L'Enchanteur et la Muse

Carol Dancing Outdoors

2007-02-10T09:05:00.000-08:00

Here is a special picture I took back in 1980 of my friend,Carol. She was a beautiful dancer and one day we took a trip to a farm where the woman sold vintage clothes and she let Carol and my daughter,Valerie, try on dresses and pose for a variety of pictures. This one of them and seems fitting to put into this Blog in honor of Aletta and the world of dance.

The Last Dance

2006-07-11T00:15:00.000-07:00

Some years ago I had to decide to stop dancing, rather than allow my health to downgrade my dancing I would stop before humiliating myself in front of an audience. I've not worn pointe shoes since that day, not even in private.

I took the last pair of pointe shoes, took them for one last spin and cast one of them into the garbage bin and left the studio. It was gutwrenching. The other of the two slippers I have kept, tucked away in my clothes closet.

Today I took my old friend out of the closet and we sat a while, thinking of old times, the times when I could fly. The ribbon was loosened and the shoe placed on the foot. It still fits, but without a mate I cannot take it for a ride. So with a sigh, the ribbon is tucked around the heel again and the shoe after one more portrait, was put out of sight again.

Would you believe 10!!

2006-06-26T15:12:00.000-07:00

Meeting Death - Can't Ether

So that...drumrole please ................... trrrtrrtrrtrr .... yep, that makes a grand total of ten sparrowgirl stories. I have promised myself to do twenty before moving on to the next four years of my childhood, and I am half way there!!

Gaia Welcomes Leonie Home

2006-05-01T05:16:00.000-07:00

Her daughter returns home.
with love
Heather Blakey

Bringing Leonie Bryant Home

2006-04-30T20:55:00.000-07:00

le Enchanteur and Leonie Bryant's spirit bird taking Leonie home to sleep in the Bower of Bliss

A Walk in the Polder

2006-02-28T12:47:00.000-08:00

Some families spent their Sunday's going to church, we didn't, we took a long walk. If the weather was particularly good we would bicycle. Well, more specifically my parents would bicycle, to some new place to explore at leisure. This was a particularly bright and sunny day in the middle of summer. A real scorcher by Dutch standards. I rode with my father in a child's bicycle seat, one that would have been met with gasps of disapproval by today's standards. It was black metal and red vinyl and collapsed when not in use. Moms bicycle had a large wicker basket in which the family dog rode. Not one person we knew well owned a car, there was always those days a very small number of motor vehicles comprised mostly of the cheapest of Citroens and Volkswagen bugs.

I could smell that we were coming closer to the sea, it was in the air. Sea gulls screeching with delights as their extended wings caught every warm air current, endlessly gliding along. Everything here was either sand coloured or sea green. Only tall patches of grass broke the very flat landscape, all of it an extended quilt of sandy lifeless polders and squares of grass, just occasionally a patch of houses. One such patch of houses was Spijkernisse. There were no new buildings like the ones in Hoogvliet where we lived. Here the air no longer reeked of the refineries. The quiet here was quite shocking to the system. Our normally chatty family was just now silent, we were blending in, at one with the calm.

We came to the very edge of a brand new polder, not a building, a road, or even a blade of grass, nothing. There was only packed sand dotted by small stones and decaying jellyfish. Seagulls were diving for any small thing that moved. As I was being lifted out of my kiddy seat...

the whole story at www.aletta.org/sparrowweb1.shtml#Walk_in_the_Polder

The Unseen and the Weeping Lady

2006-02-14T20:54:00.000-08:00

Under certain circumstances, fairies will just see a need to intervene. such was the case with Ms. Millar one warm springtime many years ago. It had not been long before that splendid day that Ms. Millar, they valley's school teacher had to bury her young husband. He had died in a faraway war, in another country far, far away. Ms. Millar was still living in a big city then, she'd just finished going to teacher's college. she was lonely and spent all her evenings in the darkness crying until she finally would fall asleep.

It was her cousin Elizabeth who invited her to come and stay with her in the valley, As it happens, and quite often it does, just then the teacher Mr. Rolf, decided he really needed to stop teaching after thirty years and open a candy shop instead. Perhaps it came about because after years of taking away candy from his pupils he decided he's just much rather make the most wonderful candy for children to enjoy. So he did, within weeks he's rented a store and was making the most wonderful candy.

The position did not come with a fabulous salary, just a small salary and a small cottage to live in just a hundred feet away from the little school house. It meant teaching all the grades and giving all the exams to all the valley's children (numbering no more than 20 per term). Mr. Rolf , the retired teacher, now the local candy store proprietor, even offered to substitute those times that Ms. Millar (only her close friends call her Kate) should fall ill.

The valley over a period of weeks was fast becoming the only place in the world where Ms. Millar could imagine living. so she packed all her things in the city and moved to the valley. She has now been here more than thirty years.

Back to that afternoon, that warm peaceful afternoon, when the fairies were swinging from poppy to poppy. The dog and cat were occupied chasing butterflies. the smell of weak bleach and laundry soap permeated the air. The fresh coat of white paint made her little cottage home sparkle in the afternoon light. The warm wind caused the leaves to make a gentle rustling sound. You could hear birds chirping and the occasional snap of a towel as Mrs. Millar hung the laundry on her clothesline. All the changes in her life had Mrs. Millar losing some weight and it was partly that and partly her damp hands which had the ring slip off her finger. Not just any ring either, but the very ring with which years ago she had become Mrs. Millar. The ring that Mr. Millar had slipped on her finger on that bright summer's day at their wedding.

Falling on the grass as it did it made no sound. Mrs. Millar was completely unaware. The dog took no note of it either. Two beady little eyes had noticed. The small rodent always noticed when sparkly things fell on the ground nearby. After all a tiny rodent like this mouse could not see much above the ground. This was his world, the ground and all that there was. The mouse scurried very quickly to the ring and ran off with it. He did not know precisely why he did it. He had no use for the ring, it could not be eaten, and mice don't wear jewellery, nor had they any interest in how much it might be worth if sold. It just sparkled so intensely and he had to have it. That, and nothing more, was all there was to it. It was heavy to carry and he did not take it far away, just to behind a large oak tree in Mrs. Millar's own yard. He sat feeling quite triumphant for the whole rest of the afternoon just staring at the ring, as it twinkled like a star in the bright sunlight. Well, he stayed, until he became hungry and was then off forgetting all about the ring.

It was an hour or so later when she was taking down the now dry laundry from the line when she finally noticed the missing ring. It was one of those suspicious absence of something. In this case the twinkling of the diamond in the sun as she held up her hand in the light was something to which she was well accustomed so when the twinkling was absent she noticed immediately. She shrieked. So loud was the shriek that several crows very nearly fell out of the tree above her. The shriek was followed by an absolute silence. The birds stopped chirping, the dog an cat suddenly sat in place, fairies and pixies stopped what they were doing, even the wind became silent.

There are all kinds of shrieks, but this one, was so incredibly sad, not just horrified but sad. There was no a soul who had heard it who was not profoundly saddened, just from hearing the shriek. The silence was broken by weeping and then sobbing and then for seemingly hours, a soft crying.

The whole story at www.aletta.org/wingedtales05.shtml

New Parson Story

2005-12-11T05:25:00.000-08:00

Predictin'

Now the Parson always do
what he says he do, (often not as 'spected)
and promisin' a story told be no dif'rent,
though when and where sittin'
be open fer guessin'.

So nobody say nuthin',
when right t'middle Ferkis complainin'
'bout the price of vittles down t'hallow,
ol' Parson set off 'bout predictin' the weather.
In hind spect it makes sense, I recon,
as in trade and hagglin' you often
get what ya deserve
rather than expect or be wantin'. (ma told me that)

Seems' this farmin' feller down ta flatlands
got a reputation 'bout tellin' 'bout the weather.
Now I cain't say 'tis true 'cause Parson
also be tellin' how this young man
grows more corn in a longish field
that this whole mountain do in patches.

But, it bein' the Parson doin' the tellin',
I knows the truth be in there shore,
like he be remindin' us 'bout Bible thumpin',
and tryin' to squeeze grape juice from
gravel or wise thoughts from a politician.

Any hoo, this farmin' feller named Ruffus
started growin' better and more righteous
vegetables and grain that his neighbors,
just like his pa always did afore --
which folks thereabouts 'llowed 'cause
the ol' man had been a God fearin' man
and bit-time tent preacher.

But this Ruffus di'n't hold fer that
and never 'tended church er nuthin',
and even nosy extention university 'ficals
couldn't rightly say how he done it.
Came ta be though, from watchin' close,
neighbors came to know that Ruffus always
made the right decisions when it came to weather --
and when ta plant and furrow and cut or run.

So other folk began to copy what he do,
and soon enough the whole county be 'tractin'
attention from reporters and big city TV doin's.
They comes down fer to interview Ruffus
and discover the secrets of his 'powers'
of predictin' so good and practical.

Seems Ruffus to be kinda shy
and don't hanker much to sharin' stuff,
and folks be saying' he gotta tell by right --
and he be saying should be enough
that folks be gettin' better crops
and easier times and more time fer readin'
and proper child raisin'. (he didn't have none yet)

The folks come to be insistin',
and claimin' he cain't be no Christian
ifin he don't do right by folks --
else he must be talkin' with the devil,
or else be sinnin' fer refusin'
charity to needful people there.

So Ruffus tell he what he learn't from his pa --
how he had a piece a rope a hangin'
offin ta'side the south porch-back
that he could reach from the window crack
behind the kindlin' stove afore sunrise
each morning barefoot cold and all.

Now if that rope be wet he knows it been rainin',
and ifin it be swayin there's a wind about --
and if it be stiff then a freeze be near,
and 'stead it be limp and dry then ya
better be a watchin' fer drought.

Well, them folks laugh at first --
then decide Ruffus be funnin' with them
and hiding some secret, magical ways,
fer they ain't stupid a'tall --
and that Ruffus was 'simple like'
and not to be trusted.

So they went back to there old ways,
with faith in almanacs and radio prediction,
and Sunday meetin' prayin',
rather than riskin' their souls
to un-natural suspicious stuff.

Now that's a pretty strange story (even fer the Parson)
and we be talkin' 'bout it some
after Parson done amble way after eatin'.
Chester thought he might be tryin' that rope thing
his-self, but his old lady calls out laughin'
from the boilin' pot how then Chester
would have ta git up early afore
the dogs and start plowin' right off,
working and fetch breakfast later on --
and we knew that was one bit of predictin'
that was truer that sunrise magic.

And I be thinkin' how my corn
might be a bit taller ifin I spent more time
plowin' than story listenin'.

Cold

2005-12-03T20:47:00.000-08:00

Cold is not cold for me as it is for you. I don't register "cold", oh, no, my stupid (actually damaged) brain registers the feeling on my skin as pain.

I don't develop goose bumps, I don't ever shiver though to touch me I might be a block of ice. To me it feels as if an army of small creatures armed with cheese graters are scouring away at my flesh.

I stopped registering "cold" quite suddenly about three years ago, before that the body was slow to react, but eventually my teeth would chatter and I would shiver. One snowy night walking my dog I came to the strange realization that it did not feel cold to me, but reasoning how cold it was and how long I had been outside this was not right, not in any sense. I couldn't sense heat either, but heat, other than scalding water, was unlikely to do much harm. It doesn't fritz out my nerve ends like cold does, if anything ambient heat makes my nerves pleasantly numb. I use a candy thermometer in the bath and shower to avoid scalding. I suppose that doesn't come under the heading of "normal" either. Short of living in the amazon exhibit at the aquarium there is nothing I can do except cope as best I can. Medication to bring the pain levels to bearable (where the cheese grating gnomes will sit far away from me for a while), clothing and heat sources, like steaming coffee and tea, clothing (lots of it). When it rains, or I'm in the shower the top of my head feels nothing, very odd. Contact burns which normally would blister, don't, just leaves a scorched mark, but no blister. Nothing, but nothing is normal. As each passing month more and more is abnormal I am uneasily reminded that this is a progressive deterioration, and for each change millions of brain cells have gone, poof, and you can't reanimate dead tissue, hell, they can't even pinpoint the damage.

The cold also makes my muscles rigid, blood vessels constrict to protect the inner organs, lack of bloodflow makes muscles crampy. The damaged brain often sends signals to contract and forgets to tell those same muscles to relax. My face which hasn't any insulation left (looking kind of gaunt) and hands are the first victims of the cold, I wear a grimace and my hands unless kept moving shape themselves into something that looks like a chicken claw. At least my grimace looks like a smile, but can be inappropriate when I cannot wipe it off my face.

The cold makes my nose run a and my eyes tear (well, just one eye), but lacking the muscle coordination to prevent a shower of nasal drip can become quite the embarrassment (in desperation when going out I pop a decongestant to dry things up a bit and walk with hanky to my face).

I do pull it together for an hour or so a day to walk the dog, run and errand and the rest of time drag myself about between lie downs. Friends who see me remark how well I look, yeah, that one hour a day. When the remark is made it devalues just how totally rotten I really feel. No appreciation for the work and sacrifice to put myself out there for and hour of kinda "normal".

Unless you've been there you cannot know how it feels to know your body is rapidly losing anything of "normal". I remember shivering, teeth chattering, goose bumps, swallowing without having to make it happen. I remember having the energy to spend a few hours with friends after a full day at work, and still my house sparkled. I remember planning meals according to what we'd like, not what I can manage to swallow enough of before becoming stone cold and unpleasant to eat. I use memories of taste to taste with, if I don't put out the effort to remember everything is uniformly flavourless. Digestion provides body heat, well that's out for the most part. See how nothing is normal?

I valued my complete complement of senses, smell, taste, touch, hunger, thirst, sleep, oh, sleep, honest to goodness real human sleep. sleep complete with dreams after some cosy warm time drifting, warm. The feeling of being full and warm after a meal. Feeling energised by exercise, not feeling near dead after a few minutes of rushing around my tiny apartment.

I've given up driving (slow reflexes, faulty depth vision), walking in high heels (balance and feeling the ground), a drink now and again (some unexpected reactions, not a bit pleasant), movies (just cannot sit still that long without getting rigid and cold), and forget about having sex (no details, but let's just say too scary, won't be doing that again). Sigh -- but I look well?

Is that really what it comes down to? Pity the wretched because of how they look, don't pity the attractive, because it is really only important to look good?

I know that everyone with ideas on how to keep warm has the best of intentions but I haven't a clue how to convey, succinctly, that my body just does not work as you'd expect.

As bad as dealing with the cold is, even worse is the level of functioning with limited mobility and cramped hands. Not because it is painful, the worst is that I cannot do what I'd like to. Millions of worth while ideas every day and I cannot execute but a couple of them at best. There is a heap of bright shiny ideas and inspired artwork clogging up my brain, stories, paintings, poems, correspondence, and if I'm lucky I can manage and email and a bit of knitting or crochet work.. If, that is, I've managed to get the necessary everyday hygiene, keeping the body warm and housework out of the way and have an ounce of energy left. Ghastly, I finally haven't got to work at a soul sucking job, but now have even less left to work with. I'm looking for a silver lining and am coming up with burlap. I feel apologetic to the cosmos for falling short of my potential. Honest I tried very hard. Not quite good enough, sorry.

Forgive the whine, forgive me if I am over explaining, but you see, there has been no indication that anyone outside the orphans with the same brand of dysautonomia, actually "gets it". I'm living in this body, it still feels entirely unlike my body to me, rather like having been taken out of my perfectly tuned former body and given this total jalopy which only looks the same. some things in like you just cannot get used to, rather like losing a breast or a limb. I suppose I have only phantom senses.

THE END OF A SOJOURN

2005-12-03T20:33:00.000-08:00

I stayed five days ,
not a week, but five days
five days and four nights

It seemed much longer
The elements made it seem
like living in another time and place

Heat and more heat
No winds to cool me at night
Then days when all the rain
held in the clouds for ages and ages
let forth
Causing rivers to flood
gardens to be washed away
animals to hide under beds

Then intermittent ,hail stones,dark clouds
but incessant heat..then
freezing cold ,a fire needed at night
Changing clothing seemed the norm
t.shirts and shorts then tracksuit pants
and warm woolies

I walked outside in all these weathers
waiting for another change to blow through.

So when I set out for home
it said...." 40o today ,hot north winds
a day of "Bushfire danger"
So I stayed another day

Friday said......
Windy,wet, but mild.....
So I set off from Gippsland town
The rain so heavy and the wind so strong
That it moved the car from the middle of the road.
I held the wheel tightly
The car moved as semi-trailers rushed past me
They left a spray that darkend my windscreen

I took shelter under a veranda
at the local football oval
had my cuppa and sandwich,
fed Jessie dog
the sound on the tin roof
deafend all around

We persevered on ,passing many motorists
broken down as they went through the floodwaters
I took my time ..I was ok
Arriving home, the sea caps on the waves caught my eye
the wind blowing them onto the beach and beyond
The Tasmanian ferry bounced at its moorings
It would be a rough trip tonight as it crossed Bass Strait.

It was not cold,more like a tropical storm
I arrived safely ,to a garden not needing watering
Leaves littered the lawns
Hydrangers looked frizzled
The bird bath full of debris
No matter..........

I was home complete with prized plants and vegetables
from my friends garden
I unpacked jars of jam,pickles,olives,sun dried tomatoes,etc etc
It had been a grand four days
In a part of Victoria different to my home town
Street lights not seen from the farmhouse balcony
But....The sunset on the Tambo river was magnificent
and I could see.....the stars so bright...this denied me
in my place as the lights of tall skyscrapers
dim the stars to pale resemblences

I feel refreshed ,
It is good to visit friends
It is wonderful to laugh and drink wine in good company
To share the produce of their labours
not all purchased from supermarkets
I had forgotten how sweet it tasted

...Lois (Muse of the Sea) 4th Dec 2005.

