tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-318766722024-03-14T05:46:11.991-05:00Turtle's VoiceThe Official Website Of Author Victoria S. HardyThe Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.comBlogger146125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31876672.post-89779320934535341782024-01-23T09:08:00.004-05:002024-01-23T09:35:30.000-05:00Grief Is Not A Spectator Sport<p> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</p><p class="MsoNormal">I’ve been thinking of funerals, and of course I am, my
mother has recently passed on. Death is a big thing in trauma/addiction
recovery, truly any event that brings a lot of emotion forward is a big event,
but death is definitely one of the biggest ones. And the death of an
abusive/estranged parent is the biggest. Needless to say there are a lot of
mixed emotions involved. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">With the news of her impending death I found myself in
constant prayer that she would seek repentance for the harm she put out in the
world. I found myself waking early in the morning already engulfed in prayer
that somewhere in my mother she realized the harm she had caused, and was
honestly repenting. I have longed for her to show me remorse over the years, to
acknowledge she hurt me worse than any other human being was capable, but the
last week of her life I wasn’t interested in her remorse, I just wanted her to
repent before she died. (Mathew 18:6) I don’t know if she did, and I suppose I
won’t know until I pass on myself. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am grateful I had almost two and a half years of mourning
before she passed. I am grateful I had a chance to begin healing, to create a
life where she wasn’t the chaotic center of it, to find some peace and belief
in myself, and put myself in God’s hands and trust Him completely with my fate.
I will always be grateful for the time. In the beginning I separated myself
simply because I had no choice, my body had revolted. And I will be forever grateful
the nightmares, flashbacks, fear and trembling, anxiety and panic attacks came
before she died, because if they’d happened afterwards I don’t know if I would
have survived it. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Therefore I’ve been thinking about funerals, and being the
youngest on both sides of my family I’ve been to a lot of them in my years.
Funerals tend to be highly emotionally charged events, and perhaps because
death marks the end of an era, funerals tend to bring people to seek resolution
of one long-held issue or another. Funerals are triggering, and I can’t think of a single funeral
I’ve been to that didn’t bring an eruption of chaos during it, or quickly
following it. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When my own father buried his mother he went to the funeral
carrying his gun. The tension in that funeral home was like nothing before or
since, the factions were aligned with their perceived righteousness and
indignities of how my father had failed his mother, and although no shots were
fired, or blows thrown, that event left an indelible memory. Then there was the
funeral where a cousin went after an uncle and had to be physically restrained.
And the one where one mourner worked diligently to turn everyone from another
mourner with accusations of an earlier unwanted sexual encounter, or yet another
funeral where there were divisions with claims of domestic abuse. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And of course there was my own child’s funeral where several
people targeted me, trying to engage me into some kind of upset. One followed
me through the funeral home mocking my words as I spoke to mourners, another
tried to draw me into an argument because she felt she had been treated
unfairly, and yet another sought out to resolve an issue from years earlier.
All this occurred while I was attempting to say goodbye to my only child. Why
did those people choose a funeral to address long-held upsets? I don’t know,
but I do know that it’s not uncommon to use that ritual as a tool of harm. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Grief is not a spectator sport, nor should it be used to
gather more fodder for the gossips. If the last two and a half years have shown
me anything it has been that I can only rely and put my trust in God, not man,
not family. I suppose I knew what would happen when I stepped back to mourn my
own losses and begin to heal my own injuries, and the events happened in a textbook
fashion, the lines were drawn and people chose their side. I didn’t ask anyone
to choose, and although I may have desired understanding and compassion, I did
not expect it, and I wasn’t surprised when I did not receive it. I was hurt,
though, just one more hurt piled on top of the others, and I was gossiped about
and condemned far and wide. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I have stated over and again that I abhor gossip and fully
agree with the Bible in this point, it is destructive, it is sinful, and it is
where small and evil minds gather. My mother told me many times in my life if I
didn’t do as she requested then people would talk about me, ie., she’d get that
ball rolling. Luckily for me after being warned, gossiped about, and
experiencing the awkward hush that comes over a room when I stepped inside, I
was prepared for what followed. What I won’t do is feed that gossip machine any
further.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My mother has died. There are so many losses to be mourned,
so many. As her only surviving daughter I have the right to mourn as I see fit, I have
the right to soothe my own pain in Jesus’ peace, and not be further fodder for
the gossips. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">All this is my way of saying I will not attend my mother’s
funeral. Experience has shown me that funerals aren’t a safe place to let down
my guard and open up my heart. Experience has shown me that the only benefit to
be had by my attendance would be to deepen the coffers of the gossips, and to
further a divide that may never be bridged. I know where my mother will be
buried, I’ve spent a lot of time in that cemetery in my years, and I will go
and visit the grave on my own, when I am ready. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sometimes in this life you are damned if you do and damned
if you don’t, and I am mightily tired of being damned by people who do not know
my story, and mock, lie about, and dismiss what I have survived. She was my mother
too, and above all else I pray that she repented for the incredible pain she
caused in her life. </p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
The Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31876672.post-6753350424169745192023-04-21T07:10:00.001-05:002023-04-21T07:10:14.125-05:00Righteous Anger<p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">I haven’t been posting a lot of blogs recently and the main
reason is that I’m angry, and I didn’t really want to push that anger out into
the world. I’ve written plenty, and when I see the anger sneaking in with no
way to say what I feel without revealing it, I close it out. It’s righteous
anger though; it’s the anger that comes when you finally find respect for
yourself, your abilities, and your own existence. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I find I’m most angry over all the losses, the loss of a
education, the loss of the love and affection a child needs to become a
well-rounded human being, the loss of a central nervous system that works
correctly and isn’t constantly on high alert waiting for the next threat. I’m
angry that I never had a mother I could trust, one who would protect me. I’m
angry that as an adult I never had a mother who was a friend, one who would
hold my secrets and stand up for me. I’m angry that through all the suffering I’ve
endured in my life, my mother only viewed my pain as fodder for gossip, as a
means to draw attention to herself. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m angry that I have suffered real brain damages from the
concussions, the beatings, the threats, and the continuous and constant stress
through my formative years. I am angry that every confidence I trusted with my
mother was shared far and wide, and not just shared, but subtly changed to suit
her wants and needs for attention. I’m angry that in my childhood every little
thing was a dramatic, never-ending crisis. I’m angry that my mother never tried
to be a good mother, never taught me anything useful or valuable, it was all
about her, her feelings, her needs, her wants, her desires to be the focus of
everyone in her world. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am angry that the only affection I received as a child was
in front of an audience, and had no real feeling behind it, it was just a show
for others. I am angry that I am the daughter of such a cold, heartless,
unfeeling, and cruel (mean-girl) woman, and that I was never allowed to be my
own person, I was simply a possession that was expected to mirror her feelings.
I am angry that I had to struggle so hard to find little pieces of myself, that
being a whole, separate person was discouraged, while being a pathetic,
helpless mess was encouraged.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The anger ebbs and flows, some days better than others, and I
know with time it will lessen, and I also know that the anger is righteous and
needed. What I find I am the angriest with is that I put up with it for so
damned long, that I wasted the majority of my life seeking a thing that simply
doesn’t exist. I am angry that I exposed my only child to the gaslighting and
confusion, and now so many odd things that he said over his lifetime are
suddenly making sense and I know from where those words emerged. I am angry
with myself that I continued to trust my mother, and the countless times I was
hurt, deceived, and gossiped about. I am very angry with the way I was used as
gossip fodder over the years, my life, my pains, my suffering at the hands of a
narcissistic parent were only used for talk, as a means of damned entertainment
for people who would have never survived what I have endured. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So yes, the reason I haven’t posted much in the last year or
so is that I am mad as hell! And following my well-established training, I’ve
kept that anger to myself, not wanting to be or put a burden on anyone. I can’t
say much will change by my stating these truths, but posting this blog will be
a start. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
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</xml><![endif]--> <br /></p>The Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31876672.post-15532399843424281422023-03-07T08:01:00.004-05:002023-03-07T09:04:13.461-05:00Momma Said Write A Book About It <p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">Perhaps this new book is my own confession, an attempt to
rid myself of the deeply ingrained shame that I imagine most abused children
experience. When you grow up under continual threat, in survival mode, and then
step out into the world, it’s not easy to shift gears, and when you are trained
in abuse, abuse begins to feel familiar and safe. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve been on a long journey in my quest to feel comfort in
my own body and mind, and at first I began changing the basics. At first I
removed the harmful pharmaceuticals, harsh grooming products, and toxic
cleaning supplies, I began eating more healthfully, we moved out into the
country away from the city’s chaos, I moved my body more, I got sober, and grew
stronger in my relationship with God. But what happens when you change
everything possible outside of you, yet you still feel like crap? Then you must
look inside, and at your own history, to understand those triggers that keep
you in fight and flight mode. They say that unaddressed traumas stay in the
body until you address them, and I have found that that is the truth. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As an example: I’ve always had a complicated relationship
with sleep, it took me hours to drift off, and if I was awakened unexpectedly
my entire day would be ruined. Such a simple thing, sleep, yet as a child I
still recall the dread I felt at bedtime. Whatever my issue with sleep was, it
was still affecting me in my 50s. For a lot of people sleep is safety and
comfort, for me it was something to dread and avoid. Looking deeper I found the
problem. As a child sleep was never safe and comforting to me as I could be
yanked out of it at any minute, and being dragged from sleep usually meant being
yelled at, accused, and hit and hurt. There was no comfort in slipping off to
sleep, only fear of when I’d be attacked. In facing that fear and acknowledging
it, my sleeping schedule has shifted, and for the first time in my life I now
feel that comfort and safety, but I would have continued to suffer had I not
gone down the rabbit hole of my own miserable upbringing. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the new novel there is a scene where my lead character, Dani
Donnelly, is talking to her young neighbor. The 11-year-old, Crystal, had just
experienced a traumatic event, the first of her young life, and was having
trouble sleeping. Dani suggested art as a way to remove the flashbacks from her
mind, and I suppose this new novel is my art. Sometimes taking those images
from your mind, by painting or by writing them out, lessens the power they have
over you, and eases that ever-present shame and fear. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The title of the new novel was the obvious choice; there
could be no other title, as when I was a child and would complain of the
treatment I received I was told I could write a book about it when I grew up. I
was told to write a book about it many times, usually with a smirk and a chuckle,
as my grades in English/Lit were always terrible. So finally that is what I
have done, I have written a book about it. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I weaved my own story into the story of a fictional
character, Dani Donnelly, an author on the run from a stalker. Dani has signed
a contract to write her memoirs, and with just a few fictional twists and turns
to blend my story with Dani’s, most of her written memoirs are the truth of my
upbringing and the early years of my adulthood. I faced incredible fear writing
this one, as fear and secrecy (what happens in the family, stays in the family)
was a mainstay of my upbringing. The description of the anxiety attacks the
author suffers is not much different than what I endured breaking the trauma
bonds that have held me captive and suffering for over fifty years. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So with all that said, the new novel is available on Amazon.
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BVKV59Z9"> https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BVKV59Z9</a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
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</xml><![endif]--> <br /></p>The Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31876672.post-70569678245793001912022-06-12T08:31:00.002-05:002022-06-12T08:32:29.287-05:00Healing Loudly Part Three<p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">I had a revelation this week, as it dawned on me that it
isn’t the memories kids growing up in abuse repress, it’s the emotions
connected to the memories that get stuffed down and buried. I have always
remembered the abuse, tucked away and compartmentalized in the back closet of
my mind, but what I had buried were all the emotions a kid feels when
undergoing years of systematic and intentional abuse. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Growing up under a covert narcissist, one determined to
break my spirit, and leave me ever dependent on them, a lot of emotion gets
pushed aside and buried in the name of survival. The abuser controls
everything, from comfort, food, and sleep, to whatever emotion is deemed
appropriate to express, and in my upbringing only the abuser was allowed to
express any emotions. My emotions were unimportant, ridiculous, the mark of an
insane person, and completely unworthy of any attention or concern. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And it was those severely repressed emotional responses to
systematic abuse that have been bubbling to the surface these last few years of
sobriety. I was ill prepared to deal with them as I had been taught I had no
right to them, no right to feel any way that my abuser didn’t approve. My
abuser had a very limited range of emotions, and I was expected… No, it was
demanded that I share only the emotions of my abuser, and disregard any of my
own feelings. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Growing up like that, all my formative years spent trying to
mold myself into my abuser’s screwed-up and limited emotional range left me
unsure of my own emotions as an adult, and it sure explains a lot about my own
life. A kid just wants to be loved and accepted, and that is something I never
experienced as a child, which left a deep longing in me, and is the reason I
put up with such insane abuse as an adult. I’d been groomed, beaten, and
brainwashed by the continual abuse into not only yielding to the desires of the
molesters who found me during my fourteenth through sixteenth years, but for
accepting even more abuse as I grew up. My emotions had little meaning to me as
I tried to fit myself into the emotional range of my abusers in adulthood, just
as I learned to do as a child. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It occurred to me last night that I experienced at least a
hundred abusive episodes at home between the ages of eight (when my sister
died) and seventeen (when I left home pregnant and married). If it happened
just once a week, then it’s literally hundreds of times, but I will settle with
just the number one hundred for now. At least one hundred times of being hit,
condemned, told how awful I was, and how much I was hated as my mother, my
abuser, took out all her frustrations on me. It’s a miracle I have as much
sanity as I do, it’s a miracle I’m not a hopeless and helpless mess, and
although I am a bit of a mess, I managed, though the grace of God and God
alone, to recover a spirit of optimism and hope. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So for those of you wondering, talking, scrutinizing,
dismissing, and choosing sides, understand I’m not recovering forgotten memories,
those have never changed, I am experiencing the emotions denied a severely
abused and neglected child. Finally God has allowed me a space to feel and heal
those deep, and unwarranted, wounds. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
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</xml><![endif]--> <br /></p>The Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31876672.post-67629265924870275322022-04-05T07:36:00.007-05:002022-04-05T07:48:29.436-05:00Healing Loudly Part Two<p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">I should have known. It always happens. I should have known.
The day after I posted my last blog my back tried seizing up several times, and
I was left with what I will refer to as that pre-seize pain, afraid to move
much in case it decided to fully debilitate me for days or longer. Thankfully,
after some slow, long, stretches, and breathing exercises, it has calmed now,
but it always happens or something similar, when I speak out. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">More than a decade ago my articles were very popular on the
Internet, and when I’d see how many views they were receiving and I’d get the
emails that always came, I would have massive anxiety attacks, trembling all
over. It was the fear of being seen, of being known, of getting in trouble by
drawing attention to myself, a legacy of growing up under narcissist abuse. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And it seems I’m not alone, most children growing up as I
did, both the scapegoats and the golden children tend to end up with medical
issues. I know that I have certainly suffered vague, apparently impossible to
diagnose sicknesses and physical ailments, and I’ve had a lot of surgery. The
constant drama, the gas lighting and confusion, the fear of being caught, even
when you’ve done no wrong, and the constant fight or flight stimulation leaves
victims of abuse in poor physical states. We tend to suffer autoimmune
disorders, constant rigid muscles, depression and mood swings, anxiety,
digestive and heart problems, and a myriad of other stress related issues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There are biological reasons we survivors of childhood abuse
suffer throughout our lives, and it has to do with the development of the
brain, and the chemical reactions that occur when we are under threat. Our
bodies and minds are poised to remove ourselves from the threats, but as
children there is nowhere to go, no safe place to escape, we are trapped, and
the body holds on to that and does not forget. Over and again we experience the
trauma, and over and again it remains trapped in our bodies, and soon we find
that we are constantly in pain. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The legacy of child abuse does not end when we become adults
as our brains have literally been changed by the abuse, re-wired by the abuse,
and in my case, I also have the damage done by many concussions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The changes done by childhood abuse affects
the cells in the anterior cingulate cortex, which plays an important role
in the regulation of emotions and mood. Studies have shown significant changes
in the white matter of the brain, which is made up of myelinated nerve fibers
that, much like the electrical wires in our homes, conducts the brain’s
electrical system. The myelin is the nerve fibers’ protection, and those who
suffered childhood abuse have a stunted myelin system. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Childhood abuse also affects the development of the
amygdala, our system to emotional regulation and to reward and satisfaction, as
well as the hippocampus. The hippocampus helps with memory, cognition, and
learning new things, and studies have shown that in childhood abuse survivors
that part of the brain is shrunken and it has to do with the repeated and
unexpressed fight or flight reaction that bathes the area in cortisol and
retards its growth. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Although the abuse does cause physical changes in the brain,
it is my belief that consciously healing also changes the brain, for the
better. When I was younger, before I knew anything about Complex PTSD, before I
realized that I was raised and abused by a covert narcissist, and when I still
worked diligently to fit in with my family, pretending the abuse never
happened, I was in poor physical and emotional shape. I suffered many physical
ailments, had strange debilitating illnesses that defied diagnosis, and felt
sure that I was crazy. I took handfuls of daily medications, and never found
much improvement for my issues. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Healing doesn’t happen overnight, and it has been at least a
decade of consciously working to be physically healthy, and the changes look
vast from where I sit now, but it was a slow and steady, step by step, process
of cleaning up my diet and lifestyle. Still, though, I felt ‘off’ until I confronted
the abuse and began to acknowledge the damage done and the traumas that I
experienced. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I know that there is hope on the other side of these
realizations, and I know that although the abuse and concussions caused brain
changes and damage, I can heal. When my son experienced brain damage from a
fungal infection in his cranial fluids and central nervous system, I saw the
improvements achieved through simple puzzles and exercises that reopened
neuro-pathways, so I know it’s possible to heal. All it takes is intention,
prayer, and hard work, and consciously moving forward. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We can’t heal what we don’t acknowledge, and acknowledging
the abuse has been one of my more challenging experiences, but I am determined.
