I Eat Pickles

I Eat Pickles
By Amy Moloney

Sometimes I eat the wrong pickles
But you know, I really like them sweet
The looks of disdain from my friends
Shows how poorly I have chosen
But the pickles I eat are mine and mine alone
Go eat your own pickles if you feel so strongly

Furthermore, I like a lot of things sweet
There is no crime in sugar coating this world
I am not a bum for eating dessert first
Sweetness makes this thing called reality easier to swallow
And why wouldn’t anyone want to sweeten life
It’s filled with the bitterness of anger, denial, greed
The foul taste of jealousy permeates the air
So much so that people judge you for eating pickles
The news reads like a horror movie gone wrong
With images of murder, abduction, and rape
Served up by plastic smiles on barbie dolls
The sound of music becoming trite
As memorable as bubblegum on the bottom of my shoe
With themes so trivial that the size of my ass
Is the only real issue for the world to contemplate
By the way, the size of my ass is perfect
But you didn’t notice because you were watching me eat the wrong pickle

Did you notice that the government has removed your right to speak
While you were giving me shit for eating pickles
Somewhere there is a billionaire dictating the rest of your life
There is a prison cell being padded for your breakdown
An army of our brothers are coming to capture your freedom
Taking citizenship away from you
But you didn’t see the uprising of corporations
Distracted by a my jar of pickles

I may eat the wrong pickles
But I do not judge others for the pickles they eat
You may not find zesty and sweet to your preference
But do you know who won the Nobel Prize for peace
Not that any award is more than a popularity contest
Congratulations, you’re the prom queen of peace
And thanks for not blowing shit up this year
Is there a place safe from pedophiles and cyber-stalkers
And if there were such a safe place would anyone be there
But the pedophiles and cyber-stalkers looking for new prey
Will the media report about the cure for cancer
would such a cure be allowed to survive
Because there is no profit in a cure, only in suppressing the disease
Or do the designer shoes of a cracked out actor make the front page
Where does priority start and where does vanity stop?
But don’t mind me, I’m eating pickles

Are you fucking serious?
They are only pickles for fuck’s sake
So here we are, a world at war for things
As non-tangible as the name of God
And who’s getting to heaven first
Here I am eating the wrong fucking pickle

Oshun's Return: The River Must Flow

This is going to be a long exploration into some deep issues, at least for me personally. And some of them relate to the being known as Oshun, but not directly the aspects attributed to her by her followers/devotees. But we’ll get to that eventually. As always, this is about me.
 
A physical act can sometimes transcend the physical form, yet remain a solely physical act. What has meaning to me may not translate into meaning for my partner in the physical act. So here is the story of my re-iniation into what I now believe to be my cronehood. I accept that I have now entered this stage and am a fledgling crone. Having set aside my maiden/mother aspects as having passed.
 
What makes a woman is a very complex series of experiences. All of them vital to the attributes of what molds a woman’s individuality and essence.  She can be childlike with innocence and simultaneously embodying the raw power of every goddess in existence. The complexity of a woman is a mystery even to a woman. And every experience is a building block to revealing those mysteries to myself.
 
The journey of womanhood has been on a path paved with every decision I’ve made. Those decisions were right, for my short term evolution. But the fear of real evolution can stunt enlightenment and ultimately be the sole cause of the devolution of my womanhood. Or at least my recognition of womanhood.

This is that for instance moment in the story... For instance, my decision of celibacy was the right decision 9 years ago. Right for the person I was 9 years ago. But to allow it to continue for 9 years was toxic to my core being. I allowed fear to rule my journey towards enlightenment, essentially halting my growth. But at the same time by indulging my fears and allowing my sexuality to stagnate was a vital lesson in itself. It made my recent emergence from celibacy a more significant act than just the physical act of sex.
 
But deeper than just sex was the opening of a self-constructed dam keeping my sexual energy contained in a dormant pool. Selfishly hoarding my energy for a scenario created in my head that may or may not ever come to be. By doing so I’ve kept myself from experiencing or living in the now of life. A concept I typically pride myself in doing. I claim to live in the moment. There is only now. But in actuality I was living in the what if, living in the waiting. Waiting for a fairy tale that is not real and never will be real if I stayed in that motionless pool of repression.

But it was just sex. Random sex. With a random stranger. I removed the fairy tale, the emotion attached to sex. Removed the blockages of my own making and just enjoyed the moment. I’m not opposed to emotional sex, just as much as I’m not opposed to emotionless sex. I am quite pragmatic about it being just sex. Now that I’ve opened myself up to sex again, I can open up to the possibility of sex from an emotional place. I jumped the first hurtle, allowed someone to make physical contact.

There is a quite spiritual backdrop to my sexlessness. I have been open about my past as a practitioner of magick. When I was a young and scorned woman I performed a spell that had dire consequences-- to me. As anyone who has knowledge and experience in spellwork knows, the manipulation of another person is A VERY BAD DECISION. The backlash of energies is karmically connected to the spell caster. And as a spell caster one must take responsibility for trying to manipulate someone elses free will. So this is how it went down. My husband had just left me. I was emotionally devastated. Also, I was hormonally charged due to being on fertility drugs. As such, I made the unfortunate decision to cast a soul-binding spell between myself and my ex-husband. Without his knowledge or consent. Have I mentioned this being a bad decision? I invoked powers beyond my abilities or comprehension at the time. My soul was indeed bound to my ex-husband. However, his was not necessarily bound to mine. The backlash included my energies being bound to the deity that I naively called upon and invoked within myself. This deity took the payment I arrogantly neglected to offer. And I’ve continued to make penance for such an extreme error in judgement. Lesson learned. I did what needed to be done in order to release her hold over me. Or so I thought. But energetically I’ve been working out this karma via my sex/love life ever since. (details vague on purpose)

The return of Oshun came at the appropriate time in the odyssey of my life. She is the flow of energy releasing my vagina’s imprisonment. She did not put me the 9 year confinement of celibacy, I did. Or my perceived obligation to heal our relationship spurred me into my decision to hit the sexual reset button on my body. There were a convergence of reasons leading to this decision and the celibacy was only meant to last about a year at the longest. The actual length of time that elapsed was unintentional. And unfortunate. It really sucked. I experienced sexual awakenings without sex. Very unsatisfying.

