The Spectacles

The Spectacles

Utterly amazed at the sound of a human voice issuing from the sea shell, I thrust it back into the bag. As I did so, I knocked the pair of spectacles on floor. I picked them up and considered them. If a sea shell can speak, what will spectacles show. Slowly I slipped them on. In the distance I saw my destination.

Lori Gloyd (c) April 30, 2006. "The House of the Serpent Woman". Photo montage April 30, 2006

Very Angry Pixie

The Angry Pixie is pretty darned angry. In fact she is in a rage. She reminds me of my mother on washing day when I was growing up. I knew to head for the hills when the wind was blowing and Mum was battling with heavy sheets. So, I would stay clear of the pixie if I were you!

It seems there was a rush to grab the red winged Italian numbers that had been left in what she thought was a rubbish bin. Now she has been left with wingless ones that looked more like ballet shoes. I mean, really! All these travellers are a ruddy pain!

Apart from this, Saucepan Man has been giving her the irritates and she has nothing nice to say about the Rainbow Serpent Priestess. She has been muttering and huffing and puffing and tellling anyone who will listen that the Rainbow Serpent Priestess is a simple sap who knows sweet all about real life experiences.

Could get interesting!

The Oracle of Sophia

The Oracle of Sophia

I am so dog tired. I have finally caught up with the Gypsy Caravan just as it is about to depart for the House of the Serpents. As I crawl into my caravan wagon tonight, I see that a bag has been placed next to my bunk. It has my name on it. I quickly unfasten the ties and begin pulling out the bag's contents.

It is a bewildering collection of items. I turn each object over in my hands, examining them, wondering to myself what I will possibly do with them: a pair spectacles, a candlestick, a tiny anchor, a medallion with the imprint of the Unicorn, a map, and a pair of red Italian stilettos.

The last item I pull out made me catch my breath. About the size of my fist is a highly polished sea snail shell, overlaid with iridescent abalone. The swirls of the shells are inlaid with silver wire and on the point of the shell is a small emerald. As I pause to examine the intricacies of the shell’s craftsmanship, I hear a faint sound. Was it the crash of faraway waves or the rush of a sea breeze? I put the gilded shell to my ear. I did not hear the sea in the shell. Rather, I heard a single word: “Go”.

Lori Gloyd (c) April 29, 2006. Image created in Photoshop 7 especially for this post.

My journey

I am very excited about this long journey we are on but cannot seem to find my writing feet often enough to post here regularly. I must continue to read everyone's work, because when I do, I then find my own words emerging from within.

I am working on creating a fish, one that I saw while we were by the stream the other day, I believe it was a salmon, returning to it's spawing grounds, those instincts to return HOME run deep in all of us don't they. I also have my pouch made up, I knit it from wonderful wool, the color of earth and water combined. As I prepare to continue on this journey I am wrapping up many other loose ends, things I wish I could have left behind before I even arrived at the top of the Faraway tree, hopefully, when we reach our next destination I will have most of my mind cleared and ready to dig deep into our journey by then.

Shannon

Trying to warm my stone artist

Now that I've set foot onto the soil where the Land of the Standing Stones inhabits, I feel awed and frozen with fear. Thoughts of unworthiness and criticism swirl around, but I push them aside and take in all that I can see, hear and feel.

Over there, energy is crackling on the horizon where the others are and where I should be. But I'm rooted to the spot. The stone in my heart has weighed me down so much that my back is bent. I feel stirrings deep within me, sparks of light that are trying to answer the call of those energy fields crackling on the horizon. The hearts, souls and minds of others are calling to me but I look and cannot move.

I feel inspired and stimulated in my mind but it does not trickle to where it matters in my heart. I'm trying to catch up and warm my stone artist. I'm trying to feel grateful for the voice I have.

I take a deep breath, close my eyes and take one step forward. I open my eyes again and smile, because if I can manage this one step, then surely more can follow? If I've made this small amount of progress, then surely my stone artist is feeling a trickle of comfort and warmth and there is hope yet? I look to the horizon again, feeling the pull and knowing that if I keep steady and continue to take these tiny steps, I'll get there in the end, I'll become who I'm supposed to be, my heartsong will be sung and then I'll be free.

ANITA IN REFLECTION

Exercise: Warming The Stone Artist
The Ceremony of the Mirror
http://www.dailywriting.net/MirrorCeremony.htm
I asked myself, why write the things I write and I think I found my answer
amm

Mirror Mirror on the Wall
Who’s the fairest of them all?

Last weekend I went to a social event with my husband and a woman who’s leaned over my lap and stuck her elbow into my gut more then once so she could talk to my husband said to me as if she’d never seen me before, “ Hi, I’m…”

And I said, “ Actually we know each other.”

She looked right into my face and smiled and said, “ wow, you look so good this time I didn’t recognize you!”

Who’s the fairest of them all?
Not me Mirror, not me by a long shot.



