Croc an Gator

I awake and groggy. Not to much stumbling but instinct had me at the computer to type. I just woke up from a multisequenced nightmare. This just does not happen very often. Usually I can just take it, awake and lay in the dark for a little while. The harder hit ones have me in the kitchen eating and drinking a little something while reassessing the world as it is. In other word it is still here. Today must be the result of a horse of a different color. Why? I’m writing to commit to memory. And fleshing out for your benefit. I don’t think it all was my mind’s reinterpretation of what my ears heard. Symbolism is there and icons to flesh out in both worlds.

A friend had me over to her house for dinner. The set up seemed Asian. There were bowls and bowls of chopped fresh vegetables, meats and sweet meats. I picked from the milieu what to cook and started setting up. Meanwhile her daughter played in the adjacent dining room while I watched the sweet breads my friend picked to start cooking. The only bowl I was able to focus my eye on was hers. The blurs of presumed bowled foods turned out to be insect beginnings and ends. Even the so-view rice was clean set bowl of larvae.

Scene change: I see my friend in her bedroom laying down. I am at the foot of the bed watching. There is a Caucasian man sprinkling what I thought was medicine at her feet as some male narrator explained to me what was happening. In the absurdity of it all, I thought he was sprinkling small macaroni over her ankles. The narrator corrected me. It was flesh eating larvae. As he said this the Caucasian man pulled away one of her toes clean of blood or bone.

Scene change: I’m on a train. It reminds me more of the trains I’ve seen on Rick Steve’s Europe on PBS.There are at least five of us. Forgive me I’m trying to remember through my minds eye and the details are dropping and fading away. So, I’m listening to the male and female couple talk. She is holding on to him for dear life. I look and it seems they are bound by a pair of hand cuffs. The cuffs break and he begins to leave, in a hurry that is. I seem to be leading him away from that car as she screams, yells and follows from behind. The train continues to move and the others stay back in that birth.

Scene change:This may have happened before the last scene change. When I woke up there was a firmly planted picture of a four leaf clover in my head. Not the green leafy kind but the two left sections of a highway. I start their in the air then drop below the highway into a grazing field. I seem well manicured and short up to the fence. Two other were there with me and then we all sensed danger. There were two or three alligator approaching is from the other side of the fence. They were huge like an over sized 300 pound being already savvy with commanding their tail. We didn’t run for some reason, tough I thought we’d die in the chase. The alligators spoke as well, but I forget what I heard. My two cohorts disappeared. One I think got eaten, the other disappeared and me, well, I tried to see my way out. I hammered one in the head with a red and black backpack. He finally backed off. As he curled off to the left I saw a bedroom superimposed over the field under the four leaf clover. The alligator was going down the hall. I tried to lodge the pack in the door, but it hit the alligator. He became more pissed, turned around and attacked. I woke to being above the highway before I felt teeth ripping flesh.

Not quite Attack of the Killer Tomatos but,

Thus and so, there it lay

Not that I wanted it to be that way,

but now I’ll get to sleep.

Alligator or Crocodile – Spirit Animal Totems

spirit-animals.com/alligator-or-crocodile/

To see an Alligator or Crocodile in your dream symbolizes freedom, hidden strength and power. It also forewarns of hidden danger. Someone near you is giving …

How to Interpret Alligators and Crocodiles as Dream Symbols

esmesanbona.hubpages.com › Health

Jul 8, 2014 – In dreams, alligators and crocodiles can symbolize similar hidden dangers in waking life. These dangers can take the form of treacherous …

Beef and Potatos II

Got pegged again and the request is what I ate yesterday and the leftovers. I’m not a wiz with spices, by I try to create a good blend when the kitchen and tools are clean.  When I have the right ingredients I’ll make a sweet ragout with the Garam Masala. This time its seasoned patties. From my kitchen to yours, enjoy!

The day before:

Take two potatoes and scrub them clean. Prick generously and set in the microwave oven for five minutes. Afterwards set to cool and place in the refrigerator to firm over night.

The day to cook:

Remove the potatoes from the refrigerator and slice into cubes. In a large cooking pan melt three tablespoons of butter and two tablespoons of olive oil. Once heated and spread throughout the pan, sprinkle sparsely cayenne pepper, paprika, salt and black pepper over the oil. Next gently add in the potatoes. At this point start the beef patties mix and beginning cooking them. If you can not manage one dish at a time, go slow and keep the oven heated as a waiting station for the next piece of the meal. Stir the potatoes infrequently and brown till crisp. Use 1/4-1/2 cup for one serving.

Beef Patties:

3/4 pound of ground beef

1 teaspoon garlic powder

1 teaspoon onion powder

1/2 teaspoon of salt

1/2 Tablespoon Garam Masala

Make into 1/4 thick flat patties. A round shape is not necessary. Cook for 2-3 minutes on each side for a rare or medium-rare taste. What I look for on the sides and top of the patty once it has started cooking is for a change in color. When it is time to flip the beef patty, the bottom tone will be brown half way up the sides of the patty. Flip and watch time otherwise the patty will shrink and may over cook into a shape and thickness like a hockey puck.