More than mind, Aletta

2005-12-02T03:26:00.000-08:00

LoveChoice

By the poorest of analogy in search of simplicity, I am a moth drawn toward the Light, ever being bright, Source of creation, Mother of rebirth, womb of Life. Ah, to plunge within, return to the bosom of Everwhen, to embrace pulse creation at the Origin of Song and Life. Yet I veer away on a tangential course -- as close as the trembling of my soul -- as far as the call of humanity's need. Out -- out -- but not away; somehow through and caressed with Godsped acclaim of Being. As I spin away in prancing joy, a simple note in Life's Song of Now, I learn of the Choice -- the reason for my entrancement.

Within the Agreement that enthralls my participation in this World manifestation are the vibrations of Covenant that limit my view of GodLight and therebe powers to nurture, heal, and create new life. This World exists so that I can make a Choice -- actually is a process of Choosing -- made 'real' by the combined interactive Love of others who also will make a Choice -- each in close approach to the cycle of rebirth. Within the limit of human Word that is, this is a Choice between 'death of self' and 'birth of being'; yet no more true than claiming a draw toward coming 'humanly divine' opposing 'divinely human'. Both are wrong, of course, for in either case, the vessel of cherished physical form rightful protected will cease to have meaning or relevance when Choice is made, or in losing it, Choice is found.

There is no purpose of 'Life' as engaged in this World, other than Being and Choosing how my spirit 'I' will engender Creation. Simplicity's view would call again to Song -- to position the Choice as between 'being in the orchestra' or 'applauding in the audience'; each as vital as Love itself. The essential distinction here is that within Love's symphony, personal identity of creative note is submerged within the score and guiding conductor's hand. This certainly is Creation profound, and stardust chimes and firmament resound in resonance. To bechoice within the expanse of 'audience' is Creation too, for 'applause' nurtures those emerging from rebirth, and carries forth the Song on Currents of LoveJoy that others may hear -- and feel -- and know -- and Choose. Which to be -- the Song or the Singer?

More divinely calling is -- do I wait for Judgment upon Passing, or by Choosing to be Aware -- embrace the singing Now? If I wallow in uncertainty then I must surely wait, encouraged that 'Arbitration' will consider how well my spirit suffered to become a child again, to find innocence -- a view only reflected in the eyes of strangers I encountered here. I can only seek balance between my spirit's memory of Creation and the Covenant's command to extend hand and heart to my brothers caught in this 'Choice Journey'. Is this a case of 'try it and see'? Or is it that by contemplation of leap from 'believing' to 'knowing' I have already made the Choice?

What will it be? To 'remember' or to 'forget'? Neither mind nor heart trembles here -- it is my very soul. Either way, I am part of the music of Love.

Mindful

2005-12-01T23:14:00.000-08:00

Spirits in the ether
mix, though never have they met,
perhaps never will.

Of importance is the moment,
this moment, and every
contact in either or blood, alters.

Spirits in ether, seeming nothingness
touch, move by, and through,
intentful and thoughtful.

The spirit moves about
on particles created through the energy of one soul,
moved to react by having touched the other.

Demonstrations of affections,
endearment, are every bit as real
as those our primitive senses would witness.

All is not made of flesh,
all does not need flesh,
spirit is eternal, sentient.

Spirit makes us players,
in the eternal theatre of this universe
delicately balanced, the good, the bad.

Nothing we do, or intend,
no thoughts, emotions are
ever inert.

In this universe, each spirit
holds the same power, and responsibility
as the hand of the divine.

Beyond Belief

2005-11-29T03:25:00.000-08:00

WISDOM YET

I useta believe in the Golden Rule
as something I oughta do by choice;
but now I know that to act any other way
is to deny humanity and self.

I useta believe in man's institutions
of religion, law and education;
but today I know they are illusions
based on fear, control, greed and power.

I useta believe in heaven's fine promise
as reward for doing good work and all;
but now I know more of the Spirit within
and that I can choose something better yet.

I useta believe in scholarly writings
by sanctified men of cloth and iron;
but now I know they are just opinions
of a single person's view of creation.

I useta believe in ecology
as a natural and obvious path;
but now I know that abusing Mother Earth
is a only slow, painful genocide.

I useta believe in allowing others
to be 'of life' for me and guide my path;
but now I know that 'believing' is death,
and that I am eternal in 'knowing'.

Aye …

I useta believe in what others call faith,
which is unwillingness seek the truth;
and because I know that I am of Creation
I can find innocence and peace at last.

Parson Walk

2005-11-23T04:50:00.000-08:00

We'all talk 'bout the Parson some, (don't know fer the women folk)
'specially when some frien' gets a lookin'
off in space and thinkin' deep. (eyes closed tight fer distractin')

"D'ja ever notice how he walks flat?" (Jeb chewin' on a twig a spruce)

"Yeh, like he was still climin' down the ridge,
weight still on the hind foot 'till he be knowin'
what lies ahead -- heel dug in secure."

"Never in a hurry but ready to get there, sure." (Willy never get no place fast)

"Nope! I was thinkin' more how his legs
move regular without his thinkin' 'bout em a'tall.
He don't even look ta ground much, I recon --
'cept maybe by plan hatched at the meadow edge"

"Yeh -- yer right thar. He be lookin' at tree tops wavin'
and clouds a fumblin' around fer rain -- and whistlin'" (which Jeb couldn't)

"Ya'd think he was practicin' up a sermon, 'cept he
don't work that way. Leastwise I never hirt one" (his brother was a preacher)

"Well, he tells some stories though,
and sometimes I feel later that I've been …" (we knew Willy meant church)

"He tells the best stories to the kids, ya know" (that's me speakin' soft)

"I be thinkin' they was just fishin' down there ta hole"

"That too -- but maybe like the Lord done used fishin'
fer to get people relaxed -- then throw a net over'em"

"Now Chester, don't be atalkin' like that. Jessie'll
whup you long side t'head with her bible sure."

"I've been ponderin' 'bout a story o'heard last week,
when I was snuzzin' in the loft o'r Ranny's place. (now we get down to it)

"So that's … (Willy get the hush sign from the Squire)

"Ranny's youngin' asked the Parson 'bout believin' --
said he was confused about what folk were s'posed
to believe in -- lot o' what yer hear di'n't make sense."

"Right smart kid, thar … (Willy gets poke in the arm)

"So the Parson don't answer direct like --
he just tell a yarn about predictin' the weather."

Just then, Jess's mom shouts down 'bout how
the vittles goin' to the hogs ifin we don't fetch
up to the porch right quick … (widow mean, but shor kin cook)

so that story's gotta wait a spell …

papa

Juxtaposed

2005-11-21T23:54:00.000-08:00

This milky haze pulls together the discordant vision of the trees and the transformer towers in such a hauntingly beautiful way.

One can almost forget that the towers are not organic, but one will not forget which is the Creator's work.

Soulfood chocolate - dragon

2005-11-20T02:00:00.000-08:00

I chose my chocolate because it was wrapped in metal foil with an oriental design on it and this is what I found inside:

'"Colouring dragons
To enter simply click the image of the beautiful Chinese Dragon and print out an enlarged copy. Colour it. Write the phrase "Once upon a time in a faraway village..." and then put some action words in your draft book." Actually my dragon is one which I embroidered on a dressing gown I made for my husband,

Once upon a time in a faraway village on the other side of the world there lived a little boy called Yan. He lived in a small fishing village on the banks of the river.

One day Yan was sitting on the riverbank fishing. It was a warm, sunny afternoon. The fish didn't seem to be biting much that day and he was beginning to doze. So he wasn't surprised to hear the sound of sobbing coming from close at hand. In his dreams he thought it must be his little sister, who had fallen and hurt herself but the sound became so persistent that he completely woke up again. It seemed to be coming from behind a pile of rocks. He crept closer until he could peer round them.

Sitting on the river beach was a small, brightly coloured dragon; sobbing as if its heart would break. Yan was a kind boy who hated to see anyone in trouble and he didn't seem the least bit surprised to see a dragon. He climbed over the rocks and went down on to the beach.

"Hello" he said to the dragon which lifted its head mournfully, looked at him with huge, tear-filled eyes and carried on crying all the harder. "Who are you?" asked Yan, and then "what's the matter?" The dragon wiped a five clawed foot across its nose and whimpered "I've lost it. They're all so angry". "Lost what and who will be angry?" asked Yan, deeply perplexed. "Why, the flaming pearl, of course. What else do you think I'm talking about?"
Yan realised that this was going to take a while and sat down on a sun-warmed rock. "Please start from the beginning and tell me who you are and what's happened, otherwise I can't possibly help you". The dragon sniffed and appeared relieved that someone was willing to listen to it and it started to recount its tale of woe.

His name was Rang Chu and he was an imperial dragon - as anyone could see who knew anything about these things because he had five toes. He lived in a celestial palace, decorated with all the colours of the rainbow, with his imperial parents, brothers and sisters. It turned out that, just for a lark, he and two of his brothers had "borrowed" the flaming pearl and had been having a game of football with it. In a fit of enthusiasm he had kicked it too hard and it had flown out of the window and had now disappeared. In everyone's bad books, he had been temporarily banished from the heavens until he found it. This was how he came to be sitting on the riverbank.

Yan knew enough about rivers to know that anything that fell into the river would eventually find its way to the sea.

"My father has a boat which we could sail down to the sea. Come with me and I'll help you look for the pearl". Rang Chu gratefully accepted his offer. "But you must promise not to breathe any fire while you're in the boat or it will catch fire and we'll both be drowned". The dragon agreed to this condition.
Together they got into the boat, which leaned dangerously to one side with the weight of the young dragon prince. As an afterthought Yan said "wait a minute, I'm just going to fetch my cormorant. He might be very useful". So saying, he climbed out of the boat, ran up the beach, untied the cormorant from the piling on which it was perched and carried it back triumphantly to the boat. "If the pearl has fallen to the bottom of the sea he will be able to dive for it", he explained to the dragon.

The current took them swiftly down river, through the flat marshy estuary and finally to a beach of fine white sand. They tied the boat to an old tree and set off to look along the tide line to see if the pearl had been washed up. As they kicked the piles of seaweed to see if it was hidden underneath, Yan found bits of coloured sea glass, shards of broken porcelain and brightly coloured shells. Soon his pockets bulged with his trophies. Rang Chu had no pockets but he had good eyesight and eagerly scanned the beach for anything he thought Yan might like.

After several hours of fruitless search they began to feel hungry. Yan's cormorant caught them some fish which Rang Chu carefully grilled with a blast of fiery breath, so as not to scorch it. In the meantime Yan explained the problem to the cormorant. It asked Yan leave to go and consult the shore-dwelling cormorants.

It was quite excited when it eventually returned. The mermaids have got your flaming pearl. Except that it's not flaming anymore", it added. Yan was aghast to hear this for he knew how difficult it was to get back anything lost to the mer-people. "Do you have any ideas?" he asked the cormorant. It thought for a while and then said that the mer-people would return it if they were given something in exchange. Yan racked his brains to think of something. "Why don't you fashion a necklace?" asked Rang Chu at length. "with what?" "Well, you've got pockets full of stuff" replied the dragon, whose eyes had just fallen on a piece of slivery wire. "Use the wire to wrap round some pieces of sea glass and put the wire through the holes in the shells. Then you'll have a wonderful necklace". Yan thought this was a great idea and found a large, flat stone to use as a work surface. He selected bits of green glass and pink shells and, in no time, had assembled a necklace fit for a queen. He proudly showed it to the dragon and the cormorant. The cormorant agreed to act as go-between and flew off with the necklace safely wedged in its beak.

Yan and the dragon eagerly scanned the horizon for the cormorant's return. They waited and waited. The sun was just beginning to go down and the beach was flooded with pink and gold when the bird returned. He flew down to join them and carefully put the pearl on the sand before them. The dragon was so pleased he could hardly restrain himself from breathing a veritable fire ball. "Careful" warned Yan. "It's all very well to dry the pearl but you don't want to incinerate it". The dragon agreed this that this would not be a good idea and asked Yan to look after it for him. He would return to the celestial palace next morning but, for now, he wanted to spend some more time with his new-found friends. They had another meal of fish and then settled down for the night, with Yan leaning against the dragon's side to keep warm.

At dawn the next day Rang Chu took his leave and flew into the sky. Yan and the cormorant stared after him until their eyes hurt and he was no more than a speck in the sky. "Do you think we'll ever see him again?" asked Yan. "Depends on whether he plays football again, I suppose" smirked the cormorant who was feeling very pleased with its role in the story.

Although Yan and the cormorant watched for him, all they ever saw, or thought they saw, was a dragon shaped cloud apparently chasing the sinking sun from time to time.

The cherubim's tale

2005-11-19T06:10:00.000-08:00

On my journey to the House of Serpents you will recall that I was removed from my donkey Ariel by a hooded rider and that I only discovered its identity when its hood slipped off as it was leaving me. Well, while we were flying, my cherubim decided it wanted to talk. In fact it proved to be a very talkative cherubim, what with having a captive audience and all that. I’m always eager to hear other people’s stories so this way I was killing two birds with one stone.

The cherubim told me that when it is not helping out lost strangers in the outlands of Duwamish, it normally resides in a fresco in a church that goes by the odd name of St Nicholas of the roofs on the island of Cythara. I’d heard of this island and of this particular church. In fact there is another curiously named church on the island called St Nicholas of the cats. Apparently St Nicholas kept cats to keep the serpents away. Does the House of Serpents have a resident cat, by any chance?

St Nicholas of the roofs is so called because the church has two roofs, one on top of the other but nobody seems to know why this is and the church is full of frescoes peopled by all sorts of creatures, many of whom are employed in a similar fashion to the cherubim, who was currently acting as my flying taxi. Unfortunately the contributions from the tourists were not enough to keep them all in the pristine condition they could wish. My cherubim pointed out that the price of armour oil being what it was, it was no wonder its amour was starting to go rusty and that this was why a number of them had sought employment elsewhere – being a pretty face just didn’t hack it. Although I had my trusty digital camera with me the cherubim wouldn’t allow me to take a photo of it, as the bright light from a flash was harmful to frescoes and it was already looking a bit faded around the edges.

It recounted to me all the marvellous things it had seen, it had been present when Jesus of Nazareth had been crucified and had ascended into Heaven. It had seen the arrival of many of the other frescoes over the decades. I asked it if it had a favourite fresco and it replied that its favourite was the Tree of Jesse. It passed the time of day by inventing histories for all the people depicted there. I asked it to describe the church for me. It explained that this particular church was considered so special that the people from Unesco had declared it to be worthy of being nominated to cultural heritage status and that there were a total of ten such churches on the island. It personally had not visited any of the other churches, not wishing to know what the competition was, but it assured me that hearsay had it that the others were pretty good too, although of course, not in the same league as St Nicholas of the roofs. St Nicks had the added advantage of being situated in a woodland spot, not in the middle of some baking hot village in the middle of nowhere, although St John’s did benefit from the river running by. St John’s was also inhabited so there was a constant to-ing and fro-ing of resident monks, priests and visitors, which made life all the more interesting.

St Nicks, as it affectionately described its home, was also home to a large collection of icons. The icons were housed on an iconostasis (posh name for a wooden screen), but they were an arrogant lot – too much gold – and didn’t have much to do with the frescoes. The icons were actually convinced that they were the sole reason tourists visited the church. The cherubim sniffed in disgust at this. I could see its point. All that glitters is not gold. The icons were also considerably smaller than the frescoes and from their lofty perches looked down upon the frescoes. Poison comes in small packages they say and the cherubim didn’t have a good word to say for the icons, snooty lot that they were. They disregarded the frescoes, who were afraid of the light and lived in the dimmer recesses of the church. They didn’t wear rich clothes either, for their clothes, such as they were, were distinctly threadbare. No bright colours either, their colours having faded in successive washes as misguided restorers had sought to renew their colours. Nor were the frescoes decorated with silver or gold. What they did have however, was the detail with which their clothes had been painted and the liveliness of their facial expressions, particularly those who dwelt in Hell. The angelic ones, on the other hand looked stiff and uncomfortable. Who was to say which were the better off. My cherubim explained that it was perfectly happy where it was, on one of the columns just inside the entrance to the church so that it had a good vantage point from which to observe all the visitors to the church. On a good day, you might get half a dozen. The individual visitors were by far the best contributors, the coach tours were just rabble. All they wanted was to be able to boast about how many churches they’d visited and to buy a T-shirt. Sniff.

I asked why it was wearing a hooded cape. Oh that’s just a gimmick it replied handing me a business card on which I read the logo “Black Cape Enterprises. Flying Taxi Service. We take you beyond”. Beyond what, I wondered but thought “well I have already gone beyond my normal boundaries, so why not?”

Silky Oak Spirit Whispering

2005-11-18T23:44:00.000-08:00

I wandered out hoping to find a Silky Oak to talk to and lo and behold the Silky Oak Spirit came out, beckoning me to go inside her tree dwelling to unravel a mystery. Anyone else want to come to tea with the Silky Oak Spirit?

Silky Oak Calling

2005-11-18T15:19:00.000-08:00

As I sit in my room, taking some quiet time, I look out my window to see a huge Grevillea Robusta - a Silky Oak as it is called in Australia. For a few mornings it has been inviting me to put something on paper.

Oh silky oak, you've grown so tall.

As I sit here pondering,

I think of my neighbour Kris,

A forrester from Latvia.

In Australia, as a refugee

He left family - 2 daughters,

Not to hear of them

For many years.

Fear ruled his life,

Understandably so.

He loved his garden

And surrounded himself with trees.

He has long gone to rest,

And the legacy is left

For others to enjoy.

----------------

For most of the year

this tree stands rather dull,

Spikey rough branches

And leaves of a dull olive green.

It is not a deciduous tree,

But similar to the Eucalypt,

It sheds many leaves.

-------------------

In early spring, our back yard has a carpet

Of dead leaves which mulch the garden.

With strong gusts of wind,

The rich dark brown seed pods

Also fly into our garden.

Then amazingly in late spring

This tree bursts into colour,

It is covered with blossom

Of such a rich vibrant golden orange.

Today is rather a dull day

And it's colour appears irridescent.

Soon our back yard will have a

Carpet of soft golden yellow down.

------------------------

Oh Silky Oak what are you whispering to me?

