Pythian Games

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Seeding My Own Dreams

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I took this little seed.  Well, maybe ‘little’ is a misnomer, compared to other seeds.  Comparatively, I am sure this would be considered a large seed.  In my hand, however, it seems so small, much smaller than I am.

I held the seed in my hand and whispered my secrets against its skin.  I told it my dreams, my wishes.  I spoke of my failures, my set-backs.  I told him of my pride and joy, my family.  I whispered tales of forest trails and river treks, of hopeful future plans.

I went out; I bought a special pot for my very special seed.  I painted little designs along the sides of the planter.  I filled it up with premium dirt, taken from my compost bin, ripe with rabbit leavings and trash decomposed into the most fertile earth I could find.  With care, with murmured prayers, I slid the seed in, wrapped it up tight beneath a blanket of dirt.  I added a bit of water, enough to get things incubating.  I left it to its birth.

I didn’t really think all that much about it for a week or two after that.  Of course, I made sure to add water to the mix, once a week, when I watered every other plant in the house, but I didn’t really pay it all that much attention.

Now and then I would catch myself, staring in its direction, my mind racing a million miles away, speeding off on horseback, while in reality I was stuck in my dray city life.  About the tenth or twentieth time I caught myself drifting away, enjoying life in my mind more than in my own body, I started to talk to the seed again.

Once or twice a day, I would sit down, my lips close to the side of the pot, and I would speak from my heart.  Often I would sit there for fifteen or twenty minutes, wishing away, hoping with all my heart, dreaming and praying, knowing there was nothing the little seed could do.  Yet, it made me feel better to speak, to get all my feelings out.

I never thought of what that seed might be enduring, listening to all my endless talk, my vapid chatter.

The seed sprouted overnight, while I was asleep, while I was far from watching.  When I awoke in the morning, it was not a tentative little stalk peeking out of the soil that I saw.  She was a proud tall finger of a plant, reaching up high into the sunlight.  She had six inches of stem and you could see she was still growing.  Her color twisted from an almost white green into a darker yellowy green as she reached up taller.  Indeed, I had to sit and visit with her, to congratulate her, to shower her with love and attention.  This time I spoke of her future, of my dreams for her, of where one day I hoped to plant her, so she could sink her roots into Mother Earth and shoot up into the sky, straight and angular and happy, producing fruits to feed our family, as well as many animal families that there may wander.

Hours later, the first leaf showed, tiny but strong; it slowly unfurled.  By evening, there were three leaves, one larger than the others.  I could see buds forming where new leaves would soon sprout forth.

It was later that night, after I had bid her good night, after I had slid under my own comfortable blankets, as I slipped off out of sight, that I first heard her voice, humming against my ear drums, telling me of her dreams for me, her visions for me.  I smiled, feeling safe, listening to the sage advice of the one who offered my guidance.

I had planted my own prayer tree.  Now it was answering my prayers.  How lucky can this woman be?

Prompt from the SoulFood Alphabet, brought to you by the letter B

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Written by Tabitha Low

September 30, 2010 at 5:44 pm

Cravings of a Kraken

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This is a flash fiction piece that I wrote. Every Friday is #flashfriday on twitter & I started participating to force myself  into the habit of  writing every week. It’s challenging to write a story of 1000 words or less but also fun. It forces you to pick words carefully & throw out junk. I thought I would post it here as well:

With a growl of frustration Cupid paced the room. Bored out of his mind & it wasn’t for the lack of trying. He’d even implied to his mother that Hera had called her plump; she’d merely laughed & continued to flirt with her newest conquest.

“Bored, bored, bored!” he stomped about the room in a tizzy; he threw a stack of papers from his desk & watched them flutter to ground. Flopping into the chaise, he sighed dramatically.  From the corner his eye, he spotted what looked like a fish.  “Hello, what’s this?” as he walked across the room. Indeed it was a fish, a trout more specifically, with a scrawled note pinned to the head.

He prodded & sniffed the fish, it seemed fresh. “Let me see about this note,” ripping it off.  Scanning the first few lines, he danced in the air while laughing.


The note sent was by a kraken, not just any kraken but Poseidon’s.  When the sea-god grew bored or desired a new female conquest, he’d send word to the oracle that a “sacrifice” was required or impending doom would be implied.

