Do You Hear Me?

do you?........really hear?  does anybody realy hear......or listen.   Dream....mine or yours....do we care?  do we care or is it a pastime....so we can say we're doing something..

do I want my space?...would it be empty without you or to full when you're here?  Perhaps you feel the same of me.

no youthful lust.....no passion, no purpose just posts that lean on each other. if one falls, well.........

tick goes the passing of time. why do i feel young in a body that won't respond, that has a face i do not know, whose hair is much lighter than the brown i've always known?

life is too lonely...too many people don't care....except the one whose been here for more of my life than not. who treats me as a queen....who i try not to take advantage of.

too many years with to think of being without.

until next time.......

 Finally


I must apologize for being so long in writing. It seems I have developed a deep aversion to the written word. That is certainly not something a writer likes to experience.

I have had a book published and am in the process of marketing it. I can tell you that writing the darn thing was the easiest part. Now I have to promote it. It's frustrating, exasperating, futile. At least from this view.

The copies have arrived. I started reading it as an actual book, skipped through a good portion of  it and went to the end. I couldn't finish it. Found it elementary with too many errors. I see now why some actors never watch there own work. It is inevitable it will be found lacking. That said, I have no idea if it is a good book or not. During the writing process I was sure it was. Now that assurance is on shaky ground.

I did not write the story expecting to become rich. I did not write it for fame. I wrote it because I wanted to. When it was done I was adrift. My fantasy friends had gone, their mission accomplished. Nothing to occupy the mind or hands. I fell into depression and did mindless things on the computer. I decided the only cure was to continue the story. Well, that sounds easy enough, but it's not.

I have discard several general plots, keeping parts of this and that. Looking at new things and reacquainting myself with some old ones in the hopes of sparking an idea. Thinking, always thinking of what could happen, what could be said. My depression left, my purpose was back.

It's a good shot that I will remain obscure and end my days with a monumental collection of poems, prose, and a couple of books. I suppose that's not to bad a legacy. Maybe in a hundred years I will be considered a master. Who's to know? All I know is that I must continue to write this blog, no matter how many people read it. I must continue to work on my poetry and prose. I must continue to journal and look at the world with the wonder of a child. I must not forget to see the sprites, the spirits, those fantastical creatures created in the mind.

Life hurts. It's hard and toilsome. Everyone alive needs something to call there own:; something they created. I am fortunate to have found my niche. Some never do.

Thank you.     Until next time.............................

If you are interested in my book, it is available on Amazon and Barnes and Nobles. There is more information about the book on the websites and Amazon lets you read the first couple chapters to see if you like it. I thank you in advance for your attention. I do ask that you make a comment about the story on the above websites. It helps to move the book along a very long line.

Today

I was in the garden when the ambulance pulled up.

I had seen the elderly woman across the way. The one living in the blue trailer with the brown shutters. She's probably lived there for a long time. There's a poor excuse for a rose bush at the trailers end showing sometime, someone  had cared. I'm sure it was her.

In the fall, on those warm days with brilliant blue skies, I would see her with her walker going to the mailbox. Her back was bowed, her body small. Her hands gripping the handles firmly exposing her long, long fingers, still elegant. Her face full of determination, her head held high. Proper, raised in an age gone by. My husband spoke to her several times and her statement was always, "the weather is beautiful."

The paramedics went in then quickly returned to their carriage of horrors. They pulled out their gurney.  I was sure she had died then I saw them carrying her down the bare wood steps in what appeared to be a chair. So small she was. Her hair splayed, her skin pale, she held her head up straight.

After a time of seeing no one at her home their appeared several cars. They seemed to come and go quickly although I did not see anyone take in anything or bring anything out. An odd experience, to be sure. Activity has died at the rusty blue trailer across the way. I don't know about the lady.

We all know that someday we too shall pass away. It's unavoidable.  To have someone, especially a loved one, leave this world with no way to stop it is terrible. The effects ripple throughout all who know like a pebble in a pond. One ripple has gone as far as 3000 miles. Makes you feel small.

Openly or secretly we all have a desire to leave a legacy. A worthwhile essence left of you that spurns people on to be better. Wisdom remembered, wisdom shown, wisdom learned.

My immediate family, who cannot be with you face to face, as well as myself, gathered together on the evening of his leavin' and paid tribute to a great man. We celebrated E. Carney, SFC-E6. We talked, we laughed, we cried. Those of us of age raised a shot of good Irish whiskey to his name. We danced. We lit candles and played soft Celtic music, we sang, we remembered, we grieved for Papa, grandpa, great grandpa.