For Questing

2005-11-18T06:39:00.000-08:00

BASKET of LIGHT

There is basket (some might call it that)
resting discarded (don't think abandoned)
woven of branches pruned (never windfalls)
from every tree I passed (and climbed a few)
in search of life and all. (thought I was just having fun)

It is safe from thee (and hopefully me)
and molding fears and tears (and other things unspoken)
that mingling with others (no offence)
might oft endure and gift (difficult to decide)
to my questing soul. (more heart than mind)

My inner light and spirit warmth (same as you and all)
used to hide out there (lift the edge a bit)
in a misty wooded glade (thanks for that )
so far from being found ( "to be" profound)
that lost had no meaning. (except by other's claim)

Now I just wander purposefully (questing mind akimbo)
open hand and heart on sleeve (perhaps should be reversed)
and whistle and sing and prance (just because I can)
for what I am need not hide (certainly not from me)
nor care what folks might think. (but listen close to feelings)

faucon

Vi's Birthday at the Gypsy Camp

2005-11-18T03:43:00.000-08:00

Lavengro is inviting one and all to attend the Gypsy Camp on Tuesday, November 22 for the culminating Festival of Lights event, Goddess Vi's birthday. Bring your offering of a poem, a picture or well wishes to the camp and join in the fun. There will be music and dancing and lights strung from tree to tree, from caravan to caravan. Let there be light!

Koschey and his Hench Allies

2005-11-18T02:55:00.000-08:00

Koschey the Immortal is on the prowl with his hench allies. He is on the look out for hapless slaves to work the Golden Spindle.

Oh I wish to to be that "Wise One"

2005-11-17T16:48:00.000-08:00

I am that aging crone
I do seek peace
I have been wise
I have been brave
I have been foolish
I now listen to the heart,my heart.

I was the Mother
Of the children
who cried for attention
No book gave me the answers
One gave,as a man now 43, but perhaps
not fully grown.
One gave only what she could,that was as
it had to be.

Being a Mother
Pressure to have siblings
Who delivered only results
I did none of this
But loving and acceptance is this not enough ?

When looking back life brings
joys untold
Untold till now
But worth a book of advice
At peace I be.
I am that woman I want and need to be
I would change little of my life now.

Lois (Muse of the Sea) 18/11/05

Elixirs

2005-11-15T03:40:00.000-08:00

Wise One

The child cries out for attention,
bound in a world of self and awe,
a need to touch and learn anew;
but watch the wise one, little friend,
who often speaks through silence
and hears what was never said.

The young man vainly struts his stuff,
bouncing from peer to fear and lost,
craving acceptance -- giving none;
yet watch the wise one, reckless lad,
who seeks no fine praise nor acclaim
and cares not ‘cept the Work is done.

The feckless maiden primps and preens,
forever changing clothes and mind,
sewing confusion – breaking hearts;
behold the wise one, simpering lass,
who draws no attention to self
and wears li’le but laughter and Light.

The mother laments her child’s dreams,
drawing them away from her home,
seeking other answers – doubting love;
finding the wise one, evernow,
who is but a mirror of truth
in which most will find only fear.

The aging crone regrets nothing,
each face line and scar a triumph,
defying the gods -- innocence;
sensing the wise one from afar,
spirits touching and caressing
for each remembers tomorrow.

The wise one hears between the notes,
each person a live melody,
ever rejoicing -- creation;
being what no one else can be,
doing what no other will choose,
and holds nothing – nothing at all.

The caring soul need not be wise,
nor brave nor strong nor profound,
gifting harmony – ever peace;
for the grand secret to wisdom
is already within your heart
and knowing who you really are.

papa

November Afternoon

2005-11-15T02:40:00.000-08:00

The city is looking much colder, stern and unforgiving. gone the careful more cheering days of summer. I can scarcely wait for spring. Please no-one tell me about the number of shopping days until Christmas. I'd sooner keep track of the number of days until spring.

Koschey Alchemy

2005-11-14T13:22:00.000-08:00

Koschey the Immortal has elixar's for every sitution.

Masques and masks

2005-11-11T09:39:00.000-08:00

"MASQUE" courtly form of dramatic spectacle, popular in England in the first half of the 17th cent. The masque developed from the early 16th-century disguising, or mummery, in which disguised guests bearing presents would break into a festival and then join with their hosts in a ceremonial dance. As the form evolved, the important elements retained were the use of the mask and the mingling of actors and spectators. Reaching its height in the early 17th cent., the masque became a magnificent and colorful spectacle, presented in public theaters and, with more splendor, in the royal courts. The actors personified pastoral and mythological figures, with great emphasis placed on music and dance. The foremost writer of the masque was Ben Jonson. However, it was his collaborator Inigo Jones, the theatrical architect, famous for his elaborate costume designs, settings, and scenic effects, who gave the masque its greatest popularity. Some of their more successful masques include The Masque of Blackness (1605) and Pleasure Reconciled to Virtue (1618).
from www.bartleby.com - the Colombia Encyclopaedia

Pandora is hoping to have some very special masks delivered in time for Baba's Bal Masqué.
Please put a picture of your mask and your costume into Pandora's Costume Box of Performances, together with anything you might wish to perform

The Candles Glow

2005-11-11T08:55:00.000-08:00

The candles glow.

They light my way
around the camp.

I walk from one to another
to another to another
and think and say a little prayer
for all who hurt this night.

The candles glow
and like a map
they show me where to go
to find my rest this night.

The candles glow.

They light my way
around the camp.

The candles glow.
I thank the Goddess for Her healing.
Now it's my turn to pray
for all those who hurt this night.

The candles glow.

Vi
©November 11, 2005

Up Early

2005-11-11T02:56:00.000-08:00

FRIDAY THOUGHT

I have often quoted,
"a man cannot learn what he does not know.
His mind has no room for which he is not prepared."
Now I can add another,
"a person will take away from any performance
whatever they most need or are most ready to receive."

Thus all 'teaching' is folly, and society's dictates
as to what a teacher, writer, manager is
is based on a false view of learning.

The best that one can do in such a role is create
the conditions (environment) in which one can teach themselves,
or at least explore the reach of their beliefs.

Perhaps, occasionally, one can 'plant the seed' of a new experience --
create a 'need' where one did not previously exist -- nudge spiritual growth.

Can it be that when a stranger comes to me and says, "why are you so happy?",
that I have accomplished more than all the classes I have ever taught?

That instead of speaking (teaching), if I just let a person know that they have truly been 'heard' that I can change their life? (correction - nurture their choice to change)

Hummm….

Among Anemones

2005-11-10T03:19:00.000-08:00

Sometime magic just happens, in a garden or in a box of pencils.

Ready for Baba's Masque Ball

2005-11-10T01:14:00.000-08:00

Koschey knows I hate clowns with a passion. So, of course, the wretch has insisted upon coming as a clown to the Masque Ball. Well you won't get me anywhere near him and I'd advise the rest of you to avoid him and that Party Punch he is in the habit of distributing all over the world. No wonder everyone is suffering from increased anxiety.

Eventide At Duwamish Bay

2005-11-09T18:45:00.000-08:00

This was one of the first stories I wrote for the Soul Food Cafe and I'm partial to this tale for several reasons: but like The Amazing Benandanti and Gone To Croatan you'll see the beginning shades of Duwamish Bay. Also I've done some editing on it so I thought I'd re-post it. Enjoy! AMM

Well, good evening to you and welcome! Come in, come in. Yes, that fog did come in fast tonight didn't it? Sometimes it just creeps up the bluff from the beach below and other times it moves as fast as a freight train, doesn't it?

As you can see I've added some things here at the Cafe, officially I'm a Curio Shop now and I'll be open each night at Eventide. That's twilight to you I guess.

So what shall it be tonight? A ghost story? Maybe a twisted tale of revenge or longing or greed? What? My story. Why not? It's a good one, if I don't say so myself.

Have a seat...I have to talk to the Management about those doors... they won't stay open and they're forever slamming themselves closed. Anyway, this is my story and why I'm here today...

When I was a girl, my grandfather owned a Curio Shop down at the Duwamish Bay Marina. You've probably heard of it. He had a genuine Egyptian Mummy, an electric chair and an old time embalming machine that's over six feet tall.

My favorite things were the shrunken heads he billed as genuine fake shrunken heads. He didn't feel like explaining where his sister in law got them. I'd sure be glad to tell you. She got them from her bush pilot days.

I always thought it was cool that I had the only grandmother on the block whose sister flew airplanes and could land them anywhere the ground was level. But it wasn't so cool when I found out exactly what she was flying. Mostly booze, some drugs, guns. Stuff you couldn't very well send through the mail.

One day she started flying around these little Islands in the Pacific. She never sent post cards from these trips. But she always brought back the coolest presents and once she brought back this little chest full of shrunken heads. Some were obviously very old and the hair on those little heads where jet-black. She had just come back from the Central Asia as well as the Pacific, so that wasn't surprising.

Then I saw some with red, blonde and light brown hair. Some even had traces of beards and mustaches. The looked almost brand new and smelled sort of funny. Like Lemons.

She saw me lift one and hold it up to the light and she said somewhat darkly, " See what happens when someone warns you to keep your head or else? "

I dangled the little head around, "or else " I whispered back.

My Grandfather, Cypriano, came into the room then and looked over our shoulders to see what Auntie had brought back. He was starting to expand his curio shop to what it is now and Auntie could be counted on to bring back some very interesting treasures. He looked down into the chest and pulled out about eight of the heads. Then he gently plucked the one from my fingers and dropped it into the chest. "

Bury it you fool, " he told her and then he left the room muttering to himself about being glad stupidity wasn't catchy, or hereditary.

" Auntie, " I asked " do you know how to make shrunken heads now? "

" You bet honey bunny. "

" Is it hard? " "

Nah, once you can stop the body from running around its super easy. "

******************************

So the Curio Shop grew, mostly the patrons in those early days were the people who lived around China Town. Then with the new Marina families started coming in from the suburbs on the weekends for a taste of life by shore. With that my Grandfather's shop grew from a dark old boathouse to a bigger darkened boat house with lots and lots of weird treasures lining the walls, dangling from the ceiling and set out on tables.

Then my Grandather expanded the ice cream shop out front. That use to be my favorite place because it was your traditional 1950's malt shop with a juke box and wonder of wonders, we owned it. He loved rock and roll and those funny songs from the 20's. So it was a nice place to eat and talk and make plans. Then you could walk through this little doorway (the frame itself as well as the door was once used in a court house where an infamous serial killer was held and he was suppose to have been shot trying to escape through this very door, you could still see the bullet holes) and there was the Curiosity Shop wrapped in shadows and filleted sunlight waiting to be explored.

It was exciting at the Marina in those early days because there were all sorts of fun places opening almost every day. There was even an amusement park owned by the Arima family that had a famous carousel with horses and mermaids and other fanciful creatures to ride. Each one was unique, each was original and Mrs. Arima and her brothers handcrafted them all. That's where I spent my childhood, and then the Mummy of the Priestess came to us.

That's really when things changed for everyone at the Marina.

*********************************

Auntie Akela drove up late one night, it was almost Midnight and she smelled very pleasant. Sort of a mix of Lavender and those thin Cuban cigars that she used to like to smoke. Plus, she smelled of gin.

"You've got to see what I've got Pualani, " she slurred as my Mother opened the door " it'll put hair on your chest."

I guess it's because my Mother had no desire to see hair on her chest that she called over her shoulder " Papa, it's for you. " She invited my Auntie in and discreetly guided her to a chair in the hall. " Where have you been Auntie? Everyone's been looking for you. "

"Oh? " she looked startled and a bit scared. " Look in the truck bed Cypriano."

"It's okay, it's the good every bodies, you know? " my Mother said before my Auntie could make for the back door.

Then my Grandfather came through the door with a body; at least I could see the outline of a body under a thin red shroud edged with gold embroidery.

Auntie Akela got up and pushed her thick black hair back behind her ears. She straightened her shirt and tucked it into blue jeans. Then she went to my grandfather and motioned for him to put the figure in his arms down on the couch. She pulled the shroud back from the face and motioned me forward.

"This is a Priestess and she was buried in the Temple of Bast. You can see where she was stabbed...it's a horrible wound in her back. Then they sewed her mouth so she couldn't talk in the next world shut and they tried to take her heart. They did these things to her when she was alive. See the cuts on her hands? She tried to fight them off. But the city she lived in is gone, the people are gone and all that is left of them is she. But look at her Sarah. She's still the most beautiful woman in the world. They couldn't take that from her."

It was very clear the Priestess had respect from my Auntie that she hardly, if ever gave to the living.

"How did you get her?" I asked in a whisper.

" Won her in a card game," Auntie Akela slurred in my ear" she told me too."

"That's how the Priestess of Bast came to Mountlake Terrace and found her place at the Marina.

**********************************

The Priestess soon replaced the Soda Fountain as my favorite part of the shop.

She had a very nice place in a glass case made of teak from a tree my grandfather cut down himself in the Philippines. He told me that a horrible demon had taken refuge in the tree and in order to get rid of it he cut the tree down to force the demon out. That's how he got the bite marks on his hand and back and that's how my Grandmother lost her eye.

The teak had remained in his garage until the Priestess came to us. It was a symbol of bravery to my Grandfather and he wanted to give at least that much to the Priestess.

My Grandfather even put a guest book by the Priestess where you could read signatures and messages from people who came from among the States and Canada, the Orient, Europe, Transylvania (my favorite) and just about every exotic place you could imagine. The guest book was back there so the Priestess would know that people were paying her respect thousands of years after her death. My family gave her that because after she came to us the Shop wasn't just successful; it had become a major tourist stop. The only one owned by a Filipino family, the only one that always seemed to be opened. No matter what time of the year or time of the day.

****************************

This part of my story about the Curiosity Shop is always the hardest part to tell. It is hard because it is the part where I have to explain how my family lost the Shop. It is about the day many of our friends and the people who had come to the Marina, with nothing more on their minds then looking forward to riding the Arima's Carousel or a trip to the Guzman's Ice Cream Shop to see the Mummy, never went home again.

The Fire at the Marina was supposed to have been started by a cigarette in a trashcan. That's how the legend went anyway. It burned down everything on the Marina that day.

It was just me and my Mom at the Shop the evening the fire broke out. I was stationed by the Priestess explaining the pros and cons of various candy bars, telling her the newest stories circulating about Auntie Akela (something about an angry wife with an ax) when all of the sudden the window behind us flooded with bright orange light. Then I heard my Mom scream my name from the parking lot at the side of the building. There was a terrible crash and the front of the building caved in and was replaced by a wall of flames.

The heat from the firewall in front of me singed my eyelashes and bangs right away. And I think my skin was beginning to blister when I heard the Priestess's glass case crack behind me. In fact, glass all over the shop was cracking and exploding. My little two headed calf disappeared behind running yellow flames that were racing along shelves and the rafters and the dangling shrunken heads burst into flames and looked exactly like little stars glowing along the ceiling.

Then the Priestess's case exploded behind me and before I was buried under a burning rafter, which had crashed at that point someone grabbed me by the hair on top of my head and snatched me back. It was a foreign voice I heard, it said my name and gentle, cool hands pulled me back and held me fast as the building burned and crashed around us. The voice was chanting something, part song, part incantation that I think was a prayer as the ceiling collapsed and the floor caved in and we both fell into the black water below the boathouse.

My Auntie Akela found the Princess and me across the street where the memorial plaque to the 800 people that died on the Marina that day is now. It's a pretty little park with chestnut trees and flowers and benches. There's even a little fishpond stocked with koi.

She found me, minus most of my hair sleeping under a tree. The Princess was leaning against the tree and somehow her ancient arms had unfolded and where now bent upwards, as if she had been carrying something. Her head was bowed and Auntie Akela saw that the dignity and even pride the ancient woman took to her tomb had been replaced with something else.

My Auntie found she couldn't face the Priestess, it seemed wrong to look her in the face at what was such a private moment.

*******************************

I woke up a week later and when I did my Grandmother asked me where I had been and I solemnly replied, " I was with the Priestess " and she nodded and left it at that. No one asked me about my Journey and it's not a story I'm ready to tell. Of all the stories here, the Priestess story haunts me the most.

My Grandfather rebuilt the Shop and my Auntie Akela once again took to the sky and went to the darkened jungles and secret alleyways that every town, no matter how normal and respectable it may look on the outside has. She brought back new treasures and new secrets and stories and in our new Shop we dutifully told each and displayed each and every one.

When my Grandfather died my Mother took over the Shop and you can go there to this day and buy your own shrunken heads, you can see pictures of a female pilot named Akela Guzman who was said to have fought a demon in hand to hand combat in the jungles of the Philippines and you can see her trophy from that adventure in a glass jar...a head of a man with horns and eyes like a snake. Some people swear you can see his eyes follow you as you cross the store.

But as a courtesy I can tell you the true story.

Auntie did take that head with her own two hands.

She got the head after my Grandmother somehow knew to be in an alley a few blocks away from the Marina one evening after the fire. Somehow she found the person responsible for all those deaths would be there, and that that no matter how loud he yelled no one would hear him.

The head was once attached to the body of a man named Lars Cranfield and he was a stranger. When they found his headless, un-robbed body with his ID still in his wallet no one came forward to claim him.

They ran his picture from the license and his last known address at the hotel for over a year in the papers and then his story faded away.

He's the man who never existed and you can hear stories about him around Terrace to this day. Apparently the money in his wallet, even the change in his pocket was minted with the same date. His ID was new and his wallet and clothes on his back and hanging in the closet of his hotel room were brand new. Most of the stuff still had sales tags on them.

"It's like he never existed until the day he was found in the Alley " the story goes.

My Grandmother, she was avenging the death of her friends and all of those people, when her sister took the head...it changed to what you can see now. She keeps it, she says, as a warning. It's near the main door on a pedestal, and you'd think it would be in a place where people couldn't touch it or tap on the glass. Only nobody does.

Ever.

And my Priestess, she's back in her case at the rear of the store. Educated people from all over the world visit her and have tried to learn her secrets. She is still quite beautiful and I like the way her head tilts down a little as if she's acknowledging you. Her hair, courtesy of my Grandmother and Mother is still bright and shinning because they put coconut oil in it at least once a month. They carefully dust her and keep the ornaments my Mother and Auntie Akela brought back from one of their rare trips together into Egypt where they discovered together the true identity of the Priestess polished and carefully arranged on her chest and arms.

