by

anita marie

I have so many wonderful Halloween Memories…

this is one of them

and it concerns:

Lizzie Borden

Today I read about a Lizzie Borden Halloween Prop that costs THOUSANDS of dollars.

Robot Lizzie swings an Ax up and down.

Sure, whatever.

When I was a kid this family had a Haunted House set up in their basement and the Dad used to dress up like Lizzie and chase people around with an ax and he’d be screaming ” Forty Whacks! Forty Whacks for you all!”

And the entire time he- well, she is doing that, we’d be screaming for Jesus and our Moms and diving under furniture and swinging our plastic pumpkins like around medieval war weapons and trying to climb out the windows.

I wouldn’t trade that memory for anything-

not even for THOUSANDS of dollars.

amm

I recall the joy of joining Soul Food Cafe, becoming a raven, winning a Laurel Crown.  I dared to share a story, a piece of stained glass, wrote 3 identity poems, all different, all generously received and commented.  And then, the gift of the muse, my were pen character – birthed by the Enchanteur’s Journey – discovered in the catacombs – and another gift character, Gravel Gertie, the wise woman, who met me at Mudjimba Beach…

   But where was Gertie?  I looked at her chair, but it was empty.  There was her tea cup, still warm and fragrant with essence of tangerine, some wheat toast crumbs on a plate, but no Gertie.

   “Looking for someone?” asked a familiar voice.
   I turned, and there she was – my were pen.
   “Have you seen Gertie?” I asked.
   “Seen her? Kezza, I CREATED her. I brought her into this story, and I can take her out.”
   “What are you talking about?”
   “Everyone was liking her so much, they forgot about me.  Even you – don’t deny it! – Especially you!”
   “I thought you were on sabbatical, or resting…”
   “Nice try, but no cigar.  You wanted to get rid of me. Everybody likes the wise old crone archetype, a shortcut to the wisdom of the ages and all that. That Gertie was upstaging me – so - I wrote her out of the script.”
   “WHAT?”
   “You heard me.  No more Gertie, no more wise woman.  You’ve got to figure things out for yourself now.  You are on your own, baby.”
   “But how will I find my way without her?”
   “You didn’t listen to her much.  Gertie was all about telling you to trust your instincts, be true to yourself, you have what you need right inside you.  Were you sleeping through class?”
   “No, I, I was listening, I’m just scared.”
   “So Gertie was wasting her time, you didn’t learn anything.”
   “I learned so much!”
   “You were supposed to learn how to trust your own creative voice.”
   “How do YOU know what Gertie was trying to teach me?  You weren’t here.”
   The were pen lowered its voice and said, laughing, “Pretty good is hard to beat…”
   It sounded just like Gertie!
   “Slowly the light dawns.  Yes, Kezza, I am Gertie, too.  I guess you forgot about my shapeshifting abilities?  I’m a were pen – I write fiction – I can be anything your imagination dreams up.  You just have to use me to put your thoughts down.”
   “You’re Gertie? And my were pen?”
   “Yes.  And we are both products of your creative imagination.  You created us – so, you are Gertie, and your were pen, and anything else you care to think up – all rolled into one big ball of ‘What happens next’.  Gift of the Muse and all that…”
   I jumped when the whistle blew on the tea kettle.  I poured water over a tea bag and sat down.  “This is going to take some time to settle in…”

(c) 2008 Kerry Vincent

Memories…. well I have been within the Soul Food community for under a year, yet length of time belies the steps taken since embarking on my first journey guided by Le Enchanteur.   At the beginning I was somewhat lost with a deep sense of personal disconnection.  How that situation has changed!  As I journeyed through the portal arriving at Rainbow Beach and on, via the Market, Docks and Pageant to Mudjimba little was I consciously aware of what was actually taking place.  I thought I was telling a story…of course I was, but the story is very much a part of me.  I have woken up, clichéd perhaps but nevertheless true.  I am much surer of the creative path I want to tread.   I have been reminded of that which I forgot and as this journey to Mudjimba started with a dream it is fitting that a new journey will take me, perhaps in the guise of another, into the dreamingtime.

Jill

Sometimes it was just fun to be playful and take Hilda a character who had been sitting on my flickr pages and when she heard of soulfood prompts and a rainbow beach well she came out to play for a teddy bear’s picnic with a difference.

