who do you think you were

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Gilded Tarot by Ciro Marchetti

I just took one of those fb quizzes. It was going to tell me what I was in my past lives. Seems I was a warrior. I’m thinking they are on to something⸮

When my daughter was young, I was in my second round of college. One of my professors offered me a job which I took. This job consisted of ten years of struggling with the polar opposites that have always defined my life. He was a religious, married man who had a girlfriend who turned out to be someone from my past. She was my age (he was 10 years or so older), from my parents’ social circle and we went to high school together although we never associated with one another at that time.

The girlfriend and I became friends. Not really but I can’t find a better word for what we were. I tried to mold myself into that concept but ultimately it didn’t work out. I think I’m friendship incompetent, illiterate, dysfunctional, disabled. I’ll look for a better word for that later.  

Anyway, my boss’ office was located in a small town in the pine barrens of New Jersey. One of those little eclectic touristy places with small shops and unique businesses. Around the corner was a metaphysical bookstore. The owner gave classes on different things. Girlfriend wanted to learn how to read Tarot cards. She fancied herself esoterically inclined. She was afraid to go alone, so she finagled me into going with her. Since my great-grandmother on my mother’s side read cards for her village’s witch, I decided to go along for the ride.

Girlfriend lost interest after about three classes as she so often did. I continued on. Seems I had some skill with the process. I went on to read cards at the shop on weekends for some extra cash. None of this really matters for the original point of this little ditty.

One of the things I learned to do was past life regression readings. None of my past lives were very glamorous. I wasn’t anyone famous or important. Like the one woman who insisted she was Marilyn Monroe in a past life. We couldn’t convince her this wasn’t possible because she was born before Ms. Monroe died, though. Maybe she was anticipating the alternate universe craze. Anywho…

In one life, I was a girl born into a poor family during the middle of the 14th century in central Europe. I had a mother and father and an older brother and older sister. It was during the Black Death and we were on the move, walking, carrying what little we had on our backs, in search of a better life and running from the sickness.

Since I was a girl (not the pretty one) and the youngest and puny and rather quiet (which translated into not too bright at the time) and resources were scarce, my parents decided to leave me behind so the rest of them had a better chance at survival.

I awoke one morning to find my family had snuck away from me during the night.

food fantasies

My favorite food is my mother’s spaghetti. Spaghetti noodles topped with a sauce more beefy than tomatoey. Definitely not Italian in nature. At least, not that I know of. My mother was Austrian which I think has a more meat heavy food culture than the Italians.

She would brown a couple of onions and garlic with a lot ground beef. Crusty brown. The kind of brown that leaves tasty bits on the pan. Then some tomato sauce was added. The resulting sauce was more brown than red and very thick and heavy.

An ice cold glass of milk was a mandatory accompaniment. Yummers.

Leftover spaghetti noodles were used the next day to make a decadent treat. Bread crumbs browned in butter get the noodles added in to warm. Top this with sugar and you’re in carb heaven.

Lots of things got covered in butter browned breadcrumbs.

Zwetschgenknödel are German potato plum dumplings. We didn’t get them very often because they are really hard work but when she did make them, she made loads and we gorged. A mashed potato dough was wrapped around a pitted, ripe plum and boiled. Once cooked, these dumplings were rolled in brown butter breadcrumbs and topped with sugar.

Cauliflower heads got topped with brown butter breadcrumbs, too. No sugar, though.

When she fried foods, like chicken, I would steal the browned flour/breadcrumbs in the pan. That is unless the now flavored oil wasn’t needed to fry up some potato pancakes. She always put some butter in the oil to give it extra flavor.

We ate pancakes, too. My vision of breakfast always includes pancakes, especially blueberry pancakes. I could go for some blueberry pancakes right now, with some bacon or ham or both. All drenched in melted butter and maple syrup. Add some home fries with lots of onions and garlic and you’ve got breakfast perfection.

My father used to make homemade ice cream. He had an old-fashioned ice cream maker that he had to crank forever. It seemed like hours before the ice cream would be done. He’d put strawberries in it. I preferred plain vanilla but fresh strawberries weren’t too bad.