Hence, a nubile maiden would be tied, left upon the shore; Damon, the kraken, would swim up, squawk, splash around and “eat” her. In reality, he carted her off safely to Poseidon. This racket had been going on for years without a hitch.

Damon hadn’t asked for anything in return, it never occurred to him. Until one day, he desired to settle down, woo a female and have wee krakens. This was when he’d made a terrible discovery- he wasn’t considered a desirable mate. Too small- that was what they’d all said.

When the last female had wriggled her tentacles in laughter and swam off, he hunted down the best catch he could find and attached the note.  Summing it up, it read something like this;


I’m lonely. I need a mate but I’m too small. I’d like a maiden. Not to eat. For love. Please help me.


Damon (A kraken)

(I found a fish, the best one. Please accept, thank you. Oh, please don’t tell my master, he’d be mad.)


Kore couldn’t believe her luck. “Why me?” she wondered. She was a good citizen, obeyed her father and even had agreed to marry Midas, in spite of his old age, happy hands and obsession with gold.

As the tide moved in, she imagined throttling the oracle. “Stupid oracle, stupid curse, stupid monster!”  Trying to loosen the bonds, without luck, she kicked the sand and screamed.

Swimming closer, Damon could see and hear her. “Oh my, where did she learn those words?” he wondered.  She was, pretty, for a human he supposed. Something was different about her, he pondered and continued closer.

With the kraken approaching, Kore racked her brain for a plan. Nothing. Well, if she was on the menu, she’d at least put up a fight. “Bring it on,” she thought.

As he was wrapping his tentacles around her, she bit him. Damon screeched in pain. No one had fought back before and in surprise, released her.

The two, woman and beast, looked intently at each other. Kore didn’t want eaten and Damon couldn’t return to his master without her. An old woman hobbled towards them, cackling.

“Greetings, from Cupid,” she rasped and remembering the past week, smiled a toothy leer. From his perch in Mt. Olympus, Cupid shuddered; he remembered the week all too well.  Who knew the old woman would have such stamina?

Reaching into her robes, she proffered a vile of bubbling liquid.  Handing it to Kore, she shuffled away before any questions could be asked. Free from her bonds, Kore tossed the bubbling liquid at Damon. Writhing, he began to transform.


Standing before her, Damon.  Although considered small as a kraken, as a man he was a giant.  Curious tattoos covered his body, where tentacles had previously been. Suddenly shy, Kore approached, poked him and stepped back.

Damon was still figuring out the new sensations of being human. He wiggled his toes; fingers and when the female touched him, a strange emotion stirred him.  Uncertain, he reached forward and touched her hair.

Kore shivered when his fingers brushed against her face. Wanting to feel repulsed, instead she blushed at the thoughts that formed in her mind. It didn’t help that his nude form illuminated in the moonlight.  As she tried to cast these thoughts aside, Cupid decided this was an opportune moment to launch an arrow. Not of love, rather a suggestion.

“Oh,” she exclaimed as the arrow struck her. Just at that moment, Damon fell forward on awkward legs and they both tumbled to the ground. Bosom heaving, Kore pulled Damon closer for a kiss.


Cupid fell out of his chair laughing as he heard Poseidon storm the halls. “Zeus!” the sea-god bellowed.  Pandemonium swept throughout Mt. Olympus as the brothers began to shout. “At last,” thought Cupid, ‘some excitement.”

Written by katirra

January 30, 2010 at 6:36 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

I’ll miss Peter Pan

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Mr. Philip David Palmer. Navigator. Beach Trader.  Marine Engineer. Storyteller extraordinaire. 3rd generation immigrant. Friend. Father. Husband. Grandfather…

I heard on SIBC at 145pm, Phil has passed away.

I am uncharacteristically at a loss for words. We have all known that Phil was very ill. A combination of emphysema, numerous cancers, a lifetime of hard living is to blame. I am guessing Phil’s age to about 67 or 68.  I will find out in due course.

For us mortals, the death of a close friend and compatriot is hard. It is even harder when it’s a bloke like Phil…

I have referred to Phil as “Peter Pan” more than once. The entire line is… The Solomon Islands is Never Never Land. You go there and you never grow up. And, of course, Phil Palmer was and remains Peter Pan.

I think of Phil at his funniest… a Cmas party we had on the Gizo depot wharf in about 1998. We had roasted a pig and set up a diving board on the wharf. We had presents for the kids, food for the masses and grog for the likes of Phil and I.

