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The T.C. & Mama P Newsletter – First QTR, 2012 Free online at annaing@centrum.is
Dear Family of Friends,
It is with great exultation that we bring in 2012. Why? Well, because it means we all got through 2011. It also means that we have a lot to look forward to. There are lifers receiving parole grants and most of them are definitely going home. Jerry Brown is letting the Board of Prison Hearings do their job. Good ol‘ JB is OUR governor!
This year Mama ´P´ is once again going to appear before the BPH to seek a parole grant. There really isn‘t any legal reason for them to deny her parole. She will be represented by Elisabeth Peterson at that hearing, which will likely be held in October.
While her legal team is seeking parole, my team is seeking a new trial for myself. A Writ of Habeas Corpus is being filed at the first level as a form of appeal for relief. That level is the Superior Court that held our make believe trial. In a nutshell, my Public Pretender should have had me psychologically evaluated and probed an investigation once allegations of abuse were raised in testimony. Legally, she was obligated to provide me with an adequate defense, but she tied my hands and sealed my mouth. And, we all know that I‘ve found my voice and will not deny the past any longer. My fight could take months or over a year. It all depends on how far we need to take this battle.
In either scenario, 2012 holds hope for each of us. It also holds hope for the many lifers who have served well past their matrix. It costs far more to keep productive, aging, lifers in prison, that to release them to a second chance and allowing them to integrate back into society. We can assimilate. Really, we can. There may be a tad of culture shock after decades in captivity, but that is to be expected. Maybe JB can put The Happy in our New Year. Let us hope so.
Namasté
T.C. & Mama P
Help Is Available
For the many lifers reading this newsletter, I believe that knowledge is to be shared. As you strive to achieve whatever you can to impress the BPH, they really show favor to any self-help that you seek or accomplish. I want to help you add a little more ammunition to your arsenal for the battle ahead.
I already covered in previous newsletters, the vital necessity of insight into your crime, and that the BPH finds book reports on self-help programs available through correspondence efforts listed below.
Turning Point was created and is conducted, by ex-cons. They offer a total of 20 lesson plans in which you can earn a series of certificates. BPH favors this program.
Creative options offer Parenting, Anger Management, and other studies, also by way of correspondence. Like Turning Point, this one is free.
The PASS Program offers two semesters of courses on a variety of topics from Victim Awareness, Addiction, Domestic Violence, Conflict Resolution, and Re-entry into society, just to name a few of the ten topics. This program however, costs $500. What prisoner can afford that? If you can, I suggest that you enroll and get your achievement certification in Personal Psychological Development. Yes, BPH favors this too.
Turning Poing Creative Options PASS Program
2049 S. Santa Fe Ave. P.O. Box 808 P.O. Box 2009
Los Angeles, CA 90021 Lyons, OR 97358 San Francisco, CA 94126
What It‘s Like For Me by Cora Lee Lee
It was a morning, like any other. I was on my way to my work assignment, saying hello to a good many women that I had said good night to about twelve hours before. It was like any other morning until the words I heard stopped me dead in my tracks. I must‘ve looked like a trapped animal with nowhere to turn. My mind was reeling. This wasn‘t how I wanted to start my day.
„Mrs. Cora! I was looking for you. I just got back from court and I rode up with your sister. Y‘all look just alike! She says she loves and misses you. She can‘t wait to come over the wall to see you.“ She. Can‘t. Wait. To see you.
This woman went on and on about mys sister, but all I could hear at that point, were my own thoughts. I was caught up in the thougth that this could not be and that I didn‘t really need this in my life. I mean, was I being punished? The idea that she was here – my sister – tightened my stomach and had my mind whirling with spontaneous anxiety. My entire being was distress. I acknowledged this woman‘s words, but my smile was feigned.
Before I go any further, let me stress that this is not one of those cute prison formed relationships. There‘s your prison mom, which you met here. She didn‘t give birth to you, nor did you know each other in the free world. So, there‘s prison mom, or sister. Then, there‘s the real deal. Bloodline. The sister in question here is my bloodline. That makes a world of difference. And unless you‘re a lifer or long-termer doing time, and you have a family member in prison with you, I doubt you can say you know how it feels, even if you empathize.
I‘ve been down a decade now with ten more years to go. It‘s been a struggle to take care of myself and survive. Each day may seem the same, but sometimes there are challenges. For instance, the cells hold eight women, but more often than not, at least ten or more personalites. Prison is a stressful place. I will not sugar coat it. And people have a really nice way of getting on your last nerve … without ever trying. So, who needs the added stress of, „Hey, your sister is here, and she wants to see you?“
Please don‘t misunderstand me … I love my sister. What I don‘t like, is that she did the same thing to me that other people have done. You see, this isn‘t her first trip to prison, it is her second. On her first round, she made parole promises of how she‘ll never forget what prison is really like, and she‘d be there for me once she got home. Parole promises includes taking pictures and sending not only photos, but money and writing regularly. A parole knows all too well that prison is a lonely place that can make a heart feel desolate and empty inside. Parolees know that mail call is a lifeline to the outside world and it takes money to survive in here. The chowhall food is inedible, they don‘t provide adequate clothing for the inclement weather, and they consider indigent status to be one dollar or less. If you have one penny over a dollar yes one lousy dollar, then you‘re not considered indigent. You can‘t even buy two bars of soap for one dollar, let alone the necessary hygine items for the mouth. My sister knew this. She experienced this. And then, she left me with false promises and a broken heart, for I fel abandoned and forsaken. I have had my share of phony parolee promises made to my face, only to become added disappointment in the reality of prison life. I just didn‘t expect it from my own flesh and blood.
Two years in society may feel like, well, two years. Ah, but a couple of years at CCWF can feel like double that. Yet, here she is two years lated, „I‘m back!“ Yes, back and disarrayed from the life she chose out there to be in the predicament she is in now. Back at CCWF looking worn from the wear of her decisions. However, while she‘s been gone, I‘ve been working diligently on myself to be reassimilated back into society. As I watch women return to prison over and over again, I strive to get out. It‘s insulting when they act like it is funny, yet I scratch my head with a WTF look on my face. They act as if they just don‘t care about their freedom. Well, I care about mine, and I‘ve come to not only learn, but to accept, that I‘m doing this trip alone. I‘m the one who‘s working on me. I‘ve been really steady about avoiding the many distructions that can impede progress … and then my head was spinning at the news of the arrival of my sister.
I do not receive halftime credits. I am working everyday to one day to be free. In the meantime, I join others to fight for the rights of women, and to battle Battered Woman Syndrome. Lifers and long-termers fight to be freed, yet parolees find humor in „I‘m baaaack!“ Like T.C. says – it‘s a slap in the face of freedom. And it breaks our hearts, because all we want is a chance to get back out there to our loved ones, and not see the inside of these walls again. That‘s all we want. We work tirelessly toward that goal.
So, taking all of that into consideration, what does it feel like to see a loved one come to prison? It hurts deep down inside. It hurts so deeply that you want to go into the shower and cry your eyes out. That‘s really the only place that is semi-private in which you can go for a personal bawl release. You want to just let it out before it dominates you. It hurts folks. It hurts like hell.
So, for all of you sisters and mothers, cousins and nieces and so on, please do not feel offended by my bluntness and honesty. We would rather that you‘re in a world that we are painstakingly working hard to return to, that for you to be a number behind these walls. That‘s why they offer a visiting room for us to meet. The free world is where we both need to be … where I long to be. And that is where I want to be reunited with my loved ones without anyone telling us that our time is up. If you‘re reading this from the free world, stay there. I hope to not be too much longer. Don‘t give up on me. And Sis, I love you. Thank you for your blessing to share this message. You never know who needed to hear it.
Anything Is Possible
When I was just a kid, I never really considered what I would do with my future. I think I was just hoping I‘d have one. I think the first time I considered my future was when the recruiters made their rounds my senior year in high school.
I almost did it, you know. I almost signed the final document that was the equivelent of selling my soul to Uncle Sam. Now, don‘t get me wrong. I love my country. My heart bleeds red, white, and blue. I support your troops. I even pledge allegiance to a flag I have hung over my cell door. God, she‘s beautiful. However, if I joined, it would have been too final.
The Army. I nearly joined the Army after being fed that bogus storyline about how my best friend and I could go in on the Buddy Program. Why Army? I wanted to be all I could be. Well, to be honest … Navy was out because I‘m water challenged, and the recruiter fed us lines about traveling to exotic lands, meeting new and different people, and trying new and unusual foods. I raised an eyebrow. Foods? I love food, but nothing still alive staring up at me, and nothing slimy. I despise slimy.
I didn‘t sign the document. Not only because I knew he was insulting my intelligence about the Buddy System, but because I would have joined for the wrong reason. It wouldn‘t have been for love of country, but necessity of escapism from my childhood at home. But, my core reason was that I didn‘t think I was capable of killing complete strangers. I just never really liked guns anyway.
Well, look at me now! I‘m on my 23rd year of captivity in the death of my stepfather. I never could have predicted this at 18 years old. I‘d have told you that you‘re crazy if you thought I could take a life. Anything is possible.
Stuff doesn‘t just happen. People make it happen by choices, decisions, and actions. Right about now I wish I was in some third world country eating something slimy, because slimy is better than this. Howevere, like everyone else here, I made a choice and I‘m living with it. But, do you know what? This place has helped me to be all I can be. The government still got me, but I probably would‘ve been more productive in the Army.
Moral of the story? Choose wisely. Your future depends on it.
Comfort Care Where? By: La Donna Robinson, A CCWF Hospice Volunteer
I have spent nearly every Monday night for the past four years, and eleven (11) months, in the Skilled Nursing Facility in the CCWF Treatment Center. I am a Comfort Care Hospice Volunteer, and I would be lying if I said that the comfort and the care are always present.
The Skilled Nursing Facility (SNF) is a scary, lonely place to be. Many have passed on from there to a better world. Of course it is never easy to see one of our own die from an incurable illness. We silently pray that it doesn‘t ever happen to us, hope that they die a painless death, and sit patiently in wait until they pass to the other side.
These women are often referred to as „The Forgotten“, as some of them have never been seen by those in the General Population area of the prison, and are often not included in the special event s provided by the institution. Some are wheelchair bound, and some simply can not leave the SNF because immediate medical attention must be readily available should something go wrong. I know for a fact that just because they are forgotten by some, does not mean they are forgotten by all.
The General Population inmates pulled together and provided many personal items for Christmas presents for these ladies. There were hats and scarves (it is usually cold in SNF to aid in the reduction of germs), hygiene items, stationery and stamps, and much more. The G.P. inmates went out of their way to ensure that these ladies knew they were in our hearts during the holidays.
The SNF is not what it once was, and as with anywhere and anyone; one bad apple shouldn‘t spoil the whole bunch. Of course there may sometimes be a nurse who is having a bad day, or doesn‘t exactly like the idea of sharing her space with inmates, but for the most part, our sisters in the SNF are treated with loving care. When they aren‘t they make sure it is known so that we, together with the staff, can make it a more comfortable place for them. After all, for most of the women in SNF, it is a permanent home. Our job as Comfort Care members is to provide exactly what the name says; Comfort and Care. We are not junior nurses and it is never our intent to compete with the medical staff, or to dole out advice to patients. It is only our intent to ensure that our sisters who are often left excluded, do not die alone in a place designed to prepare for death.
I thank the women of the General Population for supporting the Comfort Care Memebers in our endeavor. They are always waiting with a kind word, or a question about their peers who they seldom see, but hear of quite often. You too, are appreciated, and your concern, prayers, and efforts to not go unnoticed.
Sincerely,
La Donna Robinson
A Letter To God
Dear God,
I‘ve had my heart broken with the loss of a friend who never hurt me like other have. He was one of the few men that I could feel comfortable being alone with. He never betrayed my trust or took my kindness for granted. He never abandoned me when it felt like the world had come crashing down. He never made me feel unnatural, although I was more of a square in his round peg world. His heart was always true.
I know that for all of us, our time on earth is temporary. I accept that you cross our paths with others for purposes we may often not be privvy to. When you crossed my path with Wolf‘s, you not only blessed my life, you filled a void in my heart. In the aftermath of my arrest over 22 years ago, he stood by me and the though of abandoning me was unthinkable. Just like the true nature of his name, he was loyal, protective, and one of Your most precious gifts to this world. Although our time on earth is temporary, love knows no boundaries … at least not in my heart.
Lord, thank You for the years that I was blessed with Wolf as my friend, teacher, and Big Brother. He accepted my contrasting lifestyle and joked that I was a big marshmallow on the inside. He was 100% of a 1%. He was betrayed and left for dead, but eventually found Carley, the love of his life. God, how she filled the emptiness of his broken heart. I don‘t know if she‘ll ever know how much he loved her, but she was his everything. She‘s probably the only reason he fought so long to stay in this world, but his time ran out, the road ended, and he left us. Our hearts are broken, but thank You for the many years that You blessed each of us with Wolf.
It was my hope to enjoy Burger King and wine coolers with him again. It would have been nice to just sit together and acknowledge that we each survived this long journey. While it saddens me to not have that opportunity, it disheartens me to think of all of the people who never had what I had with Wolf. All of those people who never knew him. Boy did they miss out!
Lord, do You think You can be a little patient with him? He‘s been separated from his Harly and his pit bull for quite a long time. He‘s going to want to enjoy both for awhile. He may be a little late to Orientation.
Thank You for the years, the memories. Thank You for the kinship, the relationship that was stronger than my own bloodline. It hurts to lose him, but I trust he‘s in good hands. Oh, and can You please tell him that he still owes Shorty ride down Calaveras Road? Thanx.
Endless Love,
Your Daughter,
Teresa Christine
Shout Out!
If there are any inmates reading this that want to contribute with an essay, opinion editorial, or share thoughts, experience, or give readers something to ponder about, talk to T.C.
Yep, I‘m the easiest person to locate. We all have something worthy to contribute. Sometimes, we just need to be invited to step atop the platform and let ourselves be heard. Don‘t worry if you‘re not the best writer. I will gladly proof and polish anything considered for print.
Crime After Crime Available on DVD
Deborah Peagler, AKA Tripp, had a story that needed to be told. By doing so, it may save lives. Yoav Potash documented Tripp’s life into a film that is now available on DVD. The documentary tells of her legal battle to seek freedom after being sentenced to 25 years-to-life in prison. I have shared her story and release in this newsletter before, as I also sadly informed of her death due to stage IV lung cancer. Tripp did not die in prison. She had nine awesome months of pure freedom before she lost her final battle, but she embraced each and every moment knowing that God smiled upon her.
I want you to know my friend. I want you to hear her story, from her perspective. Please support this film by going to www.crimeaftercrime.com and ordering a copy and watching it. I cannot stress it enough; You need to hear her story, which involved perjury evidence and prosecutorial misconduct. Think you know the legal system? This film will get you to think twice.
And She Calls us the Criminals!
Ever heard the term, “who’s minding the store?” Yeah, well, it goes to question who is in charge of who or what. Inmates have been saying for years that half of the psychologists in the prison system need a shrink themselves. I recall Dr. Majid, not sure of exact spelling. I called him Disco Daddy in reference to his unprofessional misconduct. He wore his wildly colored satin shirts open to mid-chest with his dark curly chest hair exposed within numerous gold chain necklaces. They had this creepy looking fellow conducting a sexual abuse survivor group in which he allowed one girl in particular to expose herself two sessions in a row. The only reason he prevented a third attempt was because the other women complained of being victimized by her aggressive attention seeking behaviorism. Oh, and I should mention he was eventually fired for of all things, sexual misconduct.
Then enters the picture of questionable antics of social behaviorism, Courie Ann Martinez. She is a CDCR Senior Psychologist Supervisor. Her employment duties included overseeing a team of clinicians at CSP in Sacramento, AKA New Folsom. That team treated inmates with mental issues, but I’m not certain if she had any rules in documents that may have influenced the Parole Board’s denial to any lifers. It is possible at the very least, given her title of authority.
In April 2011, Martinez had used sandpaper to rub raw her hands, torn her blouse to expose her breasts, had her friend punch her in the face wearing boxing gloves, and cut her own lip with a pin. She then called 911 to report that she had been beaten, raped, and robbed. She even urinated on herself to appear that she had been beaten unconscious. It was rather convincing.
Why would she do all of that? To set-up someone? No, not even close. Martinez wanted to manipulate her husband into moving to a safer neighborhood. Yes, this all concocted to get hubby to move out of their Sacramento home to a place more desirable. I’ve seen women in prison do some pretty ridiculous things to get a bed move, but Martinez really outdid herself. She may have even gotten the idea from an inmate who actually needed to be relocated for protective custody due to a sexual attack. Martinez, her friend, and two co-workers told police of the scheme in December 2010, resulting in the arrest of Martinez and her friend, Nicole Snyder. They are charged with criminal conspiracy.
So, in the end, Martinez has lost the respect of her colleagues, once convicted, will lose her job, and she also lost her husband who filed for divorce upon finding out of her scandalous play acting. It also makes on question just who is watching who in the prison system. Ain’t it nice to know where your tax dollars are going, though?
“Why Didn’t She Just Leave Him?”
“Why didn’t you just leave him?” is a question that many victims of sexual abuse are asked by people who don’t know any better than to ask that question. Anyone who hasn’t been abused cannot possibly understand what it is truly like to be a victim. They can empathize to a significant degree, but to truly know what it is like is not possible. I can read of a soldier’s experience in wartime, but I will never know what it’s like to be under enemy fire like that. Sadly, you had to have experienced it to know the depth of ignorance in a question like, “Why didn’t you just leave him?”
There are hundreds of women in the California prison system that couldn’t leave their abuser, or may have tried to, only to face the wrath of no mercy. My mother is one of those women. She knew that leaving my stepfather was the unthinkable act of suicide. There were a few times when she could care less about her own safety, but had to contemplate the consequences to my sister and myself. Abusers are skilled at brainwashing their victims into believing that they are worthless, uneducated, and most importantly, that “If you leave me, it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.” You see, they make leaving an option equivalent to death.
From the time that she was born, My mother never stood half a chance. She was passed from one abuser to the next, right up to her second marriage to my stepfather. I asked her why she didn’t leave him. I didn’t know better at the time. She did her best to explain that she loved him, and that she’d be lost without him. In the next breath she would tell me of his threats to not let her leave him. It’s all very confusing for both the victim and those who love them and want to help them to a safe place, wherever that may be.
The threats were real. So was the abuse she suffered. It was all as real as the black eye that George and Rick testified to seeing, and the bruises that spotted the canvas of her body … an ugly portrait of domestic violence.
From time to time, I’ll hear someone say that they can rest assured that their children are safe with family while the prisoner does their sentence. Yeah, okay, but 93% of the time it is someone that the child loves and trusts that betrays and violates them. Do we ask children why they didn’t just leave the home or circumstances? No, of course we don’t. That would be irrational and insensitive. They are vulnerable and easy prey, as are victims of any abuse, regardless of age. Abusers attack those who appear to be, or are simply vulnerable. The victim doesn’t see escape as an option without dire consequences.
Picture if you will, an elderly man who runs the corner liquor store. It’s been robbed three times in the last two years. It’s always possible that on any given day, he could be robbed again. He could even lose his life in a robbery. So, why doesn’t he just close up shop? It’d be safer to not stay, right? He stays because he loves the store and he hopes that it won’t happen again. And even if it does, nobody looks at him like he’s stupid for staying, or tells him he brought it on himself by not leaving.
Why didn’t she just leave my stepfather? Well, for one she loved him for who he used to be, and hoping he’d stop being who he had become. She stayed because I never told her that he sexually abused me for so many years. She didn’t leave because she had been a kept woman all of her life and was always under the thumb of a male dominant figure from childhood. She kept hanging on to the hope that it had already gotten worse and that it was time for it to better. My mother had no self-esteem in her tank and believed him when he told her she’d never make it without him. My mother didn’t leave him, because she didn’t know that she could, and she certainly did not know how.
If you know someone that is being abused by someone they love, don’t ask why they don’t leave. Be a friend and ask, “What can I do to help?” For someone in mom’s shoes, just offer your heart, and the rest comes naturally.
… But I‘m Okay
As a child I did not know,
Any better than I do now.
I wanted to escape my path,
I just didn‘t know how.
There are times I can feel his fingers,
Wrapped tightly around my throat.
Most times he cannot reach me,
For I hold onto hope.
In the early seps of recovery,
I felt adrift like flotsam.
I had no idea that,
This day would ever come.
It may not always be easy,
But I know the Survivors battle cry.
We will not raise the white flag,
And our spirit will never die!
It‘s been a long, long, road,
The journey a struggle now and then.
But, I‘m not that once fractured victim,
And I‘ll never be her again.
I breathe in hope with faith,
Seeing the brightest color on the palest day.
God, it feels so good to be alive!
The past left its mark, but I‘m okay.
From The Heart
I want to tell you a story about a little boy named Joey. I‘ve written of this experience in my memoir as well as in personal correspondence. In the process of writing this newsletter, the memory of Joey crossed my mind as I felt his footprints run across my heart. I‘d like to believe that is God‘s way of telling me that the story needs to be told again. So, here we go.
It was about December 1982. I had gone to Yosemite with several of my co-workers, and my best friend, Lori. I was only 18 years old. We had one of those heated cabins in Curry Village in the valley floor not far from the infamous Yosemite Falls. The cabins were meant for no more than four people, but there were five of us in the cramped space. All was good on the first night until somebody lit a cigarette in the cabin. I couldn‘t breathe. For anyone that knows my history, cigarette smoke is a trigger for me. It messes with me mentally and emotionally, puttin me back into the backseat of my stepfather‘s 1964 chevy. In 1982 I had still concealed my secret, and my co-workers didnt know better. Lori knew the trigger was somehow related to my stepfather, but never pushed me for too many details. She knew enough to not attempt to stop me from charging out the door of the cabin into the snow. And as a friend, she knew to not let me go out into the dark alone. She grabbed our jackets and joined me.
Once outside, I was able to breathe again. I couldn‘t tell her why it happened, but she saw the relief on my face. I began to walk toward the parking lot and edge of the tree line. Our feet left deep impressions in the packed snow; I could feel the cold through my hiking boots. She asked where I was going, and I honestly did not know. I simply felt moved to keep walking, and so she walked beside me.
As we came to the edge of the lot, that‘s when I heard it. I didn‘t know what I was hearing at first, so I asked Lori to be quiet so I could listen. Being that she knew my nature to play practical jokes, she insisted that I not do so out in the dark of night in the woods. She was picturing Jason and Michael Mayers in those slasher films. I insisted that I was serious. I held my finger to my lips, and that‘s when she heard it too. Crying. We heard somebody crying. We walked around the trees into the parking lot and that‘s when we saw him. He was about eight years old and all alone. My heart broke.