When they came back they even put in a little indoor pond right near the Priestess and filled it with water lilies and other exotic water plants from places Auntie Akela traveled too. Some of those plants drive the botanist up the wall because they can't figure out where they came from. Or what they are.

Forensics experts who have studied the Princess, even x-rayed and done ultrasound's on her mummified remains can't explain why she's so well preserved. Being that she's held by human hands on a constant basis and is exposed to sea air 24 hours a day.

I still visit the Shop of course, but like my Aunt Akela I followed many strange and dark paths.

I've been to the Carpathian Mountains and I've seen the ruins of Pompeii and have heard the cries and whispers and pleas that some people mistake for the sounds of wind or echoes from the voices of tourists who visit this necropolis. I've seen the Pyramids and caves in South America where there is almost no air to breath, but there are the ruins of cities down there and I've learned those stories too. I've been stuck on roads in Africa and had to wait for a pride of lions to cross the road, I have seen dark places and light places and they all are here with me now.

And now I have my own little Shop here at the Cafe. I have my exotic books written in forgotten languages and the pictures in those books never look the same when you come back to them later. I have treasures that tell them stories. This is my own little Curio Shop and I'm glad you could visit.

Come back anytime and I'll be glad to tell you a story.

But it will have to be at Eventide.
© anita moscoso 2005

Can't build a carousel

2005-11-09T08:39:00.000-08:00

But I can build a swing ...

SWING

The tree may now stand silently at peace,
marking years in growth of strangling vine
and mem'ries of children's lost laughter,
pulsed with glee and fear upon the swing.

Sweep forward with reach of toes and yearning
to tickle pillowed clouds or winking star;
then back -- back with tight curled legs
in quick cycled loss of a youthful dream.

Aye, I found a limb at Sakin'el
that once had clutched long tether ropes
to anchor a young soul to Mother Earth,
yet still allow the spirit to fly.

I could build another, I suppose;
a wee bit sturdier perhaps
to allow for -- well -- age and all,
and weary feet closer to the ground.

Then again, I could share this past thrill
in many tales of the child within,
for memory needs no second chance
to create and nurture everbe.

The ever silent breeze will whisper
of the swing from 'till to yesteryear,
whenever I laugh in innocence,
and reach beyond my limits and fears.

Emotions fit to bottle

2005-11-09T03:24:00.000-08:00

Candles of hope at the Gypsy Camp...

2005-11-08T16:22:00.000-08:00

Nine days into Vi’s Festival of Lights, and every night the camp glowss with strings lanterns hung from wagon to wagon.

Not far from the camp there is an ancient well dedicated to the Magna Mater, the Great Mother. On a low stone wall overlooking the grotto, many candles have been lit. Pilgrims come every day to light candles for peace, for hope, for light in the world.

During this most special month, many of the candles have been dedicated to our Silk Road travellers, and candles have been lit for:

Vi, a sweet rose candle of thankfulness for her continued good health
For Heather and Darryl, a prayer candle lit constantly with love and hope
For AshleyShea and her brother Stan, a candle that lights the way for all who are in darkness
For Megan and her mother, a candle of healing memories
For Nessie and the girls, heart shaped candles from Lavengro, nestling in a bed of rosebuds

There are also candles for those who have been called away from the Silk Road by the pressures of the real world, a rainbow of candles for the artists…and so many more…everyone is welcome to light a candle here and place a dedication with it.

Musings of the Enchanting Carousel

2005-11-08T04:14:00.000-08:00

The Fitzgerald Carousel
(55 words each)

There are three ponies we may ride
when we choose the carousel --
or so we are taught to believe,
and thereby trust,
and cannot perceive
else but these as limits
of the universe --

but I'll play the game a bit
and explore the carousel
before the music
stops;
or the conductor asks
for a ticket.

…………………………………………………………………….

Our three steeds are androgynous
in sculpted form and cultural demand;
but we know differently --
that one is a stallion,
one a mare,
and the other not
of creation.

Their names were cast by ancients,
which we accept as
Spirit, Soul and Mind …
and may choose which steed is which --
which journey we may fly.

…………………………………………………………………………………..

If one were to look from without,
or perhaps from deep within;
the frozen legs in cycled prance
form a galloping race in thrine.
Yet all are locked in place
else steed and thee
would spin off to parts unknown
leaving, perhaps,
a ripple of discordance
in your wake.

Hang on tight!
Enjoy the ride.

……………………………………………………..

It may be wisdom or folly,
but I have a different view,
born of falling off a time or two …
the companions of the ride are
Spirit, Heart and Mind,
while Soul is the silver shaft
that hold us safe in balance --

but which is which …
a mystery to unravel,
or reality to then define??

……………………………………………………………

We may choose to ride the outer course
and yearn for the ring of dreams,
or dwell on the slower path
of contemplation and reflection --
closer to the pulsing engine.
a calliope unseen but known.

Yet the yearning Heart
must surely be in the center,
such that any impatient shift
must dwell there a while.

Carousel Memories

2005-11-08T02:48:00.000-08:00

Today I spent hours sitting with Darryl in the Oncology day ward as they dripped chemotherapy into his veins. As I sat I drew and we remembered the days when we were young and went to Luna Park together. The Carousel bought back memories of carefree days, of the giggle palace, mirror maze, river boat ride and old ghost train. These days we ride a far different carousel and wonder when the ride will end.

Wintra And Summra On The Silk Road

2005-11-06T16:58:00.000-08:00

Two of my friends insisted on leaving their home in Duwamish Bay because they're desperately searching for a cure to help a sick friend...this is the first of their adventures over the Silk Road. .

The two women wore a bright yellow dress and stood under a sign, hand painted by the finest painters from the Sideshow back home that read:

" We Buy, Sell and Trade in The Unique and Curious...please inquire within "

Jesse The Cyclops had designed it and his friend Caliban had painted it and the Twins were very proud of it for that reason alone.

" I wish the Benandanti was working here with us...She'd know how to liven things up " Wintra said to her conjoined twin Summra.

" Well, we’re not here to pull any theatrics, we're here to drum up some business for the Curiosity Shop back home. Things haven't been the same since Akela went looking for Livia...Akela’ s poor Mother just doesn't have the heart to run the place proper anymore. So it's up to us to find some inventory until things are back to normal. "

Summra looked up and down the Market Place stalls and she shook her head. " I don't think we're in the right place...Plus I'm not sure this is how you're suppose to stock the shop..."

Just then a woman with an armful of brightly colored fabrics folded neatly and smelling faintly of oranges raced by and then stopped dead in her tracks. The pile of cloth fell to the ground and she pointed a long bony finger at the shrunken head hanging from tents entranceway.

" Is that what I think it is? "

" I don't know, what do you think it is? " Summra asked.

Actually the Twins knew exactly what the woman was thinking, but unless you crossed their palms with silver they'd keep it to themselves.

The woman leaned over grabbed the fabrics and raced away, her face as dark and murderous looking as any vampire or ghoul that the twins had ever seen in their entire lives.

The Twins looked at each other and winced. " We didn't handle that well..." Summra whispered.

They turned to their table of wares and Wintra tapped on the Fiji Mermaids Jar but her eyes remained shut and the Twins knew the little Mermaid didn't like being so far away from home. They didn't either, but the Mermaid would always react to danger and the Twins had never been away from Duwamish Bay in their lives.

She was all they had to watch out for them here.

It surprised Wintra and Summra that no one stopped to ask about the little Mermaid in the jar. She had a wonderful story to tell...Couldn't all these people see that? And look, her little monkey face was sweet and kind. Didn't they see that either?

This Lumurian Archipelago was a strange place. That's what they'd heard...That's why they'd come here.

A little while later an older man walked back and forth in front of their stall before he finally walked in. " Is that a severed head in that jar? "

Summra told him, " No, its a peeled off face. We're willing to trade him for..."

But the man was gone.

" This isn't going well at all Wintra. What on earth are we going to do? If the Curiosity Shop doesn't get stock soon...Its going to die. Isn't it? "

Wintra reached for her Sister's hand and squeezed and they stood there...They stood there all day.

Alone.

© anita moscoso text 2005

Signs of Peace and Love

2005-11-04T17:44:00.000-08:00

Signs & Symptoms of Peace & Love

1. Tendency to think and act spontaneously rather than from fear based on past experiences.
2. An unmistakable ability to enjoy each moment
3. Loss of interest in judging other people.4. Loss of interest in judging self.
5. Loss of interest in interpreting the action of others
6. Loss of interest in conflict.
7. Loss of ability to worry (a very serious symptoms)
8. Contented feeling with others & nature.
9. Frequent attacks of smiling through the eyes from the heart
10. Increasing tendency to let things happen rather than make them happen.
11. Increased susceptibility to love extended by others, as well as the uncontrollable urge to extend it.
Please be advised that if you suffer from all or even one of the above symptoms,
your condition may be too far advanced to turn back.

Pegasus Views

2005-11-04T06:34:00.000-08:00

After considerations of comments, on and off blog
I stylized the one for the back cover and will use
the others as BW images inside.

Sparrow Girl - The Great Ape

2005-11-03T22:59:00.000-08:00

I must have been just shy of four years old. We lived in a modest apartment, in a very working class neighbourhood. You could tell a Dutch working class neighbourhood because the buildings were devoid of any character. Built just post war to quickly house the citizenry made homeless by the second world war. The nation was still poor from putting all collective resources into rebuilding it's cities and infrastructure. Wen by then, a decade or so after the war, certain goods were rationed. I would stand in line with my mother while she haggled with other women exchanging tobacco and sugar for coffee etc. It was nothing I was an part of. It was often cold, it rains a lot where I cam from.

We lived in a polder. Disconcertingly below sea level. Ours was one of the older apartment block, Bahrain Street. Much of this outlying area of Rotterdam was built in partnership with Shell Oil one of the larger employers. My father worked for Shell, first as a bottle washer in the labs, and at this time as a lab technician. He attended classes in Leiden. My dad was a tall lanky Dutchman. He suffered from baldness. This was not a natural baldness but one he had as a result of a refinery explosion at Shell. I did not know that or need to when I was only four. I thought that all fathers were bald, that how you could tell fathers from other men.

Other than Robbie Ringeling, the little boy who lived downstairs I had no contact with other kids. I lived my own little life close by the adults, I observed. I suppose I always felt removed. My dog was my good close friend. Cerbie was half chow, half wolf. He was noble and fiercely loyal. My father most especially loved animals, he was a farm boy and stayed a farm boy at heart. After the war he had maintained a volunteer status at the Rotterdam Zoo. The zoo was bed and needed foster homes for some of their inhabitants as well as the manual labour and fund raising. Dad occasionally brought one exotic creature or another home and I had almost limitless access to visits (as determined by my parents). I'd played with animals most kids only read about. Large tortoises, strange birds, meerkats (love those).

It must have been early spring or late winter. I was wearing a new pair of mittens. Red mittens with kittens on them and real bells that made a lovely cling-ting sound as I walked. My mother had put them on an idiot chord. She was phenomenal when it came to sewing, her stitches could hold a battleship together. My mother had handcrafted bras from old clothes at the end of the war, for herself and sold some others for food money. You have to admire the resourcefulness. My dad was always in charge of sewing on buttons, something he became very adept at while in the army, he'd done a two year stint as an army medic.

My father had talked excitedly about this zoo trip, the ape exhibit was opening and the zoo now had a resident Mandril. He had shown me pictures. I understood that these "apes" were very large and came from the jungle, in Africa. I was happy to hear that these awfully large fearsome looking beasts were not native to where I lived, otherwise I doubt I'd have been able to sleep, ever again.

It was one of those guided tours, the insider gala to open the exhibit. It all looked very barren, painted freshly white not at all like a jungle. It smelled a lot like my grandmother's chicken coop. I wondered naively if anyone every cleaned the place. I buried my face in mother's coat.
"Kijk Aletta (Look Aletta)", my father pointed at a very large cage on the right hand side. I sighed, this meant I had to look, even though I'd rather stay looking at the five or six meerkats playing "now you see me" behind a pane of glass. I thought I recognize one of them as a house guest we'd had.

It was hideous, I'd no idea why my parents would be so damn thrilled to see this big, albeit colourful beast. Its nostrils flared, it paced about nervously, knuckle dragging. Occasionally it would storm towards the cage wall and glare at the VIP crowd. The crowd was thrilled, nervous laughter, and big pompous men giving explanation. I was utterly bored. I hopped at bit foot to foot. Standing still is very hard on little children. I could have stood still, if I had meerkats to watch, but I'd as soon not look at the mandrill. My mind was quite made up that all such animals should stay in Africa and for my side of the bargain I intended never to venture into a jungle.

I'd made no note of the cage next to the mandrill. Many of the cages were still empty or animals were back in the private rooms at the back where they were fed, out of the public eye. So it neither came to my notice or anyone else's. The large red ape had sidled right up to the cage wall virtually next to the small crowd, still sharply focused on the noisy, larger than life antics of the mandril. It says something that it did not set off my fear alarm at all. My face was buried in my mother's coat, it filtered out the stink, and the mandril could not see me. My little fingers played with the bells on my mitten, I found the sound soothing, helped tune out the snarling ape.

There was the moment I was safely tucked into the coat, and then the next moment where I found myself righting myself, by myself, in the cage. The dirty stinking rotten ape had hold of my mitten, and managed with great force to pull me into the cage. I reached back. The crowd was gasping and shouting. My mom had managed to reach my hand, she held onto it firmly. She was brilliant. "She likes your mitten", she told me. Here you see the value of growing up in the midst of a war. She knew there was no ignoring this, and it was counter productive to raise my fear above what it already was.

I could see, looking at the great ape's eyes, that she did, in fact, want the mitten and not me. Unlike the mandril, this primate had kind eyes, and except for harshly pulling me into the cage with her, she meant no harm. lovely mitten.

"It is my mitten", the ape tilted it's head, trying I suppose, to understand. It stopped for a second. Then gave the mitten another tug. My mother was ready, she had my arm up high enough that the mitten could fly straight through, idiot chord and all. It was a good plan, but I was not having it. It was my damn mitten and she could not have it. My mother pleaded with "She wants it for her babies". Well, I could see she might have babies, she had breasts alright, so she was a mommy ape. With all my might I held on to the second mitten, the ape was walking away with the first one. Finally the chord snapped. I jumped back to my footing. I can quite recall exactly how it felt. My feet firmly planted, my little hands on my hips. I now yelled "that's my mitten, I want it back....NOW!"

I think I could have got the beast to comply, I was absolutely certain of it. I could have, but a zoo keeper cam in and snapped me off my feet and carried me out. Just one mitten left. I spent some considerable time in front of the orangutan cage, a safer distance away, both parents trying to make me feel safe. Actually I was not feeling unsafe at all. This ape was a sweet animal, a mommy, who wanted something nice. I'd noticed none of the zoo animals had toys and thought that was sad. The Orangutan was contentedly taking apart my mitten.

My mom couldn't find another mitten with bells on it. Mom also never put idiot chords on my mittens. I always have bells in my sewing kit. Every once in a while, some child dear to my heart receives a pair of mittens at Christmas, with little bells securely sewn on. I love the sound they make.

A handful of light

2005-11-03T15:23:00.000-08:00

A handful of light
Guides me through the darkness
To radiant dawn

Dream of Lights

2005-11-03T09:36:00.000-08:00

I awoke this morning, unsure if last evenings festivities were just a dream or if in some magic realm, they were reality. The music still resonated in my head and the swirling mass of colorful dancers passed before my eyes again and again, a twirling potpourri of light and shape. But there, neatly folded on the chair, was the silk shirt and pants that I had worn ... so it was true. I recalled dancing with the handsome Lavengro and my feet twitched in anticipation of more dancing. I stretched out on the bed, knowing it was time for me to get up but not ready yet to disrupt the memory.

A knock on the caravan door brought me into the moment. It was Jolina bringing me my breakfast. The tray was elegantly laid out with a colorful placemat and matching serviette. A beautifully brown egg sat in a china eggcup decorated with bunches of bluebells. Butter melted into the dark brown toast and a container of orange marmalade waited to release its rich flavor and set my taste buds to dancing. The aroma wafting from the silver coffee pot was enough to awaken even the sleepiest of revelers. If this is what they mean by the morning after, I thought. I could get used to it in a minute.

Jolina stacked the riotously colored pillows behind me so I could sit comfortably propped to enjoy my morning repast.

The festival was, they had told me, to last until my birthday on the twenty-second day of November. How did I come to be the one so honored? I was being treated as royalty despite being birthed a peasant.

After enjoying my breakfast I put the tray aside and got up and went to the door of the caravan. Holding my bluebell adorned coffee cup in both hands, I surveyed the central clearing. It was quiet now. The flames had been extinguished in the beautifully carved pumpkins … no jack-o- lanterns here … these were works of art exquisitely carved. They told stories of the universe and of fairy tales, princes and princesses, and magic creatures such as unicorns.

The main fire, I noticed, smoldered … its coals still alive, ready to be fanned into flame later. Although the camp had been crowded with revelers last night, there were few around this morning. Most, I assumed, were resting after such a night of frivolity.

I retreated into the interior of the caravan to dress and get ready to take my morning walk. This was just the beginning of a celebration, my celebration, and I was so honored.

Vi

More Lights for Vi

2005-11-03T03:06:00.000-08:00

postcards home

2005-11-03T00:57:00.000-08:00

Dear Mum and Dad,
just to let you know that I’m still travelling. I’ve been staying in a place called Duwamish for the last couple of weeks and last night a whole group of us met up to go to Vi’s festival of lights. We danced the night away. I don’t think I’ll be able to walk again for a couple of days. We should be moving off to the Amazon Queen’s camp in a week or so.

Dear husband of mine,
I m writing to tell you how much I am enjoying this creative adventure I’m on. I am rediscovering the joy of writing and cannot get the images in my head on to paper fast enough. There just aren’t enough hours in my day. Suffice to say I now carry a notebook with me all the time to write down my adventures and jot down ideas for pictures. I hope one day you will enjoy reading them as much as I have enjoyed writing them.