As happens we ended up in a frenzy of everyone throwing everyone in the water. At one point I recall my wife Grace, her sister, Maisy, and a friend, Rachel, getting a hold on Phil and carrying him to the edge and tossing him in. All the while the three women had Phil wrapped up he had a cigarette in his mouth. He playfully puffed away as they tossed him in. He went under the water and, when he surfaced, he still had a dry cigarette burning away.

Of course Phil had done the old “turn the cig around with your tongue” trick. He was an adept at this.

The result was hilarious at the time. Everyone was either impressed, confused or simply frightened (magic blo white man, ia).

Never Never Land will never never be the same without Phil.

Written by nativeiowan

January 29, 2010 at 8:17 am

Posted in Uncategorized

Nubian Song

with 3 comments

Ancient voices in the silent night.
A desert wind.
The rocks are singing
of a people gone.
Mild-eyed cattle wander on
by a quiet waterway.
Faded gods,
eyes that saw a snake within a mountain.
A flash of crimson in an oasis of green.
Ancient voices in the silent night.
A desert wind.
The rocks are singing in the wilderness.

Written by R Harris

January 16, 2010 at 6:03 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

Tire Swing

with 5 comments

Thickest rope,

perfectly knotted,

strategically postioned,

just right. Swoosh!

Spalsh! Warm

creek water ripples.

Written by katirra

November 19, 2009 at 8:57 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

Restoring The Dig Tree

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prompt found at the Dig Tree

I find myself standing amid the debris and destruction that was my dig tree.  I am not disenchanted or downtrodden or sad.  I find that I am feeling strong, happy, hopeful.  I search through the shards and shrapnel of exploded wood with care.  I do not know for certain what it is for which I search, but I am sure I will know it when I see it.  I stand there astounded by how far out the blast area reaches.  Even though the lightning strike had caused a huge contusion, it hadn’t occurred to me that some much could have been thrown so far.  And yet, it obviously had been.  I walk slowly, circling, from left to right, in ever-widening circles, then ever-shrinking circles, over and over again, losing all sense of time and space, going in and going out, as my brain ceases to ponder the whys and wherefores of what happened last time I stood with this tree.   I merely observe and attest to the reality of nothinglessness.

The remainder of the trunk remains attached to the roots seems to be stuck canted half in and half out of the dirt.  I see shriveled blackened roots.  So much of the wood appears to have died long ago, densely choked with noxious black goo, as well as plenty having withered away to tendrils of ash and dust.  However, there is also a lot of healthy growth showing, where there were good times, places where healing continued as best it could under the circumstances.  Even amidst this chaos of death, I can see the tiny fragments of life beading up, demanding their own fighting chance to survive.  I cannot and will not take that from any of them.

I start to think I have spent enough time here, commiserating with the left-overs of the tree.  Apparently, whatever it is I came to find is no longer here.  Or maybe it was the memory alone that I was to gather and hold tight as my own.  I walk away, back towards where I had come from, when I see it, about twelve feet away from the main core of the trunk.  A tiny seedling, gasping with hope and vitality.  My tree does not grow from seed, but from seedling, from an outgrowth from the roots that sends up new shoots at random periodic intervals.  Here I am.  Here is the spark I have been looking for, waiting for, needing to gather up with gracious arms and loving tears, to transplant to another , much safer ground.

With the utmost care and lightest of touches, I clear away the ground, digging around to ensure the safety of the root ball.  The ball of craggly earth that I prise up is nearly three times larger than the sapling itself, but I don’t care.  All I know is I must protect this baby.    I carry it in my arms until I return to my abode, not quite a home, now less than a house since my heart has left it.  I fill a deep wide pot full of the richest soil and plant my tiny tree in the pot, covering it with more fresh dirt and mulch.  I will give it three days to adjust to the changes before I water it, in order to protect the roots that much more, according to the way I was taught by an ancient gardener long ago.

