K, so I just woke up from about 3 hours of dream after dream after dream after..yeah, you get the picture. I can’t even believe that I’m coherent enough to type right now, because I’ve got one foot in dreamland, and the other in the real world, or is it the other way around? Anyway, I must pen these dreams, because wow, what a ride that was!

First part: I was back at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln….OH, wait, this was after the whole raggedy-ann, my mother was a psycho Mia Farrow/crossed with a psycho elderly woman…did you ever see the movie Malice?  The woman who played my grandmother in my previous dream was Anne Bancroft, as she was in that movie….k, that one later. I was with my sister, and a girl whose name escapes me now, but who was short, stout, black hair, had a bob haircut with bangs, gothy, very frickin’* cool woman. I think she’s this chic I saw from YouTube that is the ultimate webcam girl, who claimed her sexuality by going live on the WebCam…I just remembered, it’s Ducky Doolittle…she so rocks! So, her and I and Tiff (my younger sister) and this other girl were heading for the gym. I, apparently, was uber-buff, and loving it, relishing in it, because I’d been working out really hard for 6 weeks, and I was very built and thin and lookin’ good, baby! So these guys come into the gym, a posse, really, headed up by a couple of black dudes, one who was shorter, more stout than the rest was the leader (what’s up with short, stout folks in my dreams?). He began rapping, and the rap was a poem that came from the Soul Food Cafe…and it was a poem written for a member that had died. I couldn’t believe that he was rapping this poem, and it made me very emotional, because the poem itself was so sad, and it felt really ominous that he was rapping this. Then, I had guns pointed to my face…these people were going to kill us all if I couldn’t explain the rap to the head guy. I felt like what it meant to them was completely different than what the original intent was, and that I was risking my life by telling this guy, and his gun-flippin’*-tottin’ posse, the truth, about where the poem came from, that he didn’t write it (his whole group of groupies thought he did). But, I felt like if I could just talk to this one dude, that he would understand, that he was wise beyond his years, and that the rest of the dudes following him weren’t doing it because he asked them to, but because they didn’t have anyone else to follow, and he was powerful. So, I spoke directly to him. I told him that this was a poem written by a member of SFC, and that it had been published on the web. It was written because someone important and special had died (although I never knew that it was Darryl…in fact, in the dream, it was Tycho Brahe who the poem was about, who is a cartoon character from PennyArcade, but before that, was a Danish astronomer who helped put forth the idea of gravity…Kepler was his assistant…I saw Tycho Brahe on a T-Shirt at Think Geek.com before I went to sleep, lol), so I knew that he didn’t write it. He stood there and sized me up, even had his arms crossed and his mouth titled to the side as he did so…then he pronounced that I was right, and that I was a’ight because I had spoken the truth. In my dream mind, I was so, SO grateful to have found SFC, or I would never have known the obscurity of the reference, that SFC had saved my life.

His little gun-toting croonies…one skinny white dude in particular…didn’t want to drop it, was waving his gun around, and was like “Aw, man, she’s all disrespecting, saying he didn’t write it…”, and I thought he was going to kill me because he was just THAT insecure that he felt the need to kill in order to belong to this group. So, I tried to find a computer in this gym (and they had them along the walls, so students could study), to show them where the poem was online. Only I couldn’t get the computers to work right. One used a VCR tape to run it, like the operating system was on the tape, only I didn’t have the right tape. Another computer, I couldn’t navigate on the Internet to find SFC. I was getting very nervous, because by now, it seemed the head dude was interested in seeing it on the Internet (which of course, made sense in dreamland, but doesn’t make sense now, since he would’ve had to have seen it on the Internet in order to rip it off for his rap). Somehow, though, as dreams do, the focus changed from me finding the poem, to them actually wheeling in the body of the person that died.

The person that died wasn’t Tycho Brahe after all…it was Heather! I was beside myself with grief…I had that overwhelming feeling where you want to cry, where it’s about to come out, so you take that deep breath, and just know that the wail is coming after that, like with a little kid, only, there was no cry…it wouldn’t come out. I just couldn’t believe that Heather was dead. The only reason they thought it was Heather was because the poem was written on her body, on her torso, so the people that wheeled her in assumed it was her. Turns out that one of the croonies was a mortician, too, lol (an all-purpose gang). But then I thought about it, and realized that it couldn’t be Heather, because she was in Australia. So, I asked to see the body. For some reason, the mortician couldn’t straighten out the face, since the body had fallen on her face in the transport, and he couldn’t get the eyes to go back to where they’re supposed to be. So, when I looked at the face, I knew it wasn’t Heather, but then I couldn’t tell who it really was, because the face was so distorted. It had heavy makeup on as well. All I knew was that it was a blonde. The name Lucy came to mind, but then I thought “Maybe this is Steph”. Then I realized that Steph had gone missing, and there was a series of murders on the campus. Then I knew it was Steph. The mortician had straightened her face by now, and I could see the poem, written on her body. I knew that Steph would leave that for a clue, so that we would know it was her, because she knew she was going to die. But I also felt like Steph was behind all the murders, in some way. It didn’t matter, because that same overwhelming grief, crying but can’t let it out feeling came over me, and I was devastated that she was gone. Then, the body started to move.

The mortician and I looked at each other, and realized at the same time that the reason the face had become so distorted when the body fell was because the face was latex, and that a living person was breaking out of that skin. It turned out to be
Jane Krakowski, from Ally McBeal fame. She had orchestrated this whole series of murders, as a way to orchestrate a comeback for herself. At one point, later, I couldn’t understand why she would resort to this, these murders, since she was so talented…she could sing and dance and act, so why would she do this? Ok, but once she busted out of her latex Steph-shell, she realized that now that I knew the truth, I would have to be killed, again (phew, what’s up with these dream characters wanting me dead for knowing the truth? And this was after my dreams of a psycho mother/grandmother who also tried to kill me? Hrm… *shrugs shoulders* could be the Elavil talking, lol). Anyways, now, all the white people in the gym, the sorority chics and frat dudes, they were in on her scheme, so they picked me up to take me back to some place in the gym where they were going to kill me. I was on their shoulders, and accept for the whole “they’re going to kill me” thing, it was like I was being given a hero’s parade. So, we went into this back room, where they were going to do something, I don’t know what, but there plans were foiled because this water thingy was under too much pressure, and there was a mechanic working on the water boiler, replacing some filter, and because he was doing that, he sabotaged their whole plan. Also, in doing so, we all had to run for the hills, because the water tank was gonna blow, and we were all gonna die. I pointed this out, and the dudes put me down, and we all ran outside. For some reason, because of this, I was free to go.

There was so much more that came after this…I was a part of a movie with Reese Witherspoon and Adam Sandler, and then later, Eddie Murphy…there was a dance club TV show, and a McDonald’s, and something called the SprintMobile…kinda like the Bat Mobile, only really small and cute, white with Blue LED lights, and so tiny that when I got in, I was sitting sideways, and my feet had to go into this cubby hole in the door panel, for me to fit….all sponsored by Sprint, lol (sigh, it’s a sad day in America when product placement has even reached my dreaming mind, sigh). I couldn’t even turn around, once I got in, lol. But, eh, that part is fading fast, now that I’m awake, and the thought of typing it all out is exhausting.

But I think I will spend some time with that dream of Mia Farrow and then some older woman as my psycho mother and then grandmother, trying to kill me with electrical plugs and neglect. Seems significant, doesn’t it? *Shudder*

*Ok, so I actually typed out the cuss-word on this entry, but now I don’t know WordPress’s policy on publishing “dirty” words. If it turns out that they’re cool with ‘dat, then I’ll replace these substitutes (which I use freely, as they stand on their own as perfectly good cuss-words, in my opinion) with the real f’ing thing.

What Goddess Are You?

A True Tale of Fright
As Told by Kristina, aka Cuore Della Luna

It wasn’t a dark and stormy night at all, it was actually nice and calm that night, which is typical for Colorado. Nice people, nice scenery, nice weather…well, most of the time. Occasionally, all that niceness just gets to be too comfortable, and Mother Nature will bear down on us with a nice Blizzard, just to remind us all that she’s still in charge. But that Halloween, she was very kind to us, and it was still 60 degrees out when the sun dipped below the mountains.

I was 15, young, pretty and so unaware of it, and being naturally a shy person, with normal teenage insecurities, I was thrilled to have been invited to a party, a real party, with my friends from the 10th grade class. It was Cindy’s birthday party, held on the Saturday before Halloween. It was 1987….Michael Myers had managed to scare us all with that white mask and bloody knife, then came Jason, to haunt our summer camps and of course, Freddy had come along to invade our dreams. Some of us had never seen the Damien movies, or the Exorcist, too young to be sneaking into theatres when they first came out, and parents unwilling to put those nightmarish thoughts into our tiny heads. VCRs were still an expensive toy to own, mostly for taping things off of TV, and video stores were still getting established. But still, we knew the plot lines, from someone’s older brother who had seen it, and told his sibling to torture and scare him, who in turn, told all of us. That Halloween time, yes, our heads were filled with images of teenage slasher films, even if only in our subconscious. It’s only natural, when you’re a teenager yourself, at a party with other teenagers, to have those thoughts dancing in the shadows.

