Unconscious Mutterings Week 283

I came across this quite by accident. It is a weekly meme hosted at Unconscious Mutterings. This is the gist of it according to Luna Niña:

"Free association is described as a "psychoanalytic procedure in which a person is encouraged to give free rein to his or her thoughts and feelings, verbalizing whatever comes into the mind without monitoring its content." Over time, this technique is supposed to help bring forth repressed thoughts and feelings that the person can then work through to gain a better sense of self.

That's an admirable goal, but for the purposes of this exercise, we're just hoping to have a little fun with the technique. Each week I'll post ten words to which you can respond to with the first thing that comes to mind.

"Rules are, there are no rules." There is no right or wrong answers. Don't limit yourself to one word responses; just say everything that pops into your head. AND you don't have to have your words up on Sunday. Take all week if you want."

I, of course, am going to take this to another level as I have chosen to self-analyze my answers. Not what is intended, but I found it interesting when I sat down and looked at how I had answered. Originally, as stated above, free association is supposed to help with bringing forth 'thoughts and feelings that the person can then work through' – I am merely hoping to bring forth thoughts, and to express them. And in that way to keep things flowing; creatively and personally.

1. Loneliness :: Empty
2. Traffic :: Congestion
3. Chaos :: Clarity
4. Burp :: Vurp
5. 500 :: to 1
6. Movie :: Theater
7. Coma :: Sleep
8. Bark :: Dog
9. Stare :: Down
10. Angelina :: Pretty

(1) Loneliness is not so much absence, but emptiness – at least to me. How does that work you may ask? Because I have felt as lonely in a room full of friends as I have when all alone. So then it must not be absence, but something else, something more – or in this case, something less. Thus emptiness seemed a more appropriate response.

(2) Traffic is caused by a congestion of people, cars, and thoughts. Overfilled and overcrowded according to my dictionary. Yes, I agree. Too much, too many, and not enough space and time to deal with any of it. I guess that is why I left the Bay Area and like it so much here. Yes, there are times traffic occurs, but never as it did there.

(3) Clarity from Chaos is the slogan of my proofreading service called The Story Tamer. So I guess this response was not anything psychological, but rather self-serving.

(4) Uh…hmm…how did I get vurp from burp? I guess when you suffer from acid reflux, you will know how I came up with this answer.

(5) 500 to 1? I live in Reno. Kinda comes with the territory that once in a while I will fire back with some reference to gambling and odds. I don't frequent any of the local casinos as I have never understood the appeal of throwing away my hard earned money for the sake of what? Somehow beating house odds? They wouldn't be there if the house thought they couldn't make a profit off of them. Except for one or two games, the odds are against you. Period. However, I am addicted to Starbucks. Yeah, if I am going to 'throw away' money, at least I am going to enjoy every minute of it.

(6) Movie Theater is all I could think of, which is funny as I never go to one. I'd rather throw my money away at a casino. At least there I get free drinks and have more of a chance of being entertained.

(7) I don't sleep well. Never really have. Not that being in a coma is a good thing, but I can't help but think of how I wish I could sleep so deeply it would as if I were in a coma – dead to the world.

…and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
-- Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1

(8) Bark = Dog. Could've been tree, but again, I chose the obvious. Plus I will be pet-sitting my best friend's Husky for the rest of the week. So I have dog on the brain. Luckily though, he is not a 'barker'. Singer, yes. But barker? No. I can't wait. I just love this dog.

(9) Stare down. What I seem to be doing a lot lately with trying to keep up with all those reading challenges I hoped to be able to complete. I regret to say though in looking at my progress – I blinked first, because there is no way I'm going to get through all of them. No worries. This was my first time participating, so I will consider this a learning experience and will know better for next year.

(10) Angelina is a pretty name. Of course any name that ends in –ina sounds pretty to me.

Well, not so bad for my first week. Can't wait to see how long I can keep this up before I get absolutely sick of myself. Time will tell.

Little Girl Lost

Yep. This is me about 40 years ago. And yes, I didn't smile much. Not then.

I had a speech impediment - a bad one. My father was a police officer (not soon after this pic he became a firefighter). Didn't make me popular; not in the sixties. Not in a poor neighborhood like the one I grew up in, surrounded by public housing and an ever increasing amount of racial tension. I hated him for that. Especially since he had left us years earlier and rarely saw us. And on one of the few occasions he 'graced' us with his presence, it was in uniform. Way to go dad.

To protect mysef I turned inward and begun to lose myself there. I had few friends, and even fewer emotions. I pretty much only had one. Apathy. I didn't care anymore. I had learned that to care meant to hurt.

