Leaving Las Vegas

After 3 years, nearly to the day, I am Leaving Las Vegas. I have very mixed emotions about this move, but in retrospect, I am positive that I set this course in motion in March 2009. Specifically at Ostara. And in retrospect, for those who had a very fun Summer at the Rochelle House, the events that have unfolded over the past 6 weeks have been nearly pre-ordained.

I keep thinking that going home is a retreat of some sort. A kind of "giving up". And then I shake the glitter off my eyes and the past 3 years have been a fabulous experience for me personally, spiritually and professionally.

On a professional level, I obtained both my masters, and my six sigma green belt while in Las Vegas. I made my way to a fantastic company which I have a significant history with and was the genesis of when/where I fell in love. Little did I know that company would again, 15 years later, play the same role in such a significant way.

There is a part of me that feels somehow I will return. There's something about the desert….

I don't know
What takes hold
Out there in the desert cold

January 2010

Still

Do you still think of me?
Do you still hate me 
As much as you screamed you did? 

 
 

Do you still 
hit Hate Women?

 
 

Do you still use your hands to hurt?
Do you still stifle her screams 
With your fist?

 
 

Do you still despise her fear?
Do you still want to beat it out of her?
Do you still use your prick 
As a weapon?

 
 

Do you still own the gun?
Do you still think of her 
When you touch it?
Do you still hear her name 
When you cock the trigger?
Do you still have the bruise 
From the recoil?
Do you still smell the acrid gun smoke?
Do you still see her blood 
On your hands?

 
 

Do you still fantasize about her death?

Do you still wish you had killed me?

1996

Last Drag

In the beginning I was confined to the small corner liquor stores, the ones that only sell candy and beer. I wore sunglasses at first, to hide the fact that I was underage, but the dark lenses only magnified the dimness of the store and caused me to lurch awkwardly to the counter, looking even more like a gangly teenager than I already was. This was the eighty's, and the world hadn't quite awoken to the dangers of teen smoking. But this was a small corner neighborhood liquor store, and the parents in this particular neighborhood definitely did not approve of their kids smoking anything, period. Needless to say, on the first attempt I shuffled out of the store, not with the intended cigarettes, but with a pack of Hubba Bubba and a Three Musketeers candy bar.


For the next two weeks, I rigorously memorized the brand of cigarettes my father kept on the highest shelf of the pantry along with the Ding Dongs and M&M's he thought were hidden from the rest of us. Late at night, long after my brother silenced the bleeping of his Atari; long after the nesting sounds quieted from my step-monster's lair; and when the smoldering butt from the last cigarette my father enjoyed while patrolling the vast perimeter of the empty living room finally burned down to ash, I tip-toed into the pantry to peek at the forbidden package. During the long hot summer days while my father mysteriously tinkered with networks and hubs and connectors on his computer; while my step-monster did whatever dragons do in the light of day; and while my brother set up and demolished yet another platoon of G.I. Joes, I studied the traits of tobacco.


I practiced in front of the bathroom mirror repeating the phrase over and over until the words danced out of my mouth like a troupe of prima ballerinas.


"Hello, (smile nonchalantly), may I have a pack of Benson and Hedges Lights One Hundreds (make and hold direct eye contact)?"


And then I was ready for my initiation into the Secret Club.


It was amazing. The clerk behind the counter never gave me a second glance as he dropped the little cellophane wrapped package on the counter in front of me. With out ceremony or civility he took my money. I walked out of the store with the coveted cigarettes, feeling like I had just gotten away with murder and no one cared. I don't know what I was expecting. It seemed like after all my hard work and practice there should have been more heraldry. I kept waiting for the official Club Board of Directors to send me a welcome gift, maybe a membership card. But there was nothing. Just like that, I officially joined the ranks of sultry women and sex goddesses.


Twenty years ago, I joined a secret club I thought was sophisticated and worldly. The club was the Smoker's Club, and it was secret because I was only fifteen. the rules of this exclusive club were stringent. For instance, you had to know the difference between light, 100, and 120 cigarettes. You had to know the difference between menthol cigarettes and non-menthol cigarettes. You had to know which brands were domestic and which were foreign. You had to know what a French inhale was. Pinkie Tuscadero did it in "Grease", and some of the bad girls in school knew how. But they would never teach you. No one could teach you. You were expected to learn the language of tobacco on your own and in secret. You were expected to learn that it was encouraged, even necessary, to experiment with the various flavors and lengths and styles and tar levels and filters and manufacturers and brands. It took me three years to learn the complicated characteristics of cigarettes.


When I reach the age of eighteen, the legal age to purchase cigarettes in California, I unceremoniously passed from the Secret Club into the Smoker's Club. This meant I could purchase cigarettes wherever and whenever I wanted. I could smoke in public and no one would chastise me. But it also meant an end to the clandestine missions to the corner liquor store, and end to the risk. The intrigue and mystery of the Secret Club is replaced with ritual and routine. Where I previously found excitement in the successful purchase of a pack of cigarettes, I now find pleasure in removing the cellophane without tearing the box or crushing the cigarettes. The alcove behind the church where I hid from Father What A Waste is replaced with the public smoking area in front of every office building in Downtown Los Angeles. The scratch of the match is replaced with the flick of the bic.


Fifteen days ago I relinquished my membership to the Smoker's Club. I didn't mean to do it. Ii was, quite literally, forced against my will. It seems that I was asthmatic as a child, and the effects of 15 years of erratic smoking has taken its toll on my body. So now, instead of sucking on tobacco, I suck on Proventil. Instead of flicking a bic, I flip open bottle after bottle of this pill and that pill. I can tell you it wasn't easy to stop smoking. Even now as I write this I sneak a drag here and there of a stale Virginia Slim Menthol that I found at the back of the freezer. The doctors and lawyers are seriously misguided when they say that it's the nicotine the addicted smoker has to kick. Wrong. Kicking the mourning ritual of coffee and a cigarette makes marching in Sister Mary Elephant's Communion Procession feel like a walk in the park, I can do it with my eyes closed. But nothing can compare to the unique scent of fresh ground coffee mingled with the acrid smell of a freshly lit cigarette.


The ritual begins with the innocent initiation into the Secret Smokers Club. Every time I purchased a pack of cigarettes, I am reminded of the rush of adrenaline I felt the first time I walked out of the candy store with an actual pack of cigarettes. Each unlit cigarette represents the first one I ever held between my fingers. I've lost count of how many delicately rolled sticks I broke between my spindly teenage fingers. Every time I put a fresh filter to my lips, I am reminded of tobacco's first kiss and the tantalizing thrill of getting caught by the step-monster.


Yes, yes, smoking is bad. It's a filthy habit. It's dirty. It can kill you. But, oh, the possibilities. Imagine a man at a table. alone. Smoking a cigarette. He hears the clicking of heels approach and suddenly - stop. And then a husky female, come-hither voice says,


"Excuse me, do you have a light?"


The possibilities are endless. Isn't that why I started smoking in the first place? I wanted maturity, sophistication, and sex. I wanted the same possibilities of romance Greta Garbo had as the cigarette smoke floated between her face and the handsome stranger across the table. I wanted the same thrill of intrigue James Bond commanded as he lit a cigarette and said "Shaken, not stirred." Men wanted to be the Marlboro Man and women wanted to be with those men.


What I got was yellow teeth, jaundiced skin, and a Pavlovian response the flick-flick-flicking of a lighter. By the way, do you have a cigarette?

The “F” Word

The point I am trying to make is that words are a mysterious, ambiguous, ambivalent and perfidious phenomenon. They are capable of being rays of light in a realm of darkness. … They are equally capable of being lethal arrows. Worst of all, at times they can be one and the other. And even both at once. 
-Vaclav Havel, "Words on Words," 1990

 
 

Here's an experiment with words you might try the next time you find yourself in a crowded, public area, say Starbuck's in the morning rush hour, or in front of any middle school in America at 8am: clear your throat, and without yelling like a fanatic, say the "F" word firmly and distinctly,

"FEMINISM."

Most of the women in the crowd will simply pretend they didn't hear you. You'll know they are pretending because they all suddenly become very uncomfortable, shifting their weight from one foot to another…repeatedly. One or two of the women in front of the middle school will not hide their displeasure at your outburst by throwing you cool, disapproving glances as they rush off to their corner office. The other women will pick up their Venti, no foam, non-fat latte and quickly get themselves the hell away from you as fast as their Ferragamo pumps will carry them.

Feminism is a word that was once a "ray of light in a realm of darkness" but over the past fifteen or so years, it has metamorphosed from a beautiful butterfly into a slimy hairy caterpillar.

The average person believes that feminism was born in the late 1960's and early 1970's. The fact of the matter is, an economic change swept Across America at precisely the same time as the feminist movement was taking shape. The change in economy forced men to admit that they could not support their family without a second wage earner, and forced women, whether they wanted to or not, into the work force. By the late 60's and early 70's, wage labor was becoming just as important to women as it was to men. And with the no-fault divorce laws forcing women to support themselves, and quite frequently their children, without the reliable financial support of a husband, young single women faced the grim reality that they could no longer look forward to a secure marriage as their mothers and grandmothers had done before them. The feminist movement told women they didn't need to depend on a man, they didn't need to wear make-up or "to swaddle [their body] and to drape it until it conformed as closely as possible to the image du jour. "(Rose L. Glickman, Daughters of Feminists, 1993 page 88) The definition of feminism twenty-five years ago was easily painted on a poster's sign and marched down Main street of Any town: "Equal Pay For Equal Work," "Sexual Freedom," "Reproductive Freedom." There also seemed to be more tolerance for the feminist movement in the early 70's. After all, how could anyone blame a woman, who was forced to work because of a divorce or death of her husband, for being angry that she was paid a "mere fifty-nine cents to every dollar a man made for the exact same work!?" (Elizabeth Fox-Genovese, Feminism is NOT the Story of My Life, 1996 page 116) the feminist movement forced people, specifically white males to reconsider the traditional role of a woman. In 1976, you could stand in a crowded public area, say the "F" word and find both men and women look at you thoughtfully and nod their heads. The word and the movement were "ray of light" and they were definitely something to think about.

