Lately, well for the last decade anyway, I have been surrounding myself with other artisans. Partly because I am insecure about my art. And partly because it’s nice to be among others with similar interests. I think creative types all do that. So for my mind, it seems as though there are more creative types now than at any time before. There are more ways to be a writer, or an artist, now than there have been. I firmly believe this is because the human mind is constantly expanding. At this period in time we have less to contend with for survival. Convenient grocery stores mean that the skills needed for survival are different than even what was needed a century ago.
So since we have more time that isn’t devoted to survival, we can be creative. There was a line in one of The Earth’s Children books (written by Jean M. Auel)… and now that I go looking for that exact line, I can’t find it. Anyway, the gist of the line was that the reason that beads and artistry were signs of status were because of how much time a single bead took to make. That was time that wasn’t devoted to gathering of food and shelter resources. In our society there is less need for hunting and gathering. So we as a species still have that mindset. Since there is enough time for the unnecessary making of art, then we are doing well. So we hold the artist and the storyteller in high regard because of this.
Elizabeth chapter one
To whoever may find this,
I realize I was fairly naive. I believed the world would change for me. I thought I would be able to do anything. I know better now. I should have known then. I ask that you reserve your judgments until my tale is finished. It is the year of our lord fourteen ninety-eight. I had thought that in the reign of Henry the VII that England would be civilized. I was born to a noble house and having always had plenty of money. I never abused my wealth, Tis against my nature. I was simply myself, nothing more.
I started healing various ailments. Having a small talent for herbal craft, but having little patience for the training the doctors went through. The idea of using leeches disgusted me. The church endorsed their use, thus it became the accepted way to deal with all illness, but I did not see where it helped some of the ill at all. I oft healed those the doctor’s thought to be hopeless . Simple herbal remedies that brought comfort to the ailing and aged. Arthritis to madness, there was no one I would not treat. And I expected naught in return. If I had paid heed to the tongues that wagged, I would have been prepared. I gave freely to the poor and to the wretched. I spent much time with the ill and insane. I spoke of acceptance to those who had sinned. For why would God not forgive, when it is what was promised?
My father begged me to hold my tongue about such matters. He said my flaming hair would garner accusations and my shrewish tongue would prove them. I was beautiful then, of this I have no doubt. Though then it mattered so little. Vanity was not a sin I have ever committed. Most of the accused committed no other crime than that. A lord’s daughter should not be so reckless. I suppose now I should have heard clearer what he said. You understand, of course, I knew it all then. I had no shame, only pride.
I ignored the witch hunters. I was no witch, so I saw no need to pay them mind. The whispers around town were of torture and of evil things being done to the accused; the whispers spoke of jealousies and false accusations as well. None of this touched me, It should have. The accusation was made a week ago. I assumed the wealth and power my father had would free me or the magistrate would dismiss on the clear fact that it was nonsense. When the hunters came, I was unafraid. I stood up against the mob and the jeers. For what could hurt me? I had the truth, and I had God. I would soon find out how little that was.
I was stripped of all my clothes and belongings. I was allowed no modesty. Nor any comfort was I given. I was even denied all traces of humanity. The magistrate and his helpers searched for the mark of the beast that would prove me false. A mark that did not ever exist. They looked for a symbol or a brand, even a mole or blemish. I am sure any mark would have sufficed. For this would prove their accusations, at least in the eyes of the court. I did not cry then. The exam was embarrassing and long. I was made to stand the entire time. I was pinched and poked. Then prodded with cold metal to see that I yet bled. Yet, even then I was unafraid. I was stretched on a rack and told to admit myself the witch. I was left for hours pulled taught and in pain. I would not lie. My jailers refused to believe anything I said. The days got worse as each passed. I found torture to be too kind a description for the cruelty I endured. Forced to endure thumbscrews, and hot pincers that left me weak. I have felt the health flee me as the days have gone on. For the last two days I found myself left alone with my thoughts. That was the worst of torments, as it can easily drive one mad. I was given naught except moldy bread and dirty water every evening. After a time I ate, and was thankful for it.
As the seventh day dawns, I find fear in my heart and prayers on my lips. I have never broken the covenant with God nor man, but find that my death approaches faster than I ever thought it would. I write this on the parchment left for my confession, one I will write naught. Although I do suppose it will be seen as such regardless. My flaming hair hangs matted now, as bathing has not been allowed me. I fear the filth has caused fever to set in. I hear whispers at night of a young man’s voice. The voice speaks of possibilities and freedom. I am sure the voice is a sign that my mind is cracking, or my will breaking. Either way, I cannot remain here.
Come the dawn I will try escape, and perhaps the voices who whisper of aid they will lend me are more than just my fever speaking. Either that or the attempt will mean my life; it will be an ending to my torment. I pray god is with me.