After years of speech therapy and moving to the coast five years later. I learned something else. I learned that not all children are cruel. I learned that I loved horses and the freedom of going places my feet never could. I learned that I was never alone, not even in my thoughts. And it was okay. It was okay to talk different, to think different, to be different.

And now, forty years on, I learned finally that its okay to be....me.

I look at this picture and cry. I mourn for all those years I lost because others convinced me I wasn't good enough, I wasn't normal, and I wasn't loved.

But those tears quickly fade. They were wrong. They were all wrong.

I am good enough. I am normal. And I am loved.

(Okay...I may be stretching it with the 'normal' part - author's prerogative)

I titled this 'little girl lost'. But don't worry. I found her. And she's doing just fine.

‘Fess Up Friday: 27-Jun-2008

Actually this week has been great. I finally wrote the first chapter to my project called Journals of the Realm: Shards of Hope. Somehow I started in the middle. Didn't plan it that way, but then again, I don't think there really is a right or wrong way of starting a book. I really believe, for me at least, that a novel is rarely written in a linear manner.

If you are a writer who can achieve this feat, I applaud you, however I get my ideas generally from short pieces I write that generate enough interest and comments that lead me to believe I can develop something from hardly anything. In fact this current project started off as a dare. Strange, but true.

I posted this chapter here.

Another hurdle I accomplished was mapping out the first book. This is where I like using a free download called yWriter. It helps keep track of everything….and I do mean everything. Word count, chapters, scenes, characters, items used, locations, etc. It even has a setting to export your work into a format specifically for NaNoWriMo.

I like the fact now I have a visual map to refer to in order to keep track not only of what I need to do, but to see how much I have accomplished, which turns out to be much more than I had thought. Whew!

I think that covers it for this week. Happy 'Fess Up Friday! See you next week.

To help keep fellow writers motivated, LK is hosting 'Fess Up Friday over at The Literate Kitten. If you are interested, please click on the link provided to find out how you can participate.

Journals of the Realm: 06/25/08 Update

shards two © 2008 J.C. Montgomery

As some of you may know, I have been doing a little writing. I have been dabbling with Flash Fiction and Poetry for a while, but now I'm venturing into novel or novella territory. The story will center around a group of Wraiths -- two races of Wraiths to be exact. I have posted other chapters, but as they are basically the middle I have removed them and will from now on only post each chapter, or excerpt thereof, in order.

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Journals of the Realm: Shards of Hope

Chapter 1 - Tracked

Softly caressing her skin, it never crossed his mind to ask why it was so cool to the touch. Staring into her clear, grey eyes, he soon forgot what he was doing, or why he was even doing it. His thoughts swirled into mist and were banished into nothingness. All that remained was an overwhelming need to make her his. Grasping her roughly, he pulled her shoulders toward him, stopping when her face was only inches from his own.

Knowing he was completely under her control, she inhaled. Slowly, and quite literally, she took his breath away. Stroking his pale skin, it occurred to her that it was now as cool as her own. Mmm, she thought pleasantly, how I do love a cool snack on such a hot afternoon. Now my dear, let us see if you taste as good as you look. As Esmirée leaned in to drink deeply of his essence, she closed her eyes and opened her mind to the act that was about to follow. Even though she was hungry, she would not allow herself to feed quickly. She was aware that her next meal may be days away and she wanted to enjoy every bit of what her prey had to offer.

Shuddering in pleasure, she leaned back into the satin pillows, shamelessly allowed euphoria to overwhelm her senses. Rolling her tongue across her flushed lips, she savored the remaining flavors of her latest kill. It was moments like these when she couldn’t help but muse upon the diversity of human kind. They are so much like fine wines, she thought, each with distinctive characteristics of texture and taste.

It’s said there are four aspects of taste: sweet, sour, bitter, and salty. But these are human terms, and are much too limited in meaning. Esmirée preferred the Japanese concept of umami, which encompasses all the senses; each meal then being highly sensorial in nature rather than merely ‘enjoyable’. Looking at the once handsome man laying still beside her, she felt a strong irony. How he had hungered for her. She barely stifled a laugh. Oh my sweet, if you’d only known.

Standing in the doorway, apparently undetected by the she Wraith, Gaelan took a moment to take in the scene. How easy it would be, he thought, to just walk away and leave her to her pleasure, but orders are orders. He closed his eyes in protest, shaking his head trying to loosen a thought that would not go away; the one reminding him what happens when direct orders are disobeyed.

It was then he noticed that her posture had changed telling him she was aware of his presence.

-- I don’t think I’ve ever seen any other Wraith feed the way you do.

-- That’s because they only ever think of one thing: satiating their hunger. I, on the other hand, see it as more than simply fulfilling a biological need.

Shutting the door behind him, Gaelan crossed the room and stood next to Esmirée’s bed.