I’ve never been attractive; I was the unattractive older sister to my brother and his Keanu Reeves type good looks and to my petite truly beautiful younger sister. In order to ‘help me’ my parents, assorted relatives and friends advised me to develop a talent or two as my face and body and lack of personality would do nothing to attract boyfriends, a husband or even friends.

I thought they were right because I didn’t have a single date in school. I went to my Senior Prom with my friend’s brother. He liked me I guess. I don’t know I couldn’t believe someone that cute and nice would date me.

So I figure he did it as a favor for his Sister.



In the end I decided to write horror stories and work with the dead.
It won’t make you a lot of friends and you don’t have much of a social life, but what the Hell. Its not like I lost anything by doing these things.

The only drawback, if you can call it that is that I always end up writing from the ‘other side’ I can tell you exactly what it’s like to be a cast out demon, a ghoul, a werewolf or other things of that nature. As the song goes, ‘I’ve been away to long’ and there’s no going back for me. Now days I’ve found that’s not so bad.

In the place I write from now my what my characters go through and experience matter to me. I care about them and I care about telling their stories. I want people to know what its like to exist outside of the box, what it’s like to live in those lost places most people find themselves in by accident. I want people to know what it’s like to stare into the face of the mob, how it feels to be shunned, what its like to know that you will never be the same as anyone, ever, no matter what you do.

Somewhere in my life I came to feel as if Werewolves, Witches, Witch Doctors, Vampires, Half-Breed Monsters, Ghouls, Demons, were created for the express purpose of just waiting for some empty headed chick with bleached blond hair, fake breasts and a nineteen inch waist to show up and do awful things to them. That they exist just so they could chased by guys with steroid enhanced muscles or lap top computers who would grab the nearest girl and kiss her or slap the closest behind and then push a button or pull a trigger and scatter the ‘monsters’ to the four winds.

That’s not like getting the short end of the stick. That’s like having someone take that short end, sharpening it and sticking it right into your heart.

I’m giving them a chance to survive, to have a place in the world even if it’s a make believe one. Everyone needs that. No matter how strange or odd or different you are.

I guess I’m really writing about me,
Anita Marie Moscoso
April 29, 2006

Folk following the Road of the Rainbow Serpent

Word has travelled all over the land and down amongst the folk of the Faraway Tree. The tree trunk is full of traffic as all sorts of strange folk head for the House of the Serpents. Some witches found the red stilletoes lying in the garbage bin and now they have taken wing and are flying along the road of the rainbow serpents in the hope of gettting there before May Day. It is going to be quite a gathering at the House of the Serpents this May Day. The Gypsy Wagons may take longer to navigate the mountain pathway and some travellers may catch a raven or slip on the red winged shoes to make sure they are there early.

The Call of the Rainbow Serpent Priestess

From across the mountains drifts the sweet call of the Rainbow Serpent Priestess who sits, playing a lilting tune, calling travellers and serpents to come home to the House of the Rainbow Serpent for awhile.

Flight of Fancy

I went away on a flight of fancy,

red winged shoes carrying me

like mercury, into the boughs

of mystical...

English White Poplars, and through

the mists of time,

to discover like a bird, there is

another world, another way.

Then to the mystical Australian Bush,

untouched by human hands,

to fly among the Swamp Gum

and the Lightwoods, to see the

dawn coming through.

copyright Monika Roleff 2006.

wings

Remember to fly!
don’t hold me down
don’t hold me back
I gotta do this thing
I have to try

Commanding the Elements

Commanding the Elements

I shocked myself one day when this image emerged from my imagination. I am sharing this image today to see if she provokes an imaginative response in you! What is she saying to us?

Digital montage created in Photoshop 7 by Lori Gloyd (c) 2004.

Remember to Fly

Whose feet will fit into the winged red shoes that le Enchanteur is offering to travellers? And where, for that matter, will the shoes take the lucky traveller? Maybe one size fits all and everyone can take a flight to remember.

Red Shoes, Brown Shoes, and Italian Pumps

Red Shoes, Brown Shoes, and Italian Pumps

I work with a woman who is really into shoes. She typically wears fashionable, high-heeled pumps, narrow and pointy at the toes, probably Italian, and very expensive. They look uncomfortable and may account for the pained and pinched look that is often on her face. I have nothing against people who wear uncomfortable shoes, but this person actually judges the character of others by the shoes they wear (I kid you not!).

Now, I typically wear flat shoes for comfort and economy. I regularly wear the same two pairs of brown and black flat dress shoes for work and social events and a pair ratty sneakers for non-important running-around. I do have other shoes, but I like these three pairs because they are broken-in and comfortable.

My co-worker thinks people who wear flat shoes are poor and unfashionable and, therefore by her standards, people with whom she has nothing in common. I create a problem for her: she likes me, but I wear flat shoes. To make me fit into her "shoe paradigm", she has rationalized that I cannot wear high heels because I am "too tall already" (yes, she actually said this to me). Since being "too tall" is more unfashionable than wearing flat shoes, she tolerates them.

