The Transformation of Betsy

Heavens to Betsy! Betsy-Wetsy! Betsy. Her name is Betsy. Her mom, like the moms of all the other Betsys her age, named their Betsys after the fragile, dainty, darling Betsy McCall doll. Betsy - the perfect name for a fragile, dainty, darling girl . . . but most definitely not the perfect name for her. Fragile? Try frumpy. Dainty? Try dumpy. Darling? Try grumpy. Lumpy. She often overheard the hushed behind-her-back sniping: Frumpty-Dumpty. Look at what she’s wearing. Frumpity-Grumpity. Why is she never happy? Lumpity. Frump. Why doesn’t she do something with her hair?

The last time Betsy used her oven was when the heating coil burst into a small flame and the glow snaked along the length of it, even after she pulled the plug. The next morning, cool to the touch, the snapped pieces of coil resembled a pile of tubular, crispy lava. Losing patience with faulty appliances, she pulled the plug on her microwave oven and toaster oven as well, and pulled out her under-used, under-appreciated fondue pots. Who needs any type of oven, when two fondue pots will do? One for the cheesy main course, the second for the chocolaty dessert course. Gooey cheese, dip, dip. Sticky-sweet gooey chocolate, dippity, dip. Dippity, dippity . . .

Over time, partaking of these twin indulgences, day in and day out, soon enough layered Betsy’s form, but she was never warm. She contrived to layer herself in clothing; tanks, tees, tops, turtlenecks, pull-overs, and zip-ups, in every imaginable shade of wash water. Finishing with her trademark dull gray cowl-neck raglan sweater-coat, yet she was never warm.

Instead of regular exercise, Betsy regularly ignored her ImageGlider exerciser. She felt guilt-ridden and full of self-loathing every time she looked at it, so she kept the guest room door closed so she wouldn’t accidentally catch a glimpse of it. One night, insomnia and chills at their worst, she thought she might as well use the damn thing, if only to generate some heat. Pulsating light emanated from under the door of the guest room and as she entered she heard the machine whisper her name. As she clambered aboard, she noticed that the aqua read-out screen spelled WELCOME B-E-T-S-Y in bold, black, block letters. Picking up words of gentle encouragement, she picked up speed. As she ran, the screen came alive showing images of her possible future. Faster, faster, farther into the future she was shown. She ran for hours, generating more and more images, waking up in bed the next morning, confused. She ran again that night.

Betsy ran nightly, the ImageGlider's siren call growing louder, irresistible. One night, the screen read WELCOME B-E-T-T-Y. Could she possibly live with the name Betty? Yes, of course, she could and she hoped that Betsy was done and gone for good. Betty seemed to her a stronger name; gaining strength, she ran. Cooling down in reverse, the screen showed B-E-T-S-Y yet again and she was shocked to see images of her chunky past revealed. Chunkity, chunkity . . . She sped forward to escape the sight, waving goodbye to her past, running, striding, gliding to images of her future.

WELCOME B-E-T-T-Y, night after night, until she felt a new vibration throughout as she became Betty. She is Betty. The layers dropping, she takes her woolen sweater-coat to the dry cleaner, never returning to pick it up. Impulsively, she gives her television set to a family she heard about on the local news who was devastated by a flash flood. She joined an experimental multi-cultural dance troupe. She lost the ability to gossip, and gained the ability to say just the right words to help someone feel better. She kept a single fresh flower in a cut-glass vase on the impromptu altar she arranged in front of the guest room window. She repositioned the ImageGlider so she could catch the starlit breeze coming through the window as she ran, providing a coolness she craved. Continually watching the images on the screen served as REM, eliminating her need for sleep.

One night, the screen-greeting proclaimed WELCOME B-E-T-T-E. What happened to Betty? Gliding in reverse as fast as she could, she caught up with her, Betty’s image on the screen appearing in sepia tones. Like a scene from a forties movie, Betty wore a hat and trench coat, her image fading away with one long, wistful, backward glance. Bette. A more distinctive name, sophisticated, worthy. She must become worthy. Run, run, run to her future. She is Bette as the ImageGlider initiated her further into the ways of luminosity. The word "focus" becomes her mantra as she plays with energy, luminescence and form. She cleared her closet of items reeking of khaki or camo, and revved up her sewing machine. Favoring palettes of pastels and brights, patterns of lilting florals and subtle geometrics, she styled fashions influenced by regions of India and Greece. She performed a whole-house bookshift, giving to the Annual Book Drive without bothering to check for signature, inscription, or forgotten bookmark. She authored a book of her own with the double entendre title: Becoming. Once, finding the guest room unusually dim, she performed an energy-scan, discovering the water in the vase had evaporated to a dangerously low level. Refilling the vase with water to its original line set things to rights, resuscitating the room.