I believe that sometimes important things are denied in a real way. Unmovable objects. However, the awareness of events thousands of miles away are touching and moving me. In my grief I am seeing as I have never seen before. Life is short.

Websters states:

Legacy: noun  something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor, as from the past.

Emmett Carney, my Papa, left an indelible legacy.     


The toast we made to Papa.:

                                                          An Irish Toast

If ye cheat, may ye cheat death.

If ye steal, may ye steal a woman's heart.

If ye fight, may ye fight for your brother,

And if ye drink, may ye drink with me.

                                                              Slainte'
                                                              (health)

10/27/2013


I live in the great Northwest. Sadly, it is not in pungent fir forests filled with babbling brooks or tumbling streams. What tumbles where I live, is tumbleweed. Most people think of snow capped, alpine images when they think of Washington state or Oregon. It is to my sorrow that I must tell you that a very small portion of the area is like that. Approximately 2/3 of Washington, Oregon, and Idaho are desert.

Now mind you, it's not Death Valley; but it's dry, lots of scrub and yes, tumbleweeds. The weather is extreme. Blistering summers, frigid winters, but spring and fall are glorious. The only trees we have are those that have been planted. None are indigenous to this area as far as I know, however, there are lots of trees around and they bloom vigorously in spring and go ablaze in fall. There is a reason for all this, be patient.

One fall I was daydreaming out the sliding glass doors, admiring the view filled with apple trees, pear trees, the thick green grass, the swaying golden leaves on the white birch. The birds were going wild at the feeders, the sky was brilliant blue. All this was set against the backdrop of tan, dead scrub and a pasture filled with beautiful cattle. (This is cowboy country. No really, true cowboy country. Agriculture and beef, that's us.)

 Back to my picture. Anyway, I began to notice that the clouds were getting a little dark on the bottom and the wind was picking up. In less than fifteen minutes it was a full blown storm. By the time it was over it was as if someone had picked up the ground and then dropped it. Most of the leaves were off the trees, small branches were everywhere, fruit covered the ground accompanied by a definite drop in temperature. Being November I knew the weather was going to change soon but it usually does it at a little slower pace. Not this year. We went from fall to winter in about an hour. Two days later, it snowed. Such is the Northwest.

Why tell you this? I was so taken with the ferocity and swiftness of that particular storm and its consequences that I had to put pen to paper. I saw through those plates of glass a living, breathing thing that changed my world. Nature had exposed herself to me and I blushed. Voluptuous, sensual, glorious, cunning and cruel, in all her feminine ways and wiles I had seen the invisible. Mother earth had heaved a sigh and nature heard. I can still conjure up that scene and it still takes my breath away. I have attempted to put the life force I felt that day into the words I wrote. I hope you will be able to catch a particle of my experience. Till next time.............

                                               

                                                                  CHANGE

The land is nestling in for winter.

Earth, moist from new rain, permeates
The biting air with heady, acrid smells.

Nature’s labor of summer bears fruit,

A royal cache of gold leaves, red apples, purple berries;
Field and wood lay burdened with bounty.

A cerulean sky is filled with puffy white clouds
That scurries quickly by
on rapidly swelling winds.
They know what’s coming.

The trees sway gently when suddenly,

Winds of imposing strength
Push and shove them into a fevered dance.

The brightness scowls into darkness, winds howl and whip.

Summer’s bounty falls to earth as a bruised sky weeps,
Sad at the loss of autumn’s glorious embellishments.

Gone as abruptly as it came, the dark sky grows blue.

The air, brisk with chill, hurries winter gatherers to pillage
The spoils of disasters spill.

The earth draws closer in, she whispers to her charges,

“It is coming, fall deeper into rest,
Time now for sleep, time to refresh.”

 

Below is a short story I wrote from an actual dream. The dialect I have chosen for the people of color means no offense. Having lived a large portion of my life in the South; I can attest to this colorful speech, finding within it a beauty of its own. Much of the story was actually in the dream. I have embellished, of course, for the sake of continuity. I did wake to a soft rain and an aching for that lost childhood place. Hope you enjoy.

                                                                        Dream

                                                        A Short Story by Mary Nico

     The stylish manor houses and the cobblestone road disappear as my daughters and I step onto the

soft dirt road. The sun beats down from a sapphire sky and moisture covers our skin in a blanket of

sweat.