Slip the patty on a serving plate and cook one egg in the oils from the patty. Cook the egg till most of the white is firm and not clear. Flip the egg to cook the top of the yellow. Do not cook the egg firm. What you want is a contained yellow that run once broken by a fork. Drape the egg over the beef. Do not add salt and pepper to season. The herbs and spices in the beef will cover for that.

As an edible garnish chop half of a Roma tomato and place on the side of the plate.

If you are willing to go for a slower cook, try making country fried potatoes from scratch to go with this dish. Use the same philosophy for seasoning but add in chopped onions for the finish. It is the close of day and the kitchen still lingers with powerful aromas. I like the ambiance. It makes me feel like the kitchen is used to it fullest talents, even if the meal is meager and not pomp and circumstanced out with many a sauce. Don’t get me wrong though. A good sauce can save the ugliest and blandest of dishes. For now this bit of herb and spice I use heals me time and again. Even if it just raises the mood and calms the soul.

Status Update: The Baked Goods Table

So, this one crept up on me in the retelling that I need to report. After that realization someone told me to get my ass out of bed and write. Thus and so here I am and it dawns on me, I may be a little happier that I am alive. 20/20 hindsight, always.

I was walking to my vehicle with a few purchases in hand. My mind was completely vacuous of anything but sunshine and the heat at the end of summer. The dollar store never seems to have that much, but when it comes down to it, you see just about everybody there picking up this or that for the week. To my left I saw a man talking to a couple in their truck. As usual I just noted it and kept walking. By the time I had gotten inside my vehicle he had begun to walk in my direction.  I though I could get out of the parking lot quickly, but my reflexes seemed to bend in his direction. I said hello and asked how I could help him. He went into his prepared speech while grappling with a platter piled high with baked goods. Turned out he represented a church that I assumed was local. One of the main ministries of this church or  “house” was to pick up the homeless, drug addicts and other street dwellers to give them a home while they rehabilitate. Deeper conversation started to echo of a low to no cost drug rehabilitation program. He seemed to have his litany perfected about how coming into Christ will heal anybody.  For his ministry he was asking for a $5.00 donation in return for a freshly baked loaf of banana nut bread. I refused, apologized, told him I had to leave and wished him luck in his ministry. He became indignant as I pulled backwards asking “don’t you like banana nut bread?” I gave a firm “no” and reiterated my earlier exiting comments. He seemed to linger around the vehicle even as I pulled out of the space, changed gears, pulled forward and left.

Ok…. Call me a bitch if you want to, but here’s my underground eye on this; what if this ministry is a front for something else? I wondered to ask for papers on his ministries non-profit status and where was his ID and permit from the city to solicit in city boundaries? I wondered as well about anything from the Health Department that needed to be done. What doctors I wondered work with his church? Also are any hospitals involved? That is the light side of my argument. It hit me talking to a friend that what if this place has no guidelines for running itself. What if I’m side street Mary who needs more psychological help than drug rehabilitation? If I don’t act right or keep pace with the other residents will I end up locked in my room with no food or way out?

So let us take another jump… is it to far-fetched to think these people would be trained for work in the underground economy under the auspices of the ministry. Could it be worse thinking about an American Madrassah? Last clue in my hat that I listened to was that the situation seems like a reference to human trafficking. The town I live in got hit with that in the past few months. Arrests and relocations highlighted part of the article. So I’m a little tender on the issue and my imagination does run wild some days. In the least I feel for the homeless who, at the end of their ropes, seek help from anybody and may be taken advantage of at no notice.

