Monthly Archives: November 2007

This was posted on my bio from 94stranger, and it touched me so, that I had to share…

The eyes:
I see you have the eyes
of searchers and of seers
and the eyes of dreamers.
May you always find solace,
like a cool drink in the morning -
before the hot wind from the desert
takes away easement,
again.

Dailytri said:

The assignment: Think of THE song that most inspires you to write, whether it gives you an idea for a story, script or just puts you into a better frame of mind AND/OR peek into the lyrics and find a verse that sums up the theme of whatever project it is you’re working on. If possible, post a video of the song to convey to readers the full context of the song and the mood it puts you into. Finally, send the assignment to five other writers to do as well.

I said:

Music is an integral part of my writing process, regardless of what it is I’m writing. Sometimes I get lucky and one CD works fine, which I’ll listen to over and over until my work is through. However, I often create my own song lists and mix it up a bit.

While writing MACUMBA, I listened to the soundtrack from Bram Stoker’s Dracula, by Wojciech Kilar, and the Unfaithful soundtrack, by Jan A. P. Kaczmarek, while writing Exposed. I like music that touches my soul and transports me to a place inside myself that only music can.

Right now my play list consists of the following:

Memory Holes – Grundman
Sketches of St. Antioni – B-Tribe
Libera Me! – B-Tribe
Allure of Sanctuary – Karen Marie Garrett

Anyone who would like to participate, please feel free to do so. Just leave your answer in my comments section.

Decadence
By Jill Terry

I went in looking to dig up some dirt on the old man and ended up falling in love. It wasn’t just luck that landed me a spot on the landscaping crew, but months of preparation and hobnobbing; knowing full well that by being outdoors I’d have better advantage to watch the comings and goings of the mansion. I also knew that all he had to do was be at the right place at the right time to find me there, and that’s exactly what happened.

I’d been on the job for three weeks when out of the blue I was summoned inside. And so with grass stained kakis, unruly curls bellowing in the breeze and a smudge of dirt on the side of my face, I made my way across the lawn toward the mansion, as he stood in the upstairs window and watched me.

I took off my boots at the door and trod barefoot across the marble floor, as I was led to a sitting room where I was instructed to wait. So far I hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary, except for the four scantly clad, non-blondes I passed, making their way from the breakfast buffet up the stairs, to where I assumed their rooms were. They were young, gorgeous and very friendly, but I don’t believe they were whores. In fact, according to the picture gracing the mantle, I’d have to say they were his girlfriends.

And just as I turned from the portrait, there he was, standing just inside the door smiling at me. He was very matter-of-fact, as he walked confidently across the room and told me that while I looked lovely in his garden, it was his desire to pluck me out of there and add me to his bouquet of beauties; explaining that all my wishes would come true, inside these walls, if I chose to dwell with him. And I was prepared to do just that, while keeping in close contact with my team on the outside, who patiently awaited my signal for the bust; a signal that would never come.

What I found was not a sleazy pimp, as many believed him to be, but instead, a lonely, aging, insecure man, who had made his fortune by showcasing beautiful, uninhibited women; paving the way to fame for some, while nurturing and caring personally for others. And he did care, deeply; for each and every one of his girls, and now I was to be one of them.

He had a way about him; suave, debonair and somewhat arrogant, in a boyish sort of way and while we never engaged in any sexual activity, the hours spent alone in his company, talking and pondering the world, opened a place in my heart, that he silently slipped into and stole.

He was charming and sincere, offering a chance at a better life than what the streets had to give these girls, many of which he’d saved from just that, but my people didn’t believe, didn’t want to hear that the girls were there of their own free will, as it was easier to play the cynic and believe something illegal must be going on.

I stayed with him for 9 months, and in that time I was introduced to a world of decadence that I had never even allowed myself to dream of. I came away with an appreciation for life and a better understanding of myself; for he was not a sinner, but a saint, who forced a person to see the good inside themselves, in the world around them, and release the negative demons that would drag them down.

My only regret was the way he found out about my true identity, and that I wasn’t a beautiful flower that he’d come upon gracing his garden, but a bug that had purposely been planted, among all that beauty he’d worked so hard to cultivate.

The disappointment was evident on his face and in his eyes, when they came and took me away. And although I never had a chance to tell him how sorry I was, or how much he had changed my life, I have to believe that somewhere, deep inside, he knew this truth about me. And maybe, just maybe, he remembers our time together and thinks of me with a smile.

I know I do.

©Copyright 2007 by Jill Terry. All Rights Reserved.