In light of this odd relationship, I am forced to ponder the symbolic relevance of shoes, and I do this by examining the story of the girl who wore the red shoes. One popular variation of this story is Dorothy and her ruby-red slippers in the Wizard of Oz; however, the classic telling of this tale, immortalized in Hans Christian Andersen's The Red Shoes, delves much deeper into its psychic implications. In Andersen's tale, a young girl, whose hand-made red shoes are taken from her, disobeys her rich caretaker and wears a different pair of red shoes to church. She is punished by being forced to dance in her red shoes until she repents of her vanity and evil ways.

A simple reading of this tale may compel the reader to reject the seeming lesson of the story: girls who violate the conventions of their communities are punished until they realize the error of their ways. Women and girls should should be able to be non-conformists without retribution. If one reads the tale on this level, then this is a valid point. However, I think if we go to a deeper level, a more archetypal level, then this story does have something to teach us and should not be dismissed.

Clarissa Pinkola Estes, in her popular book Women Who Run With the Wolves, states that shoes protecting the feet are symbolic of protecting "mobility and freedom" (p. 239). Furthermore, she states that in the tale, when the young girl puts on the red shoes, she is trying to regain the freedom she lost when her hand-made red shoes were taken from her. However, her new red dancing shoes, though similar to her handmade shoes, are not the same and are, in fact, detrimental to her.

Estes' point is that sometimes when a woman loses her true self (that is, her wild wolf nature) she sometimes tries to compensate by taking on behaviors, obsessions and addictions that are ultimately harmful (pp. 252, 269). This interpretation of the tale is valid and should be heeded.

In light of Estes' reading of the story of The Red Shoes, it is important that if we do suffer great loss in our lives, we must be so very careful in attempting to fill that loss with imitations of that which was lost. These imitations ultimately harm us.

In my ongoing attempt to return to my authentic self, I will strive not to put on red dancing shoes (or Italian leather pumps). I will not try to find false fulfillment in superficial things and destructive habits. I will keep wearing my comfortable old sneakers and keep on walking.

Reference: Estes, Clarissa Pinkola. Women Who Run with The Wolves. New York: Ballantine Books, 1997 (Paperback edition).

Lori Gloyd (c) April 25, 2006

Standing stones

sentinels
watching over us

dreaming

Saucepan Man Serenade

While my sleeping self sleeps in the wagon Saucepan Man plays the serenades travellers with his accordion outside the wagon.

Zoomed in on the cage and have realised that my sleeping self is actually taking the time to fly free and enjoy out of body (out of cage) experiences. I am going to become a bit of a sleuth, watch her more closely and see where she is flying off to. Maybe things are not quite as they seemed.

M - Moon Madness

MIDNIGHT MUSIC


Music murmurs at midnight,
A medley round the moon.
Making madness for a moment,
The morrow comes too soon.

A million makeshift moments
Make a life, a madman’s rune,
As mysterious as the moon,
The mad and merry music of the moon.

Memory Dreams

In the Gypsy Caravan, propped near the Stream of Mnemosyne, my sleeping self sleeps peacefully, dreaming dreams that are filled with memories, fluttering like butterflies. After being in a coma for so long this is a very good sign that she will awaken here in the Land of Stones.

Golden Memories

Bahia de Todos Santos

Remember those nights at Casa Mirasol
after hot days of surfing
and eating carnitas,
those cool gray mornings when we
padded down the beach collecting

dead sand dollars and
wishing for turban shells,
that day we danced in the sea
under a golden Baja sun.
Remember

that night we sipped pear wine
and debated the merits of
a good fish taco,
the night we peered at
the Milky Way spilling

out of the black bowl of heaven
and marveled at how sand dollars
looked like stars. Remember
those days and nights for they shall
not come again. Remember

as you gaze at
faded Yankee skies
those brilliant nights of
stars and shells
on Bahia de Todos Santos.

Poem: Lori Gloyd (c) April 23, 2006. Image: From a friend's house on the beach in Baja California, Mexico (c) 1997.

She Oak For Baba

Getting ready to travel again,

things packed and ready,

I wandered a little past some

stones, and saw this tree,

and captured this image of

Baba in the wild, in

touch with her instincts,

as she ought to be. I

thought about this as I

moved with the travellers

on our way to Baba's House.

copyright Monika Roleff 2006.

B is for Baba Yaga

B is for Baba Yaga who remembers when she was young and wild and as free as the wolves who ran with her, snapping at the chicken legs of her house, bringing bones for her to make her fence.
Baba has crone knowing and shares with those who know the right questions to ask.