Let us not give up hope, and know that there is light at the end of the dark
and scary tunnel. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://www.futurity.org/child-abuse-changes-brain-1554882/">https://www.futurity.org/child-abuse-changes-brain-1554882/</a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://psychcentral.com/blog/liberation/2017/10/long-term-narcissistic-abuse-can-cause-brain-damage#4">https://psychcentral.com/blog/liberation/2017/10/long-term-narcissistic-abuse-can-cause-brain-damage#4</a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
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</xml><![endif]--> <br /></p>The Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31876672.post-71623690348173679682022-03-21T08:04:00.000-05:002022-03-21T08:04:27.031-05:00Healing Loudly From Narcissist Abuse<p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">I never wanted or expected to be a spokesperson for healing
from narcissist abuse, but here I am. I read a statement recently that we
should heal loudly so that others can use our experience for their own healing,
and it’s been stuck in my head and in my heart, that I have some responsibility
to help others heal. It goes counter to my programming and training to speak
out, to really speak out with the truth, and I have to admit it’s an incredibly
hard and frightening thing to do. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">These last six months have been difficult, the realizations
and the full context memories have literally knocked me on my ass a time or
two, and the anxiety has been nothing like I’ve ever experienced – the fear and
trembling of working out my own salvation. I was asked not to write about my
abuse as it may hurt my abuser’s feelings, and for the last six months I’ve
held my tongue, once again isolated, and working against my own best interests.
Working against my own best interests was how I was trained, and the lies and
pretense is the wardrobe I was expected to wear for the rest of my life. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I knew speaking out would cause others to turn their backs
on me because that is simply the way it is when you grow up in narcissist
abuse. Growing up as I did you have this entire world of pretense and lies
thrown over you, and you are expected to uphold those lies to the world, and as
the abuse started so early with me, you carry those lies and pretense just
because that’s simply the way it is. You carry the pretense even when
everything inside is screaming that it’s a lie, you put on a smile and face the
world and pray no one sees the truth. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am done, I can no longer pretend, and the truth is I was
one of the scapegoats in my family. The other scapegoat was my oldest brother,
and when he grew into a man, dangerous and unpredictable in our abuser’s eye,
the role fell onto me, as I was just a kid and a very easy target. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I have avoided looking into the topic of narcissism for
years, both consciously and unconsciously, knowing that once I opened Pandora’s
box there was no returning to the way things were before. And strangely, there
was a bit of a mourning period of letting those old illusions go, realizing
that things were never the way they were presented to the world, and
acknowledging that I was never the person my abuser insisted I was. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There are many kinds of scapegoats in the narcissist
dynamic, and I am beginning to understand that I am the truth teller. The other
types of scapegoats are the rebel, the caretaker, the problem-solver, the
protector, the perfectionist, and sometimes another covert narcissist is born
under the selfish and incredibly damaging abuse. Being a scapegoat is a very
hard and damaging road to follow, and it is the scapegoat who carries the
burden of all the frustrations of the family, and the blame anytime anything
goes wrong. The energy has to go somewhere, and the scapegoat is the receptacle
where all that gets dumped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The dynamic is very clear, written about in books, shown in
movies, and yet I avoided looking into it for years, the fear of facing the
truth almost greater than the pain of being scapegoated my entire life. There
are several types of narcissist, and narcissism is defined as a personality
disorder in which the narcissist is selfish, lacks empathy for others, has a
sense of entitlement, a need for admiration, and an inflated sense of
self-importance. People growing up under that dynamic are very damaged, both
the golden children (the chosen favorites) and the scapegoats are damaged. No
one does well in a narcissist family, except for the narcissist themselves, as
the children have long been divided and conquered, and have learned the hard
way that keeping the narcissist happy is the only way to find what resembles
peace, but that semblance of peace is always short-lived. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Some may ask, why now? Why talk about it now? It’s in the
past, it’s over, why dredge up the old ghosts now? But the truth is it’s not
over until the injured parties say it’s over, and it sure isn’t over for me as
I now have to wade through the years of my life, the traumas I swallowed as
something I deserved, and consciously begin healing my mind and my body. It’ll
be over when I say it’s over, and not a second before. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was asked to hold my words, to not write the truth of my own
life on my own blog, and to keep silent until the narcissist died, and I had
planned to do that, but something broke. Something inside could no longer hold
the pretense, my body was giving out, my body was rebelling against the lies.
It is completely unjust to expect another person to carry lies, and the simple
act of asking me to do so is just another textbook example of being
scapegoated. Once again the comfort and selfishness of the narcissist becomes
more important than my health, my recovery, and my entire existence. Once again
the narcissist’s feelings outweigh everything else, including my own health,
but that is nothing new to me as my medical needs were neglected in childhood
by the narcissist. I’m not going to continue down the path that says I am less
than, my needs less important because others, outside of me, deem it so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The answer is no. I told that person that I would write what
God inspired me to write, but the fear of speaking openly held me back, fear of
retribution, slander, and rejection. God has been pressing on me to heal
loudly, to help others in what I am an expert in, and I will no longer remain
silent to protect the feelings of the person who went out of their way to hurt
me and make me struggle. I will no longer protect the person who deliberately
and with intent made my childhood a living hell, and I will no longer pretend
simply to appease others who are invested in maintaining the lies. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If my words can help one person, then I must put myself out
there, no matter how uncomfortable and afraid that makes me. So for a while
this blog will be dedicated to overcoming and healing from narcissist abuse,
there are more of us out there than I ever imagined. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
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</p><p class="MsoNormal">God is good all the time even when we don’t understand His
mysterious ways. And I fully admit I don’t understand, but I trust God. In the
world of faith we don’t always understand what is good or bad, often what we
perceive as bad turns out to be good, or even great, for us in the long term. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am in the process of learning this lesson again. A couple
weeks ago our very large dog (80+ lbs) hit me from behind, running full speed,
and at my age and size it could have easily killed me, or at least seriously injured
me. Thank God I only suffered a severe ankle sprain, a bit of whiplash, and
bruising. At first I thought it was really bad, but I am finding that it is
good. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I have been asked NOT to write about my childhood
experiences to spare feelings. I have been asked to wait for the death of the
perpetrator before I speak of the abuse and neglect I suffered as a child, and
honestly that had been my plan as well, but sometimes God’s timetable is
different than our own. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I have struggled to learn to maneuver on my first pair of
crutches, battling a nerve damaged and atrophied uninjured foot and leg, I have
been thrown back to a time in childhood where I felt more than helpless,
ignored, and unloved. The truth of that time is ugly, it almost defies belief, and
it is hard to write or even think about, but God has decided it is time for me
to heal the emotional, mental, and physical wound. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I have experienced about every emotion there is in the last
couple weeks as I’ve been stuck on the couch unable to do for myself. Beside
the feelings of helplessness, sadness, and fear, there’s also been abandonment,
rejection, and heartbreak, all the emotions I felt at twelve years old when
medical care was withheld from me for months. I do not understand why an adult
would choose to withhold medical care from a child, or maybe I do, and what I
see is so dark that I cringe even thinking about it. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Looking back on that time through the eyes of an adult, and
a mother, it is worse than I’ve let myself remember, the cruelty and lack of
empathy toward me hurts both my heart and my soul. The short version (because
the full version is still very difficult for me to face) is that I slipped,
barefooted, on the deck, unearthing a very large splinter that essentially shot
into the soft spot under my toes and disappeared inside. At first I don’t think
anyone believed me, even though I was crying, limping, and in awful pain. This
happened in the last days of sixth grade, to my club foot (a birth defect), and
I was made to walk to school anyway, as everyone has had a splinter before and
didn’t act like a whining baby. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Within a week a knot began forming on the bottom of my foot,
between the ball and heel, in the arch, and it was quite painful. I was
limping, and I’m sure complaining, and the knot was obvious, but it was
ignored. Day after day, week after week, the knot grew painfully, and I soon
learned to not talk about it, and not to be showing everyone my “boo boo”. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I understand it scar tissue had begun to encase the 3 inch
splinter to prevent it from moving deeper into my system, and for the entire
summer, from the end of May to the end of August I limped, the knot growing
larger, my foot swelling, and it was ignored. Finally, the week before school
started again I had surgery to remove the splinter, and the huge knot of
infected tissue. The neglected injury was bad, and the surgeon had to scrape
down to the bone to remove the mass, and I was sent home with strict
instructions not to put any weight on my foot, as there was an empty, fleshless,
hole under the stitches that needed time to fill back in. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was decided that instead of crutches I would use an
ancient office chair with small metal wheels to move around over the deep shag
carpet, and as that didn’t work, I ended up hopping or scooting around on my
butt. I have no idea why I wasn’t given a pair of crutches, but I wasn’t, and I
was not to complain. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Given almost no recovery time I started seventh grade in the
three-story building where the stairs were an absolute nightmare. I never
received any physical therapy, and although I had gone to doctors for my birth
defect previous to this, I never went to another “foot doctor” until I was an
adult and could pay for it myself. Before the injury I could balance on either
foot with my opposite leg in the air, afterwards I became the brunt of the
clumsy and klutzy jokes, and I have fallen down more stairs than I care to
remember, as my foot was no longer trustworthy or dependable. Only my big toe
could move freely, and the rest of my toes only moved as a unit, up and down
just a bit, and I lost a lot of mobility in the whole foot. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I have been aware of the physical loss for years, my
inability to balance on that foot and leg, but my right leg, my tree trunk,
took up the slack until a dog, happily running full speed, knocked me ass over
teakettle. I have thought many times over the years that I need to work on the
balance issues and lack of mobility, but never took the time to focus on it.
Now, it seems, God has put me into the position to heal my left foot, and the
accompanying soul wound that comes when a child’s pain, needs, and health are
ignored for months by those who are supposed to love them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At the beginning it’s a miracle I didn’t fall again trying
to use crutches, and keep the weight off my right side, but I am slowly gaining
some balance, and I’m feeling muscles in my left calf, ankle, and foot that I
haven’t felt in decades. As I am beginning to heal the old injury, and the
injury to my heart, mind, and soul, I am grateful that God has given me the
opportunity to address them all. Healing can be messy, acknowledging the buried
emotions from being neglected left me in tears for days, but things are looking
up, thank God, and although I don’t understand his mysterious ways I trust Him
implicitly.</p>
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</xml><![endif]--> <br /></p>The Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31876672.post-24074913185077620042021-09-26T09:29:00.000-05:002021-09-26T09:29:18.000-05:00The Other Ten Commandments<p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">Life is funny, isn’t it? For months now I’ve been praying
for the world, the people in the world, and especially for the children, lost,
abused, broken, and alone. I have asked God to shine the light on the ugliness
so the good people on earth can truly see what hides in the dark crevices that
is so easily overlooked. And as God moves in mysterious ways, he answered my
prayer by saying, “You first”. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am used to God answering my prayers in this manner, all
the way back to the days of my cynical teens and twenties when I knew I had
seen it all, and could no longer be surprised by the darkness or the actions of
people. Even then, God would first show me the things I didn’t want to see, but
needed to understand, and now with my faith stronger, He pulled back the veil
in my own life. Ugly things hide in the dark, secret, destructive, things
happen behind closed doors, and as I’ve prayed for the light to shine, He’d
been giving me hints, but I was blind, or was simply too afraid to look. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My health has not been great this year, and as I try to live
naturally I’ve cut out some things, added others, but that pain in my gut just
wouldn’t go away. I was beginning to think it was the beginning of the end for
me, and after my life it really wasn’t that bad of a thought, we all crave that
sense of home, don’t we? But recently when I decided to cut someone out of my
life, the pain stopped instantly, just stopped. It didn’t ease up and slowly
get better; it just stopped when I told this person not to call me any more. Amazing.
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I had noticed that the pain would ease up on the weekends,
when I was not obligated to talk to this person, but the weekdays I was drained
and in pain, and spending a scary amount of time in the bathroom, and often
rushing to the bathroom the moment the call ended. Day after day I was getting
sicker, and it simply didn’t occur to me that one simple, non-food, change
could improve my health. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There are certain statements I’ve heard describe and define
me since I was a little girl, I heard them so often that they became my own
inner voice. The statements to me were often relayed with violence, with hair
pulling and hits to the head, and after years I no longer fought against the
words or questioned them. My mind just repeated them back to me as fact, constantly,
and most especially when bad things happened, or when I was struggling to
improve any aspect of my life. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The words told me I didn’t deserve a good life, that I was a
terrible person, a person without conscience or soul. An ugly, selfish person,
with no real worth, certainly no moral worth, and completely undeserving of any
goodness in life. I was mean, ugly, awful, and nothing I could do or achieve
could change this person’s words, still being repeated, or their voice inside
my head that echoed their dark image of me. I was a dirty, crazy, whore, and no
decent man would ever want a thing to do with me. I was dumb, slow, fat, ugly,
without compassion or empathy, had no sense of humor, no one liked me, and I
was impossible to love.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And for a very long time I believed those words, I lived
those words. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Despite all the information and all the interactions with
other people that showed me I was none of those things, I still, deep down,
believed. I was told if I did something nice for another, that I had ulterior
motives, and I learned to question my actions and myself at every turn. Why did
I help that old person with their groceries? I’m such an awful person, I must
be trying to get something out of it. Why didn’t I help that old person with
their groceries? I’m such an awful, selfish, person…</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was trapped in a brutal war with myself and with my
thoughts that surely didn’t come from God, but a far darker place where little
girls are abused, shamed, and broken. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve spent a long time being broken; I’ve spent too many
years under the thumb of horrid definitions that were never true. I’ve spent
too many years supporting lies that our family abuse only came from one source.
And lately I’ve spent time pondering exactly what the word honor means. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the Greek language honor means value or worth, in a
literal sense. Honor was a culturally constructed evaluation of a person’s
actions, which determined a person’s worth, as in their price, or value to the
community. In Hebrew the word honor means to give weight to. And in English <strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">the word is defined as honesty</span>, </strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">fairness</span></strong>, or <strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">integrity</span></strong> in one's beliefs and
actions.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I believe that I have met the obligation of that very
important commandment, and I know that God doesn’t want me to hate His creation
– me. I will now be honest, because these lies, secrets, and ugly dark words
have no place in a God focused life. I asked God to shine the light into the
dark places, and as often happens, God has answered my prayers a little bit
differently than how I expected. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I also know that by going against the old, ingrained, rules
and airing the family secrets, a different commandment from a darker place, I
may lose a lot more than an abuser, and ugly words, but I’m going to trust God
on this one. I’m going to trust that God will replace the darkness with light.
I’m going to trust that God didn’t make a mistake with me, and I certainly know
that He has saved this life of mine more times than I can count. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If God sees value in my existence, then my biggest sin has
been in not believing Him. My prayers have changed a bit in recent weeks, and
now I am asking for forgiveness for hating myself (His creation) for so many
years. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There is a different set of commandments in abusive
families, and I’m flipping the table on those evil, destructive, rules, and I
will be turning my back on anyone who tries to enforce those rules on me. Here
are the rules that no longer fit into my life:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">1)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span>Image, and what other people think, is the most important
thing </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">2)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span>Do not air the dirty laundry</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">3)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span>Everything you say and do will be held against you</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">4)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span>Your suffering is meaningless</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">5)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span>You must serve the king or queen</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">6)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span>Hypocrisy and gossip is the family language</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">7)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span>Direct communication is off limits, all information is
disseminated by the king/queen</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">8)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span>It is always someone else’s fault</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">9)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span>You have no right to boundaries, feelings, choice, or
individuality</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">10)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span>Do not think of leaving or you will be dragged through the mud
and slandered</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And I will close with a few bits of wisdom; insults are
still insults even if you laugh when saying them. Gossip and slander are very
destructive sins, even when spoken under the guise of concern. If you didn’t
see it or experience it yourself, you really have no idea what the truth is,
and to speak of and share secondhand and third hand “truths” makes you either
deceived or a liar or both. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Prayers going out to all who grew up like I did, please know
you are not alone, and that there is hope and goodness in the world for
you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
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</xml><![endif]--></p>The Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31876672.post-3071419782430087342021-09-15T10:13:00.004-05:002021-09-15T10:40:08.050-05:00Child abuse, Sobriety, and Triggers<p> <span> </span></p><p><span> </span>In January of 2019 I made the decision to quit drinking, it wasn’t the first time I made that decision, and with the exception of one stressful, temptation-filled, night a few weeks later, I have been sober since then. Sobriety is an interesting place to be after my life, a slice of happiness, calmness, contentment, and innocence that I have never really experienced. </p><p><span> </span>My problem with alcohol didn’t develop until my only child died, and I was severely injured by a surgical mistake a few months later, and while before that I was just a social drinker, after those losses it changed, alcohol because more of a need than a want. Something inside me changed, perhaps chemically, or perhaps emotionally, but for whatever reason, alcohol became my crutch to get through the days. </p><p><span> </span>I didn’t tell anyone that I had quit drinking, I didn’t post a sober day count on the social medias, as I had seen how that works… sometimes announcing your intentions to the world brings all manner of chaos around, like a light turned on the in dark, the moths will come. So I quietly, secretively even, went about getting myself sober. </p><p><span> </span>It was easier this time than the others, it was almost like God reached down personally to take all the longing, pain, and angst away, and I was doing an awful lot of praying. I felt light, clean, inspired, and uplifted, completely foreign to what I referred to as my depressed normal. And thankfully, after a lot of hard work, my life, and lifestyle, is set up to maintain and support a sober, healthy, life. I’m sure my way is not the way for most, but for me living simply, with nature and prayer, has given me a new perspective and a new life. </p><p><span> </span>The thing about being given a new life, though, is that the old one is still there, it still exists whether I am participating or not, people gotta people, after all. </p><p><span> </span>What never really dawned on me was that the alcohol was just another symptom of a deeper issue. They say addiction is a disease, and I do think there are some genetic components to it, but I feel it is mostly just a symptom, one of many used to avoid a deeper pain. </p><p><span> </span>I realize now that I had been full on running since I left home at seventeen, running to avoid feeling some uncomfortable and ugly truths. Running like the devil was on my heels, piling fresh traumas onto the old. There was literally no calm oasis from ages seventeen to thirty-six, no time for my body and mind to relax, but going into a deeper level of thought, running was the only way to escape the deeply ingrained fear, shame, and hatred of myself. The pain all abused kids feel, I imagine.
