and sympathy, dropped URLS. ''Here, read ME! Read ME!'' But then I don't just wish that for important goddess writers like Anne Rice. I wish that for Everyone. I'm having a party, here in my mind. AND I WANT YOU ALL TO COME!

Yes, please do! You'll not cramp up the living room if you do! You can eat disgusting things, stinky cheese, BLOOD??, you can smoke like a house afire, you can clean your teeth, and examine the gooey string afterwards, you can sit there naked, I don't care. Just COME! We'll have a party!

And afterwards, I won't have to clean up the piles of beer cans and crunchy crackers smashed into the carpet. Just come!

Love, Joan

Whatever you do, just don't bare your crosses alone, okay?

''2:55 a.m -- Alone. And Christ dies and dies and dies on the crosses in this room. And I shall carry them. At least for a while. ''

At least for a while. Of course it must be that way. It is always that way. But it's like when we get home after a long day of silent suffering at work, we can take off the tight garments, and cry to someone we love, ''Oh God, it hurts, it hurts so damn much,'' And it helps, it helps a lot. And SOME of the darkness lightens and eases, and it's not quite so bad, anymore.

It's gonna get better, really.

Until the next 'party',

Love, Joan

 

December 13, 2002

"Friday The Thirteenth!"

I woke with the thought of it being Friday the Thirteenth. I put to Google the question, and got a very detailed answer.

One of the sources cited by the web page says the following:

''Thirteen, therefore was not used as number, but as a vague word meaning anything beyond Twelve. To the untutored savage, as to the animal mind of today, anything unknown conveyed an immediate sense of danger. Thirteen was not really an unlucky number, but a fateful one--a number full of vague and unimaginable possibilities and therefore a number to be avoided by any peace-loving man.''

Still, 'vague and unimaginable possibilities' are not necessarily all bad. I hope today's yet unknown possibilities are fortunate. Friday in itself is usually a lucky day for me, being the last day of the work week, and the anticipation of the weekend lightens some of the dread the day might otherwise bring.

So bring them on, those 'vague and unimaginable possibilities', Fate. I'm daring. I'm ready. I'm CURIOUS.

And I'm no cat, for 'curiousity to kill'. And even if I were, they have 'nine lives' anyway. I'd be bound to have a couple left, I'm sure.

Bring it on, Fate.

Gutsy, ain't I?

Hah!

 

December 14, 2002 - A

"Not Much Dignity"

Sexy seasonal shrubbery,
'Anthuriums' found on my calender

Deep fried shrimp, fried rice with shrimp and lo mein noodles mostly ate, I broke into my fortune cookie out of curiousity. If you are a long time reader, you'll remember the almost superstitious awe I have of these things.

Have we a returning of the cycles, perhaps?

"He who hurries cannot walk with dignity."

For I'd had this same omen, over six years ago! What is the fortune cookie muse trying to tell me? I am, indeed, sometimes FIERCELY impatient. If the computer freezes up, I curse it. If anything gets in the way of what I want to do, I curse it. It doesn't matter what it is, I curse it. Of course, at work, I usually keep my exterior surface a mere faint resemblance of the heated turmoil within.

But, at home, words and tempers flare, and sometimes I even shock myself. There's not much dignity in it. Just a middle aged woman gone a bit daft, but, whew, if she had any REAL power! Some of the vampire Marius' INFLAMATORY mind powers, for instance, and I'd be dangerous. No wonder he works on temper maintenance, and it would be well, for me now in my time of growing power, to learn a little patience, as well.

Thus it is, the 'spirits' speak to me. All things in time, they tell me. Still, it is good if I have a stubborn endurance and persistence. I will, however, endeavor to keep it dignified.

Good grace will come to me in time. I will try to be patient.

 

December 14, 2002 - B

"Much Dignity"

Our 'find' at the antique shop

We went into the antique shop because its sign promised COINS. No round coins did we find, for that was the sign from the previous shop, not removed yet, but we did find a round brass plate, pictured above. Julia exclaimed, ''Oh, we must have it! For three dollars, we could not resist. Come all the way from Turkey, this plate did. It features an etching of the Hagia Sophia, sometimes spelled 'Ayasofya'. This is the immense Byzantine church commissioned by emperior Justinian in the year 537 AD.