One cannot simply abandon the energy crucial to existence as a human. We are designed with sexual impulses deeply ingrained into our cellular make-up. To deny the primal urges of our being represses our humanity at it’s center. The energy ends up funneling itself out in other ways. For me, these were unhealthy ways. Staying within the celibate mindset was holding me hostage. The ransom paid was my true being- the goddess was denied, betrayed, and left alone along the banks of the Great Miami River. She was enslaved by my continual contradictions of what I truly wanted from life, from myself. I stupidly thought I was waiting for something cosmic to happen. Instead I had chained myself to concepts that did not fit who I am. Celibacy was a square peg and I only have round holes. It never fit my lifestyle, I forced it.

Since the actual sex I have had many comments from people about the change in my physical appearance. “Have you lost weight?”, “Did you do something with your hair?”, “What’s different about you?” I was feeling a bit like Smilin’ Bob from those stupid drug commercials. But it drives home the truth in the matter, it is necessary to incorporate all aspects of ones being into life. Sex is as essential to human life as breathing. Not just for procreation, but for the maintenance of being a healthy adult both physically and psychologically.

Fear still exists. But I am letting my fear walls slowly dissolve into the river of love it is truly meant to be. The honey of my soul, my femininity is to be enjoyed by others again. It isn’t fair to me or to anyone else to hoard my essence away for a rainy day. I am the power behind the goddess and I release her to come out and meet life once again.

Welcome home.

*On a more me-like note: The sex wasn't that great. The only way I got through the last 10 minutes of it was because David Bowie started playing on the radio. He saved my sanity when the dumbass I chose to have sex with wouldn't shut up. So I not only owe my sexuality to goddesses of old, but also to the power of Bowie, an ever constant guiding light in my personal evolution. I took it as a sign that David Bowie is truly omnipresent and worthy of worship. And that I am meant to write that Bowie inspired screenplay. Thank you David Bowie.

Banishing The Wookie

I say many things about how I accept myself for who I am. I accept my appearance for what it is. I do feel beautiful and amazingly sexy. I am beautiful and amazingly sexy. But I have one major self confidence issue. It is one I joke about most of the time. Usually I take it lightly and don't judge myself too terribly harshly because it is something I cannot help. But other times I cry.

I have posted about it in quite a few of my previous entries like Tom Fucking Selleck and Resexification. These were done in jest. But the root issue is far from a joke to me. 

I am a beautiful woman who is as hairy as a Wookie. This is the honest truth. I am not by any means alone in this. But the true issue is how I feel about it. Most popular culture since the 1980's has been telling us that hair on a woman's body is wrong and that all women should strive to be as hairless as an 8 year old. To me this is unnatural. It borders on a societal acceptance of pedophelia. That being said. I am many times victim of this societal pressure. Images of the accepted woman assault me from the television, magazines, books, and the internet. Then I feel like a failure of a woman for not spending more time de-hairing my body. On the occasions I do shave my legs I refer to it as 'banishing the Wookie'. Honestly for me to become as hairless as is commercially accepted I would have to spend THOUSANDS UPON THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS on laser hair removal. Which to me seems like a waste of money because being less mammalian doesn't make me a better person. It just makes me without thousands of dollars that could have been spent buying things like food and electricity. 

The reason for my feelings of failure are not in the fact that I am a very hairy bitch. It is in the fact that I have a very real disorder called PCOS that causes much more than turning me into a Wookie. The failure part is long and involved series of emotions related to all of the symptoms related to my PCOS. I have been denied many of the things most women take for granted.

The biggest one of these things is my being denied motherhood. (I posted about this once before) I wanted more than anything to have children. But I have had to come to terms with the reality that this is not possible for me, at least not in the traditional ways. The second is my weight. One of the symptoms of PCOS is weight gain and difficulty losing weight. I embrace the fact that I am a veluptous woman. But sometimes insecurities creep in from that front as well. Again, mostly media based. (And yes, I posted about that previously as well.) The third issue I deal with personally is the excess body hair. PCOS is not for the faint of heart. You really have to be a strong warrior woman to deal with the trauma to the body and mind PCOS causes. It messes with hormones that regulate not only menstrual functions but also regulate mood and disposition. 