But in the 1990's, something happened to feminism – something bad. The word became foul, and the movement was perceived to be fanatical. Women's organizations, which sprouted up all over the country in the early 1970's, like the National Organization for Women (NOW) and the National Abortion Rights Action League (NARAL), were no longer speaking of the issues women cared about. They were lumped together in one heap, and referred to, as one student put it, the "NOW crows." Feminism was so successful in bringing about equal rights for women in the late 60's and early 70's, that in 1990 they had nothing left to fight for. Feminism helped women to realize equal pay. Women at executive levels of management are paid ninety-five cents for every dollar men are paid, and a woman in an entry-level position "is likely to earn the same as her male peers." (Elizabeth Fox-Genovese, page 117) Feminism helped crush the stigma attached to premarital sex, opening the door for women's sexual freedom. It paved the way for women's right to reproductive freedom and a woman's right to a safe abortion. The organizations such as NOW and NARAL began to focus on issues that didn't affect women in significant ways. Feminism applauded professional young women, and all but ignored the problems of the young single mother. The 1991 NOW convention held only one session on children, and it focused on lesbian mothers. (Elizabeth Fox-Genovese) It had become clear to women that they had no place in modern feminism if they chose a heterosexual relationship in which to raise a family and have a meaningful career. By excluding these working mothers, both married and single, the feminist movement inadvertently gave birth to the very entity that would be its undermining in the 1990's: the "Super Mom."

For many young women entering the labor force in the early 1990's, feminism equals "super mom" or "workaholic." These young women were raised by super moms who "never felt any guilt about pursuing a high powered career while raising two youngsters." (Joan S. Lublin, "Some Adult Daughters of Super Moms' Plan to Take Another Path", The Wall Street Journal, December 28, 1995, Sec A, p1) These mother's entered the labor force during the early days of the women's movement, and they were determined to "have it all," they were workingwomen reaping the rewards of the feminist movement. According to Joann S. Lublin, young women today are very resentful that they were raised by "absentee" mothers and find themselves asking, "How can I ever live up to my fast-track mother?" But more importantly they are asking themselves, "is it worth it?" More and more women are "trying to find ways to juggle the demands of work and family, and … don't want to emulate their workaholic [mothers]." (Joanne S. Lublin) It's almost as if women have replaced the struggle to find equality with the struggle to find balance.

Young women, and I mean women like myself between the ages of 18 and 40, don't have to fight for equality with men the way our mothers did. When we entered the world, we were handed equality on a silver platter. We buy homes and cars like our mothers bought groceries, we hold gold and platinum credit cards, something our mothers never did, and we get paychecks just like our fathers. Instead of planning dinner, we plan our careers. We don't think about how a child will affect our marriages, we think about ways we can fit a child and a marriage and a career in our lives. We don't spend any time thinking about equality, in fact, we expect equality and are taken completely by surprise when we don't get it. But, isn't that what our feminist "have it all" super moms wanted for us? Wasn't their goal that one day an American woman would take for granted the same rights white men had never given a second thought to since the signing of the Declaration of Independence?

Feminism has come to mean a variety of things to a variety of people. Some equate feminism with lesbianism, "a metaphor for man-hating and male-bashing, for fanaticism, for separatism." (Rose L. Glickman) For other men, and women, the word has a "frightening connotation" meaning that a woman is "righteous, …independent, …and powerful." A feminist to these men and women is a "person with an opinion, but …a bitch." (Glickman) And let's face it; nobody wants to be a bitch, a man-hater, or a fanatic. "These words, like the word feminist, alienate men." (Glickman) Young women today want their equality, but they also want the human connection, a husband, a family, and that connection cannot be obtained by alienating men. I agree with Glickman when she says that the word feminism belongs to a bygone era. And I think most women would agree with me. As Joann S. Lublin reported, young women are looking for a way to "have it all" without sacrificing their children, husbands or their careers. Employers, such as the Bank of Montreal, and Motorola have successfully redefined "family" as a "life outside of work," permanently dispelling the super mom or mommy track stigma, allowing women to "have it all sacrificing all. (Sue Shellanbarger, Wall Street Journal, December 20, 1995, Sec B p1) We have finally won the battle our mothers started thirty years ago. We are enjoying the same rights men have enjoyed for two centuries.

If you ask any woman today if she is a feminist, the most common answer would be "Yes, but…" It's the 'but' that screams for attention. The fact that women, myself included, feel the need to qualify their definition of feminism is the telltale sign that we need a new word for what people today view as feminist. Both Rose Glickman and Elizabeth Fox-Genovese set out to give a new definition to the word feminism. Glickman found a young woman, a daughter of a feminist, who put it nicely, "feminism is about thoughtfulness, sensitivity, concern with human liberation and a sense of social responsibility." Fox-Genovese set out to define a different kind of feminism, "family feminism." She defines family feminism as all women, working-class and professionals, single and married mothers, of all races, religions and orientations all struggling to live independently and have families. The feminist movement lost sight of these women, and now, these women have no one to identify with. The largest women's organization, NOW, has no place for the professional woman and the working mother who is economically successful because they downplay the very reason for her success: she is part of a two-income marriage or union. Fox-Genovese went so far as to suggest that some women blame the feminist elite for the disintegration of the family by encouraging single-motherhood. Statistics have shown that the average single-parent family, headed by a woman, lives at or below the poverty line, something the feminist movement rarely, if ever, talks about. If the feminist movement isn't talking to the married women with or without children, and it isn't identifying with single-mothers, whom is it talking to? I think it's very possible that the anger and resentment some people are feeling towards the feminist movement today is due to the fact that both men and women are alienated from the movement in the very way they live their lives. While Glickman and Fox-Genovese have both done a wonderful job in attempting to re-define feminism, we are still stuck with the lethal arrow. That word!

In 1963, Betty Friedan wrote Feminine Mystique. She titled chapter one, "The Problem That Has No Name." In it she describes women's dissatisfaction with their lives. They were told they should be happy that they were women, and didn't have to worry about feeding a family or deal with the stress that came with holding down a job. But the "problem" persisted, and what made it unbearable for women was that no one was talking about it. It seems to me that we are right back were we started; we have a problem with no name. Today, no one talks about a single mother whose checking account is overdrawn because her minimum wage job can't support the rent and groceries for three small children. Instead we talk about "the working poor" and suggest tax breaks that amount to one extra can of Diet Coke per year and tell each other we are helping "the working poor." No one talks about the young professional woman who has no choice but to listen to crude jokes told by her male co-workers. No one mentions the working mother who works sixty hours a week in Corporate America, and puts in an extra twenty-five over time hours a week to feed and clothe her husband and children. Instead we enforce labor laws impossible to enforce, and attempt to legislate common decency through required training and call it "Sensitivity Training" which only serves to further alienate her male co-workers.

The entire topic of reproductive freedom engulfs so many aspects of a woman's life that it is comical that the feminist's movement as it stands today, is continuing the never-ending battle of a woman's right to choose right into the Twenty-First Century. And yet we allow our politicians to focus on abortion, instead of demanding that they hear us when we say that a woman's right to choose means making the decision to conceive, carry, deliver and raise a child be ours alone to make. That our decision to have a child be just as protected as our decision to terminate a pregnancy. That our decision to raise that child with a partner regardless of the nature of the relationship. While the feminist movement focuses their attention of the right to choose to terminate a pregnancy, the issue of preserving fertility is completely lost. But quite frankly, that is an entirely different discussion.

Women today are just as dissatisfied as the women Friedan describes in her book. Friedan's women found a solution and a name for their problem – they called it "emancipation," "women's lib," and eventually named it "feminism." Women today have no name for their problem. I heard someone say we should call it "Equalism." I think "Equalism" has a nice ring to it. It's a nice word, for not really being a word. And besides, who could possibly be frightened by equality?

Somehow, I think that no matter what word we come up with, it will be both a ray of light and a lethal arrow. It is the nature of words.

February 1997

Eclipse

We sit across the table, from each other
I pull my skirt down but it just kept creeping
exposing my thigh.

Every time you look at me
my heart jumps.

Your cologne wafts about the room.

Whispers of scent
delicately dance upon my
skin sending Waves of passion
crashing through my body.

Do my features forsake me?
Is the desperation drawn across my face?

I am in love with you!

If I could
I would never leave your side.
I only want To be near you,
To see you,
To feel you
To touch you.

I don't want to miss
Anything you say, or
Anything you do.

I am completely Enchanted,
Fascinated by you.

You have
Eclipsed everything
In my universe
With your larger
Than life presence.

Wrap me in your arms - Never let me go

March 2001

Death

Passionate nights and Terror filled years
Surround me like a suffocating wall of fear
Made of Screams full of fright and
Eyes filled with tears.

Experience,
Like a rotting corpse
Lays its deteriorated fingers on my soul
Conjuring the terrors that lie beyond our imagination.

Love, That elusive Nymph
Dances on my hardened heart
Lying broken in an early grave.

May 2002

The Bathroom

The gentle scent of Neroli, Lavender and rose drifted through the house.
The sound of running water met him at the door.
As he approached the bathroom, he found blood.  Blood on the door jam, droplets of blood on the floor.

As he slowly pushed the bathroom door open, the pungent odor of marijuana mingled with citrus assaulted his senses.  The room was filled with steam and the air clung to his skin

There was a trail of blood droplets starting at the base of the commode and meandering across the floor and up the side of the bathtub.  A candle glowed and flickered creating twisted and obscure shadows that danced along the walls and across the ceiling.  As he glanced up at the dancing ghosts, he realized why the air was so still.  She had turned off the light and fan - making the only sound the running water.