I took my curiousity of this edifice to 'Google', and found many pictures of its lush, ornate beauty.

I do not agree with Jean-Pierre de Caussade, who declared, ''What is deprivation to the senses nourishes and strengthens faith. The less there is for them, the more there is for the soul.'' (Full quote found here, and originally here, a site whose author makes me think, and who I often agree with, but not this time.)

Hagia Sophia and surrounding garden from a copyright free source we have

I cannot speak for Caussade, but I would go mad without beauty. I leave to sterner souls the 'shrunken and beggarly'.

December 15, 2002 - A

"A Ghost Is Waiting For Me"

I cannot go back to sleep. If I go back to sleep, a ghost will have me. When I left sleep, a ghost had me pinned to the ground by my hair, as it rocked on a rocking chair and stomped at me, aiming for my soft, vulnerable breasts. I cannot go back to sleep.

I was at my Mother's house. Or was I at my Gramma's house? My mother doesn't have a rocking chair. No, it had to be Gramma's house. Gramma's yelling at Aunt June in dispair over the situation. They are screaming to each other that they must get an exorcist. I kept reaching protectively for my breasts, so the stomping is more at my shoulders. I am terrified out of my mind. The thing hisses at me, in a low, breathy voice. Yes, I can feel its cold breath.

But what is it saying? It's delighted to have me trapped so. Meanwhile, Gramma and Aunt June are still yelling at each other. Aunt June is looking in the phone book for exorcists.

And will one be available at 12:30 am, when the rest of the God-fearing world is in bed? Meanwhile, the cold voice hisses and its ghostly feet stomp. Rock, rock, rock goes the chair wildly.

I wake up, an oblivious, sleeping Julia beside me. What can the nightmare mean? I feel the ancient voices of disapproval. If not actually 'ancient', at least twenty three years ago. I am the prodigal daughter, returned home from school with the sad mind. I've gotten into 'evil' things, and therefore, an evil ghost has me. They are so mad at me, Gramma and Aunt June. They are so mad at me.

I have strayed from 'the way', and they are so mad at me. I could not stay with the simple and plain. I had to let myself be lured by the seductive voice of Satan. The seductive and beautiful, and 'the wages of sin' have found me. And a ghost is waiting for me, should I lose vigilance in that unprotected world of dreams.

 

December 15, 2002 - B

"Until Only Love Remains"

This is my quiet space, my place to sit and think. I take a deep breath and let go of tension. A hot bath has renewed my spirits to the extent it can, and now I can relax here.

Spirit would have me be quiet. My body is still radiating heat from the hot water of the tub. My clean hair drips tiny droplets at its scraggy end tips. As the last of the tub water drains, I take a deep breath, and let the tension drain out of me.

I would with wisdom address the ghostly spirits that haunted my dreams last night. Whether energy emanations from the present, or simply buried remainers from things long ago, they possess their own reality and need addressed.

I hate this sort of thing. I don't want to deal with it. I'd rather just sweep it all under a pretty rug, and say, ''Look, no more mess!'' But the rug does not lay flat; there is this huge ugly bulge in the middle of it. The garbage doesn't go away if we merely try to hide it. It's just there, festering, and maybe even growing bigger.

Maybe what's happened is the big ugly got too big for the pretty rug to hide it. There the ghost emerged as a hideous torment, symbolic of the torment my fundamentalist relatives believe I shall inherit as a result of choosing the path I have. They are CERTAIN I shall go to hell. They are certain of this with a crushing finality that strips all reason in a fomenting desire I return to their view of Divine Truth.

They are mistaken, but I can not tell them that. So I fear their anger 2000 miles away, and this gives me horrid nightmares. It may be doing other things, as well. So I have to address their anger. It has been years since I've spoken to them. My first thought was since they've learned Laura has passed on, via this year's Christmas letter, they've began to pray in earnest for my hell-bound soul. All that energy sent my way may well have crept out in that nightmare.

Or, it may simply be that I know how very much this is what they DO think, and that alone caused it.