The memory stream flows quickly as I dip my fingers in.

1. Sister Basket

In the journey of memory I look into my sister basket, because first I need to find my soul’s inspiration a carpet snake weaves back and forth.

Sister Basket piece

2. Rain

I check out the rain and it questions me as does a reflection that may or may not be my own…

Rain Mirror piece

3. Tuesday Trees

Entering the contemplation of the Tholos stories are born and develop over a few days or a few weeks.

Then there is a tram travelling through the Tholos and there are the Tuesday trees.
A little girl called Jamilla has come into being. [I can't share this story here yet, as it's entered in a competition- but I will when I can.]

4. Hilda’s Adventures

I am so happy to have Hilda, hop on a boat and head out to meet some pirates. She is brave teddy.
Hilda’s Adventures Beginnings

5. Tree or pebble

I realize I have followed a pebble tossed from being in the Lemeuria and many other spaces in the soul food space, I wrote of identity — hmm I had a hard time making up my mind but that tree image kept coming back even as I thought of pebbles, birds of paradise and lots of other things beside. Oh my goodness so many trees- Kauri pines, tuesday Trees. how I love to sit by the trees. I am so thankful that Enchanteur and were pen and so many other friendly characters and people came out to help me in my journey.

Inside I am . . . (there are so many days to think what we really are?)

Starting with a visualization to activate each participant’s memory about their loved ones, whether personal or hospice patients, we all thought of eight people we wanted to remember, and a few words about each that reminded them about what they received as a legacy from the person.  The legacy might manifest as an idea, a trait, or an actual item; such as, a recipe, a love of cooking, or a well-used rolling pin. 

I previously drew eight circles of varying sizes, on a piece of paper, with each circle touching the next, forming a completed chain.  This would become our necklace.  The largest circle in the necklace was generally reserved for a personal loved one, with the others filling in for hospice patients. 

The grief of hospice workers, and other nurses, doctors, and aides, etc., is considered disenfranchised grief—not acknowledged as real grief since the health care worker only knew the patient for a relatively short time compared to if the person was a beloved parent, spouse, child, grandparent.  However, one can become quite close to someone and still need to deal with their loss when it occurs.  When the losses are ongoing, as with health care workers, and one is then on to the next patient, those losses aren’t acknowledged and dealt with, and so accumulate, leading to eventual burnout.   So I try to allow the volunteers an avenue to know it is all right to grieve for patients, to provide an avenue in which to grieve and express that grief in a different way each year.  We’ve done “Legacy Writing,” “Ethical Wills,” “Rekindling,” “Inner Child” and many others in the six years of having Volunteer Retreats.

We each wrote the name of the remembered person in one of the circles.  Then we perused magazines to find pictures or words describing the person and their legacy to us, or used colored pencils or crayons to draw pictures or words.  There is something so therapeutic in using scissors and colored pencils, in smelling glue and crayons that takes us back to childhood.  The volunteers know by now every creation made at our Retreats is considered a work of art, and so have resolved any lingering critical voices in their heads from childhood.  Even the men get involved with creating and sharing.

Snip, snip, snip go all the scissors.  Sniff, inhale deeply beloved smells of childhood.  Oh! Look at this! Wow! intersperse the proceedings as people move about seeking the perfect picture or accessory like ribbons or beads, small flowers or feathers, yarn or thread, crayon or colored markers.  Anyone see a lilac bush in bloom?  How about a man fishing?  Here’s a woman baking.  Who was looking for that?  Looking for oneself as well as looking to help others.  Sharing as part of the process of creating, usually considered a solitary activity.  And sometimes it got quiet as each was busy getting it “just right.” 

Finally finished, or as finished as it can be in the allotted hours.  I asked each to bring in a fairly recent picture of themselves.  Now those pictures were glued into the middle of the picture, and we each truly had a pearl necklace going around our necks: a descansos of our legacy from losses of loved ones.

Then the verbal sharing started.  Each, in describing their necklace, gave a eulogy for the pearl-people (in their necklace), telling of the legacies they received from each, telling stories and activities, sharing the love they felt with others in a setting where they were really listened to.  And what stories!  Fortunately, I brought many boxes of kleenex, which were needed during the three hours of sharing.  Powerful legacies from patients one was with only a short time but where a real connection was built, showing we might never realize the influence we can have on others.  Three hours later, we all felt as if each of us had honored our loved ones in a eulogy sometimes more pertinent to the person than that done by the “professionals”—ministers and funeral directors.  Our hearts filled with inspiration and the goodness of so many people, including the volunteers telling their stories.  Truly “A Day of Remembering”, by making a pearl necklace, a descansos of our loved ones.

