The POD Chronicles - Day One

Courtesy of Deviant Art

It's been nice knowing you folks. I bid adieu because the POD has come to reclaim my soul.

You are all familiar with the POD. My very, unusual and brilliant professor who teaches in a manner that is not for the faint of heart. He means well, in his own twisted way.

Well, as you know, I survived his sadistic tormenting of me last semester. In fact, I guess I enjoyed it so much, I signed up again for another one of his flogging sessions. Oh, Rebecca, what. does. this. say. about. you? Well, the truth is that this is an upper-level course that I need and he's the only one teaching it. And he's grown on me. *sigh*

And last night was our first class. For the next three months I will be in his medieval torture chamber awaiting the different levels of agony and unbearable pain he will put me through. Truth be told he sees this as a legitimate way to extract that which he wants from us: our blood. And, our crime? Simply that we are "shitty" writers that deserve the pillory or rack because our submissions could qualify as nothing less than a crime.

But the POD was quite pleasant last night. Very pleasant. Very kind, sweet and charming. Hmm? Where did my PODdy POD go? The man standing before me looked like the POD, his voice sounded like the POD, but it wasn't the POD. It couldn't be. Well, maybe the holidays were kind and loving to him and he was still basking in the light; or, maybe he met some nice lady friend who is taming his fiery temper; or, or, or....

Oh, I get it! New kids on the block! New blood on which to feast. Reel them in with words of sweet. Yes! How brilliant is my POD?!! They're young and innocent and believe him to be a nice, elderly professor who is going to be oh, such a pushover and, oh, such an easy A!

HA!

Put those thumbs in your mouths right now boys and girls because you are going to start crying for your mommies! You have entered his chamber of horrors and you will not leave unscathed. Tsk, tsk. They looked so trusting too - fiddling with their hairs, yawning, waiting for class to end because they had better things to do. Oh, yeah. Next week you'll be like kittens standing before a pit bull. A pit bull who's hungry and hasn't had a bite to eat in a month.

So, we do our in-class assignment, right? Prompt is snow, extreme heat. Pick your poison. Write for 15 minutes, let it flow. I submit mine. He loves it. WTF? No, no, no!! This is not what I signed up for! Put me on the rack! Tell me it's "shit!" Use me as the example of complete suckiness! Yes, I realize this is not a word, but, hey, my story, I get to make up words.

No, he likes it. As a matter of fact, he wasn't critical or mean to one single person. Not one. Okay, this is boring. What's wrong with you?

Okay, this has to be bait. Nice and easy. Reel them in with words of sweet. Yes. Because next week will be different. Next week, the innocents will finally meet him. How do I know? Because after our first week's "shitty, unreadable" submissions, all Hell will break loose. And they will get to see him discard the costume of a nice, gentle man before their very eyes and see the devil that dwells inside. Oh, I can see the tears now. You want to be a writer? You expect me to applaud this garbage? Do you speak English? Can you write English?!! And the POD will once again spew those venomous words that will leave us whimpering at his feet begging for his forgiveness for being such "shitty," incompetent writers.

And this course is not a free ride. It is not an easy A. We're to produce. At least 100-200 pages of worthy material, not mediocre material, but solid material that could be publishable. Be it in the form of a play, screenplay, novel, memoir, poems.

Great.

Well, scratch the memoir because that would take half a page at most and would undoubtedly induce coma in any reader because of the boredom factor.

So now I'm down to a novel (250 pages). In three months. I'm not that brilliant; my brain is not that big.

Okay, screenplay. Seems daunting. And do I have time for writing something that I'm a complete novice at while preparing for my college's commencement exercises which sucks the life right out of me? No.

Poetry? Please, I'd rather write a novel and a screenplay! Not my thing.

So what am I left with? A play. I like plays. I can do plays. But I'll write something tragic to keep him from flogging me too severely. He thinks my Pollyanic light shines too bright and thus it is his job to extinguish it and seek out the dark in me. It's how he gets his kicks. But, a 3-act play? Christ!

And instead of using my time now to begin penning my words for this tremendous project, I am here fiddling around and writing this post instead. Okay, so call it mental floss. Because I know the mental beatings will soon begin and, dude, I'm ready for you. I think. And which genre I choose to write is irrelevant anyway. I am now his puppet, doing his bidding. Forget that I have a mind of my own. He's taken possession of it and will not return it until he believes I've earned it. And he will sniff out that which I most fear, that which would want to make me take my brain out and put in a jar for lab rats to pick at. And he will take me to that precipice and tell me to jump and call me a coward if I fail to do his bidding. So, yes, let me have my little moment now, because life as I know it, is now over.