I can’t remember whose idea it was to play with the Ouija board, or even who brought it. We were all sitting in the living room, with candles as our only light source. Cindy and her boyfriend, John, had managed to “sneak” away into Cindy’s bedroom to have some alone time. I had been eyeing Brian, a boy from my church, wishing I could be doing the same thing. Danielle was there, and Amber (with her appropriately long, lush, red curly locks), Jennifer, my neighbor from up the street, and some other kids were around whose names escape me now. But since Brian was there, in the living room, willing to participate in the Ouija Board experience, well, then so was I.

My parents had a Ouija board, the kind that Parker Brothers still makes, and had since I could remember. My sister and I had tried to play with it, after I discovered it one boring summer day in the closet, but nothing ever happened. I had been so frustrated with it, because I had read those directions so carefully, followed every step it said to get it to work, and still, nothing would happen. But, that was the kind of child I was, so sure that if you just followed the steps, followed directions, obeyed, then everything should work out as planned. It’s funny to think on that now, as the painful lessons of young adulthood have taught me so well that directions are merely guidelines, and obedience is not often rewarding.

All of us, me, Amber, Danielle, Brian, and a couple of others, each had two fingers lightly resting on the planchette, and were moving it around in the figure 8, as we knew to do. Jennifer, because of her faith, decided not to join us, but stayed on the sidelines to watch. I remember feeling the electric current, the thrill of having my body so close to Brian’s, as was necessary to have us all fit around the board. We giggled and laughed, wondering what we should ask the board. Finally, someone asked “Is anyone here? Would anyone like to speak to us?” We all watched as the planchette moved to “Yes”. Then we all accused the others of moving it, each in turn, denying it. I know that I didn’t move it; I just felt it trail along to the answer. So, once we all quieted down again, I asked “What is your name?” The planchette slowly moved to the letter “J”, then to “O”, then more quickly to “H” and “N” before it came to rest in the center. “John”, I murmured. Things became quieter, as people who had been talking in the corner came over to watch us. Someone else asked “How old are you?” The planchette moved to the number “6”. Then I said “Awww”. It felt somehow safe, and sad, to know that we were talking to the ghost of a 6-year-old little boy named John….if it was indeed true, and someone wasn’t moving the planchette around to scare the rest of us. I was straddling the fence in that mysterious, tumultuous place called adolescence, on the one side, wanting to believe in the magic, that of course a sweet little boy was talking to us through this board, and on the other side, encountering the skepticism that only going through adolescence can teach, that becomes so easy and natural once in adulthood, knowing that of course, someone was moving the planchette, trying to fool us all.

Suddenly, we heard a loud crash and bang from upstairs. Immediately, as a test, I turned to the board and asked “What just happened upstairs?” The planchette began to move slowly to “T”, then “H”, then “E”, then more quickly to the rest of the letters before it came to rest in the center, to form a complete sentence:

Amber jumped up and ran upstairs to find out what happened. We heard people talking and laughing upstairs, and then Amber came to the head of the stairs, a little bit pale, and breathed out “Oh my God you guys, they did, Cindy and John were wrestling on her bed, and they broke the headboard off the rails, and so the mattress fell off its rails. They really did break the bed.”

Immediately, we all took our hands away from the board, all of us shivering a little, laughing some at the excitement from it. I think we all had been assuming that one of us was pushing it, but how could any of us know what had happened upstairs? My heart began to race at the thought that maybe it was a real spirit talking to us. Could it be? The thought frightened and thrilled me.

Amber rushed back upstairs to tell Cindy and John what had happened on the Ouija board, and so they both came downstairs calmly, slightly puzzled and bewildered (and not tucking or straightening out their clothes, I noticed…I guess they really were play wrestling when the headboard broke). We all quickly jumped in to tell them both of what had happened with the Ouija board.

John was always the most secure of all of us, studious, more of an old soul, and in our teenage excitement, he was able to absorb what we told him, and somehow, by telling him the story, I felt better, not as frightened by it. John was smaller than all of his classmates, which made his pairing with Cindy seem perfect, since she was so petite. I had always held a secret crush on John, for his calming ways, the way he seemed to be breezing through his teenage years, despite his physical limitations in stature, his confidence. I remember at a dance at the high school, a really great song came on, and I was dancing with reckless abandon, completely feeling the music, loving that my body could move to the rhythm. I turned on a spin to seeing John talking to another person, and he was looking and pointing at me, and I saw him say “She’s a really great dancer.” I was high all night from that chance comment that I got to witness. Ever since then, he had held a special place in my heart, the place reserved for those that have shown me kindness. I was happy for him, that he found Cindy, but also a little sad, seeing how much he was falling in love with her, because I felt I had lost out on something special.

The party wound down after that, as curfews seemed to suddenly come crashing down on it. I went home, exhilarated, thrilled at the encounter with this Ouija board, and a little boy named John. Did I dare believe it?

At school on Monday, it was all we could talk about between classes. Amber and I then decided to have everyone involved meet at my house and try it again, this time with my Ouija board, just to test it out. Maybe it was just that board that it would work on, and nothing would happen on mine.

After school, Danielle, Amber, Brian, Cindy and John all came over to my house, and I got my parent’s Ouija board out of the closet. Jennifer had declined the invitation, since she felt that we were messing with something that we just shouldn’t. Cindy was a little afraid of it, so she just wanted to watch, and John stayed by her side. Cindy agreed to take notes for us.

We each again put our two index fingertips on the planchette. This time, we asked if John was there, and the planchette moved quickly to “Yes”. We each began to ask questions of him, and as the letters became sentences, and sentences became thoughts, the story of John began to become clearer.

John had been killed on May 14, 1965, when he was hit by a ’57 Chevy in front of his house, on Murray Blvd., across from our high school. He was very excited, he spelled out, because he was about to be reincarnated into a new little boy, who was to born the next afternoon, at Penrose Hospital. The parent’s names were Clearborn, he had spelled out for us, Mary and Martin Clearborn. I could almost feel his excitement and happiness at this chance to be a person again, and I felt happy for him, too.

However, as I caught myself in this feeling, the skepticism in me began to rise, and so I asked that we try a test. We each, in turn, would take our fingers and place them on the planchette, and ask John a question, something simple, like “Are you here, John?” or “Are you with us, John?” The planchette refused to move, for any of us, except for Danielle. I did notice that it moved much more slowly to the “Yes” answer than it had when we all had our fingers on the planchette, but move it did. John asked Danielle point blank if she had been moving it on purpose, trying to scare us, and she shook her head and said plainly, “No”, that she wasn’t moving it, she wasn’t making this up.

Her calmness in the face of being accused of moving the planchette made me question whether she really had been moving it, that her calmness meant that she was lying to us. If it had been me, I would have answered with a resounding “NO! Of course I’m not doing it!” The fear of someone thinking I was lying would have come out loud and clear in my voice. It didn’t in hers…she seemed to expect that her “No” was enough, and that she had nothing else to prove then. To this day, I still wonder if she really was trying to fool us, although I can’t reconcile why she would do it. She was well-liked by everyone in this little group, and then also, how could she know that the sound of the crash was the breaking of the bed? I then wonder if maybe, just maybe, Danielle was a little bit psychic, a sensitive, and that she was receptive to the communications from the dead, and that maybe she’d been aware of it for some time by then, and so had no problem with being accused of faking it for the rest of us…she just knew better. If she was, I pray for her now, that she has been able to handle this gift, or curse, and that by being “outed” that day, she has been able to cope with it well in her life now.

We resumed asking the board questions, with Amber, Brian, Danielle and I touching the planchette again, and suddenly, the planchette began moving in a figure 8, something we hadn’t intended. We all looked at Danielle, and John asked her again if she was doing it. She had a look of fear on her face this time, the kind that only a teenager can give, the kind that shows up when someone is deathly afraid that they will no longer be accepted by her peers. She stammered out “No, NO! I am NOT doing this!” That caused my heart rate to rise a bit then, because she sounded sincere this time. Suddenly, the planchette started to spell out letters again for us, quickly, so quickly that Cindy could barely keep up with writing them as we spoke them out to her. Put together, it spelled

All of us, our eyes became very wide, and our pupils became very wide. My heart was in my throat. As if on cue, we all took our fingers off of the planchette at the same time. What we saw then scared me so much that I had tears in my eyes.

The planchette halted right in the center, stopped utterly in its tracks.

If someone had truly been pushing on it, the planchette should of kept going a little on that waxed, unused board, pushed on by the velocity it had when it was spelling out that horrid message. It didn’t, it stopped dead in its tracks, right in the middle, with no other movement. We all looked at each other, fear and wonder in each of our eyes. Danielle looked at all of us angrily, breathing fast, eyes wide with fear, and asked “Now, NOW do you believe me?”

