It is late and she is alone in her cubicle when he steps behind her. His breath on her neck startles her. As she jerks back in fright his attentive smile morphs into a pained grimace.
He curses in react then tries to recoup with obvious effort. The effort frightens her even more than his sneaking up behind her. It’s been two years and much has changed for both of them. He seemed jubilant. She remained wary.
“Come away with me,” he coaxed as though no time had passed since they were last together. In her growing upset she made the mistake of brushing him off like some inconsequential gnat.
Over 250 pounds of angered irrational hurt descended on her. He dragged her two football field lengths from her office cubicle out to the parking lot. In front of the building security guard he slammed her down on his car hood and brutally kissed her on the mouth.
As the guard stood undecided she bit hard into his lower lip and drew blood. He reared back roaring and slammed his fist into her face. But his grip slackened and she managed to roll off the hood and away from him. He just stood, dragged his middle finger along the bleeding cut and licked it slowly with lustful malice. Then he screeched off into the dark.
In profuse embarrassment the guard carefully lifted her off the pavement and guided her into the lobby sofa. She was wobbly with tremors shaking her to the core. Later a friend came and drove her home. The daze of police reporting was over for the night.
Her friend grilled her more insistently than the police did. As she answered, what run through her was the shock of never imagining anything so remotely violent ever happening to her. “Why me?” she wanted to know.
Her friend reached out for both her hands and turned them palms up. What she first thought was an act of comfort turned out to be yet another investigation. Her friend pulled her palms side by side, measuring both little fingers as they lay against each other.
Her friend pointed out how the inner knuckle lines were not aligned and how one finger was much longer than the other. She looked down in fascination and disbelief. There it was the right small finger extended half an inch over her left one. “You’ve been hexed,” her friend declared as she dropped both palms in exasperation.
Months later, after the court case, after the hold order - at his wake - she discovers he hired a witch to put a hex on her. In desperation he just wanted her back, believing that his life had fallen apart in her absence. Never realizing he’d driven her away with his irrational obsession.
Sadly, the road to hell is indeed paved with good intentions.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Sunday, January 8, 2012
bruja
Our vision is clouded by the acrid smoke from popping, sizzling, belts of firecrackers slithering on the ground obstructing and surprising us all. It is 5:00 a.m. and still dark. It is early yet crowds are starting to stream into the streets and the air is heating up. People are flowing in and out of the main temple of worship.
A temple acolyte (or young priest in training) is by my side the moment I step through the entrance arch. His English is good yet heavily accented. He directs me where to buy garlands of fresh flowers, a pack of incense and sweets for my temple offerings. I nod yes, yes and buy dozens of jasmine leis for their sweet intoxicating scent. We join the lines of people streaming within the temple to worship.
Awaiting their turn to enter the alcove of the shrine, people chat in hushed whispers. It is calm initially but as the approach narrows, the pushing starts and the energy grows wild. As the air grows still and smothering, a storm of emotions explodes amidst the multitudes. They start to chant and sway. They cry out in anguish and weep copious tears both sorrowful and celebratory.
Inside the shrine people are reaching out, offering their flowers, sweets and money - to the temple acolytes, then to the priests and finally to the central image. They fight to touch her, intercede with their prayers, to gain some of her power, to have their desires granted.
The object f their devotion is an enormous piece of black stone, a glistening piece of lava rock hewn into the magnificent countenance of fierce ferociousness that is truly awesome to behold. She is wreathed from neck to toe in garlands of fresh flowers wilting and decaying in the opressive heat. The energy is frenetic with yelling, sweating, pulsing heat steaming off the packed hordes. Powerless we are carried along in the swelling crowd. The acolytes fight a losing battle shoving and shouting for control.
I am buried in the center of this railing roiling swell. The priests hoarsely call out their chants. The bells clang maddeningly. People push and pull in one direction then another. Suddenly I pop into the inner sanctum. A priest lights my incense sticks and passes me some sacred ash - forcefully encouraging me to touch the sacred image.
The temple acolyte shouts in my ear, “Touch it! Touch the Mother’s breast!” I reach through the railing for the monumental mound. It is hot, smooth and moist from eons of being fondled by sweaty rabid swarms of devotees. As my fingertips make contact a vision comes to me in a flash - all the streaming hordes that have come this way since time immemorial. Writhing in our driving passions and moved beyond ourselves. Then I prostrate touching her feet in abject devotion. I am swept out into the courtyard by the heaving crowd half bent and disconcerted.