E is for Enchanteur

E is for Enchanteur whose enchantments are legendary.
It was Enchanteur who led travellers through the doorway
Into the world of the Soul Food Silk Road
Travel with Enchanteur through the Mountains of Myrrh and you will not only be enchanted
by the characters you meet, the places you stay
but you will be captivated by the surge in your creativity



A is for the illusive Amazon Queen who presides over this realm. We never did reach her camp. Perhaps this time we will find her.

Searching for the Mythic

Searching for the Mythic......

Looking for a myth to live by was at first an intriguing proposition, but as I got more involved in the search for a meaningful personal myth, I discovered how difficult and circuitous the path.

At first I considered the myths most familiar to me- the Greek myths-- and soon realized that though they are grand stories, they are adventures penned by men for men, stories where women are unseen and unheard. Even the strong female deities seem to have been reduced to caricatures-- Hera, the shrewish wife; Artemis, the woman so wild that she gets hidden away in the forest most of the time. Even Athena herself seems more like a man in drag than a woman (and she sprang from her father's head, not her mother's?).

Being unhappy with these classic myths, I moved on to non-Western traditions. For example, I briefly considered the Hopi story of Spider Woman who wove creation on her loom. Again, this is a marvelous story, beautiful in its imagery, with much to teach us, but it is a story for the HOPI people, not me.

Myths become myths because they contain timeless truths that resonate with our cultures and personal experiences. So I went back to MY roots and considered the stories that I had been told all my life. In our post-modern world, it may not be cool or hip to read the biblical stories, but these stories are a part of my culture and my life and I will not discard them. My ancient mothers, flawed women living in violent times, were real women who so impressed their communities with their courage, faith, and wisdom, that their stories have become Mythic in nature and will endure forever.

Some might argue that the biblical stories were written by the men-folk, and though this is more than likely correct, they were based on oral traditions articulated by both men and women to their communities, evolving for thousands of years around countless campfires. For example, I really doubt that a man would have constructed the story of Hannah's grief over her barrenness and her feelings of inadequacy. Similarly, who would have shared the intimate details of the Annunciation. Joseph? No, Mary. Only women tell such stories to each other.

I have come full-circle, I think. In my search for a personal mythology, I ended with what already resided within me. I learn the mythic lessons from very real woman. And with that, I am truly content.

Text : Lori Gloyd (c) April 19, 2006; Image: "Ancient Mother" Lori Gloyd (c) 2004

meeting the Crone

I am your true mother, she said, I have been watching and waiting for your arrival since the day you were born.

What about my real mother I asked, what role did she have?

Oh she was your physical mother, the old woman replied But I, I am your true mother, the mother of your soul, the mother of your creativity, the mother to whom you have called all these years of exile.

Why didn;t you show yourself until now I ask.

You were not ready she replies, you were busy doing things, raising your babies, feeding your children, taking care of your husband, using your god given musical talent to teach children and earn money for food. You would not have heard me even if I had spoken to you, called you in your dark tear filled nights. Now, when you are finally sitting still, when you have finally turned your back on the material world, when you have been brought low by experience and life itself, it is time for me to come and guide you to the world that you have longed for in your deepest heart. I will guide you to a world where you can be the creative human being you have always wished to be, and where you will find your true self waiting for you.

The crone disappeared.....in her place I saw an image of myself as I wished to be, serene, smiling, fulfilled, living an authentically creative life. The crone/earth mother is my deepest self and I have had to be humbled totally to find her, acknowledge her, and live within her precepts........

A myth to live by.........and finally lived.

The child wondered who her real parents were, where the safety she craved might be found, where the love that she "knew" in her deepest self might be found. The myth she lived by was that one day all would be magically revealed, the craving for a safe haven and a soul mate would be resolved and life would be transformed forever.

Seeking this love and safety, and armed only with hope and no signposts she entered the world, defenseless and lonely, feeling herself ugly, fat, unlovable .......she hid her fear of the world by excelling in her chosen field, earning praise for what she "did" rather than who she actually might be.

Late in life, greying and having lost hope of being seen and recognised, the woman/child met a prince amongst men, who saw her inner beauty and allowed that to shine like a beacon in the world to all other women who had thought themselves lost and alone. She felt herself opening like a flower with its face to the sun in the warmth of his love. She felt her creative self awaken and taking a pen in her hand began to write............

A Captive Audience

Saucepan Man is waxing lyrical, telling travellers tall tales about life on the road. Everyone seems spellbound. I wonder which story he is telling them all? Perhaps one of you may share one of Saucepan Man's stories about travelling through the mountains to Baba Yaga's and beyond.

Snug in my caravan

A small print of this gorgeous Van Gogh hangs on my wall and has travelled with me to the Land of the Standing Stones. As I set it in place, my gypsy caravan is complete.

It is a cosy little place, snug against whatever we find as we travel. The bed is at the far end from the door, covered with a curtain and a patchwork quilt to keep out the night chill. There are cupboards and drawers underneath the bed where I have stored most of my belongings, including my notebooks, art supplies and collage bits and pieces.