Cindy read back to us what had been spelled out…not that she really needed to, since we all seemed to grasp the evil intent of that message as it was being spelled out. We each in turn caught our breath, calmed a bit, and we decided to try the board again.

We asked John if he was still here. The planchette slowly, more slowly than before, moved to “Yes”. We then asked if he was alright, and it moved to “No”. We asked if someone else was with him, and it moved to “Yes”. We asked who it was. It spelled out for us:

A new take on his story began to emerge, and as it was told to us, letter by letter, word by word. The movements went more quickly, each of us saying the letters as they were spelled out for us. John spelled out that it was his father that had been driving that ’57 Chevy, and that he had murdered John by running over him. He then said that his father now had him in a cage, and that he was afraid, because he didn’t know if he was going to be able to be born again, or to meet his new parents, Mary and Martin.

Then, again, the planchette moved around in the figure 8, quickly, and each of our eyes grew wide, and my heart began to pound again. A lump formed in my throat as the planchette began to move again, so fast, so fast the planchette practically leaped from letter to letter, and again, a new set of letters formed for us:

That was it. We all took our fingers off the planchette, thoroughly frightened, and called it a day. Suddenly homework and parents seemed like gifts to us, the perfect excuse to just get away from what we had just seen. The normal world, the real world, what a blessing it seemed to me right then. They all left, and there I was, putting the Ouija board away before my parents got home, heart still pounding, tears forming in my eyes. I was afraid, afraid for myself, afraid for my friends, and afraid for little John.

I know now that I was wrapped up, obsessed with what this Ouija board was telling us, in a way that only teenagers seem to be able to do. It was all that I thought about all that next day at school. I was frightened, yes, but exhilarated as well. It was binding us all closer together; we were becoming a group, something I had craved for so long, a tribe of my own. And Brian was a part of it, and John, and that was worth more to me than anything frightening that this wooden board would tell us.

Amber, Danielle and I decided to go to the new Penrose Birth Center the next day after school, before we were all to meet at my house to try the Ouija board again. It was right up the street from our neighborhood, so we figured it would be a quick trip before we all went to my house. We wanted to see if maybe, just maybe, there was child named Clearborn that had been born there. Amber and I were determined that if this was true in any way, we wanted to see him, this little baby. This was in the day where anyone could go look at the newborns, before a couple of crazy women had stolen newborns from hospitals, before the maternity ward was under lock and key. Danielle was more afraid, and when Amber and I went flying in to go look at the babies born that day, we had to convince her to come with us, practically dragging her in with our peer pressure pleas.

We looked up and down the rows of those precious little newborns, and not one of them was named Clearborn, or Clareborn, or Cleary, or Klerbern, or anything else remotely close in spelling or phonetics. We walked out of there so disappointed and dejected. It wasn’t true, there was no baby Clearborn. Then, with an excitement that almost showed the lightbulb over her head, Amber remembered that this isn’t the only place in the Penrose Hospital system where babies were born; there was the main hospital downtown that had a whole floor for their maternity ward. However, we were all meeting at my house again, to try the Ouija board again, and didn’t have time to drive all the way downtown and back. We decided that we would go to Penrose Main the next day after school, to check there. Then, we all hopped into Amber’s car and drove to my house.

We all assembled in the lower part of my parent’s split level house again, and again I got the Ouija board out of the coat closet. Cindy and John again stayed off to the sidelines, notepad in Cindy’s hands, and Brian, Danielle, Amber and I surrounding the Ouija board. Taking a deep breath, we each put our fingertips on the planchette. Immediately, it began going in that fast figure 8, faster and faster. “Uh oh”, I thought, as my heart began to race again.

We asked it “Is this John?” and a quick movement to “No” answered that. We asked “Who are you?” and it refused to answer, just kept moving in a figure 8. We asked it that three times before finally moving on. We then asked “Are you John’s father?”, and the planchette kept moving between “Yes” and “No”, “Yes” and “No”. We asked, “Is John there?”, which was answered with “Yes”. Then, suddenly, it just stopped in the middle for a few seconds, and then spelled out this:

And it stopped in the middle again, abruptly, before the fast figure 8’s began again.

This time, Brian’s bravado came out, and he started laughing. He said, “Yeah, right, I know we’re all going to die, everybody’s got to die someday.” The planchette shot to the letters:

My eyes grew wider with fear. It had spelled out his name. It had called him out. Brian kept it up though, and laughed, and said “Oh yeah, so I’m going to die in 24 hours. Who else, huh? How you going to do it, tough guy?” The planchette moved quickly to spell out:

So Brian asked, “Oh yeah? When am I going to die? How am I going to die?”

To which it answered:

Brian’s bravado began to infect us all, and we all let out little laughs at this board that was trying to scare us, or this entity, or whatever. John was pshawing at it all, and said “Danielle’s just doing this to scare us”, to which Danielle cried “I’m not doing it!” We all joined in, though, and began to ask the board when and how we were each going to die, each in turn, each with a sense of sarcasm, challenge and humor.

The board spelled out that Brian and John were going to die in 24 hours, that Amber and Cindy were going to die in 48 hours, and that Danielle and I were going to die in 72 hours. No matter how many times we asked, the board would only move in figure 8’s when we asked HOW we were going to die, or asked for its name.

Brian and John were laughing by now, feeling confident, feeling the spell of obsession broken. I, however, was scared, scared to death. I could see from Amber and Danielle’s face that they were scared, too. Cindy seemed on the fence, a little scared, but feeling John’s confidence, and I think protection. I couldn’t stop thinking “What if it happened, what if it was true?”

We stopped then, some of the spell broken by John and Brian’s laughter over the whole thing. The laughter helped to ease the tension and fear in the room, that moments ago was so thick it was almost choking me. I picked up the board and planchette, noticing that the planchette felt warm this time, where it hadn’t before now, and put them back in their box as everyone was saying goodbye. When everyone had left, the fear came rushing back into me. I wanted to break that board, burn it, throw it out…I never wanted to see it again. I thought about that twice, though, because the wrath of my mother at that time was more fearful than anything some scary ghost demon could promise to do. So, instead, I put it back in the closet.

I knew that I needed to tell my mom what happened, even though I was pretty sure to get in a ton of trouble for having kids in the house without her permission (my mother’s particular pet peeve, and as a normally obedient teenager, this reminds me of how obsessed I had become with our talking with this Ouija board). But, I was so afraid; I felt like I was 5-years-old again, and the boogeyman was in the closet, and I wanted my parents to protect me. I wanted my daddy. Unfortunately, Dad was on the road then as a long-distance truck driver, and so I would have to settle for my mom, which meant I would get in trouble. Dad was definitely the more lenient of the two, and his anger was more understandable. My mother, her anger was so hard to read. But, I also thought that if she knew what had happened, then she would probably get rid of the board. So after dinner, I sat my mom down, and told her the whole story. As I did, I cried and shook, from the sheer terror of it all, and the fear that I and my friends were really going to die in the next 24-72 hours.

My mom was angry, as I had expected, but for reasons that I had not. She was upset because she knew that we had been messing with something dark, something evil, and she was afraid for me, which translated into that unreadable anger. I didn’t find out until years later that her anger stemmed mostly from that, and not that I had disobeyed her wishes about kids in the house. She was mad that that it had gotten a hold of me enough to have me sneaking off to Penrose to go look at babies, that I had become that obsessed with it, and forbade me to go back there, to check again the next day. She tried to forbid me from seeing my friends again, but when I explained that we all had lockers next to each other, and that Brian went to our church, she lightened up and said that we weren’t to ever play with the Ouija board again, and then grounded me for a week for not telling her what I had been doing and having kids in the house without their permission. She took the board out of the closet, and said that she was going to throw it away (I found out years later that she hadn’t, which from what I understand of Ouija boards now, I’m really glad she didn’t. If there is any evil force now attached to that board, it can just stay there for all I care. No need to go breaking or burning it to set that force free to attach to some other vessel.)

I’m not sure why, but getting in trouble over it all seemed to comfort me, make me feel like it was all just a game that I had been playing with my friends, that it was normal. The fear that I was going to die, that my friends were going to die passed into just a mere curiosity. Of course I wanted to see if anything would happen, and so kept in close touch with my friends over the next few days. Cindy did get sick during her supposed time to die, two days later, which had scared me and Danielle when we didn’t see her at her locker that day, but Cindy had called Amber that morning to tell her that she was sick with a cold, so wouldn’t be to school that day. Obviously, I didn’t die either, or I wouldn’t be here to tell you this tale. So, we were all ok.

Oh, one thing did happen after all this that spooked me a little. I looked in the Sunday paper after all this had happened, and looked at the Births section. A little 8 lb. 4 oz. boy had been born at Penrose Main Hospital, with the last name of Klerbern.

If you’d like to try a reading with an online Ouija board, as well as learn more of their history and myths, then click here.

I admit it…I’m addicted to these little quizzes. The silly ones especially, that promise to tell you something about yourself that you didn’t know previously, all relating to some crazy idea like “What kind of Anime figure are you?”, or this one, “What kind of Parasite Personality are you?” I could do these quizzes all day, when I get the itch to do so.