WELCOME B-E-L-L-E, this time her name change is a smooth transition. Belle's skin had taken on an ethereal translucency, defying ethnic origin. Her nail tips sparked and sparkled, revealing her current auric hues. She wore her fast-growing hair in a soft updo, its color that of fine champagne. She giftshifted the trinkets and treasures she had received over her lifetime, taking pleasure in finding new, more appropriate homes for each, including her fondue pots; she thrived easily on an occasional cheese puff or chocolate kiss. She twirled on one toe for sheer delight. She tuned in to the wonder-filled thoughts of others swirling around her: Wish I could wear clothes like that! Is she always this happy? Her hair is gorgeous!

Belle donated her sewing machine to the local middle school. She took up weaving.

Breakers of nostalgia hit Belle without warning late one night. Awash with emotion, in a frenzy, she scoured the ImageGlider screen to find Betsy. Speeding in reverse, brushing first past the images of Bette, then Betty, she finally found Betsy sitting on the edge of the sofa, struggling in spite of her bulk, to tie her shoes. Looking at the image of Betsy from this vantage point, she could only feel fathoms-deep, overwhelming compassion for this tormented soul. How could she have ever hated herself so? Why hadn’t she shown herself even half an ounce of kindness? The name Betsy, after all, did carry the vibration of BE and YES. But that T in the middle was like a cross, a weighty cross to bear. Belle knew in that moment that she couldn’t be Belle without having been Betsy. Gathering and cradling Betsy unto herself, she was thenceforth known as Betsy-Belle: YES. BE. BEAUTIFUL.

With best wishes, Betsy-Belle gave her beloved ImageGlider to the next person who greeted her with genuine warmth.

Fully integrated, Betsy-Belle timed her exit to coincide with the first new moon after the summer solstice. Concentrating her form, she slipped through the guest room window screen as a pinpoint of light. Once through, anyone chancing to glance up would have seen the brilliant, expansive flash of a nighttime rainbow phenomenon fill the sky. Later, they came looking. The curious who had previously spurned her and those few who had always loved her came looking. They found her home empty, save for a long, silky scarf, finely hand-woven of her abundant, shimmery locks.

NOTE: The use of the phrase "forgotten bookmark" was inspired by and pays homage to Michael Popek of the ever-intriguing site: Forgotten Bookmarks.

Rippling Sky

"You have got to be kidding me!"
"No! Look! Right over there! Don't you see it?"
"Stop it, Alan! You know I hate it when you do this kind of stuff."
"Sorry, Sarah. I was just having a little fun. But wouldn't it be cool if we saw a real UFO?"
"Cool? More like terrifying."
"Whatever."
"What, you really think if you really saw one, you would be excited? I would pee my pants."
"Sissy."
"Don't 'sissy' me, Alan! You can honestly say you wouldn't be the least bit freaked out?"
"I don't know. I mean, I've always wanted to see one. I just think it would be neat."
"Well, I don't."
"Fine."

"What was that? Did you see that, Alan?"
"What?"
"Didn't you see it?"
"What!?"
"It was almost like the whole sky just shimmered."
"Shimmered?"
"Yeah. It was like a ripple went through the whole sky."
"Shut up."
"I'm serious!"
"Did you pee your pants?"
"Stop it. I can't believe you didn't see it!"
"I must've been looking at something else."
"What else could you have been looking at? It's like all we can see is the sky."
"Well, I didn't see it, Sarah."
"Why are you acting so strange, Alan? Is something wrong?"
"No. Nothing's wrong."
"I don't believe you."
"Fine."

"You still there?"
"Yes, Sarah, I'm still here. Where would I go?"
"Just checking, it's almost like you weren't there for a minute."
"Why, what's wrong?"
"Nothing. I just feel funny...different."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. Something's strange, I don't feel normal."
"Why don't we just count the stars?"
"No. Something's wrong. Maybe I just need something to drink; could I have the water?"
"Hmm, I must have drunk it all, but I have this."
"Where'd you get that? What is it?"
"Some new energy drink I picked up at the store the other day. Try it, it's supposed to be pretty good."
"No thanks."
"Try it. I've heard good things about it."
"I said I don't want it."
"Fine."

"Did you feel that?"
"Sorry?"
"It was almost like a little earthquake."
"Maybe it was, Sarah, you should go back to sleep."
"I was sleeping? I need to be getting home! What time is it? … There it is again! Look at the sky!"
"Sarah..."
"Oh my God! The sky! It's...what is happening?!"
"Sarah..."
"I feel like I'm moving! Alan! What's happening to me?! The sky is breaking! It's disappearing!"
"Sarah...you're leaving."
"Leaving! Where am I going?"
"Don't worry; you're going to be alright, it doesn't usually happen like this."
"Alan!"
"You'll be fine."

"Alan..."
"Sarah!"
"Alan...what just happened?"
"That's what I want to know! Where have you been?"
"What do you mean where have I been?! I’ve been with you!"
"No you haven’t! I was talking to you one minute and then it was like you just disappeared. I thought you were mad at me for talking about UFO's."
"Alan! Look!"
"No way!"
"Could it be?"
"I think I just peed my pants."
"Do you think?"
"I gotta get out of here! What if it comes down and gets us?"
"I think it already did."
"You mean...that's where you think you went??"
"Yeah..."
"Why aren't you freaking out?"
"I don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know!? You think you were just in that thing, yet your acting like nothing happened!"
"Oddly enough, I feel fine."