This was so therapeutic I went on and made a pearl necklace honoring my personal loved ones and using their pictures as part of each pearl, as well as individual collage cards honoring my memories of each person and their legacy.

Thalia   (http://healinghaven.wordpress.com)

Keep on riding bareback until you are free
through the wilderness
all around you and me.

Keep on riding bareback until you can write
and writing is no longer
a fight or your only light.

Keep on riding bareback until you reach the sea
and see the journey was your liberty.

Keep on riding bareback through your first draft
realise when it’s time to polish your craft.

Keep on riding bareback like those of the past
like those of the future,
like those of the present
you won’t be the last…

(c) June Perkins

Spring is approaching
in the southern
hemisphere -
baby lilacs
are stirring beneath
the green cover,
in the beautiful dark earth,
wondering
how and when
they will best bloom out,
they wait and
dream,
following the signs
and beat of nature.
The dream of
them, the wild
scent, is
our anticipation.

copyright Monika Roleff 2005

This memory poem is special because now I finally have lilacs and am watching them grow out in Spring again, and it seems to be full circle, like many things in Lemuria.  And Spring is a season, that no matter what, speaks of new hope and new life. 

My Italiano - Lemurian Abbey Archive, Tuesday July 26th, 2005

 

You stressed and strained

against them,

- male or female -

you stressed and strained.

Your beauty and your art,

was razed by gravity -

to flit about with paint and toy with words? -

get thee to the marketplace and into

the arenas of politics! Go!

But your art and beauty is

held in safe reserve, my Italiano, mine.

You saw, you admired, you breathed,

You know the secret heart.

You mourned, and that was so.

Appropriate, indeed.

But heed the current time of day,

and unlace the bridles of old.

The things of soul grow richer

still, my noble Italiano, with age,

and reveal the integrity of your

self-inquisition.

copyright Monika Roleff 2005.

(image courtesy Google Art Search.)

This was a breakthrough piece, as I claimed creativity both sides.  In some ways it reminds me of an old song.  I love the Renaissance period, and all things Italian.

Orpheus Again – Lemurian Mysteries Archive, Thursday July 28th, 2005.

orpheus:

Where is he?
Did the maenads
tear him apart again
with their glazed eyes?

 

No,
that is a cycle play -
a drama,
that goes under
and up again. 

Evergreen,
he is everywhere
and grows
with or
without our
attentions.

Yet better
with them.
{Open your eyes
and see.}

copyright Monika Roleff 2005.

Fascinated by Orpheus, and have delved into the meaning of this amazing figure many times, and still do.

The Life of Imogen Crest – Lemurian Mysteries Archive, Sunday July 31st, 2005.

Incense mystified the enigmatic
halls where I once roamed,
a novice, dressed in
robes.

By book, my scroll,
my pen and dark ink,
my wayward hound and cat,
my pillow of spun silk in red,
the fragrant
rose of lavender.

 

I am a frieze on a
plastered wall,
still wandering
in my halls and alleys,
cloistered there,
to surmise, not judge.

 

I am neither you
nor I, cast of
many colours
and skeins.
You might see me in
a tapestry of days?

I saw the rose beginning to
bloom,
I saw the stone on the
tomb,
I saw my knight laid
still,
Rusty hill.

Tonight I think
to spin straw
into gold,
and drop my silken
locks,
on some
poor merchant’s sill.

Yours, only for now,
in good faith,
- Imogen Crest.
copyright Monika Roleff 2005.

This was pretty important, as it was on this date I contacted my muse, Imogen Crest, Hermit, and created a world around her.  It doesn’t seem that long ago, but then she is timeless, too, which is interesting.

And lastly one that describes the Hermitage, where Imogen Crest finds out more about solitude and peace.  All these posts are self defining and carry wonderful memories.  The year 2005 was the year I joined Soul Food and it was a very good year for me, very rich in every way.

The Peace of Imogen Crest – Lemurian Hermitage Archive, Saturday August 6th, 2005.