Red Flag noted,

W.H.Tespid ERT

Writing.1: 9/2014

1) Writing for no reason what-so –ever….
2) You said post anything, here goes…
Sometimes it is about spring and rebirth. Before you get to that catharsis you first have to waylay death and its minions. Then the real sacrifice begins. I cannot remember the occasion to well and I want to place a beginning before Easter. Mind you, and me, that this keeping time thing was long before I became a Christian through baptism. Crossing a verse or two about the end of seasons and the beginning of cycles never meant anything then. I never came to that part in The Holy Bible because I did not grasp it for the dear leaning of logic it imparts to me. Learning to care and eventually love came later. For now, in this story, we set the stage at an early summer or late spring. I remember a pale blue sky and clouds. So many clouds hovered in the sky that their configurations began to set in me a permanent memory.
Because of that cotton sky, I poured my soul out of my parent’s house every break I was home from college. What confirmed my schedule was the view from the front door. The housing plan was not finished. Many plots were left open and four lay fallow across the street from the house. The joy in it was it was all downhill to the creek from where we staid. That meant there was nothing but sky, clouds and tree tops. Sitting outside with sketchbook and pencil till the heat of the day approached, became a regimen. Sitting out on the hills with no interruption could make anyone thing of Georgia O’Keefe up in the Black Hills crawling under her car to escape the intense New Mexico heat for but a moment. For me it was not so much the art as the communion with nature. I always came back an ilk stronger and able to handle the distraught in my day and life. At this point angst was not what drove me, it was pure dysfunction.
I came to that hill like most prostrate to methamphetamines or cocaine for deliverance. Eventually the hidden refuge becomes a sanctuary and sacred realm to be cherished even after it all changes. The cloud drawings became compulsive. Working critically and quickly was the only rule of the day. Why? It is as if only for the faithful to notice the winds above and below cause movement not only to shake but also to move to and fro. Eventually the site above started a preoccupation with moving abstractions in my work. I got reminded today and it will remain.
I was driven out of the house one day for solace and patience. I knew I could settle myself by sitting out on the ridge and waiting, waiting and waiting for my heart to gain a sensible beat and hopefully slow down. By another declination in sun I was watching the woods and the birds flutter out to the ground to scrounge for seed and insects. I was at peace with myself. So much so that when the two young boys on bikes rode by calling the passing car driver and I both African American in rude vernacular I was not phased. I was so calm, relaxed and centered I could not open my mouth at all. The teaching moment was gone, but I opted to let their own ignorance consume them at its own rate. A few minutes later I returned inside with a new understanding of the neighborhood. I said nothing to no one and had no concept of calling the police. I was not offended by their ignorance. I just understood it was not my problem. I was not hurt and well, I had better things to do. Honestly though? I staid mindful and I never looked and children the same way again. Playing with total abandon I had to relearn for years. I still do not fathom eleven year olds policing territory. Maybe one day it will be a gentle epiphany.
Winter break happened and I was lost. Texas winters are a might bit more gentle than those on the Northeast coast. That put me at ease for a brief few weeks. It is not the wholesome holidays I’m here to recant. It is the solace of working one New Year’s Eve in magic and prayer to being about blessings and understanding in a way they have not before. I began spending time reading about spell crafting and herbalism the first week or two that I arrived. Come the Eve I was ready. My parents were gone, my brother was gone and the whole neighborhood was out on the town. And no, I did I not start a fire. Come ten minutes to midnight I fled the house and ran down the hill, my sanctuary gone. There was an Oak tree riddled with mistletoe on the edge of undeveloped property toward the back of the lot and almost out of the light. I reached for the lower branch and took a sample wrapping it up in a white cotton cloth. Keeping it safe in the house would be easy. Keeping it a turn of the wheel might be hard by living in two places. Mother might get curious and off to the trash it goes. Still a chance to prolong a peaceful mind and see more blessings than problems daily was more beneficial than I could rule out.
I sat down out of the lamp light, and drew myself to the fullness of the moon. I sat and watched the neighborhood quietly. I even listened. No sound whatsoever and my mind’s voice resonated. The moon was peaking and I like clockwork undressed and sat. I watched the moon with mind open and heard nary a thing. Quiet and then came the patience and then came the stillness and then came a blessing I may have forgotten surely, except to write this now. The mosquitoes and other bugs devoured of me what they could. Till the point I could not take in more, a sacrifice surely, and then I dressed, picked up my prize and returned in doors.
I slept, soundly. Later, the year I returned for good, I found the cotton cloth and let it go. Hearts, hands and some allegiances have changed and developed. Magic, suspended belief and prayer still count for me so I never forget to play with abandon in all works and achievements at that age and even at this.

~NCC

My time tables for telling may be off. Still I vaguely remember a full moon around Christmas/New Year’s Eve.

FYI:More polish coming before urges to more publication. Either way, enjoy!

Yellow Curry Beef and Potatoes

I’ve been told I have an hour to post this or else. Apparently there are that many requests floating around and many curious people. When I made a personal pledge to explore cooking I never thought there would be so many response. All of them varied and in ernest. Past experiment have gone over well. Most of them are in the desert category. Now I’m learning to fare with dried herbs and spices as best as I can and today’s yield has been good.

In a bowl blend with your hands

.75 lbs of ground beef

1/4 cup of finely chopped onion

1/2 cup fresh bread crumbs

3 cloves garlic finely chopped

1 tsp dried garlic

1/4 tsp cornstarch

1/4 tsp cumin

2 tsp yellow curry

1/2 tsp paprika

1/2 tsp sea salt (optional)

In a shallow pan drizzle 1 Tablespoon of olive oil. Heat to medium temperature. Remember to cook the preparation slow and a little longer than usual. Starting at a lower heat than high will manifest more flavor out of the meat. Using a 2 inch melon baller, scoop out the meat, round it off then place in the center of the pan. With each successive meatball, spiral around the pan from the center out. Turn the balls ever two to five minutes to make sure all sides touch the bottom of the pan. When all of the sides are browned, pour in one cup of vegetable broth and let boil for 5-10 minutes. When completed, remove the meatballs to a shallow dish. Take another 1/2 cup of broth in a pyrex cup and mix in 1 tsp of flour till blended. Add to broth in the pan and simmer till it thickens. It will be a light gravy consistency. Add salt to taste.

Manage your time wisely as the meatballs cook. What cooks next to the beef are fried potatoes. Cut into cubes one large and one medium potato. In a pan heat 2 Tablespoons of oil. Add the potatoes and cook by steaming first with a lid, then crisp with a little extra oil at the end. For the last five minutes add in 1/4-1/2 cup of chopped onions. The onions will be translucent when the dish is finished cooking over heat. Turn of the heat and dust thinly with paprika, cayenne pepper and cumin. Fold in.

Serving: Use a salad plate with a lip. Take the potatoes and plate them in a circle around the outside of the dish so a well forms in the middle. Place in the center three meatballs. Take about 1/8 of gravy and pour over the meat so it settle on the bottom of the plate. Garnish with a fringed green onion or two.