So it's been nice knowing you folks. And I'm off to the Temple of Doom. If I fail to return in one, uninjured piece with my faculties intact, then please know that "the kindness of strangers" has not been lost on me. I like you. I really, really like you. And you've all been very sweet and kind to me. Thank you. *sigh*

Let the verbal flogging begin.

Footprints in the Heart

From the archives and one of my favorites. The moment I saw this photograph taken by Gregory Colbert, it touched my heart and left me humbled by the trust that can exist between man and animal. Hence, the story.



The first time I saw you, I immediately fell in love with you. A beautiful, alert and happy baby face surrounded by the two biggest ears I'd ever seen. I had come to this land unhappy to have left my own, unhappy to have left my best friends behind. But Daddy said it would only be for a couple of years, four at most, and then we'd return home. He said this was a wonderful opportunity for him and a wonderful opportunity for me as well. He wanted me to learn more of the world and connect with nature. I wanted to go home.

The days passed with me solemnly pouting my existence and I became resolved in showing Daddy how miserable and unhappy I was. But then one, hot, summer day while sitting on the veranda and wishing for someone to play with, I saw you. And you made me laugh and made everything all right. That first time I saw you, you were but a mere calf running and playing between your mother's legs leaving trails of dust behind that covered everyone within distance. You looked so happy that I could swear you were giggling. And when you saw me I knew you wanted to become friends. But even though you were a baby, you were so much bigger than me that I was scared of you. Yet you were gentle, funny and fun. And in time I learned to trust you and you learned to trust me too. And your Mama watched over us with protective eyes. She was so patient with us. I laugh when I think of the times you'd become so excited that she'd have to calm you with a nudge of her trunk centering you once again and reminding you that you were to act dignified. No matter what, you were to always act dignified.

And we grew up together in this land. Your land. We spent our days exploring and getting into all kinds of trouble. We'd spend our days walking this arid, hot land in search of nothing and of everything like nomads without a home and listening to the cadence of life around. We'd stop to eat and you'd pick blades of grass with your trunk to nourish yourself and attempt to feed them to me as well. Always generous, you always shared everything with me, even if I couldn't eat it. And I still remember the day you were finally able to reach a high branch on a tree and tore it in victory! Oh, how you had grown! But in your excitement, you thumped me on my head and I ended up needing stitches. We laughed so hard, yet Daddy did not find it so funny and I had to stay indoors away from you for awhile while I recuperated. But they couldn't keep us away, however, because you'd come visit me everyday and stick your big head in my bedroom window and keep me company.

And those hot days when the sun would singe our skins, you'd flap those big ears of yours to fan us. Imagine that, I had my very own personal breeze created by my very best friend! And the swimming in the river! Ohh, how we loved to swim in the river! You'd fill your trunk with water and spray me under the guise of bathing yourself! Oh, that was so much fun! You wanted to play but knew Mama was watching all the time. You'd hear her admonish, "remember, little one, you must always act dignified." She just wanted to raise you right because one day you'd become the leader of your kingdom and eyes were watching.

Despite your thick skin, I learned of your tender spots in your mouth and ears where your skin was paper-thin. And I learned of the tender spot in your heart as well. You trusted me and allowed me to come near you. I had never had a friend like you and was blessed to have had one. I found you to be full of compassion, self-awareness and altruism. And, you felt things just like me. We were kindred spirits living a free-spirited life in this wonderful, hot expansive land of yours. And I learned so much from you and yours.

And today I have to leave. It is time for me and Daddy to finally go home. Yet now I feel this has become my home for it is the land I've grown to love. I've come to love it because of you. And I find myself stricken with crushing sadness for I cannot bear to tear myself away. I hope you will always remember me for I will never forget you. No more looking forward to days playing and going on explorations learning the topography of your land. No more gossiping with you my dear friend of the attention-grabbers and troublemakers of your tribe. You will no longer have me as your sole, devoted companion and now is the time for you to finally integrate fully into your own kind. And I will cry. I will cry because you have meant more to me than words can ever express. I will cry because my heart will now feel a loss that was once filled with days of you. But I will one day return. Of this, I promise.

But I will have this picture to remind me of us. This picture of us saying goodbye. This picture that shows the tenderness that is you; the tender heart I've come to know and love. I will show this picture to others and speak of you and our time together so they could see the beauty of you and learn to love you in the same way I have. And know that it will keep me company at all times along with the memories I have of you, until the day I return and see you again. Perhaps then we will both have families and our children can grow up together. But until then, keep me in your heart dear friend and never forget me. Because as you roam and lay your footprints on this land, know that you've etched your footprints deep in my heart as well.