The depression is real. I am not a constantly depressed person. And when I am under the spell of depression I hide it fairly well from the world. It comes and it goes like the ebb and flow of the tides. I am capable of looking at it clinically and recognizing when it is setting in. I don't feel like I'm sinking into the quicksand of depression like many people with this disease do. I am connected and removed from it simultaneously. That may be hard to grasp. It's like this, I feel myself looking into my life from the outside able to analyze and deconstruct what I see. While also being connected from the inside unable to stop the process that I feel starting from within my mind. I have a technique that may only work for me.  I allow myself to experience it all the way through, then I come out the other side wiser about who I am and what makes me feel. I do not deny myself the emotions of sadness, discontent, depression, or defeat. To do so would render me unhuman, mechanical. (I'd like to clarify that I know this is not an appropriate solution for all those who suffer depression, some have it to the degree that medication is the only solution to keep them safe. The emotions I connect to it are not indicitive of what I assume others feel. This is my personal way of dealing with my own depression. Which is intermittent at best, and sometimes merely situational.) 

Tonight's depression stemmed from shaving my legs or banishing the Wookie as we've established. I felt as if the only way to emerge from my current state sadness which has coccooned me was to shed my outer layer. That outer layer just happened to be covered in 2-3 months worth of follicular overgrowth. Then I felt guilty for feeling like I was sexier after being freshly shorn. After that I felt guilty for allowing myself to feel guilty. Human emotions are not logical and should not be treated as being logical. Obviously banishing the Wookie is not a cure for feelings of inadequacy or low self esteem. Those stem from even deeper issues which are not related to PCOS. All of which I have dealt with on many occasions and do not rule my life. Well, except for during the holidays. The holidays suck for having feelings. Stupid holidays.

So now I have smooth legs and a rather trimmed landscape. Does this change who I am? No. It just makes me more aerodynamic. But since I'm not flying or swimming that shouldn't matter. None of these external things should matter. The sad thing is, they do matter. They matter to us becuase we always want to be accepted by the world around us. What really matters, beyond being accepted by others, is that you need to accept yourself as you are. Before or after the Wookie has been banished. For most of us, we are conatantly struggling to balance between our own accpetance and what we percieve as the world acceptance of us. The only difference between Wookie me and aerodynamic me is a clogged shower drain. Take that for what it's worth. I love me. All of me. Hairy me. Smooth me. Stubbly me. And even bearded me. It isn't fair that people will always judge us for such trivial things, but they will continute to do just that. If we try not to let those nay-sayers in and process our feelings as they come and not push them aside to be ignored because they may be painful maybe we could change the way the world sees beauty. Yes, sometimes life hurts. But by not letting the pain take the drivers seat in our lives we are stronger. Beauty is subjective when it is presented to the world at large. Each person has their own definition of beauty. My hope is that those definitions become more inclusive of a persons true self, thier hearts and souls. 

I will leave you with this video that definitely spoke volumes to me for more reasons than it's just a catchy tune. Amanda Palmer is someone who not only gets that beauty is more than skin deep, she is outspoken about it. For a woman who has felt like the family Sasquatch since she was 10, finding others that have this attitude has made me stronger. Maybe we really can change the world one attitude at a time.

Map Of Tasmania FUCKING DANCE WHILE YOU WATCH THIS PEOPLE! 

Beast Of Glory

Beast of Glory

Poem by Amy Moloney

The gluttonous masses to devour our tragedy
As they soon forget the glory
A ravenous beast with blood lust
Raking at open wounds to draw fresh pain
Public domain to free the monsters
Preying on more rancid decay
Wrapping the package in diamonds
To sell the stench of death
As the finest jewels of man
Only to have stones crumble at the touch
A thinly veiled facade
That shines of polished gold

And who becomes fat on the meat
Of that decayed flesh
Who finds life where only maggots dwell
What beast rises to the sacrifice offered so willingly
To a falsehood worshipped as truth
Fame is a fancy, coveted, dripping with seduction
A sweet fruit rotten to the core before being plucked from the vine
Filling only for moments, toxic for the millennia to come
The more one believes, wrapping the cloth of denial around themselves
Like the grasp of a python, breath fading with each whistled exhale
Cravings emerge for the elixir that extinguishes life
Life that ends as brilliantly as the flame of a bottle rocket in July

To be set free from the chains of forced pleasure
To take a swim in the sea of total transcendence
Let go of all that carries the weight of need, envy, desire
Takes only a moment of vision, clear from the city’s fog
Glory, glory, oh the glory
Is glory to oneself
Reflective glow of the world, glitter in the sand
One grain, one speck, a new microcosm opens, divine
A grain of sand to slay the beast
One grain of sand unable to exist alone

Living To Fill My Bucket O' Awesome List

I've been reading a bunch of bucket lists. Now, I'm not here to say other people's life goals are not worthy. Everyone's goals are suited to each individual. Some though are very unimaginative. But in my world I want to make a list of creative and awesome things to accomplish before my death in my late 80's. Since I don't plan on dying a boring death then I will die when my walker slips while climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro dressed as a Hobbit of the Shire. I may continue to add to this list as I think of more awesomeness.

The list of Amy's awesome...

1) Dance my way out of tense fight situation. 

2) Take over a geek convention with my army of minions that all look like Joan Jett circa 1986 (I call them my Joan Jett Army) as my alter-ego Dr. Amazinglyfuckingawesome. Yes, we are super evil. When I say take over, I mean an army of Joan Jett's will invade an army of geeks. It will be epic.

3) Write my life story as a series of Mel Brooks style musical numbers and ahve it performed onstage in an major city. I'll call it, My Ovaries: The Musical.

4) Rollerskate in space. If that isn't possible in my lifetime I will comprimise by rollerskating on a Hollywood soundstage while wearing an authentic costume from Barbarella. Yes, I will scream, "Pygar save me." Often.