-- Hmm. I see you didn’t waste any time taking that one off the market.

-- Like you’re one to talk. I seem to rememb…What is it Gaelan? Something’s wrong. What are you trying to hide?

Looking down at his sister, Gaelan hesitated in revealing what he knew. Their R & R in Cairo was about to come to an end; sooner than either had anticipated. He’d received word from ProTech that MercCo had finally tracked them down and was spoiling for a fight. Esmi was one to answer any challenge, especially when it came to MercCo, but they had strict orders to stay out of sight, and more importantly, out of trouble. Looking at this sister basking in the afterglow of her latest kill, he realized that she had already disobeyed one directive and it wouldn’t be long before the second would be disregarded as well.

Grasping the corpse by the forearm, he lifted it with ease and set it down on the floor at the end of the bed. He sat next her, debating what, and how much, he should disclose.

-- You’re delaying the inevitable G. I’m going to find out sooner or later.

-- I know. It’s just that…

-- Come on now, you didn’t actually believe Commander Bell would let it go that easy did you?

-- How in the hell?

-- This is a very close knit district. Word spreads quickly when heavily armed outsiders start setting up a perimeter around their community.

Giving her brother an amused look, she rose and started dressing. As she headed for the bathroom, she was forced to step over the desiccated body of Fadil Allam.

-- Please be a dear and do something about Fadil.

-- Allam? By the gods that made us Esmi, what were you thinking!? Devlin is gonna crap his pants on this one Sis. You just couldn’t settle on some no-name enforcer that no one would miss. Oh no. You have to go and take out one of the most prominent underworld figures in all of Cairo.

-- He had it coming G. It was Fadil that ordered the hit on Azizi. If you remember, I made a promise to his mother. And I always keep my word.

Yes, admitted Gaelan silently, you do.

-- I just wish you could obey orders as well as you keep your promises.

-- Orders are for slaves and soldiers G. And I am neither. You and Dev seem to have a hard time remembering that.

Esmi returned and noted the concern on her brother’s face.

-- Look, we can leave him. It’s not like anyone is going to come looking for him here, and we’re not coming back…are we?

-- No.

-- How many G? How many units did Bell send?

-- Ten.

-- Human?

-- All, but one.

-- Who?

-- Dev isn’t sure. I mean it’s only a rumor really…but….

-- Dammit G, don’t make me take it from you.

Gaelan began to feel a pressure forcing his mind in on itself, twisting his thoughts and causing his ears to pop.

-- Stop it Esmi.

Sweat began to appear on Gaelan’s temples as the pain from her onslaught continued.

-- Enough, enough! Seriously Sis. You can be such a pain in the ass.

-- Well?

-- We think it’s Katil. But we aren’t sure. As far as anyone knows, he’s still not contracted, and MercCo refuses to work with freelancers. All we know is that he’s here, and no one knows why.

Esmi released Gaelan from the mind lock and began loading her holsters. She hated carrying conventional weaponry, but seeing as there were 50 heavily armed Merc’s between them and the river meant having to prepare accordingly.

-- Anything else I should know before we head out? You know how much I hate surprises.

-- Can’t really think of any right now. Oh, except for one.

-- Yeah?

-- DUCK!!

Just as Esmi hit the floor, both windows to her room imploded, covering her and Gaelan in wood and plaster.

Anxious little bastards, she thought as she rolled onto her back while simultaneously pulling out her Kimbers. Gaelan was already up and laying cover fire when she started toward the window closest to her.

-- Where in the hell do you think you’re going?

-- You really don’t think they’d let us walk out the front door do you?

Just then a concussion grenade landed between them, rolling to a stop at Gaelan’s feet.

-- Well then, the windows it is.

Nodding in acknowledgement, Gaelan fired another volley before he and Esmi dove head first through the blown out windows. The surprised look on the squad’s faces as they rolled up onto their feet confirmed Esmi’s assumption.

-- This might be more fun than I thought.

Gaelan sighed as he dove for cover while picking off those who hadn’t reacted quickly enough to he and Esmi’s sudden appearance in front of them.

-- You know sis, I really think we need to work on your definition of ‘fun’.

All text and illustrations © 2008 J.C. Montgomery

PhotoHunt 113: Bad Hair

Okay, I didn't take the photo, but if you really want to see "Bad Hair", I can't think of anything more appropriate than "helmet hair". It was worth it though. Our team took second place to one that was half our age and should have been playing in a higher bracket. Yes, never underestimate age and wisdom against youthful exhuberance!

Sunday Scribblings No. 109: Family

The prompt this week is: Family. Love them or hate them, we all have them. Whether it's urban families, adopted families, work families, extended families, nuclear families, or blended families, no matter how you look at them, they are complicated. Make up a new family, talk about your own family, or create a family for one of your characters to flesh them out a little. What does the word family bring up for you?