Goodbye my dear friend. Goodbye.

© 2008 Rebecca Bush

Happy 30th Amor

Today, the beloved and I make 30 years of marriage. It seems like only yesterday we married and were still young and full of love. Well, we're still young at heart; and, still, full of love.

I met the man when he was a mere boy of 17; I, a timid girl of 16. Two happy-go-lucky kids who fell in love in high school and found their idealistic spirits suited each other's quite well. We both were artistic and looked at the world somewhat differently than most; kindred spirits who had found each other and never wanted to let go. The scope of our courtship consisted of long conversations well into the night where we began to learn of each other. Summers laying on lawns or sneaking off to rooftops to gaze up at the sky and stars and moon and dreaming, dreaming of all of the good things to come, sometimes weaving stories and hypothetical situations and laughing at the places our minds would take us. It was an innocent kind of love - one that was already building a solid foundation.

We had our first disagreement a year and a half into the relationship - if you could call it that. What we fought about, I no longer remember. What I do remember is that it lasted a mere few minutes before we laughed and realized how ridiculous it was. After that, I can't remember when we fought next. Discord has never been part of our MO.

He came from a very, quiet household and was initiated into a raucous one where peace of mind never reigned. He was instantly besotted. With me and with my crazy family. Many of our dates consisted of outings with my nephews and nieces - then 4, 5, 6 - in tow, not because my mother requested it; but because he did. He loved kids and he liked the little devils because they were just that....little devils. He thought them amusing and cute and just loved having them around. So, my family loved him. Of course.

We married four years later and became parents at the very young and unprepared age of 21 and 22. We grew up with our daughter and prayed constantly that we wouldn't muck it up. And he assumed the role of husband, father and provider immediately and with much seriousness. It was not in him to fail in either of the roles. I, in turn, assumed the role of stay-at-home mom and took my role as mother and wife quite seriously as well. It was not in me to fail either. We had brought a child into this world and determined to be the best parents possible; ones that would always be there for her and never fail her. We both came from loving and attentive homes so we already had a good, successful blueprint on which to follow.

We've walked some pretty rough paths together as a couple but not due to anything brought upon by either of us; it was fate that decided to deal the unfortunate hands. There has been much pain and sorrow where our hearts have been shattered but we've overcome, each time relying on each other's love, support and strength to help us through. Years of crying and asking why; years of quiet conversations, introspections, analyzing and deconstructing; years of learning of our strengths and looking for the light; and, years of counting on each other has not been for naught. Because each crisis gifted the knowledge of how unbreakable our bond was.

As the man who shares my life, he has had to share the crosses I've had to bear. And either because the fates favored me or saw me with eyes of compassion, they sent me a strong, caring and understanding man to share my life. And I have not been an easy ride - not because I am difficult - but because of the crises given. And, he, always confident and with no fear nor reservations, has never wavered. Not once. Not even flinched. This is his strength.

Slow to anger, quick to forgive, he dislikes discord but understands people make mistakes and hurt you as part and parcel of human nature. But, he likes to believe that, in the end, they might surprise you in a good way. And, if not, it makes no difference because the only thing of concern to him is his conduct in the scheme of things. If someone's hurt or disappointed him, that person will never know, for he continues treating all with the same amount of respect and kindness. He just hopes that in time they will inevitably learn of life's most sagest lessons: forgiveness and understanding. And, if he is the one who's hurt or disappointed you, then he hopes your heart will be able to forgive and understand as well. On the rare occasions he becomes angry with me, it is something that hurts me so that I become distant and my heart weeps like that of a wounded child. I cannot handle it and neither can he. And so our disagreements rarely last long. Neither of us having the will to go the distance.

Throughout our marriage he has been my one constant. I can scream and cry and curse the fates, yet he waits for me to exorcise the emotions to begin our talking sessions. He will not let these emotions be buried or passed by. He is tender in heart and my unhappiness is the one thing that disrupts his usual serene soul. Well aware that life sometimes throws curve balls where sorrow will be its byproduct, he at least wants me to know he will always be there. And he always is. And I always know.

So, yes, he has given me much. But what have I given in return? That you would have to ask him, but I can take a guess. I know I bring him peace and strength, the two things most important to him. I know this in the mere way he treats me. And I spoil him with much love and attention, a fact he will deny facetiously in front of others in his charming way of getting more and more of this crazy family's love and attention. Because we are a loving, attentive lot that spoils all that enter our circle of love. And I know, for in the privacy of our four walls, his heart still conducts itself like that of a young besotted boy.