A little fold down table is set for tea, in case any other travellers drop in. I have my teapot nd a good supply of damper and golden syrup. I'm not sure what the American contingent will make of home made bread and the sticky sweet tinned conconction that traditionally accompanies it, but at least I didn't bring Vegemite. I'm sure someone else will anyway.

On the little stove is the black pot I bake my damper in, a whistling tea kettle and a pot for soup. I am reminded of Toad's caravan because it is painted the same canary yellow and inside -

"It was indeed very compact and comfortable. Little sleeping bunks -- a little table that folded up against the wall -- a cooking-stove, lockers, bookshelves, a bird-cage with a bird in it; and pots, pans, jugs and kettles of every size and variety.
`All complete!' said the Toad triumphantly, pulling open a locker. `You see -- biscuits, potted lobster, sardines -- everything you can possibly want. Soda-water here -- baccy there -- letter-paper, bacon, jam, cards and dominoes -- you'll find,' he continued, as they descended the steps again, `you'll find that nothing whatever has been forgotten, when we make our start this afternoon.'

There may be strange and even dangerous times ahead, but this is the life, the only life, as I snuggle into the cushions and open Wind in the Willows to read by lamplight.

Awestruck

I feel shy and in awe of what I see at the Land of Standing Stones. I feel the energy of this place, vibrating deep within me as I peer over the ledge and take a look at this wondrous place of creativity. The Stones are calling to me in a way that only my soul understands but my mind is still getting in the way. I have yet to delve deeply or even take the first few tentative steps but I know I will get there in the end.

Saucepan Man Comes With Supplies

Saucepan Man has come up the Faraway Tree, in to the Land of Standing Stones, to help those of us who are heading further into the land to meet the Lemurian Elders and healers, stock up our Gypsy vans. It will be a long journey and so we need to be well prepared.

Seeking the Lemurian Elders

Nothing on the island seems to have worked.
Clearly we are going to have to take my sleeping self to wise, elder, healers who live deep within the Land of Standing Stones. It will be a long journey and so I will harness the horse to pull the gypsy wagon with her comfortably on board.
We will call at the House of Serpents and at Baba Yaga's to seek advice.
If anyone wants to come to meet these wise Lemurian Elders, and learn about the Lemurian Mysteries just hitch up a wagon and join us.

BINDERWEED

I introduced Lesser Thornapple here in the Land of Standing Stones and I thought some of you might be interested in learning how he got there. So here’s his story and it actually starts at

THE END



On the Doctor's desk in the village of Ninebones Cross is the skull of a hanged man whose name was Lesser Thornapple.

Lesser was hung in 1864 for three murders and for a few that the people in the town of Bronson were pretty sure he did but couldn't prove and for the ones they were sure he would commit in the future.

So Lesser went to the Gallows and they hung him as the sun came up, which is the custom in the town of Bronson and no one there expected this was the last they'd hear of Lesser Thornapple and they were right.

100 Years Later



The night that Doctor Stavesacre and her assistant took Lesser from his grave it was raining and she was in one of her moods that Lesser would soon call her ‘bad hair days’.

Only two things truly annoyed Azi Stavesacre.

One of those things was not getting her way. The other was anything that kept her from getting her way. Tonight both things were nipping at her heels and she wasn’t angry, she wasn’t furious she was mad.

Truly and strictly by definition: Mad.

As in insane.

“ How many of these things have we opened tonight Henbane?”

Henbane looked over his shoulder and let out a sob and said, “ a lot Azi, an awful lot.”

“ And this is the best we could do?" she asked as she pointed into the last grave.

“ Its all we can do Azi, the rest of the graves were empty.”

Azi Stavesacre, Dr Azi Stavesacre the type of Doctor you went to if you had a silver bullet lodged in you somewhere or a stake in your heart or you were burned or had been maimed and were about to die…yet again was not a patient woman.

In fact she wasn’t a woman at all.

But lets get on with Lesser’s story, shall we?

Azi jumped down into the open grave and then she leaned over Lesser and carefully
pulled the shroud back from his upper body. “ Geeze Henbane, they didn’t even bother to cut the noose off. Look it’s still there.”

Henbane looked down to where Azi was pointing and shook his head.” Now that’s just not dignified.”

Azi straddled Lesser’s chest and pressed her knees against his shoulders.“ People are pathetic Henbane. There’s no two ways about it.”

Then she cut off Lesser’s head.




Lesser remembered Azi taking him to a little place in a town called Duwamish Bay and carefully handing him over to a small dark woman with short black hair. The woman’s name was Ignancia and he saw at once that Azi’s little rough edges and her general
unpleasant personality seemed to smooth out at least temporarily as the two women talked.

Ignancia who was the owner of the Shop, which was full of curious items including a mummy and a three-headed cat in a jar, lifted him carefully up to the light and nodded. “Sure, we can clean him up I think he’ll do just fine for you Azi.”

