Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
There is a lot going on in the Wonderland right now! Changes, rearranges, transformations, and shifts are occurring in many areas of the Queendom.
Communication will be sketchy for a couple of weeks. The Wonderland is still experiencing computer connectivity issues. Since getting a new computer and modem in April, I am still constantly trying to stay connected or re-connect to the Internet. The queen is experiencing a royal pain in the tukus. I have traced the problem to the fact that the modem the cable provider is using is not compatible with Windows Vista. After all the time I've spent with tech support, you would think they would fess up that the problem is on their end. This is obviously something of which they have to be aware. All they tell me is that my modem is getting their signal so there should be no problem. I say big problem if I am getting the boot and having to do system restores several times a day. If they would have told me this right up front, I could have just gone and bought my own modem instead of using the one they provide. So, the queen will be working out these complications while rolling a few heads.
Visitors are due to arrive in Wonderland on the first of July. My brother-in-law and his wife are coming out to the left coast. It has been nine years since their last visit. I will be changing my workplace the first of August. More on this later. I am in the midst of a whizz-bang cleaning and organizing binge. I am not sure what has come over me, but there are big changes on the wind.
I have a correction on my last post, Lithia. It should have read that the Summer Solstice occurred in the Northern Hemisphere and the Winter Solstice occurred in the Southern Hemisphere. I have always believed it to be this way, but I went to a site to get the solstice time and it was stated as being in the Eastern and Western Hemispheres. I looked at a global map and it looked like it could be plausible. Thanks, Reya, for pointing out the error and allowing me the opportunity to correct the information.
For the next couple of weeks, I will be limping around Blog World as nimbly as possible. But as the Red Queen says to Alice, “it takes all the running you can do to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!”
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
In the Eastern Hemisphere, the year is born anew, full of promise but needing care. In the west, the year has grown into a fully mature woman. Fulfillment is the focused power of this time. The Divine Mother is wielding her strength, sexuality and fertility with mighty strokes. The crops are planted, they are blooming or have bloomed, and the buds give way to ripening fruit. The promise of harvest sits in the balance at this midpoint of the growing season. The harvest, not yet taken, is dependent on the Divine Mother to provide the right amount of rain and ideal conditions so the plants can mature.
Passion. Passion is the hallmark of this time. The merging of all the right aspects will produce the highest yield. The Divine Mother and Mother Earth are most abundant right now. They are ready to give maximum payoffs fed by the highest life force. It is time to turn the wheel of the year, the wheel of life, again. During the rites, celebrants are keenly aware that this fullness comes at the expense of descent into the darkness of the year. A bittersweet duality.
Some say the time of power lasts for three days, some say four, others believe a week from the time the solstice occurred. Regardless, it is a time to dance with great exuberance and abandon, no holding back. This is not a quiet, introspective time. Drum, dance, chant, move with abandon and willingness. Wield the power of the days and of the Mother Divine with confidence. Be sure to ask for what you wish to bring into reality until the next time of power. Be thoughtful in what you ask for as Mother Earth is at her most giving. Be one with all levels of nature. Be joy. Be sunshine. Be laughter. But most of all, be your true self. To both of the Mothers and all the the Devas, nature spirits, who are acting together to bring all things in this season into form, I humbly give great, great gratitude. Namaste.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
What a beautiful Saturday, summer evening, I think as I walk out to the mailbox to get the post. Out of the brown, metal box, I retrieve a hand full of the usual bills, advertisements and magazines. Flipping through the pieces as I return to the house, the picture on the cover of the magazine stops me in my tracks. Literally. Staring back at me from the cover of The AARP Magazine is actor/director, Ron Howard. HOLY MOLEY! Little Opie, from The Andy Griffith Show, is old enough to be on the cover of a senior rag. We are the same age. Is it not bad enough that I face the monthly reality of my Methuselahism when this buggering magazine arrives? Apparently not! Now I have to acknowledge that I, and the Richie Cunningham of Happy Days that I grew up with, are models of senior citizenry--waiting for a Viagra moment.