Elizabeth
Hope belied(not sure on the title)
The wind whispered through the slim gaps at the windows edge. So much of her struggle couldn’t be explained. She couldn’t put the pain and emotion into clear words. Even having survived this far, she continued to be surprised by all life threw at her. “Time to pull yourself together!” She thought. “He’ll be here soon. Decision time!” Oh, how she hated the life changing choices.
Dating a truck driver meant either long periods alone or choosing to ride with. In her mind both options sounded awful. Her love for him was certain, everything else felt like a lava pit she was suspended above. So as her lover knocked on the motel door, she knew she would go. In many ways, it felt like she had nothing to leave behind. She opened the door, letting him in. Quick hugs made the shadow of doubt fade. No one understood what she saw in him. He was just tall enough to allow her head to rest comfortably on his shoulders. His unruly red curls seemed to wrap around her heart. The strength in his arms when he wrapped her in them, made her feel delicate and feminine. Which is something she had never felt. He understood her quirks. He made her laugh.
Though she still didn’t know what he saw in her, she knew she would go. The details were quickly handled. With the dawn her new adventure would begin. A far greater adventure than anyone could ever know. He told her the truck had been handling strangely. He really wasn’t sure why. The engine was a advanced prototype. He was being paid more to test the engine than most truck drivers ever see. “Our first stop needs to be a special shop, so I can have it checked out.” He spoke distracted as he helped her climb into the rig for the first time.
Climbing into the big truck for the first time scared her. At five two she was used to being under most things, in the truck she felt like she was flying over everything.
*authors note: this is only on it’s first draft. Constructive criticism is welcome, but trolling is not.
Just something i noticed
My smallest entry so far seems to be 147 words. I haven’t been aiming for any word count. Each entry has only been as long as was needed to cover the topic. Word count is an issue i have in writing stories. Even though i self publish, i want to feel my readers are getting their monies worth. However i always have to go back and add details. I seem to end up short changing the story in word count. So my edits are Always additional details. Writing for this blog is strengthening my skills and becoming quite fun, quite quickly.
Anxiety
Okay, now for a overdone topic. There are so many blogs out there talking about anxiety… perhaps because as a culture we have over the last century become more and more anxious. Admittedly, I am not immune. It keeps me up thinking. However, I try not to feed it. I imagine anxiety as a terrible beast with sharp claws and way too many teeth. It follows me, waiting for the weakness to take hold. Waiting till I am so weary, that I rest. We all must rest occasionally. Then the beast tears into me, stealing my breath. Causing my mind to immerse in paranoid wanderings. Causing fear to take hold. Most of the time the fear is manageable, as is the self doubt. It’s always there, but perhaps I am better at pushing it down. For me, the beast called anxiety takes my power to push away.
Art
This is a touchy subject for me. I have to write, I want to draw. I am not sure I have talent at as many art forms as I enjoy trying. I know I am a talented poet. However my prose is occasionally flawed. And though it’s improving, my drawing is amateur at best. My photography is often out of focus. My crafting has often got major flaws.
All that having been said, I don’t let it stop me. I do not nor likely will I need my art to make a living. My art is for my pleasure, and only for that. I share so I can get opinions. So I can attempt to learn and improve. Practice is how my drawing has improved. I honestly think too many restrictions are placed upon art. It’s all good… just not all good to everyone. Difference is what makes us unique. Without the diversity that comes from various talents, art would not grow. So yes, my talents aren’t as outreaching as my desire to create…. but I never said they were. Constructive criticism accepted… all others move along.
Abuelas
I’m going to start with a topic that is fairly easy, and close to my heart. Abuelas…aka grandmother’s. I have been blessed in mine. One could say i had four. My mom’ s mother, my daddy’s mother, my stepdad’s mom, and the kind lady who refused to be anything but grandma brown.
To be Frank, I only remember her kindness and her kitchen. She was there for my mom and I when i was extremely young. Three years old to six. So some of my first memories were of her. She taught my mom how to cook. I know she died, but I remember her telling us not to visit her grave. She used to say if we couldn’t visit her in life, then we weren’t welcome in death.
Grandma Ethel, my mom’s mother, was a very complex woman. One of the strongest I have ever known. It’s from her I have my love of reading. She loved me unconditionally. She was a natural born story teller. I still repeat some of her stories… she used to work in hospitals as an admission clerk. Well the ambulance brought in a drunk recovered from an accident. The staff got him awake, and he started looking around. “Where is Bob? ” He asked getting more and more agitated. The ambulance went back and found Bob. They get them together, only to have both men start asking for Steve. So this time before the return to the scene, the emt’s asked how many there were. Five total men. None were really harmed by the crash, which wrapped the car around a tree. All were drunk. Turns out the reason for the crash? All five were asleep in the back seat at the time.
