Saturday, October 03, 2015

Things Could Be Worse

Reincarnation is a popular idea in some circles. I've written about past life regression before, most recently back in July and further back in 2006.

Just a brief reminder: I read Tarot cards. One of the things I can do in a reading is explore who you were in previous incarnations. I've done this for others and myself, coming up with stories of lives lived in other bodies and places. We can change gender and culture and time periods.

We break away an essence of ourselves from the collective soul or spirit when we need a certain experience. We manifest a body, test our fortitude and then go back from whence we came.

Unlike so many people I've met, I was never Cleopatra, Queen Elizabeth or King Arthur. People like to think they are special. It seems I've never been famous or important although I have thrown a wrench in other people's plans.

In dark age Britain, serfs were tied to the land. They were born, lived and died in the same small place. A serf's role in life was fixed and ridged and people knew where they stood. You did what your father and his father before him did. If your grand-father tilled the soil, you tilled the soil. Very few people broke the mold.

Around the year 900 AD, in Saxon England, I was a male serf born to a family of cow herders. While my grandfather and my father milked cows, father flaunted tradition by naming me Nod. Even so, I milked cows. I herded them to their pastures. I followed the plan until I saw the falconer at work when I was eight. From that point on, I got in trouble for ignoring my tasks in favor of watching the falconer. I even managed to assist him on occasion. I had a gift, a talent, with the birds.

Our Lord loved falcon hunting so much, that when the falconer died unexpectedly of a fever, leaving no son or apprentice, the Overlord raised me up. I was thirteen. I was in heaven.

Until three years later when I met the Lord's daughter, Leofflaed and we fell in love.

She, like most daughters of the time, was betrothed to an older man in furtherance of her father's ambitions. I was drunk on my success in rising above my station. I could do anything. I could save her.

We made plans to run away. Neither of us knew where exactly we would go as we had never been beyond the borders of our manor. We packed food and clothing and prepared to escape on foot. We left one dark night in June. We were quickly caught.

Since she was defiled, she was purged, then sent to a cloistered convent where she died in childbirth. My son became a rather important priest.

I was dragged back to the manor, strapped to a large log with a hawk caged on my stomach. I was pecked to death over the period of four days as an example to my fellow man.

* * *

LEOFFLÆD - f (Anglo-Saxon) Beloved beauty.
NOÐ - m (Anglo-Saxon) Bold, daring.

Friday, October 02, 2015


We have a ghost in our house. 

I kid you not.

I used to see and hear things all of the time when I was younger. I had imaginary and invisible friends. Of course, I had no idea they weren't real because they were real. Around the age of fifteen, I started ignoring the sights and sounds. I was deathly afraid I had schizophrenia. Denial is a perfectly good coping mechanism. They were always still there - I'd see them out of the corner of my eye as they traipsed through the room, or they would call out to each other when I was home alone. For the next fifteen years, I refused to acknowledge their place in the world but they refused to be locked away like your strange Aunt Myrtle.

Now, these things, these beings just are. 

When we bought this house, April 1, 2006, and moved in, I knew there was an old man who came with the building. I didn't really think anything of it. He was just there. He hangs out mostly by the front door and by the refrigerator. He's the originally owner who died in the house. He has wispy white hair, stubble on his chin and is dressed in well-worn denim work clothes, loose, baggy and comfortable. He doesn't speak so I don't know his name. I guess I could find out if I asked people in the neighborhood but its not necessary for either of us that I know what he was called when he lived here.

I had confirmation of his existence because my dog, Cody, would stare at the spots whenever he came to visit. My grandson has also expressed his awareness of the ghost.

While I find these experiences fascinating, I haven't yet figured out what good seeing and hearing things that aren't there is to anyone. No one asks me to send them on, even if I believed there is a different place to go. I know there's all kinds of places and times, but I'm not a Ghost Whisperer. And I think they are perfectly capable of going wherever they want. Existence is very flexible. And I haven't run into anyone filled with animosity for me, like they want to take over my soul or something. So, I've never been sure of what I should do with this information except to just know about it.

It has just dawned on me as I write this post that I have never tried to engage any of these beings. Like the wasps that buzzed around me as I played in the North Carolina sand, they were just there. They never approached me with their stingers drawn. Perhaps I should make an effort to speak to one of them. I wouldn't even have to perform a ritual to call one up since they're already here. I don't even know if they are all dead people or if some of them are like demons. I could ask. What's the worst that could happen? 

My ears hear: Spirit in the Night by Bruce Springsteen

Thursday, October 01, 2015

31 Days of Weird

Rabbit, Rabbit.

There's this thing called Write31Days where you write and post everyday in October based on some theme of your choice. I hesitate to make another everyday commitment as I've pretty much accepted the fact that I suck at that sort of thing. As soon as I say I'm going to do something everyday, the rebel rears its ugly head and you can count on the fact that it ain't gonna happen. Hey, but I'm nothing if not a sucker for punishment and soul searing disappointment. Let the fun begin.