 

 

A Persian rug,
a fireside,
rains sifts down outside,
making the green brighter,
the water is still,
a mirror for the soul.

The light is soft,
a candle flame,
pine cones gather on
the hearth stone,
a book is open
with ancient leaves.

A bowl of flowers,
the tick of hours -
never noticed here -
as they drift in
silent space.

The old stone walls,
the sheltering halls,
the absence of calls,
the noon of wars,
it’s perfect here,
with spirit near -

Yours, – most
peacefully,
- Imogen Crest.

copyright Monika Roleff 2005.

 

STORIES FROM THE “FAR AWAY TREE PROJECT”

by

ANITA MARIE MOSCOSO

FIRST PUBLISHED AT THE SOUL FOOD CAFE

january 2006-march2006

“as part of

“THE FARAWAY”

Journey

BEWARE OF FARAWAY

Hidden from the safe roads and safe streets and quiet parks and green forests and the sunlight is my hometown…its called Faraway and no one comes here on purpose.

Maybe it’s because everything here is covered with dust…the people, houses buildings trees and plants. I guess it could be because no one speaks loudly here, no one is awake here. Faraway is the place where nightmares live and once you’ve been to Faraway you can never really belong anywhere else again.

So what do we do here, Faraway from the rest of the world?

When the sunsets we like to go out to the Middle of the Desert where the Wells of Angra Lei are and we drop stones down into them and listen to them fall and fall and fall and sometimes we swear you can hear them hit the bottom…but of course that’s not true.

These Wells have never held water and they are out here, away from anything alive for a reason.

The air that comes up from the Wells of Angra is so poisonous one whiff could melt your heart in your chest and your poor eyes would run like rivers down your cheeks. Nothing has ever come up from those wells except for Death…and why should that surprise you?

It has to come from somewhere…Death you see comes from Faraway.

My Mother use to visit the Wells during the daylight, she would lean over the sides and whisper things down into the Wells and sometimes she would laugh and sometimes she would curse but she did it by daylight.

She was also very, very insane.

She was from Faraway and nothing here is familiar or safe.

 Nothing Faraway is what you think it is.

Living in Faraway will change you.

Being from Faraway will damn you.

Like it did to my Mother…and like it did to me.

And what it will do to you too, if you’re not careful of Faraway.

FARAWAY AT MIDNIGHT

                           
There is a woman who is voiceless from wailing and wasted from weeping and Death visits her from Faraway at Midnight.

Death finds her in her long dead garden tending to weeds and thorns and sticker bushes and poisonous plants and as she harvests and picks and adds each deadly plant to her basket woven from human hair Death shudders and hides in the Shadows and is grateful the Woman can’t see him.

All the same she knows Death is there and when she senses it, she reaches into her basket and lifts one of the plants to her lips and pushes it into her mouth. She chews and swallows and screeches into the darkness, “ Where are you? Why aren’t these working…someone tell me why this isn’t working! “

Death would squeeze it’s eyes shut if it had eyes, so instead it raises it’s pale cold hand to it’s empty eye sockets and covers it’s face the best it can. It’s fingers press against it’s mouth and it does this to keep from calling out, from screaming because the Woman who is voiceless from wailing and wasted from weeping is a corpse and a shell and once long ago she murdered a man.

He was the husband of a woman who came from a place called Sawajinn, and a very long time ago the former resident of Sawajinn cursed the woman who is voiceless from wailing woman over her husband’s poisoned body

Her curse was simple and horrible.

The Weeping Woman would never die; she would never meet her own Death.

Instead she was cursed to meet her victim’s Death.

His Death comes from Faraway every night at Midnight and watches her from the upper branches of a dead twisted oak tree. Of course his Death can’t take her, it only visits her and then it leaves her at each sunrise.

Before it leaves Death shows her something it carries in its left hand.

It shows her a small bottle of white powder and it holds it up and the Woman sees it. She knows what it is, the little bottle once belonged to her, after all.

She puts her hands out and calls, “ Please, please give it to me, take me with you. I can’t live like this anymore! “

Death can see her in the half light and it can see the maggots and flies tangled in her hair, crawling from the corners of her eyes. It can smell her flesh rotting on her bones and it can hear the skin on her legs and back splitting apart.