Enjoy!

Afterthought:

When I cooked I forgot to add salt. But I’ve corrected the above for that. When I ate I salted the dish as I need for my palate. I recommend keeping up with the dishes as you cook. It will keep the whole process running smoothly till up to serving time. After I started putting my herbal knowledge to work a few years ago, my cooking changed. It is extremely aromatic and pungent. I get called an ethnic cook frequently, even when I’m only making drinks. I take it as a compliment as it tells me I am on the right track with my studies. It is also a pleasure to know that the aromas inclined those people to ask for a recipe. As I keep studying and collecting notes I honor those cultures who inspire me to keep going. Right now, I do not cook many dishes of what my family has cooked for several generations. I’m still asking the questions and looking for the occasions. Right now I’m at peace with exploration and knowing when to head off pit falls.

Social Societies in Our Own Good Time

With oral histories we take journeys in mind and word. It is as if language becomes too cumbersome to catch every nuance of inflection. A favor if you will. Place these words in your ears and eyes and see if they resound with color and light the way stained glass plays intricate patterns on the floor of the baptistry. Also, forgive me if I tire you in a retelling. A friend has asked me to tell again and not stop even in my late years. I honor his earnest pleadings and I must give in to this daydream again for the first time in over a decade. Contact? Memory? Vision to waking in the dark of night. Take it all as True Fiction and the details as grace. If a story manifests, let your instincts suspend refined judgement and follow the path to the end.

~Anonymous

What happened had nothing to do with being in the vestiges of green. What happened had everything to do with being an empathic and fighting it. You do not believe when you at that age. You have other things to do, namely school. All those characters in books and careful makeup jobs on the screen may incline you to believe, but reality hits and what the others call normal play no where near your heartstrings or intelligent intents. My close friend and I took a day trip out of Dayton, Ohio and into Yellow Springs. Spring break lead us closer south and her suggestion led us there. Yellow Springs, she told me has a large witchcraft and metaphysical population. All my own occasions and studies built excitement in me. Maybe, just maybe I’d find a teacher for my uncanny problem. Maybe they could explain why a pinch of paranormal always meant small coincidences of presence for me over a long period of time. Either way the prayer I voiced to God out loud from a darkened bedside always doubled me over in pain and tears. Even praying in Christ without a baptism I wondered then, but know now starts his journey toward you. I held out for years even without knowing the benefits. But, wait I do digress. I asked for a teacher or teaching because whatever I was got out of hand. Telling truth from lies and following shadows down the lane to find the last view of the sun as it hits the hill ans sinks below. Who I thought was teacher came. I never told them I was waiting. I never asked for initiation, but it was given. “You gotta start somewhere,” rings in my mind.

So, here we are in Yellow Springs entering into a book store. Clean, open, polished dark wood and no cats. The oddity of this store? Only one book was on each shelf. Go to Barnes&Noble or 1/2Price Books and the shelves are packed from left to right. One book. One lonely book. And each time I pick one up there was an immediate rejection. It seem to say “Don’t buy me. I am not for you”. My friend watched me pick up a book and she said let me look. She flipped to the back of the book and perused forward flipping every page regulating it with a thumb. “Here it is,” she said pulling an advertisement for psychic study in another location. She warned me of these and seemed to note to leave that bit of literature alone. I listened and passed by to another shelf. Still I was drawn on and there it lay. Prominent and simple, “Psychic Self-Defense by Dion Fortune”. I snatched it up and held it tight. I might have been afraid the “other people” would come and know I got the only copy on the shelf. They might try to look for me and well, something would happen. My fear and paranoia swelled for a moment. “That looks good,” she said looking over my shoulder. “Take me! Take me!” the book intoned. One purchase, the only purchase of the day, and soon after we journeyed back to Dayton.

….I will continue tomorrow…

Kibbles and Bits

The image in my mind opens to the waiting area in the principals office. Aides where busy behind the counter checking attendance rosters with the bright white sun at their backs. Sitting in the chairs to the left of the door gave me hiding time. I didn’t have to rush and damn my letter to the waves of the Atlantic. I had just finished writing my pen pal in Spain the night before. This was a time when pen pals where a peak of achievement for language class. Getting involved was not quite it. I think I was on the side of trying to impress the teacher by brownie pointing my way to the top 10%. Anyway, besides all the language translation and becoming interested in the world around me, writing gave me room to breathe. I could tell someone about life and limb for a 7th grader. I knew they would understand. Like me, they were young and female. Two perspectives that are peculiar in their sorting and depth. So, in the package went a pair of self designed rosewood earrings I made in shop last semester. To me, a gift from my hand to hers. To me, genuine and irreplaceable. To me, I wanted a best friend in a place I could not seem to find. Back then, I might have been positive I would make it to Spain by the end of my senior year. Desire fades, the plan illusive and you go back to start again.

Ok, in case you did not know timelines run on occasion to parallel a dream. Its is like being aboriginal in Austraila, an eon ago, where you kept time by the moon, sun, monsoon rains and locust hoards. It is the occasion. It is fleshing out cycles and it is bringing your timing in with the tribe so we all can position perspective with where you see, hear and dream.