I had first written about this member of my family here: Absolutions Part I

But it was not the first time. The piece shown above was actually inspired by the following essay I wrote in college. I am reproducing it here, now, in response to Sunday Scribblings. I hope in some way you see the positive in this, as I have.

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A New Perspective

As children, we often look up to our fathers: physically, psychologically, and emotionally. All too soon, we realize that they are not the person we believed them to be. They have faults like everyone else. This realization came to me when I was ten years old.

My dad was dropping us off from one of our rare visits with him. This visit was not necessarily by choice, as my mom was sick and had undergone major surgery. No one had told my sister and me the truth feeling we were too young to understand. And no one had told my dad the real reason either; they felt it was none of his business. For some reason, he was not well liked by my mother’s family or friends.

During the time my sister and I were with him, mom had undergone surgery to remove cancer. It had not gone well as there had been complications requiring a blood transfusion. Even though she had almost died, and was still very weak, she convinced her doctor to release her earlier than scheduled. In actuality, they had no choice. Whether he liked it or not, she was going home to her children. Seeing that is was no use convincing her otherwise, he conceded defeat and allowed her to be released.

My sister and I were excited to be going home. Arriving in the driveway, we flew out the door of my dad’s car before he came to a complete stop. Mom had heard us coming, and was halfway down the walk to greet us, dressed in just a robe and nightgown. Of course, she could barely gather the energy to do this, but her babies were home and she did not care how she looked or how she felt. Apparently, my father did.

The viciousness of my father’s attack shocked me. He began berating her for her appearance, accusing her of being so lazy as not to even get dressed. He accused her of lying around the house the whole time we were gone, not doing a damn thing, while he made all kinds of sacrifices in order to take care of my sister and me. I could not believe what I was hearing.

I quickly decided that I should leave, but my parents blocked my way to the door. Apparently, they were oblivious to my presence. I suddenly realized that I was standing next to the tree in the yard. It was large and had low-slung branches that were perfect for climbing. Somehow, and I do not remember exactly how, I was high in the tree looking down upon my parents.

I was amazed that not only had I somehow gotten into the tree, but also at the perspective it gave me of the scene unfolding below. It was not a perspective I was used to having as a child. My parents seemed much smaller, especially my father. Up in that tree, my perspective literally, and figuratively, began to change.

From where I was sitting, he looked small, spiteful, and petty. Far less intimidating than he had ever been before. I had always believed him when he scolded my sister and I for fighting. It was explained to us that we were family. We should love and support each other. My mother was part of that family too. However, at that moment, he was anything but supportive and loving. Watching him on that walkway, I realized that he was not the man I had looked up to and respected.

Soon after the argument began, friends and neighbors separated my parents. They explained to him that my mother had just gotten out of the hospital so she had good reason to look the way she did. He wouldn’t listen. He stormed off to his car, and left, never once apologizing for his behavior.

I stayed in the tree. My head hurt, and so did my heart. My father was not who I thought he was. There was more to him than I had realized, and somehow, there was less too. He had lost something. He had lost my respect. I did not love him any less, but up there in that tree, I learned that I did not have to like him. Love may be unconditional, but respect is not. No one, not even my father, deserved it. I learned that I could not give away something as important as this without realizing its value. Everyone, including my father, has to earn my respect. I cannot give it away so freely.

The moment my feet hit the ground, I looked back up into the tree, and then toward the doorway of my house. Everything looked the same; yet, something had changed. Not until later did I realize I was seeing everything with a new understanding. I slowly walked back into the world of my childhood, but I would never look at my father the same way again. I had always admired and respected him. But being in that tree taught me how to see him in a whole new way. It was a perspective I was never able to change.

I wanted my father to earn back my respect. I wanted him to be the person I knew him to be when I was younger. But it never happened. I recall a passage in Langston Hughes’ essay “Salvation”

I kept waiting serenely for Jesus, waiting, waiting – but he didn’t come. I wanted to see him, but nothing happened to me. Nothing! I wanted something to happen to me, but nothing happened.

I wanted something to happen too. I wanted to look at my father and see him as I did when I was a child. Just like Langston Hughes, I waited for a revelation that never came. I waited for my father to do something, anything to gain my respect back. But he never did.

Shameless Self Promotion

Okay. Yep. I admit it.

I have an ego.

Check me out.

Wow. Never thought I would resort to this....but hey. If I don't, who will.

She Is Ready

Inspired by: A family member
Writer's Island Matinee Muse Prompt: Completion
Easystreet Prompts: The Sign We Should Have Seen

She is ready.

For what you ask?

For The End.

Is it? Is it really?