I offer it prayers, send energizing love and sweetest healing powers deep into its roots and its core.  I set crystals around its edges to catch the sun and add that much more healing power and energy to the soil.  I pray over it, weaving ribbons of light around the pot, the trunk and the tiny little leaves that bravely spurn the arena of death we so recently departed.  I know that once I find my Home, I shall dig a wide deep hole and burrow the roots of this tree into the earth there, where I shall nurture and attend to this tree constantly, with all my love and ability.  Where this tree grows shall be my everlasting Home.  Now, in order to protect both this tree and my family, I must look even harder for that home that is meant for us.

drawn and written by Tabitha Kietero

Written by Tabitha Low

August 27, 2009 at 4:43 pm

a minimalist’s pallet

with 2 comments

The sky is awash. Streaks of gray and blue. The world. As far as the eye can see. Muted tones. No bright pastels. Glowing cobalts. Streaks of brilliant light. Not tonight. This eve’s artist is in a gray mood. This eve’s artist is using a minimalist’s pallet. Is using a wide brush. With little color.

The sea is flat. Hardly a ripple on the surface. A mirror. Reflecting the gray sky. A squall hides Simbo. Thick and black. No visible movement. No sound. Just a curtain of a darker shade. Hanging. From sea to sky. Drawn across the view. Hiding something? Protecting what? An evil deed? An act in progress?

The breeze is light. Palms moving leisurely. Lazily. Mountains of clouds build the horizon. Stationary. As though guarding. Protecting. Adding to. Accentuating the over all theme. The preponderance of the vague. A minor statement on a grand scale. A statement of majesty and beauty. Understating the power. Building up. Held. Possessed by. The gray clouds.

The darkness is thick. The gray of the eve has led to impenetrable blackness. Frogs sing. Wind has died down. It started raining. Much needed. Came down pretty good. A nice change from the blistering hot day. Looks like it’s here for the night. A welcome guest. Come, clear the air. Tap-dance me to sleep.

Written by nativeiowan

August 27, 2009 at 8:31 am

Posted in Uncategorized

Glass Prayer

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fused glass dish by Kerry Ellen
fused glass dish by Kerry Ellen

In glass I see wonder and light
Miracle of sand and ashes fired together
Silent serene self-contained
here and now
glass is what it is
and it is beautiful –
it’s been through the fire
it shows its true colors
only its essence is left
what you see is what you get
but keep looking through the layers
and see your soul wrapped in its shroud
the shy mystery and magic within
recycling connections forevermore
to all that was, and is, and someday shall be…
world without end, amen.

by Kerry Vincent (c) 2009

Written by kvwordsmith

August 10, 2009 at 6:52 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

Tagged with , , , , ,

Ripe with Meaning

with 9 comments

 Just sit me on a shelf on a sunny window

Maybe I will ripen or not

But If you forget about me I will rot

I’m here for the tasting now

But I won’t last forever

That’s what they tell me

So taste me now,

Fresh, juicy, succulent,

Fat and full-flavored,

Full of goodness,

Dripping with life,

A peach worth her fuzz

A blackberry worth her thorn

A melon worth her rind

Summer’s almost over

And my life is like

One big fruit salad,

All sizes shapes flavors

Some tart, some sweet

So many tastes to be remembered,

Savored, shared.


by Kerry Vincent (c) 2009

Written by kvwordsmith

August 6, 2009 at 9:19 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

The Difference a Teacher Makes

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by Kerry Vincent, 2009

I have been fortunate to have had many good teachers over the years, but my favorite always has been and will be Jane Ellen Ibur, my teacher and my friend, Janie. Last year, Janie received a well-deserved Outstanding Arts Educator Visionary Award. Her acceptance speech follows, preceded by a few words from me, her grateful student.

Dear Janie, I am so proud I can call you my teacher. As a teacher you probably remember mostly what happens in the classroom – as a student, I know that experience, but also what I carry with me, away from the classroom. It’s not just what teacher tells you, it’s how teachers help you listen to your own voice. For example, last month, when I was at the stained glass conference with people from all over the world, PhDs who are reknown historic stained glass restoration professionals, when we had to go around the room and introduce ourselves, I asked, “How many of you teach?” Over half the room raised their hands. I said, “I’m here because of my glass teacher. She showed me I could learn, but mostly, her passion for glass made me want to learn more.” But before Lynne Ulett (my glass teacher), there was, and always will be , Janie Ibur, saying, long before Barack Obama, “Yes you can.” And maybe, most importantly, “Yes you should – your art is worth doing, your words are worth hearing, your ideas are worth sharing.” So whether it’s poems or fused glass or mastering the art of French cooking, we can do it – but we need a teacher who says, “Yes, you can, yes, you should, now show me what you can do!”