I’m not your death. But I’ll visit you, I’ll never stop visiting you.”

“ I can’t.”

And as the Sunlight works it’s way into the shadows cast by deadly sweet blossoms and fragrant green leaves dripping with deadly venom Death leaves for Faraway and the woman who is voiceless from wailing and wasted from weeping begins her wait for Death to visit at Midnight.

NIGHTFALL FROM FARAWAY

In my hometown, which is a place called Faraway, a man named Mr. Nightfall stands under a pear tree full of light green poisonous fruit and waits for the Sun to set.

Mr. Nightfall is my neighbor and our streets, like all the other streets in Faraway are lined with deadly fruit trees and deadly gardens. All these dark shady places are kept and tended by people with pale faces and empty eyes and here in our town Faraway no one is Sane and no one really lives because no one is really alive.

When Mr. Nightfall comes from Faraway sometimes he brings storms and in that wildness all you’ll see, all you’ll hear is Mr. Nightfall. You’ll know he’s coming and worst of all you won’t be able to stop him.

When Mr. Nightfall crosses your path and he settles over your town you’ll know he’s there because your skin will start to feel to tight and you won’t be able to pull air into your lungs.

Everything will seem…very Faraway.

That’ when you’ll know Mr. Nightfall is close enough to put out his cold, dark hand and lay it over your shoulder.

Once I followed Mr. Nightfall to a city with stores and cars and a coffee stand where the woman who served me wore a picture on her chest of a creature with stars in her hair.

 I asked if the creature in the picture was from the Well of Angra Lei and the Woman squeezed the cup of coffee so tight at the sound of my voice that the top popped off and the scalding hot coffee filled her eyes and mouth and she didn’t cry out. Not even a little

The woman had turned to stone, her face was frozen into a mask and her eyes had rolled up into her head and I could hear her someplace deep inside screaming and screaming and screaming and she will never stop.

They never do when they are taken Faraway.

Mr. Nightfall didn’ come back for me, he never turns back but he did call out to me and I followed him through the town and the entire time he cursed and spat and hissed like one of the cats that’ not really a cat from back home in Faraway and he said, “They know I’m coming.”

“Of course they know you’re coming Mr. Nightfall, don’t they always?”

“No, not like this they haven’t known me like this for centuries I don’t like this Miss Praecox. No I don’t like it at all.”

This time the people in this little town by the sea knew Mr. Nightfall was coming. There were candles in windows and there wasn’t a soul on the street. They were locked behind doors and the curtains where drawn and they knew they were very aware Nightfall was coming.

As Mr. Nightfall crossed the city I stopped here and there and looked in windows and when I could I found people and I touched them, carefully, quietly with my left hand and I told them my name and their minds stopped liked old clocks.

I could hear it loud as thunder as gears and cogs and wheels that turn their minds
ground to a halt and I could hear what they took with them to Faraway.

My name.

” Enjoying your visit Miss Praecox?”

” I always do Mr. Nightfall.”

He reached out to pat me on the head and thought better of it, ” Just like you’re Mother, we were a team in our day to. We worked well together.

The Praecox have always done their best work with Nightfall.”

” So what’s happened here Mr. Nightfall, where is everyone?”

He held a newspaper up and showed it to me. I couldn’t read it of course and he ran a cold dark finger under the headline and read it to me.

” Hurricane Force Winds Strike Seattle, Power Outages State Wide, locals ready for Nightfall and freezing temperatures. They were ready for me this time. Lord I hate the press”

” Killjoys” I said with feeling.

” Well, there’s always tomorrow, isn’t there Miss Demetia Praecox?”

I agreed because everyone knows Nightfall comes from Faraway and sometimes it brings madness with it and it always will.
                           
 

A STRANGE CHAPTER FROM THE STRANGE STORY OF

RIVERSLEIGH MANOR

Mr. Erasmus Undercroft tends the cemetery in a place called Faraway.

He’s the Chief Gravedigger, the Lead Mortician and sometimes the Sole Mourner and Mr Undercroft smiles no matter what his duties are on any given day.

This is Mr Undercroft’s Home and he always welcomes visitors.

So go ahead and take a walk down that little white gravel path that runs like an artery choked with blood through this dark place in Faraway and you will come to a chapel with no windows that sits in the back of Mr Undercroft’s Cemetery.