He looked up at us, two strangers looking down at him. He was croushed beneath a tree, surrounded by bushes. It was as if he were hiding. I knew from experience that hiding doesn‘t always work, and I feared what he my be hiding from. I introduced myself, crouching to his level. It took all of a few seconds to get him to trust us. That made me grateful that it was us that found him, and not someone else more sinister.
He told us his name was Joey. He had left the cabin that his family was staying in, because his parents had begun to argue. They argued a lot. Joey felt responsible for this particular argument because he knew why they were fighting. Apparently, it was his birthday, and he could go werever he wanted for his birthday. He chose Yosemite, but that‘s not what his father wanted. His parents were arguing over where his father felt they should have gone, while his mother defended Joey‘s choice. I almost didn‘t know what to say. Almost.
I got Joey to stand up and walk with us to the ice rink at the other end of the dark parking lot. The area was well lit, and there were lots of people around. His parents had to have noticed him gone. If they begin a search anywhere, my best guess was that they‘d go to the rink and ranger‘s office. I recall looking around the lot that could‘ve held danger for any child, especially one as distraught as Joey. Our paths crossed for a reason. He was shivering, so I gave him my jacket.
When we reached the rink a short time later, Joey walked directly to a space where a controlled fire sparked flames of warmth. He sat before the fire, his small hands up, palms flat toward the flames. My eyes scanned the area, but not a single park employee in sight. The ranger office was closed until morning. Joey took his little blue gloves off to feel the fire‘s heat more directly. We sat and talked about how he felt bad that his parents were fighting, and Lori and I kept telling him that it wasn‘t his fault. I must‘ve thought of my own stepfather. By that time I had learned that my parent‘s arguments were not my fault.
After a short while before the fire, and with Lori‘s not being able to locate any staff personnel, we decided to walk Joey back to his cabin. We weren‘t two sure of what to do, but his parents would certainly want him back, right? We couldn‘t take him to our cabin, we couldn‘t find a ranger and we certainly couldn‘t leave him abandoned in the night. We headed for the cabins, hoping we weren‘t going to make matters worse for an eigh-year-old boy.
Near the edge of the lot as you enter into the treeline, was a line of logs that encircled the boundary. The whole area was slushy from melting snow and mud mix. I had Joey climb on my back as I carried him piggyback across the slush and up the hill. In the distance we heard voices, but jubled together, shouting. The we heard it clearly, „Joey! Joey!“ being shouted by a woman‘s hysterical voice. He got excited, explaining that the woman was his mother. As we came up the hill a little more, we could see her in the snow, not knowing which way to search. He yelled directly into my ear, „Mom!“ I bent to let him slide off of my back, and he ran through the snow to reach her. What a sight! They embraced, and my smile suddenly faded when I saw him. The father. Lori and I made our way towards them and explained where we found him and that there weren‘t any rangers to contact or notify the parents. I explained that the though it was his fault that anyone may not have been happy that night. They embraced him together, telling heim what we told him: children are not responsible for the actions of an adult, no matter what the circumstances.
Joey‘s parents thanked us for returning their son safely to them. Before parting ways, his mother handed me my jacket, and thanked me again before we all called it a night.
The next morning, as we stepped outside of our cabin, we noticed Joey and his family leaving the park. They were far off in the distance, but they had their belongings in hand, just reaching the lot. I hoped in my heart that he would have a safe journey, both home and in life. Lori stood beside me and watched as the wather warmed the care up to leave. It was chilly, and I dug my hands into my jacked pockets, and I felt it. The soft yarn of Joey‘s little blue gloves were shoved into my pockets. He had put them there while around the fire. As I removed them, the car pulled from the lot, and I clenched those gloves, putting them back into my pocktes.
My path crossing with Joey‘s wasn‘t by chance, but by the grace of God. That little boy didn‘t just leave his gloves in my pockets, he left his name in my heart. I see that face from time to time when the cold forms in winter. I see that dark curly hair and tender eyes filled with tears. I see pure innocence. Every now and then, his little feet run across my heart and remind me that tenderness and humanity are the greatest gifts wrapped in love that we can give to the world. He also reminded me that in childhood, we are all innocent. All of us. Yes, even me. That little eight year old boy is an adult now. I often wonder how he is, where he is, what life delivered him in spiet of his home life. And I pray for him. Still, to this day, I pray for Joey.
I kept those gloves in a safe place clear up to the day of my arrest in 1989. The were blue with white snowflakes on them. They were a memory of one day when my humanity and compassion where tested. They were a reminder of a child‘s innocence.
So, I say from the heart to you … You dont have to wait for a child to be lost to show your own sense of humanity or compassion. You do not need to wait for an invitation to participate in an endeavor of the heart – just go find a cause that could use two more hands, and get involved. There‘s no need to wish you could make a difference, just go out and do it. There are soldiers returning from Iraq and elsewhere. Show them that you love them as much as they love their country. Don‘t know were to begin? Contact your local V.A. Hospital, and ask what you can do to help. There are millions of people who could benefit from a shoulder to lean on, a hand to hold, just someone to talk to. It could be a stranger, or someone as close as home. From the heart, I cannot say it enough, a little love goes a long, long, ways. Just imagine if we all did it together. Yes, what a beautiful, beautiful world!
Always From The Heart
T.C. & Mama ´P´
T.C. Paulinkonis Pauline “Barbara” Paulinkonis
W45118 514-16-4U W45120 514-16-41
PO Box 1509 PO Box 1508
Chowchilla, CA 93610 Chowchilla, CA 93610
From You Carry the Heavy Stuff, Esther Bradley-Detally – on Lulu.com., Amazon, and Author’s possession
Children of the Stolen Ones
(for Gloria Haithman—December 2, 2004)
“Greens” makes me think of Ola Mae’s Greens, down in my belly, in Olean,New York, as crowds of us burst into Ola Mae’s Restaurant on a regular basis to shoot the breeze, eat her famous Greens, and just to feel all’s well with the world. Here in Pasadena,California, the subject of greens and chitlins came up. I thought of Ola Mae, the camaraderie, her corn bread too, and just feeling part of the woodwork welcomed by her open heart and Best-Greens-Cook-In-The-World self.
In Pasadena, on a Wednesday night, Gloria talked about the same thing, but went a step further. She spoke of soul food on another level, the spiritual teachings of love, hope, and faith. She spoke to our insides where there are no colors. Gloria said, “We were not colored when we were born. Yeah, I thought, we came in that way, and no one crayoned some in, or bleached others out.
What if, instead of calling the dark ones, the Negroes, the People of Color, names given by history book scribes, say, “Black or African-Americans?” Then a phrase measured out, by Gloria, entered our gathering, all the while she was telling of a story of friends who called themselves The Sisters. These Sisters went to South Africa, honoring their roots, and seeking answers to their identities. On the trip they were constantly greeted by groups of women who would sing to them. One day they met some African women who had the “Who are You? Where are you from?” look in their eyes, all the while staring at The Sisters.
One of the South African women said, “They are Children of the Stolen Ones.” Back in Pasadena, sitting on the orange velvet couch, those small noble words, “The Stolen Ones,” bombarded my heart as I felt my soul sink into a place of utter knowingness, of a reverence and majesty revealed.
As a white lady, an older one, who learned of our essential oneness some forty years before and humbly stayed on the thorny and pitted path of discovery and unity, I sat there stunned. I repeated the phrase over and over to myself. “Children… Children of the… Children of the Stolen Ones….”
Yes, and for me it was a rightful and merciful appellation.
Finally, dignity and solace packed into five words. Measure it out on the tongue, slowly: “The Stolen Ones… Children of the Stolen Ones.” Feel your heart melt as if a great and timeless grief has finally been acknowledged.
My heart bowed a humble bow to the true nature of an incredible people, their majestic endurance, their ancestors. I’m no artist and don’t know my colors, and I live in a world that thinks it knows its colors, and colors inside the lines, not outside—the “lines” being the operative word.
Well, I’d say in this year of 2004, “Maybe we should hear The Sisters, our sisters’, call from South Africa,” and use lines to wrap around: Majesty, Dimension, Endurance, Courage. Name every quality our sisters and brothers of African heritage carry with fortitude, and you come up with, in my book, “The Chosen Ones.” And, what if God and his Messengers and Prophets saw that these Chosen Ones endured trials similar to the Minor Prophets? And what if Bahá’u’lláh knew His love for His Chosen Ones, knew they suffered the banishment, the chains, the whippings, as He, in the Path of God?
So here’s the final what if—what if this planet really was a testing ground to see who could show courage under fire, love of God, love of people despite that the Stolen Ones and their kin were also robbed? But wait, here’s another view. I think the Children of the Stolen Ones are the Morning Glories of our age! Their children; their children’s children. It’s the story Morning Glory.
Let’s proclaim, let’s shout, and let us bow in reverence to our ancestors, ransomed so we might reframe our hearts and join each other in history’s future where lines are a thing of the past and colors are loved-filled stripes of every hue.
Skin Color
At the Black History Parade, put on by the Jackie RobinsonCenter, one cold, but sun-emerging day, paralytic agony stops my nouns, verbs and adverbs describing skin color or lack thereof. Pain fills my heart as my eyes Braille the sadness of a man’s face, deep rivets line his cheeks, highlighting generational discounts and the pitter patter of white voices.
Numbness clots my throat at this morning’s Parade, while those in other parts of the city, those from White gulags, tuff lawns, buff cars, and spread glossy interracial magazines, photo ops on tables, never viewed by the living.
Brown vs. Board, wasn’t that inTopeka?
In Idaho, Bill and I share a table with a Nigerian psychiatrist. It’s lunch time in a hospital cafeteria, and Bill asks a question which floats over our salads:
“Do you have to emphasize your African heritage”?
An acknowledged “Yes.”
A rueful, half-stated reply, “My children will not have that advantage.”
On the broad palettes of television’s life experts on society, are noticeable by their absence of color. Hey, what about The News Hour with Gwen Ifill? Yeah, and Colin Powell, and… Yeah? Hey guys, take the tour of Any City, USA, where two separate neighborhoods exist—bookends of ideological contrast. One is spacious, forgiving, and tolerant, with wide streets, large houses and gracious plants, suggesting it’s easy to feel benevolent. The other part contains narrow streets, boards on windows, hunger at night, restless poverty, and shootings. Skin color privilege cuts its wide swath.
I can say no more.
First, gratitude for the hard work on behalf of Altadena Library and the Friends of the Library for making these workshops possible. Okay boys and girls, or girls and boys, we didn’t get to a couple of other exercises, so as I promised, here they are:
1. Name your writing after this place or situation: In the Dean’s Office, Talking to My Boss, At Lunch with My Mother-in-Law, On the Bus Going to Work, In the Dentist’s Chair, Cleaning My Room, The Job Interview, or whatever comes to mind. It’s your mind reader – go for it!
Write a dialogue in which an annoyingly powerful person speaks the way he or she normally does. For internal dialogue, after several lines of this person’s dialogue, say to yourself in the form of a tired cliche or some slang you use, what you really think – consider these: Your mother eats kitty litter, or praise the Lord and pass the Butter or Walk with me Jesus, or sticks and stones may break my bones, or are you with me; how bout them Dodgers, you can’t please everyone, or Lucy and Ethel in the Chocolate Line, or Gal, don’t call me Gal, or Boy, don’t call me Boy, or job schmob, I’m out of here!
2. Think of something you believe in/wish for. Write 5 or more passages, start with same line, I believe in running free and fast, or I have a wish to swim in the ocean, or If I could talk with my mother for just one moment more.
After you have written the passages, end by repeating the one repeated lines 3 times in a row. (From Creative Writing DeMystified, Bender, p. 31)
Here’s one we did in the 90s at Jamestown Community College’s the Courage to Write Workshop:
3. Suddenly there is a knock at your door. A trusted friend enters to warn you that the Dream Police will arrive in 20 minutes. Everything, everything in your life that you have not written down will evaporate upon their arrival. You have a short time –twenty minutes—to preserve what is most precious in your life, what has formed you, what sustains you. Whatever you forget, whatever you have no time to record, will disappear. Everything you want must be acknowledged in its particularity. Everything, to be saved, must be named. Not trees, but oak. Not animal, but wolf. Not people, but Alicia. As in reality, what has no name, no specificity vanishes.
We are what matters to us. Our identity materializes through images, memories, events and through things. In the above exercise we select what is essential us, what has formed u, what we cannot live without, this as often includes grief, losses and failures as it does joy and triumph.
Some time after, look at this list; put it aside, and then later, examine it. Imagine you are an anthropologist who has unearthed this list of “possessions” that once belonged to some “unknown” person. Write a portrait fleshing out that person, speculating on his or her character and life.
FINALLY, some books which you can get from a library: mine – Without a Net: A Sojourn in Russia, and You Carry the Heavy Stuff, Esther Bradley-DeTally. If local, i have some. If not, Lulu for You Carry the Heavy Stuff, Amazon too.
Creative Writing DeMYSTiFieDm Sheila Bender (I used this). Soul Pancake Chew On Life’s Big Quesitons, Wilson, Gundry, Lucina, Mogharab(Rainn Wilson from the Office, one of the authors, and the GRAPhics are fabulous)
I loved Spunk & Bite also. Read everything, fiction, non-fiction.
Journals – Writer’s Digest, Poets & Writers,
Online writing group: CHPercolatorCoffeeHouse for Writers (Yahoo)
I have only touched the surface. Stay tuned and happy writing. Esther
A string of laughter is all the trees lining our long driveway, the bamboo, the eucalyptus, all laughing, small nasty chuckles, because once again, I am thatched headed, in pjs and not walking. It was a choice, but then the lure of words, the Zen of quiet air pushing out of the fan under my laptop; which if you really must know, I found this fan at a garage sale for $1.00, mighty fan.
A string of laughter makes me think of kites flying over Afghanistan, that land of dust and caves, and cities, and brave women’s hearts, and children’s tears, and when the kites are allowed, they fly into the air, twisting, turning, colors. What are the colors of kites in the Afghan air? And someone’s heart exults, and then of course, there’s the birds. They were banned during the time of the Taliban, and now I hope they are back, and I will sit back, and stop clickety clacking across the a, ;.s;. k, dk’s and think in peace you can’t own the sky.. It’s been tried, but the sky is ours, and then a heavenly invisible low long drawn out chuckle, like God was a Westerner with a Cowboy Hat, and then a belly laugh which translates into winds over the mountains, cleansing air, and Scattering Angels of the Almighty seeking the hearts of righteous men (generic of course); women too, and then what do I think.
Hmmm, a string of laughter is a word sky, where the sun and the moon negotiate, because now there’s lots of new solar stuff out there, and it might be a night game of “Olly, olly oxen free… ready or not, here I come.” Or maybe lawn bowling will be the game of choice, except it would be sky lawn ball, and then there are balloons, another topic altogether. Some balloons laugh, go up on a string, and twist out of grasping hands of greed.
You can take a lot of things away from people: money, a place to live, shoes, health, but laughter always springs from some invisible source, and laughter moves the ribs up and down and up and down, and you can’t take that away.
from Colorlines.com, Hatty Lee’s infographic, ARC toolbox, research, activism, media, Rinku Sen, ARC President – arc@arc.org.
This organization gets things done; they put “hope” back in the horizon! I hope it’s okay to publish this
opy/paste the below text into your blog. 
And Nothing but the Truthiness: The Rise (and Further Rise) of Stephen Colbert by Lisa Rogak
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Fun. He is soooo bright; I adore him.
YA novel about life in the future after the planet has gone bonkers; excellent story, well done; heroic characters, love pervails
Siobhan Fallon writes well, eloquently and her prose and content are straight arrows to the heart. I don’t know how many books have been written from her point of view, but these stories, with exceedingly diverse points of view, points of view that bring you inside the characters’ soul, are just in time for the rest of the world to view.
Fort Hood. Women Left Behind. Heart in throat kind of stuff. Factual insights into life at Fort Hood. She brings the sound of loneliness and waiting to the page in a visual way. Agony, waiting, lives upended, lives united. These are the stories this reader feels everyone should read. What a tribute to all who serve and all who wait.
Reader, I belong to CHPercolator, CoffeeHouse for Writers (Yahoo) and what fllows below are the suggested prompts and my freewrite for same.
1. A unique toast
2. Family traditions
3. Out with the old in with the new!
4. Resolutions–do you make new year resolutions? If so, what are they,
and how long do they usually last?
5. I turned over a new leaf, and under it I found…
The toast, more than slightly burned and twisted, rose with her pale limpid hand, as Emily, a follower of Ron Paul, Edward Dash, Holley Holes and other limpid like creatures, spoke with as much force as she could emanate, all the while reclining in an odd twisted way on the mint green julep chaise lounge, redecorated since it birthed into the world of her grandmother Nenny, who never had a wrinkle in her life, and Emily thought, as her head with its faint gossamer curls of faded L’Oreal Red Fire Engine Red, and Nenny who never had a thought in her life, pondered, her Wet N’Wild Lipstick number 2002, the color that ran in Russian department stores for so long, cracked and a bit of dryness seeped into her part glossy, but dry and cracked upper lip, and she went on, pushed into the stale breeze of conversation about New Year’s Resolutions, and tilted her toast to the left and then to the right like a politician of years gone by, too ineffective to make a difference, as if difference mattered in these days of political slime and split, but still, the stillness in the air, the pallid air, stilled even more, to a microscopic silence and she said, “Out with the old and in with the new,” and her boyfriend Henry, all new as a boyfriend of 2 ½ days, caught the sailing crisps of bread parts in the air with both hands, and he said in an adoring voice that rose to a falsetto, or sounding like Alfred Deller in a Vivaldi piece, Ode to Joy or something like that, he quivered, “Out with the old and in with the new,” repeating his new love’s most spontaneous act, a second one indeed, if he could count, and he would love to count it, her slight ack moan slipping from her rouged and ruined mouth from their 7 minutes of passion the night before, consummated so quickly, so eloquently, so quietly, and then the crowd, looking more like Edward Gorey characters who just stepped off their one dimensional cover of the new Edward Gorey 2012 Calendar made up of twitches and twatches of woebegone Victorian figures, some full, and burley in sweaters and pondering thought with pen in right hand, left hand wanly holding a small blank square of paper, some in bold black, green and white chequered plaid, with the usual maiden with darkened Kohl eyes nearby, and a lady who looked very much like our beloved Emily, may we by now, the avid, sturdy, stalwart reader who has reached the end of this essay of small black marks, may we call her Em and may we finish this piece as we hear all the voices Gorey and others, writers and wishes everywhere say, “My only resolution is to write more!”
those were the days
Years ago
when I drank vats of Tab/Diet Soda, you name it, I was what I drank, jagged
edged, thin, with an immune system storing grudges. Before that when I was 21 and had moved away
from my suburb of West Roxbury and lived in Brookline with my stepmother and
father, who were away a lot, I smoked a pack of cigarettes and drank a whole
pot of coffee every Sunday morning, and needless to say, what I became was
someone with little red pimples on her face and a twitch in her gait, and then
after giving up 3 packs of cigarettes a day, no longer drinking, scotch or
anything else, and getting a pit bull grip off of sugar, but not ice cream, I
became a round person, said roundness appearing and staying, like cement
successfully poured, because after open heart surgery, by pass and a new
plastic aortic valve, I craved milk and ice cream and then I lived in Russia
before that, and we ate ice cream from a cart on the street, in the frozen
winter, because there was no such thing as dairy, and we also ate a lot of
katoshka,(potatos) so that’s when I paid more attention to my being a soul, but
a soul with wide hips, and of late, I am an older lady, coming into her own,
claiming health and well being, but in parsed patches of time, and eating more
regularly, and eating vegetables and dark greens except when my blood gets to
thick and the powers that be in the medical field, the valley of the blood
laboratories, tell me, too thick, not good, or too thin, then I go into the
greens again, and all of this points out to maybe once a 4 pound baby who was
born with the theme of need in the 4 pound folds of skin which didn’t have the
ability to plump out until she got to be 50 and hormones and all, and if I eat
incorrectly; isn’t that a wonderful phrase, considering all models in the past
were on heroin so they could be thin or 90% of them, and I notice if I numb
myself with food or playing solitaire at the end of the day; I’m avoiding life,
and food can do that, and that’s when I pull myself up the next morning, and
pay attention to the prayers I utter humbly to the heavens, and ask for help in
not being such a rebel with food; but it all started with my giving my daily
required cod liver oil pill as a child to our large French Poodle, and she
lived to be very old, and I went on to immune system crappola, but now, wisdom
and moderation have elbowed their way into my path, so I’m just another
moderately wide waisted writer, trying to eat after she writes, trying to walk
after she writes and thinking, who is it just so easy to slab peanut butter on bread,
fold it until you hold it, and take off, not paying attention to details. Details work when you write, so now, my
little word epiphany thanks to Michelle’s prompts tell me, triangulate details
into your food old girl; that way you’ll have the strength to continue
NanoPrimo.
I would like to occupy a normal body not hissing black smoke becuz I ate two (2)
pieces of a very high white cake with creamy frosting, and flaky white innards
of cake, cake, cake, tinged, blessed, dewily dropped in heavy cream frosting,
and one was consumed after half a veggie burger at Tuohey’s Coffee Shop.
Said coffee shop is known for its sundaes and
has been around since God invented earth.
So yesterday was Mr. Bill’s birthday celebration, and he was 77 last Thursday if
you want to know, and Mr. Bill is My Mr. Bill and why I get to earn that title,
I dunno, but let me tell you this man is my bill, my guy, and a resplendent
devotee of creamy white cake with strawberry filled icing, and life has been
icing on the cake if you know what I mean, cuz that’s good, but we have had
kitty litter days and days of granular tests, and they always feel like the day
after you eat sugar.
You see, yesterday I occupied, I am happy, with Laura, Nick, Tory, Bill and we were at a
round table, a round table, imagine that, at Twuohey’s; spell it many ways type
of gal I am, and we had our fud and then Laura had brought the cake from
Frederico’s or some place exotic and in her Laura way, she put unusual candles
and both Tory and Laura and Nick gave resplendent cards, and I had given Bill
one earlier in the week, one ready for him at 6 a.m. if you want to be exact.
So we get home, and the desire that occupied my mind, first part of the day to walk 6
miles, left as if on winged horses, and my bed looked wide and inviting and
smooth sheeted, and the phone somehow got off the hook, and I slept for a solid
hour or so, while Bill watched SC and Stanford, a gripping football game, and I
don’t even know what they are doing on that field except falling all over each
other and making an Orthopedic student happy for his future client income.
