Momma 4, Me 1

I often give thanks that cats are not the size of lions. ~~GH

                  Check out the length and sharpness of those claws!

"You are mine. Give yourself to me willingly, or suffer the consequences."~~Momma Kitty

Twist the Night Away

Cats are not of this earth. You know this, I know this, most thinking individuals realize it, as well.

Usually felines present a reasonable facsimile of an earth life form (although if examined closely, reality dissolves the facade, cracks form, the whole thing goes to hell in a hand basket and their alien origin is exposed), but their true nature is often revealed once they slip into slumber.

Here, Momma reverts to her more natural, twisted form. In this pose, she can move both forward and backward, up and down, side to side, etc. She can perambulate on all fours, front two, back two, or any combination she desires. She is limited only by her imagination and -- thankfully, the one built-in limitation that cats are subject to -- the need for up to twenty hours of sleep a day. ~~GH

Finding Myself

Dinner Plate

Salad Plate

Bowl - Apparently Made Out of Gold

I ordered these dishes online the other day. The pattern is discontinued, but I liked it so well that I decided it was worth it to pay extra for what I wanted. I ordered six dinner plates and six salad plates since my "family" is quite small these days. The soup bowls cost a king's ransom, and I am still kicking around whether I want to invest that much into the bowls. 

I've spent most of my life being frugal, practical, stretching a dollar, "getting by," "doing" with what was available or affordable -- usually least expensive. 

Raising four children tends to push what you want to the back of the line. Thirty years of raising children can cause you to forget what you even liked. That's the case with me. Dreaming, missing things, was too painful. I didn't like feeling wistful for things I couldn't possibly have, so I just pushed them away. Eventually, I forgot what it was that I even liked. 

Now I'm exploring, indulging myself. It's fun. It feels decadent and sinful somehow, to choose something just because I like it. Even more fun is rediscovering what *I* like. I spent so many years being practical, compliant, settling for what everyone else wanted because "it wasn't important." Eventually, the message I taught myself was that I wasn't important. 

Trying not to do the whole pendulum swing where I over-indulge or over-compensate. Or at least, I'm over-compensating in small areas like cool notebooks and pens and incense. 

It's fun to rediscover myself - or discover this person I've quietly grown into over the last thirty or so years. I didn't realize she existed. She's kind of cool. ~~GH

Eight Years

It is time to update the blog photo. It had a good run -- eight years. New beginnings, changes comin' on. Time for a new association to connect with the upcoming name change. 

To honor the retiring of the old photo, here is Kipyn Martin's wonderful original song, "Eight Years." Enjoy. ~~GH

"LIKE" Kipyn on Facebook

Momma 1, BBQ 0

What is it about certain kinds of bread that changes the entire experience of eating a sandwich? I love bread. I'm a total carboholic. Put me in a room with a slab of bread and a tub of butter, something to wash it down with, add a heat source, and I'm pretty much set for life. Oh, and thou of course. ;)

The other day, I decided to use up some Italian sub rolls I'd bought, and put BBQ on one. BBQ on a hamburger bun? Wonderful. BBQ on regular slice of bread? Eatable. BBQ on an Italian sub roll? Meh. I could not force myself to finish it.

Here's Momma oh-so-closely inspecting the leftovers. She couldn't have sniffed them from a shorter distance if she'd used an electron microscope to measure it. 

Final determination: Momma found BBQ on an Italian sub roll inedible, as well.

Conclusion: BBQ on an Italian sub roll is inedible. ~~GH

Guest Poet: Pablo Neruda

Was recently exposed to Neruda's poetry. About all I can say is, picture me with my hands clasped to my chest, nodding "Yes." 

           ~~ GH

Sonnet XVII

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

Momma Traumatized

By now, my readers should know how cracked I am. If not, here's an example.

I took this photo of my cat Momma (who is gray) and when I looked at the photo with the white and black cats embracing, immediately thought "Hmm, white and black make gray! That could represent a photo of her parents!" I know full well who her parents were, and her father was not a white cat, but the point is, the photo triggered that meaning. Then I observed the expression on Momma's face . . , ~~GH

Momma discovers her parents' stash of old videos, which triggers the need for a decade of therapy.