And so 30 years today it is. And he still makes my heart skip a beat. His smile is still the thing that most melts my heart. His hands rubbing my skin when I am pensive is still the thing that brings me strength and peace of mind. With one single look, he knows where my heart is and whether it is happy or sad. And if it is sad, the talking sessions begin. He does not stop until I have exorcised what ails me and my heart sings again. For he said he fell in love with my laughter and happy spirit and it is the thing he says he still loves the most today. Without it he becomes somber, so me without these he cannot handle. He does not believe in saying I love you frequently or frivolously for he says it loses meaning; he believes in actions instead. And he shows his unconditional and sweet love every day: in the way he says amor and how that morphs into so many different meanings; in the way he calls to tell me he needs to hear my voice because he needs to talk to his "security blanket" and I hear the sadness in his voice and know he is missing me; in the way he handles my heart with such tender care and wishes never to make it weep. He is a private man who voices his love privately; he is not an ordinary man for he is full of attention and nurturing and wisdom; and, he is a trusting man who 34 years ago handed me his heart and trust that I would never hurt it. And, I never have.

Thirty-four years ago I saw a boy in school that made my heart skip a beat. Thirty-years ago I married him. And he has been my light, my heart, my strength, and my love ever since.

Happy 30th anniversary amor. And to you, my heart which you've always held in your hands and have taken good, tender care of. For this, my parents thank you; for this, our daughter learns; for this, I'll always love you.

Picture, courtesy of Deviant Art.

The Rains of Despair - Part II

Courtesy of Deviant Art

Part I

On the third day of his trip back to his Kingdom, he arrived. The destruction he found was beyond what his heart could bear. Screams of terror and wailing songs of despair pervaded the night.

This new generation – these toxic almost-adults birthed from the Rains of Despair – began to gather round him the moment he stepped foot in the Kingdom of Ruan. New blood for them to feast on, he thought. He sensed them smelling him like animals - predators - reading him, his odor sending them a warning that he was one of their own; yet not.

Yet, the Blind Boy Who Could See, His Majesty Most Revered, was not afraid. His heart knew only compassion, love and, at times, suffering; but fear had failed to introduce itself into his life. He had been spared. He knew the Divine was his protector and that his life was predestined so there was nothing to fear; he could not change nor alter the path he was on. Yet, this useless emotion was the one that all creatures traveled. And he sensed it here, in all of the different ways it manifested itself.

Tired and weary, and sensing the almost-adults blocking his way, he did the only thing that was left for him to do. He sat lotus in the middle of the dirt road and closed his milky-white eyes to the discord, anger, and hate surrounding him. They were afraid. And that made them dangerous.

"I mean you no harm," he said.

The almost-adults burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Who was this decrepit, old man that thought that he, he, could harm them? They gathered closer promising death and unbearable pain. He could smell their odors as well: liquor- and smoke-filled breaths and the stench of open wounds where maggots had made their home.

"There is no need to fear me. I am but an old man who can do you no harm," he said.

This amused them even more and they whooped uncontrollably – perhaps nervously so. However, their tension and alarm evident in the silence that interspersed the laughter was not missed by him.

One of the almost-adults approached. He appeared to be their leader. The Blind Boy Who Could See sensed the fury that lived under his skin that sought its relief in the displeasure of all.

The almost-adult spoke to him harshly, "What business have you here, old man?"

"I’ve come to seek counsel with the Prince."

The almost-adult could not hide his contempt, "The Prince? Ha! We have no Prince old man!"

The Blind Boy Who Could See waited. The less said, the better. He needed to find out why his Kingdom had fallen into such an oppressive state.

"If you speak of the coward that hides behind the palace’s walls, then I say again, we have no Prince! You take much risk with what little life you have left old man. Go home and die in peace. This is a dangerous country and it is no place for you, someone so feeble who cannot defend himself. It’s best you turn around and go back from whence you came before harm comes to you."

"I am not afraid. And I will not be harmed. It is wise to remember that things are never what they appear to be."

"Oh, and foolishly brave! Old man, leave now. The only reason I’ve spared you is because there is a part of you that reminds me of me."

"The only reason you've spared me is because some goodness still dwells within. The fire that rages inside you is competing with the light that wishes to come out. Besides, you would have slain me already if you had wanted. And then, there is the fact that I cannot control what you will do; I cannot change the course of my destiny as much as I can change the fact that you were born with one eye."

"How do you know this? How do you know I have only one eye? I did not tell you this! And you cannot see!"