I crashed, burned, slept and got up and pulled out the other half of the vegetarian burger which was round and brown,
and nicely bunned, and I ate it rapidly because I was on another get the last
few pieces of cake, pour the big milk jug into the circular plastic turquoise
glasses and inhale and slug and don’t forget to breathe. Of course at
midnight I sat on my couch having anxiety attacks, and then I went to bed and I
think I moved furniture and had nightmares and resolved nothing, except my
pancreas was probably pissed as hell at me, which is why I’ll end with I’m
going to some concert by Marvin something or other with Janet my long time
friend from Boston, cuz she has an extra ticket, and in my mind’s eye, I think
if only pajamas with feet were an acceptable outfit, I’d wear them. So now, I’m taking the ruins of my body,
which had been over occupied with sugar, towards our train sized cubicle of a
kitchen, and I’m going to find protein and healthy food, and then pray the
occupation of help I’ve been poisoned by strawberry creamed soldiers goes away
soon.
PS my brain is too sugared out to fix the margins that scooted over to the right. the nerve!
It is just fantastic to see a new writer emerge. Mudbound was Pasadena’s One Author One Read book, and now first week of November I believe she’s going to speak, not at Vroman’s, too small but at Cal Tech. Kudos to Hillary Jordan!
The Barbarian Nurseries: A Novel by Héctor Tobar
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Delicious, fantastic, delicate, strong prose, and author nails a view of life from combinations of views. A Mexican immigrant maid and a clueless, but well meaning family, said family totally unaware of the lives around them, or for that matter, each other.
His writing is fantastic. A profound book which needs to be inhaled by all. I inhaled it, yes I did. I am now going to look for Hector Tobar’s other books – Translation Nation and the Tattooed Soldier. Mr. Tobar is a writer for the Los Angeles Times, is a Pulitzer prize willing journalist and a novelist. Writers would “kill” for his phrases – Barbarian Nurseries is a must read!
Baby Elly visits Bill and Esther at Pool House in Pasadena
Baby Elly Gets urban
In my reading of Logos and Civilization, I found on page 86 “The concept of destiny in the Baha’i writings, on the other hand, becomes compatible with the relative freedom of human beings. It is clear that Baha’u'llah’s concept of the mystery of destiny is not one of passivity and unfreedom. To realize one’s destiny is not a mere acceptance of whatever “is”; on the contrary, it is an active movement toward realizing spiritual values in one’s own life and developing the potentialities and perfections hidden like “gems,” in the “mine” of one’s own being (Gleanings 260). the mystery of destiny, then, among other things, precisely implies transcending the opposition between the divine will and the individual will. It represents the actualization of all one’s spiritual powers and the maturation of one’s potentialities to the degree that one freely chooses spiritual values and the will of God. this is the stage of perfect freedom and moral autonomy, in which human potentialities are actualized in harmony with divine revelation. That is why Baha’u'llah defines this valley as both the station of mystery and the secret of maturation. it implies the integration of the approaches based on self, reason, and love.”
– Logos And Civilization Spirit, History, and Order in the Writings of Baha’u'llah, Nader Saiedi
Please note, I, esther, can’t find out how to accent appropriate syllables.
I conduct a writing workshop in the basement of Ten Thousand Villages, a fair trade store, in Pasadena, CA (corner of California and Lake – sort of) and a student who said she didn’t write wrote this. So I love to share people’s pieces!
A Sense of Place – Yagya Bedi
Sadness did not give up today.
It hovered around like dew on a
spider’s web glistening, sparkling.
I had been fooled before with those
bewitching enticements.
No matter how hard I tried
back here in the murky gloom
of cobwebs and tangled dreams,
I returned. Each time with more
shame and guilt.
I had reached the dizzy pinnacle of
ecstasy more than once. More than once
had I climbed that rocky path.
Yet, more than once, did I return to familiar
sorrow waiting.
Is there more than once?
Happiness is a room full of orange, green
and yellow ribbons. Streamers and flowers,
petals of vibrant joy and energy.
No dark colors are allowed.
Black and grey are banished.
All is lightness. Frivolity abounds.
She walks naked, unabashed and
guilt free. Ease and calm glide
hand in hand, providing solutions
as they pass.
How long does the sun shine here
in Utopia? How will the moon dress us
for the next day? The dance must end,
and the garlands must fall. Sorrow
is waiting to take her place once more.
From…. WorldUnityMedia.com/ Quote of the Day, Sat., August 13, 2011
“Thou hast asked Me concerning the nature of the soul. Know, verily, that the soul is a sign of God, a heavenly gem whose reality the most learned of men hath failed to grasp, and whose mystery no mind, however acute, can ever hope to unravel. It is the first among all created things to declare the excellence of its Creator, the first to recognize His glory, to cleave to His truth, and to bow down in adoration before Him. If it be faithful to God, it will reflect His light, and will, eventually, return unto Him. If it fail, however, in its allegiance to its Creator, it will become a victim to self and passion, and will, in the end, sink in their depths.”
Gleanings From the Writings of Bahá’u’lláh, Author: Bahá’u’lláh, Source: US Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1990 pocket-size edition, Page: 346
Here’s something from my book
You Carry the Heavy Stuff It’s a writing prompt and written in a particular style. Kurt Vonnegut (God Bless you Kurt Vonnegut) said, write 4 lines across the page every night; don’t show it to anyone, but just do it. These were my 4 one day, and the word soul just showed up, like it wanted to be on the word train within this piece. This is also something under Jack Grapes’ (best writing teacher of all time) teaching in that he calls this type of piece To Be Read and Sung, okay enuf said, 4 lines:
Read and Sung
Do not ask of your shadow’s future. Do not dwell on your shadow’s past. Do not ask what others think. Rely not upon the delusions of the many. Do not turn away from certitude and a multisyllabic path. Do not listen to politicians’ rhetoric. Do not become a sleeping mute, a junk yard dog. Do take yourself and shadow on a dual path. Take a soul to lunch this week. Better yet, take your soul with you. Best yet, be your soul.
NOTE FROM THE EDITOR: Share Quote of the Day with friends.
Reader, my on line writers’ group, CHPercolator, prompts Post July 31, 2011:
You mean life is more than material for books?
Seeds of crazy believe
Black marks march across the page
Working like a canine for very little money
Mended, the floor of my soul was finally strong enough to bear my full weight.
The floor of my soul is doing pretty good now, occasionally it has the strength to do an oingo boingo, like a brand new trampoline! Yesterday, my soul went oingo boingo all day. You betchum Red Rider, The funny thing about souls and weight, when you lean into fine tempering your soul through life experience, or just pulling the splinters and shards of same off the floor, once you get it down, get your soul mended strong enough to bear full weight, it becomes gossamer light.
Which brings me to a gossamer event yesterday of two people who found each other, Red and Jan, and their wedding. No black marks march across the page on this wedding; nope letters of every hue; flamboyant pink, awesome yellow and rainbow blue and ultraviolet appeared in the sky.
Some people might say what kind of seed of crazy are you ingesting old girl, and I tell you, most of the time I live in the land of practicality. Years ago I worked like a canine for good money as a secretary in law firms, good law firms, and now I work like a joyous canine for maybe not as much money, but I am like an abused greyhound dog, or Black Beauty the horse, remember Black Beauty, finally out sharing the pasture of words and events and how to do this and write like you talk, sing, dance, you know. You catch my drift.
A lot of people comment on how much I read. Okay I admit turning our one and only walk in closet top shelves into a library, despite the fact that we live in a two-room pool house might be excessive, but they leave such a lovely glow in my heart. Yes, books glow, but I tell you this reader; are you still with me? I tell you, life is more than material for books!
See you around the trails, around the bend.
It was 1992, and my husband Igorovich insisted we drive to the Wisconsin Cheese Farm to photograph shelves and glassed in cases of cheese, no abundance of lack as in our city, Dnepropetrovsk, where cheese was called sere to my American ears.
We were newly on our honeymoon and I was to bring Igorovich back to my home in Boston, to a family which prided itself on their standing within the generations. My great grandfather had been Sheriff of Suffolk County in the early 1900s, and with a name like “Keliher,” I gathered he’d come over before the potato famine.
But history or generational placement was far from my mind, that hot day when odors of cows and an occasional sniff of sweet grass relieved the tedium of flat stretch after flat stretch of highway, only relieved by country stores, with 12 empty rocking chairs lined up as if to say hello, come to Cracker Barrel and find root beer candy, sarsaparilla drinks from the past.
But no, Igorovich, as I was soon to learn was a “pusher,” and a bull dog, and I a small Chihuahua personality myself, was not match to his drive and intention. But it wasn’t all “plocha” awful, that day as we drove off the highway ramp, the only Edsel for miles, the only car for miles, because I had heard of a writing group on the “net,” as they say.
We parked in the dusty graveled parking lot, headed towards a low slung, ranch style building covered in a wine-colored wood, and as we opened the air conditioned doors, air, cold air blasted us back an inch or two.
Igorovich was rubbing his meaty hands together, reverting to Russian, “Horoshow, Horoshow,” which to my 2 year old level of Russian meant good. What was it about me, my tiny, small persistent personality? I always feel for men in uniform, and Igorovich met me in the open air market (a euphemism for shock of beef on hooks, wedding gowns next aisle over, potatoes which looked abused, and I was asking for Smetana, and Sleevki, one or the other, they are dairy products, don’t have my smetanas and sleevki’s down. That’s three year old language level.
It was love at first sight, and I called him Sleevki Igor, and now cheeses and abundances of the dairy kind led me to a serendipitous moment of great impact, almost as great as meeting my beloved Sleevki Igor, but not quite – nothing could replace the smell of raw beef, a handsome young man bending over my tiny form, sweat on his neck, a delightful clean smell of sweat, and muscled arms, oh a girl could go far in those muscled arms.
There inside the Wisconsin Famous for Its Cheeses door, the air conditioning pushing cow ears back, was someone in an enormous cow uniform. The cow had human legs in the front, and cardboard legs resting on a cheese barrel with lots of miniature sculpted baby cows around his tale, as if to say, “I’m prolific,” and “All us cows do our dairy best,” and so while Igor ambled around more cheese shelves than he had seen in his life, and was blasted away by the “how may we lay our lives down in service for you employees,” I sauntered up to the Cow.
How is it, there’s a figure in there. Who are you. Well the cow must have been embarrassed, so a small voice laced trills and bass notes, said I’m today’s new Cheese Representative, and todays, my first day on the job. What’s good, I said, slowing myself into what was going to be a rolling dialogue/monologue, repartee, Camembert or Cheddar ?
The cow’s voice dropped several octaves, almost like the sounds on the planet we can’t hear and said, “Look lady, I’m a writer, and an umployed one at that. For cheese’s sake, don’t push me.”
You are a writer, you in the cow suit, by this time I gathered he was a man.
Yes, and because he was in a cow suit and was a writer, I shouted behond the pickles and ham slices rolled up drolley besides the Swiss cheese, and called, “Igorovitch, Igorovitch, Ididi, my word for go which meant to Sleevki Igor, come here, as it was the only motion word I knew.
Well Igor and I love people in suits, or uniforms, and a man in a cow uniform on his first day at work, and on our first time in a famous Cheese Factory was the beginning of a propitious relationship.
It turned out, this writer and many others whom he knew would turn out bon mots of the laugh and lie down with your belly to the floor, and I learned through this man, “Steve,” whom Sleevki Igor called “Steevovitch Seritskee” became a life time friend, and in the future we would venture to lands like Kansas, and Boston, my family loved cheese, and then in our later years, we would find a small pool house, which fit our immigrant hearts, and to our delight, we would discover Steevovitch Seritskee was now a famous writer, but he lived still in his modest family home in temple City and we were horoshow (good).
July 21, 2011
CHPerc prompts
“Today should be my wedding day,” said Annie Mae Clare McDougall Habersham as they moved her out of her trailer park, because newspapers in the back entry way were stacked to the ceiling, and I, her 70ish, low on the ish cousin, shirttail cousin at that, was the only lone female within my clan brave enough to enter the sagging trailer on a hot July day, humidity up to sweat and think “Hell,” and to prepare to breathe through the mouth, avoiding unwarranted odors from the decaying tin can of a trailer, collapsing before my very eyes.
I squeeze sideways, even though people call me skinny, I still have to squeeze sideways to make it through the newspaper filled back entryway, which is book marked on the opposite side by those familiar yellow National Geographic’s that people saved thinking, these will be a treasure later.
That’s what it’s all about, saving, hoarding, hoping something for nothing, later, in the dusty future where a ship will come in, a lottery ticket will pay off, Google will reward the younger in our generation for some unknown embryo of an idea, to be planted in everyone’s need section of their brain. We have all become like raw open throated baby birds I think as my nose begins to reject a sour odor, and I move towards what once was an elegantly curved mahogany and soft light green velvet couch, said couch, looking like a Keinholtz replica, with stuffing coming out of its chest instead of Keinholtz’s original piece which portrayed squirrels nesting on a rotted-out breast, to a horrified crowd at the LA Museum on Mid-Wilshire in the mid 60s.
“Today should be my wedding day,” thrums against my brain, quiet cloud like thoughts, pure fluffy white, floating over chaos of broken lamps, hidden treasures of pearl handle knives and a peer or pier mirror tall, tilted against a wall in the corner, ornate gold frame, from floor to ceiling, this mirror abandoned before it was sold to make a lot of money for Annie’s future abundance.
Annie, Annie, Annie. If I were she, I would have changed my last name. What a curse to be named “Habersham,” so Dickensian in its doom, its curse of the unmarried, a curse which makes no sense in these days at the turn of a new century, the 2000s. We don’t worry about being married, not married. We worry about food, prices, greed, and think of the Wall Street Boys bowling with our brains and hearts, and totally removed from what’s really happening here on Hensworth Street in Lake Forest Park.
We are a long way from the real world, and my purpose here is to make sense and get Annie out of her mess. She doesn’t think mess. Annie’s brain is back in the day in 1938 when her to-be husband was cavorting on the sands of Cape Cod, as he ran along side the ocean. He had just turned his head to shout to Annie, a good looking 20 year old with long chestnut hair, long legs, an arched nose, and the moment was truly golden. Golden except for the fact he didn’t see the giant horseshoe crab in front of him and he fell and its long tail pierced his heart.
He was a bleeder, and he didn’t make it through the night. Annie was devastated and simply not right for the rest of her life.
So here I am now, the only practical one in the family whose tree goes back to Habersham and Dickens, and I am here to muck out, and get her into a rest home, and sooth the community association who is afraid that rats are cavorting all over the trailer park.
I see her, slumped over in an old tattered maroon (they don’t use that color any more) Morris chair which is spotted and its wooden slatted frame is scarred from dog scratches. Her dog Pip sits whimpering at her side. Small, runty dog, small slivered woman, and the day we move this shattered bone and mind of an old lady, unnoticed except for the horror of her hoarding, I think, that’s it. She’s the next subject of my next book.
And then, I pull out my cell phone, dial, “We Clean Up Anything,” pick up Pip, who gives a feeble pug cough, tell Annie, “We’ll have you under 800 thread count sheets by tonight,” and call my husband who will drive her to the hospital, and think, “It’s all grist for the mill.”
Did I mention the LA Times had just printed a photo of an old cane chair on top of a junk pile, with its bottom part threaded out, reminiscent of the Pope’s Chair, verifying he was a guy, as mentioned in that lovely book Pope Joan?
Truth is so delightful when turned into fiction. Writer’s block is over.
tell a story with just colors and sounds and use “the wheel of hours” in first line. A CHPerc prompt
The wheel of hours was going to be long, and would involve a lot of waiting, just like I’m waiting in this darkened Park Street Subway station, which smells of hot dust and urine, and feels like I am in the vestibule of death, when in reality, I am only on my way to Monday, my first day at a new job.
Reader, can I whine, can I have a plaintive voice. Think of my voice as wine dripping from my mouth and forming letters which complain, and my plaintiveness resembling old tin cup, which when I put my lips on it, curl back and reveal teeth, white, but tired, tired from having to live inside my mouth so long they’ve developed a lacework on their tips. Yeah, the bottom teeth with the dental hygienist said last week, “Oh you have such little teeth. How cute.”
Reader how are 73 year old teeth, the bottom once, which are white, which are precious few, and which are squeezed together as if bunching up in fear, “No don’t take me,” also have had the nerve to show delicate little edges, not smooth lines, and my teeth, I’m afraid are going on to a grey/gray, land of older, older woman, even though I still slash red lipstick on my lips which prune and pout as I ponder the bleak outside world where all the newscasters spewing yellowed print, green print, red print out of their mouths, quickly like blades of steel grass, and they all have opinions. About jobs. It’s about jobs, which is why dear Reader, my life is looking black, purple and I feel a shade coming down, as if it is sundown, and it’s only morning, but I’m off to my new job as photocopier for a law firm.
This law firm is on State Street, where years ago old men wore white spats over their shoes and women in clothe green felt hats, or grey felt, or any kind of felt, color it any way you want, hats, and these hats hid the obedient eyes focused on the rough, knobby cement, glanced at the brick exteriors of old Boston Buildings, spelled the ocean air coming up from the harbor or Harbah if you are a native, and scurried into buildings to be on time for the men they worked for, such as our leisurely white spatted gentlemen circumambulating the Boston Gardens.
This was our out, and it was a good one. Secretaries. Now there’s a word. Reader I once knew practices like Gregg Shorthand even though I took the college courses in high school, I was now and had been a Boston Clerical Girl for years.
Did I mention, at fifty-three I became “temping” later a word exalted to “freelancing,” all words pointing to don’t hire the older woman. Did I mention I wore black a lot, because it was cheap, and slenderizing, a word people don’t use any more. And did I mention I once had a life filled with magentas and yellows and starburst lemon, and grew flowers like the Iris, a delicately laced flower with deep purple hues, and I had dogs that were silky red with long hair, and small little beige squatty little dogs whose curl of tail was beyond creamy, beyond perfection?
But now, I live in the real world. Did I mention when I worked there were no pensions, no this, no that, no insuring one’s end of days with padding of the economic time. I had thought the legal world would protect me, because in the depression of yore legal secretaries found work. Teachers found work. But it is now 2011, and I must work because I could be one step from living in the streets. I will work until I’m 85, or until I can’t see the documents which will come in serried rank, page after page, and I will push, click, staple and fold, and somehow my creaking wheel of hours will end.
check out http://www.bahaiperspectives.com
For those who might be interested. The interview covers my personal beginnings, religious background, follies, foibles of high school years, coming to California in 1962, discovering the Baha’i Faith, prayers of the Faith, life in general, transformation, and writing; hope you enjoy!
Girls with Pink Lipstock
(from Miss Halloran, You Carry the Heavy Stuff, p. 53)
By Susan Zucker – June 6, 2011
Girls with pink lipstick, shocking pink lipstick, clump together.
They have their beach towels and bathing suits.
They have money for their lunches.
Girls with pink lipstick, shocking pink lipstick, clump together.
Girls with pink lipstick, shocking pink lipstick, clump together.
They wait in front of the house on Clifton Avenue.
It is the most central, after all.
They wait for that one mom to drive them to the beach.
Girls with pink lipstick, shocking pink lipstick, clump together.
Girls with pink lipstick, shocking pink lipstick, clump together.
They have arrived at the beach and the ocean is tame.
It is low tide and they spread their blanket and move as one to the sea.
Girls with pink lipstick, shocking pink lipstick, clump together.
Girls with pink lipstick, shocking pink lipstick, clump together.
After getting wet they will dry in the sun.
They will apply their pink lipstick, shocking pink lipstick, and clump together as one.
Susan Zucker attends my writing workshop, “The Courage to Write,” held Monday nights at Ten Thousand Villages store, a fair trade store and a visual poem in surroundings. Susan is a writer and a friend. She grabbed a line from my latest book, You Carry the Heavy Stuff, opened to an essay on Miss Halloran, and girls coming of age theme and took the line, “Girls with pink lipstick, shocking pink lipstick, clump together,” and wrote her own take – I loved it, still do; hooray Susan.
I’m posting a review from GoodReads, but Battle Hymm of the Tiger Mother reminded me of a story of a young girl, popular in the 40s-50s called “Katy Did,” and the idea if i remembered it correctly, she’d pull flower petals off of petals and say Katy Did, Kady Didn’t. So here’s an initial review:
Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Wow, what did I think? hmmmm, let’s see – I felt a lot, i observed a lot, and i liked this author’s honesty and dilemmas. Culture clash, and the reader was full on in it.
It’s hard,because we all have our theories, and then there’s the actual practice. Before my son was born, I thought I’d keep him in little white baby shoes, immaculate, and did I say, he wore brown shoes a lot. I said, “No child of mine will watch a lot of TV,” and I do believe on days unnumbered his face morphed into a square from so much screen gazing.
Wisdom is attained when one is a grandmother. Love is attained from birth of a child. Between the two, we pass on the good stuff, cringe at the dysfunction stuff, and pray and act for the future wellbeing.
I have a wonderful son, and that means, we both had to work at it over the teenage years.
Amy Chua is intelligent, honest and writes well. A friend loaned me this book. the most outstadning feature of this book, besides it provoking great discussions, is her children were not wounded, angry at times, but somehow her love came through. It’s a toss up. Culture pushes parents because originally, survival was the base instinct. In a way, it still was. She met her match with her second daughter, and I suspect the daughters will raise their children in a less authoritarian style.
That said, they are outstanding. At this stage in my life I think too much permissiveness or too much authoritarianism doesn’t work, but there’s a middle way of cooperative parenting.
whatever, I think Amy Chua and family made it through difficult decisions and arrived at greater awareness, and I also feel they are a solid family whom I wish well.
Reader, have you ever had a bad week? I mean bad in the sense that you lose everything you put down two inches beyond your reaching hands, tired eyes, and you feel as if your personal radar has up and left you, no longer interested in hanging out carrion-like on the garbage heap of your mind.
Yes, it was on Mother’s Day, that esteemed day when syrup flows from the lips of cards, sons, daughters, dogs, husbands, and loneliness for the unmothers, or unmothered, spikes. It’s probably equally a day of despair. Well, reader, can I call you reader? It was a day like any other, except my eyes creaked open, and I said to my husband, God bless his soul for eternity, as he brought me my second cup of coffee in bed, black, soy silk cream and some Stevia, and this is the 25th year of bringing said cups of coffee to me while I lie like an inert seal, just barely clinging to the rocks, I said “Happy Mother’s Day,’ because why not. If we are going to have any kind of day, reader, may I call you Read? Read, we can wish every happy day, mothers, brothers, dogs. What this world needs is more happy days.