Love Is Not All

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.
             ~~ Edna St. Vincent Millay

[I do not think I would, either. ~GH]

Fed From the Blade Author Interviews #1

Cat Pleska over on West Virginia Literary Soul blog is hosting a series of interviews with some of the authors of Fed From the Blade. The first one, with Kathleen Furbee, went live yesterday. Kathleen's story is titled "Christmas Cards."

I sometimes skip reading interviews because they can be boring. Cat and Kathleen created an entertaining, interesting read. So click on this link and a new window will open, and enjoy! ~~GH

The Meanings We Make: Momma Howls

I put Momma's requisite “dose” of chow in her bowl at the prescribed time this morning. She investigated it. Froze in her tracks. Ran as if demon-possessed across the first level of the apartment and dashed up the stairs. Stood at the top and howled for almost a full minute. Then she trotted down the steps, went into the kitchen, and began to eat.

If I were to think of her as a cat, this would be a funny situation. She saw what I'd put in her bowl, went upstairs to rant and rave for a bit, cursing in kitty language, then returned, resigned to a fate beyond her control, and ate. But seeing her as someone I love, I felt sadness at her disappointment, or distress. At the very least, she was distressed.

[**For those who haven't been following the saga, Momma ate dry chow. albeit good dry chow, her entire life until the middle of December when I ran out and didn't want to brave the mall crowd to go to PetSmart. So for a week, Momma got wet (canned) food. She reacted quite violently to being put back on dry chow. Check out the story here.]

Or maybe I'm making the wrong meaning from it. Perhaps she ran upstairs to give thanks and sing praises to her kitty gods for another full bowl of food?

My cousin Terri suggested Momma went upstairs to celebrate how well she had me trained to fill the bowl on schedule.

I do not know what the “truth” is in this situation. I do not even know what my own truth is. What I do know is, it's all about the meanings we make.

~~GH

Trade in the Tooth Fairy

Seven magical beings I'd gladly trade the Tooth Fairy or Easter Bunny for:

#1 The Litterbox Scooping Pixie

#2 The Flat Tire Changing Chimaera

#3 The Dishwashing Elf

#4 The Oven Cleaning Gnome

#5 the Back Rub Brownie

#6 The Foot Rub Fairy

#7 The Root Touch-up Nymph.~~GH

I Am . . . Seeking Balance

I saved this file on my hard drive as "Sacred Geometry."

I don't remember where I collected it from.

I recently discovered the following quote(s). The first listed is what caught my eye and drew me in. While searching for background info on who spoke the words, I found the second version. 

I offer both, not knowing which is more accurate or true to the speaker, knowing you will find your own truth within his words. ~~GH

Wisdom tells me I am nothing. 

Love tells me I am everything.  

Between the two my life flows.

When I see I am nothing, that is wisdom. 

When I see I am everything, that is love. 

My life is a movement between these two.

~ Nisargadatta Maharaj

Happier Than A Billionaire, The Sequel

Recently I made a new friend on Facebook, Nadine Hays. Her second book came out in December, Happier Than A Billionaire, The Sequel. 

Here's a link to a sample chapter. I think it's one of the funniest things I've read -- reminds me of Karin Fuller or Erma Bombeck. Solid gold! Enjoy. ~GH

Guest Artist: Eric Standley

Over 100 layers of PAPER created this image
by Eric Standley

I found a link to High Fructose New Contemporary Art Magazine's feature on Eric Standley's stunning laser cut paper -- what to call it? -- stained glass-style creations, for lack of a better term. This man creates truly breathtaking work. Go. See. Shoo! Run along now. You'll be grateful that you did.~~GH

From Standley's statement about his artform: "I am interested in the conceptual migration from the permanence and massiveness of stone to the fragility and intimacy of paper, as well as the idea of combining twelfth-century aesthetics with a contemporary, technology-based practice."

None So Blind

The longer I live, the more certain I am that nobody else experiences Life the same way I do. We're all walking in the same direction, but our eyes are on different things at any given time. 

Even when we believe we're both looking at the same item -- chances are we aren't,because I may be looking at its top and you, its bottom. Or perhaps your eyes are closed at this precise instant because you needed to blink, and mine are open.