The Soldier and the Gypsy

He grew up with the unpolished marble bust of the Emperor in his family's red veranda. He saw him on every coin and in every city square, hand on orb, divinely proportioned, a balanced stare. He'd never met him or saw him, but he loved his leader so honest, intelligent and spiritual.
One day when he grew very tall, very fast, his father told him his time had come to serve his military duty. He placed in his son's hands a small bronze pin of a flame he himself had worn during his own service. The boy cried, vulnerable under his father's gaze, knowing this was initiation.
After two years of training in weaponry, stamina, and strategy, he was sent to the Empire's mutable Eastern borders and in time, he found that he liked the life of a soldier. He felt elemental and strong. He knew war had always been and always would be and he formed an idea that he and the other soldiers were conduits for the gods, and he was to allow the inevitable, warring passions of Earth to work through him for the greatest outcome of all. Whenever he felt like he couldn't take another step, or felt dizzy with hunger, he'd say: Stay empty, empty, its an honor to host this transfiguring force.
The troupe reached their oriental destination on a windy starry night. They were greeted by a camp guard who related an atrocity that took place several days back with a soldier and a gnarled gang of rabid wolves that trailed in behind the wheels of the gypsy caravans that had just set up camp.
The boy unfastened the flame pin from his pocket and slept with it in his hands.
The soldiers started to work right away on building a proper encampment wall and spent their days hauling stone in from a half-demolished mosque to the north.
Days passed, working hard, eating little, idle evenings, and one particular night, a song.
They boy heard it because the wind was blowing just right and his curiosity led him to the source. He saw in a grassy clearing just next to the gypsy camp a fire, tickling the tiered skirts of a black haired woman twirling and singing. Her voice was an incantation and her many golden bangles flicked sparks from her limbs. He felt a chill of something chaotic in his blood, like when he first saw a hyena, that bristly, muscled opportunist, devour a carcass.
The following two nights he heard her out in the field again, along with two male voices. The third night, his head throbbing, he tramped over to the firelight and met her glossy black, kohl-lined eyes. Two men in leather pants held bottles in the shadows behind her. He asked her to please let Morpheus do his work.
She told him to leave in a series of shouts in her language and said she had always done exactly what she felt like doing.
And it was true. She once lived for four years in a cave alone, learning the secrets of mushrooms. She slept during the day and lived poetry at night. She had six children (she thought) and while others gathered around the table to eat, she scoured the earth for bird's feathers. She concocted hallucinogenic elixirs and she never took time to reflect or get too serious about anything.
He concluded that this gypsy was an incarnation of all that his dear temperate Emperor was against and prayed the gods would show her the virtues of duty and civility.
At daybreak as the men wiped the morning dew from their faces, the Sassanids struck, slayed them all, destroying their stone wall and reopening the border.
The gypsy woman traipsed through the military camp, stepping over bodies, still steaming with warmth, collecting whatever she felt like she wanted, things the Sassanids missed. She left with an urn of oil, a sac of flour and two stained woolen coats, all loaded into the bed of a shield that she pulled like a sled behind her, humming a Vedic melody.

Compound word sub topic

As an empty nester (for many years) I now have a "virtualchild" That is an offspring who has flown the coop and only communicates via facebook and text.

One more...... how about "purraffection" That would be the perfect way our kitties show their love for us!

My Compound Creation

For October's Subtopic on creating a new compound word, I chose to come up with "Robebliss". This word represents the blissful feeling you get while wearing a favorite robe. :)

Julie in the Rain

Here is my June topic that is way late. Oh my! Luke, I would like to say that I loved your topic and I feel crazy just now getting to it. But I'm working on catching up with all of the Ditalini topics.