Read, this was not the case on Mother’s Day when caffeined up, I approached my desk looking for my Edward Gorey calendar (I love sick humor), and spent the next 3 hours, tearing through all the paper trash: the recipes I’ll never cook; old drafts of writing; coupons, notifications of home loans even tho we don’t own a home, except in our hearts of course, and Read, you do get my drift.
It took 3 hours and I finally opened a keyboard drawer and there it was. Then I had purchased two things of a monetary nature for Baby Nick who is 6’5” and 42, and spent the next hour looking for the second, until a 30 watt light bulb went off in my head and I went out the door, down the driveway, straight to the paper trash bin, and look in, and scooped up the other economic gift. After that, I didn’t dare go out the door.
I felt crazed, and I felt an elevator shaft of doubt, said shaft having been gone a week or two from my young life. But this elevator shaft of doubt came back with a vengeance, and like a morality play, coming through the village square on an old beat up wagon of straw, with actors spilling out of it, and titles of Morality Plays, such as Lipstick Tube of Beauty, Alchemy of Varicosity, and 3:00 a.m. Epiphany, and I clutched these phrases to my heart; I could say bosom but, on the other hand between “chest,” “bosom” and “heart,” – the latter was easier.
My legs are an alchemy of varicosity, and the 3:00 a.m. Epiphany’s I have are usually after awakening from one of the five routine dreams that have visited me for 25 years. These themes are: I’m still working for law firms. I am moving. I am moving with Bill. Last night I was driving a huge van which I couldn’t see out of (do you think I’m too busy)? No need to tell you the rest. I’ll save them for future prompts.
So back to Mother’s Day and what did I do? Read I sat at my computer and worked on it from 2 in the afternoon to 8 or that night, and basically got an Anthology of writers together-at least 80 percent of it. I cleaned up my desk, which if you want to know is littered once more with papers, and I prepared my CHPercolator prompts. If the world ended, I wanted to have them ready. So now, after I notice my thoughts are like an alchemy of varicosity, I’ll end. But reader, I have merely quarried the top layers of my personal depths. I shudder to think of the granite beyond.
Thanks for listening.
PS. I am off to walk and find a tube of lipstick, hoping said tube will make of my visage a lipstick tube of beauty.
You know they, whoever they are, say, “Youth is wasted on the young.” Well that maybe, but frankly I think they need buoyant lives, smooth skin, and untroubled brows. By that I mean they have to know that it’s a blessing to have stored memories and images without editing in their newly budding subconscious. They have to know the pure smell of ginger outside of back doors, and feel the swell of budding daisies and feel the delicacy of white petals of a single rose, blooming too early, but not too late.
If youth is wasted on the young, all books would change, and learning wouldn’t be possible. Take for instance Red Riding Hood. She’d become old and wrinkly, no need to go to grandmother’s house. Grandmother is dead. Take the wolf, yeah the wolf. All hair, saliva dripping for his canine teeth, drool covering up the yellow, because he’s young, he doesn’t twig his teeth like his momma youth told him to do. He’s young now, virile, and his canine teeth which point to the sky, are strong, as is Young Wolf. How do you think our wrinkled old Red would do?
So that’s my version, but basically I think that we, older people say, “Youth is wasted on the young,” when in fact we have something they haven’t earned yet. Wisdom. Worth every straw that broke our back in the early days.
If I had to do it all over again, I’d be clearer. I’d be insightful, and I’d call the police on my neighbor Sugar-Baby Martin. Sugar Baby Martin was an old lady with precious little wisdom or for that matter kind thoughts wandering around in the billiard room of her brain.
She would bake fresh bread, and the smells of same would kill me. Finally, one day, I broke down, and wandered over to her broken down porch, up those three white stairs that badly needed paint, and would help a youth earn money if she hired one to help her fix up stuff. I knocked on her screen door, the one that didn’t quite shut. You know how screen doors are. Boy, they work the nerves. She answered that Tuesday morning, and it was about eleven o’clock, and she had something in her hand. A freshly baked loaf of round bread, glossy top from butter spread over it, and I felt it warm and secure in my hands. This was unusual, but I wasn’t about to turn away from a gift from Sugar-Baby Martin.
I guess she wasn’t mad at me for throwing her cat Sour Bo Martin out of my second story window. She baked me bread. Maybe she’d forgiven me.
I thank her, and watched my step going down those 3 rickety planks she called stairs and headed towards my house, my kitchen, my butter set out so it wouldn’t be cold. I set that bread on the bread board, pulled out my best bread cutting knife and cut off the end piece. Don’t you just love that end piece, so pure, so crusty, and so ready to be inhaled?
Well a moment on the lips and forever on the …. You fill it in. That bread was filled with kitty litter, and I thought it was raisins, and now I have a rather large bill from the dentist, and haven’t stopped tossing my cookies (a genteel phrase for vomiting).
Just because her cat Sour Bo Martin, snuck into my house for the umpteenth time and barfed fur balls filled with poop on my white, umpteenth thread count, cotton pillowcase, and just because she saw me throw him out my back window, she got her revenge.
Youth wasted on the young. I wouldn’t give Sugar Baby Martin noth’in, no more. As for South Bo Martin? You ask? He lived. Fell on my yellow hammock, but one leg broke, and now he don’t jump as well as he did.
Youth wasted on the Young? Think of reputedly sweet, scourge of the neighborhood, Sugar Baby Martin, and that vile feline Sour Bo Martin. She doesn’t need youth. She needs the trash can, and that’s what I think.
This isn’t to say I don’t have regrets or I don’t remember them. Some regrets sweep away easily when manicured estates employ gardeners impeccably blow lawns, long stretching driveways and sidewalks to reveal nary a curved or crisp autumn leaf. I’m not sure regret can be swept away like autumn leaves.. Then again, I loved autumn leaves on the sidewalk, particularly walking back from the library, the West Roxbury Library on Centre Street, my fingertips feeling the rough concrete images of a stone wall along the upper part of Billings Field. I loved walking under chestnut tree branches and kicking thick piles of yellows, burnt orange, tinged red of maple leaves, everything: leaves just thick enough to walk into piles, scuffing. Ever scuffed? It was hard on my brown tie Oxford shoes, the ones my mother insisted were so good for my feet, but still I walked and scuffed and kicked and felt full of warmth and protection as I hugged my books and stopped to smell burnt leaves in the air nearby.
The smell is wonderful, not a good word for a writer to use, but it’s Sunday afternoon, and I haven’t remembered scuffing leaves for eons. Easier to remember the leaves, the scuffs, than the regrets. I regret I never sang for my father, and that I didn’t kiss my mom goodbye, the day she died, and I left that morning in a hurry because I had to take 2 trolleys to high school because were moved to the city, Back Bay if you want to know, by the Charles River near the Harvard and MIT crews, where we walked the Pug and the Boxer even when the wind tore through us.
I certainly wish I had done better with my teeth. That’s a universal regret. Somehow I know this. I wish I had been able to continue piano lessons. I wish I had studied computing, and maybe taken auto mechanics in first grade. But I don’t regret Miss Higgins, my first grade teacher, or my Uncle Bill Johnson, who brought us molasses candy in long oblong boxes, a box for each kid, and the sticky time of it after Sunday roast beef dinner. I don’t regret his cartoons of my mother following our kitty whose tail stuck up to the ceiling, and a string from her rear parts moved along the floor, under the shadow of my mother with scissors. He called this cartoon “The Lost Cord.” I don’t regret the bookcases filled with books, and the absolute privilege I took as a human right, to sit in a huge chair and read, and not be interrupted, because that was normal in my house. “I’m reading,” gave each reader a sacred space.
I regret not knowing my parents, or the other adults for that matter, knowing them as people. I tried with my father, but my mother died early. I regret moments of being a bully, and that’s private and a long ago. I regret being so afraid of things, but don’t want to sweep it away like errant leaves which escape a rake. I regret most that my twin and I were such opposites and lived most of the time in the tension of the opposites. (Reader this phrase is right up there with “grist for the mill” which I use too frequently, but I have dropped, “my dendrites are hanging out.”) We were opposites: when young, she sturdy and athletic to my frail, roller skating, but bookish self. She kept her emotions tucked in like a North Easter, a person from Maine, and yup and nup and her not speaking of emotional revelations fell over her like a yellow slicker preventing rain. I was the emotive, get-into-trouble twin, funny, daring, but underneath probably equally unsettled or frightened. I regret in our later years her wall regarding my beliefs, but I don’t regret going beyond this wall and caring for her 2 years in a row, and in her final days, her reaching out to me, lifting arms from a body ravaged by cancer, and wanting to be held. And hold her I did. Nope, I won’t sweep that away.
Jim Nelson passed on last Saturday night, surround by intimate family, and joy. Since then our hearts pulsated for Dorthy Nelson, his wife of over 60 years. They are spiritually humble giants, and I personally think no one in the Baha’i Community took them for granted. We treasured them at evry moment.
Last night was the Baha’i Community’s Feast (Feast of Ala Glory) Lord, it’s late; hope that i have that right. Our chairperson when she introduced consultation, said, “I offer you all condolences,” and I was struck by her sensitivity. Everyone who met Jim loved him. He had a huge, huge spirit, honed from years of perceptions. He had a fine mind, and could say thing in ways none of us were or are able to, and he and Dorothy were incredible together.
Below is a brief passage of life after death concepts.
Tonight we all went to “fireside” which is a gathering people of all ages, skin colors, creeds, heights, weights, gather for inquiry regarding the Baha’i Faith. There must have been 50 people in the room; it glowed, and flowers all around reminded us of his recent passing. A husband and wife spoke, as they had met each other in that very room, some umpteenyears ago, and their 13 year old son wrote a song, and played the guitar, while his 11 year old younger brother sang the lyrics. Our speaker spoke of the soul eloquently and engagingly. Heaven and hell: a Bahá’í view of life after death.
One of our friends played the piano at the end of every evening, but tonight, did it before a social hours
“What song are you going to play, John?”, Dorothy asked
John, his hands already on the keys, said, “For Me and My Gal.” and the timing and the serendipity of the title of the song was incredible.
what an evening. Tomorrow Jim’s burial will be at the Inglewood Cemetery in Inglewood where many Baha’is are buried. Thornton Chase, the first North America Baha’i is buried there. He died in 1912. No quite sure of exact year, but thin i have it.
As in the world’s other religions, the Bahá’í concept of life after death is deeply integrated into teachings about the nature of the soul and the purpose of this earthly life.
Bahá’u'lláh confirmed the existence of a separate, rational soul for every human. In this life, He said, the soul is related to the physical body. It provides the underlying animation for the body and is our real self.
Although undetectable by physical instruments, the soul shows itself through the qualities of character that we associate with each person. The soul is the focal point for love and compassion, for faith and courage, and for other such “human” qualities that cannot be explained solely by thinking of a human being as an animal or as a sophisticated organic machine.
The soul does not die; it endures everlastingly. When the human body dies, the soul is freed from ties with the physical body and the surrounding physical world and begins its progress through the spiritual world. Bahá’ís understand the spiritual world to be a timeless and placeless extension of our own universe–and not some physically remote or removed place.
Entry into the next life has the potential to bring great joy. Bahá’u'lláh likened death to the process of birth. He explains: “The world beyond is as different from this world as this world is different from that of the child while still in the womb of its mother.”
The analogy to the womb in many ways summarizes the Bahá’í view of earthly existence. Just as the womb constitutes an important place for a person’s initial physical development, the physical world provides the matrix for the development of the individual soul. Accordingly, Bahá’ís view life as a sort of workshop, where one can develop and perfect those qualities which will be needed in the next life.
“Know thou, of a truth, that if the soul of man hath walked in the ways of God, it will, assuredly return and be gathered to the glory of the Beloved,” Bahá’u'lláh wrote. “By the righteousness of God! It shall attain a station such as no pen can depict, or tongue can describe.”
In the final analysis, heaven can be seen partly as a state of nearness to God; hell is a state of remoteness from God. Each state follows as a natural consequence of individual efforts, or the lack thereof, to develop spiritually. The key to spiritual progress is to follow the path outlined by the Manifestations of God.
Beyond this, the exact nature of the afterlife remains a mystery. “The nature of the soul after death can never be described,” Bahá’u'lláh writes.
Judge James Nelson
A Humble Tribute
(Written to CHPercolator Writing Group)
Esther Bradley-DeTally
Well, I might as well spit it out, and I think the best people to spit it out to is the CHPerc community, because you know what? Are you with me? You guys, and me too, include me, yep, are solid. We have something here, more than exchange of little, Times New Roman 12, words going across the ocean, and up into Wyoming, Nebraska, England, India, Pakistan, and even down in Temple City, California. We are a mix, we guys, and sometimes we rendezvous at restaurants near Disneyland, in Anaheim, (eat your heart out), or sometimes we just smile when a Haiku from Cochabamba trots up to our eyeball level. We are a tender, loving community, and we surf our waves, up, down, across and under.
I first thought about our circle of writers and their compassion for one another. We are Muslim, Christian, Bahá’í, Agnostic, you catch my drift. We are old, young, funny, serious, and all becoming people who sling words around either like the best fried hash in town, or bonbons wrapped in chocolate to kill for. I particularly noticed this underlying theme of caring a few years ago when one of us died, and Mike, Mike the wonderful Army man, often times in the Middle East, had a week off and somehow managed to be in the States, and managed to go to the funeral.
Something happened the other night at 8 p.m. which I’ll get to. Be patient reader. You know it’s all grist for the mill, but you know me. I have to go down and out and twist and turn within the rabbit warrens of my mind, before I spit it out. Yeah, spit it out.
A wonderful man, married for over 60 years to an equally wonderful wife, sat in a quiet family celebration, Bahá’í days of gift-giving and service. He just had dinner, and was sitting in his favorite chair, when all of a sudden, silence, and his huge, huge spirit left the physical world. Yep, this world we all know and love called the blue marble, the planet of names, this Purpose of Physical Reality, this soul workshop. He soared on to the other worlds of God.
This man was the cause of my finding my beloved Faith, a Faith often referred to as the “Spirit of the New Age.” This Faith has carved me out, taken barnacles off my soul. Now, I look at a lot, a lot, a lot, of people and see the Face of God in them. It’s not about lines, or borders, because the human heart doesn’t measure souls that way.
He was like a spiritual father to me and countless others. I will add my relationship to my birth father, although try as he may, was hard for both of us. We seemed to be two peas in the wrong pod. I often felt I never sang for my father, which is the title of a play and a play on words, which means I never was enough. But fortunately, I know deep in my bone marrow, most of us do our best, and if there was sand in my Becoming-A-Pearl-In-My-Shell, this sand grit buffed me up, polished me, for the here and now of today, and as I write these words I think, yeah, I’m an old Poil of a Goil.
So this man Jim, in whose Bahá’í community I live, sat and encouraged every fledgling speaker trying to reflect oneness in the world, shape their words. He also performed the marriage ceremony of my son Nicholas and his wife Laura. He’s visibly gone now. When I first heard the news, I felt a gasp within me and then my thoughts rushed to, “Dorothy, Dorothy,” his wife. They are like overlapping Venn diagrams, circles within, over, around, under each other. We in the local Bahá’í community know our treasures, and passionately love them. We never have taken them for granted. Every minute of their lives they welcomed, hugged, encouraged, and shed love and wisdom unto all of us waiting souls.
I know I’m overwriting. I’m trying to keep this simple. That’s why for you writers out there I’m doing a little bit of “write like you talk” with a “straight talk” phrase thrown in. If I really went into the majesty of this couple, my writing would become so multisyllabic and operatic that my prose would jump off the page.
So instead, I imagine this man who was magnanimous and majestic and prodigious in thought (had to get that word in) in his physical and spiritual presence, now seems to me like a 500 pound canary in spirit. You might say, “His cage door opened, and he went.”
May my life be worthy of all those who serve in this century of change.
Thanks for letting me share, and now, prayers and solace to his incredible wife—I will carry her around in the inner folds of my heart for a long time.
I think in the end, we all end up pulsating with love for one another.
CHPercolator coffee house for writers at Yahoo has a group of global, local, “hi I’m from New Jersey,” or in the case of this writer, Pasadena, and a good friend, a town nearby, Temple city. It was my week to supply daily prompts. We all respond, well if we have time, are in town, whatever. You catch my drift.
So I think one of the questions I asked taken from a fantastic book Soul Pancake, was “What are the 5 questions you don’t have answers for?” something like that. Are you with me?
These are responses:
1. Where did God come from?
> >
> > > No one knows for sure but I don’t think it was New Jersey. God did create
humans (On the evolution vs. creationism argument I feel that they’re pretty
much cause and effect; in other words, evolution was the mechanism for creation
- I know I’m in for big trouble now) and a land area that humans call New
Jersey, so in an indirect way, God also created New Jersey. Of this much I am
certain.
> >
> > > 2. What was before the universe?
> >
> > > It’s hard to draw a definitive picture, but I think we can safely rule out
pepperoni pizza as being around back then.
> >
> > > 3. Is there life out there?
> >
> > > Oh yes! Just this morning I was driving to Hackensack where I work and
some life form in an SUV was blocking the entrance to a breakfast nook that I
frequent some of the time.
> >
> > > 4. Who built the pyramids and how?
> >
> > > My grandfather, Stasiu, never actually took credit, but I do know that he
made his own wine and according to legend it was so bad that no one would drink
it except him and he drank every last drop. So I reckon that there was nothing
he couldn’t do when he set his mind to it.
> >
> > > 5. Where did the Mayans really go?
> >
> > There were no Mayans. The whole thing, the pyramids, the ancient scrolls
depicting the end of the world in 2012 and even the eyewitness reports of
Spanish invaders was an elaborate hoax. The Mayan urban legend was born from a
cloud of ennui that circled the globe after the explosion of the volcano
Krakatoa in 1883. People just didn’t know what to do with themselves. Lizzy
Borden found herself a pastime but others decided to construct a paper mache
civilization. It was something like the movie, “Blazing Saddles,” where Sheriff
Bart, the Waco Kid and Mongo build a faux “Rock Ridge” in order to lure the bad
guys into a trap. Leonardo da Vinci apparently drew up the plans which later
fell into the hands of Nostradamus and the whole thing just kind of took off by
itself. Another theory is that Lee Harvey Oswald did it.
> >
> > Kathryn, I hope that these insights will be of value to you.
> >
> > — In CHPercolator@yahoogroups.com, ChikPMcGee@ wrote:
> > >
> > > I actually have some free time and I have enjoyed reading all the
submissions even though I haven’t commented on any of them. The prompt that
caught my eye today was the one about 5 questions I hate not having the answered
to. Here’s my list:
> > >
> > > 1. Where did God come from?
> > >
> > > 2. What was before the universe?
> > >
> > > 3. Is there life out there?
> > >
> > > 4. Who built the pyramids and how?
> > >
> > > 5. Where did the Mayans really go?
> > >
> > > As you can see I think too much, LOL.
> > >
> > > Kathryn
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
Writing from CHPerc Prompts of the Day!
I have a touch of guilt as I think of all those shoes lying on their sides on the floor of my newly cleaned closet. This closet I might add is now an extra book room, and clothes have been banished, at least the top shelves of which had clothes, and they now live in the garage. I hear them sometimes when I am secluded in my bedroom. They whine, but I just realized seclude is not an appropriate word to use when one lives in a 2 room pool house with another human being affectionately referred to as Esther’s Velcro Strip.
In case you were wondering or wandering, take your pick, it’s morning, the brain is myopic and hasn’t chosen its neural pathways of the day. I think I could wear Ortho Docks, you know Doc Martens shoos (shoes, shews); and then we could take the phrase “fetters of orthodoxy” and sell it to a pr firm, and maybe by stock in shoes, like the aforementioned Ortho Dock which fell out of my brain, and Foobar on a frozen field, instead of ideas coursing from my head through my arms, fire in the fingertips type of thing.
Lordy, where am I going with this? Nowhere. Everywhere. I do so like a good Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride through the bumps and hollows of my brain. It has meaning somewhere, in an alternative universe.
Okay, now someone lists a phrase the proper sacrifice, which calls to my mind nubile virgins laid out on huge twigs stacked to the sky or at least halfway up a mountain, and someone with flame, as matches hadn’t come in yet to the world, and virgins of nubile ways became feminists.
Sacrifice could be proper if one realizes that he/she is just letting go of something lower for something higher. Take the pig for example. He can snort, snort, sacrifice is corpulent life to become bacon, thereby helping the farmer make money, and all those pancake house visitors gruntingly happy. Doesn’t sound good for the pig does it?
So what if some day, this elderly, not so elderly, handmaiden on earth decides, gas prices are Foobar, and she will go hither and thither by foot, delicate long feet, which sport s a toe next to the big toe, and this neighbor of the big toe is longer, whatever that means. Thus this handmaiden of the earth is going to do two things as a sacrifice. She is going to sacrifice part of her meager earnings and buy some Ortho docks, and then, (hear the earth rumble), she is going to walk all over Pasadena. This could be thought of by anyone lucky enough to understand these ramblings, as sacrifice. She helps the foot shoe, doc martens store owner; she boosts the economy, perhaps not all that high minded as our former President had urged us to shop for God, or the nation; can’t remember which. She has reduced her carbon instep to a degree; she does not buy into high prices at the gas line, and she gets to see all the nooks and crannies of her neighborhood, by slowly pacing by Trader Joe’s, where she sees her Velcro Strip driving into the upper parking lot of Trader Joes.
None of this matters, of course; his carbon imprint and sacrifices are his own, and she has just used 5 of the prompts, some more than once, and that is solidly satisfying and a good sacrifice of her time in the morning, when she could be walking, or even brushing her hair, so one might say this little blurb of ink could be considered a proper sacrifice.
Mudbound by Hillary Jordan
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I just reread it as I suggested our book group do so too. Also one librarian wants me to be part of a discussion (an honor); this is a fantastic book; the themes, the authenticity, her writing is fabulous and I was so deeply immersed in this book; wonderful; i wish Hillary Jordan tremendous sucess!
Writing Workshop-collective voice/group poem
In an elongated white walled basement room, tinges of odor seep through of chicken feed, dog doo, or whatever, from a puppy mill next door, but the writers, the writers say, over the feelings of nervousness, of never having done this, or of just breaking the silence of a Monday night Courage to Write workshop:
I write for necessity,
the beauty of my darkness,
fragments of feelings
connect with my heart,
feel the grace of God’s love.
I write to empty words
out of my head,
dig deeper and open up,
journals, maybe essays,
to do just what I’m doing,
a manual overcoming betrayal,
things I have not said before.
Start my voice, tell a story.
I’m courageous, caring,
do anything with grace,
with God’s help, to share,
heal, teach, grow, express,
play, and read Save the Cat .
I want to create wild art,
film and heal kids, self, and act more.