He stepped into the room quietly.  Her eyes were closed.  She was so still.  He couldn't tell if she was breathing.  He watched closely for one... two... three heart beats... the water made a barely discernable ripple just below her left breast.  she was alive, maybe asleep, or God willing, unconscious.

For the moment, she was at peace.  He could actually see the woman he fell in love with.  The woman he risked his life for.  The woman who meant everything to him.  Even with her incredible green eyes closed she was strikingly beautiful.  He could caress her with his eyes at his leisure when she was sleeping.  Those were the times her body was all his and his alone.

It made her uncomfortable that he stared at her, drinking in her beauty like a parched man in the desert drinks water from an oasis.  When her eyes were closed in sleep, she didn't squirm under his gaze.

He decided to make the most of this precious moment.  Her legs were crossed, one heel resting on the water faucet.  Her calves curved enticingly to her knees, only one was visible.  the aromatherapy bubbles she used with every bath these days distorted his view of the thighs he adored.  He could see the shape of her upper thigh.  There was a hint of dark hair sprinkled among the bubbles where her thighs met.  Her right breast was covered with bubbles so only the smallest hint of her nipple was exposed.  Her left breast was his to devour with his eyes.  He head was tilted to one side and her hair was pulled up off her shoulders with some sort of clip.

He realized he had been coveting her body for quite a few minutes and she hadn't stirred.  He wondered how long she had been in this state.  Judging from the Vicodine pills scattered on the counter at her elbow, not very long.  He sniffed the air again and watched the steam wafting through the air.  He realized it wasn't only steam.  She needed at least another 15 minutes before the Vicodine kicked in.

He quietly stepped back and out of the bathroom, closing the door as he moved.  He went to the master bedroom and opened the "medicine box".  He counted the cigarettes.  When he left for the office this morning, there were six joints, now there were two.  This was definitely a bad day.  It was only 3:30 in the afternoon and she had called him at nine this morning when she woke up.  Four joints in six hours was very unlike her.  It was only recently that he had found her immobilized by the pain, writhing in agony.
Fuck it, he thought to himself.  He picked up a cigarette and walked back to the bathroom.  As he opened the door he saw the blood again.  Jesus, he cursed, no wonder she smoked for much marijuana today.

She was still motionless, but she had changed the position of her body.  She was on her side, her back to him and the side of the tub.  Her knees were drawn up in a semi-fetal position.  One arm was draped across her thighs.  Now he could see her beautiful ass.  He felt a brief pang of guilt.  Here he was lusting after his wife while she was obviously in so much pain.  But she was so beautiful.

It was plain to see the Vicodine was not effective.  He cleared his throat and she stirred.
"Honey?" he whispered.
Slowly she turned her head towards the sound of his voice, keeping her eyes closed.
"Sweetie?" we said quietly, his voice a little above a whisper.
She opened her eyes to look at him.  they were beautiful and instantly his knees went weak.  The sparkle that caused is stomach to dive down to his ankles was replaced with a dull sheen.    The pain of the disease pinched the corners of her eyes and caused a crease in her beautiful brow.  She brought the lid down on the sparkling emeralds and grimaced..
"Hi," she whispered.  Her voice was choked, the effort of speaking caused a visible spasm of pain.
"How many pills did you take?" he asked her in a quiet voice.
She lifted the hand draped on her thigh and held up two fingers.  As she lowered her arm, she turned her body so she was lying on her back, with her head resting on the bath pillow.  He picked up a pill and the bottle of water off the counter.
"Here," he said
She slowly opened her eyes and looked up at him with a question.
"But I already took two pills," she protested.
"So what?  Take another."
Obediently she popped the pill into her mouth and took the water from his outstretched hand.  He waited for her to swallow before he took the water bottle from her.

He picked up the lighter and light the joint.  Normally he would change out of his office clothes, but today was an exception.  He needed to see the sparkle in her eyes - and he knew just how to replace the dull sheen with a brilliant sparkle.  He took a hit and put the thin cigarette on a clip.  He hated using the damn clip on a perfectly good size joint, but her hands were wet and she was accident prone when she was high.  He handed her the joint and watched her take a long deep drag on the cigarette.

As they passed the joint back and forth, he slowly began to see her body relax.  It was only a slight change at first, but as the marijuana entered her blood stream, it became more gradual.  Soon the Vicodine would also enter her blood stream and she would find a few more hours of relief, free from the enormous pain she endured.

She looked up at him from her prone position and smiled.
"Thank you," she sighed.
His heart leaped!  There it was! The sparkle lit up the room.  He caught his breath at the sight of her.  He wanted to enjoy these precious moments with her.
"Finish this," he said as he handed her the joint.  "Relax for a few minutes, enjoy the high.  I'm going to change."
He bent down and kissed her on the forehead.  As he pulled away, she reached up and grabbed him by the tie.  She pulled him back down to her and planted a kiss on his lips.  Her tongue licked his lips and flitted into his mouth.
"I love you," she said as she released him.
He turned and walked out of the bathroom and into his den.  He quickly changed from work clothes to house clothes.  He had to get her to bed before the Vicodine took effect.  He made her take over 2200mg of narcotic, not to mention the marijuana.  She would pass out very soon.  He estimated that he may have 10, possibly 15 minutes with her before she lost consciousness and he wanted to make the most of it.  He hated seeing her in pain, it drove him to terrifying heights of fury.  Modern medicine was doing it's best at failing his wife when she needed it the most.  These precious moments he had with her when the pain was suppressed by the heavy narcotics was what he lived for these days.   Fifteen minutes of her smile made an entire day of watching her writhe in agony worth the helplessness he felt.  He walked back to the bathroom with two towels.

"Come on," he said.  "Time for bed."
He reached down released the water from the tub.  She slowly got to her feet, swaying back and forth precariously.    He steadied her with one arm.  She took the towel from him and began drying herself in slow motion.  He quickly dried her back, legs, arms and chest.  He helped her into a big cotton shirt and steadied her as she wobbled the few steps to the bedroom.

May 2002

Update on Archie

We had the ultrasound today to determine what the next steps are to fix this enlarged liver and adrenal glands.  Turns out everything is enlarged due to a bad pancreas and a stopped up gall bladder - what a relief - no tumors no cancer.

There is, however, early stages of Cushings, but because we have caught it now, it is completely treatable.

Archie is already feeling better with pain meds, anti nausea and antibiotics.  He ran down the hallway this afternoon for the first time in 8 days.  He jumped onto the couch and he ate his dinner - both firsts in about 4 days.  So at least I know that I caught whatever this is early enough to fix it.

Good news all the way around.  It's a good thing I let the Banfield folks in Vegas talk me into a Premium Health Plan - I only paid $490 out of pocket for a $1200 vet bill.

Excuse Me While I Collect Myself - December 2010

Welcome to The Jamaica Inn



After 16 years of “blogging”, from the time when it was called a diary, I have been typing out my thoughts and saving them in a “safe place”.  Although I had been around computer hardware and software since a small child, the machines were simply tools used for the job you did to make money to pay the rent.  The tool as entertainment did not become a fixture in my world until 1994.  Until then, it was something I did at work.

From 1994-1998 there were many incarnations of the blog on sites that have long since bankrupt.  In 1999, while recovering from the first of many surgeries, I established Ona’s Library.  The host was Yahoo Geocities.  I stayed with this blog until Yahoo, as it morphed over the years, shut down 360.  I had been double and triple posting on MySpace and WindowsLive Spaces, but it was The Library that remained up to date and “present”. (Facebook was never an option due to their copyright/privacy issues)

In 2005, Tori Amos released her 8^th album, The Bee Keeper”.  One track became an especially dear song, “The Jamaica Inn”.  The lyrics speak strongly to betrayal in Love and in Friendship.

Can you patch my jeans Peggy Ann
just a little stitch to mend the hole he has torn
if you can
maybe I got too set in my ways
he says she reminds him of me when we first met
in those early days

It was the Spring of 2005 that I renamed Ona’s Library “The Jamaica Inn”.  I couldn’t really part with the graphics I had invested in for The Library so I left it alone.  It had become an integral part of my web…. It was how I followed the Data Back Road and I was careful never to erase.

the sexiest thing is trust
I wake up to find the pirates have come

The betrayal of Friendship had long plagued me.  The Issue of Trust has always been central to my relationships.  Betrayed trust has been the basis for the melt down of every relationship and friendship throughout my life.  A confidence broken, a loyalty betrayed.  By this time in 2005, I started asking myself “Are you positive this is a friend?” on a nearly regular basis.  I realized how easily I had allowed myself to follow the course of betrayal, allowing others to betray me, betraying others, and worst, betraying myself.  I was accustomed to the sense that the Wreckers were near, that the Pirates were close at hand

tying up along your coast
how was I to know the pirates have come
between Rebecca’s
beneath your firmaments I have worshipped in the Jamaica Inn

WordPress is now the official home of The Jamaica Inn.  I will be collecting old blogs and entries and adding them to the contents in the coming days & weeks.  16 years is a very large undertaking.

“Are you positive this is a friend?”
the captain grimaced, “Those are cliffs of rock ahead if I’m not mistaken.”

http://thejamaicainn.wordpress.com/

Excuse me While I Collect Myself

After 16 years of "blogging", from the time when it was called a diary, I have been typing out my thoughts and saving them in a "safe place". Although I had been around computer hardware and software since a small child, the machines were simply tools used for the job you did to make money to pay the rent. The tool as entertainment did not become a fixture in my world until 1994. Until then, it was something I did at work.

From 1994-1998 there were many incarnations of the blog on sites that have long since bankrupt. In 1999, while recovering from the first of many surgeries, I established Ona's Library. The host was Yahoo Geocities. I stayed with this blog until Yahoo, as it morphed over the years, shut down 360. I had been double and triple posting on MySpace and WindowsLive Spaces, but it was The Library that remained up to date and "present". (Facebook was never an option due to their copyright/privacy issues)

In 2005, Tori Amos released her 8^th album, The Bee Keeper". One track became an especially dear song, "The Jamaica Inn". The lyrics speak strongly to betrayal in Love and in Friendship.