Is there ever an end to anything?

Or does it go on, but merely in another form?

Such questions have plagued many throughout the centuries.

Is there life afterwards?

After what?

What we have now?

Shouldn’t what we are given here and now be enough?

At this moment, my family is dealing with an older member who has decided she is ready. And yes, it is just what you think. But, perhaps, it is not – especially if you think this means she has given up.

Has she? No, and a very resounding “no” at that.

But she is ready.

Her life has been long, and very full. She met her husband of nearly 60 years while serving in World War II. They had a family, who’ve had families of their own, who are now starting a new generation. Each one has brought her satisfaction and joy. Her faith has never wavered. Even now, when the body is so weak, that which she believes in remains constant.

She is ready.

But we are not. She has been our constant. Always arranging suppers on Sundays. Phoning distant friends and family regularly in order remain connected and show how much she cares. One time, when she did not call, we knew instantly that something was wrong. Luckily that something turned out to be a receiver knocked off the hook.

She is ready.

Life has been enough for her – this life. Now there are those who will note that her faith professes there will be an afterwards, a glory and a peace well deserved for one such as her. But no one knows, not really. In my heart though, I do believe that there is a better place that awaits, and she of all people should be welcome.

She is ready.

Even if we are not.

Has she reached an end?

No, as long as there are those of us who remember.
No, as long as she is satisfied as to where she’s been and where she is going.
No, as long as the end of this journey is met with complete acceptance.
No, as long as there is an understanding that this is how it is supposed to be.

There is an end. It waits there for us all. We cannot change the inevitable, only how we approach it.

She is ready.

And I will miss her.
And I will mourn.
And I will know it was her decision.
And I will be happy knowing that she met her end with dignity and grace, and that to honor her I should remember this always: that it is not when, but how we face our final moments that count.

She is ready.

And it’s okay.

Sunday Scribblings No. 103: I just don't get it...

What puzzles you? What fills you with confusion? What makes your forehead scrunch up when you think about it?

After receiving a quick and easy solution to my problem, the technician asked if there was anything else he could do for me. As he seemed to know everything, I jokingly asked, “Yeah actually there is. What is the meaning of life?” Hesitating for only a moment he responded, “Forty-two.”

Forty-two? Forgive me my coarse language, but: WTF?

I guess I deserved such an answer, for who in their right mind would ask such a question. The guy was a geek, not a guru. But yet it caused me to stop and really think.

Now I know of Douglas Adams and his works. I have even quoted him; however I have not read The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy or any other in the series. Luckily a friend had witnessed the entire exchange and clued me in.

I’m still confused.

After much speculation, discussion, and debate it was determined that the answer you get has a direct relationship to the question you ask. In my case asking for the meaning of life was tantamount to inquiring what the weather is going to be like June 10th, 2056. That being said, I surmised that if a question has no real relevance to the person being asked, then it should follow that the answer will be just as irrelevant.

I get it.

So then, what is the meaning of life?

Whatever I decide it is, because ultimately I am the one who has to give it meaning. It is mine. I live it every day. No one else. To expect anyone to tell me what it all means removes from me the responsibility of finding out for myself.

Wow. I'm encouraged. Perhaps I can try my hand at another one of life's mysteries. Hmmm.

“Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”

[Scratches her head]

[Furrows her brow]

[Reaches for an Excedrin]

Oh for f***’s sake. What am I thinking? Why am I thinking? It never does me any good.

I just don’t get it.

Don’t get what you ask?

I just don’t get how I can seem so intelligent and yet never know how to stop when I’m ahead.

Nope. I don’t get it. Never have.

Renewal

Inspired by Cafe Writing: Option 4
Use 3 of the following 8 words:
spring, change, virgin, dalliance, fertile, nature, oil, crank

photo © Alex Gonzalez for openphoto.net

The first day of spring was once the time for taking the young virgins into the fields, there in dalliance to set an example in fertility for nature to follow. Now we just set the clocks an hour ahead and change the oil in the crankcase.– E.B. White

From the virgin earth, early man took that which nature offered new each spring. Worshiping in thankfulness for the fertility of the world around them, they reaped the bountiful harvests provided by the blessings of respect.

But as in all dalliances, the mutuality of their relationship soon soured and changed. Worship became neglect, thankfulness became disregard, and humility became arrogance. What was once reaped in gratitude from that which was generous, is now raped in insolence; our rapaciousness never satisfied.

How long will her resources be renewable? How long until our disdain defeats us?

Earth is no longer a virgin and grows weary of her marriage with man.

It is time we recycled our relationship. It is time we renewed our respect.