I want to be a spiritual director, to journal
and develop courage to write,
articulate my reflections,
draw them to deeper levels.
I want to help others
sharing experiences and
work on a biography about my
Finnish American mother-in-law
and my own mother’s
best friend.
I want to teach Science, and I write
to see my friend develop, help friends
invent, enjoy learning.
I read Billions and Billions
Carl Sagan you know.
I want to develop my own voice
and lots of poetry, but slowly
I’m working on a children’s story.
I’m lucky to be an artist, working
on two books, one poetry, the other
my life story.
By day I write
And produce music,
but I really want to be
A screenwriter, a filmmaker,
and I read Story by Robert McKee.
I write because I can,
one of the few things
I do well.
Jack Grapes -fantastic writer, teacher of poetic souls, and lovely man
I bear witness, O my God, that Thou hast created me to know Thee and to worship Thee. I testify, at this moment, to my powerlessness and to Thy might, to my poverty and to Thy wealth.
There is none other God but Thee, the help in Peril, the Self-Subsisting.
Baha’u'llah
I wake up in the morning, and the first thing that flies to my mind is “I have wakened in Thy shelter, O my God, and it becometh him that seeketh that shelter to abide within the Sanctuary of Thy protection and the Stronghold of Thy defense. Illumine my inner being, O my Lord, with the splendors of the Dayspring of Thy Revelation, even as Thou didst illumine my outer being with the morning light of thy favor.”. Baha’u'llah
You know this blog started out about losing a few days; all of which have been action packed, insightful, wonderful connection with people, but here I sit, it is 1.25, and I should walk. I haven’t even taken my morning meds. I may take a nap instead. Hard to be wise with my body.
Last night in Pasadena, at the Judges Nelson’s home, Navid Dheghani spoke. He’s a scientist and one of the people who work on the Mars is it Rover? the machine that lands on Mars, and all. Last night he gave a wonderful presentation of an overall view of the Baha’i Faith, and then in the question and answer times, talked about science a bit. A funny, modest, humble, and knowledgeable man. It was great.
I have several books to read: Mudbound. Read it once; it’s terrific and it’s Pasadena’s One City, One Book read; a friend wants me to participate in my favorite library, La Pintoresca, so I will re-read it, and our book club which has been meeting for at least five years is reading it for February. Then, we are reading The Long Walk, now made into a film; the author’s name is a Polish one, and I lent my copy of the book out.
Years ago, late 1960s I discovered this book, and it made such an impact upon me. I notice it’s been republished, and one of the blurbs on the front cover describe it aptly as “Homeric,” and I would say yes. The story of this man; his survival; the group he is with, their connection and unity with each other, remains nested within my memory bank; hopefully forever; and surely along with An Interrupted Life by Etty Hillesum and her Letters from Westerbork.
Why is it I am so drawn to memoir? I think I have always been fascinated with man’s inhumanity to man, and man’s humanity to man. My first pilgrimage, trip to Israel, visiting Christian and Jewish holy places and then to Haifa, to the Baha’i Shrines, I felt the themes of this ribboning through the country as I witnessed the Holocaust memorial.
The Baha’is believe in all the religions and consider religious truth to be like an unfolding scroll, relative to the day and age, but God, an unknowable Essence, is absolute. Spiritual truth is spiritual truth and is not obsolete. It is revealed with each Messenger in a different manner, much like if you looked around you and saw lights or lamps of different kinds, you would see the light source is the same, but the vehicle holding the light is different, and then the social teachings are changed to meet the needs of the day. All of the Messengers of God, Prophets, or what we in the Baha’i Faith call Manifestations occupy the same high, mystical, incredible level, an abstract level of unity really which we as puny souls can hardly imagine. We need these Divine Luminaries, these Educators of Mankind, these Divine Physicians of the Age.
At any rate i read voraciously and read a lot of books by Buddhists, Jewish, Islamic writers. And of course all memoir. I think we are in such an age of transition that people must speak out and record their truths. I often think of a kaleidescope as an image; are we not all chips of different colors – moving, shaping, but connected? I would like to think so.
Wow I can’t believe i’m going on like this, but so be it.
I had a writing workshop Monday evening, at Ten Thousand Villages, which is an awesome and aesthetically pleasing experience. They feature artifax, jewely, vases, cloth, you name it, from around the world, made by villagers who support themselves by their creations. I am st up in the basement, and it is a long white walled room, and somehow we did it: 2 tables, some folding chairs around, and I set up a whiteboard talking about showing versus telling in writing. I spoke about Oakley Hall and Jack Grapes, two of my writing heroes and teachers, and 17 people of all manner came, and we had a blast. We cooked as I like to say. then the next day i taught my usual writing workshop at the Women’s Room, a haven for homeless women, and women in transition, and they (the clients) and the volunteers can participate in writing. They have done soooo well, and we are family. What a group.
So now, I’m going to close after this unexpected tell it like it is, blog, and take a nap. Bill’s daughter, Tory, coming up for a vist. Did I mentioln, the day is utterly gorgeous, sun, breeze, temp of about 71 degrees by our little pool house.
One more thing; i liked President Obama’s talk; my heart twisted, particuarly gazing at the father’s face of the wonderful little 9 year old girl; I hope this even brings about more civility and unity. If we had children, would we let our kids squabble so divisively in a family?
High regards to all who read this.
Fabulous Place
courage_to_write_poster[1]
I’ve been teaching The Courage to Write classes since 1996 or so; started out in western New York. Here in Pasadena, there’s a wonderful Fair Trade Store, Ten Thousand Villages, which is pure heaven. Prices are fair; lots of volunteers, and the work done by people all over the world is fantastic.
We held a writing workshop there tonight; i led it, and I loved it. One small problem – Puppy Mill (store with animals), odors come through; have to bring spray and candles next week. that store is moving; I won’t go in it; can’t stand seeing puppies in a store; horrible way to be raised.
Joy!
Oink - melted on the tongue
happy moms
We got there before bride and groom; we ate lots of chips; hmmmmm
The Honeymooners
Darling children
handsome dear men
Everyone was happy
Happy Bride and Groom
Chiara's Mom - the other Guam traveler
Dad on left is living in Guam - Sean on right is waiting for his bride
Wonderful wedding, conjoining of families. It was a global venture. Chiara’s mom and dad came in from Guam, one brother from Michigan, the sisters from California. Not totally sure. An aunt and cousins came from southern state, and Sean’s family came from Mississippi. A small gathering of absolutely joyous friends witnessed a glorious union!
The reception rocked; we went to Mijares, and Sean and Chiara are an incredible couple. Hooray and blessings for them!
Well the morning started with Lindsey, Matt’s wife, my twin’s son and treasured daughter-in-law FBing about cocoa and one made by some brothers, to which Matt added, a bon mot phrase about other brothers, and I added the paucity of my memory of old jokes, including Prince Albert in a Can.
then writing workshop at Altadena Healing Arts Center; good group; and then quick dash home, look under the bed for those pre-purchased greeting cards, not like a pre-purchased automobile, which in my day simply said, ‘used’ and now to head back to the closet and put on my incredibly chines red silk jacket; found and fit to myself immediately while hoofing through an estate sale, and the other witness Renee will wear red too; we say to each other “we’ll be the babes,” and meanwhile the above pictures show the Western Justice Center, a title deserving a distinct blog input of its own, but time and joy restrain me.
Chiara and Sean are getting married. So despite a horrible shooting in Arizona, politics again. “A kindly tongue is the lodestone of the human heart.” something that needs to be heeded more. Our atmosphere has been infected with coarseness, hate and anger, but Sean and Chiara, Chiara and Sean, are getting married, and it’s time to suit up, and spend a splendiferous afternoon with two wonderful young people, and then tonight book club! Wow
Just read 2 books: I’m with Fatty, Edward Ugel, which is funny, honest, grave, gets to the marrow of addiction, and yet his writing is whimsical, serious, and good. Then i picked up down among the Dead, a year in the life of a mortuary technician, Michelle Williams; which I found to be a good tell it like it is fascinating read.
Busy day, no walking, but some yoga, start a new class Monday, so material all over our small living which I love for its high ceilings. One has the illusion of space. Big event tomorrow, friend Chiara getting married, and another friend Renee and I are witnesses. She’s having a Baha’i ceremony, and then we go off to a small dinner. I’m really happy for her. Haven’t met her beloved, but tomorrow it is.
don’t have a lot to say other than I’m trying to be organized, connect with usual gang of 500 thru internet or locally, and walk, and hang with Bill, my husband and pal of 25 years. Good news is he says he feels strong in the mornings, so now he’ll work on afternoons too, and then night time.
I’m dying to see a bunch of films, but no time; submitted two pieces of poetry to Altadena for contest; the lady liked them, went to a friends ESL class, and boy is she vibrant and loving. i think teaching people ESL is an incredible gift; i have a certificate, but i do better at teaching creative writing. There’s a purity and a vulnerability in learning a new language, and somehow each student is dearly pure and there’s always a lot of love and laughter in the classes.
Okay, nothing to say; trying not to watch the yackedy yackedy of meanness politically; went to fabulous Baha’i fireside at the Nelsons; friend Tadia spoke, fascinating and wonderful as always. I notice for a writer I am using very general worlds but at least i haven’t said well, it was like, it was like a fireside, where we talked about like…
I’m crashing; hope i can squeeze walk in tomorrow; have book club that night; we have read Little Bee and Ape House, but I didn’t get Ape House, i’m still in a queue for it.
hugs to all.
A minister friend sent this to me; thank goodness people are writing about this.
To: sightings@lists.uchicago.edu
Subject: *Sightings* 1/6/2011 – Iran’s Baha’i Minority Suffers Increasing Persecution
Sightings 1/6/2011
Iran’s Baha’i Minority Suffers Increasing Persecution
- Elise Auerbach
Seven leaders of Iran’s Baha’i community were sentenced to twenty years in prison by a Revolutionary Court in Tehran last August, a sentence that was reduced to ten years in September. They were convicted on serious but baseless charges including “espionage for Israel,” “insulting religious sanctities” and “propaganda against the system.” They had also been charged with ifsad fil arz or “corruption on earth.” These charges could have resulted in death sentences. The seven leaders were convicted after a trial that failed to adhere to international standards for fair trials.
The Baha’i faith was founded in Iran about 150 years ago. An estimated 300,000 Baha’is still live in Iran; they are Iran’s largest non-Muslim religious minority. Although Baha’is had faced persecution in Iran since the founding of the religion, their treatment grew worse after the Iranian Revolution. Since the establishment of the Islamic Republic in Iran, the Baha’i community has faced systematic persecution and harassment. While other minority religions such as Judaism, Zoroastrianism and Christianity are officially recognized (adherents of those religions having been deemed “People of the Book”), the Baha’i religion is not recognized in Iran’s Constitution and Baha’is are denied equal rights to education, employment and advancement in their jobs. Furthermore, they are not allowed to meet or hold religious ceremonies.
Worse forms of persecution have been committed against Iran’s Baha’i: More than 200 Baha’is were killed after the Iranian Revolution in 1979, after which a large number of Baha’is left Iran. The National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha’is of Iran was disbanded in 1983 after the government outlawed all Baha’i administrative institutions. Since then the community’s needs have been met by the Yaran, or Friends, who are now responsible for the Baha’i community’s religious and administrative affairs.
Although persecution of the Baha’is abated in the 1990s, harassment has increased since President Ahmadinejad’s first election in 2005. According to the Baha’i International Community, there are currently 47 Baha’is in detention throughout Iran.
The Baha’i faith is considered heresy by hard-line clerics since it was founded in the mid-nineteenth century. Because it post-dates Islam, it is viewed as a repudiation of Islam. After the Iranian Revolution a “pure” form of Islamic government was established with the support of conservative clerics, which involved discrimination against adherents of more recently founded religions such as Baha’is. The clerics implemented punishments such as stoning and amputation. This theological “purity” is maintained by clerical hard-liners who are crucial allies of the current government.
The Baha’is are convenient scapegoats—the government points to the Baha’is as fomenting the post-election unrest. The Iranian authorities have also blamed the Baha’is, among other groups, for orchestrating much of the unrest that took place on the Shi’a religious observance of ‘Ashoura on 27 December 2009.
The religiously fraught charge of ifsad fil arz has been specifically used against the Baha’is, but another charge, moharebeh, or enmity against God, has been lodged at more and more people in the past year. It has been used to justify imposition of the death penalty for politically motivated “offenses.” Although it should only be used in cases where there is evidence of armed resistance against the government, the charge of moharebeh has been used against ethnic and linguistic minorities who advocate for greater cultural rights or who are otherwise politically active.
The persecution of Iran’s Baha’is—and specifically the harsh sentences imposed on the seven Yaran—has been roundly criticized by prominent figures the world over, including the United Nations Secretary General Ban Ki-Moon. His report of October 14, 2010 noted that the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights expressed deep concern over the absence of international observers and the lack of due process in the Baha’i leaders’ trial and that the criminal charges brought against the seven appeared to constitute a violation of the Islamic Republic of Iran’s obligations under the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, in particular those of freedom of religion and belief and freedom of expression and association. Despite the international condemnation, the Iranian authorities remain obdurate. In February a high-level delegation, led by Mohammad Javad Larijani, the Secretary-General of Iran’s High Council for Human Rights, defended Iran’s human rights record before the U.N. Human Rights Council in Geneva. Mr. Larijani insisted that no Baha’i is persecuted because of his or her Baha’i faith, but rather because of their engagement in illegal activities—completely evading the issue that perfectly legitimate activities or beliefs are construed as “illegal,” that the evidence for such “illegal” activities is generally non-existent, and that the legal procedures that try and convict people on such charges are woefully inadequate.
Elise Auerbach is the Iran country specialist for Amnesty International USA. She received her Ph.D. from the Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations at the University of Chicago.
———-
Sightings comes from the Martin Marty Center at the University of Chicago Divinity School.
Submissions policy
Sightings welcomes submissions of 500 to 750 words in length that seek to illuminate and interpret the intersections of religion and politics, art, science, business and education. Previous columns give a good indication of the topical range and tone for acceptable essays. The editor also encourages new approaches to current issues and events.
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Our January is grey at the moment, and cold, well California cold, but Bill and I are over our colds, and i am back walking (moving the muscles after 8 days of sniff, sniff, cough, cough). Friend came by and we hoofed down a hill, across a long residential street, picture perfect, winding street, green lawns, trees arching over the street, and me with my coughdrops but no inhaler, hoofed and trudged up another hill, and then she took me for coffee and an Einstein Bros. power bagel.I am catching up; we live in 2 room pool house, and our sliding glass door sounds like there’s a crocidile stuck in a moat, and the door bumps and bumps and jerks. I am blogging again, tra lee, tra la, and am getting new writing workshop together; 6 weeks at Ten Thousand Villages; a great fair trade store, with artifax, jewelry and stuff from all around the world. It truly feels like a spiritual place, and I think it has to be because it’s based on the Oneness of Mankind, and one feels the connection immensely.
My nephew and his wife are having a baby, and it’s a girl, and they are naming her Elizabeth, which is his mom’s – and my twin’s name, and I love it to pieces. We were known as Es and Bess when we were little, and I always called her Liz, and we sort of are polar opposites, except with the same linguistic twang and mannerisms. She’s more like my father, and I’m more like my mother, but I can tell you we always looked out for one another. I am grateful that on her death bed she turned to me and said, “I never realized, but you’ve always been there for me,” this from a twin who was often disappointed in my Faith’s beliefs, my political views, my inclusive view of life. But still we managed. Last night I had a dream, because she died about 3-4 years ago, that we are okay between one another, and I like that. The first and second year she was sick; she’d cry out at 5.30 in the morning for help, and i’d jump through the ceiling in a dash to her room.
Tomorrow, I get my hair cut. Had it so short this summer, most people liked it except for a dear Persian lady in my community who said, “I hate it,” and I laughed. I wait for months and months, and then some random day I take whatever scissor are near me, and hack at my hair over a small bathroom sink, and then sashay out to people’s comments, “Looks good.” then comes the dread day when my head, look and hair take on an attacked by the North Wind, the West Wind, East and south, War of the Winds, and my poor hair which is with me while my body gets older, just has a hissy and stands up, lays down, and in a way doesn’t play well with the rest of me.
So tomorrow i shall be shorn. Saturday a friend and I are witnesses at a Baha’i wedding, and all involved are excited.
That’s about it for now, move the muscles, drink water, and stay wonderful.
graphics, recipes and prose astound
Look, it’s a Tuesday, just after New Years, an on the run food; sticks to the roof of your mouth and spinal column; no folding, mutilating, stamping, stapling; just throw out 2 slices on whatever, even your knee if you must, grab a knife – slop, spread, seal together, and fist it towards your mouth.
That was before writing workshop, after a walk cut short because stuff calls, and then writing workshop. There’s a book I want to chat about, The Legend of The Villa della Luna which is a book referred to as “The sequel to the Secrets of Pistoulet.
I met this book when i worked for a friend Loretta in Jamestown, western New York, in 1996 or so when she created Literary Tea, an African-American writers (mostly women I think bookstore) and a restaurant. Suffice it to say, her chocolate cake won awards, and the crowed of Lit Tea people all gained 10 pounds, and her place became a hub of great activity.
This book appeared, and I casully opened expecting little, and I gaasped; its a combination of incredible graphics (think Griffin and Sabine) and dear messages and recipes. I sold that book a million times, but never bought one for myself. Last year I was thinking about it, emailed Loretta who is in New Mexico now, for the title. I found The Legend on Amazon, book marked it, forgot about it, until this Christmas when I was so thoughtfully gifted with an Amazon card.
I have the book; it’s amazing, and the part i like is a reference to a tear bottle; won’t say anything else, but I took it to workshop, and we used it for prompts; wonderful. ISBN 1-55670-628-6.
I’m home, dropped off a ton of books at library; picked up reading in Chinese or something like that and a few other things; am gazing to my left at my Port-a-Pug, Christmas gift from a friend, and think, i hear the familiar ding of the microwave; time for dinner and crashing. Nothing earth shattering, but just a hello and my day; great writing from the group today!
My fabulous coat with its arms around Vera in Germany
Well that’s it, anticipation, can’t sing it, but experience it. I anticipate a time this week when my hair will no longer look like it’s trying to figure out all traffic lights at once, whether to go north, south, east or west. I anticipate a cooked breakfast by myself in a few minutes, and a slug at the unwahsed dishes which rest casually in our miniscule sink. The weather flickers sun, and then clouds, and cold is still present, which is good because I need to hoof down a long hill, up a few slow trails of sidewalks, I’m urbanized after all, and throw a week’s worth of holidays, colds, no moving muscles into an invisible trash bin which I might dub Goodbye 2010.
Went to grocery store, so cold, I left, and went to Fresh and Easy. I find I crave fresh fruit and veggies. This is almost a miracle, and I hear my own personal oratorio burst through light filtered skies singing in praise of my insatient soul which wants to cast off her insatiate wants, trills, frills and needs, and be basic and moderate and healthy.
Last year got me in that direction, and yesterday I bought several sizes smaller slacks/trousers/pants; whaddya call those things these day.
I am still a computer nudnick but working on it; a writing class starts, Courage to Write next week in the basement of Ten Thousand Villages, an I’m just finishing up on it, and will garner eclectic objects that make noise, are visual, or just say, “Hi I’m an object d’art or d’ump or d’utility,” and “Would you care to write of me in tripplingly on the tongue prose.”
I’ll probably wear my Africa earrings, my Soviet Army Belt (real) and who knows what else. i love teaching, and i am not filled with myself, as I find I go into some zone and stuff flows out.
Okay, that’s today, and i’ve only had a banana; this will not do. Ta ta for now, and glorious days filled with spiritual meaning, and wishes for all of us to get through grunge and grudge alike, and see our interconnectedness.
One more thing: gratitude of the highest order for my wonderful family and for all friends old and many new whom I can gave upon with wonder.
Where were we? Where was I? Remember a whole year? Not likely. Okay, it was the year Steve Pulley felt the strain of his friendship with Esther, where she, if her night or day vision worked correctly, should have seen about 26 small snakes, think vipers, arise above his intellectual forehead, as he sat before her computer, while she moaned and wailed, “Lulu.”
Valiant, courage under fire. This year You Carry the Heavy Stuff, with a wonderfully spunky cover, showing, oh my, get ready…. Showing, the back, oh the precious, curved back, of a Fawn Pug Dog, along with a tall, thin lady, wearing red high top sneakers, both canine and old girl staring out into the sky, the dawn, the sun, the moon, with road signs beside them, like “Grist for the Mill,” “Been There,” “Done That,” as Esther doubled her book writing and publishing capacity.
Somehow, we all survived it, and now I, the writer, am at the merciful or nonmerciful stage of “marketing and selling the book.” Do you think this is why God invented garages? Storage of books. Books, book, and more books.
I give a lot of writing workshops, on The Courage to Write, the idea to show up, suit up, forget the dust balls under your bed, and write about them or anything that snakes or cavorts through your brain’s passageways. Most of them were free, because there are a lot of people out there with precious little, said phrase, “Precious Little,” being a comment by a corrugated with anger Literary Criticism Professor wrote on my friend Kate’s barely 3 pages of a blue book-designed for essays on the whys and wherefores, of Plato, and his mimesis, and Aristotle who advocated fear and pity for a tragedy, but which I, for some stuttering randomness kept saying peer and fity.
But because of that school, that man who ranted directly to me, because of carrying around heavy green or blue backed Norton Readers, because of taking Oakley Hall, incredible writing teacher, because of Jack Grapes and some workshops ranging over the years, and because, because, of CHPercolator, here I sit today, like an intent hedgehog. Have to leave here in 15 minutes. I produced a book. I teach writing to homeless women, and everyone else in transition. Sometimes I make money; sometimes I don’t, but I have a forum within which to write.
It’s been a year of a lot of new friendships and keeping the older ones; a year of finally being able to walk around the block and to be told, “Your heart muscle is strong,” and a year of modulated eating, so now a chocolate camel can circumambulate my block and not fear my gnawing teeth and needy ways.
It’s been a year of soul talk and authenticity, and joy in the realness of life and inner richness, coupled with getting up in the middle of the night, wondering will Bill be okay, will this, will that… but those are the blah blah’s of dark nights, and mostly I’m hoofing, and I’m thriving; this from someone who has an aortic plastic valve, lung stuff, heart stuff, long illness. As an old gal, that seems to be receding, and I tell you I’m hoof’ in out.
How’s by you?