Can you patch my jeans Peggy Ann
just a little stitch to mend the hole he has torn
if you can
maybe I got too set in my ways
he says she reminds him of me when we first met
in those early days

It was the Spring of 2005 that I renamed Ona's Library "The Jamaica Inn". I couldn't really part with the graphics I had invested in for The Library so I left it alone. It had become an integral part of my web…. It was how I followed the Data Back Road and I was careful never to erase.

the sexiest thing is trust
I wake up to find the pirates have come
tying up along your coast
how was I to know the pirates have come
between Rebecca's
beneath your firmaments I have worshipped in the Jamaica Inn

The betrayal of Friendship had long plagued me. The Issue of Trust has always been central to my relationships. Betrayed trust has been the basis for the melt down of every relationship and friendship throughout my life. A confidence broken, a loyalty betrayed. By this time in 2005, I started asking myself "Are you positive this is a friend?" on a nearly regular basis. I realized how easily I had allowed myself to follow the course of betrayal, allowing others to betray me, betraying others, and worst, betraying myself. I was accustomed to the sense that the Wreckers were near, that the Pirates were close at hand

"Are you positive this is a friend?"
the captain grimaced, "Those are cliffs of rock ahead if I'm not mistaken."

WordPress is now the official home of The Jamaica Inn. I will be collecting old blogs and entries and adding them to the contents in the coming days & weeks. 16 years is a very large undertaking.

Welcome & Enjoy

http://thejamaicainn.wordpress.com/

Favorite Book List

This little blog is in celebration of the discovery of a book I have been looking for since college.

I was raised in the Catholic School System from Grade 1-8.  Part of that experience was the Scholastic Book Club.  This was a program designed to encourage reading in young kids with access to discounted books designed for the specific age of the target audience.  I don't remember any of the books being more than $2-3.  I think the most expensive book I ever got was $5.

I remember this so clearly because I was stunned when I went to a commercial bookstore, B Dalton in it's glory days (pre-Barnes&Noble), and discovered the books there cost over $20!  I was used to hard cover bound books from my book club.  Even the paperbacks were over $5 and that was so surprising to me!

My mom made it a point to order "at least one" book every month.  So wether I wanted to read or not, I had to go through the catalogue and pick one book that I might like to read someday.

Sometime between 3rd grade and 6th grade, I read a book about a young girl, my age, who had an Aunt come to visit over the summer.  She was weird and odd, and strange.  She left a trunk in the attic of the young girl's home and went back on her travels.  Later on, the weather is rainy and wet over Thanksgiving weekend and the young girl and her friend get into the trunk.  They find Seven LEague Boots, Magic Gloves, and a magic mirror, amongst other items.  They have very interesting adventures!

The book really spoke to me.  My grandmother or my grandfather gave me the book.  I know that for a while, my Grandfather was buying the books.  If I refused to buy a book for the month, mom would give him the order form and tell him I didn't want anything.  It never ocurred to me that the books he and my grandmother gave me were from that Book Club until much later on in life.

What the Witch Left by Ruth Crew was one of the best books I have ever read.  I was at the right age, at the right time.  It was a book that imprinted on me the concepts and ideas my Grandfather was trying to show me.

I finally found a diverse enough forum - with people old enough to remember - to post in and I sent out a request for help in the search.  A nice lady pointed me toStump the BookselleratLoganBerryBooks.com.  It took a few tries with various keywords, but I finally got the right combination and there it was.  Here's how crazy this is.....  When I finally got to see a picture of the book, I could actually smell the pages.  It was crazy.  At least from a psychological point, I know I have the right book.  LOL!

I am amazed at how that book became the cornerstone of my library over the years.  I decided to take a look at the list (it's the end of the year you know....), and make a list of the books I love.

(I am not going to all the work of linking the books.  Just copy and paste the title and author into google and you'll get the info on the book - sorry!)

What the Witch Left, Ruth Crew, Scholatic Press
A Wrinkle in Time, Madalein L'Engle
A Wind in the Door, Madeleine L'Engle
A Swiftly Tilting Planet, Madeleine Peyroux
The Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis
The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe
The Voyage of the Dawn Treader
The Silver Chair
The Horse and His Boy
The Magician's Nephew

Frankenstein, Mary Shelley
Dracula, Brahm Stoker
The Talisman, Stephen King & Peter Stroub
The Stand, Stephen King
The Dark Tower, Stephen King (Started in 1985 and I finally finished it in 2003)
I The Gunslinger
II The Drawing of the Three
III The Wastelands
IV Wizard and Glass
V Wolves of the Calla
VI Song of Susannah
VII The Dark Tower

Imajica - Clive Barker
The Great And Secret Show The First Book Of The Art, Clive Barker
Everville The Second Book Of The Art, Clive Barker
The Thief Of Always, A Fable, Clive Barker
The Vampire Chronicles, Anne Rice
Interview with a Vampire
The Vampire Lestat
Queen of the Damned
The Tale of the Body Thief
Memnoch the Devel
Merrick
Blackwood Farm

The Mayfair Witches, Anne Rice
The Witching Hour
Lasher
Taltos

The Feast of All Saints, Anne Rice
Cry to Heaven, Anne Rice
The Mummy, Anne Rice
Servant of the Bones, Anne Rice

Avalon Series by Marion Zimmer Bradley
The Mists of Avalon
The Forest House
Lady of Avalon
Priestess of Avalon

Daughter of the Forest, Juliet Marillier
Wheel of Time, Robert Jordan
The Eye of the World
The Great Hunt

Wicked, The Life & Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, Gregory MacGuire
Son of a Witch, Gregory MacGuire
Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister, Gregory MacGuire
A Lion Among Men, Gregory MacGuire

Keep in mind that this list is not inclusive of other books, such as on religion and spirituality or those books of non fiction which feed my career.  This list is just the notable fiction that has driven me over the years.

A Year & A Day in the Life of a Red

In December of 2006, I threw a tremendous tantrum to show the world just how pissed off I was and how I wasn't going to take it anymore. Actually, the tantrum began sometime in October and reached it's pinnacle right around the middle of December.

In any event, the crowning moment of the tantrum transpired at a strip-mall-hair-franchise and the words "cut it all off" spilling from my angry mouth. The minimum wage stylist added her opinion (in a hybrid language somewhere between Russian, Armenian and English) on how great I would look if I colored my hair, "Copper, I think, yes you look good Copper."

It just so happened the WalMart across the street had a $2.99 box of color with the word "copper" in the description, and away I went.

I dove right into the pit of Red after more than 15 years as a tried and true blonde. In a matter of 3 hours, I disappeared from the world. By the time I left my garden apartment post-color, not a single person noticed me, or looked in my direction. My dog couldn't look at me. Since his birth, his mother had been a pretty blonde lady – he had no idea who this dark haired stranger was. My best friend avoided eye contact when he first saw the newly coppered Onagh. Everyone was amazed.

At first, I was a little stunned – I wandered around in a daze as people simply ignored me. Women looked right through me, men stared right past me. Even young children failed to notice me. I had become invisible.

For the first time in my adult life, I experienced the normalcy of the non-blonde.

I moved to Vegas, and where I could not get past the first interview as a blonde, as a red, I was offered a job at the first meeting. I had forgotten that blonde equates to stupid in the real world. I discovered an entirely new way of living. I was incognito, I was under cover, I was a Copper Fox!

I spent a year and six months as a red. It was strange and different. There was almost an "otherness" to the life I was leading. As if I had left my former life, and been transported into the body of this other person, this non-blonde.

This Red made decisions about my life that I never could have made on my own. When the Audio Thief returned, she rousted him from my psyche like a Dorm Mother on crack. When my old habits returned, she calmly shewed them away like dust bunnies from under the bed.

I found a hair stylist at a fashionable day spa who understood red and all it's complexities, most specifically the dreaded fade! He maintained Red in perfect golden and copper tones required of the Copper Fox.

Eighteen months went by – not a very long time – but long enough to forget the blonde.

And then, at a recent hair appointment, I found myself telling Johnny, "I can't stand the fade, I need serious highlights". Due to my ever creeping grey hairline, it becomes harder and harder to keep the red, red and the grey gone. And so, once again, I release control of my destiny to the person who stands at the ready with color bowl and applicator brush to transform me.

As Johnny was drying my hair, this stripped, blonde-copper-red tapestry hanging from my scalp, he looked in the mirror at me, and had the most perplexed look. "Why does this look so natural on you?"

I didn't know what to say. I was so surprised myself. I stared at the mirror and quietly said to myself "Oh it's you again".

I very calmly turned to Johnny and told him my deepest most California-sun-bleached of secrets. I confessed to my hairstylist that for over 15 years I was a blonde.

His eyes got as big as saucers and then squinted at me as he laughed his wicked little giggle. I could see behind his squint what he was thinking: another blonde hiding out in a red head's life, a dish water trying on the brunette for size.

I didn't see anyone after my transformation back to blonde. It was late in the evening by the time I encountered any of my regular friends. Archie was so glad to see me. He greeted me with an unusual amount of kisses and tail wagging. He stares at me a lot more lately. Most of the people who are seeing me as a blonde for the first time all have the same surprised look – as if they knew I was blonde all along.

So I start a new phase of "Life in Vegas" as a blonde. I have to wonder how much the next eighteen months contrasts the last. Only time, and a constant supply of bleach, will tell.

My Sin Eater – March 2008

It is always in the darkest hours of the night that these thoughts take form and I release them into the ether of the internet. Tonight's dark creatures take the form of the Sin Eater. (Look it up onWikkipedia)

This thought train began because my dear sister came to visit. Well, no, that is not entirely true. This thought train began 5 years and 3 months ago, approximately 2 blocks from where I sit, in the shadows, typing these dark thoughts. Because 5 years and 3 months ago, I ran away and hid from the world in the hopes that the cancer would simply eat me, swallow me whole and end my miserable existence.