Duwamish chronicle

2005-11-03T00:55:00.000-08:00

Last night saw the annual celebration of the festival of lights, this time in the gypsy camp. Travellers from all points of the compass had assembled and Vi was the guest of honour to celebrate her recovery to good health.
Residents of Duwamish commented that this particular festival had produced some of the best music that had been heard for years. The local food suppliers complained that the shelves had been swept clear as if a horde of locusts had descended on the town but they happily jingled the resultant coins in their pockets. No arrests had been made although there were reports of very curious smells emanating from the woods. Sales of violins had apparently also increased.

Vi's festival of lights

2005-11-03T00:44:00.000-08:00

A hunter’s moon had risen earlier in the evening. Initially a deep orange as it appeared over the horizon, it was now the colour of clotted cream with indistinct patterns on it that could have been celestial landmasses. Moonlight flooded the woods and the autumn trees stood in silhouette, their leafless branches making a lacy tracery against the moon.

Lights of all descriptions had been hung in the trees round the glade. Huge pumpkins that had been hollowed out were placed in a large circle. These ones didn’t have the garish Halloween faces carved in them but lots of round holes in symmetric patterns, which allowed the light to spill out. Gourds, which had been hollowed out too and had patterns pierced in them, hung from branches.

A large trestle table had been set up in the centre. Covered in a white cloth, it was already groaning under the weight of the food that had been piled on it. All the gypsies in the camp had been busy cooking for days in preparation and a sharp spicy smell hung in the air.

In the camp the fires burned brightly casting shadows over the coloured wagons. At Lavengro’s suggestion, one of the gypsy women had gone with Vi to Pandora’s Wardrobe to help her choose something to wear for the evening. It had been a difficult choice and she was just putting the final touches to her costume. She now appeared at the top of the steps of the wagon. She was wearing long heavy silk pants, a long sleeved silk shirt, a jewelled waistcoat and jewelled slippers. A kerchief covered her hair edged with little golden coins and she also wore a large cape, which billowed as she moved.

She came carefully down the steps and immediately four children seemed to appear from nowhere. Each of them carried a lantern. A woman behind them carried a glass pitcher of water, which would be sprinkled in libation before the meal began. Other figures now drifted into the firelight and sounds of laughter filled the air together with a multitude of different accents. The firelight lit their faces and their gaily-coloured costumes for everyone had rummaged to the bottom of their clothes chests to get out their finery for this festival. The air was still and the fires burned with steady flames.

When everyone had assembled Lavengro called for silence and as the last chatter died down his strong voice resounded round the camp “welcome travellers one and all to this festival of lights for Vi”. Loud applause greeted this announcement. “We will proceed to the glade of enlightenment where we will make the blessing and give thanks. The meal will be followed by music and dancing. Michael will now play the proceeding song” and a man standing on his left shouldered his violin and bowed out the first notes. As the last notes faded away the crowd processed towards the glade and in the silence that followed only the night birds could be heard.

There was a gasp of awe from the children as they entered the glade and saw all the lights. They fanned out in a large circle around the table. The woman carrying the glass pitcher walked into the centre of the circle. She poured water first on the ground and then on her hands and threw the water up into the air, droplets spinning out in all directions. “For and with this water we give thanks for our food and for our lives”. Lavengro, taking Vi’s hands in his own and holding them up in the air, added “and for Vi." He clapped his hands and said, “let the feasting begin”.

There were purple figs, with their masses of red seeds gaping through slits in the skins, golden persimmons glowing in the light and fat dark dates. Stews flavoured with wild mushrooms, wild duck eggs, and a hot dry goat stew flavoured with red chillies vied with each other in the aromas they gave off. The Indian gypsies had provided mounds of sweetmeats, wrapped in the fine edible silver foil. There were baked apples with walnuts and cinnamon, desserts of wild damsons and jugs of ruby wine. The crowd fell to with a will and for a while, only the sound of people eating broke the silence that had descended over the glade.

At length, when all the food had been cleared away the crowd moved back to the camp for the music and dancing. As the feast was in Vi’s honour, Lavengro led her in the first dance – a slow, graceful dance involving lots of swirls, which showed off Vi’s costume. After that the dancing and music began to speed up and would get wilder later on. Carpets had been dragged out of the wagons and colourful cushions were piled up so that the non-dancers could sit and watch the fun.

The Enchantress was one of the first to get up and dance and looked stunning in her blue dress from Pandora’s wardrobe. Anita Marie had decided to wear her skin-tight black leather “Avengers” cat suit with black high-heeled boots, which unfortunately hindered her dancing as they stuck in the earth. Gail was wearing a flowing multi-tiered red skirt, a black top, gold hoop earrings and soft black shoes that seemed to be moulded to her feet. Karen was dressed in wood green and had garlands of wild flowers twisted in her hair. Monika, the hermitess, wore a pumpkin coloured gown with necklaces of seeds and Traveller wore a dress of green and purple, echoing the fluorite necklace she wore.

The musicians played their assortment of pipes, drums and stringed instruments until people could dance no more and their voices had grown hoarse from singing. Many hours later when the fires had burned down to embers the last musician wiped his violin and, wrapping it up in a soft cloth, walked slowly back to his wagon. A dog barked once and it, too, lay down to sleep.

Story from the golden bone chair - the woodcutter

2005-11-03T00:21:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time there was a village of woodcutters. It wasn't a large village but it was close to several forests and the inhabitants had naturally become woodcutters and had cut down trees for centuries. In the fullness of time, due to an increase in demand for wood, they had cleared the forest and replanted but the new trees had not grown well and now the woodcutters were all out of work. Only one forest remained untouched and legend had it that it was enchanted and therefore dangerous to go into; so nobody ever did. Some of the woodmen sought work elsewhere and some stayed and did other things and the village became very poor.

One day, a woodcutter travelling from another area, arrived in the village and saw the enchanted forest and did not understand why it was still there. The villagers patiently explained that the forest was enchanted and nobody dared enter it. The new arrival scoffed at this and thought he would have a bit of a laugh. He didn’t believe in enchanted forests so he made himself a grotesque mask and declared to the villagers that he would show them that he could go and cut down some trees and that nothing would happen to him. So he strode off to the forest. At the edge he put on his mask and walked in among the trees and, a short while later, strode out again. All the villagers, seeing his grotesque face, fled in terror. He thought this was hilarious and made his way into the village.

By now his face was getting sweaty from the heat of the mask so he walked up to the water fountain in the middle of the village and took off the mask to wash his face. When he looked in the water to wash his face, his face under the mask was exactly the same as the mask he had just removed.

Thank You To Our Guests...

2005-11-02T09:18:00.000-08:00

I would like to thank everyone who attended the 2005 Chamber of Horrors Halloween Party.

Now it's time to shut the doors for a little while...but you know, this place does have a life of its own...I would not forget that if I were you.

See you next year

Anita Marie
November 2, 2005

Pegasus Vote

2005-11-02T06:09:00.000-08:00

For those following the Pegasus Saga,
I am trying to select a backcover for the book.

Will any of these work??

faucon

Amazon Queen Arriving at Baba's

2005-11-02T04:38:00.000-08:00

The Amazon Queen has heard that Baba is organising the Advent Calendar this year and has 'all hands on deck'. So she has made haste to be at Baba's and help with the preperations. The Golden Spinning Wheel will be heard whirling late into the night.

SAMHAIN PRAYER AS I KNOW IT

2005-11-01T18:33:00.000-08:00

I know not the meaning of this Samhain Prayer
But it is of no matter
I can and will honour ancient ones
Ancestors whose names I
know not
Those whose path in life is part of my path
As Mother Earth and Father Sun wish it so
I am one of their children.
I am a sibling of the universe
To thank the seasons that grow the crops
Planted to feed the universe
Will these prayers be of use?
In future times, when crops will fail!
And the earth as we know it,
Will come to be in darkness forever.
I fear the veil is already too thin
To enhance our lives
We must learn from the past
"So it has been said"
"So it has been ignored"
We must not say.." So may it be".
For Faucon - Friend of this ,our precious earth.

Lois (Muse of the Sea) 2/11/005

unheeded

In the woods

2005-11-01T03:08:00.000-08:00

At Sakin'el, we encourage all forms of ritual practice
and spiritual exploration. Someone may hold a
sunrise Christian service in Court, or a wedding in Henge,
or a Bahi discussion group in our parlour, or ...

There is a small clearing in the woods out back --
sometimes guests will camp their, or a couple wish
a moment of quite escape.

Last night, a group called Serpent Stone
held a gathering there, with a later bonfire in our
Joining Circle. So that we were not 'spooked out' they
gave us this copy of a prayer they would offer.

SAMHAIN PRAYER
(written by MedicineHawk)

Holy Ones, Guardians, Sacred Ancestors:
Spirits of the Four Winds, Powers of the Seven Directions,
Hear Me!

For on this night, and in this place, Weâ€¦Weâ€¦We Are SerpentStone!

They who honor the Ancient Ones from whence they came,
By whatever names they might be known to us.

As the Earth is our Mother and our Father the Sun,
So we are their children; the children of the stars;
The siblings of the universe.

We gather here tonight to celebrate Samhain;
To celebrate the last harvest and to give thanks
to the Lord and Lady for the bounty they have
bestowed upon us, which will carry us through
the darkness of the winter shadowlands yet to come.

We gather here tonight, to honor the passing of the
old year and the beginning of the new. To discard
those things which no longer serve us and to embrace
those things which will enhance our growth.

We gather here tonight to pay special homage; to offer
tribute to those who have gone before us.

As the veil becomes thin, may they see by our deeds, as they know by our thoughts, that neither they nor their teachings have been forgotten.

So It Is Spoken; So Mote It Be!

One Year Ago Today

2005-10-30T10:30:00.000-08:00

One Year Ago on October 31, 2004 I posted my first story over at the Soul Food Cafe.

Since then I've done something I've always wanted to do which was write honest to goodness ( hee hee ) tales of the Weird and Supernatural.

More then anything I wanted to write stories like Rod Serling and Stephen King. I wanted people to gets glimpses of Vincent Price and Boris Karloff and Lon Chaney Jr. in my little stories.

This you know is all I've ever wanted to do, and you know being great or good at it doesn't matter anymore. I'm doing exactly what I should be doing.

And that's something a lot of people can go through their lives and never come close to.

I can't tell you how grateful I am for that.

So thanks to my friend Heather Blakey for giving me this chance and thanks to people who have said nice things and I even have a thanks to people who wanted to say something nasty and didn't.

Happy Halloween and don't let the bed-bugs bite...unless you're into that sort of
thing.

Anita Marie

A story of ...

2005-10-30T04:18:00.000-08:00

Today we are to post stories of ghosts,
and magick and enchantment an dreams.

Well, I don't know what this is. On our hall
at the Manor House of Sakin'el,
there is a small vial made of ivory,
hanging from a thong within an open
wooden cage. We never say anything about it
to guests, but if something strange happens, I say,
"You didn't touch that did you?" and they instantly
know to what I refer.

I hung it there after writing this story.

faucon
........................................................

Tear Circle

The wait had been interminable but the Shaman was finally spotted in the distance. The troubled father glanced again at his son, trembling, sweating, moaning. A malady unknown, but everyone knew it would be fatal unless the old man could help. The ancient form swayed and stroked with feather and smelled the labored breath. The he took the father aside.

The tearful man was named Sobda, but everyone affectionately called him the 'Hawk', partially because of his hooked nose and dark brows that spoke of some Turkic heritage, but also for his hunting skill. Now his only son lay near death and everyone mourned.

"This will be difficult, my son," the Shaman said, "But it is the only way. You must go to the Tear of Abdu!" The Hawk was able to disguise his fear. He prepared.

With two horses ridden in the Mongol way he rode for a day and a half. Then in a meadow he hobbled the horses near a stream and threw his horse blanket over a bush. He crawled beneath and slept in a curled ball. Later he hunted and gathered -- nuts, berries, a rabbit. He waited half a day in prayer and casual rest. Then they charged forth again. Five days from the start he arrived, more than 400 miles from home. He recognized the spot from a distance, up a slight slope beneath a ridge of rock. The color of the foliage was different and the trees grew at strange twisted angles from the ground. He stopped at a goodly space and crawled forward as he had been instructed.

Some claimed that there were energy lines around Mother Earth, and where they intersected nature was disturbed. Perhaps. But local myth told of a time that the Tengry were saddened by how man was defiling the land and wept, causing a time of great storms. One giant tear fell through to the ground and the spot was born. The name was ancient and no one knew that Abdu meant sorrow. As Sobda crawled carefully forth his mind reeled with confused thoughts of despair and joy, or birth and death, of doubt and trust. He had to continue on.

He wrapped his face in a silk cloth filled with fragrant fern and inched up to the spot. Hidden in its ring of dreadful trees the Tear was a carpet of pale green, perhaps five paces across. Perfectly round and smooth as a pond. He dare not tread upon it as the tiny dark leaves, five in number and overlapped would waft up a perfume from which he would not escape; so poisonous that there were no insects or birds above. The pale blush came from tiny clusters of white blossoms in the center -- no larger than the snowflakes children catch on their tongues. For these he had come.

He lay with his protective mask pressed into the dark earth and reached forth to pluck the flowers and place them in a silver tray. It took six hours to gather enough, inching around the circle and reaching out as far as he dared. Then he crept back and poured the stream of blossoms into a leather pouch that had been cured with honey. At a distance he washed repeatedly in a waterfall, plunging his fingers into the sand. The horses were close when he collapsed beneath a towering fir and slept. Later he gave prayerful thanks for his safety and began the terrible drive home.

The Shaman prepared an infusion of the flowers, mixed with other herbs to remove the bitterness. Then Sobda forced tiny sips into his son's quivering lips. Twelve hours later the fever broke and the child slept in peace. The Shaman gathered up his things and prepared to leave and placed a hand on the Hawk's shoulder with pride. "Your life will be changed forever," he said. The beaming father handed the old man the leather pouch as gift which still contained a measure of the seeds of life. The old man bowed and strode off into the dawn.

He had said that since time began the flower had been named in a language long forgotten. 'Shuletang'. It was a gift of Tears found in one spot on earth alone.

You can know that the name means 'Dust of Angels'.

The Party At The Chamber of Horrors Has Begun!

2005-10-29T08:10:00.000-07:00

Halloween is upon us and to start off the fest-er-tivities you could toddle over to these sites for a little bit of fun

http://blackdog.net/holiday/halloween/index.html

http://www.angelfire.com/id2/tower7/BwanaMuseum.htm

Then grab your lantern and say a prayer and head ( off...cackle cackle ) on over to the Chamber of Horrors and see what the Writers, Artists and Poets of the Soul Food Cafe have cooked up for you:

http://chaeve.blogspot.com/

My portraits to share

2005-10-28T09:40:00.000-07:00

Calling The Muses

2005-10-28T06:40:00.000-07:00

Baba's Spirit Servant and the Medusa are simply no match when I am with 'The Nine' and their beloved Pegasus. A simple call on my flute and the rustle of gowns may be heard all over the realm. Baba really should know when she is out classed.

Spirit Servant and Medusa

2005-10-26T23:12:00.000-07:00

Baba Yaga has brought in her Spirit Servant and the Medusa to avenge herself. Le Enchanteur can run but she will have trouble hiding from these two. Let's see how she gets herself out of this pickle. The Spirit Servant's plan is to capture her in a bottle and let her be a servant, at everyone's beck and call for awhile.

Brief Glory for le Enchanteur

2005-10-25T19:55:00.000-07:00

Baba said it 'would all end in tears' and right now she is far from happy. Le Enchanteur will need to watch her back because Baba is not someone to toy with. Turning Baba into a purple dragon is not one of le Enchanteur's better ideas, especially when Augustus and Moonbeam are playing out their hero archetypes. Could be interesting come Halloween!

Tree of Lost Letters - Hermitage

2005-10-25T05:18:00.000-07:00

This is a tree of lost letters. Seeing Halloween is coming up, the Hermitage is welcoming lost letters, so if you have a letter that was lost, this tree has caught them all. Feel free to write that letter and make it breathe new life. Even if you just think the letter, it might come to pass. The tree is for lost wishes that are captured by nature, and may come true one day.....

Gnomes and Goose-Bumps

2005-10-24T19:57:00.000-07:00

There was a good lot of squabbling out on my balcony last night. Yet, every time I was out there trying to find the source of disgruntlement I could find no one. I slept fitfully, my subconscious still trying to work out who might be jabbering out there and why.

Finally at about seven I could take no more. This time they were caught. Three unclothed gnomes with goose-bumps complaining about the night and "when are we getting those clothes we were promised anyway?" I was ten past tired and not willing to get into it right then right there. I would do something about it.

After grabbing another couple of hours of "lie down" and rest up, i grabbed the three naked gnomes and the one suited up and planted them inside where it was quite warm. Before I could paint them the goose-bumps would have to disappear.

I am in some part to blame for having ignored the balcony pretty much since the weather got colder. The continued blooming of the flowers, however kept me from thinking about impending winter. It really is quite amazing how much is still in full bloom and it is almost November.

After taking the dog for a walk I took out my paints. Gwendolyn had been the most vocal about being cold, something to the effect of "I'm freezing my tits off". In keeping with her temperament I dressed her in red. She practically jumped up and down with excitement when I held the mirror up so she could see. "Can I have red flowers in my hair? Pretty please." Well, how could I refuse, and off course shoes to match were next. Red was absolutely right for her. A white furry colour would keep her "tits" from freezing off.

Missy wanted a blue dress and purple fur trim. I was about to paint a matching set of blue shoes when she screamed at me "Stop, Aletta, mine should be red shoes too, I've always wanted red shoes." I could understand that, I've never met a girl or woman who did not want one pair of sparkling red shoes "just because". We rarely get them as little girls because red does not match enough of our daily wardrobes, it is frivolous and parents favour the sensible brown, navy or even white shoe. So Missy had her red shoes even though she hasn't any red clothes on. Her bright green hat is now trimmed in lilac fur to match the dress coat.