<span> </span></p><p><span><span> </span></span>When my son, Steven, died, I hit a wall. I couldn’t function, and then the surgery threw me so low there was nothing but the bed, my thoughts, and me, and that was a terrifying place to live. When I recovered physically, Chardonnay and Merlot were my new best friends. I had successfully gotten up on my running feet again without looking down into the deep abyss inside, I had simply shoved some more stuff down in the hole, and took off in a new direction. I am nothing if not resilient. </p><p><span> </span>You can only run so long, though, you can only stay so busy, and I know how to stay busy… Thankfully God has been quite gentle with me this time, no bruises, no concussions, no open wounds, no terrible tragic events, just a strong, loving, man, gardens, flowers, trees, water, and animals. And you know what? I still didn’t look; I buried the abyss under a hundred things to accomplish everyday, and knew I was healing and on the right path, still blind, but not self-injurious besides a few pulled muscles. </p><p><span> </span>I always thought the word “triggered” referred to some entitled kid who became offended by a flag or a sign or a statue, it was never a part of my vocabulary, but then a text came, and I looked at the word triggered in a new way. It’s funny how your body reacts sometimes, long before your mind or emotions catch up, and I suppose that visceral physical reaction has saved my ass more than a few times in my life, but it’s different when there is no real, physical, threat. </p><p><span> </span> I had an anxiety attack, followed by what can only be described as a complex posttraumatic syndrome event. There was nothing to fight, nowhere to run, but my body sure reacted, and I’ve learned that the word triggered is more of a psychological term to describe the reawakening of repressed traumas. Suddenly the rug was pulled out from under me, and I wasn’t just peeking down into the abyss, I was swimming in it. </p><p><span> </span> Repressed memories are not forgotten memories, it’s more like the memories are all there, you just don’t look at them all at the same time, you look at one, occasionally, if you have to, and avoid the others. You compartmentalize them; you divide them into smaller, manageable, pieces, and set them back in the furthest corners, out of sight, out of mind. And once they are placed on the shelves, way in the back room of your mind, you slam the door, lock it, and turn forward while putting on your running shoes. </p><p><span> </span> For the last weeks those memories, all of them, have made themselves known, in what could be described as vibrant flashbacks, or what is definitely known as nightmares. I’ve not been tempted to drink them away, though, which is a real blessing. Suddenly, it seems, God has given me the strength to face them head on, and deal with the issues that have kept me in self-destruct mode for all of my life. </p><p><span> </span>What I am finding is that a lot of the definitions I’ve used to describe myself are not my words, and are not the truth. I feel like I’m unburying the person I was meant to be, and burying the person created through violence, brain injury, dissociation, trauma, and fear. </p><p><span> </span> I also know that the world doesn’t accept personal change well, those flapping butterfly wings disturb the darkness in the universe and in people, and I know by speaking openly I will be inviting chaos, and I pray that I am indeed strong enough, but it is time… It is past time for me to start the healing process. </p><p><span> </span>My life seems to have been divided into sections, eighteen years a child, eighteen years a mother, eighteen years a grieving, suicidal, self-destructive, mess, and I am really beginning to look forward to the next eighteen years. Things are looking up, but first I just need to turn on the lights and trudge through the abyss for awhile. </p><p> </p><p> </p>The Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31876672.post-6007865159350424422021-08-15T08:23:00.002-05:002021-08-15T08:55:40.788-05:00I Do Not Consent<p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">I’ve spent the last fifteen years stepping away from medical
practice, sick, scarred, and in daily, constant and changing, pain, I said
screw it, enough is enough. I was tired of being poked, tested, and drained by
the medical experts, who always had multiple vague answers and lots of pills
and surgery. Medical “care” had left me at death’s door, mildly schizophrenic,
suicidal, fat, weak, dependent, broken, and scared. And it dawned on me when my
doctor wanted to do more, and more frequent, tests on my colon, suspecting (or
perhaps praying for) cancer, that they were going to kill me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It dawned on me in a complete moment of clarity that it was
insane to give any person so much control over my life. It was insane that I
allowed any person who I spent mere minutes a year with to instill such fear
and sickness in me. It was insane that I was listening to people I don’t know,
and I was only getting sicker and weaker, and still going back for more.
Doctors are human beings who spent a lot of time in school, and they are human
beings with the same issues as everyone else. Going to medical school does not
make one a saint or a genius, and it was all ridiculously insane how much
control I had given them over my life and my health. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I spent my years from birth up to age forty-one listening to
doctors, I took the pills they prescribed me, had the surgeries they
recommended, and frankly, always felt poorly. Being born with a birth defect I
encountered surgical intervention at an early age. I spent a lot of time with doctors
over the years, had a lot of surgeries, a couple horrific and debilitating, and
my son developed a neurological disorder at 9 years old that required surgical
intervention many, many, times. So many surgeries, and some in such quick
succession, that I literally lost count. Through the years I have seen the best
of doctors, and the absolute worst. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In our society we tend to idolize our medical providers, and
that comes from a lot of television programming. Exactly how many medical
dramas, soaps, and comedies have there been over the years since everyone put a
flashing box in their homes? And how many were on radio before that? They are
the miracle workers and heroes that we all respect, when they talk, we listen.
And some doctors truly are miracle workers and heroes, but they are few and far
in between, and the system is set up to weed them out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The truth is that pharmaceutical drugs, and medical “care”
are the second and third cause of death in this country, and literally hundreds
of thousands of people die every year due to their direct influence in our lives.
Medicine is a business, a multi-billion dollar business, and buyer beware. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We have been trained, programmed, to believe that doctors
are benevolent. We are trained, programmed, to ignore the giant corporate
machine that doesn’t make money if we are healthy. We are trained, programmed,
to be sick, to ask our doctor before we do anything, to think and worry about
our health continuously. We are trained, programmed, to believe that a stranger
in a white coat knows more about our body than we do, and we allow them to
commit almost any atrocity on our person in the name of good health. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It is my belief that doctors are wonderful in emergency
situations - broken bones, car wrecks, head injuries - yes, you need a doctor,
but in that moment of clarity I decided to remove the middle manager between me
and my health. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It wasn’t easy as I wasn’t starting from a fresh slate, and
I was injured. I could even say I had been brutalized by a surgical mistake for
which no one was liable as I had signed my rights away listening to medical
advice, so I had to figure out my healing and recovery on my own. And it has
been a long, hard, journey to bring myself back to health. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Not only have I gotten the pharmaceuticals out of my life, I
removed fast and processed food, sodas, alcohol, fluoride, MSG, dyes, harsh
cleaning supplies, and toxic soaps, lotions, and cosmetics. I cook from scratch
everyday, and have removed most unhealthy carbohydrates, breads, white potatoes,
chips, cereals, etc. And I started researching things for myself, and
experimenting on myself. As I had been letting the medical establishments
practice on me my entire life, I found I was a much better doctor to me than
they had been. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Stepping away from the scheduled routines of medical poking
and prodding changes your perception of those events. I didn’t realize the
power the medical community held over me until I was so ill by their mistakes
that I couldn’t even get out of bed and go to the bathroom, tubes and bags
carried my waste away, and the only movement I could make without excruciating
pain was turning my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have never
been as weak, sick, and broken as when I put my health into the hands of
another, and I shudder to recall giving my strength and power away. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I learned my lesson, though, and I stay away from medical
“care”, but now I am being told that I have to accept medical practices in my
life, and in my body. I have to take their drugs due to a virus with a 99.5%
recovery rate, I have to take their drugs in my blood despite the fact that I
have had the virus, recovered, and am now more protected than the shot takers. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am being threatened that if I don’t partake of their
medical sorceries (aborted fetal RNA and chimpanzee adenovirus, to list a
couple ingredients) then I may not be able to travel or as some have suggested,
go to the supermarket. I am being told that I am ignorant and dangerous, and
that I do not understand the science of being healthy. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, I do not consent. I’ve worked too hard on my health to
become a guinea pig for Big Pharma. I do not consent to a witch’s brew of dead
babies and monkey shit (*tips hat to an acquaintance) as well as other unknown
agents and chemicals to be injected into my blood. I do not consent because I
have seen first hand the damage the medical mafia can do to the body, and I
keep a delicate balance after the injuries I have overcome. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I do not consent to allow man (and the world) to come
between my spirit, my health, my mind, and me. I do not consent because this
body is mine, and mine alone, and as a survivor of sexual abuse it took me a
long time to reclaim my body, and I won’t now be needle raped by some perceived
authority figure. I do not consent to going backward. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I do not consent because I am made in the image of God, and
I am not going to trust man to begin making alterations to that creation. I do
not consent because we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against
principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this
world, against spiritual wickedness in high <i><span style="font-style: normal;">places</span></i><i>.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I do not consent because in the last fifteen years I have
grown to see the pharmaceutical makers as witches standing around a cauldron,
tossing in the strangest, and most disgusting, ingredients. When I discovered
that the sorcery the Bible warned us to avoid comes from the root word
pharmakeia I was not really surprised. And reading this passage in Revelation
makes a lot more sense to me now than it did in the past: “And the light of a
candle shall shine no more at all in thee; and the voice of the bridegroom and
of the bride shall be heard no more at all in thee: for thy merchants were the
great men of the earth; for by thy sorceries (phamakeia - Strong’s concordance
#G5331) were all nations deceived.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I do not consent because I place my faith in God, not man. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
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</xml><![endif]--></p>The Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31876672.post-405927306367809502020-05-01T08:14:00.002-05:002020-05-01T11:14:26.692-05:00Why I Started Writing Fiction ...<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
More than a decade ago I wrote for an online newspaper.
There was no money involved, but it was the age of exposure, and my various
articles received well over a million views in a short span of time. I enjoyed
doing it because there was a lot of research involved and I wrote about
anything that captured my attention or my imagination. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I would get excited when I saw my articles picked up by
bigger websites and the view count would jump by hundreds in just minutes, and I
would read every email sent my way (it is amazing how many people write to the
authors of articles).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tackled serious
subjects - 9-11, medical care, psychological care, and politics, but I also
covered conspiracies. My article on chemtrails received over 25,000 views in
less than 24 hours and was picked up by Jeff Rense’s website, going on to
receive well over 100,000 views in days. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the same time as I was writing for that now-defunct
“paper”, I was the drummer in a duo with my husband and we traveled the
southeast performing approximately two shows a week. We put out CDs, did You
Tube videos, and competed in a contest on The CBS Early Show for upcoming
musical acts. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All was going along fine until I wrote the article that I
will post below. I don’t even recall the title I released it under, but in my
files it was called simply “missing kids”. I also can’t recall how I stumbled
into the subject or what string I pulled that twisted up in my mind, soul, and
imagination, but life changed after I released the article. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Nietzsche warned of staring into the abyss he knew of
which he spoke and it’s no wonder he died crazy and alone. After the article
was released I had strangers at the door, people on the phone when I tried to
make a call, and a deluge of email. The notes ranged from sad stories of
victims, veiled threats, and odd invitations. I was overwhelmed and terrified.
When conspiracy theorists speak of the rabbit holes, I truly felt as though I
had stumbled into the main thoroughfare. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I figured out is that the abyss isn’t just the things
of man, the abyss is also that supernatural force that we learned about in the
Bible - the literal fight of good and evil. I also learned that once you’ve
opened the door you are forever changed, it is impossible to unsee what has
been seen. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m leaving the article as it was when I originally released
it, and not fixing the dead links. When people ask me what inspired the book
“Kicking the Goat Silly” this will give you a good idea. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do we only see what we want to see?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or do we only see what we are shown?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many admit to knowing there is both good and
evil on this earth, but it appears we feel that evil exists only in individuals
or small pockets of like-minded people. Never can we conceive, it seems, that
evil may be pervasive, systematic and organized.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know, in this day and age, the debate about evil is long - does
it exist? And what constitutes evil versus lifestyle choice? I’ve always
figured in the end it is only my own actions I will have to be responsible for,
so I try not to judge others, but I have to state that I find the ritual
torture, molestation and often, murder of children to rest fully in the realm
of evil.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
According to the reports from the US Department of Justice
797,500 children (18 and younger) were reported missing in a one year period
studied, resulting in an average of 2,185 being reported missing each day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://www.missingkids.com/en_US/documents/Statistics.pdf" target="new">National Center for Missing & Exploited
Children</a> This is an shockingly high number, considering those numbers
only represent the United States and only the children that are reported
missing, not the throwaway kids that exist in every town and city across
America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So where are all these children
going?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It seems in the 1980s we received a few clues from the
mainstream media about what may be happening, but the stories were called
hoaxes and disappeared from view, dismissed and supposedly debunked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where this sordid tale begins and ends is still
a mystery for me, but I will start with the disappearance of Johnny Gosch on
Sept. 5, 1982, one the country’s first milk carton kid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Johnny was a good-looking 12 year-old boy
when he disappeared from his route delivering the Des Moines Register Sunday
paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the time of his disappearance
police did not immediately begin searching for him and waited a 72-hour window
before considering him officially missing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ms. Gosch maintains that Johnny was taken as part of a huge
and well-organized human trafficking ring used for the purpose of satisfying
pedophiles for profit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In recent years
she has received photographs in the mail, made at the time of Johnny’s
disappearance, of he and other boys tied and gagged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She has had contact with Johnny only once since he was kidnapped,
when, as an adult, he turned up on her doorstep late one night and explained
that he was involved in something too deep and dangerous to ever escape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is the author of the book, “Why Johnny
Can’t Come Home”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://www.johnnygosch.com/" target="new">Johnny Gosch
Foundation</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In 1984, a woman accused employees of the McMartin Preschool
of molesting her young son when he came home bleeding from his rectum. A doctor
verified that the child had been sodomized and thus became the longest criminal
trial in American history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The story
made headlines for years, as hundreds of preschool attendees came forward with
stories of satanic ritual sexual abuse, animal mutilations, and tunnels under
the school, which whisked the kids off to unknown locations to participate in
sex with adults.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shock and outrage
swept the country, but the defendants maintained their innocence throughout the
long years of investigation, hearings, and trials.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually, charges against all defendants were dropped, except
for the son of the owner, Ray Buckley, and after two juries deadlocked, he was
released.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We, across America, relaxed knowing that justice was served
and that no satanic, occult or sexual rituals had occurred. Many believed that
the McMartin family deserved an apology, despite the claims of hundreds of
children who had stepped forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
newspapers declared it was a witch-hunt brought on by mass hysteria. Many books
and documentaries were made siding with the McMartin family and headlines like
“Indict the Children, Jail the Parents” appeared across the country, including
The Wall Street Journal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although a
task force was created, little media attention was given to the fact that the
McMartin Preschool was not the only school in the area under
investigation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://www.the7thfire.com/Politics%20and%20History/Pedophocracy/child_sexual_abuse_at_McMartin_pre-school.htm" target="new">7<sup>th</sup> Fire</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During the investigation, 460 children reported being
sexually abused and 80% showed physical symptoms including vaginal and rectal
scarring, anal bleeding, and sexually transmitted chlamydia infections.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The children’s stories were remarkably
similar concerning the nature, location, and perpetrators of the abuse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although the media held our attention, the
public was never informed that teenagers and twenty-year-olds, former students
of McMartin’s Preschool, had also come forward confirming the claims of the
children, but were not allowed to testify due to the statute of
limitations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The judge in the case
ruled that the children (aged 2 to 11) could not testify on closed circuit
television, but had to face the attorneys and face them they did, each child
was grilled by all the defense attorneys, one after another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as the parents of the children next in
line watched, they decided pull their kids from the proceedings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nor was it brought to the public’s attention that a couple
key witnesses died suspicious deaths before they could testify.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Judy Johnson, the first parent to raise
concerns of molestation was declared a paranoid schizophrenic by the media,
although she had no such medical diagnosis and was later found naked and
sprawled out in her kitchen floor, dead of alcohol poisoning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And Paul Bynum, a prosecution witness and
private detective hired by the defense was found dead of a single gunshot wound
the morning he was scheduled to testify.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>His death was ruled a suicide, although friends and family declared it
was not something he would do. <a href="http://educate-yourself.org/tg/mcmartinpreschoolrevisited1996.shtml" target="new">McMartin Preschool Revisited</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Neither side is going to like what I have to
say," Bynum told a reporter before he died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bynum wanted to know how his citation books, the official police
records kept from his time as a detective, had turned up in Ray Buckley’s desk
when he was arrested for molestation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And he could corroborate a key point in the children’s testimonies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The children had stated their attackers killed
turtles and other small animals to scare them into silence and Bynum, while retained
by the defense, found numerous turtle shells and other small animal bones
buried in the yard of the preschool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
According to the editor of the Los Angeles Times, Noel
Greenwood, the widespread media coverage was “a mean-spirited campaign” organized
to discredit the kids and their therapists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Besides the ridicule the media heaped on Judy Johnson before her death,
they also belittled the children’s claims, deeming the idea of a tunnel under
the preschool impossible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But when the
parents hired an independent excavation team and that team found the
back-filled tunnel system, the media issued one short paragraph mentioning
“evidence” of a tunnel and promptly quit covering the story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The discovery of the often-ridiculed tunnel
was also not admitted into evidence at trial due to a myriad of reasons.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Due to the fact that the preschool had recently changed
hands and was set for demolition, the excavation team was given little time to
complete the dig, but discovered that tunnels ran under several of the classrooms
and uncovered the larger “secret room” that the children had described.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An additional tunnel was also discovered
leading out from under the preschool, to the triplex apartment next door and
coming up into a bathroom under a moveable tub.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://www.whale.to/b/stickel.html" target="new">Archaeological Investigations of the McMartin
Preschool</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a interview on L.A.’s Pacifica Radio, Jackie MacGauley,
mother of a McMartin student, said, “It was interesting because a lot of the
child development specialists, psychiatrists, and therapists across the country
thought that it was some psychological phenomenon that the kids would talk
about tunnels. Somehow that idea got 'planted,' and they had all these theories
as to why all the kids would talk about something like this. It obviously
couldn't be true. And the district attorney at the time just flatly did not
believe it, and really didn't want to look.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>History now states that the McMartin Preschool ritual abuse case was
nothing more than a hoax perpetrated by deceitful therapists, lying children,
and mass hysteria.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And interestingly
enough, of the hundreds of children who came forward and were interviewed, only
one has recanted his story.</div>
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In 1988, Franklin Credit Union in Omaha, Nebraska was raided
and upon examining the books it was found that close to 40 million dollars was
missing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The credit union was run by
Larry King (not the talk show host), who at the time was a fast moving
Republican star and sang at the Republican conventions in 1984 and 1988.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not only did investigators discover
falsified books, they also found a large cache of child pornography.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Due to newsprint publicity (television news
didn’t touch this event), eighty children came forward with stories of ritual
sexual abuse by high-powered community and political leaders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Boys Town School featured prominently in
the claims and was said to be a hunting ground for rich and powerful
pedophiles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the strands of this
scandal reached all the way to Washington DC, John DeCamp, former state
Republican senator, was sent to disprove the case, the results of his
investigation, and an attempt to save his life after many threats is the book,
“The Franklin Cover-Up: Child Abuse, Satanism and Murder in Nebraska”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://www.prisonplanet.com/articles/july2004/210704johndecamp.htm" target="new">Alex Jones interview with John DeCamp</a></div>
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As the witnesses came forward stories of children being
transported across the country to exclusive parties where they were molested,
auctioned off, and even murdered came to light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At these events where orgies, satanic rituals, and endless drugs
were available many photographs and videos were made, later to be used for
blackmail, to ensure silence or for profit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>John DeCamp had his doubts when he began investigating the allegations,
the claims seemed too wild to be true, but then he met one of the victims, Paul
Bonacci, who had kept a very detailed journal from the time he was 12-years
old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Bonacci’s diary contained information about locations,
events, and named high powered leaders, not just politicians, but heads of