"We can all see. You can see with one eye and I cannot see at all. Yet your vision is much more limited than mine. How sad." As he spoke these words, he looked straight into the almost-adult’s one eye. This greatly discomforted the youth.

"Be on your way, old man, for my kindness towards you is wearing thin."

"I’ve offended you. I am sorry. Pay no mind to this old man and his foolish words. I have been away from the family of man for so long that I have forgotten how to speak your language." The Blind Man Who Could See bowed his head in respect, "Again, I am sorry if I’ve offended you."

The sincere respect and apology he received from the old man was not something the almost-adult was familiar with. He remained silent, not knowing what to say, how to react, and instead walked away. The others followed and the old man was left alone sitting in the middle of the dirt road.

Soon, it began to rain. Yet the Blind Boy Who Could See, His Majesty Most Revered, remained lotus seemingly undisturbed by the change in climate. As the rain pelted down upon him, he remained still, with eyes closed, listening once again to the songs of his former land. The tune had changed, the words sounded different - this time more somber, desperate, and devoid of hope. He began to weep tears of sorrow yet no one noticed for they became one with the tears shed from the angry sky.

The dirt quickly turned into mud and around him thunder and lightning clamorously shattered the dark sky into light. It would be but a matter of time before he was struck. The almost-adults took cover under tin roofs amusingly looking out onto this most-welcomed diversion and waited for the final act – the one where lightning would strike – to take place.

And behind closed doors, the mothers and fathers of the almost-adults peeked carefully and fearfully through windows at the old man. They wanted to offer help, but were afraid for it would surely be met with death. No one crossed the almost-adults; they were the rogues that had taken hold of their land and held it under its oppressive thumb. Instead, they prayed for the man's safety and hoped he would live through the night.

The Blind Boy Who Could See, His Majesty Most Revered, listened as the heavy drops of rain pelted down on his land. Yet it failed to drown out the misery and the cries for mercy and help of Mother Earth, while its inhabitants laid weary and spent from years of living under the heavy cloak of fear. For the almost-youths, instilling fear was the very thing that kept them feeling alive; for the captive others, it was what kept them alive.

Soon after, the rains ended. Yet the Blind Boy Who Could See remained sitting in the middle of the muddy road. When the Sun at last rose on the East the following day, he stood and began to walk towards his former home, the palace.

"You are walking the wrong way, old man. You must turn around. The road out of the Kingdom is the other way," said a kind voice in warning.

The Blind Boy Who Could See recognized the voice at once. It was older, much older, yet it held the same timbre and kindness. "Thank you, Eng. But I am on the right path. I seek counsel with the Prince."

Shh~

Courtesy Deviant Art

Entwined in the heat of passion
He whispers,

"I Love You"

Their trysts,
Forever forfeited
by three little damaging words...

Her response?
"Goodbye."

For 3WW. Inspired by Starz's Crash Miniseries. Can I tell you I love this show?

The Rains of Despair - Part I

Courtesy of Deviant Art.

The Blind Boy Who Could See, His Majesty Most Revered, had been born with a gift: the Divine that touched his Spirit with love, and Mother Earth that spoke to his gentle Soul with compassion.

Each day, His Majesty Most Revered, would sit lotus in the grand courtyard on the grounds of the palace, meditating and listening to the sounds of life outside of the palace’s walls. In the stillness of his mind, he would hear and feel the cries of the less fortunate, their tears of agony and pain seeping deep into his pores. In the stillness of his mind, he would hear animals plead in horror as they were slain - senselessly and with complete disregard to their pain – for crimes not committed. This caused him much anguish for he was one with the Divine, one with the earth, one who honored and loved each life as if it was his own. And these emotions would torment him, at times morphing themselves into prophetic dreams that would only serve to further bury his heart deeper into the abyss of despair.

The Blind Boy Who Could See was the King’s and Queen’s only child. Fortunes could have easily been spent to grant the royal couple their most desired wish: for their son to see. But it was not meant to be. Fate had chosen a different path. And The Blind Boy Who Could See, His Majesty Most Revered, was relieved, for he felt that by gaining this sense, he would lose another more valuable one: his empathic compassion for this world. He feared his vision, if returned, would blur his loving connection to the world – a connection birthed from a sense of fairness, unconditional love and compassion that only blindness provided.