The dream I woke up to a half hour ago was a reminder. It is helps you, wonderful. Not just in interpretation, but creative aspects as well. What led up to the picture in my mind that night I do not know, but I’m left with an image of the world with clouds, firmament and seas on a dark background. From somewhere to bottom right of the image is a cord that laces around to the top. And there lay a phone off the hook nestled on the top of the world. As I came closer, I heard many voices both soft and loud. The empathic tone was that the phone call was for me. Clueless and fearful I let the phone go. I woke up and committed it to memory somehow. Some images I lose over time, never having thought of the importance of quick scripting in the light of early day. Even then recall can be a bitch and I can not always seam together the meaning of images of dreams past. It must be the important ones the etch in the mind. BTW: What ever you may think, I did not just tell on myself.

So, my last lark for the night:

Sometimes I fall into the forest in dreams. Meaning I start walking away from the main scene to explore and I find myself a tourist in my own back yard. Where I was in this dream I do not know except I was handling some very important personal business. I did not heed the call that was articulating my name. I fought it so I could finish. In a short second, the scene changed and I bore the visual change into horror. I found myself tumbling down an incline and landed on my rear end. The color red was everywhere and the scene may have been colored by stark sunlight. I looked up and I was at the feet of two Caucasian men talking in weighted tones that may have gotten heated. I think now of Jesus saying something akin to if two of you gather in my name, there I am with you also. This dream was before my baptism, so I might rule that out. Standing up was a bitch. Finally coming to my feet I tried to understand what they were excited about.I could gather no clue and the scene changed again. I was on a path and ran into a being about six foot tall, covered in feathers with off set large eyes. I recognized it as an owl. I could not go left or right on the path we faced each other. I had no choice but to battle the monster.

I grew afraid just like I had years ago in the Fright Night Park during Halloween. I was too young for the ride, but I could make it in by being tested to see how I would react if approached by the characters. I was a game and strong ten year old. I can do this I thought. My stepfather stood next to me as this ghoul character and I faced off. I looked at her, she as me and time seemed to pass gently. Lulled in my sense of reality, my reflexes relaxed. That is the exact moment she screamed in my face. Flight or Flight? I punched her in decolletage. She screamed get the hell out, that hurt.

So, I punched the owl several times. If I remember the sequence right, he then moved forward in my face and left. In retrospect I have to tell you about teaching children to work with their nightmares. Especially monsters. From what the book said in its found research, if you battle the monster and win, you are owed a present. Caveat? You have to ask for it. I did not know that then. Maybe if I return to that dream space I can ask.

So dear friend, who asked, I hope this helps whatever you are working on. All that happened before I stepped on the path I am on now. Fundamentals don’t really change and they eventually become building blocks. I have had synthesis on these three images on and off for years. All helping me to make a fine connection to what was and who I am now.

Safe Journey wherever you may roam.

~NCC

Other than

A kind gentleman in his anonymity told me he had read one of the previous posts. I was set on a joyous wind from then on. Yet, it was not just that kindness that made the day. He told me to post anything with an unsaid wring that he, himself would read it. I again was set on a joyous path. It has been a few days since then and I’ve been thinking. Not to much as the gears start to grind then, but enough that a friend took notice and reminded me of our early conversation. Aye, there’s the rub and the muse took her place. So here I sit taking a gander at a goose, so I can describe what I saw so many a day ago:

I can remember the cause of the conversation between the friend and I, but I remember the vision and dream that epiphany related so afterward. I’ve been pondering this image and bell like quality to waken within it. If this place exists, I bid Angelina Jolie and Indiana Jones well. Although a team with clever timing might make it in an back with prize in tow. If you’ve ever looked at a picture, or the real thing, of the walls in the Grand Canyon, you will notice the striations and undulations of rock hewn by water and glacier aeons ago. Well, here is where my mental fit begins in a place like that. In my minds eye I see down into a rushing river bed whose sides are steep enough to support small brush like growth. However they are too steep for any man, woman, child or beast to brave for a small drink or fish for dinner. I look to the left and it seems the water of this river carved a passage in the mountain for it to flow. Strange though now I think that the water level is low on the left in the mountain and rises to the right. The problem in my mind is that it fights gravity. That makes no sense to me, but anything is possible. So, let us return to the mountain. The passage way for the river is sheer and to cross would be at least twenty feet or more. No stacked rock or outcroppings to travel over. To the other side means over the mountain pass which I think many take without question or care. So it is no surprise for decades or centuries that no one travels under the bridge. Even the most pertinent cave drawing would get lost. But it you were to look you might find an carved opening over twenty feet tall and five feet wide who insides are graced with the rise of a stone staircase inside. Albeit starting under the level of the river water, but present all the less. Up the staircase you rise and out of the water. You come to a cast iron gate which is wedged tightly shut. There is no lock. with a little pressure it gives and we walk into an large room filled with art, furniture and canisters of what? I do not know. The far wall is capped with a single row around the room of windows chiseled into the stone.  Turn to the left and ahead is a open bedroom with a stone casket possibly. There you see an old woman on cushions. The old woman is me. A century or so old, but me none the less. I function up here in the sunlight well. There is another room higher up accessible only by a ladder. It is dark up there, I haven’t cleaned the window of dirt in a very long time. Birds have begun to nest.