I’ve been bitten by the holiday bug…to the point that I’ve decided to give hand-made gifts this year, which I always believe add a special touch. So, for those of you regulars, I hope you don’t my early decorating around the site. I just couldn’t wait any longer!

Hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving and took the time to actually count your blessings!

Peace,
Jill

Gazing at the stars is no doubt one of the earliest forms of meditation practiced by human beings, and it is readily available to this day. If you live in a city, you may have a hard time seeing the stars, but a short drive can take you far enough beyond the city lights to reveal their glory. If you live in a rural setting, all you have to do is wait for the sun to set and the night to settle to get the show of your life, every night. If you make a habit of it, you will begin to know the seasonal changes of the night sky, deepening your connection to the earth and the universe in which you live.

One of the best ways to stargaze is to lie down on a blanket so that your body can fully relax. This position allows your breath to move easily through your tranquil form as you settle down into the earth, connecting your consciousness to the sky. As you look deeply into its vastness, allowing your awareness to alternate between the pinpoints of light and the blue-black space that holds them, your breath expands and contracts your body, just as the universe expands and contracts to its own eternal rhythm. You may feel as if you are floating amidst the stars or that they are raining down upon you. You may feel peacefulness, joy, and connectedness, or any of a full range of emotions. Simply continue to breathe, experiencing the wonder of this universe and your place within it.

Source: Daily OM

“Our truest life is when we are in our dreams awake.”
-Henry David Thoreau

Everyone knows about the Pilgrims and the Indians, right? How the two groups gathered peacefully in Plymouth, Mass., to feast on juicy turkeys and colorful pumpkin pies. The trouble is, almost everything we’ve been taught about the first Thanksgiving in 1621 is a myth. The holiday has two distinct histories – the actual one and a romanticized portrayal.

The true history has been a difficult one to uncover. Staff at Plimoth Plantation, which occupies several acres on the outskirts of the city of Plymouth, just north of Cape Cod, have been in the vanguard of researching the event. But a big obstacle remains: Everything historians know today is based on two passages written by colonists.

In a letter to a friend, dated December 1621, Edward Winslow wrote: “Our harvest being gotten in, our Governor sent four men on fowling, that so we might after a more special manner rejoice together, after we had gathered the fruit of our labors; they four in one day killed as much fowl as, with a little help beside, served the Company almost a week, at which time, among other Recreations, we exercised our Arms, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and among the rest their greatest King Massasoit, with some 90 men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted and they went out and killed five Deer, which they brought to the Plantation and bestowed on our Governor, and upon the Captain and others.”

Twenty years later, William Bradford wrote a book that provides a few more hints as to what might have been on that first Thanksgiving table. But his book was stolen by British looters during the Revolutionary War and therefore didn’t have much influence on how Thanksgiving was celebrated until it turned up many years later.

No one is certain whether the Wampanoag and the colonists regularly sat together and shared their food, or if the three-day “thanksgiving” feast Mr. Winslow recorded for posterity was a one-time event.

In the culture of the Wampanoag Indians, who inhabited the area around Cape Cod, “thanksgiving” was an everyday activity.

“We as native people [traditionally] have thanksgivings as a daily, ongoing thing,” says Linda Coombs, associate director of the Wampanoag program at Plimoth Plantation. “Every time anybody went hunting or fishing or picked a plant, they would offer a prayer or acknowledgment.”

But for the 52 colonists – who had experienced a year of disease, hunger, and diminishing hopes – their bountiful harvest was cause for a special celebration to give thanks.

“Neither the English people nor the native people in 1621 knew they were having the first Thanksgiving,” Ms. Coombs says. No one knew that the details would interest coming generations.

“We’re not sure why Massasoit and the 90 men ended up coming to Plimoth,” Coombs says. “There’s an assumption that they were invited, but nowhere in the passage does it say they were. And the idea that they sat down and lived happily ever after is, well, untrue. The relationship between the English and the Wampanoag was very complex.”

Since they did not speak the same language, the extent to which the colonists and Indians intermingled remains a mystery. But a few details of that first Thanksgiving are certain, says Kathleen Curtin, food historian at the Plimoth Plantation.

A NATIVE VIEW

With little mention of the native population, the Wampanoag presence was virtually relegated to the background, and the Pilgrim presence promoted to the fore.

“The Wampanoag, we sometimes forget, were the majority population,” Ms. Brennan says. “In the 19th and 20th centuries, Thanksgiving was really a tool for Americanization amid the great influx of immigration. It was supposed to bind this diverse population into one union.”