My father’s favorite dessert is strawberry shortcake. My mother cut up tons of strawberries and marinated them in lots of sugar so there was plenty of sweet juicy liquid with the berries. Then she baked Bisquick as a sheet cake. This was cut warm, topped with the cold sweet berries and juice and freshly made whipped cream.

Food was so good before we all had to get healthy.

I always have a craving for something and I never know what it is. I like eating appetizers at restaurants because I’m always searching for a certain taste to satisfy this vague, elusive hunger I have for something. I wonder if I had a table in front of me laid out with fifty distinctly different foods and I nibbled on all of them would I be satisfied.

Nothing ever quite hits the mark though.

I suspect I’m trying to satisfy the wrong hunger.

even my coffee cup is boring or you can't make a silk purse of a sow's ear

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The prompt for today is to write about my day and make it interesting. Oh, yeah, that’s gonna happen. Here’s my day:

I wake up.

I drink coffee.

I get dressed.

I go to work.

I come home.

I go to bed.

Exciting. Yes? No!

How do you make a boring life not boring? Talk about an uphill climb. We weren’t talking about hills or climbing, but let’s move on.

My bladder is so painfully full. I don’t want to wake up but I can’t make the pressure go away and I can’t ignore it. I crack open one eye to peek at the clock. Even though I use my smart phone as an alarm, I keep an old fashioned alarm clock on my bedside table. It has large LED numbers so I can see it in the dark without my glasses. I need the reassurance of being grounded in linear time when I wake up in with a panic attack. Seeing the time helps me calm down and remember I’m not dying.

I stumble out of bed, grumbling at the aches in my joints. I make it to the toilet just before I lose control. The relief is like an orgasm.

It’s four in the morning and I’m wide awake.

I brew my first cup of coffee, black and strong. Jet fuel for a mind and body that needs a jolt first thing in the morning to even begin to function. I’m working mostly on autopilot right now. Habit and routine working in my favor. I fill my ever present water bottle with ice. Hot coffee and ice water. They are all I need for the first two hours of my day. I gulp down twenty ounces of cold water with my high blood pressure pill and my cholesterol medicine.

At this point, I start to worry about what I will write for my first 500 words of the day. I have nothing to say. I’m a boring idiot who should just keep my mouth shut. Do the world a favor and go hide in a corner somewhere. Shut the fuck up. I’m going to do this regardless of how pathetic and ridiculous you think this is. I have to or I am going to die.

There’s about an hour of this lovely self talk interspersed with moments of zoning out to relieve some of the pressure and pain of my inadequacies. It’s hard working reminding myself I might have some value. It takes lots of energy fighting depressive thoughts. I’m exhausted and I haven’t even done anything yet.

There’s distracting behavior involved. I’ve found that numbers and patterns are my friends.

Friend or Follow - unfollow anyone who stopped following me

Libra Horoscope - scoff at the ridiculousness

Bank Account - no one has stolen from me during the night

Twitter - yay, another follower

Facebook - the meme’s are taking over

Emails - junk, junk, read later, junk, junk, junk

Pack the lunch boxes and get another cup of coffee - this requires that I move. I bitch and moan in my head about how bad I have it. I should have been born rich so I can have a servant hand feed me strawberries.

It’s now six am.

it's not a sacrifice unless i say so

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Wrapped around the trunk of the old oak tree, Orlando Dawn turned his face to the rising sun. He was still alive. That surprised him. He had accepted that he’d be dead by morning. He was sure that his life was needed as sacrifice to alleviate the drought and to bring abundance back to the land. Did the ritual go wrong or was his suffering for hours tied to Yggdrasil what was needed?

His skin was raw where the ropes cut into his flesh. He had periodically fallen asleep, or passed out, during the interminable night. His sagging body weight turned the ropes into knives. The blood from these wounds crusted around his bindings. He envisioned the pain of pulling the rope out of his body. That was, if he was going to be released. He still didn’t know if his death was required.

