Where Lovers Meet

Where Lovers Meet
It’s an escape
I am safe in another place
Where pain and sorrow doesn’t exist.
It’s warm there
Comforting and pleasantly tranquil.
I feel a part of another – (un)alone
The sound of another heartbeat
The all encompassing feel
Of another ones arms around me.
The feel of another body beside mine.
And the smell of another ones flesh.
Hot breath on my cheek
The endless peace discovered through
Another ones touch.
Then I awaken to find
It was only another ones dream.
A place where lovers meet.
……………… Granny ~1992~

General Interest: He Was A LIAR#links#links

General Interest: He Was A LIAR#links#links

He Was A LIAR

They say abuse is learned and passed on to the next generation and so on and so on. That it’s just a vicious cycle. Mental abuse; physical, emotional, sexual; it’s all the same. It all hurts. It scars cripples and maims. I’ve seen a lot of that.
I wonder what ever happened to my father; the one who learned these things and passed them on to everyone who ever came into contact with him? How many hundreds of lives did he ultimately destroy with his illness? Were people so blind as not to notice? They said he had a bad temper. Had they never looked into his eyes during one of those episodes? It was rage…completely unleashed, black and ugly.
I’m not even sure what I know about him. I still can’t decipher between the lies and the truths he told. He was quite a talker …… a liar mostly; if that’s what it took to make him bigger, stronger and more of a man than his listeners.
But he did have stories that were true; for the most part. They were always intriguing and kept his listeners on the edge of their seats. They’d look at him with such admiration and respect: that was exactly what he needed, he actually craved it. It made him feel right somehow to have the masses at awe with his tales of bravery, quick thinking and strength.
Many evenings, men would sit for hours crowding around him, leaning forward in their chairs, so as not to miss one word, and ask for more. “Wes,” they’d say “Tell us about the time at the saw mill; tell us about old Joe” I got so bored hearing him talk about the same thing all time.
I was very young and made a remark about it once. Mom scurried across the room, cuffed me along side the head. Her pointing finger telling me to hush up. I looked up at her and then threw Dad a dirty look. Mom, back on the other side of the room by now was wearing a look of warning and slightly shaking her head from side to side. Don’t do that either, was her message.

The Empress.....ME ??

You are The Empress
Beauty, happiness, pleasure, success, luxury, dissipation.
The Empress is associated with Venus, the feminine planet, so it represents, beauty, charm, pleasure, luxury, and delight. You may be good at home decorating, art or anything to do with making things beautiful.
The Empress is a creator, be it creation of life, of romance, of art or business. While the Magician is the primal spark, the idea made real, and the High Priestess is the one who gives the idea a form, the Empress is the womb where it gestates and grows till it is ready to be born. This is why her symbol is Venus, goddess of beautiful things as well as love. Even so, the Empress is more Demeter, goddess of abundance, then sensual Venus. She is the giver of Earthly gifts, yet at the same time, she can, in anger withhold, as Demeter did when her daughter, Persephone, was kidnapped. In fury and grief, she kept the Earth barren till her child was returned to her.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

People are Like Apples - The More Scars They Have - The Sweeter Their Fruit

Uncle Archie arrived one late afternoon.

All the family was at our house to see him. I had been too pre-occupied playing with all my visiting relatives to notice him walking in the door: until the other kids began to scream and jump up and down.

He had just plunked a bushel of apples on the kitchen floor amidst the adult greetings and the confusion. “Uncle Archie, Uncle Archie” I yelled as I ran across the room to greet him.

He had heard the other kids excited about the apples and was placing several of them on the table when I approached. He quickly rubbed one against his pant leg and handed it to me: the biggest, roundest, reddest, most beautiful apple ever; as I jumped into his arms.

I set the apple on the table; he danced around bouncing me to some imaginary polka. He liked the other kids but none of them could ever mean as mush to him as I did.

My apple was gone off the table! Brian had stolen it. He was dancing around taunting me with it and sticking his tongue out, so I went after him. I began grabbing at my apple yelling that it was mine, Uncle Archie had given that one to me; I was kicking at him and trying to punch out his face and poke his eyes, when we were separated.

Most people were of the impression that I was being spoiled. They couldn’t see the difference between getting an apple and having the best apple in the bushel polished and handed to you by a favourite Uncle.

During the ruckus, my Granddad had been digging through the bushel. He started saying “It’s alright, it’s alright” I’m sure that although my Dad was on his best behaviour, he must have seen the fire in his eyes. “He took me by the hand and said, “Come here, Maggie come with me.
He took me outside to our favourite log. He had two really big and ugly apples with him. One, he sat on his lap. One he held up in front of his face and stared at, thoughtfully. He rolled it in his fingers and looked at all facets of it. I could see the scabs even in the setting sun.

His thumb casually moved along the apple from top to bottom; he turned it in his hand to look at the underside. I watched him intently and sullenly as he carefully began to polish the apple with a hankie he had pulled from his back pocket. He continued rubbing it in silence, aware that I was watching every move he made.