And today, His Majesty Most Revered, sat lotus unable to still his mind. Tragic images had been afflicting his sleep for a week and the portentous dreams no longer left room for doubt - the Kingdom of Ruan had to be warned.

~~~~~

Inside the palace walls, people gathered round to hear the latest omen from The Blind Boy Who Could See. And as was the usual, he would preface every warning with a prayer that at times was meant to soothe, at times meant to warn, but all times meant to teach. And today, he prayed to Mother Earth:

Gaia, Goddess of Earth, your core sustains us,
your beauty and bounty, ever plentiful and generous.
You slumber peacefully, trusting us with your care,
resting serenely within Earth’s lair.
Yet we abuse your generosity and dine greedily at your table,
refusing others as they wither away in starvation.
And we repay your kindness and maternal protection
with atrocities that fail to honor ourselves,
or the life of the animals you’ve left in our possession.
We savagely slay and pummel your living beings
as they scream and plead with terrified eyes,
breaking our promise to you and the Divine.
Crimson tears seep deep into your earth
carrying witness to you
of the cruelties suffered at the hands of your primitive guests.
And I observe you Goddess Gaia
- Giver of Life –
as you listen to the cries of the poor,
feel the pain of the slain,
and you weep torrents of anguished tears
for having misjudged -
and in shame entomb yourself deeper,
further,
into your own dark world of woeful pain.
For this we are sorry;
for this we will pay.

When the Blind Boy Who Could See finished his prayer, he bowed his head for a moment. And then looking out into the crowd recounted what was to come.

~~~~~

And as he had predicted, so it came to be.

One early dawn when their land was still being held within the gentle arms of the morning dew, they came. The bombs landed. The much-beloved Kingdom of Ruan disappeared in a blink of an eye, instantly vanishing lives. A colossal black mushroom cloud ascended from the bowels of the screaming earth carrying with it the lives of a people caught off guard. They were the lucky ones.

But death had not been so kind to others that lived on the outskirts of the Kingdom. Bodies instantly carbonized by the horror of the moment were left frozen mid-scream; one light touch and they crumbled to the ground in ashes. Lives committed to the earth. Crippled and wounded survivors roamed the streets in shock with skins seared off from the unexpected toxic assault. The inhabitants of Ruan beheld their ash-filled land and witnessed family and friends, ghastly disfigured, die slow, painful deaths. Mothers wept inconsolably over the bodies of their dead children, their primal wailing songs filling the silence of this new land, their ink-filled tears seeping deep into the earth.

Three days later the black rains came and doused their soil with ebony tears birthed from the lacrimal clouds of an angry sky. It poured its misery into open pores impregnating the weak with the ails of mankind. Women and men wept as the black rain predicted by their once beloved sage - the once and future King - more than fifty years ago washed away the gray, dirty, toxic landscape but failed to wash away their fears. And the ominous message that he predicted was remembered: "Black rain will one day come to spawn evil onto our fertile land." Soon after, black clouds covered the Sun, throwing their world into dangerous darkness.

~~~~~~

A year later, a new generation was born.

Out of the wombs of mothers spawned the evil of which The Blind Boy Who Could See had prophesized. Babies born blind or with missing limbs cried endlessly into the night with frustration and anger at the sides of mothers and fathers who were helpless in alleviating their pain. These children – unfortunate anomalies of nature - lacked the emotional, mental and physical abilities necessary for a peaceful life. The lucky died at birth.

And as these children grew into adulthood, so did their hate. They were not like others; they were freaks of nature, living reminders of the Rains of Despair. They formed gangs and became a family onto themselves because only they understood each other – only they understood their blackened amoral hearts and what their polluted, impure souls craved; they sought, needed, and feasted on chaos and anarchy. It was their drug of choice. Painted, sinister faces that hid physical abnormalities roamed the streets at night preying and killing anyone that did not resemble them. The land became void of hope, of anything good and loved; instead, it survived on the resignation and abomination of a people who no longer believed.

~~~~~

Far away, in a mountain overlooking the Kingdom of Ruan, an elderly Blind Man sits before a crackling fire in his humble home. The images of pain, strife, and anger that have taken hold of his former land no longer let him sleep. Anarchy and chaos run rampant. His people are lost. The Blind Boy Who Could See, His Majesty Most Revered, closes his eyes, the message is loud and clear - it is time to return to his place of birth. And so he puts out the fire in his hearth and grabs his staff. He closes the door to his humble home one last time, says a prayer to the Divine, and slowly begins to walk towards the lost Kingdom of Ruan, under the light of the Moon and the maternal protection of Mother Earth.

Part II

Yo-blah!

2009.
Shall I try yoga again?
Short answer: Yes.
Long answer: Because I refuse to believe that I can't get this.

The first time I took yoga was a little more than 15 years ago. It was with hubby, who is very limber I might add. Hubby recommended the class because he said I was highly stressed and needed to relax and, if I didn't, I was one day going to kill myself or he would do it for me when I finally put him over the edge. I said ok, I’ll go. It should be fun. Pft! Fun. Silly, silly girl.