Instead,the Audio Thiefthrew me out of his house and sent me back to Los Angeles.

So when my dear sister came to visit, I was able to show her my secret hide out for the first time. Suddenly, the story of my demise had form and contextual reference. For the first time, my sister could see that 'behind the waterslide and down the hill where heaven reaches'was a very real and tangible place. She finally understood where I was on the night when'land and time is left to float away'.

As I pondered the information from her point of view, I wondered how I managed to escape that mental and emotional breakdown. The Audio Thief who threw me out of that house and sent me back to Los Angeles for the required surgery, is now lying in a hospital bed himself, at Las Vegas UMC Hospital. He has been in an incapacitated state since November. His dog, who sat with me, lovingly sprawled at my side, be it sofa or bed, died two weeks ago. The cause was cancer to the throat. I, on the other hand, seem to get healthier by the day. In fact, since I have moved to Las Vegas, my health and my life have improved considerably.

So I sit and wonder. And I wonder. Was my illness, like a sin, eaten? Was that festering cancer ingested, swallowed whole and drank down with a six-pack of sale priced American beer? Did the very act of love and companionship given to me by that beautiful Hound result in the absorption of my cancer?

I went to see him. Before this latest turn of events, I went to the hospital on my way home from work one afternoon. I went because I thought he was dying then, and the notion of the sin eater had not yet crossed my mind. He did not know who I was when I walked in the room … or maybe he did. In any case, the impression I was left with was that this was a temporary condition. I was furious as I left the hospital, thinking it was yet another false cry of Wolf. I drove home in disgust.

Then I got the Instant Message late one week night, that he was back in the hospital and this time it was for good. There was no way he was recovering, yadda yadda yadda. I had actually begun to toss the notion of a visit around in my head. Should I? Shouldn't I? Back and forth. Somehow, I think I was hoping that while I tossed the notion, wasting time with each toss, he would either get better and go home or simply slip away in the middle of the night. Then I wouldn't have to worry about going or not going to the hospital.

Now, with the notion of the sin eater bouncing off the walls of my mind and invariably banging up against the Vault door, I fear a visit. I've read the folk-lore and the cultural significance of the sin eater. I have to assume that the disease eater works in much the same manner. There is nothing in the folk lore regarding the deceased miraculously rising from the grave, thereby justifying the Watcher's sixpence, and encountering the sin eater. No one talks about what may or may not happen.

What remains now is that I am free. The sin eater, or the disease eater, ate my disease 5 years and 3 months ago in the house with the waterslide and set me free. And let's face it, this may be Las Vegas where you take a gamble, but there are some risks, some bets, I am just not willing to make. So until I can shake this notion of the sin eater from my psyche, I will remain apart from that hospital bed and the man who threw me out of the house will not receive a visit from me.

Yes, it's selfish, but like I said, this is Vegas, baby.

Un-Packing - February 2008

As I unpack yet another box, my hands wrap around another piece of an old lover, long since gone from my life. ..

"You move a lot" My sister's voice echoes through my head.

Yes, I think , I have to move a lot. It's the only way to shake them lose, to pry them out of my life, so that all that is left is a fragment of the "We" that used to be "Us".

Maybe they were only a part of me for a week, a month, a day. But with the unwrapping of paper and bubble wrap, there is another piece of him, or him, or oh yes… I remember him. I realize I only keep the fragments that remind me of happier times. Of times before I got mad, or bored or simply lost interest. The trinkets hold the shiny fascination that they, themselves, can not hold onto over time.

So a new house, a new life, old memories. I look around and see that my chatchkies are simply pieces of them that have lingered. Or maybe it is simply the pieces that I can tolerate. Who really knows the inner workings of a mad-woman's mind.

A Year & A Day - January 2008

January 1, 2008

In seven days, I will have been in this desert for one full year. January 8 will be the poignantly significant "year and a day".

For one full year I have refrained from magick and all things "witchy". Until last night, New Year's Eve, I have not even thrown a tarot spread. No rituals, no spelling, no mixing, no candles. A true hiatus from religion and magick.

As the anniversary comes near, and the hiatus wanes, I am slowly recognizing the return of magick into my life.

On Yule (December 21 for the Muggles or Mundanes), driving home from a Vegas Show with my Heathen Friend, we encountered Coyote at the Crossroads at exactly midnight. The significance is really quite shocking, for a number of reasons. Those who know me understand what I am talking about here. Those who don't, well…..

On December 27, 2006, Coyote ran with me across the desert as I drove back to Long Beach to pack my belongings and prepare for the move to Las Vegas. It was an optical illusion of distance and movement, but the effect was that Coyote appeared to be walking by my side as I drove along the highway. A year later, Coyote is standing at the crossroads just outside my gated community – another message.

When I first got here to the desert, I felt lost and abandoned by my Gods. As if in leaving my beachfront I had left my Deities behind, tied to the tides, as it were. For months there was no sign of life from the other side. The Christian YVHV made several attempts at contact, but His dutiful followers made sure I never entered his Temple. Which is just fine by me…. Really. I guess, in retrospect, even my Deities were intent on enforcing the strict "year and a day" policy.

just tell your
Gods for me
all debts are off this year
they're free to leave
yes they're free
to leave

On January 8, I will have to decide where I want to go. I left Long Beach and Wicca behind. I traveled as far as I could down that path. Going forward, I need to decide how I will practice my Craft, and how I will worship my Deity. Hekate has made her presence felt this past month. It is with both shock and awe that this year, the eve of the new moon falls on January 7 and the New Moon on my one year and one day anniversary, January 8. Clearly, it has been the Queen of the Witches, Hekate, who has been closely watching over me this past year. And in true Hekate fashion, she has done so quietly and at an extreme distance.

The Commandments of Coyote

The Commandments of Coyote

Originally Posted by Ocean1025 over athttp://deafpagan.com/author/ocean1025/

I.     Thou Shalt Have As Many Gods and Spirits and Personal Trainers and Gurus As You Like Before Me, But You Shalt Not Let Them Block the Exits, and More, You Shall Not Permit Them To Take the Last Beer, For That Beer Is Mine.  Seriously.  Don't.

II.      Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor's Wife, But Thou Art Totally Welcome To Admire Her Ass When She Walks By, and If It Happens To Come Out That They Are In An Open Relationship, Dude, Tap That Ass As Much As They Are Willing To Allow.  Same Goes For the Ladies.  Coveting Is Sort Of Stupid, But Sex Is Just Plain Fun, Unless Thou Art Doing It Entirely Wrong.

III.      If Thy Neighbor Says 'Hands Off My Wife, Dude', Thou Shalt Listen and Back Off, Because Otherwise, Thy Neighbor Will Be Totally Justified In Hitting You About the Head and Shoulders With Gardening Tools, and Don't Think That I'm Going To Step In There and Stop Him.

IV.      Adultery Is Actually Pretty Fun.  Commit It All You Like.  Just Make Sure Everyone Is Cool With It, Or I Will Not Help You Out Once the Hitting Gets Started.

V.      Thou Shalt Not Eat Poisoned Bait. If You Do, Don't Come Whining To Me About It, Because I Am Very Unlikely To Care.  Once It Is In Your Mouth, It Is Your Problem, Not Mine.

VI.      Of Course Thou Shalt Kill.  Carnivores Do That.  Also, Swatting Mosquitoes, Sort Of Instinctive.  But All Creatures Are Alive Before You Kill Them, and So Thou Shalt Respect Them In Their Lives and In Their Deaths. Thou Shalt Not Kill Without Reason.  Thy Neighbor Tapping Thy Wife's Ass? Is Not A Reason.  Don't Make Me Set A Plague Upon Thy Ass. Thou Wouldst Not Enjoy It, I Promise.

VII.      Thou Shalt Not Hoard. Seriously, Here.  If You Have Enough, Share. Only Assholes Would Be Selfish.

VIII.     Thou Shalt Not Be A Martyr. If You Have One Beer, Drink It. Do Not Give It To Me and Then Expect Adoration. Dude, That Was Your Beer, I Did Not Break Your Arm To Get It. Give What You Can Give, and Expect Neither Praise Nor Worship. You Are Not Being Morally Superior, You Are Being A Decent Human Being. There Is A Difference.

IX.      Assume This Is It. Maybe There Is Reincarnation; Maybe Not. Not Only Am I Not Saying, Please Consider the Fact That I Probably Get A Say In Whether You Come Back, and If You Are the Sort Of Person Who Doesn't Do Anything With One Life, Why Should I Waste My Time Giving You Another One? Live Like You Get No Second Chances. You Will Have More Fun.

X. Are You Going To Eat That?

Trouble is her only friend, and he’s back again – November 2007

So I let Crazy pull me in
Then I let Crazy take his spin
Kicked off my shoes
Shut reason out
He said
"first let's just unzip your religion down
Heard that you were once Temptation's girl"

November 2005

The ghosts of my dead lovers haunt me. The boys who loved a girl, long since placed in a grave, wander through the laundry basket of my mind, sorting through memories and sifting them out, checking their worth.

My bedroom has become a void. I can't bear to be in that room. And the only thing I keep coming back to is, night I saw you after a 9 month absence. I want to tell you how much I miss you and how deeply I love you, but something is stopping me. Just like something is stopping me from unpacking my bedroom.--> --> --> -->

Significantly, this is the first time we've been together and I haven't been a basket case for 2 weeks after you return home. And then I realize that I haven't slept in 2 days and haven't gotten into my car in 5 days. Let's face it, you make me full on crazy. And my patient little Ims and voice mails drive you crazy. The difference is you are better at it than I am. You are better at closing the Vault door and stashing the key in an old faded pair of jeans that you toss nonchalantly on the bedroom floor.