Anyways, Here’s my Parasite Personality:

Hi all-

Here, I’m showing the folks of Lemuria how to upload a graphic into their personal blogs. I’ve chosen a rather appropriate graphic to post, a 16th century graphic called “The Alchemist’s Laboratory” by Heinrich Kuhnrath from his book entitled Amphitheatrum sapientiae aeternae.

I’m angry today…just angry. Angry, pissed off, kicking, screaming, raging and roaring. Feeling like shouting a bit fat “Fuck You” to the Universe. Angry that I’m in this situation. And angry that we are all in our situations. Is there anyone you know right now that isn’t going through some kind of crap? I can count on one hand the number of people I know who aren’t too stressed out right now, and I know a lot of frickin’ people.

I’m seriously contemplating just plopping down in the middle of all of my stuff, crossing my arms, buckling my upper lip like a 4 year old, and saying “No, you can’t make me move, you can’t make me leave, you can’t MAKE ME!!” I feel like a 4-yr-old, indeed. No idea how to do all these adult things, not wanting to, stubbornly gripping my fists against where I’m at.

I’m hurting today, really hurting, too. It feels like my meds aren’t working at all right now. I’ve adjusted and re-adjusted my position, trying not to put pressure on the site of pain, trying to find some relief. Took some ibuprofen, took some extra painkillers, just trying to not feel this pain. You know, I don’t even mind it some days, in that it’s slightly under better control, and I can distract myself in other ways. It’s not like I’ve loved the jobs that I’ve worked so much that I actually miss working. Then, there are days like today, when the pain finds it’s way to the surface, when I’ve overslept my next dose by way too long, and I end up chasing the pain with my meds. You’d think I’d try harder to keep on schedule, but I forget so easily, forget what time I woke up, forget what time I took my meds. I’ll even forget how bad the pain hurts, once the meds kick in. It’s a side-effect of the Methadone and Lyrica that I’m taking.

Wrenching, pulling, twisting, tight, taut, ripping, burning, burning, burning…

It never stops, it never stops, IT NEVER FUCKING STOPS

Stephen King must’ve known pain like this at one point. I remember reading in the book “Misery”, how the main character talked about how the pain in his broken legs was like the dried piles of wood and rock that were in the sea tides, and how when the tide came in, and covered those dry piles, those piles of sticky, poking, pushing bits of wood and splinters, you couldn’t see them, but they were still there. For him, that’s what the morphine was like, it just covered over the pain, but you always knew it was there, lying underneath.

This is my pain, too. Those dry sticks, splinters of wood, covered over with Methadone and Lyrica, and the tide ebbs, and exposes the pain sometimes, in all it’s fierceness.

Doctors are always asking me to describe my pain. It’s hard to do.

Try to describe an orgasm to someone. Just try to describe what the sensations of it are.

Can’t do it, can you?

That’s why it’s left to the poets.

Well, pain and pleasure all work off of the same network of nerves, the ones that process sensations. So there are some words that come close, some closer than others, words like nagging, pulling, ripping, burning, twisting. Once, when I was 16, the first time I went skiing, I managed to fall and rip the ligaments in my left leg. Some of the pain, the burning feeling of the ripped ligaments, that’s similar to the pain in my pelvis, the original pain. But there is something else about it, something that I don’t have a word for. It’s like an evil little pixie is inside there, using my nerves as it’s own harp, playing them and pulling them and ripping at them. That’s what the pain is like, when the tide goes out, and there’s nothing left to cover the pain.

There’s a new pain, too, that came this year in full force. It started the day of my surgery, the surgery to take out my healthy right ovary and tube, the surgery my dumbass OB performed in Feb of 2005. I fired him after that, after I found out there was nothing wrong with my ovary, and when I asked him what else could it be, he shrugged his shoulders, said “I don’t know”, escorted me out of his office and dared to say “Enjoy your new health”.

Bastard, bastard, bastard. Freakin’ counting his dollars, laughing his ass off to the bank, while he leaves me suffering in pain, with one less ovary.

That day of the surgery, when I was looking at my new wound in my belly button, and had a chance to look at his crappy job of sewing me up, there was a bruised feeling off to the right of my belly button, a little lower. I pointed it out again two weeks later, to my regular doctor, how it was an unfamiliar pain, and she thought it was just a bruise still healing from the surgery. Now, a year and half later, I’m pretty sure it’s an adhesion that’s formed, scar tissue has formed because of the bruise/pain, or he probably slipped up with that cauterization tool, and it’s sticking something together that shouldn’t be. That’s my new pain, a pain that painkillers really don’t do anything for. It’s all dependent on how bloated I am or if my bowels are chugging along.

But today, that pain isn’t pushing to the surface. It’s the deep pelvic pain that’s rearing it’s butt-ugly head. Evil pixie bitch. The painkillers are starting to help, though. Kinda sick to say it outloud, but hey, it’s my blog, I’ll say what I want: I bet I’ll feel better after I take a shit. Of course, the process of crapping hurts more than anything, grabbing a towel, tears in the eyes, depends on the fiber I’ve had.

Ok, the pain is subsiding a bit. I think I’ll have to lay down…this chair just isn’t working today. I hate that, I hate being bedridden, so I try to avoid it, but not right now…my pelvis needs some relief.

Oh brother, here we go again. Depression, my arch-nemisis, my monster in the closet that has been plaguing me since the tender age of 12. It’s back, in full glory, dogging each step I take, bringing it’s hopelessness, it’s shame, it’s guilt, it’s worthlessness to come crashing down on my back.

I’m even on anti-depressants this time. They worked so well, for so long, too. So, I can truthfully say that this is “Situational Depression”. If you have ever struggled with Major Depressive Disorder, or Dysthymia, for years and years, and have had it bite you in the ass for no particular reason, then you would know that it’s kinda nice to have an actual REASON for being Depressed. Makes it much easier to explain to the dickheads that still like to say things like “Oh, it’s just all in your head”, or “Snap out of it”. Ugh, how can it be, after all this time, and after all the education that’s out there, that there are still people that think that Depression is just laziness, or a pity party? Well, they tend to be people that I would brush off anyway, but those voices in the wind certainly don’t help.

Here’s the situation, the reason for the SITUATIONAL Depression. I’m stuck. I have chronic pelvic pain, and by chronic, I mean that it’s 24/7. Started on January 8, 2005, and hasn’t let up since. It’s the kind of pain that leaves me curled in a ball if I feel it full on, nauseated, sweating, crying. So, I’m on prescription pain killers. Methadone is one of them…not really a pain killer, more a pain slower-downer, imo. Ha, now that’s it’s own story. This drug has been around for at least 30 years, and it was developed for people with pain from cancer. It was about 15 years ago that they discovered that it would help heroin addicts to stop going back to the habit that was killing them. Doesn’t matter though, there are still people that lump me in the same category with a heroin addict, that I am drug-seeking. Do you have any idea how hard it is to present your case to a pain doctor, trying to make sure that you don’t come off as a drug-seeking addict, when the pain is breaking through too much? It sucks, let me tell you. I had the accountant at my regular doctor’s office tell me, in the front office where patients are waiting for their turn, that they weren’t just there to prescribe me a bunch of pain pills. Bitch. It was the day my regular doctor was out, the one that I needed to see to talk about my pain, and how the dose I was on wasn’t working. I got my first taste of a panic attack on that visit. Ah, but that’s another story.

So, I have this pain, and it’s preventing me from working. I can’t sit for too long, or the pain flares up. I can’t stand for too long, or the pain flares up. I can’t lay down, even, before the back pain I have reaches mammoth levels. I’m stuck, see? I have the chair at my computer jimmy-rigged, so that I can alternate sitting up straight, leaning to the left, laying back a bit, so that I can do the things I need to do to keep me distracted from the pain. See, that’s where Soul Food and the Abbey has been a blessing. For moments, long moments, I am taken away from the pain. It doesn’t exist, and oh, how I crave that. Art will do that, too, making things, when I can actually get into the moment, flow with what I am doing, moving my arms and hands, gluing, painting, putting together something new.

But it’s awfully hard to create, to write, when depression is dogging me at every turn. There’s no energy, it’s all so overwhelming. I’m amazed that I’ve been able to write this much. It gives me some hope, that’s it’s not all lost, I’m not completely within it’s grips.

So, I just found out last week that I was denied for Disability from my government. SSDI, the hardest process to get through. I had to hire a lawyer to help me get it now. He wants me to see a psychiatrist or a psychologist, so I can have documentation that I’m depressed. How the hell am I supposed to do that when I only get $230/month from the state? I can’t get Medicaid (the insurance for the poor) until I get the SSDI, and I can’t get the SSDI until I prove I’m disabled, and I can’t prove that I’m disabled unless I go see a psychiatrist, who I can’t pay for because I can’t get the Medicaid. Yup, that’s how it works with the government. Bastards. There are some therapists that will take people on sliding scale fees, and I have to call them next week, see if they have room, see if they will help me. And I have to battle the depression to do this, battle the monster to try to seek the help I need to battle the depression. ARGGGGG!!!!