When did this happen? How did this happen? Wasn't it only yesterday that I was looking forward to who was on the cover of Rolling Stone? I mean, brown sugar, is Mick Jagger next month's cover feature? And this isn't the only thing that's bothering me about this whole gig. There is something else zinging around in the back of my bio-computer's gray matter like a firefly that I can't quite catch. What is it? Continuing my walk to the house, wearing long ago memories as if they were yesterday's clothes, I wonder if my peppy, young person's, bouncy step has turned into the "little, ol' lady shuffle." Fearing so, I pick up my feet and clip along with a saucy sashay.
And then...that firefly of a thought? I slap it to the wall like a mosquito to an arm. The cover of The AARP Magazine reminds me of MAD magazine. These two men on the covers look so similar they could be twins. What is going on here?
Just for a moment, my world goes black and I hear only a high-pitched buzzing in my ears which turns into singing.
Don't worry 'cause I'm a comin'
I'm a soul man...
"John is that you?," I ask.
"That's right, kiddo it's John Belushi. Live from the Bardo state, It's Saturday Night!
What the freak?
Of all the beings in all the galaxies in all the universes that I could channel, I get John Belushi. He tells me to type the name belonging to the man featured on the cover of MAD into the search bar on the computer:
I read the search engine hits and learn that Alfred E. Neuman is MAD magazine's "What -- Me Worry?" kid. He's a young man with a thatched roof of red hair, large ears and a gap-toothed, goofy-grin.
John says, "Give me 10 little, chocolate donuts and an eight ball of cocaine, and I'll tell you the secret connection between Opie and Alfred E."
Well, I don't have an eight ball, but I really want that secret, so I tell John that unlike him, I like being in my body and swore off all that stuff years ago. He starts fussin' with me, tellin' me I'm not gonna get that secret if I don't share the blow. I stand my ground. I'm not punting my karmic orbit for some ol' 12-Step dropout. Finally, he sees it my way and we start to parlay. I raise the 10 chocolate donuts to 20 and add a cheeseburger with a Coke. He tells me Pepsi--no Coke, and we have a deal.
"First off, Ron Howard and Alfred are the same age, 55. Do you think it's a coincidence?," John asks.
Thinking for a minute, I consider how much they look alike, I sez,"You mean..."
"Yeah," says Belushi."In the most magnificent Face/Off in history, Alfred E. rose off the illustrated page like the pointer on a Ouija Board and took on the physical appearance of Ron Howard."
"But why?," I ask.
"Well, he's a tricky one and is hard to read. But he detests being a one dimensional, paper boy and he plans to take over the world." says John.
I have to agree. Who's going to believe you're going to become the world sovereign when you're considered a carefree, idiotic paper doll--a pawn of "The Man." Before he leaves, Belushi makes the bargain good by giving me this extra special bonus secret.
"There are two other casualties of Neuman's deviltry that I will share with you. The next time you have an opportunity to see Charles, Prince of Wales and ABC newsman Ted Koppel, look closely. All is not as it seems."
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
We have three dogs--a white one, a black one, and a black and white one. It is interesting how they each react to the ripping, sizzling storms. B.B., the white one, could care less about all the booming and percussion. Yin, the black and white dog, gets clingy, needy and anxiously paces. Then there's Maaco. He's always in a class by himself. A Shar-Pei and Lab cross breed, he has anxiety issues in general and separation anxiety in specific. When the thunder and lightning start throwing tantrums, he begins panting and trembling. His eyes get large, round and glassy. He drools uncontrollably and the corners of his mouth pull back with stress. He won't eat. He can't eat. Which says a lot because this dog lives for food. He turns into a black, fuzzy mass of quivering jello.