Paully had waited patiently for the girls to be dressed. He and Petey were enjoying the view of the two ladies dressing up. The girls seemed to appreciate the attention and it certainly wasn't rude so I kept myself to task and did not bring it up. "I like the white, could I keep the white hat?" I did my best to please and gave him what might best be described as a blend of reverse Santa and classic "commedia del arte" clowns. Looking bright eyed and warm he asked, "White shoes please." "No problem Paully."

"Ready to go back outside now?" All four replied in chorus "yes, please." Gnomes are very polite. I carried the four outside and sprayed them with a warm coat of glossy finish. "now you are rainproof as well." The little sparrows who live on my balcony chirped their admiration for the new duds. Not wanting to leave them behind in my attentions I remarked that their winter feathers were looking beautiful and extra fluffy this year.

I took another look a little while ago, their little shiny faces looked very happy and not one of them had goose bumps any more. "You won't be making noisy conversation tonight will you?" There was giggling and a resounding "No marm." So now I can contently put up my feet and know that I have not neglected those who depend on me.

Spells Abound

2005-10-24T06:14:00.000-07:00

Le Enchanteur and The Amazon Queen are down at the Archipelago practicing some spells for Halloween. Baba has flown away saying that 'it is all going to end in tears'. You would think she'd be happy to be turned into a purple dragon and not a common and garden green frog. Some people just cannot be pleased.

Little Brother

2005-10-24T04:01:00.000-07:00

A friend found a tiny baby rabbit,
abandoned -- hand small,
and tried to save it,
held against her chest and fed
with a milk dipped cloth --
but it was not to be ...

Her grief is disproportionate, perhaps,
but I wrote her this song --

Little Brother

Hoo - lee Hoo - le - ee
My bunnie gone no hunting.
Little brother nestle dear,
Heart to heart now pining.

Hoo - lee Hoo - le - ee
My spirit wanders with thee.
Hush -- hush furry brother;
Serpent-Sphere protects you.

Hoo - lee Hoo - le - ee
We are one and one again.
Fire bright, sing the night
Tears and years remember.

Hoo - lee Hoo - le - ee
Hoo -- hoo -- le - leee

faucon

Toadstools and tall birches,

2005-10-24T01:03:00.000-07:00

In all I see around me I sense another world full of delight and games I simply am too much of a grownup to see. I shall have to keep at it until I can see it too.

The tall birch stands in my sister's front yard and the toadstools in her shade, the shade of the tree of course, not my sister.

I am certain there are pixies giggling and making faces at me, because they can easily get away with it. Just wait, one day I shall catch them at it!

The Golden Bone Chair

2005-10-23T06:02:00.000-07:00

Baba Yaga brings out this designer, hand crafted, chair especially for Halloween and All Soul's Night. The idea is that travellers can take turns to sit on the chair and have five minutes in the spotlight as they perform for the crowd. Come October 30th - through to November 2 Baba is hoping that one by one travellers will take the golden seat and make a special presentation. Costumes and wigs are available in Pandora's Costume Box. Excuse drunken Silenus who can never miss a party. Hopefully the donkey is taking him away.

Spirit Tree

2005-10-20T19:52:00.000-07:00

This tree spottod on my way to the pharmacy looked as though there were a person or maybe two trapped inside.

Years End

2005-10-20T05:11:00.000-07:00

Some friends here of 'earth based' persuasion
are celebrating a new year;
and in a sense those 'down under'
are enjoying a rebirth Spring
of begining as well ...

Some thoughts to ponder, then --

faucon
.........................................................

Harvest Lament

Year past … in death

Let the bitter stalks of winter's nakedness
pierce the bubble of love's memories,
where joyful brushes of a blind pallet
scattered many carelessly lost leaves.

Cry -- cry -- yearn for me no longer,
nor rescue my crumpled form from
this discarded heap of broken laughter.
Leave to me this last dignity of
self-abusing spiritual dismay.

New year born …

Come again when lines writ on a new born moon
tell more of yearning than past regrets.
I will be waiting here, most quietly.
tracing longing in the timeless sand.

In ever growing dawn of Goddess wisdom,
where the promise of Spring's rebirth,
draws new friends and love abounding
to caress the past year's fading tears.

Is Mine

2005-10-19T05:06:00.000-07:00

Strange --
I never considered the 'voice' in "Not Mine"
to be other than female, with the writer
therefore being male. But then, I see
faerie goddesses everywhere.

When I posted this poem earlier on a Yahoo Group,
many felt it must have been written by a woman.
I never though passion for life was the province
of sexuality.

......................................................................

View from Beneath the Flow

I lay beneath the trembling waters of Shea,
caressed by the ever purifying cateracts
and dreams of creation caught in silent pools.

Find my 'memried toes tickled in the Goddess Sea,
with bold fingers of lighning's guiding Mistress tears,
down -- down to the golden sands of humanity.

Find me now in the whispered mists of dawn's delight
and silvered dew drops of love's yearning pain and joy
in which all life is reflected by the Father's gleam.

Pulse with me in roots and veins of this vibration;
send messages of Light to every particle
of flesh and mind and soul in life by right beheld.

And know that my spirit rests beneath the spring,
where everflows the song and laughter of birth --
or just a leaf swirling in an eddy of faith.

Pied Piper Archetype

2005-10-18T23:53:00.000-07:00

When le Enchanteur is in Pied Piper mode there is electricity in the air and Pegasus cannot resist coming to take someone with her, on the wings of imagination. Le Enchanteur is playing a tune that the hardiest of travellers will find hard to resist. Follow her and go for a night ride, beyond that Harvest Moon, with Pegasus. Pegasus will take you anywhere in the world. He is yours for the night.

Not Mine

2005-10-17T07:34:00.000-07:00

I saved it though ...

faucon

..................................................

Meadow Song

You brought dainty blossoms from the meadow--
tinged lavenders, white laces,
sun drops.

"Let's run to the meadow," you tempted.
"Let's stroll through the sweet fragrant field.
We'll roll in a bed of pink clover.
We'll frolic in patches of sun.
We'll flit flower to flower.
The bees will adore us....
O come!"

At first I held back, but you beckoned.
I reached for your hand; we were gone.
We danced on a carpet of sunshine.
We skipped through the tall meadow grass.
Our life was a lyric till night came.

And then you were gone....

You were gone.

Author unknown

Great Golden Oak

2005-10-17T01:57:00.000-07:00

A small piece of fall

2005-10-16T20:35:00.000-07:00

The video version of this is too large to paste here, but I will have it on my website by later this coming week. Minus the Chopin and multiples of colour, but still and all fairly representative. As dancer you just always want movement.

Harvest cheer dance

2005-10-16T07:52:00.000-07:00

I dance for the sheer joy of being alive, for the blue skies of the Indian summer we are currently enjoying and for the abundance of the hedgerows

Journalling archetypes

2005-10-15T21:15:00.000-07:00

Enjoying a cool change today. Went surfing and found this wonderful site where artist Linda Abbot has created cards based on Caroline Myss' book Sacred Contracts.

Inspired me to visit Caroline's site and learn about Sacred Contacts and the archetypes.

So I am creating my archetypes in my visual journal - above is the Crone. Wise older women have been a recurring archetype in my life, and the collage shows (my) aging hands holding the threads I have woven into what I still think of as a very rough piece of cloth (the yellow silk paper). But the hands are folded in the faithful belief that if I stand back far enough I can see what a beautiful tapestry it all makes.

The journalling reads: Crone - the fabric of a life.

Try it! It's fascinating - once you have discovered your archetypes you can journal them, make them into cards or paintings or whatever.

A Clutch of Hedgehogs

2005-10-14T21:54:00.000-07:00

I had a particularly stressful day dealing with the powers that be, and are, and sadly evermore shall be. so when I got home I really needed to unwind in the worst sort of way. Well, at the end of it I found I had created this clutch of hedgehogs and thought I would share.

To look just over and see what had occured when my consciousness was allowed to wander off the path and over to the side, well apparently my subconscious is just chock full of hedgehogs.

aletta

2005-10-14T17:53:00.000-07:00

The Amazon Queen showed off her riding skills at the Gypsy Camp.

Raven Guards Report to Amazon Queen

2005-10-13T05:01:00.000-07:00

Ravens have alerted the Amazon Queen, who is in her Summer Palace near the lake, that many travellers are on the road and that the Gypsies are camped quite close by. They have reported that le Enchanteur keeps opening the door to her realm and that the roads of the realm are busy.

Perfect Halloween Gifts

2005-10-12T21:23:00.000-07:00

Travellers who made their way to the House of the Serpents in August might well be interested in acquiring a serpent lamp stand, with three designer shades from Baba's Warehouse. Perfect gifts for Halloween and All Soul's Day. The foot, retrieved by one of Baba's knights, belongs to a traveller who didn't make it to the House of Serpents.

A different reality

2005-10-11T18:34:00.000-07:00

Whenever Two or More

There was a "grundle of people", or so my father would have said, `ceptin' he didn't much like milling throngs – and I do. Not that I enjoy the mindless shoving, smelly cloths, raucous laughteror pick-pockets, but there is a magick moment when a throng of friends – strangers becomes something more than what a headcount would offer. A crowd takes on a life and spirit of its own sometimes, and I watch for it – from afar – sitting in a tree or window sill. So I am well disposed to observe this particular gathering of silly folk come to see and hear Visone – you know, the wizard. Personally I wouldn't give a farthing for any expected magick or profound words or trembling predictions. I've seen `emall – Priests, and Princes, and Augers and Shaman. Never yet been disappointed – they all fail to live up to the myths that precede them. Enjoy the spectacle though! And the magick of the people –always that – real power and energy. Too bad there is always someone around to take credit, instead of two strangers meeting and saying, "I see you friend – want to make some magick?"

Now this Visone d-Ambrey might be different. He doesn't claim to be anything. Doesn't promise there will be any mystery or healing or magick at all! Yet these people have come from villages away to be here – for they know that something mystical will be happening – always does apparently. Guess if enough people believe in something it will happen – be created out of whole cloth perhaps. Down below I see a boy with but one leg – came quite a distance I would venture. Now that is magick I guess – and Visone isn't even here! I know others are attending hoping for some miracle too. Must place a lot of burden on a wizard though – wonder what he gets out of it? Maybe he steals magickal stuff from one group and gives it to another. Be all right, I imagine. Certainly if noise be a measure there is a lot of excess energy hereabouts. Oops! Something happening.

I had expected something more spectacular as means of transportation for this "man of our times and wonder!" Just a simple vegetable cart – one swayback horse – one slender girl leading it through the gesturing throng. There he sits – might as well be another turnip on the pile – dark grey woolen cloak, straw hat – sandals. Beside him I think I can make out a plain wooden staff and a leather rucksack. Would have thought him just another weary traveler – except! …

Without a word the crowd opened before the ambling child and closed immediately behind – might have been a flower floating in a pond –aimlessly – effortlessly. Surly the crowd decided the route the cart must follow -- understanding somehow the destination and speed – design or chance? The small parade wound across and about –through and back, and gradually silence replaced the mayhem and confusion. Some common will directed that each person of the hundreds there were close enough to touch the cart at some point –to help guide the wizard to the unknown but providential spot beneath the Hawthorne tree. No one spoke – yet the tall fell back and the small were lifted and all were in position to see Visone stand – nay rise such that all could see and sense and feel – the wizard had come!

I could feel the music too – but it came from the crowd, not he – and the tree branch filtered light danced loudly onthe faces of children – all were children. I was drawn to go down and walk amongst them – absorb their peace and faith, but …– then I saw her. Only a stooped, frail crone, shuffling throughout the crowd –unnoticed – of no importance at all. Yet her movement was a mirror of Vizone – a reverse parody of motion and posture. When he turned left, she drifted right. When the wizard raised his arm, she stooped low. When he moved, she stopped – or perhaps it was the other way around! Which was the puppet – which pulled the strings? Or was there more – or less than I could perceive? Three hundred eyes followed each gesture and sway of the wizard – save mine. Only I saw – beheld the magick! As the enigmatic woman passed every sick or frail child she dropped herbs into their cups or hands. She touched shoulder-drooped travelers and they stood straight. She whispered words into distracted ears and tears changed into smiles.I closed my eyes and attempted to enclose the ripple of energy that washed over and through and because of the gathered dreams and hopes and prayers. I could sense that this tiny lady was but the wand through which power and goodness flowed – yet not from the dynamic wizard so splendid there. What – where?-- then she saw me!-- the girl, I mean.

She was scarcely visible against the trunk of the tree, blending naturally into the shrubs and scattered leaves – and she was watching me – only me. Our eyes met –held --- embraced. Mine were surely wide with surprise. Hers were laughing – ancient – kind. I doubted that the crone could have such entrancing, embracing – all knowing pools of wisdom – golden eyes like a faun. But then …perhaps the shriveled old woman had the eyes of a maiden –learning – yearning! Finally the swirling pulse of kindness, passion and goodwill overcame me – I am lost!

Much later many stories of the day would confirm what I alone had seen. Tales were shared of the words the great Visone had spoken –but I am not sure he uttered a sound. More stories of small miracles – of awe and wonder filled the streets and taverns –everyone knew of someone healed, helped – encouraged by the wizard. Only I knew who the real wizard was – unseen – unknown – profound. Visone is very special, I suppose, to be able to gather and hold their attention that way – to allow their hearts and minds and souls to open – to get their attention – to prompt each person's magick into a flow of creation. But of her, the nameless one – oh I tremble! To be able to gather all that energy and love and direct it to the very essence of each person's needs. To be a beloved of the Gods and their instrument most assuredly – for man alone could not endure this awesome gift – and she – she is withering away – I know – I weep. Oh, that the girl had stayed!

As I looked across the empty meadow where what was is now done and well, I saw a faint trail of new flowers – growing to mark the way of the crone's passing. Deep furrows now betray where the cart had passed afterwards – perhaps burdened with the weight of the sorrows they had taken from the crowd. I followed. Outside the village the two traces joined – no three! The solid tracks of Visone – the flowered shuffling trail of the crone – and the dancing footsteps of the child.

The Staff, the Pouch and the Scroll as foretold.

Then they became one …

or so it seemed in the moonlight.

Soul Hand Servant

2005-10-10T15:26:00.000-07:00

By night this designer, Soul Hand Candle Holder, in Red Boots, will illuminate your manuscripts and art work. By day they will do the bidding of their owner and guide them safely to the Gypsy Camp. They will be a match for any of the indentured hands in Baba's house and will make sure their owner is protected from any unreasonable demands.

These hands will go to the highest bidder. Make the best, non monetary offer, to the Amazon Queen and she will command these hands become your servant.

Enchanted Realm - Lemurian Journeying

2005-10-10T05:54:00.000-07:00

When I first came by the Lemurian Abbey, and indeed the realm of Lemuria via the many patterned roads, I could see it in the distance, towering and full of dreams.

Since then, this place has gained mind pictures to its vistas, and experiences have been indelibly stamped in the various corners and turns of the roads. I see a smile in words from a fellow traveller, a word of advice from the elders, a helping hand from a raven, plants and flowers caressing the path wherever I go.

Wise words say we build our own reality. These days of strife test us to make a new book, to paint a new picture, to try out a new thought. To think deeply about places we have never been but are bidden by instinct to go.

Travel on, and build a new reality, one that values the finer things in life, sharing your dreams with all you meet on the road. Then Lemurian Realms will always be towering and beautiful, filled with dreams and adventures on the roads of the journey around the self.

copyright Monika Roleff 2005.

Attribution

2005-10-09T15:48:00.000-07:00

I asked Kiyan if he had an invocation
or affirmation that might help those
embracing self-appraisal of the Duuran
or other process ...
...............................................

he said, "this is akin to the oath
of the Angels of Sidon -- it should serve."

ATTRIBUTION

I invoke the breath of Universality
and the whispered Current of Ancients,
that my actions this day be a mirror
for what a person is meant to be,
that in kind shall I grow unto eternity.

Hear now the bold intent of (name),
servant to the task of (title),
and master of naught but self and soul.

Let my intent be crystal clear and visible,
that I may be accountable so in bond,
as INTEGRITY is a commitment and call.

Let me be ever known for VALOR true,
found in simple presence and compassion
not bound by projection or claimed judgment.

Grant that I bravely HONOR those
whose challenge cast light into the shadows
of my dread hubris and self-dilutions.

May I find such FORBEARANCE
as will hold my hand and tongue and ire
in balance with fine reasoned plan and spirit.

Engender WISDOM in my thoughts and speech,
distilled from the ripe grapes of knowledge
and the water of experienced sweat and tears.

As I be know by my heartfelt dance with others,
grace me with mirth and wit and laughter,
for to embrace HUMOR in all of humanity.

Above all, command that I gift selfless love,
expecting nothing in return for deed or boon
save respect for the attributes of creation.

Episode 9. Leaving Lemuria.

2005-10-09T10:33:00.000-07:00

For many moons I had lived in idyllic surroundings on my own island in the Lemurian Archipelago. I was blissfully unaware of any world other than the one which revolved around my own hard won and, in my own opinion anyhow,long overdue self indulgence. After all , wasn't that the way of things? Sophia my guide had intimated as much. ie first the fast then the feast ! and not the other way around.I had had a difficult jouney to reach here, had paid my respects to the White Owl! Now was well-earned payback time! My soul was soaring in its freedom like the eagles riding the summery thermals above.

The last day I spent on what I felt to be "my" island, started with the puzzling appearance on the horizon of a cloud very similar to the one which had hovered on the edge of the lake at Duwamish when I arrived with Sophia. It had been accompanied then by a chilly wind which whipped the waves and created crests on the lake. Now it seemed to be edging towards the island, ever so slowly, and again I wondered if the occasional flash was sunlight bouncing off the waves or perhaps, a streak of lightning.

Nevertheless I still revelled in my surroundings, its simplicity yet richness, enjoying a lifestyle available to only the very poor or the very rich. As evening came the moon rose. A full moon casting shadows through the trees and reflected in a silver stream across the lake. As for the past few months I fell into a deep and untroubled sleep.

