“a pleasure out of the ordinary allowed to oneself: the luxury of an extra piece of cake or a foolish or worthless form of self-indulgence: the luxury of self-pity”
When I think of the time years ago when I walked away from the freedom to create by the means of so many different mediums, I cry. For this was a constant flux of luxury and I was abandoned from it. I became the coyote on the street of survival where anything that might ascend to a crescendo of creative luxury was sacrificed to those things needed as food, water, and a place to live.
The white bird of inspiration lit up the sky.
I asked Coyote, “What joy, inspiration and spirituality…shall I ascend with the bird?”
This is when I saw Coyote jump up and kill the bright bird. She dragged it back to her home in the tree. A large sideways hollow tree trunk where her babes awaited their food.
“Oh, I see you are a mother and in need of food.”
“Yes, I am sorry to shock you but sometimes the luxury of our inspirations must be sacrificed for those we love or care for. We must balance sacredness with irrelevance. “
At times like these there is no time for the luxury of an extra piece of cake or the luxury of self-pity because we simply blend into the fabric of life as responsibility. This is doing what we must to survive.
After years of creative abandonment, a bright bird has come back to sit on my shoulder To stay and live with me! This luxury or creativity is abundantly ascending. I move with the crescendo and I eat my cake and cry my tears of self-pity.
Bear tells me to never give up!
These are the mediums and luxuries of my life I will never ever, no way, give up again!
“Sit with us around the fire tonight dear sister. Let us throw our worries and fears into the flame and watch them burn.”
“Bear, I always look forward to your inward pull and the call of your cold nights.”
Bear replied, “Autumn’s creativity is a luxury but we must earn it, and fight for it, and when we least expect it… it is freely given.”
Wild In The Streets Limited Edition on Colored Vinyl
In the heat of the summer better call out a plumber turn on the steam pipe cool me off
Limited Edition on Colored Vinyl Spring 1980
Produced by Robbie Fields Mastered by Richard Simpson
It is the last day of August 2013 and the weather is unbearable humid and hot. Yet here in California I don’t need to remind you of this. It sucks…nor do I need to remind you of the lyrics to this 45 by the infamous California punk band the Circle Jerks. I say bad is good in their case. This is the Circle Jerks first recording session in the Spring of 1980. It is nice to have this 45. It is like having a treasure but really the treasure was living it years ago and its memory still shines in my heart… beat, beat beat…WILD!!!
wild,wild,wild,wild, wild running, running wild Mrs. America, how’s your favorite son? do you care just what he’s done? no!
Rings of a tree are the chapters that tell the story of a tree’s life. They live a very long time. They sleep alive unconsciously but very dependent and receptive to the physical and spiral world around them. As their physical body sways in the wind their vital body takes in life assimilates; while also being involved in the process of letting go of life: excretion.
Photosynthesis and carbon dioxide is the life of a tree. We are very dependent on trees for their processes of life. We have a physical body and a vital body too, but unlike trees we can walk, talk, and cut them down.
Hecate in general is the ancient goddess of maiden, mother, and crone. She represents the three rings of a woman’s life. Not all women take this path and some men do it better than women, I am now on the third ring. The three rings do spiral around like a tree and blend. Yet, there is a definite stage for each ring.
The image below describes the story of my life. Collectively, consciously, and unconsciously I have grown with these three different rings of life.
If one could dive into any one of the three rings of my life, they would find a different person.
Youth or maidenhood was irresponsible, wild, and free… her life seemed to go on forever.
Motherhood is when my children taught me responsibility, joy, and love.
Crone-hood is teaching me how to be enduring, respect others, to know what real friendship is and what community is,
Life is precious and every moment counts for something.
I invite other women, and men, to create a three-ring image of themselves… for those who have lived as long….
This prompt is an interesting one. Promoting me is one of the most uncomfortable things for me to do. I will try. I like my smile and my creativity. I like the watercolors I create and the children I created. I like my body. It gives me pleasure. I like that I am an intuitive and that I perceive synchronicity. I like myself when I am on WordPress because it helps me to write and make new friends. I’M an honorable and fiery character that can be trusted. I stand up for what I believe and this helps me to feel good about myself. I just learned that the pain we hold in our bellies is not always a bad thing. I am happy that I struggle with the pain of being an independent thinker. I am a purple wild flower and I like the scent I give to the world.
“I have seen the dark universe yawning Where the black planets roll without aim, Where they roll in their horror unheeded, Without knowledge, or luster, or name.” ― H.P. Lovecraft
One impression from my childhood was of the invisible monster. This is how I remember the monster which is my first impression from my macabre youth.
The whirlwind went round & around. As a child I watched it while sitting on the concrete steps. Was a monster in the whirlwind? All week the kids talked ’bout the monster. They were chasing the monster. They were running from the monster. This week was the week of the monster. A pack of kids from the neighborhood grabbed me. I was encircled by them. We ran down the hills. We hung from the trees. We dug for thin white crystals deep in the earth. Playing, laughter and stories filled our days. One of the kids said,
“There over there, there it is the monster!” They were all now pointing their fingers at something I could not see.