Are you familiar with the parable of the Blind Men and the Elephant? There are numerous versions (and lessons gleaned) from this tale, depending on whether it's the Hindu, Jain, Sufi Muslim, Buddhist, Anglo, etc., spin or another. There is even a modern twist involving quantum physics. 

Basically, a number of people who cannot see the elephant each feel a part of it and insist that the whole of the beast is like what they experienced (tail is like a rope, leg is like a tree trunk, ear is like a huge fan, etc.). The "moral" of the story depends on the culture and purpose for telling it.

There's even an elephant joke that flips the tale on its head:

Six blind elephants were discussing what men were like. After arguing they decided to find one and determine what it was like by direct experience. The first blind elephant felt the man and declared, "Men are flat." After the other blind elephants felt the man, they agreed.~~Wikipedia

To remain fully rounded, we may as well laugh about these differences in perception as well as perspective, and do the best we can to get along.~~GH

Enticing the Muse

"A Lady With Lyre"

Charles Edward Halle

'm working on a new project. Had intended to finish an old project but, as is often the case with my creative world, a shiny new object popped up and distracted me -- er, the Muse. There are times to buckle down and force the Muse; there are times to indulge her. Now is a time to offer decadent soft-centered truffles and deep, satisfying massages. Soon enough, there will be deadlines and unpleasantries, pouts and protests. For now, Persephone will be indulged and appeased.


I shared a few hundred words with a cross-section of volunteer readers (and three coerced ones as well -- my gratitude to all of you) to conduct sort of a temperature check. I wanted to gain a sense of the meaning(s) folks made, to see if what I wrote was effective -- if what I intended to convey, conveyed.


Turns out this section means something different to every reader so far. Ranging from birth, to death, to claustrophobia, to rebirth, to depression, to loneliness, to sleep, to dreaming, to drowning, to being trapped within one's own head due to a traumatic brain injury -- the Muse has found a way to pluck the lyre's strings and elicit a different note in each person's head. She even triggered a panic attack in one reader. 

This is sobering, and thrillingly exciting, and frightening at the same time. At first, I felt a great sense of accountability and responsibility. Then I realized that would only serve to impose self-censoring and that is not a path I want to take. So I will trust that you, Dear Reader, can handle your own reactions. It's not my job to protect you; it is my job to write. And write I shall.~~GH

Easter Eggs and Bacon

I have a short story in West Virginia Writers, Inc.'s latest collection, Fed From the Blade. My title is "Bringing Home the Bacon." Originally, I used the colloquial bringin' then changed it to the more proper bringing for simplicity's sake. I wish I'd left it at bringin', but what can ya do? Anyway . . .

Are you familiar with the term Easter egg as it relates to media? I tuck Easter eggs into all my work. Sometimes there are just a few; often, there are many. If a reader never discovers an Easter egg, the story makes sense. But the reader who discerns my hidden treats gets to enjoy deeper levels of meaning. It's fun for me, and fun for you.

From Wikipedia on Easter eggs:

A virtual Easter egg is an intentional hidden message, inside joke, or feature in a work such as a computer program, web page, video game, television program, movie, book, or crossword. The term was coined—according to Warren Robinett—by Atari after they were pointed to the secret message left by Robinett in the game Adventure.^[1] It draws a parallel between the custom of the Easter egg hunt observed in many Western nations and the last Russian imperial family's tradition of giving elaborately jeweled egg-shaped creations byCarl Fabergé which contained hidden surprises.

One of my favorite parts of writing is naming my stories (and blog posts). Often, the title is the jumping off point for my Muse. A phrase leaps off the Universe's general store shelf and yells "Pick me!"In fact, I'd say half my stories are named, and then written. Frequently, I use idioms that at first glance are familiar and have one distinct meaning. But look a little deeper, because if I use an idiom, it likely has a second (third, or even fourth) meaning as well as it relates to my story.

Bringing home the bacon usually means working for money. The head of household brings home the bacon, a reference to the original meaning of literally carrying home a piece of meat with which to feed the family. My story "Bringing Home the Bacon" is a step-by-step instructional on how that bacon is obtained. Yes, it is a narrative on how to butcher a hog. Told in from a crone's point of view as spoken to a younger person, my story is unusual in more than one way. 