5) Organize a mythical roller derby bout. An exhibition bout between ancient mythological beings and ancient civilizations. First bout between ancient Egypt and Valhalla. Now jamming Hepskatesut vs. Valkyrie Thunder ...

 6) Have my mutant superpower come to fruition. I am hoping for some sort of shape shifting ability. (This is a direct result of growing up near a nuclear power plant)

7) Appear on The Graham Norton Show just for being some weird but surprisingly awesome American woman. I would be ecstatic if we could do a push button fart gag with a James Bond villain theme. I would be The Girl With The Golden Tits. If Graham won't have me then I will tour around the world with a Graham Norton on a stick taking pictures of him in compromising postions. 

What are you going to put on your bucket o' awesome list?

A Love Letter To My Pizza

For those of you who have questions about the love letter (ode) I wrote to my pizza last night while being mocked by my coworkers, here it is. I call it Pizza Oh Pizza, My Love...

 

Pizza Oh Pizza, My Love

Three cheese deep dish, you're my delight

With added bacon to make you taste right

I love to dip you in red sauce divine

Made with tomatos fresh off the vine

Oh how I love my spicy pizza pie

I love you so much I want ti hold you and cry

I'll gladly endure the heartburn sure to come

But for your warm caress in my belly I'll invest in Tums

Pizza, my cheesy sweet mistress

You are within me and oh so delicious

Pizza, I love you

Things I write when I'm drunk and find when I'm sober

It is quite revealing when you write little blurbs in your google documents whilst in the grips of an alcohol induced and self reflecting stupor. Here are some of the things I wrote after finishing off a bottle of Sailor Jerry's Rum that I found in my pantry sitting all alone and in need of a friend. I selflessly put aside my own needs and spent the rest of my night in the arms of Sailor Jerry. He was not as kind to me as I was to him. Probably because I didn't put out like I promised to in the beginning of our night. I'll admit it, I'm kind of a tease. The whole night ended badly, for me. I wrote about many things that all seemed to be stemmed from my prudish denial to make wild monkey sex with my imaginary rum sailor like he was only in port for the next 2 hours. Now you can know how fucked up I really am when I'm inebriated (and sober).

Blurb 1:

David Bowie is calling to me to do something amazing. But I’m afraid of failure, and more afraid of success. I dare not disappoint David Bowie. But it is myself that is the most disappointed. David Bowie is scowling his disapproval as I type this. FUCK YOU DAVID BOWIE. I mean, yes David Bowie, I will live up to my potential and start doing important shit with my life. Also, I will write my Ziggy Stardust inspired screenplay that delves into my own personal madness. Thank you David Bowie.

Blurb 2:

Words never stop running through my mind. I have more stories inside my head than I can get out. It is confusing and overwhelming so I end up not typing anything at all. Frustration yet again. What would Data Do? I'll tell you what Data would do. He would be grateful for such a human experience like confusion and creative crisis. Quit crying and be thankful for being human and not Data.

Blurb 3:

Duran Duran is my favorite masturbation music. It sets the mood with the excesses of the 80's and the rhythm of a gypsy's soul. A naughty gypsy sex slave. One who pretends not to like being a sex slave, but actually holds the power over her captors and she gets off on it so much that she creates reasons for them to punish her with a stiff leather riding crop. Submissiveness is power.

Blurb 4:

I just threw out a box of condoms that expired in 2009. This depressed me greatly. Not just that I haven’t needed them in all this time, but the fact that I hadn’t noticed they expired until then end of 2011. That is just really sad. I have just moved up to the top of the sex-life-loser list. I guess only Jesus would be proud of my chastity. But considering that I am not even a Christian, this should not be a concern. But Jesus is kind of a cool dude when you think about it. I mean he was the original rise up against the establishment and hang with other weird dudes and prostitues guy. Whatever, Jesus probably wouldn't like me saying fuck so much. But I don't need anyone to be proud of my celibacy. I need someone to say; Good God woman, I'll fuck you already.

Blurb 5:

Seeking a silver tongued nerd to dazzle me with geek talk and fly me away on his Firefly class space ship. He must be handsome, strong, and filled with a sense of honor and chivalry that is outdated, ill-advised, and sometimes awkwardly sexist. He should want to fuck me like a cheap whore and keep me spoiled like a polished lady of means. I have no idea what 'means' means.

The moral of this story is don't drink and reflect. You end up sounding really horny. Also, I just found my Aragorn action figure which has nothing to do with this post.

Next time I get drunk and start writing random shit I'll mention Star Trek TNG, Battlestar Galactica, Indiana Jones, and Doctor Who as they relate to my sex life. (I mean I'll mention TNG more)

37

So in a few short months I turn 37. Seems like an innocuous number to most. But for some reason this number is hurtling at me like a meteor from space. It has been suffocating me in my sleep and haunting me in my waking hours. I haven't been able to wrap my mind around why until recently. 

37 is the age that my mother was when she gave birth to me. After years of trying.
37 is the age that my brother was when he died. After years of fighting.

Am I nearer to giving life or my own mortality? These are subconscious questions pounding themselves into my brain. This is why I am so freaked out about turning 37. What have I done in the past 36 years? Am I even worthy of all this worry? 

So to counter my fears, I am going to make 37 my glory year. It will be the year I become the perfect embodiment of the AMY of my mind's eye, the AMY of legend. So starting in February The Year Of Amy begins. I will make my mark on this age and make it an epic event. 

I will write something amazing. I will save lives. I will fall in love. I will have the greatest orgasm of my existence. I will dance ecstatically to my own music. I will travel to a place I've always wanted to go. I will face one of my fears, grab them by the balls, and throw them into a pit of poisonous snakes. I will conquer the year 37. 