I guess in the long run, my getting on that plane was the best thing that ever happened to you. Imagine what might not have been had I gotten into your car instead. The fact that we are still here is probably a testament to something. I'd like to think it's something about true love. The sad reality is that it's probably something about a testament to Insanity.

I've been thinking about this for the past day now and I really need to say this.

I just can not fathom how you can focus on something that happened so long ago, between two children, when you have such a charmed life. The fact is, you've seen things and done things other people only dream of. You have a wonderful career and a potential opportunities project, you've flown in Air Force One and met an American President, you've traveled the world, and at the end of the day you are bemoaning the loss of a love 20 years ago.

And despite it all, you refuse to see that had I not gotten on that plane, had I instead stayed with you and married you, none of the fabulous experiences you've had would be a part of your reality.

You sound like a spoiled child. I hate to say such a harsh thing, but maybe you need a stern reminding of how great your life really is.

I think the sad truth here is that you simply aren't interested in knowing who I am as a grown woman. Even now, you are still in love with a girl who died 5 years ago. Who I am now is nothing like the girl I was, and while I think she was spirited, head strong and wild, I also think she was brave, I am no longer that girl.

It makes me sad to realize this truth. I wish you did have an interest in knowing the woman I am today.

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

"Trouble is her only Friend, and he's back again"

November 2007

Instead, you disappear for 16 months at a time without a word, and expect me to take you in like a lost and bedraggled animal… or is that Animaul? Either way, it is the sort of behavior that makes me Crazy.

And as soon as you have rearranged
the mess in your head
He will show up looking sane
perfectly sane
If I know Crazy

I thought I had gotten over Crazy.

I truly believed thatTHIS TIME, yes this last time, I had finally conquered the Crazy Demon from my past. But, alas, no.

After being told how wretched I am, and how much you want me away from you and out of your life –DING!– another email from your sorry ass, and here I am, fighting off the Crazy Demon with a flimsy pipe cleaner and a used coffee filter.

Full on Crazy.

Angry. Hurt. Sad. Depressed. Furious. Insane.

All the wonderful emotions that run rampant when you come back around.

You look so Sane.

You sound so Well Adjusted.

But we all know how deeply disturbed you really are and how your particular brand of Crazy is as contagious as the Black Plague in Paris.

I loved you once. And I was willing to make room for you in my life under the conditions I gave you in October 2005. So far, you can't seem to leave the drama behind and are unable to act like a mature, 42 year old man. Getting drunk and playing the "You broke my heart you bitch" soundtrack is really not something I want to hear again and again. Your stories are so weak and pitiful, I am embarrassed for you when I hear them. For someone with so much talent, I would expect you to put a little more effort into your lies.

I can only imagine what story you have this time. I bet it's going to be a whopper!

I loved you… but I'm not sure that I love you anymore. You always forgot that I have always loved you. I wonder if this time, you forgot for the both of us.

"Trouble is My only Friend, and You're back again"

The Amazing Transformation of Archie Goodwin – April 2007

The Amazing Transformation of Mr. Archie Goodwin

Or… How Vegas has been better to my dog than it has to me!

Eight months ago I packed up my belongings and my dog and traipsed across Death Valley to the City of Sin. At that time, it was a quest for survival as I watched my thriving little consulting business get choked into oblivion.

Mr. Archie Goodwin had been a sheltered, fat little spoiled Chihuahua. He had a nanny to walk him. He had a neighbor Chihuahua to play with him. He was never required to be socialized beyond the limited contact with the outside world than was absolutely necessary.

Archie had acquired a severe large-dog aggression which stemmed from being attacked by a 2 year old Australian Shepherd in late 2004. From that point on, he was viciously fearful of any and all large dogs. After a time, that aggression branched out to all dogs over 20 pounds. Finally, just before the drive across the desert, it had grown to encompass any dog larger than himself.

When we got to Las Vegas, I immediately began a search for a dog sitter. I had become accustomed to indulging Archie's anti-social behavior. He loved the dog sitter and was pretty much a happy camper for the first 3 months we spent here in Las Vegas.

Around month four, there was a change in our financial situation and I could no longer afford the $125/week it was costing for Archie's dog sitter. I was in PetsMart one day and saw the PetsHotel. I found that it was significantly less money than the dog sitter and it was on the way to my office. My hours had changed and I was now able to drop him at the hotel at 7am each morning.

After the requisite round of shots and vet visits, Archie began day care 2 days a week. Hs first week in Day Care, Archie weighed a whopping 18.6 pounds. I slowly worked him up to 3, then 4 and eventually 5 days a week of day care. This option allowed Archie 1 hour of play time in an air conditioned atrium with other small dogs. At first it was very hard on him – he was essentially forced to socialize with other dogs.

At about the one month mark, Archie started to blossom and become a bit of a social butterfly. So I decided to start introducing some day camp days during the week. I started with 2 days a week in day camp and 3 in day care. I noticed a significant change in him immediately. He was happy, alert, well behaved and healthy. Eventually he worked up to daily day camp and the official social butterfly of the PetsHotel. With 3 girls to keep him company he has become quite the lothario of the Hotel! Archie is not allowed to bark at home – I have a strict "No Barking" policy and have worked hard at instilling the command in him. At the Hotel, however, he barks all day, continuously. It seems to be part of his character!! He still doesn't bark at home, so maybe it's good he gets al the barking out at Day Camp!

At the end of July, Archie had been in Day Care/Camp for a full 4 months and he seemed thinner. One evening after check out, I weighed him and was floored. I took him off the scale and reset the computer – weighed him again – and literally cried out in joy. Archie weighed 12.6 pounds! By mid-August, he has weighed in at 11.4 pounds!!!

I am completely aghast at the transformation. The PetsHotel has changed my angry fat little anti-social dog, in a sleek, loving, well adjusted social butterfly. He is well behaved and very snuggly.

The Man Who Gave Me a Garden – March 2007

In between the VP of Finance and the Engineer, woven opposite of the Audio Thief, there was the English Teacher.

I met him at a time in my life when I was unsure of my status as an animated being. He convinced me that a glass of water in a public place was no risk and did not constitute a commitment. Being in shock as I was from having woken up from yet another life threatening surgery, the proposition left me without a retort. How could I argue? And so it began.

I placed all these silly boundaries and restrictions upon him.

Me: You can come to my house for coffee, but I won't have sex with you.
Him: But we can make out a little, right?
Me: Oh, of course.

I told myself the boundaries were important because he was so overwhelming. He stood 6' 4" and was broad shouldered. He was the first man in many years who towered over me, and made me feel petite and vulnerable.

It was not long before we fell into a weekend routine of all night sex and fabulously long leisurely breakfasts on the front porch together. I relate cooking and eating to sex – after all, they do hit the same erogenous zones and have historically been linked. I figured the cooking on "the morning after" was simply an extension of the previous night's glorious adventures in pleasure.

He taught me the secret to making strong bold "starbucks" coffee at home. He showed me how a small amount of chopped bacon could transform boring scrambled eggs into a gourmet meal. He educated me in the divinity of seasoned salt. I think I was most surprised by the biscuits.

One morning he declared that he was done with toast. Go take a shower, he commanded, the biscuits need to rise. When I came out, freshly washed and smelling less like sex and more like a girl, there were six freshly baked biscuits on the counter. I can't remember now if my shock was for the actual appearance of home made baked goods in my domicile, or the unholy mess he had made of my kitchen in the process of baking said biscuits.

It was a time in my life when I had no money and lived on a meager allowance at the fringes of the San Pedro ghetto district. We watched TV together, and attended matinees. We went for walks in the park. We drove around the beach city at night with the top down. The spring air and the scent of night blooming jasmine intoxicating us. More often than not we ended up on a deserted side street, alone under the oaks trees, lips locked, arms wrapped and the smell of jasmine wafting around us. The usual passionate kisses inevitably turned steamy as our hands were all over each other. Reaching under and up and down and around, touching and caressing each other.

Our birthdays were very close together. I bought him a heavy zippo lighter. It was a smokey brass large men's lighter engraved with his initials on one side and a favorite line from the poem "Variations" by Frederico Garcia Lorca… "under a thicket of kisses".

The still waters of the air
under the bough of the echo.

The still waters of the water
under a frond of stars.

The still waters of your mouth
under a thicket of kisses.

Two weeks later, for my birthday, he gave me a garden. He had arranged a tour of the Huntington Gardens in Pasadena on the day of my birthday. It just so happened to be the birthday of Jane Goodall, being celebrated at the Gardens. There were "Happy Birthday" banners and balloons all over the Library grounds.

That night we made passionate love in his loft apartment, with the scent of night blooming jasmine floating in through the open windows.

One evening after he had put on a particularly chivalrous display of manliness, we ended up in our usual spot against the tile of my oversized shower. Under the waterfall of the shower head, I accidentally told him that I loved him. I meant it in the endearing, "Oh I just love lemon meringue pie". I understand the mistake, we were naked, in the shower. Behind all that steam a person can become quite misled.

We went along at a frantic pace, having passionate sex, eating fabulous food and lounging in each other's arms on warm spring mornings. It was only a matter of time before the accidental declaration in the shower became a hardened reality.

He gave me a garden and I fell in love with him.

After the passion faded, I was left with his friendship. I moved into the apartment next to his when it became available. I wanted to be in the one place I had truly fell and felt in love. I wanted to be reminded of the late morning love making, with music and strong coffee. It was no longer about the English Teacher, it was about reclaiming that feeling of being in love.

After many long lonely years of not knowing what love felt like, of not having any idea of love, I had finally found my way back to the emotion that had abandoned me.

It was not about love, it was the idea of love.   It was about the idea of the Garden.

May 26, 2007

Tell him I still love him.

Remind him that I am still here

Still in love

Still waiting.

Your skin has the same scent as his skin,

But you are not him.

You taste like him,

Your saliva leaves his taste on my lips,

But when I open my eyes,

I see you are not him.

I can close my eyes

When I am in your arms

And pretend I am with him.