It’s hidden among the nightshade and Wolfsbane and bright white flowers that smell faintly of smoke and no matter the time of day it’s always Nightfall here.

After you’ve made your way this far go ahead and enter the vestibule and you might see a dark blue casket with bright silver handles sitting all alone in the center of the Windowless Chapel.

If you are feeling overly confident go inside the Chapel itself and look down into the the casket and laying there in his finest, blackest funeral wear is a tall thin man who’s pale thin hands are crossed over his narrow airless chest.

That man is Mr. Erasmus Undercroft.

Let me prepare you; he will be smiling and his eyes are shut but you know he can see you all the same.

Once long ago before Mr. Eramus Undercroft came to Faraway he lived in a town called Riversleigh.

He tended the gardens at Riversleigh Manor until the day the Servants all disappeared and upon discovering “ something horrible in the Shed” the Riversleigh Family was scared enough to leave their home in the darkness and by foot to the next town which was twenty miles away.

The only living thing the Police found at the Manor was Mr Undercroft standing alone in his Gardener’s Shed smiling.

The headlines of the town’s newspaper declared:
” Where are the Servants of Riversleigh? “
The mysterious question has been answered by
Grisly Find in the Gardner’s Shed…

“ What did you do to them Mr. Undercroft?” the Law had asked, “ What did you do to all 35 of those poor Souls?”

Mr. Undercroft opened his hand and dropped something onto the table and smiled his cadaverous smile and said, “ Why I sent them Faraway.”

On the table were teeth, 7 teeth and from then on for a very long time Riversleigh Manor was called “The House of the Seven Teeth” and no one locked the doors of Riversleigh
Because nobody would go near the house that went on living after everyone in it had died.

Eventually Mr. Undercroft went Faraway too, but before he left he stayed for a short time in a place called the Prefontaine Asylum for the Criminally Insane in a town called Ravenswood.

When the staff there disappeared and the Patients were found wandering the treacherous hillsides it was quickly noticed that all two hundred of them were all missing their left eye the people of Ravenswood decided it would be best to not go looking for Mr. Eramus Undercroft.

They hoped and hoped he was Faraway…and he was.

That was long ago and now in the shade and fog shrouded village of Faraway Mr. Eramus Undercroft drives a black hearse that is so dark it’s invisible when the sunsets and the sun always sets when it knows Mr. Undercroft is out. He digs graves and feasts on the poisonous fruits that grow in Faraway and when it rains the little droplets of water hiss against his skin.

Mr. Undercroft’s best friend is a man called Mr. Nightfall and when he’s lonely he calls on Miss Praecox and they picnic in the ruined Cemetery Mr. Undercroft calls home.

Across the street from the Cemetery is a little house painted light blue.

It looks empty and should be empty but of course it’s not.

It’s the home Mr.Anthropophagite and Mr. Undercroft has admired Mr.Anthropophagite for a very long time. He just wishes that his pale friend wouldn’t do his own special brand of gardening at the Cemetery.

When the Wardens of Sawajinn come to Faraway in search of Mr.Anthropophagite who lives there inside the Blue House of Shadows it’s Mr. Undercroft who sends them away with little cloth bags full of presents from Mr. Undercrofts days at Prefontaine.

Nowadays Mr. Erasmus Undercroft rides out in his dark black hearse at Midnight and he looks for things to take Faraway.

When he brings them back he turns them loose in Faraway and sometimes he buries them and sometimes he feasts on them and the juices turn his teeth black and make his eyes
Water and the tears eat away at his face like acid.

Mr Erasmus Undercroft is the Chief Gravedigger and Funeral Director in Faraway and he buries the things best forgotten, the things you hope are Faraway.

Only sometimes for fun and it amuses him every single time Mr Erasmus Undercroft brings them back from Faraway.

When his passengers leave his car and swarm and ruin and corrupt everything in their paths you will hear in every storm, fire, war, and plague ridden town he visits…one sound above all the rest.

It’s screaming you’ll hear, and if you listen close you will find it’s not many voices its always one voice and it is not screaming it’s laughing.

 This additional story was inspired by a project that just started at the Soul Food Cafe:

  http://www.dailywriting.net/

it’s called the “ SOUL FOOD ALPHABET 

and can be found at:

http://www.dailywriting.net/Alphabet/Main.html
 

The science of alchemy is the science of the conversion of things into other species”Dominicus Gundissalinus, scholastic philosopher.