The Future Is Now

Inspired by Cafe Writing Option Two: Timed Writing

Take seven minutes and write on the subject of fleeting gifts.
Also offered in response to Writer's Island prompts Triumph and Survivor

picture by Teeevoar

Life is one of those precious fleeting gifts, and everything can change in a heartbeat.–Author Unknown

Why is it, that when we are waiting, time seems to go against all laws known to man by slowing to the point of appearing as if it has completely stopped?

All day. I have waited all day. The call has not come. Perhaps they are waiting to until it is the end of the shift to deliver bad news. Makes sense. Drop the bomb and run like hell. It’s what I would do.

It must be hard. Delivering such awful news day in and day out. But not as difficult as it is waiting. Nothing can compare. Ever. You know its coming and there is nothing you can do but wait.

I rack my brain wondering what I could have done differently. I retrace the steps I took that led me to this moment. Yes, there are a few things I would have changed, however I doubt it would alter the outcome. Oh god, this is all my fault. What have I done so wrong that I should deserve this – this waiting?

The phone rings. Before I pick it up I already know who it is, and what they are going to say.

“May I speak to J.C. please?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Becky. I have the results.”

“That was quick.”

The silence hangs between us, neither one wanting to say what needs to be said.

“The results were positive.”

I sit there breathless. My lungs have refused to work and my head feels like it’s full of cotton.

“Cancer?”

“I'm so sorry. I’ve scheduled an appointment with the oncologist tomorrow, she will.....”

Her words sounded distant and hollow. I'm sure the conversation was longer, but I don't remember much of it now. For some reason I couldn't get past that word: Cancer. The world stopped, and in an instant, everything changed.

Time began again, ticking away, each moment lost forever at a maddening pace. Life may be “one of those precious fleeting gifts” but so is the future. It was not until then that I felt it vanishing before my eyes.

How do I make it wait? Hopefully it will wait. I prayed that it would wait.

Epilogue:
It was in April of 2000 when I received the news that I had Stage III Breast Cancer. The next 10 months were lost in the chaos that is chemo, radiation, and recovery. As of this date, I remain cancer free and no longer wait for my future. It is here, and I get to see it every day when I wake up and realize how lucky I am to be alive.

What We May Be

Inspired by Monday Mural and Writer's Island

Artwork Ophelia Adeu from Photobucket originally uploaded by like_wow_24 here

Is it our lot in life to accept fate?

Or do we rise up against it, knowing that we have been given the gift of free will, and as such, we have the right to make our own decisions thereby controlling our own destiny?

For some reason, when I think of these things, the character of Ophelia comes to mind. I am not sure why. My guess is that, as strong as I would like to believe I am in character, there is a small part of me that remains afraid and unsure. Sometimes I panic, thinking I have lost control, and it takes all that I have to gain it back.

Poor Ophelia could not. She lost her way, and in doing so lost her life. She was never taught, nor allowed to develop the self-possession required to deal with the harsh realities of life.

There, but by the grace of God, would I go, if not for the strength I have in the knowledge that there is no weakness in me unless I allow it. And that there are those in my life that would never let me fall so far, that I could never rise up again and face another day.

Ophelia is what we never hope we are, but sometimes know we may be; subservient to events over which we have no control. Succumbing to the inevitable because we feel there is no other way or that we have no choice.

Destiny dictates that outcomes are predetermined. That fate is unavoidable.

I cannot accept this whole-heartedly. I have to believe that some part of me has control and that I get to decide what happens: that I do indeed have free will. That being said, I look at the picture shown above and ask myself:

Do we float along and let the circumstances of our life drag us under to drown?

Or do we learn to swim, and use the current to bring us to a better place?

I know what I choose.

How about you?

Sunday Scribblings No. 100: Time Machine

Photo: Can't Turn Back Time by Shimoda

Sunday Scribblings Number 100:
Happy hundredth scribble! Woo hoo! What I have in mind when I say "time machine" is this: things that transport you back to childhood or another particular time in your life. Songs, smells, foods, whatever. You know how certain things are triggers that create time machines in your memory and take you right straight back? What are some of your things, and to what times?

The One and a Half Ton Time Machine

It’s in storage now. Sitting there, unused but not unloved; a reminder of lost youth, its nostalgia emanating and seeping into my soul. It holds my emotions so tightly in its grasp, that I lose all sense of reason. Logically, I should have sold it years ago. But I cannot bring myself to do so. Even now, it pains me to consider the possibility.

I think of that old saying, “Out of sight, out of mind.” Yet at this moment I can see clearly in my mind many happy memories given to me by that old Jeep left in storage all those years ago. Yes, it is out of sight, but it is never far from my mind - ever.

Many wonder why I pay $96 dollars a month to store a one and a half ton memory. To tell you the truth, it’s something I think about quite often myself. Why does this non-functioning, slightly rusted, hunk of metal have such a tight grip on my heart?