This is how Thanksgiving rolls in my hood...

Be jealous.

Kitchen Witchery: Homemade pore mask experiment.

Tonight I tried this facial recipe I found online to mimick the effects of those expensive pore strips. It works terrifically for exfoliating. But it is a bit difficult to apply.

As usual the herbalist in me had to tweek the recipe. I added a few drops of essential lavender oil. I applied it as fast as I could, but it went on very unevenly with big jelly-like globs. I waited until I felt my skin tighten up and it was dry. The most difficult part was removing it. It did not peel off in sheets like I expected. It was more like I had to scrape it off with my fingernails. When that was unsuccessful, I washed it off with warm water.

It wasn't totally unsuccessful, mind you. My skin feels incredibly soft and clean. But I learned that next time I try this recipe I will add more milk and apply the concoction faster. I also have a few more ideas on how to tweek the recipe to become a bit more skin replenishing. My first thought was to add warm honey to the milk or possibly a bit of oatmeal flour to the gelatin. I plan on experimenting with different variations of the recipe. 

All in all this facial gets a homemade beauty grade of A-. Mostly because of my inexperience with gelatin and the mixing process. Given a few more experiments I think this will turn out to be one of my go to facials. My face really does have a glow to it.

Here is a no make-up post facial pic of my glowing skin. I am very happy with the results even if the process was cumbersome.

The Goldfish Are Coming And They're Bringing Coconuts

Old new age girls shouldn't be left unsupervised with their thoughts...

If The Secret really works, I'm in trouble. Because I'd probably have been accidentally killed by my time traveling Scottish warrior during a weird sex act involving his claymore by now. Or possibly I'd have died trying to hook a flux capacitor to my vibrator in order to travel through time and have an orgasm at the simultaneously. Seriously, if what I think about manifests itself I'm fucked. Like totally fucked.

I noticed recently that even my daydreams are beginning to take on plot complications. I am finding myself dodging evil and fighting for my life in order to survive these daydreams. Usually the evil doers want to kidnap me and leave me marooned on an island with sexy movie stars. Then I find myself being annoyed by the self-indulgent celebrity while also trying not to die from anaphylaxis by having only coconuts to eat. This does not seem like normal daydreaming to me. And I really hope the universe is not paying attention. 

I know what all of you Secret devotees are saying, "Amy, just change your thinking. Attract things like happiness, wealth, a loving relationship, a husband, a family...blah, blah, blah. Use the power of positive thinking."

Well, that's all fine and dandy. I try to be an optimist while real life is draining me like a ravenous vampire. But you must realize, I am not consciously controlling these thoughts. My little Buddhist monks would say I have a wild elephant running loose through my mind. They would be right. My fantasies always start out sweet and innocent, filled with fluffy puppies and rainbows. But they inevitably get sucked through a wormhole of horror and turn into zombie werewolves and rainbows bleeding unicorn blood. It never fails. For instance, yesterday I was having a nice sex fantasy about super sexy (insert generic celebrity identity here). We were in a mountain cabin with a gentle snow fall outside the windows. By the end of the fantasy we were both being mauled by a rabid polar bear. I came out of this fantasy/daydream traumatized and in full panic mode. I began to accuse my cats of plotting with the polar bear and sending psychic messages to sexy movie stars to seduce me and lure me into the wilderness where I'd be vulnerable to bear attacks.

So, in conclusion, I hope that the law of attraction is complete bullshit. Because I may just be fucked when the world ends up being destroyed by mutant goldfish with British accents.  

The Ferryman's Bridge: A Short Story

The Ferryman’s Bridge

By Amy Moloney

Jolene Cheron has been driving for over 13 hours. The expanse of road seems to grow before her tired eyes. The radio has been stuck on the classic country station for the past hour, playing Patsy Cline songs back to back. I fall to pieces, each time I see you again... Jolene’s eyes grow heavy as she drives on.

Unaware of where exactly she is headed. She just awoke with an urge to get in her car and drive. She has been driving so long without a break that her backside is going numb. The darkness has settled around her creating the illusion of complete isolation. She has not seen a single headlight on the highway for a while. Jolene wonders how long she has to go before the feeling of urgency subsides. She still drives on.
...I go out walkin’ after midnight... Jolene starts to nod off. ...I stop to see a weeping willow... She jolts awake with a start, feeling the need to pull over.

A storm cloud rolls into view in the distance. She can see the faint glow of lightening illuminating the clouds against the darkened sky. A wall of heavy rain appears at the far end of her vision like a sea hovering in mid air. She slows the car knowing she is close to her destination. The moment she crosses the threshold into the rainstorm she sees the lights of emergency vehicles ahead. Dot’s of yellow clad officials are scurrying around with purpose.

Jolene pulls the car off to the side of the road just before a harsh looking stone and steel bridge. The bridge stands out against the natural landscape like a Gothic castle against a meadow of sunflowers. It has the aura of a medieval torture device. Jolene’s stomach drops to her knees when she realizes that this monstrosity is her destination.

The police and emergency cars are surrounding the entrance to the bridge. There are men and women pacing between vehicles wearing raincoats writing on soggy pads of paper. There is a gurney being wheeled into a car marked Coroner. It is reminiscent of a scene out of a horror movie. Jolene isn’t sure of how much of this is real. The weariness is saturating her reality with a dream-like haze. Somehow Jolene senses the bridge is satisfied with the events unfolding, an echo of laughter fills her mind. Jolene remains in her car watching the chaos, remembering a story her grandmother told her often.