Julie was "bored to death" as she liked to say, and she hadn't a car to travel. She began calling friends and family to visit her while her Lexus was in the shop down the road. Her car was her baby - without it she was beginning to feel a lot like a child.
"Tom? This is Julie. Hey. Are you and Patricia busy today? What've you got going on?" She was frantic with the address book, wondering how she had so many people listed within it but so few of those names were people she wanted around. Julie was in need of some new friends. Exciting ones.
Just as Julie reached for her coffee mug to get a refill, she heard tapping on the far kitchen window. "What?" She exclaimed out loud. As she shuffled her stocking feet to check out the noise, a fierce wind threw a plastic flower pot at the house and an incredible rain pummeled the glass pane. She stood in wonder at where this sudden storm had come from. "Argh!" She stomped her right foot and on the way down hit her toe on the table leg. "This day couldn't get any worse! Oh my God!" Julie felt like her day would be best spent in bed with some sleeping pills. "Just let it end." She began to walk toward her bedroom with a "Home & Away" magazine she'd already read through years ago, when she heard a faint knock on the door. Her eyes widened and her ears started to tingle. "Could it be? Someone has answered my call? Oh Angel!" She whipped the magazine onto the floor and skipped over to the door expected to see a familiar face. She threw the door back and there was someone there alright, but might unfamiliar. "Hello, could you spare some dollars for the Wildlife fund at my school? I'm sorry to bother you." A small thin girl stood there completely drenched with her knees clasped together and shaking. "What are you doing in the rain?" Julie asked in a sour tone. "I thought you were someone else."
"Well, the rain just hit ma'am, and I didn't foresee it coming."
"If you'd like to get warm then come on in. But I don't have any bills. Just change."
"I can make it home alright. I'll just wait on the porch til it passes. My fundraiser form says to not go inside."
"Hell girl! You're going to freeze. I have a warm couch just inches away! Come in please, I'd hate for you to get sick."
"Alright ma'am."
The girl entered the warm home and felt instantly better and surprisingly comfortable. "You have a nice home."
"It's really nice right now!" Julie laughed. "I was cleaning up this morning for guests."
"Oh! I didn't realize. I should definitely be going then."
"No dear, just sit down... here is a towel for you. Dry off."
"Are they not coming over?"
"Not today. No one could make it. So what's your name?"
"I'm Claire. I go to school at Middlemonte. I can't believe how cold it got, my mom might be worried. Can I call her from here?"
"Of course, I'll get the phone." Julie grabbed the portable and handed it to Claire, who was now wrapped in a giant towel sitting on the edge of the couch. Claire began to dial.
"Momma? I'm at a lady's house. I was in the rain and she invited me in." Claire paused for a moment, and then put her palm on the talking end. "My mom wants to talk to you."
Julie took the phone and spoke, "How are you! My name is Julie."
"I'm just fine. Is Claire alright?" The mother sounded quite jovial for asking a concerned question.
"Claire is warming up, she'll be fine. I couldn't believe the weather. Just hit us out of nowhere."
"Right. It was intense and I realize Claire hadn't gotten very far but she has all those papers to carry and I'd hate for her to ruin them. Sorry for the inconvenience of having her."
"It's fine, really. Just one of those sorry, kind of drab days anyway. I wasn't busy." Julie looked up at Claire who was trying to separate her fundraiser brochures to lay them out on the floor to dry.
"Well, I'll be over to pick up Claire. Where are you? I actually was supposed to be somewhere so I might need to leave now." The mother's voice was calm and relaxing to Julie's ears. She liked this woman.
"I'm on Fallbrook and Vestin, right on that roundabout. You know the gray barn by the road? That's mine."
"I've seen it! Thank you ..." the mother paused.
"It was Julie."
"Oh, that's right. Great. Thank you Julie. My name is Reba."
"Like the singer." Julie gave an awkward laugh. "Ok I'll be seeing you then."
"Bye Julie."

Julie walked to the front door and checked to make sure the gray barn was still in the front yard. Only minutes later, she watched as a small yellow sports car pulled into the drive. Out walked a vibrant woman dressed in a beautiful beige dress that extended to her ankles. Her hair was pulled back and there were sparkly barrettes on each side of her head. Julie noticed that Reba had a very youthful walk. "Hey there!" Julie yelled from the front porch. "Looks like the rain subsided a bit just for you!"
Reba laughed and gently brushed the light wetness from her shoulders. "I'm all dressed up, I know!"
Just as Julie went to open the front door to get Claire, the door opened up and Claire outstretched her arm with the towel. "Thanks for that." Claire smiled and waved timidly to her mother.
"Going somewhere fancy?" Julie asked Reba.
"I think I'm a little overdressed. My best friend Shiela gave a book reading last week, and she's throwing a party to celebrate. We're all very excited for her."
"Oh wow! That's incredible. What an inspiration." Julie felt a tinge of envy, as she had wanted to get published for almost a decade. "What is the book?"
Reba took ahold of Claires shoulders and began to rub them. " "Monkey in the Middle'. It's a memoir."
Julie almost dropped to the ground. She knew the book. "You're kidding me right?! That book is amazing! I just read it!"
"Oh my goodness! Isn't that something?!" Reba smiled and looked at Claire.
"That is strange." Claire sayed softly.
"Hey! Why don't you come to the party with us!" Reba looked back at Julie.
"What?!" She laughed heartily. "I would be so out of place, not to mention what I'm wearing!"
They all chuckled together and then Reba said, "I'm already late, and she said I could bring a friend. I think it would be a lot of fun. I don't really know any one else there."
"Really?! You really don't mind?"
"Not at all. Go get dressed!" Reba nudged.
Julie ran quickly inside and changed clothes. She was so excited! "This might just be the start of a great friendship." She thought to herself as she looked into her bedroom mirror. She smiled as she grabbed her purse and dug for her lipstick.
"I'm coming!" She yelled to Reba and Claire. "I'm just going to put the towel in the dryer!"

Gotta love shameless self-promotion!

My short promo film for my latest full-length play.

"Foppotee". A simple-minded person.