However, for all that I loved her, she was a stubborn person. She literally could burn water. She had broken her back three times, had to have it fused five. So she was often cranky because she was in so much pain. She crotcheted, knitted, sewed, did cross stitch and plastic canvas. She loved old movies and British comedies. She was everything to me. I know i was a disappointment to her, but I never doubted her love for me.
Grandma Harris, my daddy’s mom, was old fashioned and strict. She and I really didn’t get along as well. She adored my brother and felt I was too misbehaving. Maybe I was. She was also a strong woman, raised five kids by herself back when that just wasn’t done. She made doll furniture, did ceramics, and made candy. She always kept busy. There was a piano in her house, and music was a big thing around her.
Last but nowhere near least, “Grandma Sis”, my Stepdad’s mom. She was tough, and I really didn’t get to know her well. She when I met her was already unwell. Yet she took the time to welcome me into her family, and gave me a box of books. She took the time to find out what i was into, so she could welcome me. She really was an amazing woman.
Of course not everyone has such abundance. I also had my great grandma and my momo. I think being surrounded by such wonderfully strong female role-models has helped me to really reach to be strong like them.
Blog topics
Another writer, a dear friend of mine, was challenged to do the the alphabet challenge on her blog. It got me thinking…. in many directions. One that I wasn’t sure I could be as brave as she. She asked her friends for topics. That opens things up that I myself would be afraid to face. I am a coward sometimes when it comes to blogging. I really don’t like that about myself. I have written and erased quite a few because they felt tooo much like either I was whining or that I was having a pity party.
Second, and to me more important, it got me wanting to brainstorm. Which I was doing, on a sleep deprived mind. I think my mind works oddly better on little to no sleep. So i decided to try to do a alphabet style challenge of my own. However, I will do it differently. I will list all the topics for a letter I can think of…then write a blog post for each topic until I finish that letter. Then do a list for the next letter. Yes it will take longer than a month…but it may help me kick my other writing into gear. Or at the very least it’ll get me thinking. I apologize if any of the topics are too upsetting. I may choose to not do some, as these were also popping to mind at a time when anxiety and fear have the biggest hold.
So here’s my topics for A.
Abuse, Animals, anxiety, abuelas, abundance, amorality, art, asking, assumptions, asexuality (and sexuality in general, I think), allowance, (I would do animal abuse but that is the topic my friend did. And she did it beautifully… here’s hers), Authors (and artists), anarchy ( and likely politics), anticipation and that is my “A” Topics. If you have any ideas to add, go ahead and leave them in the comments. I won’t promise to add them, but I will at least enjoy the interaction.
Rudeness
I live in a three story apartment complex. There is four apartments per floor. Mostly i can handle the noises around me…except for yesterday. Yesterday the neighbor in the apartment directly beside me was banging and clanging at the loudest possible way she could till four am.
While I normally would have assumed it was just a bad night for them, now i wonder. Everyday it sounds like her kids are running around drawing on the walls. And I had a visitor today who told me she knocked on my door when I was not home. She said that the kids in the other apartment screamed for her to go away.
I try to be polite, as much as I can. I have taught my daughter to do the same. However this doesn’t seem to be something people do anymore. I remember my daughter bumping into someone in a grocery store when she was about six. The woman looked so shocked because I forced my daughter to apologize.
It’s understandable for the kids to be playing. However letting your kids run ruckus till four in the morning? Letting them yell at people not even knocking at your door? I believe that manners are dying a slow death. I mourn the fact that rude has become the new normal.
Various views
I was saddened to awaken and find another idol gone. Each little light going from the world makes it such a darker place. After a time each loss stacks on the heart, weighing it down. So I set about grieving on social media, I set myself down and reliving the Joy I have felt in his music. Rewatched my favorite movie that he was in. I felt sad, until I read a blog post by one of my favorite webcomics ( http://www.dominic-deegan.com) . He was far more elegant than I at how he expressed the combination of sadness and shock that this light going out caused.
Michael Terracciano
Don’t be sad that David Bowie died. The man lived a fiercely unique, artistic life. He was a relevant cultural icon for decades. He was Ziggy Stardust, Jareth the Goblin King, and just David fucking Bowie. His music is immortal. His last work is (from what I’ve heard) a masterpiece of a finale. He left us as ashes, not dust. This is probably the best ending to an artist’s story that any of us creative types could hope for. Hell, if I accomplish even half of a fraction of what David Bowie achieved, I will have surpassed my wildest dreams. Today I celebrate, not mourn.
This got me thinking. So i started looking at my behavior when each of these lights went out. Each time we lost a bright light who brightened my life in some way, I reacted the same way. I went back to what I loved. Their light. I really believe many do this. It helps us make sense of death, of disease, and of violence. So tonight i rejoice for the light I found in a creative soul. I also hope someday far into the future, someone does the same when I pass.
R.I.P. to all those lights that have gone out in the last few years, even those who only lit up one small world.
Pattimouse 