“He’s a hanged man Ignancia.”

“ The condemned work harder, you know that Azi.”

“ But they buried him with the noose still around his neck.”

“ You don’t say.”

“ I just did,”

Ignancia lifted Lesser up to her face and her dark eyes looked down into his dead ones and she said; “ now that’s very curious. When he comes around see if you can get him to tell you why.”

Lesser sat on the Doctor’s desk for over 10 years before he said one word and when he did Azi told him to shut up, she was working. He saw that yet another Were creature had been skewered with yet another silver arrow and the Werecat the Doctor was treating had already clawed Dr Stavesacre down the side of her face and had chewed off two of her fingers.

It was a good thing Azi couldn’t bleed Lesser thought or the examination room would be full of those Vampires who were out in the waiting room suffering from Garlic Poisoning.

So after ten years of saying nothing Lesser finally made a sound, and that sound sent Azi to her desk, dragging the were-cat by its neck with her.

She opened her desk drawer and dropped Lesser into it.

“ Bite me.” She snapped

And from the drawer Lesser tried to do just that.



Ignancia came by a few weeks later with her sister to invite Azi to tea. It was a tradition. They pretended to drink tea and act like ladies and when they were done they were usually drunk and Azi’s hazel eyes would turn to their natural shade of yellow and they would all pretend like they had the flu for the next few days.

“So, how is Mr Thornapple working out for you?”

Ignancia’ s sister Akela asked who was Thornapple and Azi said, “ The ungrateful dead man I rescued from an eternity of solitary confinement.”

“ Oh, you cut off some poor devil's head so that you could turn him into your own private guard dog.”

“Rescue.” Akela didn’t chuckle or snicker. When she laughed she really put effort into it “ you kill me Azi, you really do.”

“ Well, he’s not working. That’s the problem. Lazy dog just sits on my desk and does he warn me that danger is near? Hell no. Let me make that clear to you ladies HELL NO. I had a Werecat go crazy when I tried to pull some silver out of it’s chest and look” Azi held up her hand, “ it doesn’t hurt when you loose them but it sure as heck does when they grow back. Then I had to deal with all those little beastly children at the same time."


“ What'd they do?”

“ The Benandanti kids rubbed garlic all over the Hellebore’s shrouds and the Hellebore’s dropped Wolfsbane into the Benandanti’ s well.”

“ Kid stuff…”

“ Yes well, I had to deal with a bunch of rowdy teenage vampires and werewolves tearing my reception area apart as well as have an insane Werecat try to eat my arm
and does Thornapple say anything before Armageddon rides into my office?
No. Unless you count laughing as a word.”

“ He laughed?”

“ Loudly, very, very, very loudly.”

Ignancia lowered her voice, “ what did you do to him?”

“ Nothing…nothing. He’s in my desk drawer. Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t touch him. Really!”

Ignancia leaned back and nodded, “ I don’t believe you.”

It's a fool who doesn't know their own friends and Ignancia Guzman was nobody's fool.



Azi was wrapped in a soft warm alcohol woven blanket when she stumbled into her office and pulled open her desk drawer. She reached in for Lesser and then dropped him down onto her desk from at least two feet up in the air and when he landed his teeth snapped together and then it was Azi’s turn to laugh.

“ I’m supposed to apologize.” She slurred imperiously.

Lesser’s black empty eye sockets seemed to be paying attention so she went on. “ It was wrong of me to dump you in the drawer, it was wrong of me to not even ask you your name. I’m sorry, okay?”

“ You robbed my grave.”

“ Oh, hell, there are worse things you can do the rob a grave like I don’t know, let me think…. oh yes here’s one Murder. That’s pretty darn bad too, isn’t it Lesser.”

Azi dropped herself into her chair and scooted it up to her desk. She reached for Lesser and when they were nose to, well, eye to eye he said, “ I never killed anybody Azi. I was innocent.”

He saw Azi sober up and felt her grip tighten around him. “ What?”

“ I was innocent. I never killed anyone Azi, but I know who did those awful things
and I never told the truth. I couldn’t.”

“ Damn it. That’s why you were down there still, you condemned yourself.”

“ I don’t know anything about that.”

“ Look, why’d they leave the rope around your neck. Do you know?”

“ The Hangman knew I was innocent. But he didn’t want me to be. So he left the noose on.”

Azi shook her head, “ People just mystify me Lesser, they really do.”

“ When do you plan on asking me about the graves Azi, all of those empty graves. You haven’t mentioned them once.”

“ I’m asking you now then, what happened to those graves. Why were they all empty?”

“ A friend of yours moved to Mourning Ridge, did you know?”

“ What friend?”

“ Delphine Heller. She’s back Azi and I’m pretty sure she was tearing that cemetery apart because she was looking for…”

Azi’s eyes didn’t flare or shine or glow deep orange and then yellow.

They burned.

“ Me.”