(I'm late on the September assignment...see my previous post. It didn't dawn on me until after I finished to set this story in an Irish pub. Even the picture below is from my recent trip. But I was too lazy to rewrite it.)

A man walked into a coffee shop unaware that a book signing reception was in progress. Looking around, he recognized no one. Course he wasn’t from the area so why would he recognize anyone. The coffee shop was a-buzz with activity – people eating cheese and crackers, sipping wine, a violinist playing a cello in the corner (the cello player took sick), chit-chatting and – drinking coffee. In another corner there was a stately, middle-aged gentleman signing books. The author. The man walked up to the author and, noticing a few hundred books stacked on the table, grabbed one and paged through it.

"This your book?" asked the man.

"Yes," confirmed the author. "Would you like to purchase one? I'd be happy to sign it for you."

"No thanks." Uncomfortable pause. “What’s your book about?” asked the man.

“Growing up in Cambridge, Wisconsin.”

“Cambridge? Never heard of it,” said the man.

“It’s near Madison,” said the author. He returns to signing books.

Odd, thought the man. He imagined anyone could write a book about their childhood, particularly if they grew up in an interesting place. But Cambridge, Wisconsin? Never heard of it.

The man stated, "Now...if you had written about your life growing up in Madison, I might have found that interesting."

The author smiled. "But I didn't grow up in Madison. I grew up on Cambridge."

"Yes," said the man, "so you've said."

Madison would have been much better place to write about, the man thought to himself once again.

The author asked the man, “If you'd like some wine or cheese..."

“No thanks,” said the man.

“Well - enjoy your visit,” the author said and returned to signing books.

The man nodded at the author - and stood there for a few seconds. “Foppotee,” said the man to the author.

“Excuse me?”

“Foppotee,” repeated the man.

“What does that mean?” asked the author.

The man stated firmly, “Foppotee.” He paused. “Foppotee, foppotah.”

The author sat there dumbfounded. He chose his next words carefully. “You’re a simple-minded person, aren’t you?”

The man stared at the author. It's not known whether the man was staring at the author or staring through him. It made no difference.

“Foppotee, foppotah.”

Then the man turned, walked out of the coffee shop as quickly as he had entered it. The author stared at the door for a few seconds then returned to signing his books.

“Foppotee,” he muttered under his breath.

From Los Angeles to Waterford, WI, then to Waterford, Ireland and back again.

I wanted to apologize for being absent from the blog. My recent move from Los Angeles back to Wisconsin, and then my 12-day trip to Ireland has left me little time to write. That - along with finding work, getting acclimated to the Midwest after 11 years of being away, looking for a place to live...well, you get the picture.

I look forward to contributing to Ditalini Press once again. Such a wonderfully creative outlet, isn't it? In the meantime, if you're interested in reliving my trip to Ireland, bookmark "Good Craic. Welcome to Eire". I'll be updating it regularly. I wanted to put a more artsy, maybe scenic picture up here. But this shot was the one day I wore my kilt. I think it looks good - especially standing in a 15th century castle in Oranmore, Co. Galway, and sipping port in front of a roaring fire. There's plenty of of cool shots on the blog.

The trip was great. My traveling partner is an asshole and I wanted him to O.D. on his medication. Yes - that bad. Katie...wish you had been along with me. We would have had SO much fun...

Night Terrors

Heart stopping screams awaken me as she cries out once again from her bedroom down the hall. She is caught between sleeping and waking, unable to make the transition safely. Another night terror.

I rush to her side, seeing her as always, bolt upright, eyes wide open, saliva running from her lips; in mid scream. I try to hold her, comfort and waken her, but she stares at me and whispers, "SHHH. He'll hear you".

I do not touch her. Do not speak. The hair on my arms and neck stands on end, because I do not know who "He" is and am afraid that she may be right. Perhaps he really is in the room with us watching and waiting. And so, I sit beside her silently trapped in this night terror with her. Wondering if we will ever be free from it, If we will ever feel safe again.

It's been three months since she's slept through the night in peace. I thought at first it was just normal childhood nightmares and they would pass, but I see now that such optimism was foolish. He is in her mind now and uses her to hear what goes on around her, just as he uses all of the children now. She knows he is there and fights to keep her secrets from him.

We were so naive to give our children over to this invasive terror. But those who tried to warn us were labeled conspiracy theory alarmists. They spoke of side effects, lack of testing, hasty production and over zealous scientists. We listened instead to the government and the media as they flashed headlines of pandemic, death, and the most at risk population, our precious children. We led them as lambs to the slaughter, thinking we were providing safety and protection. We parents didn't participate. There was a shortage of supplies, we were told, and so we bore the risk of infection ourselves in order to provide for our offspring. What parent wouldn't make such a sacrifice? But now, too late we have discovered it was the children who were lain on the alter not us.

Is he really here with us now in the darkness? Or has her mind been tricked into this constant state of terror? Either way, we remain together locked in this nightmare, unable to undo what has been done. And I think to myself, it was just a vaccine, a simple vaccine.