I became aware of the empty almost hollow feeling that had overtaken me. It was in my heart and in my stomach. It was new and weird. He wasn’t treating it like an apple. He was caressing it, paying attention to every bump and scab on it. His movements were slow and deliberate as he spoke; “Have you ever noticed how apples are allot like people?” he started, “they all come from a beautiful blossom; but not every one of them turns out to be perfect. The tree treats them all equally, but still some are affected by wind and hail, maybe they don’t get enough sun, or somehow become injured while they are still growing.

He paused and looked at me to see if I was listening. I wasn’t sullen any longer. He had given me something to think about. I was mesmerized and eager to hear more, “Like people” he continued, “When they become injured in some way, they grow a scab over the wound to protect it while it heals.”

He was gently caressing the knarls on the apple. Running his nail over an ugly scab; he revealed the juicy pink fruit just below the surface. He said, “The apple puts all its energy into healing the wounds; its energy is focused, so all the sweetness collects there. That’s its nature. That’s the nature if all things”.

He looked up at me again. I don’t know what my face was telling him. He quickly snapped, “What, you don’t believe me? Take a bite!”

He thrust the apple into my hands and reached for the one that was on his lap. I watched him shine it against his chest, and then he nodded.

We both, at the same time, bit into the biggest ugliest knarl in our apples. We laughed as the juice ran from our chins.

We sat gazing at the stars and chomping greedily on our fruit; making yummy, slirping sounds and laughing even more at ourselves.

On our way back into the house Granddad said, it was the best apple he had ever tasted in his whole life, and I agreed.

Why Are Bald Men So Smart?

Our insurance man’s name was Moe. He would come around the house every month to get some money, and have some coffee and my Mom’s blueberry pie. He was always nice to me and always brought me a treat. Usually it was a big black sucker. They were my favourite. I only told him that once and he never forgot. Moe was a big fat man with no hair. He’d pick me up and sit me on his knee, and he was always happy to see me.
I was sitting on his lap one time enjoying my sucker and watching him talk to my mom. I reached up to his bald head and rubbed it back and forth with my tiny hand. It was smoother than my dolls heads, and shinier.

He smiled while I studied him. I finally asked, “How come you don’t have any hair?”

My mother was so embarrassed she was totally without words; then suddenly she started to chastise me and apologise to Moe all at once. Moe was saying; “No, no Peggy, it’s alright, she needs to know.”……. Wow. I was going to find out something that was a secret. Normally when I asked a question that got that kind of response from my mom, the answer was:”….to make little girls ask questions.” That made me mad.

He went on to explain that a brain can only hold so much information. When you grow up and get as smart as he is, your brain gets so big and full that there just isn’t any room for the roots. I was hanging off every word. “So the hair falls out. He continued. The little bits that remain along the sides aren’t affected. That’s not where your brains are.”

I guess I ripped the heads off all my dolls for the next month. I was trying to find their brains. I remember throwing one of them across the room in frustration. NONE OF THEM had brains! Then I’d cry because I couldn’t put their heads back on and had no one to play tea party with. Every body was getting tired of replacing the heads on my dolls. And they were getting tired of me jumping up and down after sneaking…. another head…. off another doll…. and finding nothing. I spent allot of time teaching them things and they never grew any brains.

It must have been around Christmas time. I had gotten a Shirley Temple Walking Doll from Santa. She was the same size as me and my uncles and every body told me she was really smart because she could walk if I held her hands. I didn’t like her much because her skin was hard and I couldn’t bend her or get her to sit properly for tea; I couldn’t feed her a bottle or put her in the carriage and she was too hard to dress and undress.

She really couldn’t walk. They said I had to teach her, but she was stupid. Besides, she had too much hair. I was trying to teach her to walk again one day and couldn’t resist. I ripped her head off. There! See? No brains!! I was kicking her around the floor and screaming. Dad said we couldn’t fix it. He wanted to throw it out, but mom saved it to give to Moe… Maybe she was going to let him teacher her something.
In the spring when I saw Moe again, Dad was with us at the table having his favourite lemon meringue pie. I asked Moe if he would marry me when I grew up. He looked across at my father and said, with a nervous chuckle: “Most little girls want to marry their Daddy when they grow up. Don’t you want to marry your Daddy?”

I said no. That hurt Dad’s feelings so he went back to work in the yard. Moe gave me a big warm hug, said a few words to my mom and said he’d see us next month. I saw him talking a bit to Dad in the yard before he left.

Mom actually sat at the table beside me and looked directly into my face when she said “Tell me Margie; why would you choose Moe to marry, over your Dad?” I could tell she really was interested so I explained to her in detail that I thought Moe was always happy. He laughed all the time and you could tell it was real because his whole body jiggled just like Santa Claus.

He gave big hugs. He never said anything bad to anybody and he didn’t use curse words like Dad, ever. He paid attention to what I was doing and liked my artwork. He always asked to see more and wanted to know the whole story about my pictures. He had a soft voice and big kind eyes. I liked the way he talked to her and I liked it when he made her laugh.

Mom said “You make good sense.” She said. Then quietly, almost whispering she said “Moe does make me laugh.” As she rose from the chair she looked out the window saying, “I hope you remember that these things are important when you get older.”

I went back to my painting. “Besides,” I said to Mom, “He’s the smartest man I know!” Mom laughed.