We enroll in a class. The yoga instructor is like 150 years old; seriously. I tell myself Easy cheesy. How hard can this be? I soon realize my body is no longer limber. Class ends, limber hubby feels rejuvenated; I feel exhausted and wonder if I have the flu. I quit.

Fast forward ten years. I decide to give it a try again. I’m in a better place this time. I’m not as stressed, I'm a little more calmer - a lot calmer - the kid is grown. But Grasshopper is heading towards deeper levels of calcification and me thinks I should seriously reconsider this again. This time I enroll with a friend.

I look up the 70+ instructor who's now in her 80's and still teaching. I tell my friend how amazing she is. She now holds classes out of her house and we go to our first session. Well, she’s still very limber and in very good shape, but now I feel bad because she's dealing with a sick husband and I think she looks forward to these sessions as a form of escape and companionship. She spends the better part of the session talking about her life. Now instead of feeling physically drained, I feel emotionally drained. I find I cannot hear another's heartache without it affecting me. Again, I quit.

So now I buy yoga tapes to do at home. They put me to sleep. I enroll in Tai Chi....too slow. I quit.

So, I give up and resort to reading Yoga Magazine that hubby and I subscribe to. Since I don’t appear to have much luck with yoga, I can at least read the inspirational and educational articles and try to cull something good out of that. Better health through osmosis, right? Hardly. But I figure something was better than nothing.

Fast forward another five years. I try again. This time, with another friend. She and I arrive a few minutes late and find the yoga instructor is reading an article about the symptoms women have when they're going to have a heart attack: stomach pains, nausea, extreme fatigue, headaches, etc. Me, very casually blurts out: "well, if that's the case, then I've been having a heart attack for the last five years." Now, I wasn't trying to be funny, it's just that that was one of those 'uncontrollable hiccups' I tend to get every now and again when I say something that perhaps may not have been that appropriate at that particular time but seemed like a good observation on my part. Well, the class laughs and, of course, the instructor is not pleased. But seriously, any one of these could be my symptom du jour and reading an article like this to me does nothing except promote much suffering. I'm impressionable. So now I'm in class going through the poses thinking if I feel well or not; if I'm queasy or not; and, yes, I'm a little fatigued but maybe it's just tiredness; and, yes, I had stomach pains today, but is it a heart attack or the tuna sandwich I had for lunch? I couldn't concentrate. Eventually, my monkey mind found something else to hang on to and I moved on. I really hated her for doing that. But that's just me.

So I find this yoga instructor irritates me. I further conclude that she will fail to impress me. She is too indecisive about poses and no sooner begins one when she stops midway to try another, better one. Breathe, relax, Rebecca. Understand, be patient, be loving, she's one of God's loving creatures also, even if she's a little loopy.

Finally, I begin to do the poses. I find my joints have calcified to the point of no return and this body is no longer mine. When did they come and change it on me? I can still sit lotus, woo-hoo!, but that's about it. But I can't lift my body nor move it fluidly and wonder how my feet could actually carry the weight. Thank goodness we walk upright because if we crawled instead of walked, I'd need a stretcher with wheels to get around. Okay, loose the pounds, first order of business.

Class ends. I survive. And I felt good. For the first time in the history of taking yoga. I felt tired, yes, but it was a good kind of tired. I felt as if my chakras had opened up somewhat. But the class only ran for six weeks and I did not enroll again. I found the yoga instructor's indecisive skills to be too much to deal with.

And now it's 2009. And I think I'll try again. Why? Because I am a child of Hope and refuse to believe that I can't get this.

Uruks, Arnold, Russey & Bog

Dreams. Many of mine are quite complex and intricate. It's like having my own little IFC (independent film channel) going on inside my head; I think it's because I watch too many films that filter their way into my subconscious without me even knowing. And every so often I believe the mental files need to be weeded out and on one such ocassion it produced the following dream - a REM-inspired figment of imagination that a peyote-hallucinatory given state could not surpass. Now this particular dream was unique because it was a commercial interruption dream. Yes, I dreamt, woke up to drink a glass of water, went back to sleep, and resumed the dream where I had left off. Seriously. Yeah, that was a first. Though it never did happen again.