My guess is that it represents a time in my life which I can never have again. Oh, I know, I could restore it, get it running. I don’t think I could express what it would mean to me, to be able to sit behind the wheel again, riding down the trail, no roof, no doors, safety harnesses snugly hugging me to my seat, climbing boulders the size of Volkswagens, all the while wondering how much longer my kidneys will hold out before hitting camp.

So much time has passed. I wonder if it is even possible. I have the skill, but not the tools or the funds. Why is it that we only learn to appreciate what we have until it is no longer within our means to hold onto, or maintain these things that make us so happy? Every month, it gets harder and harder to scrape up the money for storage. And every time the payment is made, an argument is renewed and rehashed. Is the relationship I used to have with this inanimate object worth the loss of one I hold as dear, which is here and now, and looking at me as if I’ve completely lost my mind.

Each month, the pain of reality is brought out, admired, and set back upon the shelf until it is time to take it down again. One day, it will not be returned. On that day, that one and a half ton time machine will bear a “For Sale” sign. And on that day I will finally acknowledge that no matter how hard you try, or would like to believe, the journey we take through life is a one-way trip.

For now, I still believe that a time machine does exist. I keep it in a storage unit off highway 395 somewhere in northern Nevada. It costs me only $96 a month and I get to ride it anytime I want.

Someday, I’ll have to sell it.

But not now - not until I can figure out how much one and a half tons of memories are worth.

Writer's Island No. 21: Changed

I am not sure now how I came across the Island. But I find now that I have a hard time leaving. Its breezes warm and welcoming; inspiring.

Each prompt appears weekly. If you would like to do a little exploring of your own, please click on the logo above. The twenty-first Writer's Island prompt is: Changed

Forest for the Trees by J.C. Montgomery

Changed. Had I? Had I really?

Looking in the mirror, I leaned in closer, straining my neck and my mind, trying to see what others say is there. No. I still don’t see it. It. Whatever it is.

I turn myself slowly to the left keeping my head straight. I watch myself as I move, searching every perceivable inch for that one clue, that one tell-tale sign which announces my metamorphosis. It eludes me. Just as slowly, I turn the other way, scanning and dissecting what I see before me. I see nothing. I see nothing.

My intelligence takes over and calms the confusion, which had, until now, distorted my ability to reason. What I see reflected is as it has always been; at least this is what my mind tells me. I look at myself. They say I am different. They say I have changed. What is it? Why can’t I see it?

This distortion of my consciousness has derived from the continual compliments heaped upon my ego. I didn’t even know I had one until it was so engorged with acclaim, that it burst, producing this narcistic activity in which I am now currently engaged.

If this is how I have become altered, then I reject it. I am tired of this time I am wasting, trying to discover something that does not exist: this new, improved ‘me’. I already have a ‘me’ I like. The me who has always been there to listen when I had a problem, crying with me on those days when I couldn’t take one more step, could not stand one more failure. She always saw what no one else would look at, she saw me for who I was, and knows the potential of what could be.

Comprehension enfolds me, suffocating me with realization. Can it be? Placing my hands on each side of the sink, I steady myself as the truth weakens my knees, taking hold of my lungs, stealing the air so I can’t catch my breath. I close my eyes and will myself to remain standing.

Even with my eyes shut, it is there. The image of truth. I see what I could not before: confidence. Confidence has a face. And she looks like me. She is me.

The world knows it.

And now, I know it too.

Demolitions

The demolition began years ago, but only took moments to destroy a lifetime of construction. Just as a collapsing building implodes upon itself, our relationship dissolved into its foundation leaving only rubble and memories. Bulldozers powered by betrayal helped complete the process, loading trucks full of sorrow, all to be buried in the landfill called regret.

"The fate thou didst so well foresee,
But would not to appease him tell;
And in thy Silence was his Sentence,
And in his Soul a vain repentance,
And evil dread so ill dissembled,
That in his hand the lightnings
trembled."

Prometheus, Lord Byron

Absolutions Part I

He was never there. At least it seemed that way. If I ever wanted to see him, arrangements had to be made, permission needed to be given. The concept of ‘open invitation’ never existed in his world nor in any relationship he ever had. Not with any of his wives, lovers, or children.

When I do remember him, I have this strong impression of someone who was always in control. Never revealing anything more, or less, than he wanted anyone to see. I’m sure he believed that he was capable of intimacy, but it was an event I rarely witnessed. He was married four times, which to me, only proves that he was capable of appearing intimate. He had children, or should I say his first two wives had children. It was evident from his profound lack of interest in child rearing that the only contribution he preferred to make was biological.