And now, I found out, too, I have to move by September 15th. It’s a long story, and I’ve been lucky in where I’m living right now. But I have to move. I have to mail the things that are important to me up to my mother’s house in Oregon (I’m in Colorado), I have to get rid of the rest, donate, throw away, mail off to friends that could use it. Then the furniture goes into storage. But I’m looking at everything I own right now, and I don’t know how to begin. I don’t know where to start. I don’t know if I’ll have the money to do this all, because my mom is broke, too.

So, I am stuck. I am the Novice who is hiding out in her Abbey cell, sleeping too much, asking that someone with a magic wand just make this all happen, because I have no strength, no energy, no nothing to do this anymore. Everything feels like an unwanted demand, even my body’s request that I take a shower feels too hard to do. I hate feeling like this, that every step I take is a chore, is a task that is too difficult. And yet, that’s how I feel, right now.

So, I beg forgiveness, my fellow Novices. I am here, but not here. It’s very dependent on the day, on the levels of serotonin and norepinephrine that are available to my brain that day. I am here for Heather, because Love is carrying me through, I am here for the Soul Food Cafe, because Love carrys me through, ah, but beyond that, I’m afraid it’s all an unknown. I can greet my fellow Novices, I can tell you when you are doing a wonderful job, I can appreciate so much the courage and excitement of finding this new place. But then, there’s nothing left beyond that. The monster isn’t in the closet anymore, it’s right here, breathing down my neck, clutching my back with it’s talons, whispering it’s curses into my ears. I’m afraid my magic wand is out of power, and it’s got me.

Damn Bastard.

I know, I know, I’m skipping the parts about the spy at Riversleigh. It’s a really boring story…I found the person, there was fight, I kicked the person out of Lemuria, a Griffon helped me place a magic lock on the place so this person can’t come back. That’s it. Oh, except that now I have the Griffon standing guard for me…he’s really just such a dear…so that I can continue my travels on the Journey. Oh, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

I decided after the spy was well and thoroughly dealt with that I should spend some time exploring this great big Manor House. I thought that it would be such a wonderful adventure on it’s own. And, I think it could have been, except that it was so strangely quiet. Most of the residents had followed L’Enchanteur on their journey to find the Cave of the Ancients. One of the kind ravens in the gardens was able to tell me that Anita Marie had commandeered a ship called the Calabar Felonway, in order that the travellers could find a map showing the way to the Cave of the Ancients. I had thought to stay here in the quiet house, perhaps meditate and turn more inwards, but instead, I found myself restless, eager for more adventures. Alas, there wasn’t much I could do at the time…the kind raven didn’t know where the Calabar was when her cousin had told her the story. Besides, it had been more than a week since the raven had told me about L’Enchanteur…even if I did know where they were, they would have been long gone by now.

I tried to do some writing and painting in my luscious room as well, but the muse refused to be coaxed. All of this quiet was beginning to wear on my nerves, and I found myself becoming more and more sullen and cranky as the hours went on. I tried to read a book, and found myself reading the same page over and over again, dreaming of adventure with a crew of pirates. I threw the book down in disgust, and cried “Arg! What fun is it to stay here, with this new found openness, if everyone is GONE?!?” I found right then that I was suddenly very tired. “Yawn…good!” I growled, “At least in sleep the hours go by quickly.” I stomped up to my room, crawled into my luxurious bed and fell asleep the moment my head hit the pillow.

And I dreamed instantly, a dream like I have never had before. I saw flashes of scenes at first, with some of the travelers that I know, Porthosina sewing a flag, all reds with a flower and the initials CF, I saw L’enchanteur conversing with what looked like a pretty wild woman; she seemed to be the captain of the ship; I saw Daffy crafting some dolls in a ship’s cabin, and some cook getting rousted from the ship….it didn’t make sense at first, but then I realized that I was seeing the past, things that had happened on board the Calabar Felonway.

Then the images began to slip away, and I was seeing a face, a face that was out of focus and very far away. As I struggled to focus on the face, it began to come closer, get larger and come into focus more. Finally, when I could see the face completely, I screamed in terror….this face had three eyes, two normal looking eyes, and then a third eye in the middle of her forehead, and all three were looking into my very soul. I tried to wake myself up, struggled to move in this dream, to run, get away from those probing eyes, but it was useless…I was held in their gaze, and could barely breathe beneath their piercing weight, let alone move. I felt as if a thousand needles were boring into me all at once, and every single thought, action, deed, sin, omission, or memory was being laid before me and these eyes, all for the eyes to examine. Just when I thought that I couldn’t take it anymore, when I thought that I was actually going to die from the weight of that gaze, it stopped, just as suddenly as it had began.

The face grew smaller in the dark, and I could see the body that it was attached to. She was very tall, a young woman, with the creamiest, darkest skin I had ever laid eyes on. Her face was simply breathtaking, an exotic beauty, with her long black curly hair pulled up under and through a lemon yellow scarf. She wore a long, flowing tunic made of silk, the color of the orange in a sunrise, with soft, billowing silk pants underneath. Her features softened from the harshness of that piercing gaze, and she smiled gently at me, as if she not only recognized my fear, but that she had felt it.

I suddenly sighed with relief, as I realized that up until then, I had held my breath in. I felt oddly comforted by her smile, not only that, completely comfortable in her presense. I knew that she not only knew everything about me, but that she had felt every single thing I had ever felt, and that she felt warmth towards me. I felt that her and I had just become instant friends, and I felt sorry that she had to feel my pains, as well as her own.

“It must be tiring work to not only be telepathic, but to be empathic as well, feel all the feeling of others?” I asked quietly.

She laughed joyously at that. “Honey, you aren’t kidding! But you understand some of that, you know what it’s like to take on the feeling of others, too. And now you can hear telepathically too, with that opened up heart you got there. You don’t have to tell me, I know that hurt to come off, that cage on your heart. I felt that pain from when you did it.”

I thought to her, “Yup, sure did, and it still hurts, actually. I feel naked without that cage, actually…very vulnerable.”

She smiled back, “Yes, well, that’s because you are. Look down.”

I gasped as I looked down and saw that I was completely buck-naked. Talk about your bad dreams come true. I looked at her with a question in my eyes.

She laughed, and put her hands up, “Oh no child, that’s your subconscious doing that to you…I had no part in that.

I laughed out loud at this. I was feeling pretty vulnerable and naked before her, this beautiful woman who knew every single thing about me. But even though I felt soft and open before her, I realized that I wasn’t uncomfortable or frightened, wanting to find anything to cover me. I was surprised by how free I felt in front of her.

“This is a dream you know.” she thought to me. “And I already know your question, so let me just answer it. It’s just easier to communicate with you in your dreams than try to reach you directly when you’re awake. You’re more open in your dreams. In fact, last time I tried to communicate with you while you were awake, I got a bit cut off, since you were obsessing about how bored you were, and all. My Queen couldn’t even get through to you. Lots of thoughts going on in that busy little head of your,” she laughed.

I blushed as she laughed. It’s true, I do have the monkey mind, and it was a little unsettling to know that she had seen it all. I decided to change the subject.

“Since I’m not quite as telepathic as you, could you please tell me your name, and why you are visiting me in my sleep?”

“I’m Cynwise, child, and I came here because we could here your laments half-way around Lemuria.”

“Uh, oh, sorry about that. Um, who’s we?”

“The Tanitians, or otherwise called The Bog People. Ugh, I know, it’s a horrible name, but it tends to keep onlookers away. They imagine us as being all kinds of ugly and great lovers of human flesh. None of it true, but it works for us. We are descendants of the Amazons and the Cyclops, each girl born with the magical gifts of perfect insight into the hearts and souls of all creatures of Lemuria.”

“That’s quite a gift.” I said aloud, with some timidity in my voice. She was beautiful and friendly and kind, yet I was still feeling a little unbalanced by that third eye.

Cynwise face became gentle and soft. “You know, Cuore di Luna, I don’t judge you. I may tease you a bit, but there is no malice in my heart for you. I actually have a heart full of love for you, as I have seen your pain and your triumphs, and I can not help but adore you, for how hard you’ve tried to understand what this thing called Life is about. We are a lot alike, and I feel like I just found my baby sister.” There was a tear in her eye as she said this.

I, too, began to well up, at the sincerity in her voice, and how gentle she was with her knowledge of me. I couldn’t help myself, I walked up to her and gave her a warm hug. The top of my head was aligned with the bend in her elbow.

“So, this gift you all have, is it a burden on you sometimes, to know so much about everything?” I asked in my head.