“Long ago, on the Bluemoon River the ferryman would carry travelers across the water. There was a ribbon of rough water that ran down the middle of the river, notorious for claiming the lives of the unprepared. The ferryman, wanting to keep his travelers safe decided to find out why people disappeared. He discovered the ribbon in the middle of the river had a gateway connecting this world to another world. On the other side of this portal there was a rabid looking old man with three dog-like heads who had an insatiable appetite for fresh meat. The rift hovered just over the surface of the water, trapping all who attempted to cross. The ferryman asked the old man if he could make a deal. The old man agreed. The ferryman made a daily offering of animal flesh to the three headed man in exchange for the safe passage of anyone aboard his ferry boat. The ferryman never missed a day of offering in 50 years. Then when the ferryman was too old to carry passengers across the river, the city built a bridge. No one has made an offering since.”

The moment Jolene remembered her grandmothers story she knew this was the river and the bridge where the ferryman carted people safely from one side to another. In fact, it was at that point in time she noticed a large sign next to the bridge that read:

‘Ferryman’s Bridge, Built 1952’.

Jolene sat in her car and wondered what it was about this bridge that called her to it from hundreds of miles away. She was lost in that thought when she heard a tapping on her window. It was a police officer. A rather handsome police officer.

“Ma’am, You are going to need to turn around and go back. The bridge will be closed until the storm passes.” He said in his official voice. Then he leaned down into the window and said in a more gentle voice, “You aren’t from the area, are you?”

Jolene just nodded, still a bit dazed and a lot exhausted from driving. The bridge was still whispering words in her head that she couldn't translate into usable language. She tried to remain calm in the presence of the officer. Unfortunately, she was unable to compose herself. Jolene began to sob, loudly.

Officer Henry Kerebrus found himself saying something out of character, “Ma’am, just stay here. I’ll be back to give you directions into town.” And he walked back to the bridge where three other officers were waiting.

After about ten minutes of waiting, crying, and dread, Jolene stepped out of her car into the downpour. She walked toward the bridge feeling the rain soak through to her bones. The dread grew to an electrical current of fear through her veins. She could not stop herself. Jolene was compelled closer by the bridge itself, or was it the bridge? She wondered as she moved within feet of the stone where the pull was actually coming from.

As she touched the cold wet rock she felt a hand on her shoulder. Startled out of her trance, she turned to find Officer Henry looking at her with curiosity. She expected him to be angry or issue her a ticket for not waiting in the car. But instead, he just looked at her. Then he looked at the river. That was the first time since arriving at the bridge that Jolene actually looked toward the river itself. There was a blue light running the length of the river in the center of the water, it ran right through the center of the bridge. It was as if someone had lit the mist on fire with blue flame. She looked back at Officer Henry to see if she was imagining the light or if everyone sees it.

“Only you and I see it. If that’s what you are wondering.” Henry was trying to hide her from sight of the other officers as the crime scene was released. He was nervous, but anxious to talk to her. To talk to her alone.

Jolene was stunned, yet somehow relieved. She sensed that Henry was trying to protect her from something, or someone. So she walked back to her car and waited.

The rain refused to let up or even slow its constant assault on the land. The river looked swollen and angry. The water was churning violently under the bridge where an ethereal blue light lingered. Jolene watched the river, trying to recollect why she had jumped into her car this morning and started driving aimlessly. She was becoming more fearful of this journey she found herself on. Something was going to happen. And it was going to happen soon.

Henry knocked on the passenger window then opened the passenger door and sat down in Jolene’s car. He removed his plastic covered cap from his head and held it in his hands for a full two minutes before he started to speak.

“I know who you are. I don’t know your name. But I know why you came.” Henry was speaking into his hat. He could not look at the woman again without feelings of empathy engulfing him. She was effecting his usual calm. His grandfather told him the story of Ferryman’s Bridge. But until tonight he thought it was all a fairy tale to explain the high number of deaths associated with the bridge.

Jolene looked at him with disbelief. “How could you know that. I don’t even know why I am here. I don’t understand any of this. Who am I? Who are you? And what the hell is happening on that bridge?” Jolene was starting to sound a little frantic. The line between reality and unreasonable had been crossed inside her head and she was going to have a full out panic attack if she had to endure one more moment without explanation.

“Let’s start over. My name is Henry. Henry Kerebrus. My family has lived here in Sahani Hollow for generations. My great great grandmother knew your great great grandfather. You are a descendant of the Cheron’s. The ferryman, himself.” Henry was trying to sound soothing as he spoke. He sensed she was feeling like a trapped wild animal. He didn’t want to spook her too terribly much.

“I am Jolene. Jolene Cheron. How did you know my family name? How could you know anything about me? And what do you mean I am the granddaughter of the ferryman. You mean that story my grandmother told me was true? There really was a three headed old man taking people from the river?” Jolene’s voice was calmer, but the tide of rage and terror was rising inside of her. She couldn’t look over at Henry. He was too much for her to handle, she needed to focus on the river, the blue light, the ferry story. Not the police officer sitting in her car. “Tell me more. I need to know what is drawing me here, to this place.”

“Where are you from, Jolene?” Henry was curious about what had brought this frightened little woman here. She seemed so overwhelmed and unsure of what was happening to her. His instincts were to draw her close and comfort her. To make her feel safe. But he knew he could not do this. Whatever was happening to him was obviously happening to her.