*******

Middle Earth: I’ve been abducted. I've been taken as a slave/member of a very scary, primal tribe. Huge, menacing-looking, creatures that are about seven feet tall. Filthy and downright ugly are the adjectives best used to describe these lovely hunks. Think the Uruk-hais from the Lord of the Rings. Better yet, they are the Uruk-hais - hundreds and hundreds of them. But I’m not scared. In fact, I’m wondering how the hell I got here. And I notice there are no women. I appear to be the only one. But for scary, fear-inticing freaks, they treat me pretty decently and kindly because I am left alone and thankfully not tied to some pole waiting to be the sacrificial babe to something bigger and uglier. Perhaps I was not ugly enough? What the hell?

Okay, so now I’m working this wheel - think Arnold Schwarzenegger in Conan the Barbarian where he’s pushing the Wheel of Pain. Same wheel, except I'm not putting much effort into it because in front of me is a lovely, chivalrous wheel helper/slave Uruk-hai who happens to be very sweet and is taking the brunt of the work. So, while I’m feigning to work the wheel, I'm busy thinking of a way to rid myself of these beauty queens who seem intent on keeping me. For what, I’ve no idea, but I don’t want to stick around to find out why. But my thoughts are then rudely interrupted by my wheel-helper/slave Uruk-hai who tells me to pay attention to Uruk-hai boss who has something very important to say. Except my wheel helper/slave Uruk-hai doesn't actually speak...he grunts...and I understand. And so, I turn my attention to the boss who has something very important to say. He grunts that we are going to town. We are going to town to kill and pillage. But first we are going to befriend. Befriend, kill and pillage. Got it.

Cowboy Town: I'm now in cowboy country, dry with tumbleweeds. Yep, makes perfect sense. Befriend, kill and pillage. Right. I already have a plan that this little trip will give me the opportunity to escape. But first, I have to rid myself of my very sweet, kind Uruk-hai who appears to have an unnatural attachment to me. I conclude that he is most definitely not a true Uruk-hai because of his tender disposition. I deduct his mother most likely had an affair with some minor, subservient breed and that’s why they had him working the wheel because he was defective. Boy, bet you his father was disappointed when he came out and the little monster wanted a hug!

”Hey, Uruk look!” I point, ”some cute looking cowboys are winking at me. They’re hot.” (I state a la Paris H.) They’ve probably never seen a girl Uruk-hai before. I’m looking all wild with my long, unkempt dirty hair, and layers of ugly, brown, gray, colorless and smelly clothes. ”Oh, yeah, I’m so very attractive right now.”

So Uruk and me go into a saloon to begin our befriending session. No sooner have the swinging doors hit us in the back, that I see we’re in an arena. Think ancient Roman arenas where slaves are thrown in with the lions. Cowboy town to Roman arena. Of course.

I quickly scan the area for an escape. I see one - in the back. But to get to it I have to nudge my way through a toga cheering crowd. “Hey, Uruk look! There’s Russell Crowe!” Russey baby is fighting some lions at the moment and completely oblivious of me...darn! Damn, look at those legs! Too bad I can't stay to watch. He was looking kinda cute. But back to business. I notice the toga-wearing men are eating grapes, drinking wine, and laughing with women hanging all over them; they do not notice me. Okay, happy and distracted - good deal.

Commercial interruption. I wake up. I am in need of hydration. Perhaps it was all that wheel working in Middle Earth. I drink my glass of water and go back to bed. I fall back asleep. Huh? I'm back at the arena. How cool is that? I just paused my dream.

I find my exit. I look behind me to see where Uruk is. Uruk is laughing and having a good time seeing Russey baby fight lions in the arena. He's such a good follower of orders befriending these people that he’s not even aware that I'm leaving, trying to escape. I leave.

A Bog, Present Day: I make it outside. It's dark. Wait a minute, wasn’t it just noon in there? Never mind. I see I'm now facing a bog the size of a small lake. There is no boat to make it across and so I set on foot - slowly, carefully, the bog weighing me down. Finally, I make it to the other side. I see a fence, climb it and notice a deserted highway on the other side. That's the road that will lead me to freedom. As I'm about to climb over, an old woman appears and hands me a trinket box which she says is mine. I tell her to go away because she is going to arouse the mean Uruk-hais and we'll both be taken captive. She ignores me and continues talking and tells me that my grandmother is waiting for me. (I never knew either of my grandmothers in real life).

I climb the fence and now I'm on the highway running towards the town where my grandmother lives. I arrive at New Orleans. I run through the streets trying to find the steps that will lead to the underground city where my grandmother lives. I find them. I descend them quickly and begin to run past one house after another looking for my grandmother's house. I finally see the door to where she lives. I open it...

I’m back home.

******

Hello! Yeah. Welcome to my world.