Ladies and Gentlemen, may I introduce Ms. Jane Ellen Ibur…

Visionary Speech by Jane Ellen Ibur

Edward Albee says in Zoo Story … “sometimes you have to go a great distance out of your way to come back a short distance correctly.” Thus have I. A few things I knew for sure at a very early age: I was other, and those things that made me other were not okay, not okay for me to know, to discuss, to have a voice for – so I didn’t know till I met my partner 33 years ago that I was gay, wouldn’t say aloud till recently I live with the parasitic twin of depression, that I am also woman and Jew and none of those things were okay. I also knew I was a poet, that poetry, both reading and writing, saved me, so I was driven to write, to make art from a life and passionate to share my lesson of the transformative affect of art, particularly poetry, on the spirit and how finding a voice through the writing of poetry is finding a deeper way to breathe. I see the other others and to them, I’m a voice teacher, and through some stroke of luck, I’m a magical teacher, teaching through digression, humor, stories, authenticity, shock, singing, torture, prodding, cursing, cajoling, and downright lying. But I worried: was teaching radical enough? The way I teach, yes. I’ve taught ages birth to death, gifted kids to Alzheimer patients, homeless men and prisoners in maximum security. I can make anyone write something that will surprise them, something better than you’ve ever written before. When I returned to teaching after almost 20 years, I came back as a community artist, Ann Haubrich was there to hook me up with the jail, the CAT Institute, and a ton of varied gigs that I always said yes to and had to live up to. So I do. I guarantee my work. A prisoner student from last years said: “…In the St. Louis County Justice Center we were held as society’s trash in a lawless landfill, but Ms. Janie recycled us through writing. … . There was so much inside me that needed to be released. There was so much pain that needed to be converted. There was so much negativity that needed to be turned positive…. Ms. Janie helped us all reach deep down inside ourselves and reveal the true us to the many facades of hip talkin’, gold teeth, tattoo wearing, tough guys that really needed a road to redemption. That road was writing and Ms. Janie pointed us in the right directions, but it was up to us to take that first step.” Thanks Ann, for all your support over the years, for making us the Click and Clack of Literature on the radio. Quote: Pierre Reverdy says “…without doubt, a poet is not by definition one of the most perfect social beings, and if (s)he does not adhere to the order and if its injustice wounds the poet and throws (her)him outside of the degrading rights of society, (her)his work, which is a means of inserting and incorporating h(er)imself socially, recaptures for (her)him definitely a place in this society.” To the criminal, the homeless, the mentally ill, the elder, the seeker, the child, to all the others that I am, I raise our voices to say Thank you for recognizing us. I am abashed and deeply moved.

Jane Ellen Ibur

Written by kvwordsmith

August 4, 2009 at 6:57 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

Morning poem

with 5 comments

Free floating anxiety stresses around

until it finds a mark

-money – now there’s an issue –

there’s never enough of that

and I could always worry some more

about what a bad mother I’ve been.

There’s always fuel for that fire.

I could resurect some memory

of a mortifying moment from my past,

give it a twist,

and cast myself,yet again,

into a position of failure.

The list of potential worries

is endless really.

It’s only limited by my imagination.

Then again –

it’s a late winter morn.

Gnarled old fruit trees reach for the skies

branches bare of leaves.

Sprays of white blossom catch the light

punctuating the twisted black stems.

Birds tweet and warble.

Dew clings to the unmown lawn

– a carpet of sparkles.

The tin roof on a neighbouring cottage

is shadowy. Icy.

A climbing rose reaches  out towards it,

one lone bloom trembling.

Live in the moment, the holy men say.

They have a point.

Written by Suzanne

July 27, 2009 at 11:22 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

The Pond

with 6 comments

The Pond

Like Ghosts in the water

they come and they go,

to and fro,

in light and in shade.

They’re there for the looking,

but take your finger,

ripple the surface,

watch them scatter and dive

into the murky depths

to hide where it is,

they think, safe.

Never knowing in their tiny brains

there are denizens waiting,

just waiting

to swallow in one gulp,

lunch, dinner, and supper.

Then those that were there

truly are

Ghosts in the water.