I'm going to write on weird things I've experienced. I figure this will be a good theme for October. There will be no editing except for spelling errors, if I catch them. I'm shooting for a stream of conscientiousness kind of thing.

Maybe you will have experienced some of the things I will tell you about. If so, great, neither of us are alone. If you haven't and you think I deserve a white padded room, please remember I'm a writer and I'm lying.

I'm going to call these things essays. I like the idea of being an essayist. I don't really know what an essay is but like poetry, I find the concept romantic and I wanna do it even though I haven't a clue as to what's going on.

Since the bunnies in my drawing are dead from an arrow through their hearts, today's theme will be on one aspect of death.

My mother died almost a year ago (11-11-14 at 10:10.) While her passing has done many unexpected things to my head that I never could have predicted, it has highlighted to me with staggering force that we are not our bodies.

She was so uncomfortable and in pain before she left us. Air rasped through her. Her body was heavy with gravity, compressing into itself to the point where her physical self no longer even looked like her. She drew us to herself like a lodestone. She couldn't have been more of this world. And then she expelled and she was gone.

What was left in the hospital bed was so clearly not her. She wasn't in the room. She wasn't in her casket at the funeral home and she wasn't placed in her grave. She was gone.

On Tuesday of this week, she was back. She has stopped by several times since she went away last November. Around 09.30 two days ago, she stood just behind me, placed her hand on my left shoulder (out of character since we rarely shared good touch) and whispered in my right ear, "Just let it all go." (also, very out of character - if you knew my mother, she never let anything go.)

She has stopped by about a dozen times. If I knew I would write about this, I'd have kept better count. Her essence is materially with me and then quite clearly gone. Each time her message is the same: nothing here matters as much as I think it does.

My ears hear: Radioactive by Imagine Dragons
(pay particular attention to the 53 second mark)

Saturday, September 12, 2015

Happy Birthday, Erika

Happy Birthday, Snoogs-of-my-heart.

How the hell did you become 29? You’re really old. I love you, anyway.

More importantly, I like you.

You are so passionate in your relationships and your approach to life: open and forthright and genuine. You’re always trying to bring everyone together in a figurative group hug.

You were born two weeks early and have been impatient ever since. Impatient to fix things, impatient to help others, impatient to find answers (I have a question…)

You are ferocious, strong, smart and sassy. You are a true Shield Maiden.

I am proud you are my daughter.

Thursday, September 03, 2015

Pitch Perfect Perfection

I’m answering a bunch of questions that are supposed to make you fall in love with me. Be careful. This could be dangerous. After all, we know how adorable I already am.

We are on day four and here’s the question:

4. What would constitute a “perfect” day for you?

My perfect day would start with a week of rest and relaxation: lots of sleep and naps and no voices, no questions, no cooking or laundry or anything remotely looking like responsibilities and no news. A week of completely nothing necessary. And after all of that, these three things still look good:

  1. Sleeping without disturbance for 24 hours.
  2. Reading without interruption for 24 hours.
  3. Eating ice cream and key lime pie for 24 hours and the calories don’t count.

Then there’s this:

Part One

It would be sunny. The air would be clear, as if you’ve just cleaned your glasses of smudges you’ve gotten used to over several days and voila, sharp and crisp vision. There’d be a light breeze flowing consistently, enough that you’d feel it in your hair. It would be 74 degrees. There’d be no pesky bugs, but a variety of colorful butterflies and big fat bumble bees would be flittering around bright, blousy flowers along with iridescent hummingbirds.

I’d wake up, no alarm going off - just getting up when I feel like it - I’d stumble into the kitchen and someone would hand me a fresh hot cup of black coffee in my favorite mug. When I was seated and relaxed and immersed in my book, he’d bring me an ice cold bottle of plain seltzer.

He (could be a she but I’m not playing the he/she game) would say, “I thought you might like this. Go out on the porch, drink your coffee and read.”

There’d be no sounds except those natural ones previously mentioned. Forty-five minutes would pass and he would bring me another cup of coffee without saying a word. Part of my perfect day includes people not interrupting me while I am so obviously reading.
After I have been awake for about three hours, he would bring me breakfast which is two crepe filled with seedless, blackberry jam and whipped cream cheese, fresh pineapple chunks and a few pieces of perfectly crisp bacon. An extremely cold glass of Tang would not go amiss.
I’d need at least another hour following this for digestion. A perfect day involves no rushing and no questions of any sort and people doing things for me without asking what I want. I haven’t any idea what time it is because there’d be no clock watching either.

See, here’s the thing: I know people think it’s good to ask people what they want but when you ask me a question, I have to think of all possible outcomes, eventualities and all alternate histories before I can make a decision or give an answer. It’s exhausting and the reason why I usually say whatever you’re having or doing. And linear time perplexes me. Shoving myself into a clock regulated system makes my brain hurt. To me, time is like a big solid sphere that warps and moves. If I don’t pay attention, I often forget where exactly I am on the artificial time line of a day.

More tomorrow.