On Friday night, the storm, directly over our house, streams fire bolts down from the heavens. Thunder cracks our world. Maaco heads for cover, running under the computer desk for safety. With legs and paws entangled in cords and wires, he continues his headlong assault into the deepest angle of the corner. Pushing to go beyond the wall. Scratching to go through the floor. With a huge show of strength, we drag him, clawing, out from under the desk barely keeping the computer tower and connections intact. Once we had him out, we leashed him and kept him close. If he were outside, he would rip boards off the fence, run blindly for miles, and we might see him in a couple of days, if ever. It has happened before.
He's still frantic. We take him to his safe place in our bedroom, a small space between the wall and the bed. The thunder fires off a barrage of detonations. Panicked, he tries to burrow under a night stand that is only two inches off the ground. Knocking the nightstand over, he breaks the lamp and pulls the phone down on to the floor. It is not a fun night. None of us get much sleep until the storm abates early in the morning. If we had known the storm was going to be this bad, we would have given him tranquilizers. My sympathetic vet has deemed him fit for his own prescription. And, although I don't like the idea of drugging two-leggeds or four-leggeds, there is a time and place for everything. I wonder, what is the DSM code, from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, for Crazy Freakin' Dog?
He truly believes he is in mortal danger. That death is imminent. I can't tell him he is wrong as I know, for a fact, that lighting can and will kill. I have read it and seen it. But how do dogs know this? Why are some dogs terrified and others unaffected? Are the dogs that have intense fear descendants of a lineage that existed in a region where thunder and lighting occurred regularly? Were so many of their far removed, ancient, Wolverine ancestors killed that their DNA was coded with this knowledge? Does the sound of thunder and flash of light signal their primitive, limbic brain to send the message of flight for life? Do the unaffected canines come from regions without such danger? Or is just a personality disorder? I guess it could be, but the fear seems so deeply ingrained that maybe there is a real and practical purpose for its existence.
I don't have any answers. All I know is that I am hoping that Thor, God of Thunder, has tired of riding the heavens in his chariot and smashing the heads of giants with his mighty, lighting producing hammer, Mjollnir. In the words of Jack Nicholson in As Good as It Gets, "Sell crazy someplace else, we're all stocked up here."
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Slipping inside, the young ladies, greeted by their uncles, sat for an evening's meal of bread, cheese, wine, and tales of long ago. There are legends here. Legends of Lemurians, an antediluvian race of people, related to the fleeing descendants of Atlantis. They are rumored to live deep below the mountain. For years, the locals have seen strange lights at night, encountered other-worldly mystics, and witnessed disappearing groups of people--right before their eyes--on that mountain. It is widely believed that the lenticular, lens-shaped clouds that often cling to the top of the mount, conceal flying saucers staffed with green and gray extra-terrestrials. It is here that St. Germain, an ascended master, brought forth the teachings of the Violet Consuming Flame of Transmutation.
Strange folk abound...psychics, healers, shamans, gurus, channelers and mystics. There are shops with teachers and tools for penetrating the void, that place where there is nothing but yet nothing is ever missing. One can find oils, vibrational essences, drums, rattles, stones, crystals, singing bowls, ceremonial sage and prayer flags. The I Am Presence is here, as strong as The Force. The waters, absolutely pure, are blessed and taken for cleansing and purification. All this and more, the young women learn.
With dinner and stories over for the night, the uncles lead their nieces to the balcony on the top, west side of the house. It is a full moon tonight. They enjoy bathing in her cold, beautiful, white but lonely glow as they wait for their ride home. In the distance, they see the fire. The comet, tail blazing like the fiery, blue-white spray of a welder's arc, sweeps toward the balcony. Reaching out their long, pale, graceful arms, the beauties swing up and on to the spritzing tail. Instantly, they vanish. Mike and Tony, with sweet, sad smiles upon their faces, wave goodbye. Minutes later, four sparking, baby diamond stars are Bedazzled upon the Milky Way's simple black dress. All sparkles, shimmers and excited chatter, they tell of their evening's experience of spirit being in a physical body. They tell their father about their night of swinging on the playground of planet Earth.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
As the man in the rear seat raised his right arm to wave, a shot entered his back, pierced his neck and fled his throat. With hands clenched tightly, he raised them to his neck and tilted forward as another woman, who was sitting next to him, wrapped arms of concern around him. The man in the front seat yelled out that they were all going to be killed as the same bullet opened holes in his back, chest, right wrist and left thigh. The woman next to him pushed his gaping chest wound against her lap...saving his life. A third shot repeated. A fist-size hole erupted from the right side of the head of the male in the back seat. Blood and brain tissue splattered the interior of the car like molten lava spewing from a volcano.