Would that we humans

had such tiny brains

that we too,

could live

in the moment

and not concern ourselves

with an uncertain and scary future.

But the thought of that too,

is scary.

Vi Jones

©July 25, 2009

Written by woodnymph

July 26, 2009 at 4:14 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

Oh, the Things I’ve Seen

with 4 comments

During the end of my career as a state employee, I worked across the street from the State Capitol of California.


Every day brought a new adventure at the Capitol, be it a demonstration or presentation. “Breasts Not Bombs” brought hoards of men to the west steps of the Capitol. One couldn’t help but notice there were very few women. Instead of the bare breasted women that had been arrested at a demonstration in another city weeks before, the men saw other men and a few women wearing plaster casts of mammary glands.

I really enjoyed the “presentations.” There was usually free stuff. On those days I would cross the street, walk through the beautiful Capitol park, and find which of the four sides of the Capitol had the freebies. Sometimes it was a health fair or an event put on by a corporation. Once it was Planned Parenthood of America and there were goodies galore geared toward sex education for high school students. Now don’t be afraid when I tell you there were some interactive demonstrations at this event…Noting there was a large group gathered near one booth, I became curious. I found myself a place near the back of the crowd where I could see. (It’s good to be tall.) There was a young woman blindfolded. I had raise myself on my tippy toes to see what she was doing. Oh, she was putting a condom on a banana while her classmates teased her ruthlessly.

Some of the events were quite touching. Like the one that was held on the north side of the Capitol where there were small coffins placed on the lawn. They represented the number of people who were the victims of violent crimes.

The one event that affected me more than any other was on the south side, but a half block down from the Capitol. It was a huge labyrinth made of shoes. There were shoes that lined the sidewalk and path to the labyrinth…thousands of shoes. They were the shoes of ordinary people that had died in Iraq…their actual shoes. Next to those were boots…hundreds of pairs of boots. The boots of the soldiers that had died in Iraq.

As I walked the labyrinth, I cried and couldn’t stop. Thankful that it was a Saturday, I let the tears flow. The shoes of all the children was what had pierced my heart. Some of them were so tiny. I think I must have shed a tear for each pair of shoes, each pair of boots that day.

My all time favorite day was on the west steps of the Capitol. The Tibetan Monks were there. They traveled around the U.S. sharing the wisdom of Tibetan Buddhism and making sand mandalas, selling their many splendored hand made crafts to raise money for their monastery in Dhamsala, India near the home of the Dalai Lama. This day, however, the monks were there to chant, blow their massive horns, and pray. And let me tell you, if there is any place that needs prayers it is the place where the lawmakers of California do their work.

After all the chanting, prayers, and horn playing of the monks in their full regalia consisting of their saffon robes and big taco shaped yellow hats with the fringe on top, we took them on a tour of the inside of the Capitol. As they followed me into the Senate Chambers, I turned to watch. The monks all shuddered as though passing by the ruins of a great tragedy. Lobsong, the monk I had known for many years, noticed me trying to hide my snickers. He said the place didn’t feel good. I gave them a brief explanation of what took place in the chambers then had them all look up at the ceiling to see the gargoyle that was placed there to remind the head of the Senate to be humble. It was a real challenge for the interpreter to find a word for gargoyle. Before the monks left, they asked if they could pray in there. I thought so since the Senate was out of session. There was almost regret as a fear the prayers would take hours!

Just after I returned to work after recovering from my broken leg, I was treated to an event on the other side of the building away from the Capitol. It was a movie premiere starring John Travolta, Uma Thurman (whose father incidentally is an expert in Tibetan Buddhism) and The Rock (yum!) in a comedy/crime movie, “Be Cool.” I was always the last person out of the office, so I though I would stay even later and check it out from my fourth floor window. The police were out in full force and so were the protesters as the Governator (as we call him) wanted to cut the salaries of the workers employed by the State of California. Sitting there waiting to see the celebrities, I learned all songs and chants of the state employees gathered in protest. (This was in 2005. I wouldn’t want to hear what they would be chanting now!) Anyway, it was facinating watching the police, listenting to the protesters, calling my friends to tell them what I was doing.