We talk softly amongst ourselves as we traverse the road. What lace should we put on my

youngest’ new dress? What new gloves would my oldest like for church? Simple stuff, yet important.

The dust puffs up from under our feet, dusting the girls’ shoes and my laced up boots with a soft red

shell. Even our legs will be red by the time we reach the gathering.

 “Let’s stop under that oak tree and have some water,” I suggest. “There’s a creek running behind that

 hill.” I point to the huge oak standing  sentinel over the road, sitting court on his throne of  green

grass and crickets.

     The shade is cool and a soft breeze comes up from the water trickling quietly behind us. We remove our shoes and stockings’, sighing as the cool air dries the sweat from our toes. We walk to the bank of the small creek and dip our feet in the icy water, splashing our faces, red from the sun, and quench our parched tongues. I smile as the girls giggle at the minnows nipping at their toes. We rest quietly for a while under the huge oak, listening in silence to the raucous of insects, birds and bees. Slowly I rise, “Best put our shoes on and be going if we want to make it by supper girls.”

 Obediently they obey and our trek down the red dirt road continues.

      The smells reach us before we turn our last bend in the road. Laughter tinkles on the air followed by the smells of down home food.  Ham and greens, butterbeans and pinto’s, cornbread and biscuits, sweet pies and cakes, their smells assault our senses topped with the pungent scent of cantaloupe and fresh tomatoes, all drawing us in like fish to a fly. Reticent smiles and gentle waves greet us as we approach, the chatter so loud there is no reason to speak.

     “Betsy lost her dad,” I hear. “Might not see her for a while; we should take her some food before it gets late.”

A woman with a shiny black face, eyes white with jet black centers, lips full and glossy pink shakes her head in a sad gesture. “Um hmm, we should do that.”

The group of women seems young, although their not; yet their spirits fill the place with joy and youth. They sing their hymns, their songs of a life gone by as they cook and gossip. Their smooth skin, polished and unwrinkled, is in direct opposition to the men who sit on large wooden stumps, smiling with teeth yellowed from age and the sweet smelling tobacco they chew. Their bodies are worn down to rails, their bones crooked and jutting, but their hearts are as sweet as the big women who cook and sing for them.

     My children have deserted me, finding their way amongst this familiar foreign place. I hear their squeals as they meet friends and the thud of their feet as they run into the field of tall sweetgrass behind the gathering tent. The heavy scent of pine mixes with the sweet scent of the grass while the chirp of crickets lends their tune to the cacophony of the crowd.

    A small wrinkled man sits upon the stump of a tree long gone, its seat shiny from the polishing of many a bottom that has shifted upon it. The spirit of life oozes from him, contagious and viral. There is no fear, no: just a joyous welcome and an offering of sweet ripe berries as big as my thumb. The juice flows down my chin, staining my mouth and hands along with my white dress. He laughs, as do I, parts of me now as dark as he.

     My youngest runs by and he claims her to himself; she smudged with dirt and berry stains, her eyes shiny and wild, her spirit intoxicated with the freedom of this place. An ironic gift from this coffee colored people so long bound.

 A bony hand clasps the plump fingers of my girl and places a stone, a tiny diamond in her sweaty palm. He then closes her fingers tightly with a wink and a half smile.

 “Keep it safe, one day you will need and you should remember my face.”

Her brilliant green eyes peer into mine as I slowly nod approval. She slips the gift into the pocket of my dress, looking back to the withered old man with a wisdom in her gleaming eyes too old for one so young.

She gives him her biggest smile then dashes away.

     “That little one gonna be the humbling of that woman,” a coffee and cream colored woman with toffee eyes declares.

 “No more than her oldest!” replies the woman beside her as she stirs the greens and checks the breads. “She may be quiet but she’s trouble brewing. That’s all I’m saying.”

 I smile softly behind my hand. All children are doomed to lives of despair according to the multitude of cooks, their heads adorned in brightly colored kerchiefs, the edges soaked with their sweat.

     From somewhere in the fray, my oldest has found an old slip  she’s wearing as a gown. Slender stems with leaves gleaming in the hot southern sun have been woven into a crown that sits askew atop her tousled curls. The old man on the wooden seat laughs, motioning her over. She skips freely, jumping on his knee as he wraps withered arms around her tiny waist. Her hair curls at her temples, her cheeks glow in the heat. The wizened old man smiles gently, his eyes black puddles, red veined and yellow orbed.