Until Only Love Remains I transform this anger, I release it to the ancient wise spirits, who have been aware much longer than I. I release it, and in the releasing, let it go with love. The angry ones cannot see. They have blinded themselves to what they refuse to see. They have done this so long ago. The angry ones cannot hear. They have stopped up their ears against any thing that clashes with their music. They have done this so long ago. They, neither hearing nor seeing, believe I am lost when they sense I am not on their path. They cling to one another in their blind confusion, and say it is I who am blind, and deaf. But I see colors they cannot dream of. I hear music of such tantalizing beauty they cannot imagine. They do not know they are deprived. If they did, they would still call it soul's victory. I release their anger, let it go where it cannot hurt anyone. Let the earth take it. The rooted earth absorbs all things. Let the sky take it, The cloudy sky absorbs all things. Let the water take it, The cleansing water absorbs all things. Let the fire take it, the purifying fire absorbs all things. Let this anger be done away with, let it then go to the four corners of creation, dispersed into harmless bits. Let it go, and not return again. Bind them, in their blindness, until once they see again. But bind them, oh Great Spirit, in LOVE. Empty their hearts of this anger, Give them to know not all things are to their understanding. May they release their anger. Give them peace. Bind them, oh Great Spirit, in LOVE. May its gentle force do its quiet work. When I, and they, have relinquished all anger, may we each, in our disparate quarters, begin again. Peace I give to myself, that I burn only with love. Let all else fade away, fade away, into the nothingness it shall become,   until ONLY LOVE remains. So mote it be. JAL, 12 - 15 - 02

 

December 16, 2002

"This Little Light"

This little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine. This little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine. This little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine . . . - Harry Dixon Loes (public domain)

Meanwhile, later this morning Julia tried to turn on the kitchen light and found it burned out. After a little struggle, as the old one had been twisted in against its threading, Julia has triumphantly put a new one in. ''This big light of ours, we're gonna let it shine, This big light of ours, we're gonna let it shine . . .''

It's a good way to start the work week off with a smile.

 

December 17, 2002 - A

"Recycled Bits and Pieces"

My HOROSCOPE 'fortune cookie' this morning said, ''If you are not recycling you could be experiencing a reversal.'' Granted, the frugal aspects of recycling help with keeping economic reversals at bay. But I thought of this in terms of recycling old journal entries, to see if there was anything in the past that would inspire me.

Last year, LAURA was firmly established here in Yuma, to stay. I built metal shelving for us that day, and we ate at a nearby Mexican restaurant. Oddly, we haven't returned to that restaurant yet. Maybe we ought to.

In the year 2000, there was no entry for the 17th, but one for the 16th. I'd had a wonderful day out with Laura and decided to trim my excessive time at the computer in order to spend more time with Laura. I'm so glad now, since she's passed on, that I did have that precious time.

Also I was amused to see the entry of December 17, 1999 had the same title as yesterday's, This Little Light. I spoke of the 'triumph of will over matter' in a poor families house decorating, despite having much money.

In 1998 Weighty Matters had just begun, and it still had its original focus of being a diet log. I did, however, rejoice in my 'sleek and shiny' durable stainless steel mugs and plates. I've enjoyed the fragile porcelain mugs, in particular the ones given to me which have been personalized with my name, but four years since that entry, NONE of them have survived the hard knocks of time.

I also had entries in what was then my parallel journal at that time, and I remember fondly the big feast we'd had at Lucky's Chinese restaurant with family and friends, war worries, beautiful sunsets, and yet another urging from the Muse to 'deplug' and spend some time LISTENING to her quiet voice. These things DO repeat, as you may remember a recent entry in which I 'deplugged' from a rather time consuming online game, in order to focus on creative efforts.

In 1997, I was fervently hoping a progressive magazine would publish a response I'd written to one of their articles. I firmly did not (and still don't) think that high tech must in and of itself overwhelm the human spirit. Sadly, they didn't print the letter.

And way back in dusty 1996, I had no entry on the 17th, but the one of the 15th spoke of detaching myself from too much busyness in order to ''drink in the Serene Spirit''. Some themes haven't changed much in my life, have they?