October Subtopic: Compound Creation

In honor of last month's topic, Save the Words, this month let's make up a compound word. Post just the new compound word, or the word with definition or the word in any type of writing expression. This idea was inspired by Katie Grace's blog site CloudPrints, the Coinstar company, and Mattie Stepanek's poetry book Heartsongs. Start using your new compound word and have fun!

The Revised Lincoln

People are born, grow up, and spend a large proportion of their lives aging.
I remember an old Negro woman from my youth. She lived in a small house across the street from our family.
She was a private, but active person, busy with chores, washing clothes and gardening. Constance was her name.
As a child I would see Constance occasionally. She was polite toward me. Oddly, from a distance
she appeared a bit withered and weary. Up close she somehow changed into an evasive figure
who wore an older body like a teenager. Not comfortable in her skin, as if a young spirit trapped.
I remember thinking how old folks should perhaps be more relaxed, not energetic.
I however knew little of her generation, nor her racial environment.

Mother said that Constance had been a slave in her youth.
And, that she had suffered hardships, and had led a lot of her people to safety
via the underground railroad. Nobody believed it. Constance would have to be 115 years old
at the least had this been true. As it were, she appeared old, but of an undetermined age like many
of her race. She remained a mystery.

Years passed and I grew up. I became more physically capable and began doing chores for
Constance after school, or weekends. I would occasionally sense that she was a pure and peaceful
soul underneath layers of something I could not approach nor apprehend.
I didn't have much cultural exposure to the black race. I think she sensed that I was a thoughtful
young man and knew I also worked part time as clerk in a local bookstore.
She could read very well, but did not seem fluent in literature, past or present.
She would sometimes turn her head to the sky, as if something was speaking to her.
She would also grin at the oddest moments. I asked her one day if she had ever been to church.
She replied, "which one?"
I looked back at her and didn't bother to answer. She had a way of cutting to the chase.
Constance rolled her lip and went on with chores.

It was the fall of 1973. I had graduated from High School and was working full time at the bookstore.
I also was learning about the art of photography. I was interested in the works of William Blake
and Rene Descartes. Early I had entered a philosophical period in my life. Or, at least I thought I had.
As I became more attuned to the esoteric implications of life, I would get flashes of Constance in my
mind as I reviewed some of the words she had spoken to me briefly, or it was her general persona
that would penetrate me with a strange depth. I guess I can describe Constance as a silent mentor.
Simply by being herself was enough to show me I had a simple surface understanding.
She knew something, had earned a rare quality, and what that was, I could not explain.

Youth wants to sprint across the bridge of wisdom, not earn it through life experience.
Constance became a secret refuge of counsel for me. I would wake in the morning primed with all kinds of
questions I wanted to ask her. I would go to work and through the course of the day would find the answer
in a book, or coming freely from the lips of a customer, or delivery person.
At days end I felt a deeper satisfaction within.
She was not the type who liked people frequenting with regularity.
I wished I had spent more time with Constance in my childhood, but later would appreciate the balance of
contact I had with her.

I did see her one last time that fall. It was dusk as I walked home from work and saw a lamp
burning in her front room. I walked up to her door not knowing exactly why. The porch gave a creak as I stepped
onto it. She pulled the front door open and smiled and invited me in. We sat by the oil lamp.
Constance looked waxy and weathered in the dim light.
Her thick silvery hair was pulled back neatly. She became calm and still.
The light flickered and I could catch glimpses of unearthly age that she wore.
Her feet were like the gnarled roots of an ancient oak with her trunk and branches above showing the wear of
a thousand storms.

She leaned a little forward toward me and began to speak.

"I think you will do well in your life Aaron.
Son, I have seen some things. Things that could would not seem proper to fit into
the space of time. Most souls only look backward at life, like riding the caboose.
Learn to be aware of what the engineer of the train is seeing. Listen for the
whistle and get to know the lurches and sways of the track. And, remember details.
Know what is around you at all times, here and in your dreams."

I sat there captured by her few words, and prayed that she didn't stop speaking.
This is the longest line of sage advice she had ever spoken to me.

"I will be moving on shortly. I am approaching the winter of my life.
Everything is arranged and in order, 'cept for maybe a couple of things.
And while you are here we can square off one of them...
Aaron, when a book is revised, they make some changes in
the new edition, am I correct?"

"Yes ma'am, there can be changes, updates, corrections, perhaps new illustrations."

"I have something I want to give to you.
The world is becoming very complex and it is necessary for the world to recognize how
complex we are too." Her voice tailed off hoarsely.

I became apprehensive about her offer.
"Was there something that happened to you that you can't talk about?"
I took on an aggressive, challenging tone.
A distant fascination could quickly transmute into repulsion if I sensed an odor of
confinement and restriction by anyone, especially the trappings of the lonely and old.

"Silence can be the refuge of sanity....believe that I have lived there more than not.
Do you know about Harriet Tubman?"

"The abolitionist?"