Cynwise smiled at me sadly, “It is a burden, child, sometimes so heavy that it becomes impossible to carry anymore. Imagine being able to see into the heart and souls of all creatures. Every living thing, plants, animals, people…even the stones tell stories. Imagine being able to feel with perfect precision the bloodlust of the boar, or the wickedness of that spy you ran across. See, we can’t just turn it off…it’s who we are. When we gaze with intention at anything, that creature cannot help but reveal it’s soul to us. That heavy feeling, where you felt pinned down, like a butterfly on a card? We don’t mean to do that, mean for it to hurt, it just happens that way, and the process doesn’t stop until the entire soul, thoughts and memories of the creature are laid bare. It’s not an experience that any creature can forget.”

“For a long time,” she continued, “our ancestors couldn’t control this power, and found that they were reading the thoughts of anything that they touched. Many of us were persecuted and hunted down. Having all of your secrets suddenly revealed to a perfect stranger can cause humans to become dangerous, dangerous enough to want to kill the secret-keepers. That’s what they used to call us, you know, the Geheimnis Guardas, the keepers of the secrets.”

“Is that why your tribe stays hidden?” I asked quietly, already knowing the answer.

“You got it, my little chickadee. In the old days, when we spent more time in the openness of Lemuria, besides becoming hunted by humans that would see us dead, we faced another terror…insanity. Some of us would go completely stark-raving mad with the thoughts of other creatures…they would drown themselves in the sea, just to get away from it. That’s the scream of the banshee you’ve heard tales about…it’s one of our own women going mad from the knowing of it all, knowing too much. That’s when our Queen decided that it was better to seclude the tribe, and what better place than a bog? No one likes bogs, no one travels in them, they can be dreadfully dangerous if you don’t know they lay of the land. We have made ourselves a rather lovely home there. We just wanted to have some peace with ourselves, not be hunted or scorned, and be able to live out our lives, become crones, watch our grandbabies grow, without the pain of watching another one of our sisters go mad or be slaughtered.”

I sat quietly for a moment, feeling the utter sadness of so many lives lost, so many women murdered, all because of fear. I realized in that moment that some of those feelings weren’t mine, they were Cynwise’s. I was feeling some of her feelings.

Before I could utter a word, Cynwise began speaking again.

“You want to know why am I here, and why did I just expose myself to you pain and guilt and frustrations, considering what the consequences might be; madness? Well, let’s see, how can I say this without completely freaking you out? Hmmm…nope, there’s no way, so I’ll just tell you. See, Cuore, you’re actually one of us, child. You’ve got a great-grandmama from way back when, back on your dad’s side, I think, that was a Tanitian, a Geheimnis Guardas. That’s why we could hear you so well, half-way across Lemuria. Haven’t you ever wondered why you were so empathic, why you could feel the pain of others so well? Why you had to build up that cage around your heart in the first place? That’s why, sweets…it’s in your blood.”

I had to sit down for that one. I noticed I was now covered in layers upon layers of clothes, blues and indigos, flowing over my feet, and a hood covering my face. It was a little overwhelming, at first, to know that one of my ancestors possessed such a great gift, and could have gone completely mad because of it. It certainly explained a lot, though.

“Yes it does, child. See, nowadays, we Tanitians have learned how to block out the thoughts of others, except for those who are Tanitians. We are wide open to each other. We found that we needed to stay connected that way to each other, not only for an outlet for our power, but because there is a great comfort in knowing each other through and through. It provides us a measure of ease and understanding rarely seen in tribes of humans. However, when it comes to reading other forms of life, we only have a select few; powerful women that are strong enough to be able to handle the pains and anguishes of knowing and experiencing the feelings and thoughts of others. Those that will still know who they are after knowing another’s heart and soul like that. It takes years of preparation, and we have special ceremonies and inductions to go through before we are allowed to take on any humans. Some of us never make it past flowers, some frogs, others can get to mammals, yet go no further. Training in this way has enabled us to stop the insanity that ran rampant in our sisters for so many generations. Right now we only have 5 of us that can read a human, and come back out ok from it. Our Queen is one, and I am another.”

“See child, you’re a bit of a special case. All of the Tanitians could hear you, after you got that cage off of your heart, because you are one of us. It was all very bizarre, and no one knew quite what to do, because while we can hear you, because of the Tanitian in you, you haven’t been hearing us, because of the human in you. It’s a good thing for us that you just feel the normal human stuff, although you do tend to get a bit whiny, child.” She laughed as she said this last part.

“Oh great, so now there’s a whole tribe out there freaking out because they can hear the human’s thoughts. Anyone on the brink of insanity yet? Heard any Banshee calls lately? Cynwise, you’re really good with the guilt trips, you know that?” I pouted as I sat there on the floor. I noticed at this point that I was wearing a red hunting outfit that seemed to glow with angry flames. I felt like a toddler, about ready to throw a temper tantrum.

“Oh now hush child. No guilt needed, so stop your flaming anger. You see, Tanitians aren’t so different from humans, we have the same thoughts and feelings, in general. It was bizarre because we all know each other so well, and suddenly we began to hear a sister of ours, someone we had never heard before. So, pick up that head of yours, and hold it high, because you are a part of the Bog People, a Tanitian, a Geheimnis Guardas, child! Well, at least part of you is, and that part is good and strong in you.”

With those words, I felt that pride, that strength of a thousand women keeping the secrets of the entire world. Tears came to my eyes as I swelled with pride and comfort, knowing this woman loved me right then and there, knew everything about me, and still loved and honored me.

“Can I ask you another question?” I asked, this time with no timidity, and already knowing she would know the question.

“Why do I keep calling you child when I look like I’m about 18?” she chuckled. “Oh darling, I’m actually 60. Partly it’s genetic, and the other part is living in a humid place, in a bog near the sea. Does wonders for the skin.”

“Oh, and I almost forgot. I have another mission, other than telling you to pipe down.” I grimaced at this. “No, no, I’m just playing with you. You really need to lighten up. The Calabar Felonway has anchored in our bay, so if you would like to join your travel-mates, which I already know you do, I can show you where they are.”

“Really?” I squealed. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you. I thought that I was going to go crazy in the big ole Manor House. Oh, wait, you already knew that. This is going to take some getting used to, the thought that there’s a whole tribe of woman that can hear me.”

“Well, get used to it. Oh, and don’t worry, no one is judging your thoughts. If you live long enough, knowing the thought and feelings of your sisters and brothers, you begin to realize that there just isn’t much difference between any of us. We’re just all trying to figure out this life of ours, and really, all judgements go out the window. You’ll see what I mean.”

“What do mean I’ll see what you mean?” I asked, as Cynwise began to fade, shimmering before me, as an old map presented itself in front of me.

“Oop, REM sleep almost over, gotta show you the map…” Cynwise said as she was fading.

“What do you mean, Cynwise?!?” I cried after her, as the map loomed larger in my vision. I could see the Bog People’s area clearly marked on the map, and I could see where it was in relation to Riversleigh Manor. It was a well-drawn map, and I knew exactly how to get there.

Just then, I woke up with a start. I shook my head, actually, trying to shake that feeling from the dream, that feeling that a thousand eyes were watching me.

I went to the bathroom next to my room to get a drink of water, splash my face, think about my dream. Was that “just a dream”? Is all of this true? I splashed my face with water, as I was feeling feverish, hot. As I was drying off my face, I looked in the mirror, and I noticed that small dent again, right on my forehead, between my eyes. It was almost imperceptable, but in this light, I could see it plain as day. My birthmark, mama had said. Honestly, I had thought that someone dropped me as a baby, and left an indentation in my soft skull. Now it was tingling a little, and I knew that it wasn’t just my birthmark, it was my birthright.

I laughed out loud then. “Cynwise”, I thought, “alright, I’m coming.” I went off to pack my bag, and find my red-winged shoes.

I had to go home, to a home that wasn’t home, not yet at least. I had to go back to Riversleigh Manor. I had a good reason, that’s for sure. Let me tell you about it.

I walked through that Enchanted Door, having had the walls, the cage containing my heart, magically torn off by my own tears. I had on my pendant of Courage, and I was feeling brave, strong, and open. More open than I’ve felt in years. More open than I’ve ever felt before.

I was walking in the lavendar and clover fields beyond the Enchanted Door, where our donkeys were waiting for us. Some of the other travellers had already left with their donkeys, and some had already chosen there donkeys (or their donkeys had chosen them). The travellers that were left were scattered across the field; some where loading up their packs on the donkeys, and some were chatting with their donkeys, getting to know each other.

Off to the right of me stood a small grey donkey with a white muzzle. He had white shoes on his feet, and even donned a grey cap with a white feather in it. I knew immediately he and I were meant for this journey together, as he looked like a donkey replica of my friend cat Spanky. He was slowly eating clover, munching lazily, when he spotted me out of his left eye. He looked at me, smiled a bit, and said “Hello, Cuore di Luna” in the warmest and friendliest voice I’d heard. However, when he said this, his mouth didn’t move, except into a bit of shy, cocked smile. In my own mind, I thought “How did he..?” and this donkey seemed to speak again “Oh good, you can hear me. I wasn’t sure if you could. In this place, some creatures can speak in their minds, and some can’t. It just depends on how open they are to it.”

“Ooohhh” I thought, “I got a bit more than I bargained for when I dropped the cage into the box, didn’t I?”