They both sat silently for a short time. Jolene broke the silence, “I woke up this morning with the need to get in my car and drive. I couldn’t control it. The urgency was so real, so powerful. I had no idea where I was going. When I drove into the rain and saw the bridge I knew I had arrived at my destination. I just have no idea why. Why today? Why me?”

“My grandmother told me the story of the ferryman. She never told me it had been her father. She alluded to it, but never said it. I knew our family came from a state in the south, but she never told me where. It was as if she was protecting me from something she wasn’t telling me. You know?”

Henry inhaled sharply. The story sounded familiar. His grandfather did the same. “Yes, I know. We have much in common. How much do you really know about the ferryman? I know the legend as it was told to me. But tonight, I feel as if new knowledge has just appeared in my head. I cannot unlearn it. It scares me a little.”

Somewhere within the subtext of what Henry spoke Jolene caught the story that had been trying to tell itself inside her mind.

After the ferryman died, a plan to build a bridge connecting Sahani Hollow to Red Moon Falls was put into place. Architects were consulted, engineers hired, contractors contracted. The bridge was to be functional and sturdy. No longer did he city have to endure the ferryman’s constant interference with the progress of man. Both cities had governments that were wanting to bring the area into the future. It was the beginning of the 20th century, progress was happening everywhere. Sahani Hollow and Red Moon Falls did not want to be left behind. The bridge was built. It took two years to complete. There were some issues with connecting the bridge in the center of the river. But after long hours, a few deaths, and modern building techniques the bridge was finished. In 1950 the bridge collapsed for unexplained reasons. It still remains a mystery as to why the original bridge fell. The new bridge was built stronger. It was completed in 1952. They named it The Ferryman’s Bridge for the legend that has passed down over the years. The bridge was world famous for being a hot spot for unexplained deaths and odd occurrences. To this day, paranormal researchers frequent the bridge amassing charts and data that only they understand. Tonight is the anniversary of when the ferryman died. It has been 100 years and the decedents of the ferryman and the three headed old man have returned to the river.

The part of the story never told to anyone was that there was a second part to the deal struck between the old man and the ferryman. The three headed old man was in love with a woman in the village who would come and wash her clothes in the river. The old man asked the ferryman to bring her to him and in return he would keep the rift safe from his even more ravenous kinfolk for 100 years after the ferryman’s death. The ferryman brought the woman to the old man, and the against the woman’s will the old man impregnated her with a child. She eventually grew to love the old man, but never revealed to her friends, family, and neighbors who the father of her child was. Both her and the ferryman took that knowledge to their graves. The old man grew to love the ferryman as a brother. He protected the rift as promised. His actual brother eventually found out.

Henry and Jolene got out to the car to walk toward the bridge. They knew something was going to happen. The blue light had grown larger. The wind and rain beat down harder than ever as they made their way onto the slick surface of the bridge. Neither one could deny the supernatural call summoning them to the center.

A few short feet from the center of the bridge, Jolene saw into the rift. The other world was trying to escape into this world. There was a man in a red robe holding a sword high above his head chanting into the rift from the other side. He had a dog’s face. Jolene reached for Henry instinctively. He held her hand and signaled for her to stop moving forward.

Behind the dog faced man, were ghostlike men carrying crude weapons made from wood and stone. They had a hungry look in their eyes. All of the ghost-men stayed behind the dog faced man. They lunged eagerly as he chanted on. The blue light began to flicker like a strobe. It was then that both Henry and Jolene knew their mission. They needed to stop the other world from bleeding through. These were blood-thirsty, restless spirits men.

Dog faced man flinched slightly when a three headed old man said something to him. The three headed man seemed angry. The ghost-men were restraining him. He struggled as best he could, but it was obvious that age and disease were working against him as well. The old man looked frail and beaten, with bruises, boils, and scabs covering his body. He was hideous to look at, but Jolene couldn’t look away. There was kindness and apology in his eyes. He looked directly at Henry and mouthed the words “use the key” to him.

“What is the key?” Jolene asked Henry

“I don’t know. I don’t have a key.” Henry was dumbfounded by actually seeing his great great grandfather. And was angry at seeing him tortured so. His hands clenched into fists, ready to fight for his family.

The bridge began to shake. Jolene lost her balance and fell backwards. As she lay on the ground she looked to her left and saw a stone pushing itself out of the wall. The stone was shaped like a key. The stone was inside the blue light zone, at the very bottom of the center stone wall. It was jutting out just enough to see that it wasn’t part of the wall itself. The stone was darker in color, a reddish brown, and looked as if it had been pried from the wall. It was too far away from Jolene to reach it without being noticed by the dog faced man and his minions of ghost men.

“Henry! I think I know what the key is.” She said as he reached down to help her back to her feet. Her excitement put a rosy glow on his cheeks, which he tried to hide with a masculine noise that sounded rather cavemanish.

“Oh? Uhhh.” Was all he could get out without his voice cracking.

She looked toward the stone and his gaze followed hers. They nodded to each other, silently synchronizing their minds.

The next moments seemed to fade in and out of reality for the two. The blue light brightened and and ice cold wind came rushing toward them from the rift. The dog faced man was becoming more animated and his hand was protruding from the light. Time and space seemed to wobble and sway around them. Jolene was becoming nauseous from the sensation. She reached for Henry’s hand to ground her. He was the only thing that felt real at that moment.

The three headed old man looked right into Henry, and Henry felt him enter his mind. It was not subtle. The invasion was painful. But the message was clear and direct.