That one word echoed lonely and hallow in the dark office and Lesser was surprised because if he had to name a truly shunned creature it wouldn't be Azi Stavesacre. Still from the way that one word sounded he wondered if she felt the same way he did when he realized he was about to be hung for the murders his own son committed and then blamed him for.

Lesser Thornapple knew what if felt like to be abandoned. To be cast out so far you could never come back no matter how hard you tried.

He wouldn’t wish that feeling on anybody…or anything.

Lesser watched the face of the Witch Doctor and what surprised him was what he said next. “ Put me in the window Azi, I have work to do.”

And that Dear Readers is The beginning of my tale.
amm

From the Darkness....

My journey has been hard but as I emerge from the darkness and into the light ... I know that I will soon arrive in the Land of Standing Stones.


 

Land of Standing Stones

Knitting away, my friends. And I know it isn't writing, but it's so akin. Getting past the hurdle in the knitting has freed up my mind, my gears are unstuck and I am free-flowing again. Clicking away on the needles, I can think about writing. About words. About creating. And that makes me happy.

Travelling on Horseback

Having ferried across the lake to the island we have to travel on horseback to meet the healer who will re-awaken an aspect of my creativity that has lain sleeping for over a hundred years.
Guides are travelling with us, showing the way through the foggy marshlands.

Muse-ic to live by...

I was never one for fairy tales - I preferred the myths and legends of the British Isles, Greek and Norse myths, but few fairy tales captured my interest. I did enjoy Goldilocks and the Three Bears, although my sympathy lay with the bears - I'd be pretty annoyed if a spoilt brat broke into my home, wrecked the furniture and gobbled the porridge.

No, what I grew up with was music - the voices of my father and uncles singing Irish airs, the folk music of England, Wales and Scotland, stories in song that stirred my soul and gave me muse-ical myths to live by.

One that became kind of banner to me was the Scottish myth of Tam Lin. Both song and tale, it was a myth I could live by. While walking in the wood, a young girl called Janet meets a strange young man called Tam Lin. She falls in love with him, but finds he is in the thrall of the Elven Queen. He tells her the only way to save him is to drag him from his horse and hold on to him tight, no matter what happens, next time the Elven Court rides through the forest.

This she does, and as she clings to her love, the Elven Queen turns him into different things - a column of fire, a pillar of ice, a slippery eel, a giant spider - but in spite of her fear and horror, she does not let go and finally he turns into Tam Lin, naked but free of the Elven Queen's spell.

'She that has borrowed young Tamlane
Has gotten a stately groom,
She's taken away my bonniest knight,
Left nothing in his room.
'But had I known, Tamlane, Tamlane,
A lady would borrow thee,
I'd hae ta'en out thy two grey eyne,
Put in two eyne of tree.
'Had I but known, Tamlane, Tamlane,
Before we came from home,
I'd hae ta'en out thy heart o' flesh,
Put in a heart of stone.'
Had I but had the wit yestreen
That I have got today,
I'd paid the Fiend seven times his teind
Ere you'd been won away.'

The tale of Janet and Tam Lin seems to me to embody all the qualities I believe in and try to live by - endurance, courage, strength, holding fast and standing your ground no matter what happens. Not just true love, but every worth while endeavour demands your whole heart and soul, the stubborn determination to see it through to the end.

I loved those old songs of heroes and great deeds, such as Boulavogue and Bold Fenian Men, but the ones that haunted me and became my personal myths were the songs of quiet heroism - the courageous mother sheltering her child in the Castle of Dromore, the brave souls spiriting Bonnie Prince Charlie across the water in the Sky Boat Song...
All of these are my myths, that helped to make me who I am.

Sleeping, Cinders And Co.

When I read the "Myth to Live By" prompt, I immediately got confused. I couldn't locate just one, but many. Sometimes I have been Cinders, doing the sweeper work and sorting through the ashes. Sometimes I have become aware parts of me were totally Sleeping, waiting to be awakened. Sometimes I am like Jack, daring up the beanstalk to take what's mine back from the Sleeping Giant. Go figure. I must be confused, because life wasn't meant to be like that, or was it?

Sometimes I am facing something new, and again pull back into Hansel and Gretel, daring the journey through the forest to meet the olden day witch in the sugar house. And sometimes I am like Snow White, taking notice of the poison apple, when I know I ought not. I have heard tell that myths are shifting, changing, evolving things. These myths are also captivating, showing me where I have been, and where I am going. Backwards and forwards, all the time, like the thread through a loom until it is done. Confusing at the time maybe, but should make sense in the end, I guess.

copyright Monika Roleff 2006.

A Raven for Heather

copyright Monika Roleff 2006.

Treasures from The Land of Standing Stones

I've made a few things since coming to the land of Standing Stones...want to see?


I've made a Medicine Bag-

His name is Calabar Felonway and I made him with my own two hands, right here in the Land of Standing Stones. See that hill behind us with the weird tree growing at it's base?