And so, over the centuries, that first Thanksgiving took on a shape of mythological proportions. But how Americans celebrate today has little to do with the convergence of two different populations across an enormous cultural divide.

One man who would like people to know more about the actual Thanksgiving is descended from the Wampanoag Indians who were such an essential part of the first Thanksgiving celebration.

He steps out onto the porch in front of the Flume restaurant in Plymouth and looks south. He lifts his face – marked by deep lines and dark, heavy eyes – toward the open sky.

“I’m looking down the river here now, and the sun is bright, and the tide is high, and the wind is blowing,” he says. “My people would say that is the spirit coming from the southwest, where the corn and beans and squash come from. So we thank the spirit world – the fire, the moon, the sky, the sun, the earth.”

This man’s name is Earl Mills Sr., and he is a retired high school teacher and athletic director, the author of two books, and the owner of the restaurant. But Mr. Mills has another name and another job. As Flying Eagle, he is the chief of the Mashpee Wampanoag tribe.

Still, he doesn’t see himself as caught between two cultures. Instead, he embraces both. With equal relish, Mills will spend an afternoon walking in peaceful silence, as his ancestors did, or an evening listening to the Boston Symphony Orchestra. He has always spent a lot of time thinking about the history of his people, however, and the confusion about what really happened back in 1621.

“Things have changed so much,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “Even Thanksgiving has changed. Young people today don’t remember what it was like 50 or 100 years ago. Then, we picked our own cranberries from our own cranberry bogs, and we caught rabbits and hung them outside our garage doors.”

More recently, Coombs remembers that as she was growing up, her family celebrated the holiday as most other Americans did. She went to her grandfather’s house, ate a turkey dinner, and watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on television. It wasn’t until she was in college that she learned her ancestors had observed Thanksgiving in a different manner.

It is not just the eating, but the gathering together, preparing, and thanking that matters, Mills says. “The role of food is important, but it’s gotten to the point where we become gluttons…. We could spend a lot more time really thinking about what’s going on in our world and giving more thanks.”

Source: The Christian Science Monitor

I first read of this on Paperback Writer’s site and thought it worth sharing.

For the sixth year in a row, Cheerios® is putting FIVE MILLION great children’s books free inside boxes of Cheerios cereal, as part of its sixth annual Cheerios® Spoonfuls of Stories® program, kicking off during National Children’s Book Week, November 12 to 18, 2007.

In addition, Cheerios is again working with First Book, an award-winning children’s literacy nonprofit, to give a year’s worth of children’s books to 50 reading programs serving disadvantaged children across the country. Over the past six years, Cheerios has donated more than $2.5 million to support First Book and its mission: to help get brand new books to children from low-income families.

The rest of the story

This is a collective short story which is being written by all of the members of The Shameless Lions Writing Circle. Each member is being called on to add to our developing story, the opening of which was inspired by the photo above. The image also links to the site where you can read the story in its entirety.

Below is my contribution

#13 / Jill Terry

“You have no idea who Bastian is…do you?” Asia said with a smirk, as she walked across the room and poured herself a drink. Grace said nothing, as her gaze quickly shifted from the tall statuesque beauty, who obviously knew her husband intimately, to the gun still sitting on the table in the adjoining room. Asia swirled her drink and met Grace’s gaze, as the ice tinkled annoyingly against the side of the glass.

“You think you’re safe, because you’re the mother of his children, but you’re nothing but a damn fool! I don’t even know why…” Grace cut her off with an astonished laugh and shook her head in disbelief, “Safe…did you say safe!? I haven’t felt safe in years, and you’ve got the gall to come off like you know me, or anything about me?” Asia pounced; her face so close that the alcohol on her breath stung Grace’s eyes. She locked her arms on either side of Grace and dug her nails into the back of the couch.

“I know you’re what’s keeping us from being together; you and those goddamn brats of yours!” Asia spat, with venom in her voice. At the mention of her children, a rush of adrenaline shot through Grace and she shoved Asia with every ounce of energy, sending her stumbling backward and crashing through the glass top table that sat in the center of the room.

Grace stood, frozen in shock and fear, adrenaline still pumping and nausea welling deep inside, as Asia’s lifeless eyes stared straight ahead and a trickle of blood oozed from her mouth. Grace hesitated only briefly, before running into the other room, grabbing the gun and making a quick sweep of the house, before she picked up the phone and …

I nominate Canterbury Soul at Doors Left Open for the next installment.

Bistro

Leather Shop

Coffee Time!

Hidden Courtyard

Dining Alfresco

A Little Datil Dew Ya!

Old World Lingerie