The oath that the ferryman and the old man made was a blood oath. The contract was made in blood on a stone altar from the old man’s world. A sacred and powerful altar. The stone was given to the ferryman and was always present on his ferry as a signal to any who sensed the rift. When the bridge was first built, the stone was not included in it’s construction. The second bridge also excluded it. The ferryman’s granddaughter made a point in her young life to place the stone on the bridge. Now the contract is about to expire. A new contract must be made.

Henry looked at Jolene knowing that was what brought her here. She was to sign the new contract. As long as the three headed man lived, he could grant power to his great grandson to be his blood proxy in the contract.

Henry removed his pocket knife and opened it with a quick smooth motion. Jolene just looked at him in stunned silence. Henry reached for the key stone with a speed of a superhero. He placed the stone in Jolene’s trembling hands. Then, without words cut his hand open and Jolene’s hand. They both placed their palms on the stone. The bridge vibrated beneath their feet. The blue light strobed again. The dog face man looked horrified.

At that moment Henry recited the words that the old man put in his mind. “I honor this contract between our worlds. I give my word and my blood to protect this barior from invaders from this world or others. This rift shall from this day, close forever and never reopen. My blood is my oath. My oath is unbreakable.”

Jolene then said from instinct, “I honor this contract between our worlds. I give my word and my blood to protect this world. I accept your offer to protect my world from yours. I also give my blood to close this rift from this day to forever. Never shall it reopen. My blood is my oath. My oath is unbreakable.”

Hot and cold energy came at them at once. A wave of anger followed. The blue light glowed red hot, then white. And with an audible popping noise, the rift disappeared from existence. The storm ceased and the sun began to rise.

Jolene and Henry stood in the center of the bridge soaked and shaking. They wrapped their hands in pieces of cloth torn from Henry’s handkerchief. They just stood there and allowed the sunrise to envelope them in it’s majesty, eyes closed.

Henry moved first. His hand moving to settle on Jolene’s lower back. He pulled her close with the intention to just hold her. But Jolene reached her hand  to his jaw and pulled his mouth to hers. They kissed. Long, deep, and honest, they kissed.

Jolene was lost in the moment, enjoying the embrace. It was perfect for all of about 30 seconds. She tried to pull away from Henry. But her mouth was fused to his. She stood there immobilized, terrified. Henry unbuttoned his shirt to reveal the rift that had disappeared from the river reappeared in the center of his chest. A swirling, pulsating opening where his heart should be. Henry pulled Jolene closer, finishing the blood oath. Jolene was devoured instantly by the three headed old man.

Henry buttoned up his shirt, got into his police car, and drove back into town a changed man.  

Because I Can't Stop Thinking About Roller Derby I Post A Derby Longing Post

This is one of the greatest Roller Derby funnies I have ever seen.

I miss roller derby. Seeing all of the Saturday night updates from around the world has only made me miss derby more. Loose Lee wants to come out and play. 

Oh and here is a picture I found deep in the caverns of my computer from my very first Roller Derby event. When I was a fledgling Loose Lee. 

Loose Lee is the hot chick in red in the middle (on the steps).

Ecstatic Me: Poetic Rockstar Junkie Chronicles

I wrote this poem in my head while at a Stevie Nicks concert. She is definitely a diva that inspires greatness within the minds of creative souls. I dedicate this poem to the influence that Ms. Nicks has had on me since childhood and to my friend Lora for being my Stevie sister. I wanted to be Stevie so much when I was young. Now in my older youth I find that I have actually become my own person who I believe would make her proud. I am true to who I am and I am as much of a goddess as I always thought her to be. I grew up with an open mind and an open spirit, thirsty for what I could create within myself. I have learned to quench that thirst with words, with music, with honesty to my soul. Thank you Steve Nicks for being a wonderful influence on an impressionable little girl.

Ecstatic Me

Sometimes I am imaginary when the world is heavier than the earth I stand upon
Sometimes I float away when I am filled with dreams I thought long gone
Sometimes I am the ship tossing about in a violent stormy sea
Sometimes I am the sea that swallows the vessel setting a hundred souls free
Sometimes I am the the raven on the mountainside carrying souls beyond this world
Sometimes I am the clouds hiding the sunshine from a sad and heartbroken girl

But I am always the wind under your wings
I am always ecstatic me
I am always the moon guiding the tides of the sea
I am always ecstatic me
I am always the song you hear, the perfect melody
I am always ecstatic me

Sometimes I am the rushing saltwater washing sand castles away
Sometimes I am the sand where the words of love letters fade
Sometimes I am the wind that moves the honey bee from bloom to bloom
Sometimes I am the silvery light that bathes lovers in the veil of the moon
Sometimes I am the curse of a scorned woman near her brink
Sometimes I am the words of wisdom that make her step back and think

But I am always the stars shining brightly
I am always ecstatic me
I am always the mother of life’s certainty
I am always ecstatic me
I am always what moves inside the brave and free
I am always ecstatic me

Sometimes I am the song and more often the soft refrain
Sometimes I am the voice inside telling you to dance in the rain
Sometimes I am the darkness that blankets a lonely night
Sometimes I am the brightness of the desert in the hot sunlight
Sometimes I am lighthouse perched high above the deadly shore
Sometimes I am the siren calling sailors to the velvet curtain of nevermore

But I am always the softness of purity
I am always ecstatic me
I am always what comes around briefly
I am always ecstatic me
I am always the heart that floats happily
I am always ecstatic me