“Open your hand, honey,” he tells her softly. She spreads open her hand, his palm as white as hers; and with blackened, withered fingers he places a pearl in the center of her palm, closing her fingers as he did her sister’s.

 “This here pearl comes from the wood. Everything comes from the wood. We cut down these trees with our own hands. Built your house, my house, the town, it all comes from the wood. Never forget that. These pines, they died to give us life. Every one we take, we plant one. You gotta give to get."

 Here he paused and gazed up at the tall trees, creaking as they slowly dance in the wind. He looks at my oldest with sad eyes and a soft grin. “One day you will need, and when you do, remember my face.”

 She lifts her eyes to the tall, thin pine trees swaying in the wind, whispering unintelligible tales. She kisses the old mans cheek, hands me the jewel, then runs to play.

     “Here miss, you come eat. We got more than we need; you take some home with you. Take this for those girls, they too skinny,” the beautiful ebony woman smiles, her brilliant white teeth gleaming as she hands me a basket full of food.

“Thank you, mam,” I say as I bob my head.

 Our lives are a world apart but oh, how I wish I could find the joy and peace that they exude. She slips a piece of coconut cake into the basket, golden on the inside, white as angel’s wings on the outside.

 “This here’s for you. You enjoy it tonight on your porch swing while the rain falls. My knee is telling me it’s so.”

 “You are too kind,” I say.

 “Nah,” she says. “It’s just the right thing to do, that’s all. We all God’s children and all God’s children got to eat!” Her gold flecked eyes twinkle in the fading light.

 “Girls, time to go. Don’t forget your shoes. I can’t afford new.”

     I wake on warm sheets, rain falling quietly outside. I blink, shake my head and sigh. How sweet the dream.

Dangerous

I have read that a good rule of thumb for blogging is to write about what you know. For me that's problematic. I don't think I know enough about any one thing for it to be blog worthy. As my mother says, "Colleen, you know a little bit about everything." I'm sure she means well but isn't it said that  a little knowledge is a dangerous thing? If that be true, I am extremely dangerous, and not in a black cat suit ninja kinda way. It would be cool if I was, maybe.

My brother works for a company called "Rotor Blade." The first time he told me I thought he said "Rent A Blade." I was jazzed, told him it sounded like an assassins guild. I felt somewhat foolish when he corrected me but still thought that an assassins guild might be cool, especially if you could just join and not have to actually be an assassin. Of course, as far as I know, there are no assassin guilds around except in movies and video games. Just think how awesome you could dress for a job like that. Capes with hoods, lots of leather, (protects better than cotton, not as heavy as Kevlar),  pockets for knives, vials of poison around your neck, maybe even a razor thin sword in a hand tooled leather sheath, or a broadsword worn on your back. How about a bow and a quiver of poisoned arrows? A sword or bow would be rather obvious though. I would get caught or killed, maybe. I just don't know enough about stealth and weapons to do the work. I have only a little knowledge, very dangerous.

I have had some music training. I am blessed with a decent voice. I believe that the shower is indeed the best place to sing. The acoustics are awesome. It doesn't hurt that the water drowns out much of my attempt. In my head I am convinced I could sing for a living but would probably faint dead away if I stepped onto a stage to sing solo. That or throw up, maybe both. Maybe my ego isn't big enough or my confidence strong enough. Maybe I just don't know enough about it. Dangerous, very, very. Oh, I don't do karaoke. The audience is just too tough.

I read a lot. I can tell you about vampires, dragons, wizards, famous battles, the plague, The Dark Ages, the history of the Catholic Church and their beliefs, to which I do not belong, voodoo, exotic places, pirates, kings, queens, generals, the Druids and the Irish, which I am; Irish, not Druid. I like books. I like words. I have to bite my tongue to keep from correcting other people's grammar. I write poems, short stories, I have even written a book. I use too many commas, have difficulty keeping tense, there and their bewitch me, have no idea about who and whom, require a serious thesaurus and dictionary, and still stumble with to and too. Not enough knowledge......again with the dangerous.

I am a kitchen table therapist. I won't even go there. Let's leave it that I am yet to lose a client or be paid by one. So, I am just a bundle of little bits of information about so many things. I keep gathering, hoping that one day I might excel at one thing. Maybe quantum physics. Until then I will walk lightly, watch my back and gather as much information as my brain will allow. Keep to the shadows if you hear my name for remember, I am very dangerous, very dangerous indeed.