“Where, where?” I yelled.
Then I ran with the others to the safety of a home.
Gales of wind and rain outlined the monster while looking out the windows. The storm ended and we all raced outside. Our rain boots left footsteps in the mud. A child yelled,
“Look I found a large footprint. The monster is here the monster is here too!”
We all looked at it and yelled. We all ran down the muddy dirt road. We ran by some trees. As we passed the trees a strange coolness ran through me. These were the same eerie and cold pepper trees that were always moving, was this the place where the monster lived?
Another impression from my macabre youth is an image based within a story told to me by Gigi. She was my best friend at eight. On Friday we walked down to Gary’s market on Topanga Blvd and for 25 cents each of us got a bag of candy. This would fill a pillowcase and was a must for our Friday night sleepovers. There were only two channels to watch on Saturday mornings on TV. It was either cartoons or scary movies. We watched The Werewolf, Frankenstein, and The Mummy. Gigi’s room was on the other side of the single-story house, which was far away from her parents, giving us a lot of privacy and time together. Gigi had a fantastic way of telling stories. I did not talk much so I was always listening to her narratives. This is the one that made a deep impression on me. Etched, inked, and printed in my memories.
Gigi’s Story.
All the lights were out in the house. There was a thunderstorm over the valley. The light of the thunder lit up the rooms. The trees scraped the windows. The howling of the wind blew past the house. I was all alone and walked into the kitchen to turn on the lights for a glass of water. The lights were not working. Then … then I noticed a shadow outside the kitchen window. I hid behind a curtain. I saw nothing. My parents were coming home soon. They did come home with lots of candles and some food. We lit the candles and had our supper. My brother and I were then put to bed. Later that night I heard more scratching and scraping on the windows and could not sleep. I got up to get another glass of water when I stopped and listened. I heard a scratch at the front door. It got louder and louder. I had to pass the door to get to my parent’s room. I walked very slowly, very gently as a cat. I stopped breathing as I looked at the door. It was open and I felt the cold from outside. The only thing holding the door from opening was a gold chain lock. I closed my eyes and continued to walk. I had to take one more look before I burst into my parent’s bedroom. There before my gaze was a long black strand of hair and hands pushing at the door. The fingers glowed white with long fingernails.
The last impression that I will share here to you the reader is a about a place that still mystifies me. I don’t remember how Linda, Gigi and I found out about the fairy land. It was a couple of miles up the-hill from where we lived. It was on a very round mound surrounded by eucalyptus and pepper trees.
Our trek took us past many homes while walking up a winding country road. We would sneak away to go there. We kept this place to ourselves. We only visited there a few times as children and lost interest as we grew older. I think at 11 years old we may have visited it about five times in the month of Autumn. I noticed, while passing a few homes on the way, women looked out of their windows at us. The neighborhood caught on to our journeys to the hill. We knew this. It was a magic place to be protected.
A path led us up a hill to a small church. There was also a small house and a watermill on the side of this structure. A large waterwheel was part of this without any water to move it. We often strolled over a broken wooden bridge that arched over a dry stream bed. A miniature deep empty swimming pool was found as we walked down stone filled steps. Here was placed a large statue or totem pole. Strange faces were engraved on this that frightened us. We took long moments to wonder about these things. Funny, the buildings here were built for people smaller than 11-year-old girls. It was a magical place, we imagined, just for us. We played and dreamed in our fairy land.
The fairy land still haunts me. We never thought to take pictures of this enchanted place. Which is now gone. Bulldozed over with new homes placed upon it hiding its magic secrets. Yet, cameras and cellphones were not an option back then. The only likenesses are here in my mind.
This ends my three impressions from my macabre youth. Stories told by an adult about a time “without knowledge, or luster, or name.” No Mr. Lovecraft I disagree there is a luster for me still each time I remember!
Mornings are foggy now.
I take the kid to school, I have my coffee, and I do my chores. To day it is different.
I took the trash out. I hear laughing. An echo of laughter in the foggy morning.
I look round and see a shadow about three-feet tall. Then like a wisp of the wind a little green man is in front of me
He has a green hat and green pants. His shoes are black and his coat-tail is purple. He pulls at my leg. He wants me to follow him to the others. I see others dancing and laughing. I join them. He now holds up a gold cup.
“Drink me lavender beer. From the lavender that grows under the pole, near the hole in the ground, ” said the green gnome.
I took a sniff. It smelled like lavender.
I then noticed the laughter stopped. The were all looking at me, waiting for me to drink.
I have read many a fairy tale to know that one should be very cautious about drinking anything from a gnome or fairy. Long silence. I will drink.
“This tastes very good. I love beer. I must say I never knew about lavender beer.”
Then I awoke in my living room. I was on the couch and the cats were sleeping ’round me. Looking out the French windows the fog lifted and the rays of the sun highlighted the lavender.
Fin
I read this to my son.
“Did this really happen?” He said.
“Maybe it did and maybe it didn’t !” I replied.
The Seminary of Praying Mantis Publishing 
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