"Yep, I knew her, as well as anyone could.
She helped me, and I helped her. I liked her, she was harsh like myself.
We both had a rough time of it. I worked with her for a time in the Underground
Railroad....
Harriet told me about some places she had been.
I think she was referring to the spirit world, or some life in the past.
She was not a literate person, but she knew things others did not.
How the ancient Africa and
its past were connected to slavery issues and Lincoln. Harriet had me read her the
newspapers back then. I forget what they said, or what they were.
She had me clip articles or tear pages out at her request.
She put them in that big wooden ball. There was a discolored round object beside her roller top desk.
Harriet said there may be proof whether the power from the past will sway the future, or the future powers
will sway the past.
I never opened it, it's sealed.
I'm getting too old to become a detective, so you use your skills to determine
what Harriet was collecting. She told me someone would come along who could
take charge of the contents, and I think it must be you Aaron."

"What was she saving do you think?"

"Lincoln...things about him, and battles."

"Like an archive, is that it?"

"Only of the things she selected. She would receive impressions.
As I recall, she would listen to what I read her and
then either have a reaction or not.
There was one battle in particular, she had a bad reaction.
Suffered a seizure. Just went out of her mind for a few days.
Mostly I saved the items she would have a reaction toward
if I remember correctly. She could be a very moody, difficult woman."

"Was she empathetic about all the death?" I asked.
This was becoming very strange.

"Harriet was very psychic at certain times. She had her head bashed in by her owner.
She should have died, but, got through it and was changed in her vision.
It also disrupted her normal patterns.
She didn't know Lincoln at this time, but said that she knew him from before.
I thought she was crazy.
She told me things about the civil war before they occurred.
And, usually they did.....then.
There came a day when she said it all changed. She could not follow it anymore.
She was very angry, upset and frightened.
She said something horrible had descended.
The battle over which she had that seizure, she was kept uttering 'blood beast', all that
night in her bed. She was not in her right mind for sure, but, empathy wasn't carried by her.
She was harder than nails,
her visions were hard natured as well. Something collided into her.
I was frightened by things she saw and did most of the time."

"Wow. So you knew Harriet! It was rumored that you had been a slave
as a child, I honestly thought it was fiction."

"Araminta was her real name."

There was a long dead silence. The lamp flickered
eerily.

"Revised history. Is that what you are getting at?", I asked.

"It's inside that ball. Harriet told me it had a lock. Some sort of thing Pythagoras
had discovered about geometric solids holding a zero base.
I have no idea what that means except that you may only open it under a full solar eclipse.
Chisel the cap off or break it open somehow."

She got up slowly and handed me the wooden ball. It was a bit larger than a bowling ball.
My hands were sweaty, the ball was rather light, as if hollow.
I thanked her, and she thanked me. It was one of her last orders of business to take care of.
I could tell she felt lighter, her eyes twinkled.
She patted my back as I exited her front door and walked home.

That winter, on a cold January day, Constance passed away.
I didn't feel a tinge of sorrow. She simply didn't have an endearing composition.
It felt as if a tough old soldier had turned to vapor. There was a moment of reflection and heartfelt gratitude
at getting to know a little of this complex individual.

Some years passed. The Vietnam war had drawn to a close. I was living in a small flat and had become a dealer
in used books. I was at a local book fair in the fall of 1976. Somebody had mentioned that there
was going to be a total solar eclipse 2:10 p.m. on Sunday. I didn't think anything about it.
It was Saturday, and it was getting late. I had found a few titles I was looking for and was browsing through
some boxes of books someone had hastily brought in. Lots of Civil war titles. Autobiographies of Lincoln, Histories of
Lincoln's War. Obviously an estate collection taken in to recoup a few dollars. Lincoln, that weathered face of his
looked like the sordid woes of humankind were etched into it. Then it struck me. I realized I could open that ball tomorrow afternoon.

I had some mixed feelings. I wasn't sure if I were qualified to tear open something that had belonged to
Harriet Tubman. If in fact, this was true. Opening it under the eclipse made it seem mysterious and
compelling. Although, my logical mind wasn't holding any great expectations, I held the procedure as a matter
of trust regardless of the outcome. I took some time and considered using a private space in my parents back lot
far behind their house. It was filled with weeping willow trees and other thick overgrown brush and tall weeds.
I could procure privacy because the area was swampy and stunk during the summer. I knew where a paddock of
field rock were piled and would provide a suitable dry place to open the ball.
I would load my camera with a fresh roll of 35mm Tri-X high speed black and white.
The small aperture would hold foreground and background in stark focus.
I realized that the few minutes of the eclipse would force time constraints, yet I could photograph a before and
after sequence to document the event.

I arrived at the spot an hour and a half before the eclipse. The sky was clear as crystal.
I had made a small shadow box to monitor the eclipse. Light entered through a pin hole. A basic camera with no photosensitive medium. The solar disk was the size of a dime at the back of the box and the eclipse would register visually
when the sun had been completely obscured by the moon. I began taking a few photos of the scene.
The ball, a 2 pound hammer, a saw, a hatchet, a chisel and a brass punch.