This is the great breast that the Holy Mother used to nourish the world of humanity, to clean out evil and defeat disease. From these breasts milk flowed to drown out all sickness and sorrow and nurture our true nature and original being. To have her approach - mouth open, eyes bulging, laughing terribly - she is horrible to behold if you see her coming. But often you are not aware of her presence until your life falls apart. Until you are stripped of all. All clinging desperately to what you can grasp - hanging on by the skin of your teeth.
First the blinding light from her steady gaze and then the smothering of her heavy breasts, wipe everything clean, taking away your entire burden, cutting through ego and destroying all illusion. She purifies life, freeing the believer, filling the heart with eternal and profuse gratitude.
The temple acolyte breaks through my reverie to ask if I want to watch the animal sacrifice. As I stand undecided, he pushes me down some steps. I see the cordoned off arena where several native pigs squeal in terror scenting their inevitable deaths.
The high priest takes a young man’s head and thumps it mercilessly on a blood stained block three times. I am startled and shocked - even as he is forcefully thrust away and replaced with a pig - in my extended non-ordinary reality I see the man’s spirit on the sacrificial block. A pig he has offered is expertly grabbed by all four legs and thrown on the block. As it squeals hysterically it is the youth’s recounting of trespasses that stream through the animal’s snout. Its head is held in place and its hind legs are tied by a rope that swings off an overhead bar. It is the young man’s eyes that bulge out in fear on the pig’s head.
The high priest approaches with a curved ceremonial blade. The crowd hushes as all eyes are riveted on priest and pig. I do not avert my eyes either. I want to witness what countless helpless animals face in filthy slaughterhouses without benefit of worshipful prayers, sacred blessing or holy temples. In this loss of life, this solemn ritual acknowledges the passing and sacrifice with the youth’s soul returning to his body freed of all his iniquities.
Thunk! The blade descends in one deft blow, leaving the pig’s head on the block, eyes still open. As the severed body swings overhead eager hands hold up a deep bowl to catch the spurting blood from its open neck. The drained carcass and head are taken to the temple kitchens where offerings cook all day to feed the waiting poor and hungry. Nothing is wasted. The Holy Mother is a vegetarian.
A temple acolyte (or young priest in training) is by my side the moment I step through the entrance arch. His English is good yet heavily accented. He directs me where to buy garlands of fresh flowers, a pack of incense and sweets for my temple offerings. I nod yes, yes and buy dozens of jasmine leis for their sweet intoxicating scent. We join the lines of people streaming within the temple to worship.
Awaiting their turn to enter the alcove of the shrine, people chat in hushed whispers. It is calm initially but as the approach narrows, the pushing starts and the energy grows wild. As the air grows still and smothering, a storm of emotions explodes amidst the multitudes. They start to chant and sway. They cry out in anguish and weep copious tears both sorrowful and celebratory.
Inside the shrine people are reaching out, offering their flowers, sweets and money - to the temple acolytes, then to the priests and finally to the central image. They fight to touch her, intercede with their prayers, to gain some of her power, to have their desires granted.
The object f their devotion is an enormous piece of black stone, a glistening piece of lava rock hewn into the magnificent countenance of fierce ferociousness that is truly awesome to behold. She is wreathed from neck to toe in garlands of fresh flowers wilting and decaying in the opressive heat. The energy is frenetic with yelling, sweating, pulsing heat steaming off the packed hordes. Powerless we are carried along in the swelling crowd. The acolytes fight a losing battle shoving and shouting for control.
I am buried in the center of this railing roiling swell. The priests hoarsely call out their chants. The bells clang maddeningly. People push and pull in one direction then another. Suddenly I pop into the inner sanctum. A priest lights my incense sticks and passes me some sacred ash - forcefully encouraging me to touch the sacred image.
The temple acolyte shouts in my ear, “Touch it! Touch the Mother’s breast!” I reach through the railing for the monumental mound. It is hot, smooth and moist from eons of being fondled by sweaty rabid swarms of devotees. As my fingertips make contact a vision comes to me in a flash - all the streaming hordes that have come this way since time immemorial. Writhing in our driving passions and moved beyond ourselves. Then I prostrate touching her feet in abject devotion. I am swept out into the courtyard by the heaving crowd half bent and disconcerted.