<a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/8098685-forces-of-our-time” style=”float: left; padding-right: 20px”><img alt=”Forces of Our Time: The Dynamics of Light and Darkness” border=”0″ src=”http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51SRUk8vHbL._SX106_.jpg” /></a><a href=”Forces” _mce_href=”http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/8098685-forces-of-our-time”>Forces”>http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/8098685-forces-of-our-time”>Forces of Our Time: The Dynamics of Light and Darkness</a> by <a href=”Hooper” _mce_href=”http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2975096.Hooper_C_Dunbar”>Hooper”>http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2975096.Hooper_C_Dunbar”>Hooper C. Dunbar</a><br/>
My rating: <a href=”5″ _mce_href=”http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/133887663″>5″>http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/133887663″>5 of 5 stars</a><br /><br />
This book is exceedingly profound. It speaks in highly readable and gracious prose, of the condition of the world today, and the dramatic changes taking place. He addresses the visible deterioration in so many fundamental processes and instittions (financial, political and climage change and energy, and social fabric of society. He gives his readers an enlivening clear upsurge in knowledge, reflects concern for human rights and speaks of gtechnologies that bring people together. From the back of the book, “These energies are spiritual in nature and result from Mr. Dunbar’s membership and deep commitment to the Baha’i Faith and its founder, Baha’u'llah (a title meaning the Glory of God). Mr. Dunbar shows how processes creating a new divine civilization have arisen, are arising, and he also speaks of the negative forces which have arisen to resist this divine purpose. He examines the character of the spiritual forces as set out in the writings of the Guardian of the Faith, and the first part of the book considers the terms, ‘force,’ ‘energy’ and ‘power.’ The second part of the book comprises a selection of quotations drawn from the writings of Shoghi Effendi, the Guardian of the Baha’i Cause and many are published within this volume for the first time and arrnage chronologically so readers may consider the ideas in their original context.
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<br/>5 stars doesn’t do it, but that as high as the rating would go.
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<a href=”View” _mce_href=”http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/2785181-esther-bradley-detally”>View”>http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/2785181-esther-bradley-detally”>View all my reviews</a>
Marsha J. Evans, President, CEO of The American Red Cross. Salary for year ending 06/30/03 was $651,957 plus expenses. Brian Gallagher, President of the United Way receives a $375,000 base salary, plus numerous expense benefits. UNICEF CEO receives $1,200,000 per year plus all expenses and a ROLLS ROYCE car where ever he goes and only cents of your dollar goes to the cause.
The Salvation Army’s Commissioner Todd Bassett receives a salary of only $13,000 per year (plus housing) for managing this $2 billion dollar organization
Authors On The Rise Interviews K.L. B…
Authors On the Rise Is happy to bring you an interview with Esther Bradley- DeTally, author of: You Carry The Heavy Stuff. Please grab a copy of her book and post your reviews.
Dee: Please tell us about you the person and the author.
Esther: Glad that’s worded that way, because above all we are all persons first. In 1990 I started publishing personal and reflective essays in various journals. A writer friend from Israel had recommended me and many other yet to be published writers to write for a particular publication in Australia/New Zealand. This journal was globally distributed. When my friend suggested I submit some of my stuff, I thought, “Is that stuff under the bed collecting dust balls?” But in 1992 I was married to my wonderful husband Bill and we were living in Ukraine, in the City of Dnepropetrovsk, and this magazine published an essay about our lives in Ukraine.
I’m from Boston, born in Boston, and I remember blackout curtains from World War II on our windows and peeing in the dark. I remember the 50s and being a Catholic girl and going to a public high school. I had no writing inclination, but read voraciously from six years on. A huge influence was my mom who became a major alcoholic, but was a lover of books and also taught Latvian women to speak and read English when they came to our little brown rented house on Wren Street, and they spoke of the Iron Curtain, and their husbands lost behind this curtain. I remember thinking in images of a giant iron shower curtain spread across a vast land.
I grew up in a stratified society, where people drew lines about religious affiliations, class position, race, difference. I was a child in the 40s, a young girl in the 50s and was Catholic. In my twenties, I drove to California after the Cuban crisis, drove out by myself. My mother had died; my father remarried; my twin was somewhere; the family was dysfunctional and scattered. My older brother and sister weren’t around. I was a legal secretary and outwardly gutsy but inwardly a wimp.
I discovered the Baha’i Faith at 27, and felt as if I stepped out of a black and white photograph into the land of color. I stopped drinking, even though I hadn’t yet connected the dots of alcoholism sitting in my family’s history box for generations. I immediately became aware of the oneness of humanity, and my old stereotypical views fell off me like corrugated cardboard. Still, until I die, I must be aware of prejudice and how it is inhaled by a baby when born. My life is incredibly full –I teach writing to homeless women and others. I give a lot of free workshops. I guess you could say my husband and I are activists as we totally believe in service to the community at large. I used to be fearful but didn’t show it, and I faced life and have crawled over railroad tracks in Donetsk and been in Ukraine during the Russian coup and written a book about it. I’ve been to Siberia, and I have a son Nicholas who is married and a granddaughter. One last thing: I jump out of airplanes to say hello to Pug Dogs even if they are only dark little dots on the ground. That’s sounds very year-booky.
Mostly I totally believe in the splendor of the human condition, and am horrified by the meanness of our age, but have tremendous hopes for the future. I believe one becomes mystical by embracing the grit of one’s time and that we should be anxiously concerned about the needs of our age. I am the last of my siblings, my twin having died a few years ago. I’ve survived heart surgeries, blah, blah, blah, and walk an hour a day; sound like a gadabout and light up like a pinball machine when celebrating, reading, writing, a good book, justice, being a solace to someone else, being a source of light and laughter.
Dee: When did you first know you wanted to be an author?
Esther: In 1980, when I got a chance to go back to college, I wanted to learn writing.
Dee: Did you take any classes or go to school to learn to write, or did it just come naturally?
Esther: No. Writing letters came naturally, but I had no idea whether studying writing would ruin my fledgling writing or not. I went to UC Irvine and enrolled as a junior at 42 as a single mom, fresh from what felt like 100 years of work as a legal secretary. I majored in English as I read voraciously and thought that the most practical. I had no dreams of becoming an attorney. I took a summer class and wrote a story about a blue dye eviscerating the earth from a jeans factory and a dog named Lance I think. I didn’t have the knowhow or the courage to have dialogue. There was lance, the blue die, the inhabitants of earth leaving the planet, and the owner of lance, a woman who died.
My first writing teacher said, “Take every writing course this school has to offer.”
I took expository writing in the second quarter and the TA said “Take every writing course this school has to offer,” because I wrote a piece about who I was after reading an excerpt of May Sarton’s Journal of a Solitude. Reader her talk about depression, writing and planting flowers caused me to think, I can do this. I remember feeling electrified, not hugely, but nevertheless animated.
I then took Beginning Fiction with Oakley Hall, and I was nervous. He has written a book on the novel; was co-head of the UCI Writing Program, and is well respected. He went to Iowa I think. I was nervous until I looked under the large square table where we all assembled, and I saw faded purple Rit died socks, and then looked up into his broad face, and kind eyes, and his hair looked like yarn. He taught how to show, how to be the camera eye, how to use strong verbs, and I flourished.
I then went on to take an advanced writing class with the other co-head who didn’t like older women, but thought I was a very good writer. He tried to discourage me, and I think he did so, because he didn’t make it in the way he expected. It was rough, but I hung in.
Then I took journalism with a very good Journalist who had been nationally known, and he said, “You are a good writer, but what the hell are you trying to say.” I also took courses after graduating as part of teacher training in teaching secondary writing, and Writing the Natural Way. I use those methods when I teach workshops.
I also took from the Pied Piper of Workshop Leaders, Jack Grapes in Los Angeles who is a method writing teacher, and I took his beginning workshop. Then I waited 10 years, took his advanced courses, and around 2003 I was bursting through sound barriers. . I have written 2 books: Without A Net: A Sojourn in Russia and You carry the Heavy Stuff, the most recent.
I took a UCLA class too and we were not allowed to praise or criticize anyone’s writings, no comments, but the instructor told me I was very good. So yes, I took classes and really learned method, and craft of showing, use strong verbs, and still read voraciously.
Dee: Please tell us about your book and how you came up with the idea for it.
Esther: As I mentioned I had a previous book, and the 2nd edition has pictures. Without A Net: A Sojourn in Russia, about our 3 year period before, during and after the breakup of the Soviet Union. It is a personal view, a behind the scenes sideways type of thing – personal, funny, sad, hard, and spiritual.
I joined CHPercolator Coffeehouse for writers because my friend Steve kept encouraging me. We all give prompts to write about at periodic intervals and thus, writers from around the globe write or not write every day.
After 2 years, I looked at my previous writing and the CHPerc bundle, and thought “It’s time to do another book.” It’s called You Carry the Heavy Stuff and has a street sign that says, “It’s all grist for the Mill, been there, done that, what’s next,” with a pug’s back to the reader and a tall thin red-haired lady with an old leather type valise, inky papers sticking out of it, and she’s wearing red high top sneakers. That’s my persona. I have used “It’s all grist for the mill” so much; people will soon begin to scream.
I had a mother in law who was the size of a small tree trunk and didn’t take noth’in from no one and we lived with her after we came back from Russia because we didn’t think it was wise for her to live alone. When I first met her, Bill and I were packing up our bags to drive away, and she and I were loading stuff at an open trunk, when this low growly voice (hers) said to me, “You carry the heavy stuff for him.” So I wrote a piece about her.
Anna was her name, and Italian momma was her game. I both laughed inwardly and groaned. I wasn’t insulted. Had I been 20, I’d have run away. This book is a series of poetry and prose about who I was, am; life in an office cubicle; life in middle school and a world view taking shape, life after 9/11; essays on prejudice, which makes my African-American friends cry, and essays on spirituality and eating falafel at the Mercatz (shopping area top of Haifa hills) in Israel. I also talk lightly and deeply about social conditions, Baghdad, being a twin, having a twin die, and packing for the future. All of my pieces reflect varied writing styles.
A fellow writer wrote “You Carry the Heavy Stuff reveals an author who engages life with grit, honesty and good humor. Bradley-DeTally rests thoughtfully at a quiet stream to make serene observations, and then she’s up and away again to fight her good fight with a Tally HO! A refreshing read that combines a depth dimension with the tragicomedy that is life.”
I was going to call the book Writing on the Fly, and I had everything in it: fiction, surrealism, poetry, short stories, and then I trimmed it down and a friend said, “Writing on the Fly is overused.” So I had a brief contest where I promised a few select friends a Starbucks coffee card if they voted on a selection of about 5 titles. You Carry the Heavy Stuff carried the day.
I don’t outline. Let me repeat that I don’t outline. I free write and then I tweak, tweak, tweak. I am pretty spontaneous and word crazy some friends might add.
Dee: Which of your characters were your favorite and why?
Esther: My favorite characters are pugs and the people in Children of the Stolen Ones, a poem I hope which gives honor to my brothers and sisters of African heritage.
Dee: What traits and characteristics did you give some of your characters to make them memorable?
Esther: Courage, nobility and the human condition is a sideways view.
Dee: Does your book have any important themes or lessons you wanted to convey?
Esther: Well, it’s memoir-ish so the traits would be pissy, funny, ballsy, outspoken, socially concerned, deeply spiritual, thrown in with the theme of global citizenship and the inhumanity of man and the humanity of man (generic man of course).
My themes speak of the wonders and need for oneness; the need to throw prejudice off the planet, the nobility of the anonymous and the suffering among us, the struggle and beauty of the dying cancer patients, the humanity of others, and the downright wonders of slinging around language like hash.
Dee: What was the road to publication like? Was it turbulent or fairly easy?
Esther: I am too old to look for an agent, and have a small following – think larger than a beer truck but smaller than the Coliseum in LA so my friend Steve said “Publish through Lulu.” He has done so with several witty books. Reader it was hell, pure unadulterated hell. Very Kafkaesque and tortuous until I finally gave in and bought a Lulu package, and then it was a miracle. Price wise it’s the best so far, but I’m not an enchanted devotee. One gets lost in Lulu like getting lost in the Hotel California, “It’s a lovely place….but you can’t get out …. Lost in the Hotel California. The biggest thing about a book is not thinking about writing one, not thinking about publishing, but marketing after it’s done. My advice is take it step my step and “follow the force” so to speak.
Dee: Please tell a reader what they should know about your book before the purchase them.
Esther: It’s creative non-fiction, spunky, funny, shows a variety of writing styles, almost a book of prompts plus points of view as an extra added package! It’s 14.96 (the extra penny is the hell part.) Also there’s a download – e book type of thing. (You Carry The Heavy Stuff) http://stores.lulu.com/sorrygnat and http://www.amazon.com/Carry-Heavy-Stuff
Esther-Bradley-DeTally. I recommend the Lulu site because you can read some of the pages. I also have some I can mail.
Dee: Words of wisdom for aspiring writers.
Esther: Read, read, read, read, write, journal, write, never give up; take courses, watch, listen learn, imitate, and trust the process.
estherbill@gmail.com http://sorrygnat. Word press. com blog
Dee: What current projects are you working on?
Esther: I am writing a book about someone with deleted memory; in interview process and at the beginning right now. I also teach the writing process, currently with homeless women, and their volunteers, and under the literacy umbrella of local libraries, plus give individual sessions and have writing groups.
Dee: What do you want your legacy to be?
Esther: To have left the world showing worlds of unity, love and laughter, and to be a point of light in the dark dark nights of the soul, and to laugh and yuk about recipes, ham sandwiches and to promote the oneness of mankind, but to write, and know the power of words, the love of them, their ordinariness and majesty and not to worry about publishing, but think of the journey itself.
I wish for a world where everyone is a trust of the whole.
Dee: Thank you for chatting with AOTR! We wish you much success!
Esther’s ten favorites.
Favorite time of day: First cup of coffee brought to me in bed by wonderful husband of 25 years.
Dessert: vanilla ice cream and dark, thick and creamy hot fudge sauce.
Teacher – Miss Halloran, in book; changed my world view from neighborhood to vast history and dimensions and the dangers of war within a 5 minute read of giant poster on her wall.
Social networking site; Facebook
Favorite city: Pasadena
Music: Rodrigo’s Concerto de Aranjuez
Color: the rainbow
Pastime: drinking coffee, and talking about real stuff with friends
Book: Oh my the over 600 on Goodreads, but if you don’t have time, Gleanings by Baha’u’llah, and An Interrupted Life, Etty Hillesum
http://thomas-fletcher.com/friendwheel/showwheel.php?site=facebook&name=Esther+Bradley-deTally&userid=729263026&pass=e1a66903f8&monthno=09&xmlwheel=1
<a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2316197.Prayer” style=”float: left; padding-right: 20px”><img alt=”Prayer: A Baha’i Approach” border=”0″ src=”http://www.goodreads.com/images/nocover-111×148.jpg” /></a><a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2316197.Prayer”>Prayer: A Baha’i Approach</a> by <a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1041260.William_Hellaby”>William Hellaby</a><br/>
My rating: <a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/122435751″>5 of 5 stars</a><br /><br />
profound, and contemplative, and insightful, and perceptions which lead to action shown. Madeline Hellaby just died, and I fear this book might not be republished. It’s a must.
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<a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/2785181-esther-bradley-detally”>View all my reviews</a>
On the back cover, “To Baha’is, prayer is indispensable: ‘the core of religious faith,’ writes Shoghi Effendi, Guardian of the Baha’i faith, ‘is that mystic feeling which unites man with God. This state of spiritual communion can be brought about and maintained by means of prayer.
Written by William and madline Hellaby, I’m focusing on Madeline, who just passed. She writes of “prayer as a living reality–prayer as ordinary people experience it in their daily loves. ‘How can we practise the presence of God?’” she asks. Describing with honesty, good sense and humour the various obstacles to effective praying, she finds insight in quotations and examples drawn both from the Baha’i Writings and from a wealth of religious literature, history and day-to-day experience.”
PS I use Alibris a lot to find 99 cent issues of books and up. I like them.
<a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/7840064-mentor” style=”float: left; padding-right: 20px”><img alt=”Mentor” border=”0″ src=”http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1273513481m/7840064.jpg” /></a><a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/7840064-mentor”>Mentor</a> by <a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/297212.Tom_Grimes”>Tom Grimes</a><br/>
My rating: <a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/121643444″>5 of 5 stars</a><br /><br />
Oh Oh, Oh! I liked this book so much! No, make it loved the book. I got a Borders’ gift card and hotfooted down the street. This book called out to me, and the writing is superb. Tom Grimes takes the reader down the path of working in construction, to waiter, to this, to that; and his writing career unfolds. He meets Frank Conroy, and this book is valuable for writing, but also the writing process and the struggle and the joy, and I felt as if I were folded within the words and became one with the page. I couldn’t put it down. Insightful, dear, honest, revealing, educational, terrific.
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<a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/2785181-esther-bradley-detally”>View all my reviews</a>
Pug Lovers' Paradise
Saddled by Susan Richards
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I bumped into this book, and somehow after flipping through the pages and seeing, memoir, alcoholism in family, transformation, I took the book home from the Pasadena Central Library. I am a memoir addict, and the authentic and well written voice calls me. I couldn’t put it down.
those who know me personally will imagine and know my delight in the author’s triumphs and courage, but imagine that this reader, a pug devotee par excellence, gasps when she looks at the back inside cover flap and see Susan Richards with what? A pug, a pug, a wonderful looking, high i’m the center of the universe pug. I feel as if I know this lady. The background of book had aspects of Boston, my home town, and so it goes. I highly recommend this book. I’m off to read her others; have to order them too!
This newsletter has been ongoing for years, as my friendship with TC. Someone from the outside types it and distributes by email. I thought it insightful and would hope that people keep TC, her mom, Barbara, and the like in their prayers. I regularly correspond with her; i had to get clearance, and when I have xtra $ i send her stuff to pay for school or something, but that’s a private matter.
Here it is:
The T.C. & Mama ´P´ Newsletter – 3rd QTR, 2010
Dear Family of Friends,
The response to our last issue of this newsletter was quite overwhelming. I was very open and apparently, successful in making myself clear in my details about life behind these walls. I understand that it may not be easy for some folks to grasp what it is like for us, so I make every effort to bring forth clearly detailed expressions to paint vivid pictures in your own minds. Life behind the walls here is nothing like those fake prison scenes in daytime soap operas. It is nothing like the movies made in Hollywood. It has its good times of less stress than others, but it also has its moments of fear, anger, victimization, survival, hunger, violence, and extortion. There are bullies around every corner; there are angels with every breath. There is racism, prejudice, and steriotyping. However, there is also a strong sense of sisterhood, womanhood, call it what you want. Sometimes in the air there is the smell of pepper spray and verbal assaults … but sometimes more than not, there is the scent of unity as one subculture in our own little micro world. Like the weather, it varies.
In this issue I will share more details and facts that have no business being buried. I intend to open your eyes a little wider to see what is really happening. Some may feel that in my doing so, I am focusing on the negative. I differ in my opinion I feel that it is important to focus on the negative so that, not only do I know what is striving to suppress me, but I can strategize how to turn it into something positive. One of my favorite quotes is by the philospher, Nietchze. He wrote, „what does not kill us, makes us stronger.“ As you well know, I have lived my life according to that wisdom the best that I can the last 15 years since I broke my silence about the past. As prisoners, well over 3500 women here at CCWF are doing their bet to overcome our pasts … pasts that got us here one way or another.
One woman who made the best of her past, used her scars as lessons to others, and taught me a lot about doing your prison time instead of letting the sentence overtake and control you, is Deborah Peagler – AKA, Tripp. She was a tool and vessel of God‘s choosing, and she did reach me. This issue of the newsletter is being dedicated to the life and memory of Deborah ‚ ´Tripp´ Peagler, our beloved Friend.
Namasté
T.C. & Mama ´P´
Riding A Rainbow
I mentioned Tripp a couple of issues back. She had been brutalized by a guy named Oliver Wilson from the age of fifteen. He did the most horrible things to her, it is a wonder she survived. When two male friends tried to convince Wilson to not hunt Tripp down anymore after she escaped him once more, the altercation turned deadly, resulting in Wilson‘s death. The men were prosecuted and sentenced, as was Tripp, although she wasn‘t party to the homicide. Her case had Battered Woman Syndrome written all over it, yet her Public Defender never addressed it. After 26 years in prison for a murder she did not plan, nor commit, she was released. The governor did not block the Parole Board‘s recommendation because Tripp was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer,a nd expected to not live past three more weeks.
Ten months after her release from prison, Tripp was still enjoying life and reunification with her two daughters and grandchildren. She wrote when she could, and even sent me the most beautiful lighthouse notecards for my birthday in February, knowing my admiration for lighthouses. She seemed to be gaining strength and turning into a miracle before our eyes, when on June 8th, in the early morning hours, our friend and sister in Christ, passed away.
There are some, including mom and myself, who look at the prison and court system with disgust at how she was even sentenced to life in prison. There is anger at the sheer injustice and an echo of sentiment that not only had she gone from Wilson‘s prison to California‘s prison system, but her children were rubbed as well. It just isn‘t fair.
In the same breath, I see the positive. She had the last ten months of her life free with her family. To die in prison is every lifer‘s worst nightmare. But there‘s more …..
Tripp was one of the few founding members to propose and initiate the U-turn program directed at helping youth-at-risk. In her years of service, she reached well over 1000 kids. For each kid she reached, they are like a ripple in the water, and Tripp ultimately reached even more people through each child. You see, for every person that childd comes into contact with, Tripp is vicariously reaching due to her initial contact with that child. There must be thousands feeling the effect of Tripp‘s story and words of encouragement, hope, possible change, and love.
Tripp was on the church choir and through that channel she reached many as well. When I arrived to CCWF in 1992, I was mad at God for allowing us to not only live a lie of pain in a house of secrets, but to allow us to be sentenced to life in prison with open, but invisible wounds. I rebelled by turning my back on God. I went rogue as far as religion went, and I pretty much went from light to dark. Tripp invited my girlfriend Lory, to join the choir. She was fond of Lori and through Lori unknownst to her, Tripp had reached my darkened heart. I sat in the dark of my cell one night all alone in my self-pity and asked God if He could forgive me for my turning away from Him. In His way, He led me to a verse in the New Testament. I read it. It was John 12:35 „He who walks in darkness knows not where he is going. Walk in the light while it is with you.“ I was blown away, as my prayer clearly asked about light and dark. About a week or so later I went to look the verse up again, but „Accidentally“ looked up John 11:35 … „And Jesus wept.“ So did I.
I am not proud of my rebellion against God. I‘m not bragging about it in sharing my confession and testimony. I tell you only to say that the messenger God chose to reach into my hardened heart, was Deborah Peagler. And it‘s not just words when I say I‘m eternally grateful.