 All of a sudden I hear the pounding of footsteps on the floor above me which happened to be the roof!  I wasn’t sure if I should open the window and scream for the police…oh, yeah they were painted shut. As my mind ran through a series of explatives, I suddenly recalled that the agents had come into the office asking for roof access and talking with our parole agents about security stuff. Whew! Then I was thinking that here I was sitting in the dark (so I could see better-no reflections) on the windowsill of an office building that should have been vacant and if anyone shot the Governor, I would be first on their list of subjects. I imagined myself being drug out of the place (sans crutches or cane) thrown into an interrogation room for 100 hours and I hadn’t eaten dinner! Maybe I should go through the refrigerator in the break room and eat what was in there. I could apologize to those whose future lunch I ate. They would understand…

The crowd grew into a frenzied roar as the Governor and The Rock entered the reception tent in front of the theater. Crap! (and stronger explatives) I sat on a thin windowsill trying to get comfortable with a nearly healed broken leg, an empty stomach, and the threat of the secret service over my head (literally) and handsome Johnny wasn’t there? I mean The Rock is a hunk and a fine speciman of a man, but he’s no Travolta…and Arnold Schwartzenegger? Neither was he! (He’s not as tall as one would think.)

Now that I am retired, I look back on the police on horseback,


the convoy of vehicles that came out of the underground garage whenever Governor Schwartzenegger exited the premises, the occasional bagpiper walking through the gardens, and the many random demonstrations and events that took place and I miss it all. (And yes, even I joined a demonstration for a cause I felt strongly about.) But, that is about all I miss about working and my old office moved several blocks away anyway.

I will always miss Rocky, who I got to know while pretending to be a paparazzi outside a restaraunt where the Governator was dining. I didn’t get a photo of the Gov as he was behind a vehicle taller than him; however, I believe that Rocky was trying to tell me something…What’s on his mind?


Written by Sally

July 21, 2009 at 8:08 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

Creative Armour

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Cruising around SFC I came across the Creative Armoury link and read:

In this project the object is to protect the fragile creative spirit from attack by disparaging forces.

The idea of armour and protection reminded me of a photograph of unusual armour I recently saw on a web site for the Museum of Victoria.  The armour dated from the 1850s and came from  the Gilbert Islands in the Pacific.  The islanders were very war like and made body armour from woven coconut fibre and dried shark skins.  Helmets were constructed from the skin of Puffer Fish.

‘Ah, perfect armour for my Piscean self,’ I thought and then proceeded to wonder if I really was a fish what kind of fish would I be.  I decided I would like to be a flying fish that was equally at home in air and water.

All this thinking about fishy armour resulted in these pages in my sketch book.  (My sketch book is larger than my scanner so they haven’t scanned very well).

Flying fish

Here’s the link that will take you to a photograph of the Puffer fish helmet.

Written by Suzanne

July 18, 2009 at 3:52 am

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I wonder why

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Beware of self-importance. Did I say that wrong? Yes? Sorry. Thanks.  Beware of self-impotence. The ancient Seers said. It was the image of The Self. An anchor. In truth. It is, they said. Beware. The image of Self is attractive. It can be wounded. Demeaned, conditioned. Desires, propensities, needs. All as important as The Self.

Did I say that wrong? Yes? Yes. Sorry, again. Thanks, again. All as impotent as the self. They spoke of being balanced. Aware. The world around us. One’s personal environment. Being balanced and aware. On guard. Protecting our self-impotence. To think, a personal insult. More threatening than. What? A touch’n go near-miss on the freeway?

The Seers. The Shamans of old. Viewed things from a different angle. The sense-of-self was an anchor. An impediment. Foolishly accepted. Fiercely protected. Cherished. Lovingly cultivated in our garden of self-impotence. But why? Because our elders did thus? Traumas are real. But somethings we agree to accept. Fear to lose. Protectively hoard. I wonder why.

I wonder. A lovely day. The Point Crux Beach. Savo, five miles distant. Could I swim that far? I know a guy. Swam from Kolombangara to Gizo. A fund raising activity. It took nine hours. Could I swim to Savo? With a bit of training? But I wouldn’t do it jeans. Or with a weight-belt.

I wonder why. We go through life. “Carrying the weight of the Worlds”. And perversely enjoying every step. I recall an old Mantra, “When you seek it. You cannot find it. Your hand cannot reach it. Your mind cannot exceed it. When you no longer seek it. It is always with you.” I wonder why.

Written by nativeiowan

July 14, 2009 at 12:19 pm

Posted in Uncategorized