This is the great breast that the Holy Mother used to nourish the world of humanity, to clean out evil and defeat disease. From these breasts milk flowed to drown out all sickness and sorrow and nurture our true nature and original being. To have her approach - mouth open, eyes bulging, laughing terribly - she is horrible to behold if you see her coming. But often you are not aware of her presence until your life falls apart. Until you are stripped of all. All clinging desperately to what you can grasp - hanging on by the skin of your teeth.
First the blinding light from her steady gaze and then the smothering of her heavy breasts, wipe everything clean, taking away your entire burden, cutting through ego and destroying all illusion. She purifies life, freeing the believer, filling the heart with eternal and profuse gratitude.
The temple acolyte breaks through my reverie to ask if I want to watch the animal sacrifice. As I stand undecided, he pushes me down some steps. I see the cordoned off arena where several native pigs squeal in terror scenting their inevitable deaths.
The high priest takes a young man’s head and thumps it mercilessly on a blood stained block three times. I am startled and shocked - even as he is forcefully thrust away and replaced with a pig - in my extended non-ordinary reality I see the man’s spirit on the sacrificial block. A pig he has offered is expertly grabbed by all four legs and thrown on the block. As it squeals hysterically it is the youth’s recounting of trespasses that stream through the animal’s snout. Its head is held in place and its hind legs are tied by a rope that swings off an overhead bar. It is the young man’s eyes that bulge out in fear on the pig’s head.
The high priest approaches with a curved ceremonial blade. The crowd hushes as all eyes are riveted on priest and pig. I do not avert my eyes either. I want to witness what countless helpless animals face in filthy slaughterhouses without benefit of worshipful prayers, sacred blessing or holy temples. In this loss of life, this solemn ritual acknowledges the passing and sacrifice with the youth’s soul returning to his body freed of all his iniquities.
Thunk! The blade descends in one deft blow, leaving the pig’s head on the block, eyes still open. As the severed body swings overhead eager hands hold up a deep bowl to catch the spurting blood from its open neck. The drained carcass and head are taken to the temple kitchens where offerings cook all day to feed the waiting poor and hungry. Nothing is wasted. The Holy Mother is a vegetarian.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
regret
Do I remember that rainy afternoon I first met you? Is it possible to remember slipping into sleep or the trance induced by a hypnotist's droning demands? I only know that it happened because I woke up.
Some things stand out with clarity. The tingling tangible fragments of a lucid dream. A clingy phone conversation on Labor Day.
You came to me seeking happiness and relief. But you can’t bank on others for that or save it for when you need it. No matter how happy I am I cannot give you my happiness or make you happy.
I believed bliss would sustain us. Unreasonable and unrealistic as it turned out, I had grand dreams of us together on retreats, sharing shamanic journeys, healing sessions, sacred teachings - longing to expand and enhance each other through shared experiences. But the reality is all we could manage was sneaking around for a few hours every month or so.
I thought I would be content with this and go with the flow - biding the time and growing content. I watched days gently give way to months - believing we were shedding cares when really we were racking up regrets. Now I know that dreaming is fantasy, that fantasy is illusion and love is illusive. When I wake I find that all I have left are sentiments of you.
The air conditioner rattles then falls silent. I only register the noise it makes when the silence grows. I feel the cool breeze flutter through the vents and sit chilled in its emptiness.
The letter is written with a calligraphy pen on creamy thick unlined paper. My eyes move through the words and register the date, October 1979. I notice some dappled and yellowed blotches. What are they? How long had they been there?
I still cannot believe you decided to go. What draws you back to the grey, the dirt, the noise, the rush? Surely there are better things to aspire for? What a waste of a lifetime. I know you chase your dreams yet the dream is so sweetly realized here. Here we have our serene place in the sun - absolute and absorbing.
Since you left we moved south - away from our beloved mountains and closer to the sea. Where the air is tinged with salt and we eat the fresh catch of the day.
Today I watched a young coyote lope down the driveway, cutting through our backyard. I didn’t even know they lived here. I remember hearing their howls late at night in the canyons of our red rocks. I recall the crystalline air blowing over the ledge we sat on to watch that moonrise long ago.
I am writing this as the skies darken outside, fading in deepening shades of blood orange into murkier purples. This is the magic hour for me - reflecting and reading - the world melting away into wondrous ideas. At times a phrase is so delightful I have to walk around for a bit, allowing it to settle and enjoying its imagery. One of these made me think of you. “Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass - it's about learning to dance in the rain.”