I can only leave the sanctum once a year or even less. When the river is lower and the waters recede off the staircase, I am permitted to venture out. I must return before they rise again. If I must leave before that time I have to be careful going into the force of the river as it could tear me apart. Lastly it is the alligators that dwell here. They are docile when the river is low I wonder. They seem to guard me in the sanctum and out. Thus the gate which is usual wedged with a piece of steel.

Alligators came up before in a night dream. I was invited to someones house and I found out they were incestual and pediphilic. I ran out the side door to the television room and ended up on a back porch. The man who sat there confirmed every question I had. He also told me I could leave down the driveway to my right or seek the woods. By his description it was best by the cars. Dream instinct told me to take the other route. I did and slipped into a spiraling creek. If necessary I was willing to go down stream and track my way back home. The problem was four alligator appeared in the water. The seemed a bit docile and high on something. The swirled in closer to me as we followed downstream. Sooner than waking I realize I was about to be eaten. One went for my legs as I started trying to wrestle them off. I woke shortly after that realization. Human thinking tells me I was eaten, no bloody mess and only one or two people know. Instinct tells me the alligators got me downstream to safety. Thinking it through while awake? I made it home.

Sometimes motifs run with me day and night. It must be reinforcement to get the point across. I have to dig into animal medicine interpretations on a regular basis some months. Especially when the creature(s) show up in real time. No alligators since being back in the woods on a farmer’s property. The sense was there, but not the flesh. Needless to say I did not go into the deep end of the waters.

>>>

I wonder if in sharing the quiet and quelled parts I lose some of myself. Maybe I gain if I help someone in the process. I learned long time ago that sometimes those thing we hold sacred can not be told. For the sake of possible disrespect and profaning. Dreams and other sightly things are close to my heart and demand regular care. So if you retell these things I’ve penned, tell with the magic intact and not as an afterthought. Take to heart a little magic realism to start your own literary fire to make words that burn.

Correction

I had discussed briefly, in a previous, post about The Portable North American Reader. I just pulled it back off the shelf for a good read and discovered I had a mistake in the original post about the story that was an inspiration. The story is in the first chapter and comes from the Penobscot Indians. Honestly, I confused the order of the first and second chapters. Either way, I encourage you to keep reading and at your own pace. Savoring each word and phrase is easier that way.

Besides that, welcome to Fall!

~NCC

Threads and Strings is what the Fisher King Brings

I feel like I’m late on this one because of the urge to tell the news from a different angle. Down and low is not it. I still seem to be peeping from an odd bird’s eye view. The topic? Street doctors versus your regular brand  of resident drug dealers. When I heard, I kept quiet. I silence the inner and outer red flags and alarms just to be sure of what was said. Where it is at is just as local as the grocery store. I think, after making sense of the little I know, this effects everybody. Street dealers are stocked up on morphine and they are peddling accordingly. I haven’t heard the name morphine in a long time. I’ve mostly associated it with the American Civil War and the police action in Vietnam. Nothing seemed to quell the pain in surgery or after for many soldiers. Back then it may have been the strongest narcotic offered off and on home soil. So think. What do you do wen the pain becomes so strong you have to become an addict in you r own mind to bear the days and the nights.

Speculation of what follows morphine came quickly. The person surmised oxycodone and then opium. I said nothing. I said nothing to save my mind and my heart. A woman I called mother once was a oxycodone addict thanks to her son. I never knew the pain she suffered ‘cept though a heart to heart one night about her youth. Keep quiet and let the patient tell the story I’m starting at these days. More always ensues in the share silence. It is no ache to stay attentive in the milieu. I needed to know. I just needed to know where she was. Her soul did not seem to stay in her body very long when we talked. Set free for but a moment. Then the alcohol. Another sedative that makes the pain, physical and mental, seem not so hard to bear.

For the sake of any public issue, I wonder about prostitution and the incessant talk about who has what disease and at what location. I wonder about the truth in the so called gossip I’ve heard about prostitutes becoming gay after catching a myriad of diseases. From what I hear, some are told that they can not have sex again. At least vaginal sex. What remains is a slow fall into rendering humility in order to prostitute themselves for anal sex. My street education led me to a comment that married couples are not all them seem to be. Meaning both are gay and it is a result of prostitution and/or swinging. So, I return to you the issue of disease. What happens when you have no coverage? What happens when you can not afford the emergency room bill anymore? What if you are expected to prostitute to keep your job? What if, at this point there is no medical solution to your pain from the lesions and and scabs born on lighter fluid and flame? Prevention is a foregone conclusion and cures are no longer available. When desire overcomes the common sense to veer from continued contagion, one may rely on passing the days in seclusion. Nee, the birth and sustenance of an opium den and daily management with enough narcotics to take the edge off and still roam the halls somewhat competent at work. So. the drug dealer finally looks a little like a street doctor savvy to daily pain management issues.