I feel badly for Tripp‘s family who were separated from her for so many years. I felt bad for Tripp that she was a prisoner since age fifteen and the system had failed her in so many ways. However, the ones I feel the most sorry for, are the people who never had the honor and privilege of knowing Deborah Peagler.
I wrote Tripp in a letter I believe she received within days of her passing, that I was grateful for her place in my life … in mom‘s life. I told her that we‘ll see her again, where she can find me in a meadow running my fingers through a lion‘s mane. Knowing Tripp, she‘ll be releasing the little kid in herself, riding on a rainbow. I really wish you could have known her. In one way or another, she had made an impact. She always did.
Just The Facts
On May 13th, a state appeals court found Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger had „distorted the record“ evidence in justifying his blocking the parole suitability of Joseph Calderon.
Calderon had consistenly accepted responsibility in the death of a security guard in 1993 during a botched rubbery. It wasn‘t part of the plan, but it did happen. Calderon was 23 years old at the time.
Fact … Calderon underwent special therapy for alcoholism and behavioral issues.
Fact … he temporarily joined a prison gang at the onset of his incarceration as expected from peer pressure, but dropped out and risked his own safety by giving a briefing to prisons officials. If you know anything about men‘s prisons and prison gangs, then you know that took a lot of guts. The shower scene in the film „American X“ was not an exaggeration of what happens to a prison gang deserter.
These are the facts, yet Arnold blocked the Parole Board‘s recommendation of parole, saying that Calderon „lacked full insight into his crimes,“ had „only sporadically“ taken part in rehabilitation programs, and he furthermore twisted the truth regarding Calderon‘s prison gang activity. He claimend Calderon was in a gang, as in present tense. This goes to show that either Arnold can‘t read, refuses to read the parole Board‘s report, or quite simply doesn‘t trust the opinion of the panel of commissioners that he himself appointed. It must be hell to have all that power and not know how to properly use it. He has overturned the Parole Board‘s decision nearly 60% in 2008 and more than 70% in 2009.
My question is this: Why have a Parole Board at all if their decisions will not be respected by the governor? And furthermore, why even hold a hearing and file a report if Arnold can simply ignore and distort the facts? It is hard enough to win favor with the Board, only to be shot down by someone in a power suit that never took classes at Law School. When will we ever deal with just the facts?
More Facts About Lifers
· Proposition 89 gave the California Governor power to overturn any Parole suitability finding by the (Governor appointed) Parole Board.
· Proposition 89 told voters that there might be a savings to taxpayers if they passed 89, yet 20 years later the findings by investigative journalist Nancy Mullane found the costs of Prop 89 to be more than 16 billion dollars. Billion, with a „B“.
· The CDCR (prison system) did their own study and found that from the mid to late 1940‘s the murder recidivism rate is 2%. A more recent research study indicated that as of 2007, convicted murderers re-offend less than any other offender group, at 3,7%. The next lowers group is more that 20%.
· Prior to Prop 89, the Board routinely paroled nearly 200 lifers a year.
· Governor‘s campaign finances are heavily supported by Victim Rights groups, which in turn are funded by the prison guard‘s union. Why? Because keeping lifers in prison is in their best interest. We help manage the prison, making it easy on staff.
· One in five prisoners is a lifer.
· California‘s prison system is at almost 200% capacity with get this …. 170 thousand prisoners!
· Statistically, only about 1% of all lifers who face the Parole Boad ever get a recommendation and governor‘s blessing. One percent.
· Statuatory code is for the governor to appoint a composition of cross-section representation from the community to the Parole Board. This would be psychologists, retired judges and the like. Arnold, same as Pete Wilson and Gray Davis, has appointed law enforcement personnel and those who are part of Victim‘s Right‘s groups. The current Parole Board is 100% law enforcement.
· The Penal Code requires that a release date be set once the base term has been served.
· The current suitability rate for lifers is 5%.
· The governor‘s „power to review Parole decisions“ has never been used to review a Parole Board denial, but only to review a positive finding and find an excuse to reverse it.
· The recidivism rate in California for older lifers is less than one percent, so why not let my mother go?
Louise and Helen‘s stories
Louise is 70 years old and was locked away for 32 years on a 7 years-to-life sentence. While the Parole Board kept finding her suitable for parole, the governor continued to reverse their decision. Had he system evaluated Louise as to the written regulations, she‘d have been freed in 1984.
Louise worked on her addiction issues while incarcerated. It was her addiction that led to her convicted crime in the first place. She earned vocational certification and had a pretty imprressive C-file. She was a model inmate, yet she had to file a Writ against the Parole Board to seek her freedom. She was blessed with pro beno legal representation. I‘m glad to report that she gained her freedom, although it was nearly three decades later than what the legal code regulates it to have been.
Helen wasn‘t as fortunate. Sadly, Helen was convicted of conspiracy to commit murder, although two vital facts were clear: She had no knowledge of any crime being planned, nor was anyone hurt, let alone murdered. Her mistake was trusting her son to not put her in harm‘s way. She unknowingly had transported money for him. Guess what it was for?
Helen‘s kidneys were failing her the last several years of her life, requiring dialysis treatments 2x a week. It too two officers to escort her off of prison grounds all shackled up to an outside community center to complete the dialysis.
Helen served her base term sentence and sought parole, but the Parole Board denied her relase even though legally, they should have. She couldn‘t walk 30 yards without having to stop, sit on her walker seat, and catch her breath. How did she pose any threat to society? They further impacted the indignant insult of a denial by stating, „she didn‘t have firm employment plans.“ Yes, they actually expect you to gain firm employment regardless of your health if you are a lifer seeking parole. I should add, Helen was 85 years old. She gave up all hope and died in prison last year.
It cost about one million dollars a year to keep Helen in prison, due to her health complications. In Louise‘s case, I actually have a breakdown for her incarceration. In her case, the average cost for an inmate incarcerated from 1985-1996 was $49K a year. It was $138K a year for every year after 1996. Being that they held her for 26 years beyond her legal earliest possible release date, taxpayers spent 2.6 million dollars to keep Louise incarcerated after they‘d already forked out over $340K for her originally determined sentence. Taxpayers forked out over six million for Helen to remain illegallly incarcerated.
So, when anyone asks me why I have zero faith in the Parole Board or governor‘s review, it is a lot easier to just share some of the stories of other lifers who should have been released, but weren‘t. Our legal system is crippled. Our prison system is hell bent to keeping lifers in custody for job security (Parole Board) and to help maintain the prisons with structure and balance. We are quite literally political prisoners. Nothing more, nothing less. I told you not just Louise and Helen‘s stories, but ours as well. There are four ways out of prison: escape, parole, the courts, and death. I only see one of those alternatives as actually reasonable. It will take a judge to release us. We don‘t want to end up like Helen. So if you question why I don‘t trust the Parole Board, read this piece again.
Medical Receiver
The court appointed receiver over all 33 California state prisons has made some waves that Arnold‘s administration is none too happy with. The receiver oversees all areas of the 33 medical departments. If he says they need to do this or change that, it gets done. The problem is that modification costs money … money the state doesn‘t have.
The receiver was originally appointed in 2006 to improve the dysfunctional medical system. There has been much success, beginning with replacing MTA‘s with RN‘s. An MTA is a cop with the title of Medical Technician‘s Assistant. At best, they handed out hot meds and bandages, and took your vital signs. They couldn‘t perform CPR if your life depended on it, nor did half of them care to. They couldn‘t tell an asthma attack from a heart attack, so they were the first thing to go, thank God, literally.
The receiver has since proposed the construction of a 10.000 bad medical facility at the cost of six billion dollars. Arnold choked on his spit, because he‘s already sitting on a projected $20 billion deficit through June 2011. The receiver modified his proposal to house 3,400 inmates at a mere 1.9 billion dollars. Arnold decided to try to get rid of the receiver, but in April the 9th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals ruled that the federally appointed receiver can continue to improve medical for the 33 prisons.
It should be noted that the court pointed out in it‘s decision that, „The receivership was imposed only after the state admitted its inability to comply with consent orders intended to remedy the constitutional violation in its prisons.“ At least the Feds are looking out for us. Now, if only they‘d take over the entire prison system, including the Parole Board.
Q & A With T.C.
Q. Can you plant a garden at CCWF for fresh fruits & vegetables?
A. No. The prison wouldn‘t allow it, fearing we‘d bury contraband in the process to retrieve as needed. Also, there would be a lot of fighting over bully territory and theft by non-growers.
Q. What is going on with your college plans? Any changes?
A. No. The turmoil between staff runs off a top us, and the vice-principal has seen to it that the classroom we had been using, will once again become a staff breakroom. Even if we had a volunteer doctorate student to proctor for us, they would need to be here M-F 800-1500 hours. If they agreed to that, there‘d be no classroom availability, staff would see to that.
Q. Will Melissa Huckaby go to CCWF now that she‘s sentenced?
A. Yes, it could happen. There are three women‘s prisons! CCWF and VSP in Chowchilla, and CIW in Frontera (Southern Cal). The woman guilty in the death of the little cantu girl in Tracy, CA will be housed at any of these three, but most likely at VSP, and in Protective Custody at first.
Q. Where can I find that song by Meatloaf that you shared in the last newsletter?
A. Not sure of original release, but I have it on Meatloaf‘s „Best of Meatloaf“ double cassette set.
Q. Does CCWF do anything special for 4th of July?
A. The first thingI‘ll do, is salute the American flag I have hanging over our cell door. I do that everyday. The prison has a BBQ every year with a hot dog, hamburger, beans, cofn, watermelon, salad, fruit crisp, and usually iced drink. There will be inmate sponsored games on the yard. The only fireworks we see are on TV. This year they elimanated hot dogs and melon.
Q. Can your mom get Omega-3 oil there at CCWF?
A. At our cost, yes. It is good for lowering the cholesterol, and I believe it is heart healthy to the blood pressure as well. They used to RX it to her, but then there‘s the budget cuts to contend with. In June I had decided to begin campagning for the quarterly box vendors to offer it with their other supplement options, but they beat me to it.
Q. You mention the almond orchards out of your window. Do you get lots of almonds to eat?
A. No, not at all. The entire area surrounding the prison is almond orchards. They are harvested by inmate labor, which is hard work in this valley‘s scorching heat for 12 cents an hour. The almonds are sold for profit by PIA FARM. I‘ve elected to order raw untreated almonds in our quarterly box. No salt, no sugar, no coating. Good for the heart!
Q. Did the box vendors grant your request for better water immersion heaters (stingers) and Vegan Friendly Foods?
A. No. The stingers are still that worthless NORPRO brand. Union Supply says they forwarded my letter to their marketing dept. They didn‘t offer the Vegan friendly foods yet, but did grant my request for more diabetic friendly foods that are sugar-free to watch glucose levels. You win some, you need to pester for more. My mission continues, I never learned how to quit once I advocate for something.
A Few Corrections
In the previos newsletter, a type in a particular had a few of you scratching your heads. Mom had her hysterectomy in the free world in 1976, over thirty years ago. No, it was not here at CCWF in 1996.
The website to find the petition to help save the dolphins from slaughter in Japan is SaveJapanDolphins.com. The typo read SAFE instead of SAVE. Sorry about that.
Anna has to contend with my carpal tunnel penmanship in transferring my written words into the newsletter format. So, whenever there is a typo, it‘s most likely on me. With English being her second language, she does a pretty darn good job in helping make this newsletter. As a matter of fact, it wouldn‘t be possible without her.
Medication Cutbacks
There has been a notification flyer posted that effective the end of this year, many of the prescriptions we receive will be eliminated. Those medications are selective items such as cough drops, cold and flu items, digestive aids, and all vitamin supplements. We will be expected to purchase these items on canteen (except not all are available due to shelf space), or in our quarterly boxes. So, what is the indigent inmate expected to do? In a word: suffer.
Mom and I both have GERD (acid reflux disease) thanks to two decades of prison food. We take generic brand of Prilosec on a daily basis. That is on the hit list! We cannot find relief throughTums … not good enough. If the CMO refuses to fill an RX for Prilosec, I will file a 602. We are property of the State. Take care of us or let us go! That‘s my motto.
The canteen sells Motrin, but not Aspirin. Motrin will kill your kidneys, and mom‘s are already in trouble. Aspirin is iffy as to being on the hit list.
The entire purpose is to save money, but at the risk of making our health worse. This decision has ironically came down from Clark Kelso, the current Medical Receiver who is supposed to be on our side! He‘s trying to cut over $800 million in the medical budget to pacify Arnold Schwarzenegger. When he‘s cutting medications and outside specialists, I have to wonder just who‘s best interests he‘s interested in. I‘m not feeling too confident that it is ours anymore.
AB2232
Assembly Bill 2232 is before the Assembly Public Safety Committee. This is a move to raise our medical co-pay from the current five dollar fee, to ten dollars. Yes, even in prison, we have to pay for our medical care, even if half of our conditions are due to the prison lifestyle.
If I have six dollars on my acccount, they will take five just to see the doctor. In the near future that visit may not even gain a much needed RX. If I have no money, they‘ll place a hold on my account and require that I pay that debt before I can buy a bar of soap or tube of toothpaste.
So, if I have no money and I see that doctor, who will not be allowed to prescribe meds I may need, why see the doctor at all? If I pay the co-pay but have nothing left to pay for my meds if available on canteen, why see the doctor at all? I think the goal here is to discourage us from requesting to see the doctor. Cut our available meds and double the co-pay fee, which many cannot afford. This may permit the CDCR to cut staff positions to save money. Yes, I think that‘s their plan.
What Is Considered Indigent Status?
If you have one dollar or less, you‘re indigent. If you have one dollar and one cent or more, you‘re rich.
If you qualify for indigent status, you‘ll receive one bag of hygine product a month: shampoo, hair grease, flossers, toothpaste, horrible toothbrush and vaseline tube. You‘ll also receive 20 stamped envelopes.
If you don‘t qualify because you have over one dollar and a penny, good luck, you‘ll need it. Shampoo on canteen is one-eighthy. You can‘t even afford two bars of the cheapest soap! Indigent status used to be $5 or less, but the budget decided to affect the inmate population in a harsher way. You cannot buy your hygiene for the month for even $5, let alone one buck! What a joke.
If you‘re wondering what an indigent inmate does to survive, they either get a hustle in here, or those with more, help those with less. They system counts on that. It saves them money.
Late Breaking News!
The filmmaker Yoav Potash completed the documentary on Deborah Peagler‘s life story. It is called „Crime After Crime“, and is due to be released next year.
I‘m glad to report that Debbie was able to view the film at a February 4th premier screening.
For more on the film, visit the website FreeDebbie.org and there may be links to the film.
How Much Does A Guard Make?
A lot! A whole lot!
An officier with seniority is set at $50 an hour, but due to a recent budget crisis pay cut of 15%, they began to make $35. Talk about a difference in comfort! Many of the officiers who got the cut are considering retirement, in which they‘ll receive 90% of their salary, plus full benefits.
On average, a guard makes over $15K in overtime pay a year! Prison is a money making industry. However, their union fought the 15% pay cut and left Sacramento no alternative –they got cut down to minimum wage. On 7/16/10, Arnold reversed that decision.
Help Us, Help To Free Molly Kilgore ….. Please?
In the earlier stories I shared of Helen & Louise, I imagine you found it upsetting.. If so, Molly Kilgore‘s plight should be equally upsetting, however it is not too late to help her gain a second chance. After all, wouldn‘t we all want one?
Molly Kilgore was sentenced in 1979 at the age of twenty, to 7 years-to-life. I was in the ninth grade that year. The average person would assume that by 1985 at her earliest possible release date, she‘d have been paroled. That is not the case. Since 1985, she has had 14 Parole Suitability Hearings, having been found suitable by a court of law in 2005 and finally once by the Parole Board in December 2010. As mentioned before, Proposition 89 grants the governor the power to reverse the Parole Board‘s suitability finding, and that‘s just what Schwarzenegger did recently.
Molly has served 31 years on a 7-years-to-life sentence. She is 51 years old and still fighting for her freedom 27 years past her legal matrix release date. The Board gave her hope for a real New Year when they found her suitable on December 30, 2009. She had hope for a new life ….. a second chance. Arnold however, with absolutely no training in the law, burst her bubble in June 2010 by not agreeing with the findings of his hand picked Parole Board.
There are various excuses that the Board and governor tend to use to deny parole. The most common one is the heinow act of the crime. While the law reads that they are to judge us according to our prison record, they still get away with putting us on trial every single time we appear before them. Again, I will state the obvious: We cannot change our pasts or our crimes. We can only change ourselves to become better people that can fit within the norms of a collective society. In her 2009 hearing, they finally didn‘t hold an inquisition in the death of her victim. They judged her on her records she clearly had been rehabilitated.
Do you want to know why Arnold denied Molly parole? It is the very same obstacle most lifers can‘t hurdle. She didn‘t have employment plans arranged in writing and confirmed for the Board. May I remind you that this is not easy in a stable economy, let alone this one we are facing now? Most employers require a job interview, and well, you‘re supposed to go to them for that, not them coming to prison to do it. They also need to know when you can start, but you won‘t know that answer until you are actually released. Unless you have family or a friend in a position to hold a job open for you indefinitely, this is a catch-22. Employers won‘t grant you a job unless you will be released, and the Board & Governor require you to have a job before you can be released. It‘s almost impossible.
The Board was completely satisfied with Molly‘s many resources for houseing, community support and outreach. They were impressed by the support of both custody & civilian staff at the prison, her vocational skills, accomplishments in the Educational Department, and her ability to adapt and work in unison where ever the prison officials placed her. She‘s been write-up free since 1989, yet they did manage to throw that in her face (although she‘s maintained disciplinary-free for nineteen years!) Do you have any idea how hard that is to do in a place like this? She has an exemplary C-file of progress and achievement reports. Molly has proven that change is possible. Although the prison has continued to cut educational, shelf-help, and just about every rehabilitation option and resource we need, Molly Kilgore has persevered. Even with less, she‘s done more.
I‘m asking that you do three things. First, write a letter in support of her release, using many things I already mentioned in this piece to support your request of consideration. Second, send a copy directly to Molly and one to her counselor listed at end of this piece. And third, visit a petition web site set-up for Molly in support of her release. As of mid-July, there were 69 signatures on her petition.
If each of you signs that petition, we can almost double that! E-mail this newsletter to others who may be interested, and let‘s get more people aware of the politics of prison and parole policy.
Molly Kilgore is one of the women at CCWF that is deserving of a second chance. Society could benefit from her release. So far, it has cost California over two million dollars to keep Molly incarcerated past her legal release date. When is enough ……. enough?
Mail letter to:
Molly Kilgore Central CA Women‘s Facility
W14177 514-05-3L Attn. CCI BRADFORD
P.O. Box 1508 P.O. Box 1501
Chowchilla, CA 93610 Chowchilla, CA 93610
Web site: www.thepetitionsite.com/1/Free-Molly_Kilgore-31-years-is-enough
From The Heart
„Hear counsel, receive instruction, and accept correction, that you may be wise in the time to come.“ – proverbs 19:20
When I came to prison I had a chip on my shoulder. I was mad at everything, especially the legal system. I had to deal with anger issues, my past, and really poor judgement. There are a lot of younger lifers coming in here and it‘s the older lifers who try to exercise a service that advise the Proverb above. We reach some, we lose some to peer mentality, but in the end we simply do our part to keep things less hectic and help the youngsters get started on the road ahead. It is what others did for us, and we keep the cycle going. I‘m not so angry anymore. I needed counsel, correction and instruction.
So I say from the heart to you: Thank you for your part in the long process. It‘s been a journey; a learning experience. And it still is.
Namasté
T.C. & Mama ´P´
T.C. Paulinkonis Barbara Paulinkonis
W45118 514-16-4U W45120 514-16-4L
P.O. Box 1508 P.O. Box 1508
Chowchilla, CA 93610 Chowchilla, CA 93610
Girl in Translation by Jean Kwok
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Dear One and All in my world.
the recent sentencing of seven imprisoned Baha’i leaders in Iran, impels me to place on my personal blog a request that anyone and everyone who is able or willing to write to the repreentative of their congressional district and to their senators about the unjust sentences of 20 years. We seek humanity’s assistance.
Background information and updates about this situation are available at http://iran.bahai.us and http://news.bahai.org. We, the Baha’is in my area (San Gabriel Valley, California, USA) are enlisting the support of our friends and co-workers, as well as other faith communities and civic organizations, to take whatever actions within their power to shine a spotlight on the Irananian government’s behavior. We respectfully suggest that one should never underestimate the effect their words can have in making the Iranian authorities aware they cannot violate basic standards of international human rights unseen by a watchful world.
For thos who can support this cause, please know that it will bring solace and comfort to the hearts of the long-suffering Iranian Baha’is.
You can find who your senators and congressional representatives are by visiting http://www.usa.gov/Contact/Elected.shtml.
Below is a suggested example of a letter to write to an official. Gratitude to all who care and let us hope some day the oneness of humankind will be a reality and suffering of all the peoples will be a thing of the past.
Dear Senator ___?___/Representative___?___,
The Baha’is of Iran have been subject to religious persecution and
execution for the past thirty years at the hands of the Islamic
Republic regime of Iran. Recently the Islamic Republic court
sentenced seven innocent former Baha’i leaders to twenty years of
imprisonment each – a total of 140 years. These seven innocent
Baha’is have already been in prison for over two years awaiting trial.
The flagrantly unjust sentence has provoked vehement protest from
governments throughout the world – including Australia, Canada,
France, Germany, the Netherlands, the U.K. and the U.S.A. Most
recently, U.S. Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton issued a
statement condemning the sentence and reaffirming that the American
government has not forgotten the beleaguered Baha’is of Iran. The
following is a link to Clinton’s recent statement:
http://www.state.gov/secretary/rm/2010/08/145953.htm
I urge you to take whatever actions are within your power to shine a
spotlight on the Iranian government’s gravely unjust behavior. Your
words and actions will have a powerful effect in making the Iranian
authorities aware that they cannot violate basic standards of
international human rights concealed from a watchful world.
Background information and updates about the situation are available
at http://iran.bahai.us and http://news.bahai.org.
Your words of support will bring comfort and solace to the hearts of
the long-suffering Iranian Bahá’ís, the American Baha’i community and
human rights advocates all over the world who keep watch with these
innocent prisoners.