His life clock began ticking at 3:00 p.m. on May 29, 1917. It ceased when the last of three fired bullets stopped his pulse at 12:30 p.m. on that November day. Each one of us is a human clock with an unknown number of hours and unexpired, roll-over minutes enclosed in our case. We are geared to run to the end of our time. If you had a choice, would you choose to know when your clock will tick its last tock?
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
The word Cougar has been splashed around the media lately. A cougar is an older women who dates a younger man. While older men are lauded and revered--mainly by other men--for dating younger partners, females are often subjected to ridicule for the same. The word cougar invokes the image of a predatory female stalking its prey. Conversely, men, often called silver foxes, are portrayed as wise and handsome rather than cold and predatory. Cougar has a cacophonous, harsh sound to it just like the other word for a strong female that starts with a "C" and rhymes with bunt. This other "C" word has been unacceptable in public speech since the 1500's.
I am not, nor have ever been, a Cougar but I did drive one for a long time. I loved her. She was very sleek and fast. When I slammed her accelerator to the floor, her four-barrel carburetor would give quick response. When she kicked in, yeah, that cat would run. She ate pavement and spat it out for miles behind her. She was worth every penny I paid over the years for speeding tickets. Miss Cougar always commanded respect, even from the ticket writing officers. They would walk around her admiring her long, low, lean lines, pin stripes, glossy black tires and sequential tail lights. They already new how fast she ran, they'd given her chase for miles. They would tell me of the best girls they had left at home--their Mustang's, Camaro's, and Chevy's. And when I asked them if they drove them fast, they would shake their head no, but a knowing twinkle would spark in their eyes. Yeah, she got respect...like a good Cougar should.
But alas, in a speed-lust frenzy, I decided to sell her for a newer, faster model. I had my eye on a Mitsubishi 3000 GT Twin Turbo VR4. Miss Cougar's rear end had a tendency to chatter and break loose a bit when taking corners at over 90 MPH. The 3000 would just lay down, hug the road tighter, beg for more and I would give it to her. So we looked for a new home for the cat. A young man in his mid-20's fell in love with her. He said he would take care of her. He said he would respect her. He said he would give her a good home. We wanted to believe him.
A few months ago, when my husband came home from work, he was very sad. He told me that while he had been out at the wrecking yard that morning, he had run into an old friend. Worriedly, I asked him what was wrong. He said he'd seen a horrible sight. As he walked to the back of the yard, he passed a twisted, crumpled mass of metal. He thought, what a waste, nothing salvageable in that heaping knot. Then he saw it. A of flash of paint...her paint. Miss Cougar, hardly recognizable and broken beyond repair, had not even one part left worthy of harvest and transplant. She'd rolled to the end of the road, worth nothing but the flat rate paid for scrap iron. We spoke of how we should never have let her go. We lit a candle.
I do not like this word Cougar as a term for females. It is used derogatorily and does not infer respect. From this moment on, I will use the word swan to denote a woman in such a relationship. In my opinion, any woman who undertakes the precarious nature of such a relationship, walks in grace. But this is a cautionary tale. A warning to the swans I so admire. Be careful in your involvement with these young men. They are full of promises, hopes and dreams, and high-energy. But in their passion and over eagerness, they can, all too easily, loose control of a fast, high revving, hot engine. Take heed that your front end doesn't end up mangled and your rear end wrapped around a telephone pole. Take a lesson from Miss Cougar.
Photo: mikeja.com Photobucket.com