banking, publishing, and from the entertainment field.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As Bonacci described a particular Washington
party, DeCamp was amazed; he had attended the same party as a senator and remembered
that children had been present at the event.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Of course, DeCamp didn’t witness any of the ritual abuses described,
because those, Bonacci explained, happened after the party, when the crowd had
slimmed down considerably.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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In 1989, the front page of The Washington Times screamed a
shocking headline, “Homosexual Prostitution Inquiry Ensnares VIPs with Reagan,
Bush” the subtitle states, “ ‘Call boys’ took midnight tour of the White
House”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Times confirmed that
Washington lobbyist Craig J. Spence had arranged for four midnight tours of the
White House for young boys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://www.thelawparty.com/FranklinCoverup/franklin.htm" target="new">The Law Party</a> Paul Bonacci stated he had been on
two of those tours and was able to describe rooms in the White House that are
not typically seen by the public.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Bonacci clarified that he did not have sex in the White House, but
afterwards he was taken to party and forced to have sex with adults.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Craig J. Spence was later found dead, the
death was ruled a suicide.</div>
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Gary Caradori, an investigator for the Nebraska State
legislature, met with Russell Nelson, a former photographer for Larry King, in
Chicago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nelson handed over video and
photographic evidence to support the claims of ritual abuse, but on the return
trip home Caradori’s plane disintegrated in air killing both he and his 8
year-old son.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A local deputy, the first
on the scene, claimed that the crash site was littered with photos of child
pornography, but soon federal agents appeared and retrieved all the evidence,
warning the deputy to keep his mouth shut.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The deputy had trouble keeping quiet about the strange events until he
had a head on collision several months later, he survived, although severely
injured, his wife did not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://www.tedgunderson.com/Investigations/Russell%20Nelson.htm" target="new">The Gunderson Report</a></div>
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Four victims eventually agreed to testify, Paul Bonacci,
Alisha Owens, Troy Boner and Danny King.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Danny King, often described as “pathetic” he was so broken by the abuse,
recanted his story and Troy Boner also recanted after his brother was found
dead, it was ruled suicide after it was decided the boy had lost a game of
Russian roulette.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boner insisted his
brother was afraid of guns and never would have touched one, he also confided
to friends that he had to “lie or die”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After recanting before the grand jury he disappeared, it is rumored that
he later turned up in a mental institution in 2003, was sedated and found dead
the next morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Alisha Owens did not recant, despite the fact that her
brother was also found dead by yet another suicide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Due to Owens testimony that she had sex with the chief of police
at 14-years old, as well as other allegations, she was convicted of perjury and
sentenced to 9-27 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The grand jury
threw out all allegations of child abuse and declared the charges “a <span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">carefully crafted hoax...scripted by a
person or persons with considerable knowledge of the people and institutions of
Omaha”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No conspirator was ever named
and no further investigations were undertaken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Franklin_Coverup_Scandal" target="new">Wikipedia</a></div>
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During Owens’ imprisonment, which began in 1991, she was
kept in solitary confinement longer that any other woman in the history of the
State of Nebraska.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Owens was released
on parole in 1997, but then the show “Inside Edition” aired an episode
discussing the idea that Johnny Gosch may still be alive and she was picked up
a week later, she was informed she had to complete her sentence in jail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During pre-trial interviews, Owens stated
that she had seen Gosch, as well as several boys from Boys Town, at the
exclusive parties where she and others had been abused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Owens was released in 2000 and said she only
wants to lead a “normal” life.</div>
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Larry King was convicted of embezzlement and sentenced to a
15-year prison sentence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 1999,
Bonacci sued King in civil suit in which he alleged child abuse, mind control,
satanic ritual abuse, and sexual abuse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Bonacci was awarded a $1 million dollar default judgment because King
did not appear to defend the allegations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All told, 14 people connected with the Franklin cover up have died,
including DeCamp’s friend and mentor, William Colby, former CIA director, who
was discovered floating in a pond in 1996.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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In 1993 the Discovery Channel contracted a British
documentary team to investigate the story, Yorkshire Television spent 10 months
in Nebraska interviewing witnesses and reviewing taped testimonies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The documentary, Conspiracy of Silence, was
slated for air in 1994 and was listed in the TV Guide, but it was never
shown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is said that influential and
connected people put pressure on the cable industry, fully reimbursing the
production company and the Discovery Channel and that all copies were
destroyed. Luckily, an unfinished version later turned up on John DeCamp’s
doorstep. <a href="http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=866739408240639313&q=conspiracy+of+silence&total=354&start=0&num=10&so=0&type=search&plindex=0" target="new">Conspiracy of Silence</a></div>
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And in a stranger twist of an already strange story, a young
reporter appeared in White House briefings in 2003 going by the name Jeff
Gannon, he caught the attention of the other reporters for the “soft” questions
he asked the president or his press secretary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Controversy was stirred when it was discovered that the name Jeff Gannon
was a secret service approved alias for James Guckert, who had been granted
remarkable access to the White House.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Gannon/Guckert claimed to be a reporter for Talon News, but at the time
he made his first appearance in the briefings, he had never published a single
article. <a href="http://rawstory.com/exclusives/byrne/secret_service_gannon_424.htm" target="new">The Raw Story</a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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It quickly came to light that Gannon/Guckert advertised
himself on pornographic gay websites as an escort charging $200 an hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A36733-2005Feb18.html" target="new">Washington Post</a> And then rumor and speculations
began flying on the Internet that Gannon/Guckert was really kidnap victim
Johnny Gosch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whether or not Gannon is
actually Gosch, no one seems to know, but I understand that Gannon has refused
DNA testing.</div>
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Both Gannon and his business partner, Bobby Eberle, owned the
now defunct and admittedly partisan Talon News.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in another coincidence, a couple named Eberle were some of
the most outspoken defenders of the McMartin family during the preschool
scandal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have published two books,
“The Politics of Child Abuse”, about false allegations of child abuse in day
care facilities, in 1986 and “The Abuse of Innocence”, supporting the McMartin
family, in 1996.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since the publication
of the books the Eberles are considered experts in the field of childhood
sexual abuse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Interestingly enough, the
Eberles have also published many hard and soft-core pornographic magazines.
<a href="http://www.nostatusquo.com/ACLU/NudistHallofShame/Eberle.html" target="new">Excerpt from 1988 Ms. Magazine</a> In a book review
of “The Abuse of Innocence”, a writer for the Tampa Tribune stated, <span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“For a period of time during the 70s, Paul
and Shirley Eberle were the most prolific publishers of child pornography in
the United States.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_and_Shirley_Eberle" target="new">Wikipedia</a> Whether or not these Eberles are
related, I have no idea, but if not, it sure is a curious coincidence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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There you have it, the tip of a very complex and dangerous
mystery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So do we choose not to see
evil in our society or does the media simply do a fine job in hiding the
ugliness from us?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dozens of some of the
most powerful people in America were accused and identified in these cases and
never charged with a single crime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hundreds of children told the same or very similar stories, displayed
physical and emotional symptoms, and evidence was presented confirming their
claims, yet somehow, the courts and the public decided they were all
lying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We want to believe that the
pedophile is the lone stranger that we can warn our children about, we want to
believe the abductions and molestations of our youth are just disturbing,
isolated events, but the truth is, it is a huge and lucrative business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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If we choose to believe what is written in this article and
within the many links provided, many will assume that the scandals from
Nebraska and California could never happen in their town, in their neighborhood
or with their children, but how do we really know?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pedophile, child pornography, and human trafficking networks
are organized by well connected people, working in unison with other seemingly
upstanding community leaders and backed by more money and resources than most
of us, struggling to pay our bills month to month, can imagine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Are we forgetting that just recently Mark Foley, who was
once considered a crusader for abused and exploited kids, was caught
propositioning and writing sexually tinged emails to teenage pages?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are we forgetting the Catholic Church
scandals?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The truth that no one wants
to accept and the media makes easy to ignore, is that this is happening all
across our country, remember those 2,185 children that disappear everyday?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in the McMartin and Franklin cases, the
children were mostly just used, threatened, fondled, raped, filmed, brain
washed, and returned to their homes and most parents had no clue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think it is time we begin looking at the
real evils in this world and learn to recognize it for what is it, because if
we cannot or refuse to see evil, then how can we protect our children and
ourselves?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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</xml><![endif]-->The Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31876672.post-45091071031466900432019-01-22T15:53:00.001-05:002019-01-22T16:19:48.098-05:00Social Media Over 50 Part IV <div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Social Media Over 50 Part IV </b></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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I did not expect to have to write a part four of my social
media rant, but the events over the weekend have left me knowing there is more
to say. Honestly, since Sunday morning I have been aghast and dismayed at the
happenings in the mainstream media and social media. I have watched in horror
as the world turned against a teenage boy because of a facial expression in an
edited clip with no context. </div>
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I have read the words of acquaintances expressing that the
context of the supposed racial attack (a facial expression in a short clip)
does not matter. The boy is guilty enough of being a racist that he should be
expelled, his parents should be fired from their jobs, and threats of death and
violence are completely justified and even encouraged. </div>
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The students and parents are having their personal
information shared across the Internet, and the school is closed for an
undetermined amount of time due to security concerns, threats, and protests
from groups like Antifa…. because of a facial expression.</div>
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The young man wearing his MAGA hat and waiting for a bus did
not say mean words to the elderly man with the drum, and he did not hit or
punch the older man. In the full videos, the context is clear. The two hours of
video - the before, during, and after - make the situation perfectly clear, and
yet the world has lost its mind over seconds of a facial expression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The videos make it clear that the high
school boys were not aggressors, were not chanting “Build the Wall”, and were not
harassing the Native American man. The videos show the situation clearly and in
context, but so many have already judged the boy to be a racist and condemned
him. </div>
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I am not sure if this is willful ignorance, or just plain
stubbornness to cling to first impressions and close the mind to the whole
picture, but this clarifies the power of social media and it is terrifying. It
is mob mentality. What I am seeing is that these young men are having their
lives ruined by a facial expression - for a facial expression that was deemed
so offensive it required life-altering consequences as punishment. Hundreds of
thousands of people turned their hate toward a group of teenage boys due to a
facial expression taken out of context.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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On social media, we can all be judge and jury. On social
media, we can be vigilantes. On social media, we can right the wrongs we
perceive in society through threats, violence, and hate. On social media,
context and the truth are not important, only our self-righteous rage matters.<br />
<br />
I think we’ve reached a new level of insanity. Are we truly
to a point where a facial expression is enough to unhinge our society? If so,
those with <i>resting bitch face</i> better watch out, you may find yourself on
the wrong side of the social media mobs. </div>
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</xml><![endif]-->The Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31876672.post-8599010969861905702019-01-11T14:07:00.000-05:002019-01-23T13:48:47.360-05:00Social Media Over 50 Part III <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Social Media Over 50 Part III </span></div>
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I suppose I am cynical. I laugh at that thought because I
knew in my 20s, as a single mother, I would never be surprised again, and that I
was cynical. My cynicism has reached a new level in the last ten years on
social media. </div>
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I am grateful social media didn’t exist when I was a child,
working through the trials and heartaches and awkwardness of adolescence. When
I was a kid, I lost a friend each year of high school; one in a hunting
accident, another by playing with baseball bats on mailboxes on a rural road,
and the third from an undiagnosed heart issue. These days kids lose their
friends from suicides, or being abducted or lured away by pedophiles met on the
interwebs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Studies have shown over again that social media leads to
depression, and my own experience shows me this as well. Typically, I would get
my coffee in the morning, look over the media, and even if I woke feeling
great, I would soon descend into a lesser state. I do wonder if the same thing
happened as we had our coffee and perused the morning paper, perhaps it did,
but the paper was actually a paper, easily thrown away, burned or recycled. The
paper did not have a pulsing blue light behind it with an instant response to
your opinion.</div>
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When I was in my 20s and 30s, there was no such thing as
revenge porn, where a lover could record you and send it out to twenty thousand
people, who copied and reposted and sent it to another twenty thousand. When I
was in my younger years no one sent me dick pictures because they would have to
take the film to be developed – I laughed at the thought of the person handing
the pictures over the counter. When I was younger I had a couple friends who
I’d talk to on the phone, old landlines, now I have over 300 friends and I’m
not sure if I’ve had a real conversation with 90% of them, or if I would even
know them if I met them in the grocery. </div>
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An interesting thing about social media is that we get our
news in memes, some funny, some truth, some lies, but after seeing so many
posts it becomes hard to discern the truth. And on social media the
need/wanting to be accepted by your peers is even stronger than it was when we
were young. On social media we post our selfies - look how great I look, look
how happy I am, look at all my friends. </div>
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I do recognize that I am odd. I’ve never been one for “girls
nights” or lunches, I have never been popular, I’ve never been a bridesmaid,
and I don’t have a “tribe”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am one of
those folks who like to read books, write them sometimes, and think about the
“what if” things. </div>
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Before you call me a hypocrite because I’m still on social
media, I will say that I have met some nice folks on the board that I would not
have met without it. Some of those folks are close to my heart, and we have had
real conversations, and sometimes phone calls. Also, I will say reconnecting
with old best friends from elementary school and seeing what they did with
their lives, and how they followed their passions have been inspiring – one
name stands out, and what she’s done with her life and passion almost makes
social media worth it. She and I lost touch after high school, but she is
living the dream she always wanted. </div>
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On social media I am inundated by memes about love, light,
and acceptance of every-damned-thing. But the love is marred, the light is
muddy, and the acceptance is mostly not acceptable. On social media, I think
too many times that someone is protesting too much - and after the tenth post
how they love their new “hook-up”, and then they are broken up and hate each
other three months later …<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>yes, I am
cynical. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Social media is mentioned in a third of all divorces these
days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I have grown cynical after ten years on social media,
and I’d wager that most of us have, although we probably don’t talk about it as
we post another picture. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know that I miss the times before when we lived our lives,
however grand or normal they were, and didn’t require the attention and
opinions of 300 or 1000 strangers to comment upon them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On social media, we are all stars. On social media, we are
all important. On social media, our lives are fabulous.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I guess, in hindsight, I miss when we knew that fact on our
own and didn’t need likes to prove it to us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Social Media Over 50 Part II </b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I cut my Internet teeth on forums, before social media was
popular among the middle aged. On the forums - I was always drawn to conspiracy
or alternative ideas - the people weren’t nice, but the ideas were explored. On
the forums, it was no big deal to be called an asshat, a moron, or an idiot,
and people took it in stride. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I also had a freelance position at a now defunct Internet
newspaper. I wrote under my own name and scoured the back pages of Google to
give enough information to help the reader consider a different view than the
one on the mainstream media. Something changed though, a change of
administrations, and suddenly those back pages began disappearing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sites that I used to rely on to give and share the local
news from their hometowns began being censored. I suppose the new word is
shadow banned, but in reality their sites were just shut down due to a myriad
of reasons, and then even on the back pages of searches you’d still find the
same approved articles that were on the front page. It began to be harder and
harder to do my little, unpaid, freelance job. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the forums, and lots of sites I used to visit you could
be anonymous, which I found led to greater truth. You could speak your
experience, without fear of censor, and pick out a cute picture (or a
terrifying one), and give yourself a name, but then the media began pushing the
bullying aspect, and the anonymous thing began to disappear. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even though I had read the books about fascist societies, I
was shocked to see it happening in real life, in my lifetime. Suddenly you had
to register on a site, and use your real name, give your phone number, and the
real time information flow began to slow down. I remember watching videos of
happenings in this place or the other and the video would disappear, cut from
the flow in real time – censored.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Suddenly, people could proclaim that an idea, thought, or fact was
offensive and it was gone in minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I quit writing for that international paper shortly after a
change of administrations. In one I could tell the truth as I saw and
researched it, but in the other I understood I could no longer do that, it
simply wasn’t worth the risk. Around that time social media became the big
thing among us old folks. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And with social media, we began self-censoring. No longer
can you call someone an asshat, and challenge his or her thoughts. On social
media, everyone is kind, and those who are not must be mentally ill. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On social media, everyone has a good day. On social media,
everyone is beautiful. On social media, we seek validation from our
“peers”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On social media, we lose part
of ourselves trying to please and impress our “friends”. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before you call me an asshat, moron, or idiot, which I
undoubtedly am, let me state that I am just as guilty as anyone else and that
is exactly why I’m writing this blog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Social Media Over 50 </b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was late to the Internet. Dabbled with it in the late 90s
at home, and learned systems as work dictated though the 2000s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a drummer in a band I worked on MySpace a
bit to get followers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In 2005, we killed cable in the house (mostly due to the
coverage of Hurricane Katrina), and then, seeking information, I found some
sites I still consider home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In 2009, I was introduced to social media…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At first I was confused why the people who bullied and
threatened me in high school were sending me “friend” requests, and I cried,
reliving the memories of how hard school was for me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I started getting messages asking if my husband and I
were swingers, they’d seen us somewhere playing together as a band, and were
just asking if they could have sex with us. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My Internet experience at this point was on conspiracy sites
where you were challenged, and insults were steady, but ideas were hashed out. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I started writing, and sometimes I cried when an
article would receive 20,000 views in a day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps I am odd, but it scared me - so many people seeing
me, and my thoughts, but not really knowing me. I felt like a target. I was not
a trained journalist, but I could disseminate many articles on a subject down
to the pebbles of truth. And I was threatened, not just with lawsuits, but
other things …</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then social media happened. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At that point I had figured out that writing non-fiction was
very dangerous for my health, and began writing fiction. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Social media … </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, I hesitate to post or write the truth as I know and
have researched. I think twice before stating an opinion. As hard as it was
getting 20,000 views in a day, and responding to a hundred emails, these days
on social media I’m worn out by six or twelve responses.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Social media is a new concept in a relatively old world. It
used to be the newspapers worked out the editorials, but now every reply is
instant and in your house. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On social media I have been more attacked than when I was
just writing a blog; on social media I’ve been hit on more than when I was
young, cute, and hot in the bars; on social media I am even more afraid of
opinions than when I was in high school. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On social media my husband received several private messages to
calm his wife down from a (former) mutual friend because I challenged his
“facts”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On social media another friend, a married friend, suggested we should be friends with benefits with no strings.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The thing about “social” media is that I never would’ve
spoken to these folks again after high school, or after a single meeting. I would not have sought out
anyone from the past unless I was still talking to them on a regular basis, and I wouldn't be in touch after an art show.