The priests and priestesses were not keeping vigil. No one was. The storm last night must have driven them all into shelters. A bush on his right still smoldered from the lightning strike that had set it on fire. Rivulets still ran in multiple tendrils on the ground around him. Watching the water caused his parched mouth to ache. His thirst was the most painful part of his ordeal.

Orlando Dawn rotated his eyes (his head was strapped immobile to the tree) looking for a guard. The entire clearing seemed to be clear of people. Something just wasn’t right here. There should have been at least one watcher. He cleared his throat. His vocal chords were locked and stuck together. He tried to create some saliva to lubricate them. This occupied what seemed like an eternity. His throat burned.

“Ughrg.” He had meant to ask, “Is anyone there?”

“Ha.” That was, “Hello?” He waited.

His vocalizations, as inept as they were, did not bring anyone into his line of vision. They must be leaving him to die but couldn’t bring themselves to watch in the light of day. He wished they would come back and at least give him more of the drugged wine so he could dream himself into death.

As the tribe’s most celebrated warrior, he was too young, healthy and strong to die easily. This was going to take many days of agony. He sure hoped they appreciated it. He doubted it since he hadn’t volunteered for this duty to his people. He was born and raised to fight and here he was, being tortured by his own people.

He’d love to know who had tied him up. They sure did a great job.

Something moved on his left. He couldn’t make out what it was, probably an animal. Maybe the beasts would start nibbling on him. That was a lovely thought. Being eaten alive by animals. Nice.

His eight year old sister walked up to him, his battle sword in hand. She was going to pierce his body and put him out of his misery. Thank the Gods. She brought tears to his eyes. He couldn’t see. His gratitude distracted him so much that when he hit the ground, hard, he had no idea what had happened.

let's keep the cray cray in our heads

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We are people. We are individuals. We are going to disagree. But why do we have to do it so violently. And I’m not talking about physical altercations.

I like diversity. It makes life interesting. I like words. They are the basis of our perceptions and reality. Nothing is real until we name it. So words matter.

I guess people haven’t see the movie, Bambi. "If you can't say something nice, don't say nothin' at all." ~ Thumper

We seem to think it’s ok to hurl insults and death threats at people we don’t like or people who disagree with us. Anyone that is different is open for target practice. There’s nothing more annoying or self-defeating as conversations that deteriorate into hate and threats. People can’t hear each other when we do this. You completely invalidate and devalue yourself and your arguments when you do this.  

You become a small person and a part of the lunatic fringe.

Yes, you can control your emotions. Take a deep breath. Don’t hit the send button. Would you act this way if the person was standing right in front of you, just the two of you alone? It’s not likely. And if you would, I’d suggest seeking out a good mental health professional.

As soon as someone starts yelling and spouting abuse, my ears stopping working, my brain shuts down and I envision corks being shoved in orifices. He may have something important to share but I don’t give a shit because he’s become unhinged. I can’t take someone with so little self control seriously.

Just because you have free speech doesn’t mean every thought in your brain should come out of your mouth or off of your finger tips.

You don’t make yourself bigger by devaluing someone else.

I couldn’t have a conversation about the pizza owners who wouldn’t cater a gay wedding because I had to listen to the whining about the death threats they had to endure. The important questions got ignored because of all of the hate being flung around. We can’t discuss the nature of marriage, civil rights, what constitutes deeply held beliefs or the fact that religious ceremonies aren’t catered affairs (the party afterwards is catered not the ceremony.)

The important questions that the popularity of the Grey books bring up can’t be discussed because of all of the negative tweeting which smacks heavily of jealousy. Do you feel all superior now because you could hurl clever insults at the author all over the internets? Lovely. We can’t discuss abusive relationships, just why these stories are so popular, the qualities of compelling story or what makes good writing good.

When you hurl insults or make threats, you cover up the craziness expressed by others. You dilute their wacky behavior so they can hide, there is no more light and dark. You can’t take the moral high ground. You’ve given up your position on the pedestal. I ignore you because you are just as cray-cray as everyone else. You’ve become boring and inconsequential and trite.