The donkey laughed out loud this time. His whineys and snorts were heard by all the company, and one of our company looked at me, smiled generously at me, but I could hear a thought, “Who does that underling think she is? Ha, we’ll see who fares better on this journey, me or her. I’ve got plans for this place, plans for Lemuria, and they don’t include that L’Enchanteur witch or her little ‘friends’.” The smile seemed genuine, but the thoughts were anything but.

I must have had a look of shock on my face, because the genuine smile turned into a quizzical look and then a shrug as the person walked towards their donkey. I turned to my new thought-filled friend, and thought, “Did you just hear that?”

The donkey smirked a bit and said, “You should have been here to hear the rest. There’s more than one, though. The other is back at Riversleigh Manor. I’ve heard all about it in the thoughts of that one.” he thought, throwing his head in the direction of the identified spy.

“Er, what do you think I should do, donkey?” I thought, with a puzzled look on my face. I knew that L’Enchanteur would figure out the purpose of this spy, but the other one back at Riversleigh, that was another matter. And no one else had the keys to the Manor, except for me and Anita Marie, and Anita Marie had just set sail on the Calabar Felonway.

“I think you just figured it out. Good thing you have those red, winged shoes still.”, the donkey thought, with a warm smile.

“Sigh, you’re right, donkey, I’ve got to get back to Riversleigh. Bummer though, I was looking forward to this journey. It’s my first, and all. Shoot, and I probably should just go. L’Enchanteur is long gone on, I don’t want to alarm anyone, and besides, I don’t have my sword with me to fight this spy here on the Journey anyway.”

I slipped on my red winged shoes, and kissed the donkey on the muzzle. He smiled at me, and then said out loud, “By the way, my name isn’t donkey, it’s Oswyn.”

“I’m sorry, Oswyn” I laughed. “You are a true friend, and I hope to meet you again soon.”

“You will, Cuore, you will.” I heard him think as I walked back through the Enchanted Door, away from the travellers, and took off in flight, back to Riversleigh.

Make a surrender box and leave a serpents skin - something you need to surrender - at the door to the Serpentine Road.

I came up to the Enchanted Door, and noticed an open box next to it, made of mahogany wood, polished until it shone almost black. On it’s side, written in gold letters, was the word “Surrender”. So, I stood before the Enchanted Door, and asked of it “What do I need to put into the Surrender Box, that you will let me pass?”

A voice whispered, “Your armor.”

I laughed a little at that, because I didn’t have any armor on. The voice didn’t laugh back.

I asked, “What armor? I didn’t bring any armor.”

The door chuckled then, “Cuore di Luna, I am an Enchanted Door…do you think that I cannot see what is surrounding your heart right this moment?”

Now it was my turn to fall silent.

The armor, the walls around my heart, that’s what the door meant. I had become so accustomed to them, I no longer gave their weight any thought. But it was there, alright; once I closed my eyes, I could feel it again, heavy, closed in, preventing me from feeling all my emotions. Another one of those good ideas gone too far; in trying to keep out the pain, I had managed to keep out the sublime joy in life as well. A picture of it formed in my mind, and I could see it clearly, and how thick the prison walls had become. I turned that cube over in my mind, and began to panic. What had started out as a cage had turned into walls, solid walls, with no opening anywhere. How had I let this happen? Was I never going to be able to feel again, ever? Had I made the prison so secure, that even I couldn’t get back in?

I crumpled to the ground, defeated, and began to sob. Deep, aching cries rose up, and I heaved tears at the loss, the loss of my own heart, to a prison of my own making. The tears began collecting in the palm of my left hand, and I noticed they began to take a shape. It was hard to see it though, through my blinding tears, the flood that couldn’t be stopped, now that it had started. I just kept on crying, letting the tears collect into my hands.

Then a glint caught my eye, and I saw right then, that my tears had formed into a golden key, a simple skeleton key. Once I looked at it, it became heavy in my hand suddenly, with the weight of pure gold. I was able to take a full breath again, as I stared at the marvel that my own tears had made. The tears subsided, and I knew what to do at that very moment.

I took the key with my left hand, and took aim for my chest, right where my heart would be. Then, with my right hand supporting my left, I took a deep breath and plunged the key into my heart. I felt a sharp pang, and then a golden warmth roared through me. I fell backwards from the power of it. I heard a loud snap, and felt a painful release at the same time, almost like when a scab comes off your wounded skin. I lay there, squeezing my eyes shut, breathing heavily, breathing through the pain of it. After a few moments, the pain subsided, and I felt lighter, all over, and the golden warmth began to subside as well. I sat up, and then slowly rose to my feet. I felt a bit dizzy, but better, lighter, more free, freer than I have felt in ages. I looked to my right, and there, lying on the grass, were 6 small pieces of metal, rusted, the color of dried blood. When I touched the top piece, it burned my finger, but not from heat…it was bitter cold. I noticed, then, that there was a chink in that top piece, a small piece was missing from it. Hm, I thought, there was a opening after all.

I picked up the pieces of metal, using my travel cloak to protect myself from being frost-bitten, and deposited them into the box near the Enchanted Door. The door swung easily open by itself, and I walked under its eaves. As I did, the door whispered , “Now, was that so hard?” I walked out to the other side, chuckling at the odd sense of humor enchanted objects of this land have.

Heather’s Letter to the Group:

le Enchanteur, Lori, Monika, Sage, Carol, Faucon, Sara, Charlotte have presented.

Who is next?

I am loving this. It is just exhilarating to see the rich variation of styles.

When the long Gala is done we will move through the special doorway and enter the Serpentine Road. Remember, don’t feel pressured, you can do a poetry reading, sing a song or present a piece of art - photography - altered art. Simply need to have you check in.

A performance is the password that will open the door to the Serpentine Road

hugs
Heather

I have to admit, I was having some stage fright over this. The only person I know in the audience is Heather, but I’m not too familiar with L’Enchanteur. I know of my impressions of her: she is beautiful, and she can dance so gracefully, and with such fire. She is so obviously the leader of this rag-tag bunch, and so very comfortable in her own skin. I admire her, find myself looking up to her, but she scares me a little bit. She seems the type of person that can turn on a dime, transform herself into meaner things…perhaps it’s because I see myself in her, in that ability. There is someone inside me, someone who I have ignored, suppressed, tried to rope-in for so, so long. She won’t have it anymore, she bursts forth at the most inopportune times. She is spitting angry, and her words are be poisonous. She knows her targets well, and she goes for the throat when she speaks. She only comes out when I’m weak, tired, in pain…she must have been seeking her window of opportunity for a long time, to know exactly when to come bursting out, to know when I can’t control her. Did I make her that way, by ignoring her for so long, by trying to keep her away from all others like that? Who is she? I know that I should talk to her, but she scares the crap out of me.

Anyways, I digress. I just arrived on the scene here, a bit flustered. Those red winged shoes that L’Enchanteur left at the parked wagons did just the trick, got me here in a flash. They are the loveliest and most comfortable shoes I’ve ever put on my feet. Red satin, lined with the softest cotton, with some cushion under the balls and heels of my feet. They are flat ballerina slippers, and have red satin ribbons that tie around my ankles and up my calves. They are so lovely, and they make me feel like dancing with them on. They have a special trick to them, too…if you take three striding skips in them, powerful wings pop out the back, like Mercury’s shoes, and you are adrift in the air. All you have to do is tilt your torso one way or the other, left, right, up or down, and you will move in that direction. It’s just like in my dreams.

And Lemuria, oh my, it’s the most gorgeous place I’ve ever seen. Blue, brilliant blue skies, with puffy white clouds, and a storm off in the distance, to my left and a bit west of me. When I looked back from my height over the land, I could see the Land of the Standing Stones, huge grey boulders rising from the plains. They almost look like some god or giant placed them there, with how they suddenly rise up from the flatness of the fields. When I looked forward, I could see the Hermitage in the distance, with nothing but a simple foot path and green verdant fields in-between myself and that lonely place. There was a dark green forest, almost black with thickness, huge, that went on for miles and miles, off to the right and North of the Hermitage. I wonder if we will travel that forest on our trip to see the Rainbow Serpent Priestess. The fields below me were filled with native grasses I had never seen, lush lavendar bushes, and yellow black-eyed susans, peering up at me. The smell was intoxicating, and did some good, in calming my nerves a bit.

I alighted about 50 yards from the Hermitage, on the foot path, so that I could walk in to the place. I could see the wagon that the others had taken, and quite a few donkeys that must have packed their belongings and costumes in. I didn’t bring a costume, and felt myself flush at the thought that it would just be me, with my traveling clothes, making my presentation. I had been in such a hurry to get here in time, that I didn’t think of a costume, or even know what I was going to present at the Gala. I just hoped that no one would be offended.