For a few moments

When we are together

I can pretend he is still here,

Still loving me.

Dead Flowers on the Doorstep – February 2007

For the past 5 years, I have been a devoted DirecTV subscriber. It would be an understatement to say I have formed an intimate relationship with my TiVo. Unfortunately, I have rented a condo that has a blocked view of the South Eastern Sky, and an HOA that forbids satellite dishes on the roof. Alas, I am cut off from my orbital entertainment and confined to earth-based television.The upside to this shift in perception is that I am forced to view my surroundings from a completely different paradigm.  Maybe pulling my head out of the clouds and firmly planting my thoughts on the floor of the desert valley is a good thing.

Then again, maybe not. I can't relate to earth-based television.

The clarity this move has brought me is quite stunning, and yes, very disturbing. I have started to wonder what it would be like to live free in all the aspects of my life. Looking down the hill on the lights and the beauty of the Strip at night, I have begun to wonder... what if?

I have begun to question the validity of friendships and the requisite drama that comes with them. I am more cynical about religion and the religious. And most disturbing, I have begun to wonder what it would be like to live my life as if I were the nefarious woman so many people believe me to be.

I have always believed  I had a terrible poker face.Each and every time the gossip mill starts it's engine, I am underestimated. At first it was disappointing. Now, as I look out over the valley, I realize the inner Me is so much more evil and cunning, there is no way the rumor machine could possibly know or anticipatemy next move.  I am aghast at the new found ability to not only recognize what I am capable of, but also how close to becoming her that a really am.

Take for example the Holiday season of 2004, when I was accused of harboring violent tendencies towards the Audio Thief. It would be two full years, 24 long months, before I would learn the genesis of those accusations. What troubles me is not the accusations themselves, but that the idea of impending violence against him never crossed my mind.

I feel cheated now, of an opportunity to bring harm which was wildly anticipated, talked about, built up and whipped into a frenzy. An opportunity to bring harm, without repercussion. I was cheated out of a free ticket without consequence.

But… because I am not that woman, and I had never considered being that woman, it never even occurred to me to bring harm, or impose myself forcefully and violently upon him.

Ah but those who know me are very well aware that my intellect would have precluded an act so bereft of personalization. Now, if the dead flowers somehow were placed inside the house… that would have been far more sinister, far more threatening, and far more representative of my abilities.

Especially if they were placed in the very location where I broke the glass, dragging his mind back to that night 'behind the water slide' and his thoughts back to the night when 'land and time is left to float away'. My act of violence would tear at the tissue of the mind, and rip at the flesh of memory. Certainly, it would strike closer than the doorstep of an entry never used.

I guess the point is, this valley has made me consider possibilities that have never occurred to me before. The paradigm, like the view, has changed.

This desert has been calling politely for at least 3 years. Now, I feel like patience ran out and I have been dragged across the desert by my hair.

I find myself living on the edge of civilization and I have never been happier. The move here was probably the most frightening thing I have done in over 20 years. I still don't know how to feel about this move to Las Vegas, other than I can't help to get the queasy feeling that I am dealing directly with a deity who will one day require a sacrifice from me on a scale I have not yet experienced. The very real truth is that this move is all I've got. Every chance I have taken since December 15, 2006 has paid off. Every gamble has been a winning hand. And yet, it's the only move, the only card, I have had. There was no other option than the path I have taken.

Why am I being pushed into the desert? It's not like this environment is foreign to me, I grew up in this type of setting. So the move is not completely out of character. There is a direct correlation to the desert, and to Las Vegas. My grandparents owned property in Perris California, and I went with them to the desert regularly. I grew up in Death Valley, Victorville, Barstow, Baker. My mother went to school here in Las Vegas, my grandparents owned a bar off the strip.

Maybe it has something to do with being happy. When one is content, and the tiresome burden of melancholy frees the imagination to wander, there seem to be no boundaries. There is no telling who I will become as I settle into my hillside condo. I do know that sitting on my favorite couch and gazing out over the sparkling color of the valley below has brought me more happiness than I could have ever imagined.

Garbage in the Parking Lot - December 24, 2006

As I sit here in a very cold Starbuck's leeching off the only wireless hotspot I can find in Vegas (seems odd, no?) the Crows are mobbing a pile of Quizno's trash left behind by an inconsiderate brute (or brutess - equal opportunity and all).

On the one hand it is offensive that someone would toss out so much trash on the parking lot, when a perfectly suitable trash bin is nearby.

On the otherhand, those Crows got a very pleasant Christmas Eve dinner rioting around in the crumpled paper and pecking out the leftover bread.

Would the Gods be pleased by the site of their sacred animals feasting wildly with the Robins?  Do they see an offering to their Pets? or do they know Their favored messengers are feasting on scraps?

Does it matter?

Cali-fornication - December 2006

Cali Fornication

or

The Rumors of my Crisis are Greatly Exaggerated

I spent 4 days camping in the desert. Since I got back to the city, I can not keep my hands clean. I find myself in the kitchen sink or the bathroom with soap and hot water at least 5-7 times a day.

For the past 7 years, I have sat on the edge and committed to nothing or no one. I spent a lot of time dancing with religion and the sacred union, the divine feminine and the balance with patriarchal archetypes. I dove right into witchcraft – 90 days to be exact – right after Gran died. I remained in a loveless marriage with a man  I had grown to hate. I used distance as a shield against life.

The funniest thing about all this is the action – trigger event – which began the beginning. Michael. Crazy huh?  When we got married, I tried to do it through the Catholic Church. I went through all the machinations, the required classes, etc and so on, and even had my baptismal, confessional, communion and confirmation certificates collected and documented.

It was only a few years (about 2) after the ironically labeled Father Vatican refused to allow Michael and I to marry in the Catholic Church that I became ill and had the Angel in the Bathroom.

The Angel. That was quite the experience, and I learned very quickly that it is not considered socially acceptable to go around telling people that you talk to angels.

At least if you say you're a witch it's easier to play off as a non-conformist, slightly crazy... the woman who is just a little touched.

Which brings to me the point of this blog. The "crisis of faith" everyone is so concerned about, the move across the desert my close friends are so stunned over.

First, the move. Well there's not much to say. Las Vegas is a booming town and I have a better chance at starting over there than I do anywhere else. I have a group of good friends for support. Yes, salaries are lower in Vegas but so is the cost of living. I have been trying to get out of California since 2001 when I started interviewing in New York and Chicago. It's just time.

The physical move is going to be difficult. Saying goodbye is really hard. Since the return from my stay on the moon…. Very very few of you on my list of friends truly knows what that means and the time period I am referring to. It's pre 2003, so that narrows the list pretty significantly. The bottom line is that the only reason I survived the surgery – that time when you all were called to the hospital to say good bye – was because Michael forced his will and presence for access to the magic of modern medicine. Only Michael could have navigated through the bureaucracy of the Health Insurance business process.

So I have come to the conclusion that he taught me what I needed to learn to manage this damned endometriosis or whatever it has morphed into now. The price we paid was our marriage. I hated him in the end. There are pieces of me that despise him to this day. I can not, however, truly hate him fairly without acknowledging that he saved my life.

In the end, the very reason I despise him led to the introduction into my life the one woman who made sure my diet coke was stored in the fridge and my clothes were hung up. I guess that's the irony of life. If it had not been for Mike finally accepting the recommendation of a cleaning lady, because I steadfastly refused to clean the bathroom, from his mistress, I never would have met Sheila.

The funny part is that Mike had intended for one, maybe max 3 times Sheila would clean the house. No. Sheila and I became friends fast, and she came every week. At the time I had no idea, and it was only years later as I pieced together the bits of information I had, that I realized she had given Mike her cleaning lady's number. Mike, trying to shut me up, gave me the number. Now everyone understands why Mike hated Sheila so very much.

As I look back, when I moved from Palm Ave, in 2000, I should have left California then. I don't remember why I stayed, maybe I believed the job I had would turn around. I don't remember now why I stayed but I did.

When Mike moved back in with me in 2001, we were supposed to move to Chicago. Of course that never happened. Again, I should have just gone by myself. I should have just said done. But again, I stayed.

I keep trying to leave LA and to leave California. Somehow, something always stops me. Now, 7 years since the return from my stay on the moon, it's down to the wire and time for me to go North.

So that brings us to the pool and the waterfall – which is an entirely different blog.

As for the "crisis of faith", well it's not a crisis. It's more of a ….. an awakening I guess you could say. My faith is not in crisis. What I believe and my relationship with the Divine is just fine. (Please refer to above looney bin statements on Angels).

I am walking away from the Pagan and Wiccan "path" specifically. I completely respect the Gardnerians and the Roebucks, and the Seax … as they were 40 years ago. Today it's a bunch of white trash mixed with absolutely nutty nit wits and most of all….. Dumb! (Kris, honey, that was my gift to you, you can stop giggling now.)

Of the few people I have met who are worthy of any respect in the path are much older Elders from back east, and a select handful of people I could honestly call friends who are local. Other than that, every single person I have met who labels themselves Pagan or Wiccan is just fake. I think Hollywood has a close rival for most saccharine community. And there you have it – Hollywood Pagans. Of course, those of you who have known me a very long time (and you know who you are) have spent time laughing about these very subjects.

Someone emailed me recently and made the comment "In this world of liars and dysfunctional people.." and I nearly fell off my chair from laughing. Really? You don't say? The Pagan Community might be filled with liars and dysfunctional people? Get outta here!!

I am done trying to lead anyone anywhere. Let me re-phrase that: Unless I am getting paid to lead a team to a specific goal, I am done leading voluntarily. And from what I've seen, there is no one I am interested in "following".

I have found a group of friends who very impressively follow a motto I picked up at a John Wells camping ritual: "Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow. Don't walk behind me; I may not lead. Just walk beside me and be my friend"

I am more interested in walking beside them to see what comes next.