I know nothing of his first daughter, my half-sister. Given up for adoption to his ex-wife’s second husband, he absolved himself of any responsibility toward her upbringing. I find that this is a pattern he would repeat throughout his parental existence. As with his first daughter, my sister and I were responsibilities which he had difficulty acknowledging or accepting, even when court ordered.

His absence, physically and emotionally, would have repercussions throughout my life, but they have not always been negative. Sometimes, the best example a parent can provide is not one to emulate, but to avoid.

The pain is gone now, but not the results of its infliction.

Many memories are lost. I guess they never seemed important enough to hold onto. There must have been times when there was laughter and happiness, but as hard as I try, I cannot recall them.

For me, memories of him are irretrievable. They sit on a shelf just high enough where my fingertips can brush against them, but can never seem to get a firm grasp. They were put there on purpose. Is it because I am not ready to open them yet? Or is my mind is acting like a parent, protecting me by keeping harmful items out of the way, and out of reach?

Why is this protection necessary? What is it in my past which struggles against revelation?

I cannot talk to him. He is gone. His body remains, but the person he was died that day on the kitchen floor. His brain suffered irreversible damage due to a lack of oxygen. No one knows how long he had lain there, or even if he would survive the coma.

He survived. Well, at least most of him did. But that which survives, is of no use to me. He cannot heal me. He can never give me peace. That part of him is gone forever. Brain damage has been his absolution. I still seek mine.

Musing on Perception

As one struggles with thoughts, one struggles with life itself. Are not thoughts life? Are they not simply the internal manifestations of what is externally perceived?

Life is revealed in our thoughts; a place where perceptions are not constrained by rationality. My mind contains many thoughts and infinite perceptions. Contemplations plague me continually, never to be resolved within this limited realm. Forces work upon my mind which are beyond my comprehension and control.

My ability to create falls under the weight of more mundane things such as day to day living. Day and night, night and day. They are only what they seem to be; they do not become anything more or less than what they actually are. I too, become nothing more or less than what I actually am. Day and night, night and day.

In our pursuit for life, we overlook the significance of happenstance and its gift of opportunity. Here is the consciousness of truth. Seeing only what we hope for, not what actually is.

We are ghosts trapped between two worlds, always looking back upon what we can never have again, and looking forward at the fate which awaits us. All the while ignoring what is in front of us. Is it enough to tell myself, I will not look behind me. I will ignore what lies ahead. I will accept only what today has to offer.

This is where my perceptions have led me. Thoughts and contemplations unresolved, but beckoning. Welcoming. Comforting.

The ultimate destination of life is the same, although few ever contemplate it until faced with knowledge that we have finally reached the end of our journey. We have no choice but to accept the inevitable outcome. This circumstance is determined by chance; not choice. Or is it? Life is a choice, as is its counterpart. Many times I feel I am at the whim of things which I cannot control. This is perception. This is the perception. Every thought reminds me of that which is arbitrary and inevitable.

What is the possibility of creating a tangible life out of a mind filled with intangible perceptions?

Am I up to the task? Is this the path to take - or avoid?

Misty, Murky Memories

As I get older, I spend more time trying to remember my past. Why? Well, you know what they say; those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it. So in my bid for self-improvement, I am attempting to remember previous life lessons so I don't have to learn them all over again. Sounds simple enough.

This will only work if I can remember what I want to remember; when I need to remember it. However, I cannot seem to recall much of my past.

I mean, come on, why is it that I can clearly remember the day my cousin jumped out of the window thinking he was superman, but not my 21st birthday. Ok, ok, there may be OTHER reasons I may not remember that day…but I think you get the gist of what I am saying.

Many of my memories are involuntarily recalled when triggered by a particular sound or smell. These are the most powerful as they either give me the brightest smile or put me in the fetal position. Unfortunately, I have no control as to how and when they will occur. Voluntary memories can be recalled at will (at least they are supposed to be) because they are essential to one's survival. For example, is is very important to remember that an oven broiler is so hot it will cause serious burns if touched - thus my oven mitts are scarred as hell instead of my arms.

However, no matter how hard I try, I cannot seem to remember much of anything before my twenties. Not that many of us would readily choose to remember those bygone years of adolescent angst and teenage terrors. And, to be honest, I have enough going on in my life right now. I really should be spending more time dealing with what I have in front of me.

But I would like to know if there is something in my past which would help me with my present. What is hiding, lurking in the shadows, and why is it keeping its distance from my attempts to bring it into the light?

When I really think about it, perhaps I cannot remember most of my past for a reason. If this is the case, I guess I should leave well enough alone.

Self preservation appears to be much more powerful than self improvement. It may be that I should accept myself as I am now and work on the kind of person I will grow to be, and stop worrying about the person I was before I got here.

Just like Douglas Adams said: "I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be."