Some could say I am anti-social, but I’m not, I’m just confused.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m confused why suddenly I have friend requests from people
who were not actually friends wanting to see my life. I am confused why I
accept their requests. Do I want to see their lives?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And honestly, at over half-a-century, does it even matter
anymore? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m confused why I barely know my family’s phone numbers but
can reach them on social media. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am 53, and I remember when we used to know our friends
phone numbers, and we knew who our friends were, but now we have all these
“friends”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do we have any real friends anymore? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As usual, keep seeking, and for the love that all is good, keep asking questions. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="197" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/1f_qfgKaGgg" width="320"></iframe>
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</xml><![endif]-->The Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31876672.post-90533734454618575902018-11-11T18:36:00.000-05:002018-11-14T13:34:20.377-05:00Kari's New Job<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b> Kari's New Job </b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kari opened her laptop, booting it up, and grimaced as she
saw her own reflection on the screen. She noticed that the piece of tape that
usually covered her webcam was gone, and she studied her pale and blemished
countenance on the screen. “I look like shit,” she muttered, grateful that she
was mostly alone in the coffee shop. She pushed her unwashed hair away from her
face, taking in the contours, and wondering if her jaw line was beginning to
sag. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ugh,” she said, moving closer to the built in camera to
look at her eyebrows, and trying to remember the last time she plucked them. “I
look like a sasquatch, an unwashed, smelly bigfoot.” She lifted the neck of her
sweater, and sticking her nose into the opening she took a deep breath. “Damn,”
she sighed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She tried to stop the camera using the little icon on the
screen, but it wouldn’t close, and finally minimizing it, she went back on her
job search. She scrolled through the options, sending her resume when she
thought she had half the experience and could fake the rest. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two months without a job had busted not just her bank
account, but also her self-worth. She sent another resume, and sipping her cup
of cheap black coffee, she couldn’t remember the last time she showered. She
had enough money for rent for one more month; she’d already cut the cable, the
internet, the gym, and the only expense she afforded right now was sitting in
the coffee shop, with the free Wi-Fi, and drinking cheap bitter brews as she
searched for a new job. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She still didn’t understand why she was fired. She’d worked
at a publishing house, and her job had been to read new incoming manuscripts
and pass them on to the higher ups in the company. There were rules, of course,
most of them stated and clear. Things about misogyny, racism, misspelled words
and grammar issues, the owners of the house knew that they would have to deal
with the writer, so they had set simple rules into place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Looking back, as she sent a new resume and waited for it to
upload, she realized the manuscript <i>Time To Get Out Of Dodge</i> had been
her undoing. It was beautifully written, lyrical, and there was no misogyny or
racism despite the fact that it was placed in a Southern town in the 1880s. It
was a beautiful story, the characters rich, and reminded her of a blend of
Steinbeck, Harper Lee, and Hemingway. It was a story about a civil war vet
finding an orphan, and the life they attempted to live in the city as father
and daughter. The ending, though, was what made it so amazing as they realized
that they could never be free of social constraints living in a big city. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kari stood up after the resume had been uploaded, and
carried her cup back to the counter, ordering another black coffee, pulling out
her wallet and counting her few dollars, she grudgingly handed them over.
Waiting for the coffee, she thought about her meeting with her boss the morning
she was fired. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They don’t have sex?” she asked, throwing down the
manuscript. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kari shook her head. “Of course not, she’s eight, and he’s
in his fifties. Why would they have sex? He’s trying to do the right thing
after the war, that’s what the whole book is about.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Kari, I thought we’d talked about this. Books these days
have to have at least one sex scene, did you see the sales on the 50 shades of
whatever? You keep sending me things that won’t sell. We can promote this
forever, but no one wants to read a boring story about an old man saving an
orphan. That not what publishing is about anymore.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The older woman tapped her polished nails on the desk. “I hate to
say this, but we can’t keep you on. You’re wasting time and money with the
novels you send up. You’re fired, clear out your desk.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kari accepted her coffee, and even threw a couple quarters
into the tip jar before returning to her table and laptop. The camera was on
again as she sat down, and she saw the little blond hairs on her chin. “Crap,”
she muttered, holding her chin to the camera, and looking at the screen. “Am I
growing a beard?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Between my eyebrows
and chin I could be the hairy lady in freak shows, she thought, and then
remembered the circuses and fairs no long had freak shows. “Well, damn.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She looked at herself in the screen again, her face bare of
makeup, her hair tangled, and wearing an ancient wool sweater she’d bought for
three bucks at a thrift store. She gazed a few minutes more, missing her
stylist, when she noticed that the background of the video stream was green and
looked like woods. She felt a small breeze and saw the leaves on the screen
tremble. She turned to look behind her, and saw paintings on a burnt orange
wall. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The hell,” she muttered, looking back at the screen. She
was still there, looking as awful as she felt, but the background was woods, a
wooded place, and the leaves lifted, twisting, and slapped together in the breeze.
She glanced over her shoulder again to see the orange wall, and turned back to
the computer to see herself in the woods, the wind increasing, and her hair now
blowing in her face. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She looked up at the vents in the ceiling where little
tassels hung to see if the heat or air conditioning had come on, and then to
the door to see if anyone had stepped inside. She pushed her hair behind her
ears, glancing back at the computer. It was her again, now her tangled hair
behind her ears, while behind her in the scene the wind calmed, and she could
hear birds in the trees. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She closed the laptop, and the bird song ended. She glanced
back up at the vents, the little, stringed tassels still, and shook her head.
“What in the hell?” she muttered, unplugging the computer and sliding it back
into the case. She slung the bag over her shoulder, picked up her drink, and
left the coffee shop. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She walked toward home, taking the long route through the
city park, and avoiding the little apartment she once thought was affordable,
but no longer did, and stopped at a bench.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She sat down, setting the cup beside her, and pulled out the laptop,
opening it again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There she was on the screen, but the scene behind her was
not a brick wall, but a creek. She turned, making sure there was a brick wall
behind the bench, and turned back to the screen. “Wait a minute,” she said,
holding both sides of her head with her palms, “I recognize this.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She stood, placing the laptop on the bench, and stepping out
into the path. On the screen she grew smaller, the creek grew louder as it
rushed over old rocks, and she waved her arms to make sure it wasn’t a trick,
some weird app that had appeared on her laptop camera. She looked behind her
again, and just saw the city park, but looking back at the screen she saw
herself standing beside a creek, and she could smell the minerals. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She looked up and around, she knew there was a creek in the
park, but it was a couple blocks away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She looked back at the laptop, and there she was standing in wet sand.
She glanced down at the concrete path. Back on the screen she was under red
leaves that bespoke of fall, she glanced up to see the trees above had already
donated their leaves for the season. She tried to remember the date. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An old man sat on the bench beside the laptop. “Is this
yours?” he asked, pulling out some nuts from his pockets to feed the pigeons. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, sir,” she said, looking back at the screen to see a
shadow behind her. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He’s calling, you know?” the old man said, scattering
peanuts on the ground. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Who?” Kari asked, looking from the screen to her
surroundings. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The man in there.” He nodded his head toward the computer,
as the pigeons began flying down. “You recognize that place, don’t you?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, it was my grandparents place, but it was sold long
ago.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Maybe you should go visit it, don’t have much else going
on, do you?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He reached into another
pocket, scattering birdseed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She laughed, and it almost sounded hysterical. “Someone put
some weird app on my camera, this isn’t real.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How many people have you seen since you lost your job?” the
old man asked as a few pigeons landed on his legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kari thought back, stepping slowly through the birds so not
to hurt them. After she lost her job, no one called, she’d not been invited to
any parties, and her laptop rarely left the bag unless she was trying to find
work. “None,” she finally answered, reaching the bench.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She glanced over at the old man who now had
pigeons on his arms, lap, and head as he fed them seed by hand. She smiled. “They
really like you.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He smiled, showing crooked, tobacco stained, teeth. “It’s
not me they like, they like the food. That man, in the screen, though, likes
you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kari glanced back at the laptop, and caught her breath. On
the screen was still the same scene of the creek behind her grandparents’
house, but a man stood, centered, on wet sand. He looked familiar, but she
couldn’t place him. He certainly wasn’t anyone she’d met in the city attending
cocktail parties. He wasn’t anyone she’d ever met at book signings, or on the
dating site she tried. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She leaned closer to the screen, looking at him. He’s nice
looking, she determined, very handsome. She turned away from the screen to tell
the old man, but he was gone, in his his place were a dozen pigeons pecking at
the bare wood of the bench. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kari caught her breath, and recognized the black dots
dancing in her eyes. She closed the laptop, and shoved it down in the bag. She
walked home slowly, still trying to remember the last time she showered, and
what the hell was going on with her eyebrows. She stepped into the quiet
apartment, turned on the music, and took a long shower, trying to figure what
had happened in her day out. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She plucked her eyebrows, tending to stray hairs, and
applied make-up for the first time in two months. She checked her bank
accounts, and threw some into checking. She packed a small bag, and stepping
down into the parking garage she was happy her car cranked on the first turn.
It took her an hour to get out of the city, and she had to stop again to fill
up, and buy some more crappy coffee. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As she hit the two lane roads leading her to her
grandparents place, she rolled down the windows, turning up the music. She
didn’t know what she was doing, it had been an odd day, and if she had had some
episode, her mind encouraging her to do something crazy, at least she knew she
had enough money for a motel room before heading back to her apartment in the
city. “At least it’s a night off,” she muttered. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She slowed in the old town, seeing the disrepair, and
remembering walking with her grandparents on the wooden sidewalks to do
Saturday morning shopping. She stopped at the sign, exhaling long pent up
worries. “Whatever,” she said, remembering the pigeon man who disappeared in a
blink, leaving his pigeons behind. “I’ll take a chance,” she exhaled again,
remembering the computer screen showing the woods she’d grown up in, and the
creek. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She pulled on the dirt drive, seeing lights in the house.
She hit the brake. Her parents said the house had been knocked down after it
had been sold. She lifted her foot, the car moving forward, and she almost
wondered if her grandparents would meet her on the porch as they used to every
visit. She parked, and pulled her coat out of the backseat, wondering what she was
doing, and what she would say when the new owners stepped out after she
knocked. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Throwing caution to the wind, she stepped out into the cool
wind, looking at the colors in the trees as the sun began setting. She slid her
arms in her coat, zipping it against the wind, and looked at the porch, and the
lights in the windows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What the hell?”
she said, walking up the stairs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As she stepped on the porch the door opened, and the man
smiled. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wait a minute,” she said, “I do know you. You wrote that
manuscript that I loved, but got me fired.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He smiled. “Adam Moore, at your service.” He was dressed in
jeans, and a high collared white shirt covered with a brown leather vest. He
bowed at the waist. “Ready to get out of Dodge?” he asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She nodded, shivering against the cold. He was more handsome
that his black and white picture on the manuscript, and even more attractive
than he looked in the small screen of her laptop. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, come in, and warm up.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She stepped inside the old familiar house, looking around at
old artifacts. “I figured I was crazy coming back to my grandparents house. You
own it now?” she accepted a mug of coffee with cream and sugar, and a mug she
made when she was eight-years-old at camp.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, ma’am. I do.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This is crazy,” she said, moving closer to the fire and
shivering. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, ma’am. It is.” He settled on the couch watching her
beside the fire. “I appreciate you sending my book up the chain, sorry you lost
your job for doing it.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pulling herself back, and turning from the flames, she said,
“It was the best novel I’ve ever read, and I read a lot.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I know,” he said simply, lifting a cup to his mouth and
looking into the fireplace. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She didn’t know what to say, so she turned back to the fire,
sipping good and sweet coffee. “I tried,” she finally admitted. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He sat up, setting his empty mug on the coffee table. “How
many books have you sent up? How many books that were pushed down, and thrown
in the trash?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The rules have changed,” she began, and sighed. “In the
beginning it was grammatical mistakes, and then it was misogyny … your book had
none of the things, but got me fired.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He nodded. “Do you need a new job, Kari?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I do, and how did you buy my grandparents house?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Can you read the new manuscripts, and send them up,
disposing of the trash, and giving us the best ones?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kari turned back from the fire to face him. “I can do that.”
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are you ready to get out of Dodge?” he asked, smiling.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, sir. I am.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 2.0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br />
*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The phone woke her at 5am, and she struggled to find it
under the covers. “Kari, wake up. It’s number one!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What is number one?” she asked stupidly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Time To Get Out Of Dodge” </i>is number one! You are
part of this, you sent it up, and Adam Moore, the head of the company, is
giving you all the credence for getting it done. We have a breakfast to
celebrate in a couple hours, get up! Celebrate!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kari crawled out of the bed, looking out the windows, and
seeing that although summer was done, autumn hadn’t fully arrived. She
showered, tending to her face, applying make-up, and stepping out of the
apartment, she walked to the party, looking at the newspapers and drinking
mimosas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Good job,” the boss, Adam, said pulling her into a hug. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kari pulled back, looking at him, and shaking her head
slightly, she said, “Feels like a dream.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It probably was, that’s why you’re sending the best novels
up. We’re giving you a raise, and a better office.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kari pushed her recently cropped hair from her eyes. “I need
a couple days to get out of town.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Absolutely! When you come back you’ll have a better office,
with windows.” He smiled. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thanks,” she said. She went home to pack a small bag, and
checking her bank she added more to the checking account. She was happy her car
cranked on the first try and pulled onto the street. She stopped to fill up the
tank, and then stopped for a nice latte with steamed cream and rolled down the
windows, turning the music up loud. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She turned onto the small two lane road, remembering her
grandparents, and drove through the town. Her car bounced over big holes where
the street was no more, just a rutted path. She came to the stop sign, where
she usually turned, but the sign was gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The trees either leaned down on the road, or fell on the road, and the
road was no longer a piece of blacktop, but turning back into the old dirt
roads she’d learned to drive on at twelve-years-old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She turned, driving slow, and catching her breath as she
avoided deep holes. “What the hell? I just met Adam the first time out here,
just a few days ago.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She found her
grandparents driveway and turned in. Trees had fallen this way, or that way,
and she couldn’t drive in further than twelve feet. She stopped the car and
reached into the glovebox to pull out a flashlight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reaching into the backseat she pulled out a coat, and stepping
out of the car she slid her arms inside, zipping it against the wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She shivered, stepping over the trees with the
flashlight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, she found the old
house, or at least the remnants of it. The beam of her flashlight showed her
that her parents had told her the truth that the house had been knocked down.