The noise of the neighbor’s dog barking in the backyard, hearing him tear through the fallen leaves brings her back to the room. How would her life have been if she had sent him this letter? But the present held no answers and the cooling air continued its lazy circulation.
In time I would fold the letter away. Place it back in the envelope. Place the envelope back in the box. Return the box back in the bag. And lock the bag in the trunk. I will cover it with layers of clothing and test the lock one final time. For now I just sit for a moment - the noise of the dog's barks fading into the day’s afterglow.
You were distracted and depressed because you were stuck in a relationship that no longer worked. I was elated to have found the love of my life after years of wandering and loss. I careened in reckless abandon, not noticing your lack of enthusiasm.
Some things stand out with clarity. The tingling tangible fragments of a lucid dream. A clingy phone conversation on Labor Day.
You came to me seeking happiness and relief. But you can’t bank on others for that or save it for when you need it. No matter how happy I am I cannot give you my happiness or make you happy.
Time passes and things end. In the end it’s not the time that matters anyway.
I believed bliss would sustain us. Unreasonable and unrealistic as it turned out, I had grand dreams of us together on retreats, sharing shamanic journeys, healing sessions, sacred teachings - longing to expand and enhance each other through shared experiences. But the reality is all we could manage was sneaking around for a few hours every month or so.
I thought I would be content with this and go with the flow - biding the time and growing content. I watched days gently give way to months - believing we were shedding cares when really we were racking up regrets. Now I know that dreaming is fantasy, that fantasy is illusion and love is illusive. When I wake I find that all I have left are sentiments of you.
The air conditioner rattles then falls silent. I only register the noise it makes when the silence grows. I feel the cool breeze flutter through the vents and sit chilled in its emptiness.
The letter is written with a calligraphy pen on creamy thick unlined paper. My eyes move through the words and register the date, October 1979. I notice some dappled and yellowed blotches. What are they? How long had they been there?
I still cannot believe you decided to go. What draws you back to the grey, the dirt, the noise, the rush? Surely there are better things to aspire for? What a waste of a lifetime. I know you chase your dreams yet the dream is so sweetly realized here. Here we have our serene place in the sun - absolute and absorbing.
Since you left we moved south - away from our beloved mountains and closer to the sea. Where the air is tinged with salt and we eat the fresh catch of the day.
Today I watched a young coyote lope down the driveway, cutting through our backyard. I didn’t even know they lived here. I remember hearing their howls late at night in the canyons of our red rocks. I recall the crystalline air blowing over the ledge we sat on to watch that moonrise long ago.
I am writing this as the skies darken outside, fading in deepening shades of blood orange into murkier purples. This is the magic hour for me - reflecting and reading - the world melting away into wondrous ideas. At times a phrase is so delightful I have to walk around for a bit, allowing it to settle and enjoying its imagery. One of these made me think of you. “Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass - it's about learning to dance in the rain.”
The noise of the neighbor’s dog barking in the backyard, hearing him tear through the fallen leaves brings her back to the room. How would her life have been if she had sent him this letter? But the present held no answers and the cooling air continued its lazy circulation.
In time I would fold the letter away. Place it back in the envelope. Place the envelope back in the box. Return the box back in the bag. And lock the bag in the trunk. I will cover it with layers of clothing and test the lock one final time. For now I just sit for a moment - the noise of the dog's barks fading into the day’s afterglow.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
scribblings
time to resurrect another defunct blog?
since I've dedicated a blog to my sketches - I suppose it's time to dedicate a blog to my scribbles
here goes then. . . .
since I've dedicated a blog to my sketches - I suppose it's time to dedicate a blog to my scribbles
here goes then. . . .
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
new patterns
testing out some other patterns in pen & ink. . . .we shall see where this goes. . . .
hunting & pecking thru some patterns. . . .familiar & new. . . .still feels too tentative & constrained. . . .
hunting & pecking thru some patterns. . . .familiar & new. . . .still feels too tentative & constrained. . . .
Friday, February 11, 2011
where'd all the time go ?
so much for my weekly art work. . . .started waaay ahead. . . .& still ended running late. . . .life got in the way. . . .as usual. . . .
Sunday, January 30, 2011
two new faces
happy at how my latest color sketches have turned out - I call them my Rasta & my Japonesa " )
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