It seemed only minutes when I was startled awake by a strong wind lashing the trees and accompanied by a banshee-like howl.The front door, or what passed for it, was flapping madly and I was afraid it would come off its hinges. Gathering a robe around me, I padded along the hall to the verandah trying to secure the door as I went. There on the verandah, rocking in my chair, and keening in a low and continual chant, was my old guide Sophia!Her eyes were closed and she seemed oblivious to my presence until I tentatively tapped her on the shoulder. Even then, the expression she greeted me with was one of glazed apprehension and fear.

" It's time to go home" she moaned, and rocked and would not listen to my protestations that I still had much to do. To see. Friends waiting at the Gypsy Camp. Banquets at..

" Adventures don't last forever" she admonished. " And" she whispered " there is evil afoot!"
Even as she spoke her gentle features dissolved and my dear friend morphed into a haggard harradine whose long bony arms reached towards me. A crone who was grey fom her lank hair flapping in the increasing wind,through the old coat pulled across her skeletal shoulders, to the gumboots on her feet. It was as if the ashes of the entire winter had been tossed over her. I screamed and pulled back in horror at this transformation.

" I am Sybil!' she uttered menacingly. " I have come to take you to a cave, a far far place where the sun is hidden and the daemons are gathering.They are waiting for you!" She cackled in anticipation. It was then I noticed two black ravens perched beside her.

Gathering my wits I tore off into the bracken, racing faster than I had ever thought possible. Along paths I had not noticed before as clouds scudded across the now setting moon and dimmed my way. The banshee howls seemed close behind, and I wondered how long before I would be overtaken and subdued.

On and on I ran, stumbled, plodded, and as dawn started to break the howls receded behind me and the wind appeared to be calming. Encouraged I pushed on until I entered a forest where a thick mist shrouded the landscape. The path became impenetrable and unnavigable. I was lost.

So it was that I sat and leant against a big tree to have a good cry and to try and sort out this dilemma. As I started to drift into an exhausted but hesitant sleep, again there was that hint of gum leaves in the air. The mist started to drift and then lift, and suddenly I recognised my surroundings. I was back where I had started, in my own garage, leaning against that wretched in - need- of-a-paint Roller Door!It was still early morning and sobbing with relief I found my way back into the still quiet house. The dog merely opened one eye to greet my reappearance. The computer screen was still...no sign of that dancing beam of light which had led me to a land and a life in some parallel universe. My only momento was the pixie cap stuffed in my robe.

I crept into bed beside my seemingly still sleeping partner and pondered over all that had happened. If indeed it had happened. It was such a relief to be back in my own predictable but satisfying and comfortable spot.To love and enjoy and....when the terrifying thought hit me...how would I ever know when I was safe again!

visit to the Lemurian archipelago

2005-10-09T07:24:00.000-07:00

The enchantress has waved her magic wand again and each of us now has an island in the Lemurian archipelago. Mine is called Laroc.

Yesterday I went to visit it. Alec, who had taken me to White Owl Island, very kindly agreed to take me there. As it happened it's close to where he had left some of his lobster pots so he was happy to take me as it gave him a chance to see if he had caught anything. The island is close to the mainland but not close enough to swim across to it nor to walk across the strand at low tide. It's small - you can walk round it in a couple of hours - but is home to a host of seabirds, a particularly rare vole and masses of wild flowers. There is only one small pebbly cove and a single white painted cottage with blue window frames sits huddled up under the cliff for protection from the occasional spells of bad weather.

Alec dropped me off and said he would return for me, after having checked his pots. The pebbles scrunched under my feet and brought back childhood memories of one particular Easter seaside holiday.

My parents had rented a holiday cottage at a place called Bee Sands on the North Devon Coast. We were quite a houseful with my parents, my younger sister and brother, three of our cousins and myself. I must have been about 12. The cottage was right on the beach, which was a shingle beach. I remember that the weather was not particularly kind to us but that didn't stop us from spending hours on the beach collecting shells, coloured pebbles and sea glass and returning to the cottage with our wellington boots full of water. They never had time to dry out before the next soaking and there was always a row of boots with newspaper stuck in them by the door. The cousins showed us endless card tricks and we spent a lot of time sketching. Cousin Robin went on to become a graphics artist and my sister is now a well-known watercolour and mixed media artist in the US. My brother and I, whilst we could both draw and paint, didn't possess the skill of our sister or of our cousin.

I looked down at my feet as I crossed the shingle and knew I could spend hours here, beachcombing, too. Coloured bits of glass caught my eye and I bent down to pick some of them up and tucked them away in one of my pockets. If I wrapped each piece in wire I could fashion a sort of necklace with them. I walked up the beach to the cottage and went in.

It was warm and dry inside. White painted walls and cheerful red and white checked curtains greeted me. There was a fireplace with a fire already laid in it, a table, a chair, a bed with a colourful patchwork quilt on it and a small cooking range. Someone must have been expecting me for the kettle was singing merrily on the hob and a china mug had been set out nearby. A stone jar, with a handwritten label marked "inspiration tea", contained a number of muslin bags with crushed dried leaves inside. I sniffed one but couldn't identify the smell. Even when I poured the boiling water over the little bag I didn't immediately recognise it. It was only when I had taken a couple of mouthfuls that I realised that it reminded me of cinammon and chocolate.

A driftwood sculpture - a sort of figure I guessed to be a representation of the spirit of the place with seaweed for its "hair" - hung on the wall and there was a pile of driftwood in a basket near the hearth.

I carried the mug of "inspiration tea" outside and sat on the bench, leaning back against the cottage wall. It was warm in the sunshine and I nearly dozed off. I would endeavour to return here to spend a couple of days in writing and contemplation, if I could, before we moved off to the camp of the Amazon queen.

High above me the gulls carried on an incessant chattering and squabbling, the black and white guillemots were lined up against the cliffs facing each other in serried ranks and I caught the occasional glimpse of a puffin - or sea parrot as it is affectionately known because of its huge multi-coloured beak. The island was mined with rabbit holes which were also home to the puffins and you had to tread carefully if you did not want to end up with a twisted ankle from catching your foot in one of these holes. Sea pinks covered the cliffs in their green pincushion tufts and the coconutty smell of the yellow gorse wafted over me.

I could hardly believe it when I heard Alec's shout announcing his arrival. I rinsed the mug out and replaced it in the kitchen, closed the door behind me and walked down the beach to the little boat. Alec had two glossy blue lobsters in the bottom of the boat and was pleased with his catch. I too was pleased with my catch and the inspiration tea was already bubbling away inside me.

Kiyan’s second Sounding

2005-10-08T21:51:00.000-07:00

Kiyan begins by saying `` The re-Casting of Second Sounding within the refined Lantern Matrix supports the impression of others that you are independent and can offer ‘pure’ advice, but that they will often fear your confidence - Actually, the danger they sense is that you may become consumed by an idea or dogma, which can lead to self-delusion. .”
I have often been consumed in this way, caught in the grip of obsession from which I have finally freed myself more because it became `old’ rather than a conscious, sensible decision on my part. I saw it for an illusion long before it lost its hold on me, but continued to cling to it. Why? Because I could not admit to myself that I had thrown away my time and energy.
Am I wiser now, and past that obsessional trait? I hope that I can recognise the signs of it, and step back before I get lost in the maze of my own emotions, but like a recovering alcoholic, one can never say one is truly free of it. It does make you question the certainty that `fate’ has a hand in it, and that you are at the mercy of forces greater than yourself, because that proves not to be the case. In the end, it is by your own motivation that you step back from the edge.

Of great interest is that the perceived qualities mentioned above are grounded in the INNATE plane rather than the more common CONCEPTUAL level. This could indicate that the ‘uneasiness’ others feel around you is because your thoughts appear to relate to unknown and even spiritual concepts, but are in fact based in ‘tribal memory’ and knowledge of ‘universal rules’.

Ah, now I feel completely at home with this piece of information. As I am required to examine what I would call my personal `code’ here, I would say `tribal memory’ has a lot to do with. I feel as if I am carrying some knowledge within me that comes as part of my basic equipment, and that it is this knowledge I draw on to know how to act or react in certain situations. It works in many ways – if you present a tribal person with some technology they have never seen before, they react as if it is magic – but it is only out of their experience. Confront the techie with some of the things the tribal person deals with calmly every day and you would see the same reaction.
So I feel instinctively as if this knowledge I draw on doesn’t always fit the situation – because much of it is out of my experience, or out of the experience of where the knowledge comes from. I used to think I was alone in this – but now I realise there are far more of us than I thought.

As I have worked through this extraordinary process I have been called upon to examine what I really feel, not what I believed I should feel, and to say what I mean, not what I think people would like to hear from me.
One of the most important discoveries, to me, is that I am not this thoughtful, measured, responsible person I hoped to become – I am an impulsive hothead who has dived in where angels fear to sink, who draws on something inside that even I do not fully comprehend, and no shining example to my children, but instead the instigator of their rebellion.
Of course, they have already told me that several times, but I ducked the responsibility of owning up to it. I pointed to a long line of rebellious souls in their lineage – I, I believed, was the one to bring order out of the chaos. Instead I have been one of its disciples.
Maybe now I am beginning to understand that it is not up to me to create this perfect hideaway from the world that I have envisaged. I offered myself as a channel to bring these people into the world to change things in their own way, not in my way. As I watch them scatter and go about their lives, I hurt inside, but I have to understand that I cannot keep them forever in the protection of the nest. Just a couple of nights ago I stood with my daughter and her family and said goodbye as they started the trip back home. I hugged my grandchildren and I felt as if my heart was being torn out of me. With the night sky above, and the diesel engine of their vehicle chugging, I was reminded of my youth, and the many night journeys we took as travellers. Always moving on, always saying goodbye to friends and family – but always carrying ties that have never broken in spite of the distances.
Just a day or so before, my own mother discovered she has a brother – she was adopted as a child and never knew him. Their joy at being reunited has opened my eyes and my heart to hope again – she will never meet her own mother (the adoption was not the fault of that poor lady) but from what my newly discovered uncle has said I think I know at last the identity of the angel who looks after this family. I have always felt there was an angel `riding on our shoulders’, a loving presence around us.
Faith has always been the bedrock of my existence – not a faith that relies on temples, churches or paraphernalia, but a simple belief in the rightness of things and the beauty of nature (all beauty, all love, has a wellspring, whatever name we give it). But it has been a shabby little thing trying to wave its ragged flag at half mast lately.

Kiyan in the second sounding points to a choice of outcomes -

Surprise! Nothing is static – there is no, “just sit and do nothing.” Within this range of comfort, you can either work to accentuate existing beliefs and skills; or work to shift from a belief base to a knowledge base.

The first offers a greater sense of soul and beauty, including discoveries of hidden beauties, sensitivity and power. However, the gain in `happiness’ may be balanced by a loss of `contentment’ and some relationships.

In the second case you are actually seeking ‘wisdom’. This will require you to re-evaluate your goals, value systems and ‘gut feelings’ on which you rely. The purpose is not to change them, but to put them in proper perspective as ‘working tools’ in your arsenal.

The major obstacle is the you were taught (and still believe) that spiritual solutions must be found in either greater belief in the ethereal or divine, or gaining some control of the Conceptual zone of magick, prayer, clairvoyance , etc. In truth, such spiritual answers can also be found in searching your 'tribal knowledge' and the basic Covenant between God and Humanity.
You must find WISDOM, which can only come from applied knowledge to PRACTICAL situations. As long as you remain grounded in believing instead of knowledge, such a shift cannot happen.

In truth, I had some time back realised the futility of trying to control the unknown through such applications as astrology and tarot and other forms of divination. However I still felt that my real problem is that I don’t believe enough, or have enough faith. I have always had conflict with the concept of manifesting, or asking the universe to deliver something specific – to my way of thinking its like the kids only turning up to see you when they want money. Aha, I thought, it doesn’t work for me because I don’t believe it enough.
But perhaps that is my innate knowledge making itself known – that way is not for me. My own simple faith is the way for me, with no strings attached, and no conditions of gain (give me this and I’ll believe in you) and evaluating again my skills of endurance, problem solving and acceptance.
I have not come to the end. What Kiyan has opened up is possible roads, not just one, and what he has done is remind me of who I am and why I do the things I do. I hope others who meet this wise man in the glade will feel encouraged to talk of the experience as well.
I feel the wind at my back. I know who I am, and I will ride the wind.

Gail

For Gail

2005-10-08T18:26:00.000-07:00

Everyone needs comfort occationally.

MORE ON THE SOUNDING Part 1

2005-10-07T19:18:00.000-07:00

I am posting more of my experiences with the first part of Kiyan's Sounding here. I have found this to be an extraordinary experience - it is like looking down past the layers into my own soul - I am asking truthful questions of myself and waiting for truthful answers. Sometimes my thoughts seem to be wandering in all directions, but I am responding to what I feel and letting odd memories bubble to the surface. I am in a labyrinth again, but one of my own making now, and I am beginning to see how I have I made it and why I made the choices I did, even if I felt later that they were wrong. I was being true to myself, but choices and outcomes become warped when you view them through a distorted reflection of what you think you should be rather than the pure reflection of who you really are.

MORE ON THE SOUNDING Part 1

This observation by Kiyan is quite startling in its truth and clarity:

Yet you do not trust your abilities in this 'magickal/prayer' level, and have lost your trust in PRACTICAL methods that used to work. You used to enjoy gentle competition and even 'battling wits' with friends and enemies. Now you are not sure it is worth the effort. Generally, you 'like' yourself, but do not like what you may have to become to deal with 'reality'.

The comment on `battling wits’ with friends and enemies and feeling that now it is `not worth the effort’ really resonated with me. Quite often, I feel that way now, and yes, at base, the reason for most of my unease is that I have reshaped myself to `fit in’ to be able to deal with the world the way it is – what I perceive, or have come to perceive, as `reality’.

How will I deal with this insight? What can I draw from it?

When my children were very young I made the decision to send them to regular school rather than home school. I had been home schooled and felt that, while I had learned to read and write better than any regular school student, I moved into the adult world with no real experience of what it would be like – lacking social skills, I believe is the phrase. Not lacking social skills in my own traveller world, you understand, but in the settled world, where I was to spend the rest of my life. I brought a traveller’s consciousness to the settled world, and it was very much like trying to fit a piece from a different jig saw puzzle. I remember once visiting the house of one of my daughter’s school friends. It was completely devoid of furniture. The family had a huge loan for the house and had no money left to furnish it. So they were waiting for the bank to agree to lend them more money so they could buy furniture.

More than anything, this was descriptive of the difference between my world and theirs. My father built our homes – our first home was an ex army ambulance that he converted into a motor home. Travellers didn’t deal with banks. They made things themselves. My husband was no carpenter, but he managed to craft up a pretty decent set of shelves and a coffee table when we needed them.

We taught this self sufficiency to the children, but we also needed they needed to understand the world they were growing up in. Our world was gone – they needed to learn to live in the world the way it is.

Another snapshot flash – my son at school sports day, talking to his teacher. Mothers in sneakers were running alongside their children, screaming encouragement or abuse, depending on whether the kid was in the lead or not.
``Where’s your mother?”
My son: ``Oh, she can’t run, she’s the one in high heels.”
My son loves this story, he laughs with affection at his crazy mother who turned up to sports day in high heels. This is the same son who likened me to a wild horse – with the same pride and love. A wild horse in high heels – how well he knows me!

Thinking back on all this now, I realize how worried I was that I `fit in’, that we all `fit in’ – just turning up to sports day at all was indicative of that. And I realize that it never worked. Today my kids say they are thankful for the self sufficiency lessons, not the algebra – for our encouragement – nay, our insistence – that they be accepting of all cultures and people who are `different’. Those are the friendships they still treasure.

For all my talk, I have never accepted the world `the way it is’ if the way it is is loaded with racism, violence and facist control of creativity. What I was actually doing was saying to my kids, `this is the world the way it is, we are here to change it’, something they clearly understood better than I did.

So thank you, Kiyan – I here and now firmly state that I have never, will never, don’t WANT to `fit in’, it’s not me and I don’t like the person I have to be to do it. All my problems about life are `fitting in’ with it, not understanding that I have to like who I am and what I do and have faith in my ability to make the right choices. I set that moment aside until I am pushed up against the edge and have to jump – and why is that? Not because I am an unfortunate soul who gets pushed around, but because I LIKE it – I like the reckless leap into the unknown, I continually put myself in situations where I have to do it. I have to know that about myself, embrace it and work with it.

Kiyan goes on to discuss the way I am perceived by others – as more powerful than I see myself. As I said before, that relates to the way I was brought up. We did solve our own problems, we did come up with solutions. That was how the people I come from lived their lives. It never occurred to me that people might see this as some strange `power’ and I was always disconcerted by the reactions – years ago, when I was doing astrology charts for people, I had one woman ringing me up all the time, saying things like, ``I’ve been invited out by someone, what sign’s the moon in, will it work out?” Oh for Heaven’s sake, just GO to the movies! I would tell them over and again that it was all in their own hands, that all I did was `speak’ astrology, like translating something from another language, and that it wouldn’t always make sense or be what they wanted to hear, and in the end I stopped. The woman I spoke of studied astrology herself and interpreted her findings the way she wanted them. That’s the problem – wanting a certain outcome and manipulating the information to fit. That again, is setting aside the responsibility for your own choices - `fate made me do it’.

Then, as they perceive (hope) for more that you can provide, they are sometimes disappointed and become withdrawn -- often for extended periods.

My pride may also be a factor here – when I was younger and more energetic, I tackled everything head on and refused to give in. Now I am older and often feel fed up with the fact that life is still unfair and I still have to pick up my cudgels against injustice, I also find it harder to come up with solutions. I am becoming, I fear, one of those annoying older people who think the young can’t figure it out for themselves. I must take a moment to stand back and let them take up the baton as well. Some of them have already done it and their frustration may be due to the fact that I don’t see how much they are doing on their own. Ouch, Kiyan, that one stings. But wasn’t that my mission all along – to pass it along. I laughed at my husband because he is an old lion grumbling about the younger ones not heeding his advice. It’s their world, I said. But I must stop sucking on my own paws.

FOLLOW -- the main thought to be gathered at this point from these Casters is that you will have a far greater impact on people than now and in the past.