What do the travelers call it?

Oh yes, the Screaming Tree.

That's were I met, made (whatever) Calabar Felonway.
One of these days I'll get around to Calabar's story and what I've hidden in him. But that's for another time. Right now it's between me and Calabar.

This is my Surrender Box-


His name is Lesser Thornapple.

Lesser sits on my work desk and during Christmas people decorate him with tinsel and during Halloween they drop candy into him and the rest of the time people poke at his empty eye sockets with their pencils and pens and I'm glad his jaw is missing or there would be a few less pen and pencils and fingers in the world.

I tell Lesser all my secrets... like where my stories really come from and I tell him about my nightmares and about the things that really scare me...that's probably why Lesser Thornapple isn't normal anymore. I know I haven't been the same since I started to talk to Lesser...yes, I've changed a lot.

So those are the treasures I've made since I came to the Land of Standing Stones. And I thought I wasn't the artistic type!

Anita Marie

Ferrying My Sleeping Self

Tonight I sat sketching and drew myself ferrying my sleeping self across to the monastery and the Castalian waters. I figure if I can just get her into those Castalian waters she will revive and I will awaken yet another creative self. We are carrying plenty of gold to pay the guardian of the springs.

Nell becomes my muse

That’s Nell there with her hands on her hips, staring straight at the camera. This picture is how they found her, quite by accident, you know, although they were looking for her– or at least the idea of her, what with Minerva getting sick and on in age. The leader began searching for someone to find the truth and keep it for women, keeping it safe for those coming along. The truth was a hard thing to deal with, especially for men; and women’s truth was trampled on time and again, until the older ones decided just to hold the truths themselves.

They went searching for someone to hold the truth after Minerva, someone who would have the strength see it and keep it for the women. There were things that needed to be accomplished for women, and someone had to hold the record. Someone had to guide them. Someone had to be both found and created.

“She’s the one,” the leader said. She took a swig of her bottled Coke, pointing at the black and white picture of four mill girls below the fold of the small North Carolina town paper. “She’s telling me with her eyes and her hands."

The girls could have been no more than 12 or 13, taking a break during their 10 hour work shift at the lint-filled cotton mill. They were young, but they were part of the economy, the society, of the South. And Nell was staring straight at the camera man, smirking a little, enough to show her personality and strength in a world that had already decided who and what she would be– just a simple mill girl.

Nell never had much of an idea of her future. She knew she wanted something, but for the life of her, that something, that idea, remained elusive. Never in the best of daydreams, standing at the looms, did she imagine what would happen to her. Who she would be and why. There wasn’t much to imagine outside of the mill hill– work, eat, sleep, go to church. But she had a feeling it would come to her one day, calling her name.

Nell.

“Let’s go get her.”

Bound Up

Friends, I've made myself crazy already and we haven't even gone anywhere yet on the journey. When I got the first note about the medicine bag, I went nuts. "Oh, I know the perfect bag to knit," I thought. "I can do it quickly." So, I've obsesses over that for a week now. And today, finally I finished it, but because it was the first one for me, a prototype, let's say; it isn't what I want.

And I've done the same thing with the contents of the bag... I keep thinking "What can I include?" What's special enough to go in a bag on a journey to the land of the standing stones? Dang. I'm overwhelmed with the things I want to include... mostly because I want to take everything.

But a medicine bag, a bag of talismen isn't supposed to be a carry-all, a check in bag at the luggage rack. It's supposed to be the bits and pieces of the world that make things magical, electric, for me. And so the bag doesn't need to be huge. And the things inside can't be everything that's important to me.


I sit here, with my creativity bound up, wondering what to take and what I will carry it in.

This is how it is with my writing. I get bogged down in the details, the planning, and I can't move forward because I am planning, detailing.So tonight I will collect my talismen as if the house is on fire and I have to grab those things that save me creatively. They may be carried in a paper sack for now, but it doesn't matter, does it, as long as I have them with me.

Where once a prison

In a walled garden
Cold against music
old women walk
in a walled garden
a distant piper tunes
their dance while cold
stone holds
their myth
and memory weeps
against the distant
rumble of the sea

Here, all is voice: The raven
doves
a bird whose name I do not know
whistles
A clatter of painters
clamber up the stairs
and someone is playing
a flute

Against the rhythm
of didgeridoo
the painted children dance
and one small boy cries
as he makes an emu
to grandmothers

The women sing an old poet’s rhythm
and ever - changing time
slows
into memory

I Do Declare

I do declare! Is that Sleeping Beauty that the gypsies are bringing to the Land of Standing Stones to be warmed and awakened from one hundred years of sleeping?

Sleeping Beauty is the myth I have lived by. She is the heroine in the Princess and the Muse, a story I wrote many years ago.

Once she is awakened here she will live out another ending. No handsome prince to marry! Instead, she will have her creativity awakened.

What is the myth you live by?