I have to ask the first ignorant question tonight though: Is this all born and a result of lust? If not, is it a condition of the economy? Then can we follow the trail back to a source and bring remedy then. I must say I am to trusting of it all in the realms of cause and effect. One last thought… I remember watching the news back in 2009. I figure it was when the U.S. Congress and President Obama were headlong in solving budget issues. As the newscaster read the prepared script I noticed the square to the side encased the words that funding would be cut to all levels Health and Human Services in regards to STD and VD vaccinations. The newscaster said that cut came from President Obama, if I remember correctly.

Take heed I think in retrospect. We were all told.

“When it is all said and done, our health is all we have,” from the hospital char said my deceased male parent of choice.

Little by little, trying like hell to understand.

W.H. Tespid ERT

Of Prose and Toffee

On the lighter side, lemonade taste good even in the Fall.

First it was the quilting. Now its the cooking. I just got threatened because I had not posted the recipe yet. Eye, yi yi! I appreciate the encouragement, but I need to keep my limbs. Otherwise no more goodies. Chew on that one for a minute. Here goes, faithfully so, in love and chocolate:

12 ounces dark chocolate chips

one half of a section of paraffin wax used for candy making, canning and cooking

>>> Caveat Emptor: If you are not in a hurry, a double boiler can be an expensive investment. I play the day away in someone else’s kitchen, so finding short cuts with new tools is a boon. On the flip side, I have a fascination for older cooking methods and learning how to multipurpose what you already have. So, on to the double boiler situation: Find a shallow pot and place one half to half a cup of water in it. Set the temperature high enough so it will produce a steady boil. Next, find a metal bowl that will sit well in the opening of the pot. Make sure the water in the bottom does not touch the bowl when it is cold or at a boil. With that said, place the chocolate in the metal bowl and consistently stir to evenly and theroughly melt. Add in the paraffin and stir to a smooth consistency. Keep the chocolate warm between uses so place it back on the burner between steps.<<<

Set these two ingredients in a double boiler to melt. While they are melting take a 9×9 inch baking pan and line it with a thin layer of butter. This is to keep the chocolate from sticking. Spread out a layer of pretzel sticks. To encourage a variance, do not lay more than four in the same direction. Sprinkle crushed English butter toffee over and between the stick evenly so in the pan. Spread/Pour the chocolate from the center out of the dish. Use only half of the chocolate. Set the chocolate back on the double boiler and working quickly spread more pretzels and toffee if you have it. Set in the freezer 15-30 minutes to firm. Take out from the freezer and flip upside down on a large cutting board. With clean hands and a sharp knife cut the bark down the middle then chop the halfs in random shapes. Place in plastic bags and refrigerate.

BTW: I tried to play things clever with the ingredients I had in the pantry. Feel free to use nuts and dried fruit to fill out the slurry into a filled candy. Instinct told me to keep it simple. Though you can by toffee pieces at the grocery store, mine is from scratch. I normally use a recipe in Joy of Cooking and tweeked the timings of the sugar to produce a good product. I’ve been making English butter toffee at least every Christmas for the past four years. I’ve worked through my problems with managing consistent heat and have gotten a great product this time around. So if there is a cook or chemist in your alter ego, go for it. I prefer cooking to remain fun and exploratory at all costs. This seems to be something friends and cohorts enjoy. One of the best things? It is cheaper than chocolate almond bark. Personally, I can not afford the amount of almonds I would need for winter cooking. You know what? I need the master bible on substitutions. That would make my life. Thus the benefits of librarianship come in handy once again.

Enjoy!

YF,

The Pastied Pastry Chef

Taking the Devil Out of the Details

I have my quiet moments and personal secrets that may seem the fodder of the political page. Still there are times for the sake of clarity and poetry I opt to ope and thus and so falls out for consideration. So here I was earlier today trying to help my readership understand that I take myth and creed for daily doses of survival. It may seem absurd to follow ancient rule, rhyme and writ. It was another day and pertinence may not seem the same. For me the nuts and bolts are still there to present primacy for this age and so, I plan my trek to the desert slowly. If not but to observe and remember the path I trod over a decade ago.

What came clever a few hours ago was remembering why I held so fast to not cutting my hair for the journey’s length. Back in the late ’90s it dawned on me the importance of hair. Not just as a covering, but in strength. I can not remember names right now, but in the least you can recall the biblical figure whose hair was tied to his strength. When it was cut he lost all his super human strength and prowess. Then I was beginning to grapple with ancestry and who I was being tied into every aspect of my being. Somehow I conceived that every act I make, every memory is kept not just in my brain, but in my body as well. My thoughts turned to my hair being a litany of the history of my life. I grew terrified of the thought of being constantly reminded of shame, embarrassment or self-degradation that was embedded in the growth of my hair. Every memory of the past few years would be held there unless of course I cut it off. Which I did for years. I was not able to deal with a daily evisceration of myself, even if I was the only one to know. Come kudos years later I learned how to grapple with time and responsibilities that were not my own. I could learn to love the lessons that were now embedded in my genes, my body and hair. I also took a tack of pursuing classic gender roles and femininity as they meant something to my personal elucidation and presence to take the personal as the political. It also became a feminism in context and presence of men. I was tired of fighting upstream and out of context of where I lived. Yes, indeed. Tired of fighting.