I am a great fan of David Suzuki – I am taken with his concept of eldership and hope to attain that in my third age – there is so much to learn from animals and nature, I feel as if I am beginning again to appreciate and respect the natural world. Today I watched a white and a yellow butterfly dancing on the breeze – The elder tree outside is in full bloom and covered in white butterflies. When I was young my father would take me fishing and point out things in nature that I hadn’t noticed – a rabbit in the grass, a broken thrush’s egg. I did the same thing with my children, and now with my grandchildren – pointing out to them the small miracles around us every day.

I seem to be rambling but this is the train of thought this first sounding has set me on – that as an elder I have more to offer than advice, that it doesn’t matter if the kids know better how this thing works than I do, because I still have the ability to open their eyes to the small miracles. I sense a purpose and a mission here, maybe one I have had all along, and didn’t know it, but followed it anyway, by instinct.

Kiyan, I am going back outside to watch the butterflies. I will be thinking of you.

Gail

The Silk Road Tour

2005-10-06T16:30:00.000-07:00

At the moment we have quite a crowd who have come through the doorway into the world of the Soul Food Silk Road. The door to the cave is shutting and brambles are beginning to hide it from view again. Now only those who are on blogger lists will be able to participate (a few people are still listed to be signed in.)

Once you come through the door and are sent on your way you will find yourself in a labyrinth and people are at different points of the labyrinth. Only le Enchanteur and Baba Yaga have been to the centre and visited the Amazon Queen but eventually everyone will find their way to her summer palace on the lake overlooking Nemi. They will do this in their own time frame and not on a tour bus.

It is totally up to the individual to explore this realm but le Enchanteur does provide a guided tour which you can follow. Experienced travellers are unlikely to go back to the same spots all over again but they may want to revisit places. Gail Kavanagh is welcoming everyone at the Gypsy Camp. This does not mean she does the journey again any more than Fran, the Donkey Secretary will tread more leather down all the pathways. These early travellers found places to call home within the Silk Road and that is the primary object. You are not all meant to walk in continuous circles. The joureney is an organic thing that keeps evolving and changing. It is not static.

If experienced travellers can lend a hand and help new travellers find places and post their work so that they are archived this would be wonderful. Everyone is currently enroute to Baba's house but not everyone will make it there by the most direct route. We have so many blogs because many are acting as archives once visitors have gone. White Owl Island is a lovely place to visit and you will find the original instructions at the beginning of the blogger.

At the moment I am trying to complile a sequential journey at Soul Food Silk Way Tours so that if people get lost and need to orientate themselves they can go and check what the outline is.

Faerie Enlarged

2005-10-06T07:19:00.000-07:00

Traditional Irish Wake at the Gypsy Camp

2005-10-05T06:38:00.000-07:00

All the travellers on their way to the Gypsy Camp are invited to take part in a traditional Irish Wake to celebrate the life of Megan's mother.The dear lady will be celebrated with song, story and poems. The Gypsy Chief will sing the traditional Wake song The Parting Glass.

Fairy Dress

2005-10-05T05:56:00.000-07:00

Stanley - Le Enchanteur's Ventriloquist Doll

2005-10-05T04:12:00.000-07:00

le Enchanteur is not a ventriloquist of any note. Stanley is her companion as she heads off to see her old friend Baba Yaga. Knowing Stanley there could be a few detours on this trip. Meanwhile everyone in the Gypsy Camp is enjoying Stanley and the Chief is currently reading 'Ventriloquism for Dummies' which he picked up at a second hand bookshop on the road.

Found Something

2005-10-04T17:58:00.000-07:00

My young friend Bradley found something while we were raking leaves.

faucon

To Baba Yaga's House

2005-10-04T16:02:00.000-07:00

Baba sits waiting in front of her house on chicken legs, hands out reached, beseeching travellers to come and help make this year's All Saints Day and Halloween a real success.

Everyone gathers, expectant inside the Cave of the Enchantress.

The Enchantress comes and announces that we have to go to the House of Baba Yaga and help prepare for Halloween and All Saint's Day. She says that to reach the House of Baba Yaga we will have to pass through the Mountains of Myrrh, which the writer of the Song of Solomon (1V6) said he wanted to retreat to.

The Enchantress provides each person with a small bag. Each bag contains spectacles, a candlestick, a tiny anchor, a compass, a medallion with the imprint of the Unicorn and a set of wings. However, the bag also contains something that has been chosen specifically for the recipient. It also contains a map showing where the Gypsies are currently camped

This bag is very important. Should you become separated from the group these things will become essential. You may choose to wear the spectacles for they are purported to have fairy like qualities which reveal wonders to those who wear them.

The Enchantress also gives you a doll. (Find a doll or make one) Her final words are to use the things we have in our bags and that if we should lose our way, or be in need of help, all we have to do is ask the doll what to do. She says that the doll will assist, that we must keep her with us at all times, that we must not tell anyone we meet about her and that we must feed her when she is hungry and give her drinks if she is thirsty. She tells us that we must travel by donkey and that it will take many days before we reach the house of Baba Yaga

You greet your doll and introduce yourself and when you look up again everyone has gone.

What is it with everyone rushing off like this? The doll says that you have to go through the woods. She assures you that she will know how to get there. Having read all your fairy stories you realise that going to Baba Yaga's could prove interesting.

Baba Yaga is the fearsome creature, the crooked woman whose nose is hooked like a bird of prey. Her name means 'to know, to see, to forsee' and she is the seer associated with the moon crescent. The Baba Yaga has the power to transform herself into a myriad of shapes, often a toad, sometimes a hedgehog, frequently a bird. The Baba Yaga is often depicted as an evil old hag who eats humans, especially children, but she is known by many to be a wise, prophetic old woman. In appearance she is tall, bony legged, pointy headed and has dishevelled hair.

Worse the doll informs you that the hut she lives in has a fence around it made of human bones and topped with human skulls and eyes intact. The gate is fastened with human legs and arms instead of bolts and a mouth with sharp teeth serves as the lock.

According to the doll, who seems to be a font of information, one person who lived to tell the story said that "she commands the sun and it obeys her, she changes the stars in their course, she causes clouds to form in the air and makes it possible to walk on them and travel the country. She can turn herself into a young woman and then, in a twinkling of an eye turn herself back into an old woman. She has to the power to turn a man into an animal and she likes to move freely along roads and valleys and over mountains. Her business is to cast spells, gather herbs and stones, make pacts and agreements."

Bravely you head out from the Cave on the back of a donkey that insisted you ride upon her. (Make sure to check with Donkey's Incorporated to see that the donkey is registered).

The donkey tells you her name and talks to you about the coming journey. Within moments you find yourself within a heavily wooded forest. Gnarled branches spread their long arms across the path, whispering as you pass.

The words of the Enchantress ring in your ears and you touch your bag to make sure it is still with you. Everyone is quiet and contemplative and the hooves of the donkey seem to be beating a tune as you travel on the well worn path.

Suddenly the quiet is shattered. A group of hooded riders surround you. Chaos breaks out. Before you know it you are being whisked away by hooded riders who do not reveal their identity.

All you know is that there is purported to be a Gypsy Camp in the vicinity and you hope you will find it. Maybe your doll can help you. One thing is certain! There will be hell to play if you don't arrive at Baba's house in time to make yourself useful as she prepares for the festival.

The Amazon Queen has arrived at Baba's to plan for All Soul's Night on November 2nd. It may be a month away but all hands will need to be on deck to make sure it is a success. Baba's Soul Hands, upon hearing this, appear to listen to what the Queen and Baba are planning.

Maybe if you can reach the Gypsy Camp you will be able to encourage the Gypsies to take you to the House of Baba Yaga.

Find a way to the Gypsy Camp and sit by the camp fire and tell the Gypsy Chief about your journey. It would be a good idea to prepare so that you can provide a song or dance or tarot reading for the Gypsies who are gathered there. If you need some costumes remember to check out Pandora's Wardrobe for useful items.

The Gypsy Camp is on full alert. Travellers are coming on donkey back along the Silk Road, headed towards Baba Yaga's. The Gypsy Chief has suggested we ask the Hooded Riders to snatch the unsuspecting ones and bring them to the camp for an 'initiation' into the ways of the Romanyi.

Enigma of Leaves

2005-10-04T03:37:00.000-07:00

It is fall here -- time to rake leaves.
This story has a touch of my grandfather ...

faucon

........................................................................

TASK OF GOLD

Overnight the few scattered fall leaves had turned into a golden carpet, almost hiding the still lush green lawns. It was too soon to think of raking, of course, since most of the giant cottonwoods still held two-thirds of their treasures. It seemed strange, then, to see old Don out amongst the drifting, spinning leaves; arranging them slowly, but steadily into small piles.

He surely was pushing 90, yet only the ill-fitting clothes betrayed any change to a massive frame. Straight shoulders pulled tightly at the straps of his ancient overalls. Brown forearms thrust contentedly from the rolled up sleeves of his flannel shirt and rippled with lean muscles in tune with the mechanical rhythm of the rake. His full head of snowy, wavy hair was only partially hidden by a billed cap with pull-down earflaps. His gnarled hands gripped the tool handle firmly and did not reveal the creeping arthritis that only now was beginning to give him concern. Were he a carved statue of stone -- see there a testament to a life of hard work, early hours and simple living. But the statue moved, out of place here in the city perhaps, but naturally rooted to the earth wherever he stood. Don whistled loudly a melody none of the passersby recognized. Hurry -- scurry. Tall buildings were distantly faint and masked by the hedgerows. Steadily the piles of leaves settled, calmed, grew. “The kids think I’m losing my grip,” he mumbled out loud.

The old man had moved in with his great-grand daughter, Ann, two years earlier when his beloved Mary had been placed to rest. There was certainly room in the overlarge, restored mansion where he kept his own rooms clean and tidy. Yet he felt out of place, and the neighbors that morning would certainly agree he looked out of place - out of time.

He thought of his wife often, recalling now how much she had loved the fall. How she couldn’t wait to dash in the woods and kick up the leaves, marveling at the rusty rainbow hues and newfound aromas of the harvest. Many times it was still warm enough for a little frolicking in the trees. "What would Paul say if he knew he had been conceived in a pile of leaves?” he mumbled inwardly. Then he caught himself in mid thought. “I hear the word ‘senile’ now from the corners of the room. Isn’t it amazing? They think because I can’t always hear well - that I never hear well. ‘Senile?’ That just means they don’t want to hear what I have to say! Wisdom is wasted on the young.”

Don chuckled for a while and a passing jogger glared haughtily as she ducked to dodge the end of the erratic rake handle. A smallish boy looked wistfully at a golden pile near the walk and thought of kicking through it, then glanced at the figure looming threateningly above him and thought again. This giant only laughed, rested his chin on the tool handle, and nodded. It took little time to gather up the leaves once more. No one saw or shared this brief joining of young and old; but years later the giggling lad, now himself a business giant, would remember, again and again. And the soft golden leaves continued to rain down. Endless! Do leaves bounce, or merely resist the end of a brief, joyful life?

“I wasn’t much bigger than that,” mused the whistling worker, “when Mom jobbed me out to rake up Dr. Samson’s back yard. It looked half the size of a football field, beautiful in its golden spread. Why me? Very intimidating - awed. I remember just standing for a space, trying to decide how to attack this challenge. Obviously the leaves couldn’t just be gathered into one huge pile, and a brief experiment showed that drawing the leaves along for only 5 feet became impossible. It was fun, actually, to try different methods of raking the problem into small piles. Do you stand in the middle and bring the leaves to your feet? Or walk in a circle and rake to the center? Or divide the leaves into small rows first, then sweep them into piles? Oh, how surprised I was when I had attempted every imaginable variation, looked back, and discovered that the job was done!"

Don’s progress had reached to beneath a spreading sycamore where the feather lightness of the slightly darker offerings caused them to fly high in the air. Escape was not possible! The experienced farmer changed his pace and the rhythm of his tune without a conscious thought. But also came a conscious decision to change his grip and reach out with a greater span. Scrape - whisk - step.

A flash of color! “You’ll just have to do it again next week,” panted a mark-time jogger at the corner. Don amusedly watched the parting figure slog across the street.

“If you didn’t live on fast-food and three Martini lunches you wouldn’t have to run that fat ass around the park again next week,” muttered Don to himself. Then he thought, “They complain about my mumbling. What would they say if I spoke out loud? What a ridiculous outfit! Maroon sweatshirt, yellow pants, enormous black and green running shoes. He looks like Granny Goose! No, I will not have to rake these leaves again next week, you fool. I get to come out and rake up new leaves next Sunday.”

His neatly arranged mounds had brought him to the peach tree and the small, slender leaves began to gall the tines of the rake. A small flash of irritation was balance by the memory of the delicious fruit he had enjoyed each morning on his daily “constitutional.”

“Each tree’s leaves are like my children. They look about the same yet their nature is very different. Their effect on me over the years has certainly been different. Oh, that I could have helped arrange their lives in such ordered rows,” he sighed. “But then, I guess it was necessary for them to learn how to solve the golden field problem in their own way.”

“You should get a leaf blower, Don. Be a lot easier,” called Sam as he passed to his home down the block. Trudge-trudge.

Don stared after the pudgy figure and thought, “You would be more of a rake if you used a rake,” then laughed out loud at his own wit. With his head thrown back he noticed the grouping of branches forty feet above in the towering tree. “Boy what a tree house Martin and I could have built up there. In such a fortress from the world I could just dream and plan and write. What of today? What would I create?”

The pace of the flashing tines did not slow, but the whistling ceased as the aging mind flashed back a score of years. The lips moved silently while trying out difficult phrases. He stopped for a while and struck a pose. With a smile, he called out in a sure voice, not caring who he disturbed,

“The tree weeps golden dreams,
together they drift and fall;
each a prayer or song.”

By then he had coursed and coaxed the smaller piles into a great collection in the corner of the yard and leaned back against a trunk to rest. A middle aged man - thick glasses - rumpled suit - paused on his way to the bus stop and unkindly announced, “I hope I never grow old.” Don only smiled inwardly, silently watching the neighbor scurry off to his job as assistant accountant for the great law firm of Groden, Klink & Winkle.

Grandpa Don eyed his completed golden heap for a moment. Then, suddenly, with a short dash he spun about and collapsed in the completed pile. Leaves scattered and pranced across the grass. Again they had a chance to escape! Roll childishly about. Toss golden messages toward the waiting, beaconing sky. Lay still beneath a spinning cloud. Down -- down.

“Heavens,” exclaimed a passing woman. “Did people act this way in your day?”

As Don lay back in the ruined pile to watch new leaves shower golden splendor on the cleanly swept grass, a loud cry erupted. “This is my day, you idiot!” And he laughed, and laughed and laughed.

Enigma of Trees - Photo Take 2

2005-10-04T01:41:00.000-07:00

Posted this on Lemurian Mysteries in July this year and didn't have a pic; now there is one to show the growth that was going on, and is continuing, a great team!

We saw today, toward the end of our walk in the Botanic Gardens, something that surprised us. It was an old cypress pine, one of the original ones from the mid nineteenth century, and its trunk was old and stiff. Yet its growth was still green. Last year in summer there had been a storm, knocking down some older trees whose roots had done their work, and since then new ones were planted amongst the many surviving ones. But this one was very old and had appeared to have found a mate.

In David Suzuki and Wayne Grady's latest book called simply "Tree", there are many facts that indicate trees in forests "commune", not just in groups, but communicate, in order to preserve the good of the whole. They share root space and nutrients, across large areas of land, for they know they protect the life that depends on them for survival, the birds, insects, animals and also the understory from the ravages of too much sun. Trees actually link through their root systems, swap nutrients, and grow to accommodate each other.

This old cypress had a brand new growth, and we wondered what it was. It curved its smooth trunk up close, from the earth, right up the knarly older trunk, as if it were a ballast. The top of it was green with fresh Moreton Bay Fig leaves, nestled in a cheek to cheek dance with the older tree, quarter way up its tall height. These trees share space with the Cypress Trees and have done so for over a century. It seemed a courteous arrangement for the younger shoot to oblige the older one, lending a hand to the trunk which we saw, on closer examination, had been damaged where a branch had broken off, perhaps from the summer storms. The tree had been in danger of falling over completely because of the missing branch.

Seemed to us this is what life is all about -- and the enigma of trees.

copyright Monika Roleff 2005.

Glory of the morning

2005-10-03T05:08:00.000-07:00

Though now 'full growed',
I still can roll on the grass
and look up at the flowers.

Writ last weekend

faucon
.......................................................

The Morning Glories

There are places on the earth where men are not welcome.
Some are too auster -- forbidding,
shaped of claw and tooth, bare bones or dragon scales,
such that life cannot sustain there.
Others are too sacred -- hallowed,
kissed by faerie lights, knowing breeze or birthing dew,
such that most men never find them.

Then there are those rare smiling spots,
dimples in the laughing face of God,
where words like snuggle, amble and “bye ‘n bye”
sit easy like welcome shade on a bright spirit afternoon.

You will rightly know such a place when you chance by,
for man’s gentle touch does but carress
the open invitation of ole lady nature.
Rough cut boards are weathered gray,
and vines allowed to hold up angles fences,
while tiny flowers of natural found,
smile up at asure morning-glories.

Show me the man who will allow the weed
and the woman who would plant the flower --
each with a right to praise life and all,
and you will find laughter by the stream,
and prayers rising with the bluish smoke,
and trails that remember lover’s walking hand in hand.

Go there, rest there --
be now one with peace and simple wonder.
Find ye a hollow with hemlock and maple,
scramble grass and forever berries,
and crickit dreams and flutter-byes --
and the blue eyes of glory in the morning.

Discovery

2005-10-02T08:33:00.000-07:00

found picture of faucon as a baby

Amazon Queen and Baba Plan All Soul's Day

2005-10-02T05:24:00.000-07:00

The Amazon Queen has arrived at Baba's to plan for All Soul's Night on November 2nd. It may be a month away but all hands will need to be on deck to make sure it is a success. Baba's Soul Hands, upon hearing this, appear to listen to what the Queen and Baba are planning.