(flourished ca. 1150)

Faraway at Riversleigh

Riversleigh Manor has been left in darkness and behind the Black House in the Gardner’s Shed Mr. Undercroft, The Undertaker from the town of Faraway is packing a bag.

His pale blue face is smiling and his hair is combed back and his suit has been cleaned and ironed and on his work table among the dusty jars and rusted pruning shears and dirt encrusted garden trowels are shiny sharp tools with curved hooks, thin razor sharp edges, jagged edges and bone handles. As he packs he takes inventory of the clean tools with his long skeletal fingers, not his eyes and when he’s done he carefully folds the tools up in a white linen  cloth decorated  in blue ink.

Then he places the bundle into his black leather case and snaps it shut.

“Leaving us Undercroft” a voice says from the window, “leaving us?”

Undercroft doesn’t look up because he knows there is nothing to see. Instead he looks down and says to the rotted floorboards “not for long, don’t worry I’ll be back.”

“What a shame. We do hate you Undercroft.”

“Likewise” Erasmus Undercroft snaps as he pulls the bag off of the table “likewise to be sure.”

As he leaves the little shed behind the Black House the darkness follows him.

It always does.
 
 
Erasmus watches Riversleigh disappear; she’s hidden herself behind an orchard that has been pretending to be green and alive.

No more pretending now.

He can see the windows crack, the marble fountain in the Courtyard crumble and the curtains turn to dust on their rods. Doors are slamming shut and rusted tumblers are falling into place and locking themselves.

Erasmus can hear the floorboards settle and spilt, he can hear support beams crackle and snap and struggle to hold themselves together. He can feel the Riversleigh’s foundation buckle and crumble and turn to dust under the house.

After its done Mr. Undercroft places his hat on his head, and smiles at the dead house and waves a little before he turns and walks into the hills.
 
 
It could have been days, or weeks or years or minutes before Mr. Undercroft arrived at the Abbey. On that first night the  Black Monks of Fallen passed him on the road up to the gates and he nodded a greeting and they laughed back and one called out, “Good luck to you Undercroft “
Erasmus startled at the sound of his own name. He wasn’t use to being seen…felt but not seen and he frowned a little and started to think…
 
 
Mr. Undercroft found his place in the Abbey, he’s in the Catacombs.

In the miles and miles of tunnels, among the bones and crypts and walls that whisper he was whistling and humming and unpacking his bag and when the door behind him swung open “Kamahra!” a voice calls into the darkness, “before we loose you down there why don’t you take the time now to come upstairs and say hello and have something to eat. You must be famished after your long trip.”

Mr. Undercroft doesn’t answer, there’s only the darkness and the sound of his unpacking, then he remembers to say in the dead woman’s voice “ Starving” Mr. Undercroft says as we puts on the dead woman’s face “I’m Starving”.

The Visitor

My room in the Manor is comfortable. It has hardwood floors and a bright berber carpet, recessed bookshelves filled with all my favorite history and art books, fine literature, and religious and philosophical treatises of all sorts. A map of Riversleigh hangs on wall and I am delighted to discover all the cozy places I could hole up and work. Though the room is furnished with only the most basic pieces—bed, writing table, reading chair, and chest of drawers—there is one item that seems out of place. On the wall over the chest of drawers, hangs a large silver framed mirror with inlaid amber around the glass. Its luxury contrasts the utility of the rest of the room.

I unpacked my sparse belongings—a change of clothes, a few special books, some toiletries, my writing and art supplies. I slid open the French doors and stepped out onto the balcony. I gazed at the valley below and saw the River ribbon its way towards the sea. In the distance I could see the mouth of the River, a vast delta spreading out like a large green lotus, spilling into the Bay.

As I leaned on the railing and tried to compose a poem in my head about the River, I heard a banging sound from my room. I rushed back in and saw the mirror over the chest rising and falling against the wall. As I grabbed the mirror to keep it from shattering, a glow emanated from it, filling the room with a orange-yellow light. I had been warned that Riversleigh was a place of unusual happenings so I wasn’t afraid or even surprised.