She remembered stepping into it just a few days ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She looked at the flashlight, and then up at the sky, the
sun, under the clouds, was at noon. She turned off the light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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</xml><![endif]-->The Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31876672.post-67319988092440976142017-07-13T15:26:00.001-05:002017-07-13T15:26:34.323-05:00Doctors Vs. Health<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Doctors Vs. Health </b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’ve had a lot of exciting and wonderful things happen this
week, and the worst part of it was that I couldn’t enjoy it as I wanted to
because the body went into protest.<span> </span>I
don’t often talk about my physical/health issues, and I quit going to doctors
about ten years ago because they were only making them worse.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">I used to, like many of us, think doctors had all the
answers.</span><span> </span><span style="font-size: small;">I expected what they show on
TV with the doctor being the hero, diagnosing and curing right away, but I have
found that doctors rarely cure, mostly treat symptoms, and generally aren’t a
big fan of questions or information that counters their schooling (designed and
paid mostly by pharmaceutical companies).</span><span>
</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">Recently a relative said something along the lines of -
“You’re sick again??”</span><span> </span><span style="font-size: small;">And although it
hurt my feelings, I recognize that I am not as sick as many who have suffered
through my health traumas. Back in my 20s and 30s I listened to all the
doctors, I took the pills they gave me without question.</span><span> </span><span style="font-size: small;">If they said I needed surgery, well then I
had the surgery.</span><span> </span><span style="font-size: small;">I believed, almost a
religious belief, their education meant they knew my body better than I
did.</span><span> </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">I’ve had some strange experiences listening to their
guidance and trusting.</span><span> </span><span style="font-size: small;">I went a little
crazy when the experts had me on three anti-depressants, one because my son
died, and two others to help me sleep.</span><span> </span><span style="font-size: small;">They were the experts, although it was my body and mind being
manipulated.</span><span> </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">Listening to doctors, I had several unneeded surgeries, one
of which landed me on my back for months with open wounds, a mistake in the
reconnection of bowel left me with peritonitis and sepsis, and I nearly died,
did die, was brought back, and nearly died again.</span><span> </span><span style="font-size: small;">I had transfusions, and infections, and near death
experiences.</span><span> </span><span style="font-size: small;">I have scars that make
both doctors and tattoo artists cringe. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">I’ve given up all faith of the perfect drug that will cure,
and have decided to get most of the chemicals out of my life.</span><span> </span><span style="font-size: small;">I do all right if I pace myself, don’t
overbook, and don’t give myself too much social interaction.</span><span> </span><span style="font-size: small;">I do all right if I can breathe deeply and
relax.</span><span> </span><span style="font-size: small;">I do all right if I eat clean
food, and cook for myself. I do all right if I clean with baking soda and
vinegar and throw all the chemicals away.</span><span>
</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">So for those “you’re sick again??” folks, I am a small
handful of people who have had shit bags glued to their belly, have met and
dealt with their intestine sticking out of their belly, that hasn’t had another
surgical episode in nearly 15 years.</span><span> </span><span style="font-size: small;">I
am a small percent of people who have survived peritonitis and sepsis, and
although the biggest part of my immune system - my belly and bowel - was
ravaged by drugs, surgery, radiation, and radio active chemicals for months on
end I’m still here and getting by, and often quite active.</span><span> </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;">And by the way, I’m not sick again - I am still recovering
from a tragic accident (and trust of doctors), which left me with nearly half
of what some know as a digestive system.</span><span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span><span style="font-size: small;">As usual, keeping seeking and questioning. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span>The Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31876672.post-75243168154818284262017-01-16T16:05:00.000-05:002017-01-16T16:05:38.743-05:00Writing Is More Pollock Than Monet<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Writing Is More Pollock Than Monet</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I always imagined writing books to be done in big open rooms
with huge windows, calm dogs lying at my feet, and surrounded by tall
reflective wooden shelves overflowing with leather bound information.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I imagined a garden outside, filled with
flowers, singing birds, fluttering insects, and lazy cats. I imagined Monet
water-colored days of creating worlds, softly lighted foggy mornings of
changing perspectives, or at least giving hope and a smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unfortunately, I have discovered my imagination and truth are
not really in tune with each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
love writing, and I’ve been doing it since I could hold a crayon in my hand.
Writing is where I go to both disappear and to be present. It is something that
I know I was called to do, but the actual act, performance, and completion of a
novel hasn’t matched my dreams or beliefs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The words are hard – trying to set the scenes, figure out
the characters, and make them likable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The editing comes next, which can feel like moving a mountain into the
proper place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tasks unfold from
there - the anxiety attacks wondering if it’s good enough, if the people will
laugh, or if I was too cheesy or mentioned God too many times. And then I spend
days or weeks with my demons telling me I’m not worthy of reaching my simple dreams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When writing a novel, I am sleepless, my dreams filled with
their stories. When editing, I’m nervous, agonizing over any mistake. And when
releasing the work to the world, I’m as scared as a three-year-old who knows the
monster is in the closet and about to attack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought those things were hard, and I have to say that I
have grown comfortable with my known, mostly organic, and individual fears, but
the world is what freaks me out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Writing a novel is a hellish roller coaster ride, the emotions are real,
and if I don’t feel it, the reader certainly won’t, but the hardest thing is
the world, and the odd interruptions that occur in the process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although I haven’t kept a journal of the oddities that have
happened, from a short list I can say – squirrels, birds, and bats in the house
(and let’s not discuss the palmetto bugs), car wrecks in the yard, weird
disputes from the unexpected, peculiar requests from acquaintances or people
from a nearly forgotten past, knocks on the door to borrow items, fights on the
street, falling trees, inexplicable technical problems, power outages, and
broken keyboards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of those things
may happen on any given day, I suppose, but they never seem to happen on a day
when I’m not writing, and not deep in a story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My imagination, and yes, my dreams, paint writing as a
smooth enjoyable experience, but reality has shown it’s rather horrible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mind wants gentle breezes, soft sunsets,
and deep leather chairs holding onto satisfaction; reality has shown raging
storms full of falling rocks breaking through the walls with burning
interruptions - an invisible war zone that only I feel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suppose it is only trust and faith that keeps me doing it,
or maybe an indescribable need to quench something inside that I didn’t design
and can’t control. They say we must choose our battles in life, and I suppose
this is my war.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I must write beyond the
interruptions, fight the distractions, and know that the harder I try, the
better, and stronger I become.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Novel writing ain’t for sissies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As usual, keep trying and keep seeking. </div>
The Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31876672.post-7925057221665194812016-08-04T18:32:00.000-05:002016-08-04T18:32:13.987-05:00Spooky's Last Meal <div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Spooky's Last Meal </b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t you dare open that door!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kelsey snapped in a painful whisper.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What am I supposed to do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Leave a little old lady out there in the rain?” Mark pulled his eye away
from the peephole and reached for the doorknob.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Besides, she has something in her hands, looks like a casserole
or something.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t!” She hissed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Quit being ridiculous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m not going to hide in my own house.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He opened the door and greeted the old woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Come in out of the rain, Ms. Stewart.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That storm came up quick, didn’t it?” The old woman asked,
stomping her feet on the welcome mat, her gray curls wilted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Is she asleep?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to get over as soon as I could.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She handed him the covered dish and looked
past his shoulder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t think so,” he said, shutting the door against the
wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Kelsey, Ms. Stewart is
here.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He called out, pretending their
earlier whispered conversation hadn’t happened.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kelsey pulled the blanket from over her head, and smiled
weakly at the woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She glanced at the
dish in Mark’s hand, yawned, and sat up against the pillows on the couch with a
groan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You didn’t have to do that, Ms.
Stewart.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, I know how you young people are with all that fast
food, no nutrients in it at all, and I figure you need healthy food to recover
from the surgery.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ms. Stewart moved
Kelsey’s feet gently and sat on the end of the couch still wearing the damp
raincoat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“And Mark, I forgot again
that you don’t like onions before I put them in the casserole, I’m sorry about
that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No problem, Ms. Stewart. I like my fast food, and this is
to make Kelsey healthy, not me,” Mark said, carrying the dish into the
kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So have you gotten any rest?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The old woman turned her attention to Kelsey, looking at her over
the top of small wire rimmed glasses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kelsey wanted to scream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Not much,” she said honestly, “I was just about to drift off when you
knocked on the door.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just as I was
about to drift off to sleep when you called half an hour ago, she thought, but
didn’t share. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ms. Stewart sucked in her breath and stood quickly. “I’m
sorry I disturbed you, I’ll leave now.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The movement knocked Kelsey’s feet off the side of the couch, pulling
the stitches in her belly and making her gasp in pain at the sudden jolt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re not disturbing us, Ms. Stewart,” Mark said, as he
stepped back into the room and cut his eyes at Kelsey, his jaw tight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We appreciate everything you do.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The gray-haired woman sniffed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m just trying to help, I know you young folk don’t have any
family, almost alone in the world, and as the Lord tells us we must look out
for widows and orphans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I figure we’re
two of a kind, me a widow, both of you without parents, we have to look out for
each other.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mark nodded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re
the best neighbor we’ve ever had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At
least wait until the storm passes before you leave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How about some coffee?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
was about to put on a pot.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ms. Stewart smiled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“That would be lovely, it’s getting cold out.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She sat back down on the couch, moving Kelsey’s feet out of her
way again with a smug smile on her face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Mark, put the oven on 400 and slide that casserole in, Kelsey looks
like she needs some food.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, ma’am,” Mark called from the kitchen. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kelsey’s eyes closed against her will, she’d only been home
from the hospital for a few hours, and she was exhausted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A sudden slap to her thigh, which
reverberated through her stomach, had her eyes snapping open in shock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What the hell?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It was a fly, honey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You sure don’t need flies around your wound,” Ms. Stewart explained,
picking up something from the blanket and standing up again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She carried whatever it was between her
fingers into the kitchen and slapped her hand against the side of the
trashcan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I hate flies!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you have any bug spray, Mark?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The last thing Kelsey needs is a fly infecting
her wounds.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kelsey sighed, and then groaned as she slowly moved her feet
off the couch and onto the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
sat up wincing at the pain from the recent surgery, and pulled the blanket
around her shoulders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was just
gathering her breath to stand up as Ms. Stewart returned with a black aerosol
can in her hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“All you have is wasp spray, but that should kill any flies
lingering around to infect you,” Ms. Stewart began spraying the room with the
thin harsh spray as though it was air freshener and not deadly chemicals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Stop!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Goddamit,
stop!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kelsey yelled, standing up and
breathing in the toxins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ms. Stewart’s face paled as she lifted her finger from the
spray can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You took the Lord’s name in
vain,” she whispered, the shock evident in the deep wrinkles carved in her
face. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kelsey covered her mouth and nose with part of the
blanket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m sorry, but wasp spray is
toxic, I don’t need to be breathing that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I should go,” the old woman said, dropping the can on the
coffee table with a clank, which rolled and fell on the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I was just trying to help.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She marched to the front door.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mark ran out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee in his
hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Ms. Stewart, you haven’t had
your coffee!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The old woman struggled with the locks, her hands
shaking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I don’t think I want that
coffee, Mark, not after she took the Lord’s name in vain.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mark glanced over his shoulder at his wife, the blanket
still held against her mouth and nose, and shook his head harshly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s the drugs they have her on, Ms.
Stewart, you know she’d never say that if she was sober.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He grabbed a coat off the rack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Let me help you across the street.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s very kind, Mark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m sure it is the drugs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
should get some rest after she eats.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll make sure she eats,” he said, sliding his arms in the
coat, “and I’ll make sure she apologizes in the morning.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kelsey stood alone as the front door slammed and her husband
escorted their elderly neighbor across the street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was weak, and her abdomen throbbed with her heartbeat,
working down into her legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She kept
the blanket over her mouth and nose as she moved to a window, unlocking it, and
wondering if she had the strength to open it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She lifted the heavy, creaky wooden window and saw black dots in her
eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She held onto a chair as the
cold, wet air filled the room, and she slowly moved the blanket away and stuck
her face against the screen, breathing deeply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She left the window open, wondering about flies in the house
in a cold November, and stepped into the kitchen. She was suddenly thirsty and
pulled a jug of juice from the fridge, setting it on the counter and reaching
for a glass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She filled the glass with
ice, and then apple juice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She drank,
feeling as though there would never be enough, and then refilled it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She felt the heat from the oven, and
switched on the light inside the enclosure to see the casserole beginning to
boil and brown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She turned off the heat, opened the oven door, and grabbed a
couple potholders from a hanging basket filled with kitchen supplies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She lifted the heavy glass casserole dish
from the oven and the black dots reappeared in her sight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She woke on the floor, her head against the cabinets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mark stood over her, as the cat heartily ate
the tuna casserole from the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Did
you do this on purpose?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You broke her
dish!” He exclaimed, helping her to her feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“I know you don’t like her, but she’s been nothing but good to us.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He gently wrapped his arm around her waist, and as she
grabbed the melting iced apple juice from the counter, he helped her into the
bedroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn’t speak, other than
to ask him to shut the bedroom door away from the stink of wasp spray, and then
she was dreaming of the tomatoes she had eaten over the summer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They signed the contract to purchase the house the month
after they discovered she was pregnant, and even though the house wasn’t huge,
it did have room for a nursery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s a
starter house,” Mark had explained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If
we get lucky a second time, we’ll move to a bigger house.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She didn’t question because they had been trying to have a
baby for years while living in apartments, and it seemed a stroke of luck to
find such a cute house, in a good neighborhood, to fit their budget. They had
just barely moved in when the neighbor introduced herself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ms. Stewart seemed so happy to know that
Kelsey was expecting a child, and then came with baskets of fruits and veggies
from her garden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Eat these, and let’s
give that baby the best start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t
use pesticides, herbicides, and my garden is completely natural, the perfect
way to feed your baby.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kelsey ate the thick red tomatoes, the juicy peaches, and
the tender pears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She cut the
cucumbers, despite their bitterness, into the lettuce grown by her neighbor, so
grateful that although her parents were dead, the world had seen to give her a
surrogate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One bunch of grapes had
strange tiny spiders breaking from the skins, but Ms. Stewart apologized
profusely, and then claimed she burned the vines away against the
invasion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kelsey ate the next grapes
without much thought; she was busy painting, creating, and preparing the
nursery for her baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dream showed that every bite of the fruit from her
neighbor was tainted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tomatoes
bled, the lettuce turned into wispy moths, and the peaches and pears became
strange colored insects, while the cucumbers evolved into thick worm-like
snakes with venomous fangs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She woke
swallowing a scream, and waking so suddenly sent pain from her abdominal wound
down her legs, and back up into her head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She reached for the painkillers beside the bed, and found
they were gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She sat up, saw that it
was night, and glanced at the clock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was nearly midnight and Mark was beside her in the bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She turned to wake him up and ask where her
medicine was, but he groaned and whispered a name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Lily,” he said under his sleeping breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Lily!” He exclaimed, as he reached, in his
sleep, to touch himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kelsey slapped him arm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Wake up!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Lily!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kelsey slapped his face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Wake up!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What the fuck?” He sat up, eyes wide, and anger leaked from
his pores.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Where are my pain meds?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I put them away, especially after you spoke to Ms. Stewart
the way you did today.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Who are you taking care of?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Me or Ms. Stewart?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
better get those meds back this minute,” she breathed, grasping her stomach and
the barrenness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Now, do it now!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t think they’re good for you,” he said, sitting up
and sliding his feet into slippers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t care what you think, give me my medicine.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“On it,” he sighed, walking into the bathroom to open a
cabinet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He returned with the meds and
set them on the bedside table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You
were taking the Lord’s name in vain.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kelsey opened the bottle and downed two pills with warm
apple juice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“When have you, as an
atheist, given two shits about taking the Lord’s, that you don’t believe in,
name in vain?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He sat beside her, laughing for a minute, and then
sobered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“That’s weird.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the
way, who is Lily?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What?” He ran his hand through his hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Lily?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I don’t know a Lily.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I just need some sleep,” she said, stretching out on the
bed and holding her stomach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, you do.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
kissed her forehead, hugged her gently, and then crawled over to his side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Rest well, beauty. I love you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I love you too,” she responded under the haze of pills,
pain, and the creeping knowledge that all was not as it seemed to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She slept, and dreamed of big red tomatoes
that left bloody trails down her cheeks as she bit into them, grapes with
spiders, and yellow squash that when cut open showed horrible tumors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She woke, her mouth dry, and glanced at the clock to see it
was 5am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She walked into the bathroom,
dropped her panties, and the stained pad the surgical staff had left between
her legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She sat down on the toilet,
waiting for the stream, while remembering the dreams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The release finally came, and she sighed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She threw the hospital pad away, dropped the
soiled garment in the dirty clothes hamper, and then stepped lightly though the
bedroom to retrieve clean underwear. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was thirsty, and not yet fully awake as she stepped in
the kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The light was dim through
the shades from the streetlights, and she saw their cat, Spooky, lying on the
floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Morning Spook Love, how are you?”