It is not gratuitously graphic. In fact, it is not graphic whatsoever. It is dead-accurate, informative, and detailed. When the zombie apocalypse occurs and you find yourself in need of an instruction manual on how to prepare a pig, "Bringing Home the Bacon" is your go-to text. My crone describes the process in clinical fashion, the way all unpleasant activities have been explained throughout time. 

What makes it creepy is your own imagination, which I do my dead level (heh - get that? "Dead level"?) best to trigger at every turn. I think I succeed on a regular basis although it could be far creepier than it is. The point of the story is not to disgust. It is to preserve a process, a mode of communication and instruction, a way of life on the most visceral level. Told in the vernacular, directly, "Bringing Home the Bacon" puts you in a clearing in the woods shoulder by shoulder with a mountain woman who shares a wealth of knowledge with you in just 1050 words.

But there are more meanings to bringing home the bacon as it relates to my story. And if you've read this far, I'll reveal this third Easter egg to you, Faithful Reader. From thesaurus.com:

Main Entry:	hack it
Part of Speech:	verb
Definition:	to succeed
Synonyms:	accomplish, avail, be successful, bring home the bacon , carry off, come out on top, come through, cut it, cut the mustard, deliver the goods, get to the top, hit the mark, make a go of it, make it, make the cut, make the grade, prevail, pull it off, score, win Yes, bringing home the bacon also means to "hack it." In the dictionary sense, hack it means to endure, and to get through "Bringing Home the Bacon," you have to endure a bit of unpleasantry. Then there is the delightful additional meaning of hack it, as in chopping something up. Like the hog. So there you have it. A world of meaning in four little words. I never choose a title arbitrarily. So think about it a little, and have fun unraveling the mysteries. Or not. It's up to you. As for me, I'll keep bringin' home the bacon. And the Easter eggs as well.~~GH

Guest Poet: Amber Decker

I am fortunate enough to personally know some amazing (and I do not use that word lightly) poets. Amber Decker not only suits that description, but is a dear friend and fellow West Virginia Writers, Inc. member as well. 

Please join me and become a symbolic member of her imaginary fan club by reading this powerful poem at her blog: Amber Decker's Rough Verse blog ~~GH

Guest Poet: Rumi

You are not a drop in the ocean.

You are the entire ocean in a drop.

                                                ~~Rumi

Emperor's New Clothes

There is a reference in my blurb (located to the right on this blog) to the Emperor's new clothes and how I identify with the child in that story. This was a commonly shared parable when I was little, written by Hans Christian Andersen, and familiar to everyone (or so I thought).

Recently, I discovered that it has fallen out of favor, is no longer routinely taught to children, and realized many of you may be unfamiliar with what my reference means. It's a commonality with human beings to pretend to understand things we don't in order to save face. 

I'm that one person in however many who is curious enough to come out and ask when I don't understand something. I am like that young child, too unaware or unconcerned with social norms to care, who asks the questions and points out the truth. 

Without further ado, here is the summary of The Emperor's New Clothes. From Wikipedia:

A vain Emperor who cares for nothing except wearing and displaying clothes hires two swindlers who promise him the finest, best suit of clothes from a fabric invisible to anyone who is unfit for his position or "hopelessly stupid". The Emperor's ministers cannot see the clothing themselves, but pretend that they can for fear of appearing unfit for their positions and the Emperor does the same. Finally the swindlers report that the suit is finished, they mime dressing him and the Emperor marches in procession before his subjects. The townsfolk play along with the pretense not wanting to appear unfit for their positions or stupid. Then a child in the crowd, too young to understand the desirability of keeping up the pretense, blurts out that the Emperor is wearing nothing at all and the cry is taken up by others. The Emperor cringes, suspecting the assertion is true, but continues the procession.

Guest Musicians: Wailin' Jennys

Storm Comin' - Wailin' Jennys

I don't know if this is a traditional blues song, or a new-oldie, but it feels and sounds like a classic. I really like it, its meaning, the whole package. (Lyrics listed at the end, after my essay).~~GH

So many fear sorrow, avoid it, hide from it. Some run screaming in panic from sorrow. What are we afraid of? That it will destroy us? That we will go down into that cellar and never climb out again? We all know somebody who did, right? Or do we just think they went down in the cellar and never came out again?