Holding the mirror firmly in place, I looked into it and saw it filling with a wall of fire. The flames writhed and shimmered but cast no heat. In the depths of the flames, I could see a dark speck grow larger and rush towards me. It grew into the figure of a woman. Just as the figure filled the entire mirror, a large pop sounded and I released the mirror and fell back on my bed, covering my eyes against a bright blast of light.

Silence enveloped the room and after a moment, I opened my eyes.

“Oh, no, not YOU!”

“Well, hey there, Sugar!”

“What are YOU doing here?”

“What? Can’t a friend drop by and say hello?”

“Yeah, right, like WE’RE friends,” I said as I pulled myself off the bed. Standing in front of the mirror was Arvilla. Tall, platinum blonde and gorgeous, she was dressed in a pin-striped business suit, pearls, and stiletto heels.

“That’s a different look. And what’s with the flaming entrance? That’s over-the-top, even for you!”

“What can I say, Sugar, it’s the twenty-first century and I’ve got to keep with the program.”

“Like I care. You didn’t answer my question—what are you doing here?”

“I heard you were taking a little vacation and I just wanted to stop by to see if I could be of some assistance.” Arvilla strolled across the room, grimacing at the furniture. She plopped herself on the chair and put her feet on my writing desk. She picked up my journal and began thumbing through it.

“I most certainly do NOT need anything from you.” I started picking up my clothes that had fallen to the floor.

“You only brought one set of clothes and no underwear—now that’s rustic, darlin’.”

She was right. How could I have forgotten underwear? “Um, I’ll pick some up at the Gypsy Camp. They have everything anyone would want.”

“Oh, yes, Gypsy underwear. How Bohemian of you. Dressing the part of a writer? You might as well, honey, because that’s as close to being a writer as you’ll ever be.”

“Just who do you think—!”

“Oh, looky here…..’ . I strive to transform reality through my words and images.’” Now, ain’t that a hoot and a holler.”

I rushed over to the table and grabbed the journal out of her hands. “Arvilla, get out! I came ten thousand miles to get away from you. You are NOT going to spoil this for me.”

There was a knock on the door. Glaring at Arvilla, I stomped to the door and yanked it open. Standing there was the Riversleigh Manor concierge backed by two beefy security officers, unsmiling in their black shades.

“Madam, I understand that you have a visitor. As you know, Inner Critics are not welcome on the premises.”

Dang, I’m not here a day and she’s gotten me in trouble already. “Yes, sir, you’re quite right, I understand. My ‘guest’ was just leaving.” I turned to Arvilla.

With a sigh, Arvilla dropped her feet to the floor and stood up. “Oh, alright! Don’t have a hissy fit. You’re just not much fun anymore, are ya, Sugar.”

I pointed toward the mirror. “Go!”

“I can’t get out that way. Where do you think we are? In a Harry Potter movie?”

The room began to vibrate and Arvilla spread her arms out to her sides. “Just wait until you have forty-three pages of stream-of-consciousness writing that you need me to edit! You’ll come a-runnin’.”

The room filled with intense yellow light and I could see Arvilla’s arms morph into enormous bird’s wings. With a harpy’s shriek, Arvilla began flapping them. She bounded through the French doors and off the balcony. I rushed to the railing and saw Arvilla gliding up the river valley towards the mountains. Looking over her shoulder, she yelled “I’ll be baaaaack……”

“And I’ll be ready for you,” I muttered as I slammed the doors shut.

L. Gloyd (c) 2008

Originally published April 2006 on the Riversleigh Manor blog.

In qualli ticitl

the good physician: she gives them potions, purges them, gives them medicine…She anoints them; she rubs, she massages them.

In aocmo meia chichioa

The nursing woman who no longer produces milk: she is to drink an infusion of roots, pulverized with a stone. Then one is to wash her breasts with saltpeter. Or she is to drink the infusion many times when she comes from the sweat bath.
old Aztec verse

My great grandmother was a midwife who rode bareback to the homes of women to assist with the birth of their children. Today I ride bareback to greet the riders who are coming to the Rose and Swan Theatre to help birth their memories of days spent within Lemuria, land of my dreaming.

Tonight participants will sweep into the theatre grounds on black mares. After leaving their mares with the Lemurian stable women, they will sit upon the stage, by the well of Mnemosyne, mother of memory and gift their memories of Lemuria to us.

Heather Blakey
October 17th 2008