Because as Animaul said 3 years ago: "Youhave to see what comes next"

I am going to miss Sheila and Rachel very much. Mom will come to see me and Kris… well I'm sure we will see each other at special holidays.

Here's the funniest part of all: I was packing up the office and I found a $50 gift card to Outback. Hey Ettie, guess where we are having Christmas dinner?

Sam's Town - December 2006

She said
You don't know me, you don't wear my chains...

She said
I think I'll go to Boston...
I think I'll start a new life,
I think I'll start it over, where no one knows my name,
I'll get out of California, I'm tired of the weather,
I think I'll get a lover and fly em out to Spain...
I think I'll go to Boston,
I think that I'm just tired
I think I need a new town, to leave this all behind...
I think I need a sunrise, I'm tired of the sunset,
I hear it's nice in the Summer, some snow would be nice...
Boston... where no one knows my name...

OK, so it's not exactly Boston but it is east.  North East to be exact, from my present location.  It's time to really start over.  I've been trying to start over for 3 years now, and I just can't seem to shake the demons of the past.  I really think I need to pack up and move to Las Vegas.  I've been toying with the idea since Anet started suggesting it two years ago.

I have come to the conclusion that the sadness I feel about leaving has more to do with my breakup with Scott than actually leaving.  I have been living in "Scott's Apartment" for nearly 3 years now.  Archie and I practically moved in when Scott and I started dating in February 2004.  He married the Australian girl this past summer and has been gone longer than we actually dated.  I, however, am still living in the same apartment.  I do miss him.

I've gone through the list and other than a very small handful of people (like 3) here in Long Beach, I don't have alot of people to say good bye to.  I mostly have friends I will say hello to!!  That is why I think I am sad, because of Scott - there is no other reason.

There's also the fear of the unknown.  The last time I moved away from California was 1987.  That's 20 years ago.  I was gone for 4 years and came running home to the familiarity of saccharine friendships and postcard sunsets.  My most valuable friendships have all been with people outside of California.  So, maybe it's time to leave.  Afterall, how cliche is it that I fall into the demographic of shallow Californians who have never lived east of the Rockies?  What?  There's cities and stuff on the other side?  Really?

So I will tread as far as Las Vegas.  That's about how far East I can venture without getting nervous.  North seems friendlier, but I'm not in to the snow and cold so much.

Starting Over.  New Year, New Life.  I even cut and colored my hair.  No more blondie blonde.  I'm very close to my natural Auburn again, I forgot how intense my eyes get when my hair is dark.  So mote it be - it's all brand new!

Harvesting with Mom

My Grandmother died September 29, 2000. After 15 years of secretly practicing, quietly reading and studying, I attended my first public ritual in January 2001.

Mom was pissed.

She didn't talk to me for a couple of weeks.

Over the years Mom has become more accepting, to the point of celebrating Yule, specifically for me. It works out perfectly because I avoid family gatherings like the Wicked Witch avoids water.

Mom has made a concerted effort to channel her witchy ways into New Age philosophies. That is until she met her new friend.

Mom made the mistake (or misstep) of telling her new friend that her mother was a witch and her daughter is a witch. That is how we ended up in Psychic Eye on Ventura Blvd yesterday afternoon.

As we entered the shop, Mom says to me, "The spell isn't working, we need another candle." My purpose for visiting the book store for Handfasting books was immediately over ridden by my mother's new intentions. She had brought me here to tweak the spell she had been working.

Well, not 'working'. More like 'directing'. Mom and her friend use me to sound off their spell ideas. I probably should note for posterity that I do this under duress. When you have a Witch for a Mother, a Grandmother and a Sister, saying no to spell working of any kind is never permitted. We were raised ….. differently. We couldn't start a spell unless there was a very good reason, and only after long months of meditation and reflection, only then would we be allowed to consider "directing" the actions of our Querant. Being in this store, not to mention in the store together, was something Gran would highly disapprove of. As far as Gran was concerned, there was never enough meditation and reflection prior to spell working.

I started walking around the store looking at all the items. Mom gave me some details about the spell "not working". I started back tracking to 3 months ago when she first started the spell and the path she and her friend had followed to this point.  I walked past a table of books and my hand knocked one to the floor, cover side down. I picked it up and discovered the Hand-fasting book I needed. I turned to Mom and she looked at me with surprise in her eyes. "I have to find the ladies room," she said. "You get your things and when I get back we can finish the spell."

I had two very important intentions fighting for first position in my mind. Lady Sankofa's wedding in 15 days, which I was witnessing and acting as Maid of Honor, and Mom's spell. When the book hit the floor and Mom saw the title, she realized I was going to have a hard time working both intentions at once. I wandered around the store, looking, touching, reading, thinking.

I started a collection of items at the front counter, leaving my hands free to examine anything I might need. I placed one last item on the counter and saw that all the Hand-fasting/Lady Sankofa business was complete.

A note on the set up of Psychic Eye: The layout of inventory has lost all semblance of logic for a Witch. Spell working items are separated by full spans of the store. Parchment and Ink are on one side, oils and herbs on the other and candles tucked away far in the back. Clearly, a Witch had to have firm intentions to gather the appropriate materials. I'd like to believe the shop is facilitating the art of "harvesting" but we all know this is fallacy.

As I walked around the store, I realized that as the candle waned, so did the efficacy of the spell – for whatever reason. About 2 weeks prior to this day, I had the funky feeling that Mom's new friend had some very advanced training in Witchcraft. Everytime she changed the configuration of her altar, I felt it. My reasoning for this was because of Mom. I decided to "start over" by refreshing the spell ingredients – new candle, new parchment, new oil.

I had tracked down the ink and parchment and was searching the store for the magical oils when I found Mom fingering a beautiful Angel wind chime. "Ok, I have most of the stuff *** need's, let's talk about the spell." I tore Mom away from the Angels, and focused her attention on the Ostrich and Pheasant quills. "What are you doing?" Mom asked. "Foraging" I replied. "Pick a quill for her", I said.

Mom started asking what harvesting and foresting was. I told her we were City Witches, we forage in the shops because we don't have the convenience of a woods or mineral deposit in our back yard. I had a flashback to 11 years old and explaining my Algebra homework to Mom. As I said the words, I could feel Gran frowning above and behind my shoulders.

By now, we were standing in front of the herb jars. I got an oil for her friend to anoint the candle, and turned just as Mom was taking the Wormwood jar from the shelf. To my complete shock and surprise….. or is that shock and awe?

"What are you doing with that?" I asked.

"We need herbs to sprinkle on the candle," she replied.

"Oh?" my eyebrows have disappeared into my hairline. The back of my neck is set on fire as I feel Gran's fury rising.

"That's what the witches do when we go to see them," she says quietly. The look in her eyes tells me she considers them to be "Other" witches….. not like us … not like Gran.

I am frozen in place.

"What herbs do they use, and who are these witches?" I ask while examining a bundle of Sage.

"The store you sent us to!" Mom says incredulously. "You told us to get the supplies at a store and we meet at Pan Pipes."

"Meet?" I ask. "Mom that was months ago, how often are you meeting there?"

"I don't know….." she looks away and picks up another herb jar. I can't see the label but it was on the shelf above the Cornflower. Great….it was probably Belladonna. "… we meet there at least once a week."

The irony here is that Pan Pipes – the one from the early 90's – was a location I tried to get to so that I could attend ritual and "come out of the closet". My Grandmother was fiercely opposed to any of "the girls" letting on that they were, could be, or were ever thought of as witches. It was part of the family secret. We don't talk about what Granny brews in the tea pot, the only witches are from the Wizard of Oz and we all know what happened to her.

I am thinking about how pissed Gran would be if she knew Mom was going to the very store front Gran had intercepted, detoured and downright barred me from attending nearly 15 years earlier, when Mom decides to show me the witches and the herbs.

We are standing in the back of the store and on opposite sides of the room. Mom threw the images into the space between us. You have to understand that all of this happens in a matter of milliseconds, but the detail is vibrant. I recognize each of the witches from my previous trips to Pan Pipes, but Mom's friend is curiously absent. There is however, a rather obvious presence that is out beyond the line of vision. Familiar and very hostile.

Mom came around the shelf with all the candles. "You should be more careful," I said. "Don't worry," she said, "I leave when I feel them coming."

"You know it's herbs Gran told us to stay away from, do you remember?" I asked. Mom gave me a strange look, and she said no. "She didn't want me using oils," Mom said quietly. My mind started spinning. Gran kept me away from herbs and Mom away from oils. My sister was steered away from cards, and as Mom and I walked out the door with our purchases, I realized Gran was pushing her away from the Tarot.

We spoke briefly on what her friend needed to do, and what intentions Mom was helping her put into the candle. She gave me a hug and thanked me for helping her.

Mom drove away and I thought about how lucky we are. There are very few mothers and daughters who can forage in the city in this modern day. I'm beginning to feel more and more that Gran was wrong to hide witchcraft from us, especially since she was so well practiced herself.

I think about the "parties" Gran would put together for us in the Summer. The special Parties that took place on Special Days. Gran had me "set the table" with Special Dishes and Candles. Grampa would have me bring him his Special Smells from the tin can in the drawer of his desk. Gran created a new tradition for us – one that had no connection at all with Gardner's Wicca or Sander's Witchcraft. It was truly a Family Tradition, passed from one generation to the next for the last 450 years, across an ocean and traversing 2 continents.

There are times when I have to wonder if our Coven lost it's High Priest when my Grandfather died, and just never recovered from the blow. Naturally all things that would remind us of him were banished from our reality. Magic, witches, spells, candles and incense would surely have been relegated to the deepest pits of hell, simply because they were such a source of Family Joy. I also wonder if in my Grandmother's Family Tradition, the High Priest of the Family was responsible for dedications and initiations. My Grandfather was able to initiate me at age 11, 2 years earlier than my Mother and Aunt. My Sister was never initiated.

And so, it is Mom and I who forage for ingredients to assist our friends in special "prayers" to bring a new love or help find that job.