Does that happen with joy? Does joy grab us, lift us into the air, and never set us down again? Hardly. Naturally, we enjoy joy more than sorrow, so we allow joy to wash over us and have her way with us. We wistfully watch her back as she leaves - always too soon. 

I'm thinking sorrow works that way too, if we allow it to. If we just let it wash over us or whatever it does that we deem so frightening, it would return to the sea the same way joy does. 

Instead of giving in and experiencing our sadness, of fully being in the moment, we hide part of ourselves thinking to "save" that one little piece from pain. Maybe, just maybe, there is a rule (for lack of a better term) that sadness has to wash into every part, every cell, every aspect before it can move on. Maybe it has a directive from the Universe to cleanse the whole Being before it can leave. 

So we defeat its purpose when we avoid feeling it. When we paste a smile on our faces. When we wall off our hearts. When we refuse to cry. And sadness taps its foot, hangs around, angling to get to that reserve. Then the Catch-22 ensues: We withhold; sadness pushes; we withdraw; sadness advances. 

We sense it chasing us, and our fear increases. We run faster; sadness picks up its pace to keep up. 

I spent a huge portion of my life in the cellar. I variously walled off my emotions, numbed them with alcohol or other substances, found numerous ways to avoid feeling sorrow. None of them worked. Much like an earthworm who's been buried with a shovelful of dirt, eventually those feelings wriggled free and resurfaced. "Hi, honey; I'm home!"

Look, this is not medical advice. I'm not suggesting this is some great universal truth (well, maybe I am suggesting that, but I'm not telling you it is -- just asking you to consider it and use your own judgment). But what if -- what if we let ourselves experience the pain, relinquished our control, yielded to the sorrow, surrendered to the sadness, let it rush in and fill us, saturate us. What choice would it then have but to dissipate? It could get no denser. It could only become less intense then. 

The universe abhors a vacuum and all that. Maybe, just maybe the sadness would then move out. I believe that's what happened in my own life. Pain does not kill us. I can personally attest to that. I have seen (and experienced) unimaginable levels of pain. You might bleed to death, or your heart give out, but  pain will not kill you. It will make you wish to die, beg to die even -- but it will not take your life. 

My friends who have committed suicide decided they could or would not tolerate the level of pain they were experiencing. Nearly every woman in childbirth reaches that tipping point where she gives up -- "I can't do it, I can't go on" -- which is when the baby delivers. 

There is balance to the world. If we can survive being filled to bursting with joy, we can survive being filled to splitting with sorrow. It lasts but for an instant. Like with everything else, someone is going to read this essay and take it wrong, apply it in a half-hearted way and have a negative outcome and blame me. 

I don't think you can prove you totally opened up and allowed sorrow to fill you completely, so don't say I'm wrong. This isn't like standing on the edge of the high diving board and plunging in where the whole world can unequivocally agree that you did indeed make the commitment. 

But prayerfully or whatever consideration process you entrust consider the truth of what I suggest, and if it seems wise to you -- if it feels right for you -- if it is a good fit for you, let that storm come in and wash those troubles clean to make way for all the good yet to come to you.~~GH


When that storm comes, don't run for cover,When that storm comes, don't run for cover,When that storm comes, don't run for cover,Don't run from the coming storm, no there ain't no use in running.
When that rain falls, let it wash away,When that rain falls, let it wash away,When that rain falls, let it wash away,Let it wash away, that falling rain, the tears and the troubles.
When those lights flash, and you hear that thunder roar,When those lights flash, and you hear that thunder roar,When those lights flash, and you hear that thunder roar,Will you listen to that thunder roar and let your spirits soar.
When that love calls, open up your door,[ From: http://www.metrolyrics.com/storm-comin-lyrics-wailin-jennys.html ]When that love calls, open up your door,When that love calls, open up your door,You gotta stand on up and let it in, you gotta let love through your door.
*Instrumental interlude*
When that storm comes, don't run for cover,When that storm comes, don't run for cover,When that storm comes, don't run for cover,Don't run from the coming storm, 'cause it can't keep a storm from coming.
Storm comes, (storm comin', yeah), don't run for cover,When that storm comes, don't run for cover,When that storm comes, (storm comin', yeah), don't run for cover,No, don't run from the coming storm, 'cause it can't keep a storm from coming.

(It can't keep a storm from coming.) *x8*