She asked, filling the glass with ice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Spook Mutt,” she crooned as she filled the glass with apple
juice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She took a long drink, feeling
the cold liquid filling her hungry cells, and set the glass down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Spooky Bird, good morning!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cat didn’t move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Spooky Crow,” she soothed, walking to the corner and the
line of switches, and flipping one to fill the space with light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cat lay on top of the mess of the broken casserole dish,
dead.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Spook man!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
lifted his body from the mess that Mark hadn’t cleaned away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Spooky pup,” she cried, and pulled him
closer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Spooky bear,” she slid down the cabinets where Mark had
woken her earlier, and held the stiffening animal against her chest as the
tears flowed down her cheeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looked
at the casserole only she was supposed to eat, and saw the change in her small,
loving family since they “lucked” out and got a great house in a wonderful
neighborhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She remembered the dreams
of the weird fruits and veggies given as a gift from their neighbor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She saw, almost outside of herself, as the thriving life
inside her turned to a threatening tumor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She saw from a perspective a million miles away as that seething tumor
was cut away, taking with it any hope she ever had of having another baby, and
then she remembered biting into the fruits and veggies from the sweet old woman
next door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She drifted off, grateful
for the pain pills, with a dead cat held tightly against her chest.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She woke an hour later, her belly throbbing, a dead cat in
her arms, as Mark stood over her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He just stared, and didn’t speak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His eyes moved over the open stove, the broken dish on the floor,
and then back to her and the dead cat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“We need coffee,” he said softly, stepping over her prone body to reach
the pot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t let me get in your way,” she said, placing the
swelling cat on the floor beside her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What does that mean?” He demanded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Spooky’s dead.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His hands stopped as he filled the basket with ground
coffee.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He ate the casserole, and he’s dead.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A sudden and deep silence filled the room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All sound seemed to stop; the drone of the
heater eased with a click, the motor in the refrigerator took a breath and
rested, and even the small sounds most don’t readily hear - the click of ice in
a glass, breathing, the buzz of an overhead light fixture, cars on the street
outside – stopped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mark stood frighteningly still, his hand poised to drop a
bit more coffee in the filter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Dead?”
He asked softly, as though he was still dreaming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Look at him!” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kelsey whispered harshly, and then found the energy to stand,
grasping cabinet doors to help with her weight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wanted to grab her husband’s face and make him look, but the
black dots had returned and her belly throbbed down her legs and into her toes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She struggled for breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“The witch killed him!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mark shook his head, and spilled the spoon of coffee on the
counter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He took a deep breath, looking
at the busted casserole dish, and the dead cat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His face contorted, from love to hate and every emotion in
between.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Spooky butt,” he sobbed,
dropping to his knees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He picked up the
dead cat and embraced him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Spook bug,”
he cried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kelsey took a breath, then another, and turned to the strong
man who hadn’t been so strong since they got “lucky” and won a good and
affordable mortgage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We have to bury
him, and we have to leave this place now.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looked up at her, his eyes watery and darting as though
he was confused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Leave?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Freak a crow, Mark!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yes, leave!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She held her
stomach, breathing deeply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Leave,” he nodded, as though he was still asleep. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kelsey tried to march, but a stumbling gait was all she
could accomplish as the pain worked from her ribs, to her belly, down to her
toes, and back again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She found the
bottle on the bedside table, downed two, and then dressed, making sure that
before she slid on her boots the pills were in the pocket of her jeans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She stepped back in the kitchen, the coffee pot was not
brewing, and Mark still held the still cat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She nudged him aside, finished filling the pot, and set it to cook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the electric pot gurgled and chugged,
steaming with a delightful scent, she pondered what to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mark,” she said softly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He continued to pet the cat that had been their friend for
eight years. </div>
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<br /></div>
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“Mark,” she said a little louder, feeling the lack of
strength resonate with the stitches in her belly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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He turned to her, his eyes glazed, damp, and confused. </div>
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<br /></div>
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“Mark!” She yelled, and grabbed the counter as her knees
weakened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Who is Lily?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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“I don’t know a Lily, why do you keep asking?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have to bury the Spook Monster.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tears streamed down his cheeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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She suddenly felt a sense to let go, just let go, just to
surrender to the darkness and confusion … she was weak, she was tired, and
she’d had so much taken away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m
supposed to be getting bed rest,” she sighed, smiled, and then laughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mark looked at her, shaking his head, and the wetness on his
cheeks seemed to make his eyes glow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Shit!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shit!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He started to rush to her, but stopped, looking down at his arms and
what they held.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Damn.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She nodded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The haze cleared from his eyes, and he moved quickly,
dropping the cat in her arms, and hugging her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Shit! Let’s go now, I don’t care where, but now!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Go pack some things for both of us, I’ll take care of the
Spooky Dude.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He kissed her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Thank you, and I still don’t know who Lily is, but I do know she’s in
my dreams.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thank you.” Kelsey pushed him to the bedroom, and picked up
Spooky’s favorite bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She placed the
cat in the bed, and then pulled out a large, colorful gift bag, sliding the cat
and bed inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The work exhausted her,
and she sat on the couch with the bag on her lap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She remembered all the times her neighbor had given them food,
always forgetting that Mark couldn’t eat this ingredient or the other, she had
even forgotten Mark was allergic to peanuts when she brought over homemade
peanut brittle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s okay,” the old
woman had soothed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s not for him,
it’s for you and to making this baby strong.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kelsey had eaten everything the old woman had supplied, and
suddenly her pregnancy became high risk, she was bed ridden, and then the
doctors explained she hadn’t actually been pregnant, but that it was simply a
fast growing tumor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had no
explanation for the early sonogram pictures that showed a moving, healthy,
living baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kelsey and Mark had laughed when they moved into the
neighborhood of aging people, mostly widows and widowers, only thinking of
family and the grandparents their child would get to know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But thinking about it, she suddenly
understood that it was only one widow and a whole street of widowers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wondered if Ms. Stewart had been
providing the food to all those women who were now six feet under.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mark came out of the bedroom with two large suitcases.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I have everything I think we need.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kelsey nodded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Let me get some coffee.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She nodded again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t know where we’re going.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stood, half in the kitchen, half in the living room, rocking
back and forth over the doorjamb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t either,” she said softly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But we shouldn’t stay here …” He glanced longingly at the
coffee pot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Get the coffee,” she encouraged, looking at the suitcases,
and then down at her lap where their only child, a cat, lay wrapped in brightly
colored paper. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mark returned with two tall steaming travel mugs and set
them on the coffee table in front of her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Let me put this stuff in the car.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He picked up the suitcases and disappeared out the front door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He returned and grabbed one of the mugs, drinking
deeply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He reached for her and she set
the bag on the couch, allowing him to pull her up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She slung her purse over her shoulder, checked her pocket again
to ensure the pills were still there, and then turned and picked up the cat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ready?” He asked, glancing at the clock on the wall. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She nodded and followed him out the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As they turned the corner to lead them away
from the neighborhood she saw something she hadn’t noticed before and yelled,
“Stop!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mark slammed on the brakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“What?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Look!” She pointed at her neighbor’s mailbox, which read in
reflective letters, “Lily Stewart, 33 Delight Rd.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I guess that’s the Lily you’ve been dreaming of,” she said,
opening the door and pulling off her seatbelt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What are you doing?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She stepped out of the car with a groan, and a dead cat in
her arms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m returning the goodness
she’s given us.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She walked slowly in
front of the car, and climbed the brick stairs to the front door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m sorry, Spooky,” she said softly, as she
set the brightly colored package on the mat, and rang the bell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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The Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31876672.post-19277460883192035822016-08-04T17:48:00.000-05:002016-08-04T17:52:31.464-05:00The Idiocy of Conspiracy Theorists <div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">The Idiocy of Conspiracy Theorists</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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Conspiracy theorists are idiots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are tin-foil hat wearing crazy folks who don’t reason, are
anti-science, and do not accept reputable sources.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are a threat because … um… what if everyone questioned the
news and reports and decisions?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if
everyone spent more than 3 minutes reading an article without declaring
themselves an expert, and actually reasoned, studied, questioned, and
thought?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chaos would ensue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Conspiracy theorists are so disturbing, as they have been
since around November 1963, that you can search the tagline and find millions
of articles about how ridiculous, outrageous, scary, and damned near demons of
ignorance they are, and far worse than Ebola and the Zika virus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Conspiracy theorists with their crazy
notions may infect you or your loved one, and I’m sure there will be a vaccine
for that soon enough. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I, personally, like the words Coincidence Theorists, or
even, and grab your boot straps here … Critical Thinkers!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Conspiracy Theorist is a hacked out word
like groovy, greaser, and bitchin’ (as in that’s bitchin’ cool, for the younger
folk).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a word created after a
great President made a speech and died weeks later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, he was assassinated after he told the world of a great
conspiracy he had discovered. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now the word conspiracy is a simple word, it means two or
more people working together to carry out an illegal (or immoral) plot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I write this believing everyone has an
ability to use a dictionary to look up the word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It often has political connotations – because people
conspire!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They just do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the ten years I’ve been writing articles, books, and
researching full time I am amazed how many conspiracies happen, while most
folks look at the shining box, read the popular “reputable” news sites, and
have no clue. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And truly, knowing how
little I know after the books, articles, research I’ve read, and the things
I’ve seen that scare the crap out of me, it’s hard for me to deal with normal
folks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suppose I’m just not normal
anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know it’s a used up phrase, but I like thinking outside
the box. I love the strange and impossible; and the supernatural makes me
laugh, cry, and sigh at the same time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I love when my thoughts are challenged with a new idea, something I hadn’t
considered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love when people think on
their own, and make connections, gets hints, trust their guts, oh, and did I
say think?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like most anything that
isn’t robotically repeating to me the same thing most everyone else is saying,
as well as, the media, and the reputable news sites, and the snippets, memes,
and sound bites …<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It makes me a bit
unsettled when I hear soundbites from this newscaster or the other, and then
hear the exact same words from people I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Soundbites are literally the reason I gave up cable years
ago, when I would flip from news channel to news channel and hear the exact
same story, the accepted and approved story, handed to me over and over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The news channels began as an offering of
All The News, All The Time, but they only give a little news, approved news all
day, or many days, or how ever long it takes us to get it, and if you don’t get
it, and if it doesn’t make sense, and you question their words then you are a
conspiracy theorist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The truth is propaganda has been legalized in this
country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The news folks are no longer
required to tell you the truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it
grows especially disturbing when you’ve looked deeper - you know those silly
conspiracy folks (almost worse than clowns) looking deeper - and find that most
of what we believe is the truth are truly just lies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll start with a simple example, we are told that vaccines
are completely safe and absolutely harmless, but what most don’t know is that
the makers of vaccines are free from being sued if you or someone you love is
harmed by the many injections.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another
thing most people don’t know is there is a vaccine injury department within the
government, which has paid out billions of dollars to families since 1986 when
the pharmaceutical companies were made immune.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The cap is 250,000 dollars that is awarded and that is usually when
someone dies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And only about 1 in 5
families who try to sue are allowed to have their cases heard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you do the math that is an incredible amount
of vaccine injuries that you, or most folks, have never heard about, and it
certainly isn’t being addressed on our 24-hour news channels. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back in the 1960s there were crazy conspiracy theories about
the government running odd tests on the average American without consent, and
people laughed and mocked, knowing that the government would never hurt
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turns out the theories were true
and the program had a name – MK Ultra, the CIA’s mind control program.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the program was finally revealed, the
documents heavily redacted, the truth managed to come out with some video of housewives
given LSD, and one case of a government worker unknowingly given the chemical
and plunging thirteen stories to his death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The abuses the government used on innocent and unsuspecting Americans
and Canadians included hypnosis, sensory deprivation, isolation, and verbal and
sexual abuse all in the name of national security.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 1973 the program was halted, or as some coincidence theorists
believe, was simply renamed and still continues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the late 1940s there were rumors that the government
hired those “dirty, evil nazis” to work in America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most folks, full of patriotism after the Second World War
discounted the idea as pure communistic hatred, even though those saying it had
actually participated in the war.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes,
once again those wacky conspiracy theorists were correct.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The program was called Operation Paperclip
where thousands of scientists, engineers, and tech savvy folks were brought to
America and became quite successful in rocketry, aeronautics, medicine,
electronics, and etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These folks also
escaped the Nuremberg Trials, which mainly focused on the low men on that totem
pole who took the orders, instead of the ones giving them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And recently a 94-year-old man, a former
Nazi prison guard was sentenced to five years in prison.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The low men were tried and convicted, the
higher on the pole came over to live the American dream and get top jobs at
NASA, Bayer, and BASF, as well as, many other giants in our society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back in the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s, black folks in the
South grew very suspicious of our government.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There were whispers about not trusting the government, even though the
government was supplying health care, and I suppose of lot of people laughed
and thought it was the weird superstitions that the black folks held.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turns out those suspicious and untrusting
people were right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Public Health
Service was carrying out studies on men, black men, infected with syphilis –
and they didn’t do the proper thing to cure them, but watched, lied, and did
horrible experiments on them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
study, which was only to last for six months or so, went on for forty years
while men died and families suffered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So once again, those whispers, and conspiracy theories proved to be
true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I literally could go on and on, for pages and pages, of how
what once was a crazy, tin-foil, cracked-head conspiracy theory turned out to
be true, from Karen Silkwood to Gulf of Tonkin to the assassination of
President Kennedy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could go on and
on, but I will leave it to the reader to do their own research and not simply
trust the shining box or the news channels or the “reputable” sources.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I would suggest if you are going to trust a source that you
deem reputable, you should also explore their funding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The long time Editor-in-Chief of the New
England Journal of Medicine, Dr. Marcia Angell, says you can no longer trust
clinical studies, <i><span style="color: black;">“It is simply no longer
possible to believe much of the clinical research that is published, or to rely
on the judgment of trusted physicians or authoritative medical guidelines. I
take no pleasure in this conclusion, which I reached slowly and reluctantly
over my two decades as an editor of The New England Journal of Medicine.” </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="color: black; font-style: normal;">Dr. Marcia
Angell was particularly disturbed by doctors giving anti-depressant drugs to
children as young as two years old to fight bi-polar disorder (by the way, what
2 year-old isn’t a bit bi-polar, isn’t that why the phrase “terrible twos”
exists?), which hadn’t been approved for children so young.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She read the “approved” articles being
published in medical journals of how to get pharmaceutical cocktails to barely
walking little humans and stated, </span>“No one knows the total amount
provided by drug companies to physicians, but I estimate from the annual
reports of the top 9 U.S.-based drug companies that it comes to </i><b>tens
of billions of dollars a year</b><i> in North America alone. By such
means, the pharmaceutical industry has gained enormous control over how doctors
evaluate and use its own products. Its extensive ties to physicians,
particularly </i><b>senior faculty at prestigious medical schools</b><i>,
affect the results of research, the way medicine is practiced, and even the
definition of what constitutes a disease.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-style: normal;">I wonder if most folks
would consider the former editor of the New England Journal of Medicine a crazy
conspiracy theorist?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or the other
people who have made the same statements against medical journals, the CDC,
network news station, and medical schools saying they are owned by the
pharmaceutical companies and are no longer to be trusted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-style: normal;">I could point out how
those crazy folks are often right about the facts when the truth is unveiled,
as it usually is years and lives later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I could give links of how the media mocks and laughs and literally tries
to create their own conspiracies to make people afraid of thinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-style: normal;">And speaking of the
media and fear, SARS was doom, Avian Flu was a death sentence, Ebola was gonna
kill us like a scene out of a Steven King novel or the history books, and now
Zika is gonna disable our babies, and let us not forget the sharks, alligators,
and even the weeds in your yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
media, which is owned by corporations, needs your fear, and fearful people
usually don’t think, and that is their bread and butter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
As always, keep seeking. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-style: normal;"><a href="https://ethicalnag.org/2009/11/09/nejm-editor/">https://ethicalnag.org/2009/11/09/nejm-editor/</a></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.infowars.com/33-conspiracy-theories-that-turned-out-to-be-true-what-every-person-should-know/">http://www.infowars.com/33-conspiracy-theories-that-turned-out-to-be-true-what-every-person-should-know/</a></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-style: normal;"><a href="http://ahrp.org/doctors-without-borders-why-you-cant-trust-medical-journals-anymore-2/">http://ahrp.org/doctors-without-borders-why-you-cant-trust-medical-journals-anymore-2/</a></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
The Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31876672.post-30445814293667998022016-07-22T21:25:00.001-05:002016-07-22T21:57:56.359-05:00On Faith<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">On Faith</span></div>
<br />
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Faith … I’ve heard it doesn’t exist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have heard it’s a ridiculous ideology that
only existed before science, and a ridiculous concept to embrace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Faith didn’t exist as people were cured by
herbs and hope; faith didn’t exist during the war in 1918 when a letter came
from the Army telling my Great-grandparents that their son was going to die due
to the flu. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Faith is a concept that only the ignorant believe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And please, don’t let me get started on the Bible and what a
waste that is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Faith and belief is so outdated who wants to even consider
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seriously, don’t we know that we have the TV, and textbooks
(rewritten year after year), and the news programs to tell us how those who
have faith are stupid, and lacking any sense of intelligence?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Faith makes us angry at times as we deal with a world that
tells us we are less and pretty much retarded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Faith makes us stand up at the strangest times to call folks out for
being less than they should be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Faith makes us pray for those who are not like us, but we
know deep in our heart that they are very good. Faith is how the less of us
survive in a very vibrant and outspoken world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Faith is why we don’t strike out and hurt, even though we have felt the
barbs, insults, and isolation from those who professed to love us. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Faith is the reason that we didn’t kill those who have
challenged us, hurt us, kicked us, bruised us, or overstepped our boundaries.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Faith is why babies laugh and trust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Faith is why animals come to us, trusting we
won’t hurt them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Faith is why a feral
cat, or a man or woman, or a rooster, or even a goat rests in our arms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Faith is why we survive when the world tells
us it’s a ridiculous idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Faith is birthing, growing, loving, and is why this thing
called humanity still survives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the way, my Papa didn’t die in that horrible flu in 1918
on foreign shores, but maybe faith had a lot to do with it – otherwise I
wouldn’t be here to speak of the power of faith. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As always, keep seeking. </div>
The Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31876672.post-69169907653400902112016-07-10T21:38:00.000-05:002016-07-10T21:38:37.307-05:00Last Times ....<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Last Times.....</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We never know the last time, and we certainly don’t know the
last time as it is happening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We don’t
recognize it’s the last time as we carry our kids in our arms, until we look
back and realize it was the last time we carried them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We don’t always see the last time we spoke
to a loved one is the final time we will ever speak to them until we are at a
funeral.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We simply do not know the last
time until something happens that makes it clear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last times are real.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And I suppose last times are different for everyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last time you talked to your mom, or your
kid, or your brother or sister.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last
time you petted your animal, or made love, or rode across the country with
friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last time you went to work,
volunteered, or went to church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last
times …</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last times resonate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We look back and remember the last time we stroked a cheek, gave a hug,
condemned someone, or did amazing work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Last time we hugged our grandparents and sat around the table with
cousins, siblings, parents, and aunts and uncles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last time we listened to friends playing guitar and singing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last time we saw a smile from someone we
loved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We simply don’t know which time is the last time, and I
believe we should make each time wonderful and memorable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I often lament that I am the woman with all the angst, the
woman of loss, the woman that accepts, feels, and wants everyone to understand
how loss can change a person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Given my
choice I think I would have chosen differently, but when I think about it I
can’t imagine I would be much different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I want to know the last times, and I want to remember, and be alert to
the possibility that each interaction could be the last. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As much as I get beat up for my opinions, which don’t seem
so popular these days, I do know this to be absolute truth – you don’t know the
last time until it is the last time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As usual, keep seeking, believing, and living! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
The Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31876672.post-88848394055503754992016-07-04T15:44:00.000-05:002016-07-04T15:44:44.521-05:00Mrs. Timbly's Knitting Time<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Mrs. Timbly's Knitting Time </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe we create our own enemies, Karen thought, glancing
through the blinds at the old woman sitting on the porch across the
street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Although I have no idea what I
did to offend her,” she muttered, dropping the wooden slat back into its
stringed organization. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She stepped into the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, and
sipped, unsettled by her neighbor suddenly ignoring her, and wondering why it
disturbed her so much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t as
though she and Mrs. Timbly were best friends, but they had always been on speaking
terms, and had shared many a glass of iced tea or coffee on the old lady’s
front porch as they discussed the news - while the woman knitted or crocheted -
the news of the neighborhood and the news of the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Karen carried her cup into the living room, glancing at the
crocheted blanket in vibrant pinks, purples, and yellows thrown on the back of
the couch, a Christmas present from Mrs. Timbly, and felt the oppressive
confusion intensify.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What did I do?”