Sincerely,
___?___
Little Bee by Chris Cleave
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I feel as if an ocean roared through my being, and I’ll never be the same. Outstanding novel, incredible writing. A must
Caucasia by Danzy Senna
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Danzy Senna is an incredible writer; her prose is very tight and descriptive involved with motion, either external or internal. The subject matter is profound, and I heard her read a week or so ago at the California Pacific Modern Art Museum – they have a reader’s series. She was a Stanford undergradute and a UCIrvine MFA student; their program is excellent, and her craft is top notch and her subject race, so profoundly handled, all dimensions were fabulous. I also read her other book Where Did You Sleep Last night; very good; as I said, her writing is incredible. This is a must read from my point of view. Boy, do I wish her well!
Why I like wonderfully written books, such as Tatjana Soli’s The Lotus Eaters (St. Martin’s Press)
From The Lotus Eaters, a novel, by Tatjana Soli
“They drove the empty, hacked roads, dust flying like a long sail of sheer red silk behind them, hanging suspended in the coppery sky. (p. 51)
This is what happened when one left one’s home—pieces of oneself scattered all over the world, no one place every completely satisfied, always a nostalgia for the place left behind. Pieces of her in Vietnam, some in this place of bone. She brought the letter to her nose. The smell of Vietnam: a mix of jungle and wetness and spices and rot. A smell she hadn’t realized she missed. P. 277″
The Lotus Eaters by Tatjana Soli
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Compelling, brilliant, literary acumen dazzling! wonderful I am going to follow this author!
A Time to Betray by Reza Kahlili
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
This was a hard book to read, and I have read a goodly amount about Evin prison, and a man who was Persian born, and a hostage, an an American citizen working in Tehran at the time of the Hostage Crisis in Iran. He asked me to write his book. I was too new of a writer to do so. He has since passed.
Most people know there are 7 Baha’is in Evin right now, and much has been written of them. In fact the journalist who was freed (Roxanne Saberi) writes about them also in her book. This book (A Time to Betray) was hard, because the suffering was immense, the brutality so real, and his mission so gripping, and I as a reader was always worried for his safety and the wellbeing of all people in his country.
The hand of fate will simply visit those who torture others, and we in this generation cannot know when or how, and it isn’t with vengeance I comment so; it’s just that nothing we do goes unnoticed in a higher dimension.
I think the book it a must in that it gives tremendous insights into the suffering of the ordinary citizens of Iran and yet the heroic acts of some. My heart goes out to all who suffer.
My cousin, Keliher Walsh, and her husband, James Eckhouse are in this play. We are going June 6th matinee
Theater review: ‘Behind the Gates’ at Marilyn Monroe Theatre
May 21, 2010 | 6:30 am
An extraordinary monologue opens “Behind the Gates,” Wendy Graf’s passionate if soapy cautionary tale about religious extremism, now at the Lee Strasberg Creative Center.
Pierced rebel Bethany (Annika Marks) stomps on stage, furious at her privileged parents (Keliher Walsh and James Eckhouse), who send her to Israel to shape up. As the teenager recounts her growing fascination with Jerusalem’s ancient ways, Bethany begins to shed her jeans and Goth style, gradually donning the clothes of an Orthodox woman — a powerful conversion sequence.
Approached by an ostensibly sympathetic rabbi (Oren Rehany), Bethany is drawn into the secretive world of the Haredi sect, which enforces public segregation of the sexes and extreme modesty. Her desperate parents come looking for her, only to find themselves in a labyrinth of languages, beliefs and exile.
Played out on Stephanie Kerley Schwartz’s set of stone columns and sheer curtains, David Gautreaux’s staging has a minimalist elegance occasionally at odds with the style of the play, which mixes the tropes of a Lifetime movie with journalistic clarity. What ultimately resonates in this Hatikva Productions drama is the fierce hunger of an adoptee searching for her true home.
– Charlotte Stoudt
“Behind the Gates” Marilyn Monroe Theatre at the Lee Strasberg Creative Center, 7936 Santa Monica Blvd., West Hollywood. 8 p.m. Fridays and Saturdays, 2 p.m. Sundays. Ends July 3. $25. Contact: (323) 960-5772 or www.Plays411.com/Gates Running time: 2 hours, 10 minutes.
Images: Keliher Walsh, left, Annika Marks and James Eckhouse. Photo credit Ed Krieger.
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The Man From Saigon by Marti Leimbach
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Incredibly well written, gripping, mesmerizing, literary, fantastic; i guess that means I liked the book. Superb writing, difficult subject, and wonderful point of view – woman journalist is protagonist. At any rate a friend in book club recommended it, and we are glad she did. We fell in love with the book!
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Lovely, lovely writing; References Alzheimer’s as “brain plaques and fibrillary tangles,” “strands caught in knots.” Her style is wonderfully literary, yet compelling about sisters, mother, and grandmother’s return to China for a trip; and relationships and lives so differently lived. Philosophical observations keenly observed, choices of women, foward pull and backward pull, one’s place within the generations and the society. Wonderful read.
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
A page turner regarding dog and man; the dearness of it, the struggle, and good for me to read of a pit bull in friendly terms. wonderful read!
Wow, what a weekend. Saturday went to a Cluster Reflection Meeting in Altadena, held in the loveliest of homes; very user friendly to large crowds. Great people, great conversation, basically we Baha’is encourage each other to contribute to humanity’s well being; and that plays out into children’s classes, devotionals, etc. We don’t do this to “make Baha’is,” but just to contribute to the ongoing advancement of the society and the individual, which includes us totally.
Devotionals are usually with lots of writings from other Faith Traditions, music, and then conversation about concepts. we had so many diverse points of view last night at a friends and the food then was luscious. different people who didn’t know each other found they had a lot in common. It was sort of a 6 degrees of separation type of thing.
Today we heard Judge Dorothy Nelson come and give a report; she was our delegate to the Baha’i National Convention. again, such an atmosphere of love and knowledge in the room. Wonderful. Also had great book club meeting; we discussed The Man From Saigon and I can’t remember author’s name. The writing was superb! We all brought something to eat, had brunch, tremendous conversation and divergent views about the book. Everyone liked it; but our points of view naturally differ because of our different lifestyles.
I don’t have a lot to say, but think despite all the heaviness in the world, and the utter crippling acts of some, there are many hearts and souls who work for the well-being of humanity, from all ranks, religions, traditions, and this weekend, there was evidence of this. We truly are one! Have a good week everyone!
My friend Pili Pili Saka who is on my blog roll is prolific. There’s a sort of cool breeze to his thoughts, his prose, and I find myself admiring his mind a great deal. He wrote about Salvation, and I had been at a discussion regarding that same term last night; not the literal, cause hackles on the neck arise, type of discussion, and then he discussed north and south, and in this case Africa, calling to my mind the different young authors of incredible talent I have written, one of whom wrote about Biafra – north and south, and then finally the tennis balls Pili Pili speaks of call to mind a piece I wrote after my twin’s passing. So I offer it here:
Lobbing
wimbledon plays, bop, pop, british accents
i sorrow for a twinging tooth
wimbledon plays, bop, pop, british accents
a back tooth like an old couch waiting for Goodwill
sorrow was two weeks ago standing in front of
my twin’s coffin, she in her blue bridal dress of old
me, alive, sorrowing for the little girl on a tricycle
sorrowing for her life of dripping Rorschach ink
wimbledon plays, bop, pop, british accents
sorrow has gone up like a balloon on a helium sortie
wimbledon plays, bop, pop, british accents
thwatting away epic events tumbling through and around
the people on the earth’s stage
order, thwats, pops, bops, all metronome-like
in their reassurance, the steadied beat of routine
comfort, sorrow, joy, laughter, anger, all runs together
wimbledon plays, bop, pop, british accents
Dear Blog Reader,
I tend to publish items about pug dogs, writing classes, stuff I’ve written, other writers, and always quips of book reviews sneak in every now and then. Last year I found my blog had themes of spirituality and pugs, and the pugs were edging ahead. It may very well be this year, thoughts from Baha’i individuals, institutions, artists, and whomever may appear more on these pages.
the world is complex to say the least, and yet a lot of people say about the Baha’is, “They’re always so happy,” and yes, when we get together, there’s a collective joy and renewal from being with friends, like-minded people, community builders from the greater community.
I became a Baha’i about 45 years ago, and outwardly I looked like an airline stewardess and was probably a little lippy too. Underneath tho, I was scared, ruled by underlying anxieties. Transformation came slowly, some patches in my life were incredibly arduous, and I bless every moment. I am at the point where my favorite quote from the Baha’i Writings is, “Nothing save that which profiteth them shall befall My loved ones.” I believe that quote applies to all of humanity, and that we’ve finally achieved the status in the world of a toe step into the circle of Coming of Age. With that in mind, I’d like to humbly offer a paragraph quoted from our recent letter To the Baha’is of the Word, from our international governing body, The Universal House of Justice. It concerns all of us. The message really addresses all of humanity:
“Baha’u'llah’s Revelation is vast. It calls for profound change not only
at the level of the individual but also in the structure of society. “Is not
the object of every Revelation”, He Himself proclaims, “to effect a
transformation in the whole character of mankind, a transformation that shall
manifest itself, both outwardly and inwardly, that shall affect both its inner
life and external conditions?” The work advancing in every corner of the globe
today represents the latest stage of the ongoing Baha’i endeavour to create the
nucleus of the glorious civilization enshrined in His teachings, the building
of which is an enterprise of infinite complexity and scale, one that will
demand centuries of exertion by humanity to bring to fruition. There are no
shortcuts, no formulas. Only as effort is made to draw on insights from His
Revelation, to tap into the accumulating knowledge of the human race, to apply
His teachings intelligently to the life of humanity, and to consult on the
questions that arise will the necessary learning occur and capacity be
developed.”
Stay wonderful…..esther
The sky I was born under indicated the Angels were planning a Rumble. This is, of course, if you were to ask our housekeeper Rita, who when we had thunderstorms, told us “The angels are moving furniture.”
My twin and I were born August 28, 1938, and she was robust and I was more squirrel like. But, I’ve nattered on about that before. What threatened in the future for my father and mother and the neighborhood of West Roxbury’s small houses where Protestants and Catholics shared the streets of Oriole, Wren, and gossiped about Tarzan the man who swung naked through the trees at the very top of Wren Street, near the water tower.
We were born, entered a family already a bit intense, my brother, then my sister within the next year, and then the next year, Liz and I. I think I fattened up, a phrase one would only welcome in our narcissistic world when one is a baby and four pounds at that. After 7, years and pounds, consciousness enters slowly.
I probably got home, and cuddled up to my chubby twin, and the Great Hurricane of 1938 struck and smashed and just in general had the biggest weather hissy this generation of neighborhood dwellers had experienced. Electricity was out. People washed clothes with washers and wringers, and hung diapers out on a clothesline. Making formula was highly more complicated and I think they went thru at lest 180 diapers a week. Gives “doing a load of washing, “new heroic tones.
Well, in the meantime, my father who graduated from Harvard in economics was out of work, and within six months after the 1938 War of the Winds and Howling Furniture, shadows of illness struck us, the twins, the babies, and we came down with whooping cough, a serious disease in babies. Children’s Hospital would foot the bill and get us better, and my father was always eternally grateful.
A year later, well a month and a year later, World War II started by Nazi invasions and this would lead to a seriousness of tone, a heaviness, and eventually to our peeing in the dark because of blackout curtains, our jumping on cans to flatten them, my mom smoking my father’s pipe after closing the drapes so the neighbors couldn’t see, and then Pearl Harbor Day where my mom thought my Uncle Tom had died. He had been transferred from one sub to another, and since he was in charge, he scooted his sub out to the middle of the ocean and stayed out, thus my mother’s grief was short. It was a complicated time, a time of innocence, slogans, and unawareness, particularly regarding race and religion.
I would grow up to the sounds of clashing pan tops when Roosevelt died; what can I say — we were the only insensitive Republicans in the neighborhood.
I remember no sounds when Miss Flaherty swept between the school desks in third grade and shook me and shook me because I didn’t know 8 x 7 – which now gentle reader, I will tell you is 56. I remember the sound of Liz crying in 4th grade; okay, okay, we were late bloomers, when the principal came into the classroom and said, “How many people still believe in Santa Clause? And Liz and I were the 2 who raised their hands, and he stilettoed that belief to pieces on a schoolroom floor.
I remember the sounds of my mother’s feet lurching down the stairs announcing, “They’ve electrocuted the Rosenberg’s,” and she was crying, and then the sounds of Chopin, her favorite composer, and his compositions and her hitting the piano keys with an alcoholic force in the middle of the night.
These are some images that shaped our lives. When we lived in Dnepropetrovsk in 1990, I felt as if we had traveled back in time, to the 40s and some of the sounds and sights seemed familiar. To Bill it was the bluing of laundry and stiff sheets starched and ironed, the beating of rugs flung over clotheslines and being whopped every Saturday.
I like sounds and memories.
- The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this:
>
> A human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him … a
> touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy
> is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is
> death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering
> necessity to create, create, create — so that without the creating
> of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his
> very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out
> creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really
> alive unless he is creating. ~ Pearl S. Buck, novelist, Nobel
> laureate (1892-1973)
When I was a young girl, I discovered Pearl Buck’s The Good Earth, and then I went on to read all of her books. Since an early age, I read everything an author says. Last week or so her name came up, and I forget the context, but I discovered Anchee Min’s latest book is about Pearl – a fiction book. Some critics say not as good as Anchee Min’s previous books which are cliffhangers, but anything she writes I read, and I was so glad to. It sounded so accurate.
At any rate, I think Pearl Buck probably changed or added immensely to my life as I think we are hungry for other lives, insights, and in essence, we feel as if we are that person – oneness through literature.
A few years ago, a friend said in an email, “This is you,” and then the above quote was imbedded in my email. I felt an immense relief. I am in the last chapters with much creativity and contributions ahead, but I remember my younger days of emotional pain, of therapy, tests, struggles, now knowing who I really was.
I think we all go through that forming journey; the who am I, and in our later years, we are answered, and think, “aah that’s it.” At any rate, I used to cringe that I was so sensitive. I wished I simply could not feel as much. People talked about getting in touch with their feelings, and I was trying to stifle them; they were too much.
Still time and writing, and a spiritual path, mine being the Baha’i Faith, where I firmly believe we walk the mystical path with practical feet, a path which has carved me out in order that love for others may fill me, a path of constant change. I no longer experience that twisting pain of feeling as if inwardly I felt my heart was a bruised peach pit; I have gained insights, clarity, a voice, more laughter, and it’s all a dance in one way. Still I cannot tell you how solaced and how solaced I still am by this quote of Pearl Buck’s. It gives relief to the DNA which is standing still thinking will epigenetics reveals its stamp. Luckily it has, but I know so little.
It’s exciting to have experienced a lot, learned a lot, and still always on the edge of knowing and learning; I sense epigenetics is one of my next themes.
I discovered this wonderful young lady by trotting thru Facebook today, and a friend had posted her site:
http://www.kickstarter.com/e/fjl0c/projects/brina/reggae-singer-brina-needs-to-mix-and-release-her-d
All I can say, is try it, you’ll like it, and I hope she makes her deadline!
Reader, I am prompts person this week for CHPercolator for Writers and I must admit they were a little odd, gave me pause, so here’s what i wrote to my own prompts (using all of them) go to Yahoo’s CHPercolatorforWriters:
But I don’t think of blood. I thought this was the German blog and that CHPerc
was for Maxwell House devotees reunions. I had a difficult relationship with my
blood when I first got my sainted St. Jude Plastic Heart Valve. But now,
because I did a quick intake of breath on my first conscious awareness of a
foreign object ticking noticeably in my heart area in 1995, and with that breath
said, “Welcome. If you weren’t there as a full fledged aortic valve, I shudder
to think in what condition I might be.
For instance, I’m happy now to know my innards carry a never ending series of
light rail cars or trains, and that besides my inner mind’s landscape which has
traffic jams and nettling long lights, my physiological system is up and
running. Toot. Toot, Not only like a train system, maybe it’s like a river.
Now there’s a river, and I see ,,,,, oh bollocks, off track again.
Well the big thing in my young life is imagining my brain as three sloppy scoops
of ice cream. I mean I think they’d be on a cone, not a flaky little square
think that looks like it got manufactured at the dollar store, no my cone would
be like an urn, large and wide at the top; with flaky waffle imprints all around
it, down to its pointy, pointy bottom. The NPR guy said “3 scoops of ice cream
cone,” and that you could think of these scoops as your brain.
Does this mean my brain drips, sags, spills, stains? What I do know is I could
make them different flavors. Frog could be solid chocolate, firm, foundational,
and the middle scoop Reptile could be Praline and Vanilla, sort of twisty, the
praline would gently touch the top one Squirrel which would be plain Vanilla
with chocolate chips, stored by Squirrel, ever conscious that it doesn’t always
live in Pasadena and it must plan and save ahead.
Finally, the something or other bellum surrounds this cone of magnificent
splendor. I’d name my ice creams, not Frog, Reptile, or Squirrel, but imagine
them as pet names, like Stinky, Inky and Winky, or Sluggo at the bottom, Nancy
in between, and Ferret on the top.
All of which makes me wonder about the abandoned tunnels of my mind, nothing but
loose cabooses of railway cars shooting through, not stopping. Oh dear.
When I was much younger, I used to shuffle along the streets of Boston, scuffing autumn leaves, keeping my trench coat, wrapped tight around my west, and my head was always bent towards the ground. Years later, I saw the film Housekeeping, I think, based on Marilyn Robinson’s novel which was excellent. The characters, two sisters, walked the same way. One chose life and growth and staying in a town after their mother committed suicide, and the other chose traveling with her aunt, hopping trains, vagabonding, in an era, when you could still get away with it. Did I mention, they both walked with their heads down.
When we lived in Ukraine and Belarus, my head bent down, and a hump emerged right below my neck because we carried so many heavy things. The Russian way of carrying heavy stuff, is one person on the left carries on handle, and the person on the right, carries that handle. We schlepped to railway stations, busways, trolley cars. There’s a joke that on Women’s Day, which is highly observed and beautiful (the streets are filled with people carrying all colors of tulips), on Women’s Day women get to keep one hand and arm free and only have to walk carrying stuff with that arm. We would roar with laughter when we heard that.
Jokes were funny there. Someone sitting around a small kitchen with you, having some chai (tea) would point to a poster on the wall of glossy fruit, bananas and particularly red apples, and say in a deadpan voice, “We have food in our museums and in our posters,” but not in real life. In real life we have cockroaches.” And we would yuck and slap our knees and then I the table.
Look up is something I think of when a very wise man said, “If things are going contrary to what you wanted, don’t worry. Keep your eye on the horizon,” and things will get better. At least that’s my hope.
Today at the end of the day, i hadn’t taken my more demand walk, so I threw my backpack on and toddled down the street towards Ten Thousand Villages and bought a mother’s day gift for Jessica’s mom. Then I walked out the door and saw Laura was there. We hugged and chatted and then i walked.
Well I’ve seen Woody Woodpecker cartoons, cobbled together my life and eaten
some cobblers and love the sound of “cobble, cobbles, cobbles.” I am
co-operative, but am I a Co-operative, but wait when I was 21 (when the earth
was young and you could still see primordial bubbles from your back porch) an
attorney I worked for gave me a Charles Addams Wednesday doll, and he bought it
from the Harvard Coop or Co-op, and it was a Christmas gift becuz I was his
secretary, and I went flying around all floors of the firm, ecstatic to show my
gift.
I was more manic then. Life has honed my psyche down, and upped my physical
presence, i.e., I have a bigger shadow on the sidewalk. Question of the day;
“Does my shadow look fat”?
Answer that question, and like a cultural sleuth that you are, you can
determine, country of origin, and maybe which coast, the left or right the
original questioner lives, or the best coast some people say. No, a duck will
not come out of the ceiling, but you will feel the satisfaction of knowing, and
maybe identifying silly clues, all the while as your derriere goes by a Ross
Dress for Less Window, and you note your nose was ahead of you a good city
block.
Does Ann of Green Gables qualify? Many a Gable makes a gobble and one could
cobble those phrases together if one wanted to bore the hell out of next weeks
respondees to prompts, so one won’t.
But I’ve never played Polo.
Now the perfect man is another matter. I have Old Friends, new friends, young
friends, weird friends (the best) and all manner of friends; I have a husband
who is the perfect man for me, notice the small letters, no initial caps for
this guy, but he’s an earthly being who sometimes I want to wrap around the
pole, but then I remember my own looming eccentricities and feel gratitude
instead; so he’s my perfect man, and we have one bed and two coffees which he
bring to me every morning, no he doesn’t bring the bed, but the coffee.
And so as the sun beams into my right eyeball, and I am late for a doctor’s
appointment with the Perfect Man, and I am in my imperfect flannel, plaid,
green, black, purple nightshirt, I will escape this cobbled rambling and slither
hither and thither into the day.
From http://www.binaryturf.com/the-blog-of-a-twice-fired-techy/
5 things every aspiring blogger must know about blogging
Are you sure you know these? There’s a lot you’ll learn as a blogger. You’ll get to research on your niche and topics. You’ll get to experiment with your ad placement. But you need to know these 5 things before you take to the blogging way.
- Blogging is not a quick way to make money – No matter how much you’ve heard someone rant about making quick money with blogging, you’d be lucky to earn .01 cent in the first few days of firing up your blog. It will take you long time before you reach one dollar a day. Make sure you are prepared for it and get rid of illusions.
- Blogging is not an easy way to make money – If someone tells you its easy to blog, think again. You need to research on the niche, your topic. You have to make it sell and make people buy your ideas. It will be a challenge to strike a chord with your visitors and it will be a challenge to make sense with your blog. You’ll need pictures for your posts, you’ll make mistakes and learn from them over time. Not easy.
- You don’t have to be an expert on a subject to blog about it – My friend just shrugged it off – “I don’t know a thing about that subject”. Well you don’t need to. You have to be willing to learn and share your learnings.
- Bloggers don’t compete – This is the best thing I learnt from blogging. There are millions of blogs out there. Given that, there are too many blogs on any given niche. But blogs don’t compete neither do the bloggers. Every person knows different things about any given subject. Just like two fine-art graduates have different knowledge and different experession. People don’t stop subscribing to a technology blog because they are already subscribed to another. There’s no competition – only the visibility plays the big role. You have to make a mark with your uniqueness and style.
- You don’t have to blog yourself – Most of the bloggers making big bucks don’t necessarily do their own thing. They hire people to write for them. As your blog grows in popularity over time, the returns outdo the investment you make into content creation. This gave birth to blog networks where the bloggers can join and work for a blog network which can pay them a salary. If you don’t make a penny with your blog, write for a big blogger and get paid. And if you have a blog that earns you big bucks, you can set it to auto mode – hire someone to write a post daily and pay them back.
What have you learnt about blogging?
Readers check this out. I am outstanding and joyous at the fertility and unexpected
twists and turns of the artistic mind!