The eclipse was underway. The sun had a quarter of itself showing when I began to tap on what appeared to
be wooden pegs holding the ball's cap affixed. The wood was old and dry and the pegs were easily loosened.
I drove them down until they stopped moving. I kept watching the shadow box so I could move to open it
as soon as the sun was obscured. I became anxious. A minute or two was excruciatingly long.

The sun disappeared. I struck the cap with a hammer and chisel. The wood was harder than I anticipated.
I struck harder and began shredding wood from the joint around the cap. I kept hitting it until I could begin
prying it open with the chisel. Finally I tore it open with my hand.
I sat it down and took a photo looking down into the hollow interior.
The sky was now a dark cobalt and I carefully reached in to remove a small bundle of neatly folded newspaper
clippings. The moon and sun were now diverging. A sliver of bright
sunlight began overtaking the lunar disk. I had no sense of whether I performed the opening correctly or not.
I began to wonder if Harriet had suffered from insanity, because what I had just done made no sense at all.

I felt relieved, but confused about what to do next.
I was lacking instructions on just what it was I was supposed to study or find.
The newspaper itself appeared crisp and clean looking. The interior of the ball was not rounded. It consisted of
flat areas geometrically spaced. It was a very odd design.
I picked up the largest folded wad of paper and then unfolded it carefully.
It was a copy of the Washington Times dated July 1863.
The headline read: North Forced into Negotiations after Rout at Gettysburg

I fell backwards landing flat on my back. I had never been hit so hard by anything before or since.
I could not think, I could not move. The paper was laid out over my chest. I lifted my arms to shove it off.
It would not move, my arms would not cooperate. I tried to blow it off of me.
I think I may have passed out briefly, I cannot be certain. It was an awful place to be in every way.
I got up after several minutes. I threw everything into a bag and marched straight back to my car.
I saw my mom as I tossed the bag into the backseat.
I was soaking wet with sweat and muck. She was planting some flowers.
We both said 'hey' and I drove off.

I dared myself to look at one more of these clippings after a couple years had passed.
I chose a small piece gambling that I could accommodate with more rationale.
It was an obituary: Former President Lincoln dies at Syracuse NY
He had passed away from aggravations of old age at a Sanitarium.
From page 3, It was a small write up. He was not a celebrated figure.
The brief content was of a magnitude beyond my mental and spiritual capacities to apprehend.
Obviously these could not be real clippings, or at least, they were no longer real.

I did find that the strange interior shape of the ball was a 20 sided isometric form.
The icosahedron. I can only conclude that this ball was a simple time-lock.
Meaning the contents were isolated from subsequent changes in the space/time continuum hence the
day of their being sealed away.

Meaning, that since Harriet selected certain vital clippings, somebody or someone had seen fit to go back and
change what happened. I guess I may have to continue the kind of life led by Constance. Silent, contemplative
and desperate. I pray that later in my life I may be granted the wisdom to find an answer to what happened
to a continent full of people in the mid 1800's. I have not the fortitude nor courage at this stage in my life.

The paper fiber taken from the ball is a perfect compositional match to the newsprint from that time
used by the Washington Times.

Aaron Sharp
June 23, 1989

October Topic: Sci-Fi/Fantasy

I was asked to sub for the previous assigned member.
I have been thinking about the science fiction/fantasy genre
and wanted to invite members to write a short piece in this
catagory. If you don't like this subject, you could write a parody,
or modify your favorite field of literature to fit into a sci-fi, fantasy
setting. Have fun!

Chiasmus Corner

Have you ever been intrigued by John F. Kennedy’s famous quote, Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country? Perhaps you are familiar with the late great Mae West’s observation, It’s not the men in my life, it’s the life in my men! If so, then you have already been introduced to two examples of a chiasmus. Once awakened to these chiastic phrasings, it’s almost impossible to become unaware of them. They await discovery, whether it be a line in a book, a motto, a lyric line, part of a comedian’s routine . . . or absolutely anywhere and everywhere a lover of language might leave a mark.

It's not having what you want, It's wanting what you've got - Cheryl Crow, Soak Up the Sun lyric

When the power of love conquers the love of power then the world will know peace. - Jimi Hendrix

Where there is Peace, there is Culture; Where there is Culture, there is Peace - Nicholas Roerich

You don’t have time; time has you! - George Carlin, Phoenix performance, 1978

I often tune in to a long-running radio show on my 6 a.m. weekday morning commute where a daily call-in contest is featured. A new weekend evening talk show on the same radio station, hosted by Bob Earley, invites the public to share their views on various topics of interest. Bob has already attracted a strong following of regular callers. Recently, the host of the morning show, Stan Piatt, urged his own listeners to try and win the contest by stating, You don’t have to be an Earley star-caller to be a star-caller early!

For more chiasmi visit www.drmardy.com. There you’ll find genius wording entertained by an entertaining word genius!

Feel free to post chiasmus discoveries from now on - under the heading of Chiasmus Corner!