I went inside to the Hermitage Amphitheatre, which was quite large, to my surprise. There were only to be 30 of us presenting, mostly for each other, and to practice for when we would present to the Rainbow Serpent Priestess. I came just in time to see L’Enchanteur do her amazing Spanish Dance. I was transfixed, to see her green skirts move and sway with each turn of her body and hands. When she was finished, and the music had stopped, everyone just kind of shook their heads, as if a spell had been cast, and we all needed a moment to come back to the real world. Then we all erupted into thunderous applause, smiling and grateful to have been completely a part of that moment, a moment where time stopped, and we didn’t think of anything else, except for the beautiful lady, dancing and swaying to the heartbeat of the music.

After that moment, that’s when I became so nervous that I had to go outside…I was about to throw up, I thought. Kind faces blurred by me as I rushed out the doors, praying I didn’t embarrass myself here, not here, with people I don’t know. I ran around the back, put my butt against the wall, and bent over, waiting for my body to eject that morning’s breakfast. I just stood there, breathing deeply, hands on my knees. Luckily, the nausea passed…the clean air of the place must have helped to calm my stomach down. I have no idea what to present…I don’t dance, I draw, but not well, I don’t have my art supplies to try a collage…I just don’t have the time to make something for a performance. What am I supposed to do? Just stand there, and tell them this? Nope, won’t work…I have to perform something if I am to accompany them for this journey. And oh how I need this journey, a journey of the heart. Something tells me that it’s exactly what I need, to face this creature who keeps bursting out of me, this poisoner who hurts the ones that I love.

I sat down against the wall, and pulled out the bag that L’Enchanteur had left for me. It’s a brown linen bag, tied up with a piece of waxed twine, with a Rainbow Serpent lusciously embroidered on the front. I dump the contents on the ground…there’s the spectacles that I saw some people wearing in the Amphitheatre, a candlestick, old silver, tarnished and simple, a silver medallion with the imprint of a rearing Unicorn, a little anchor and a necklace fell out of a package, where it had been wrapped up. I picked up the silver chain, and gasped…How could she know, how did she find it? It was my Pendant of Courage, a simple, yet powerful root, wrapped in silver wire, suspended from a silver chain. 6 years prior, when every part of my soul was sleeping, and I was mourning everything, everything about my life, my heart, my spirit that missed the Gods, I had fallen victim to the Minotaur. He had come in the night, and ravaged the garden I had just begun. When I confronted him, begged him to stop, weeping for the herbs and flowers that had just begun to grow, he turned on me. He shredded me with his claws, hurtled my body around like a rag doll. Begging and pleading didn’t stop him…and I was too weak to fight him. I finally just let him have at me, realizing that all fighting was futile. He finally stopped, when he was satisfied that I would soon be dead, my blood soaking the fresh earth I had just turned over the previous day. I soon went unconscious, glad to be passing from this place, this Earth where I no longer knew how to live.

Remembering that time, and what happened next, caused me to weep for a time, outside the Amphitheatre. I clutched my Pendant of Courage, and as my tears fell onto the root, it became suddenly warm in my hand, and had a faint glow to it, yellow and inviting. That’s when I knew the story I would tell to this group of strangers…I would tell them of the red robin with the blue beak that gave me this Pendant. I would tell them of the journey I meant to take then, before I became side-tracked. Putting my Pendant of Courage around my neck, and feeling it’s warm glow, I dried my tears, and gathered up my bag and all the contents scattered on the ground. I took off my black hooded cape, and since no one was around that I could see, took off my traveller’s clothes, and put my red dress on. It’s just a simple empire-waisted, long sleeve dress, more travelling clothes, actually, but it was better than the dusty pants and shirt I had on. I marched back around to the entrance to the Amphitheatre. L’Enchanteur was right there, and said to me, “Oh Good, I was wondering where you had got to…you’re up next, dear”. She squeezed my arm for encouragement, and I climbed the 3 steps up to the wood stage, and told this story:

She had succumbed to the Minotaur’s deadly blows, falling unconscience. When she awoke, groggy and disoriented, she found that she was in a strange new place. Her ragged clothes had been replaced with a comfortable new dress and her wounds had been tended to. A red robin with a blue beak surprised her by speaking to her:

“You have been asleep for a long time, weak from the deadly hits of the Minotaur. When I found you, you were almost dead.”

“Who sent you?”, she asked, with a quiver in her voice. She had learned early on not to trust anyone or anything. “Why were you in the grove? The Minotaur destroyed my garden, there was nothing for you.”

“I was sent to find you”, he replied.

“Who sent you?” she demanded.

The robin began to clean his feathers, gobbling up any mites he found.

“Well, then, how did I get here?”, she asked, exasperated.

“I had some help”, and that’s all that he would say. He flew up to a higher perch, turned his back to her, and continued cleaning his feathers.

Later that afternoon, after she had eaten and napped, he called to her from his perch:

“In two days time, you will leave this place, to begin a journey, to head back to your garden, your home.”

“NOOOO!”, she cried, and tears began streaming down her face. “I like it here, it’s warm and dry and safe. I will die if I have to face the Minotaur again. It will kill me.”

“Yes, dear, but this is not your home. You will have to face the Minotaur at some point. But not for a long time, I think. I will send with you a guide, a light to help you navigate the darkness, with a bit of strong magic to boot. And you will meet friends along your journey. It’s a long, long journey, with many challenges. But I will send you with this. It’s a pendant of courage. It will come in handy, when you least expect it.”

She dried her tears. She really did miss her beautiful garden, her place to call her own. She had just begun to plant and cultivate it, when the Minotaur destroyed it. She had planned to fix up the shabby shack, to make it a nice, cozy cottage. At first, she was frightened by what she might find there, but the words that the robin spoke had a soothing effect on her, and she found that she did want to go back.

Two days later, with a sturdy hazelwood walking stick, a new pair of green suede boots, her new pendant of courage, and her fairy guide, she set out on the road, a road that had never been mapped before.

Now, I, as Cuore Di Luna, am ready to begin that Journey, that Journey that I had only just begun, so long ago.

I finished setting up my profile and all on this new blog, and I ended up deleting half of my “About Me” section. I mean, it is my favorite thing to talk about, after all, lol. I was just going to flush into the recycled bin, but then I thought: “Nahhhh”. This part actually kinda flowed out in my typing, so I figured it might be blog worthy. This part was right behind where I talk about solitude making me happy. Here it is:

In doing so, there’s no need to put up the fronts that I have for years, trying to be who I thought everyone else needed me to be. Those masks that I wore were exhaustingly heavy, and I became so weary trying to take them off each night after work, that I just quite bothering, and tried to fit myself more into the mask I wore. Turns out the mask was made of cement, so there was no fitting into it, and it wasn’t made to fit my face at all. It fused to me, and it’s taken me over a year of being away from work to finally chip it off, to reveal the pink and wounded me underneath. I’m healing well, and on my way to discovering who I am, for real, what’s inside me, what do my dreams mean, where do I want to go now. I have chronic pain in my pelvis, the kind that the doctors can’t fix, for now at least, and haven’t worked since it all began in January 2005. This seeming tragedy-in-the-making is becoming the best thing that could have happened to me. Only now, having travelled through pain and chemicals and changes to my body and brain, by having to be so aware of it all, I’ve started to get in touch with me, the real me, the who-I-am-when-nothing-else-matters. I’m learning to be gentler with myself, and more honest while being more direct.

…and it’s Cinqo de Mayo today, a day of Celebration for the defeat of Napolean’s Army in a small area in Mexico called Puebla, by a smaller, rag-tag band of brothers, lead by General Ignacio Zaragoza Seguin. I saw this engraved drawing of him, and I must admit, he was pretty handsome.

So, this is my new blog, with my new name, Cuore di Luna…which is Italian for “Moon Heart”. It can also be written as Cuore della Luna, which is probably more appropriate, since it’s the feminine version. But, when I first looked it up, lol, Babel Fish told me to use the “di” and not the “della”. Anyways, this is my way of honoring my Sicilian ancestors, and my Sicilian Grandma Mimi, whose Sicilian genes are running half of my femaleness, the other half run by my Euro/British mix Grandma Nellie. It also honors my moonish heart, that waxes and wanes like the tides, that surges and relaxes at times. Hint: It means I’m moody.

This will be my place for exploring myself and the world, through the writings done on the Soul Food Cafe network. If you haven’t checked it out, and you have a soul that longs for fantastical journies through writing and art, then you must check it out. It’s run by a very talented and special woman, Heather Blakely, known as L’Enchanteur around the Cafe. She has some amazing things to say about using the Blogger network to create such a rich and fantastic world for people to explore.

Otherwise, in real life, I’m known as Kristina, or Kris, which is what my family and some of my friends call me. I’m 34, single, never been married, and no children. I am, however, the very proud Aunt to my niece, Elizabeth, who’s almost 17 months now, going on 2 years, I swear…and my new nephew James, who was born on St. Patrick’s Day. I am home all the time now, and have been for over a year, ever since I became a bit disabled by chronic pelvic pain. It’s a long ole story, and I may explore it some in my writings, but not today. Today is a day for celebration and looking forward, not backwards.

So, for anyone reading this, it’s nice to meet you. You are welcome anytime.