she asked softly, walking back to the window and looking out again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mrs. Timbly weaved the bits of metal through the yarn,
staring off at the street as the little black dog sat at her feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dog was old and blind, and Mrs. Timbly
always declared she had no idea how old he was, and laughed, saying she was
sure she had always had him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course,
the old woman also claimed not to know her own age, but often spoke lovingly
about the 1940s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was a heavy-set woman,
with a tight knot of gray hair secured tightly on the top of her head, and always
favored cotton dresses over pants or shorts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She wore thick-soled leather shoes with a Velcro strap, and kept her
hose rolled down just above her ankles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Karen sighed again and dropped the blind back in place,
turning to her bedroom and the unpacking that she hadn’t done since she
returned from her trip the day before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She picked up the suitcase, dropping it on the bed, and zipped it
open.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She took the plastic bag of dirty
clothes and dropped it, unopened, in the hamper, and then began removing the
rest of the things, folding, hanging, and dealing with the aftermath of being a
week away from home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She reached the bottom of the case and found the bag of yarn
and day glow and sparkled knitting and crochet needles she’d bought for her
neighbor, and sighed deeply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Usually
when she returned from a trip Mrs. Timbly called her over for food, iced tea,
and a running commentary of what had happened in the neighborhood in her
absence, but yesterday as she stepped from her car, waving at the old lady and
saying hello, Mrs. Timbly ignored her, knitting away, and even the old dog
hadn’t barked to acknowledge that even though he couldn’t see her, he was glad
to hear her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as Karen had moved her
things from the car to the porch, the old woman continued to pretend she didn’t
exist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Karen sat on the side of the bed, the bag of yarn and
needles in her hand, and trying not to remember washing her car earlier and the
pain of her friend ignoring her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’ll
just take them to her,” she decided, speaking under her breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Even if she doesn’t want to be my friend
any longer, I have no use for yarn or needles, and I bought them for her.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her mind made, she stood up, finished the cup of coffee, and
walked with purpose to the front door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She stepped onto the porch, gazing across the street to see that the
woman was no longer in the rocking chair and the dog was gone as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did she know I was coming over, the paranoid
thought flittered through her mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
shook her head, even more determined to give Mrs. Timbly the gifts she spent
time and thought picking out, and started down the stairs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She waited as a couple cars passed; looking at the house
painted in pale yellow with bright green shutters, and a faded red metal roof,
and felt her heart ache to know that this would probably be the last time she
stepped on the porch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tears filled her
eyes as she crossed the street, remembering Mrs. Timbly’s wry sense of humor,
and forgiveness for the new aged things she didn’t quite understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What did I do?” Karen muttered as she
stepped in the yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She walked up the short stairs, soothed by the familiar
creak of the second one, and knocked on the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mrs. Timbly didn’t answer, and she knocked again, harder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Mrs. Timbly, I got that color of yarn you
couldn’t find!” she called out and waited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No one answered, and the old dog didn’t even bark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wiped the tears from her cheeks, dropped
the bag in the rocking chair, and walked back across the street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As she stepped onto the curb she heard
someone calling her name, she turned and saw Connie and Ralph Andrews heading
in her direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Connie and Ralph were
recently retired and spent their days in overflowing gardens around their
house, walking their little dogs, and checking in on their elderly neighbors.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We didn’t know how to get in touch with you,” Connie said
breathlessly, stepping into the yard, her husband struggling to keep up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We just came back from the service.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What service?” Karen asked, feeling as though she was
missing something.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mrs. Timbly, the funeral, the fire….” She trailed off,
looking across the street. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Karen turned slowly, feeling her head begin to buzz and
swirl, and followed Connie’s gaze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
gasped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The house, Mrs. Timbly’s
yellow, green, and red house was a burned out husk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She felt herself falling as little black dots filled her
vision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But…I saw her,” she tried to
say before the day turned to night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Karen woke with several neighbors standing over her, as
Connie wiped her brow with a damp handkerchief slowly turning darker as the
soot was wiped from her face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“She went
quick,” the older woman soothed, using a water bottle to dampen the bit of
cloth to reapplied to her face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“They
say it was the old gas furnace that blew, we heard the explosion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone did, but there was nothing we could
do, the fire was so intense.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Karen sat up, pushing Connie’s hands away from her face, and
saw the white bag of yarn and needles set on what was left of the burned out
porch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But, I saw …” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
The Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31876672.post-43851315619001164732016-06-18T18:01:00.001-05:002016-06-18T18:02:18.336-05:001-800-Pharmacyde<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">1-800-Pharmacyde </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tabby glanced at the calendar on the wall, and then out the
window at the sun low on the horizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Something’s not right,” she muttered, pulling a beer from the fridge
and popping the top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She stepped into
the yard, looking over at the chickens heading to the chicken house for the
night, and checked her watch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Not
right,” she said again, walking to the garden.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The seedlings were just beginning to poke their heads out of
the dirt, but she knew there would be no harvest this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had planted the seeds three months ago
as her father and grandfather taught her to do on the eve of Good Friday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though the official Good Friday had
been removed from the calendar, she kept up with the date as best she could and
had decided it was in April.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She glanced up at the sun again and then down at her
watch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She took a long pull from the
bottle, mourning the struggling plants and shaking her head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I feel insane,” she whispered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Everything has changed.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She been over it again and again with friends and co-workers,
but none of them seemed to remember long summer days when the sun set late,
nearly in the northern part of the sky, or the heat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They said this summer was like all the others, and the media
backed up their beliefs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She watched
the plants, silently encouraging them to grow, as she finished the beer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tabby sighed, and turned from the withering garden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She tossed the bottle in the trash and went
to the shed to retrieve the feed for the chickens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She filled the bowls, refreshed the water, and scattered some
feed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She remembered when the birds
would excitedly talk and pick up every seed, but today they didn’t come out of
their roosts at all, there was no excited chatter, and there were no eggs to be
had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She locked the door to keep the chickens free of predators
and stepped back in the house as the sun fell below the horizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She stepped in her bedroom, pulling a
sweater off a shelf and buttoned it as a shiver worked through her body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She grabbed another beer, remembering days
of working late in the yard and garden, and sat on the couch, turning on the
TV.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The local news had just started and
she dropped the remote beside her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Happy Summer Solstice,” the busty blonde at the news desk
wearing a pink halter-top declared with an overly white, nearly fluorescent,
smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Today the sun set at 3:56 pm
just as usual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And here are pictures
taken all over the world of how the sun lined up perfectly to show things are
just as how they have always been.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There was a slide show of photos from Stonehenge to Manhattanhenge where
the sun rises or sets perfectly on the Solstice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Today, July 29<sup>th</sup> is the longest day, we’ve had 8
hours and 3 minutes of sunshine, actually a minute longer than usual.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She laughed and her breasts bounced, pulling
the eye away from her fluorescent mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“The longest day of the year and here are some photos of how people have
celebrated.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another slide show
appeared of the average Americans cooking on grills, picnicking in parks, and
wet kids shivering as they played in lakes and oceans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The news went to a commercial break and Tabby shook her
head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This isn’t right,” she said
again, walking into the kitchen for another beer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She leaned her head against the door of the refrigerator
listening to the commercials from the other room – “Are your family members
acting strange?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are they saying things
have changed?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are they depressed?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe they just need a change …” Music
swelled and the tone of the speaker softened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Some studies say up to 30% of Americans are suffering under Fact
Rejection Syndrome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>FRS is a
debilitating disorder that often ends in mania and death, but Pharmacyde is the
cure that can change your suffering family member.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Signs of FRS are disremembering events, times, and holidays.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With Pharmacyde they begin to regain
themselves and reality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cherry
flavored powder, when added to food or beverages, will aid you to get your
loved one back on the right path.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tabby pulled her head away from the fridge and then lightly
pounded it on the forgiving wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
briefly remembered summer nights and fireflies, she remembered planting in the
spring and the harvest in the summer, she remembered long hot days, and she
knew she had never turned on the heat in July.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She shivered, and pulled her head away from the fridge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She walked back into the living room,
settling on the couch as the news began again, and pulled a blanket over her to
halt the shivers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The newscaster with bright teeth reappeared wearing an even
smaller halter-top of the same color, and began casting out numbers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“3400 hundred people died today, most by
suicide, others by murder, and a couple hundred were killed by sharks,
alligators, bears, and large cats.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another
slide show began and was filled with people attacked in water or on land by
mammals or cold-blooded creatures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“And
in New Jersey, a woman was killed by a sea turtle,” she continued, as video
showed a woman struggling beside a boat as a turtle pulled her down under the
water over and over again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What the fuck?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Tabby cried out, looking over at the aquarium that held a turtle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The news went back to a commercial break.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Are your family members acting
strange?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are they disremembering events
and times and seasons?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ve set up a
1-800 number to help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pharmacyde is the
only way to cure those suffering…”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tabby thought of what she used to know, how the seasons had
changed, and then glanced at the turtle in the aquarium.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She picked up the phone and dialed
1-800-Pharmacyde.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
The Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31876672.post-37317738170646668532016-04-11T22:38:00.001-05:002016-04-11T22:38:43.421-05:00Dry Rain<div style="text-align: center;">
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</xml><![endif]--><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Dry Rain</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dry rain came, yet no one could see it except the
homeless guy and me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We sat on the
curb, watching the invisible drops crashing through the leaves. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You see that?” he asked, as we shared a cigarette.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, I see it,” I said, watching the women in sun dresses
and the men in khakis go in and out of the stores.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The dry rain is never good,” he said, taking the butt from
my hand and drawing deeply. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What does it mean?” I asked, looking at the road and seeing
no drops of rain splattering on the blacktop, or on the trashcans set in the
gutter waiting for the truck that would come in the morning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“A change, changes always come after the dry rain,” he
licked his lips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Got another
cigarette?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I dug in my
bag, pulling free a pack and handing it to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t know him, he was just a guy I’d seen pushing a shopping
cart to and fro.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes I felt sorry
for him and wanted to run out and give him things … things I couldn’t even
discern, but it seemed he had all he needed in the shopping cart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He took a cigarette from the pack, lighting it with an old
butane silver lighter, which had something engraved on the outside. “Just
watch,” he said, handing me back the pack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I took the box and pulled out a butt and lighted it with a
Bic, settling as well as I could on the curb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Just watch,” the old man said, dragging on a cigarette that
probably only cost me about forty cents, but the cost and the waste made me
nervous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who was this old, unshaved man
pushing a shopping cart down the streets? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Just watch, it’s
like clockwork, once the dry rain comes …. Don’t you see it?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked back at the horizon and at the trees, and saw the
rain falling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked at the ground
and on the street and at the brick before us and saw no evidence of water,
rain, or anything liquid.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s not raining,” I said, settling in on the dirt behind
the curb, resting my old bones into the dirt. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He glanced at me, drawing deeply on the cigarette, his
eyebrows raised.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Now you don’t see
it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You saw it a couple minutes ago.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked into his eyes and wanted to deny what I had
seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to be reasonable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t raining, but I had seen the
rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I shook my head, looking down at
my lap, as a chastised child would do, and then looked into his weary eyes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I saw the dry rain.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He smiled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Keep
watching, it’s always this way.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I found I was almost lying on the dirt in my denial, staring
at the clouds in the sky and I felt drunk, although I hadn’t had a drink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I struggled to sit forward, to observe the
things he wanted me to see, but my stomach retracted and would not bend or
give.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The old man reached for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He smiled as he set me up on my ass, and turned my face to the street
and the things he needed me to see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Just watch.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He pushed my hair
from my eyes, and touched my jaw, making sure my eyes were focused on the
block.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My eyes fell to where some ants struggled on a piece of
something I couldn’t identify in a break in the blacktop crossing the expanse
between us and the shoppers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wake up, girl!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
drunk?” He leaned into my face, and his smell shook me to the core.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was that garlic, onion, or cinnamon?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m not drunk,” I declared, the scent of him sending a
bright light through me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat forward,
my eyes on the place he wanted me to see.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Good to know, just never forget the dry rain.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He pointed to the trees lining the street.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked and saw it again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I wanted to sleep; it couldn’t be real.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He shook my leg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I woke, and observed the trees hanging over the block.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A shiver worked through my body as I saw the
elusive rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turned and studied the
old homeless man who traveled with a shopping cart, and I shook my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Look!” He demanded, and I watched the street filling with
people as the movies, restaurants, stores, and diners closed early, and the dry
rain fell on them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I lifted my eyes for a moment and saw the tree above me, it
was a huge Magnolia, the limbs descending to the ground large enough to lift a
truck, and I saw the dry rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt
drunk, stoned, and crazier than any good acid trip, but I wasn’t – I had simply
stepped outside of the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew
the old man was telling me the truth, he was simply showing me reality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ground called me again, but his hard
bony arms pulled me forward like some skeletal cage. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Look, God Damnit!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked, I watched, and I felt the people thrown from their
regular safe places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw anger, the
stiff backs, the girls falling, and the women wailing. I witnessed three fights
and saw the people slipping on dry ground as I looked above and saw the
invisible rain falling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was reminded
of an ice rink I saw sometime in my past, but there was no ice, no rain, and
yet the people stuttered, slid, and tried to grasp something solid as they left
the familiar places. I glanced at the old man.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“ ‘nother cigarette?” he asked</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I handed him the pack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Keep it,” I said, no longer worried over the cents I may have or may
have not spent. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Take one,” he said, handing me a butt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thanked him, smiling, and happy for my own cigarette.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’ve seen the dry rain.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked above, seeing the rain that didn’t exist crashing
on the leaves, and turning my eyes to the chaos and screaming on the street, I
nodded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Never forget, the dry rain is always about change,” he
laughed, his eyes crinkling and resonating the words. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smiled, laughed, and reached to hug him …</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I woke later, cold and alone, on the sidewalk, and found my
way back into my space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Luckily, it was
my weekend off as I read of the death and chaos that happened outside of my
apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wondered if it was a
dream, if the old guy with the shopping cart was simply an illusion, and I
tried to find peace in the fact that I no longer saw him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spent two days sleeping on the screened in porch listening
for the old man, and heard many who carried his sound, but they were not
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes it was just someone
pushing a lawn mower; sometimes it was someone pushing a broken
motorcycle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The old man is gone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe he disappeared in the chaos that happened in front of my
windows, which made the news.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish
I’d given him more than half a pack of cigarettes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So here I am today, watching the dry rain …. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wonder what he would have said … </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
The Turtle's Voice ishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12092346960223835949noreply@blogger.com0