Dad’s drop in the proverbial bucket of my growth had a brief notion to add. Hair is like antennae to insects. We pick up universal frequencies and find our context and growth patterns in the world. No hair technically meant being lost in a see of messages. Being constantly bombarded is not where I wanted to sit. In tuning the music of the spheres seemed a romantic notion about humanity in the solar system that I did not want to let go. Needless to say I’ve been partial to Holst and New Age music for years. With dad’s encouragement in my pocket, trimming split ends goes by the way side and he journey begins again.

So, I’ve let you in on personal experience. The myth and metaphysics are there along with a little bending of time. Sensibilities, clean science and practicality may have been dropped for a better storyline, but whose counting?

Just finished washing my hair and I’m desperate for simple clean soap. Castile would be perfect.

Oh! Forgot something. I made a personal promise to myself that I would not marry till I could grow my hair as long as possible and know how to maintain it. I’m committed definitely. I’m not a Catholic, but I pursue Sacraments with a vengeance. In my own way, I’ll learn my heresies and keep my spirits placated with small amusements. I am still a girl after all.

~NCC

Clarification to the Passion

So in my head and heart I have to tend to the last post. For the last twenty years, my understanding in following the Nazarer Creed meant that I did not cut my hair and did not touch the dead. I was not spending forty days and nights in the desert, but it did mean that I had much personal time to reflect and study the word of God. That means picking up the NAB and Catechism at least once a week. These days it means keeping in touch with someone to discuss these ideas and understanding I glean and wallow in for days, if not weeks at a time. If you call this being out in the desert, I call it preparation for a type of vision quest. Shamanic practices or not, the trinity still comes first.

So, a comment or two from others led me back to the web to find a litany of sorts for the Nazarene Creed. I barely remember it from The Holy Bible and have internalized it so that faint memory has become instinct. What I found was a declaration of heresy and heretics. That I did not know. What I also found are practices that I’ve keep for over twenty years. Heresy I did not know then and neither did I know I was a functioning heretic by the terms of several sites. For instance, to lean on Bible interpretation through the Old Testament as well as the New is heresy according to the site. Don’t mind me and my shoddy research practices, but I did not vet the page for reputability.

I do know now that my peculiarities with the Bible run me back to holding Judaic practices. Namely starting with Jesus died Jewish not as a Christian. For now I’ll be patient, but this must be the beginning of the next six years. Just to understand where my chosen practices come from and there rational is enough for now. I’ll fill in with Christian Life and Prayer from the Catechism. The review will do me good. I wonder where my head will be in a year or two, let alone six. I’ll take my time and post a nugget or two for you to discuss in you leisure. Sometimes I really don’t understand how I’m tending to logic and religious law. Mind you I’m not intending to start a sect or a cult. Just trying to understand in a bigger picture, thought you might want to come along for the ride. Open discussion welcome. Now I’m pining away for Easter and the seasons have just turned to its poles. hmm. You know what? I need a new pair of sandals.

Book Recommendations

If you are wondering what I am reading these days, it is The Portable North American Indian Reader.

I read a story from the Micmac Indians yesterday.

It gave me the courage to stand up to somebodies today.

Others thought I was crazy and wondered at my response.

I explained and even the eavesdroppers are looking for a copy.

After this it is back to Classics or something off a banned books list.

Either way, enjoy

~tUL

September: Status Update

I am hanging by a thread. Dangling maybe, but I sit across from Arachne on this by holding fast to Athena’s armor. I don’t want to see multiple perspectives in all this. I just want to know what is right and complete the job. I find myself wandering away from this venture at the Underground Librarian. It is not that I want to be done. It seems I’ve lost my way and time has past. Will anyone recognize the character and style that is my work, writing and otherwise. I learned more people are beginning to move in to the area, time passes. I learned elections are here, where is it do I live, time passes. I post to infrequent to follow a trail of popcorn through the woods – birds follow and time passes. I swell on other projects. I get involved. I find fascination again and time passes. I stood back, as the introvert in me would have, and let them talk. The town is changing – hopefully for the better and now the future has gotten away from me as well. I wondered what 5-10-15 and 20 years would bring. Would this blog still be relevant. Would I still make my tack on its name? Would I still stand back from the center of the tornado and watch the damage fly across the room? Would a take a turn on silence and fall deeper within just to see what is behind the green curtain? I’m playing games with my own mind to evade collapse. I’m playing games with others shyly hoping to see it is not business as usual and dignity still has sway in the workplace.

For another round and I think I am tired and I feel I have gone behind the scenes on what I thought was my world. There is a second curtain on stage by the way. Farther back and hiding a light. Still it is a little darker back here than I thought.

I can not promise regular posts right now. Time is dedicated and regimented far to much for me. For now, I’m cutting loose a bit and fraying at the ends. Speaking of cutting hair, I took a pledge not to for five years, Well, I said I’d follow into an even year, so now it is six. I am taking another tack at the Nazarene Creed with patience and observation. I fall into meditation a bit as well. Years ago, I asked for my religious education from the Lord. This yielded into personal journeys with Christ and the Great Spirit. My friend says my study is and has been done for a while. Now I’m on to practical applications. I tell you, so you know where my head is at. Not to mention where it has been. For now I’m a proverbial Samaritan prone to observe and understand more than most in a lifetime. I wish you well this Fall. Whether adobe or cardboard, may blessings grace your house,

~NCC