Mid Summer Kinky Pagan

I am not a pagan, per se, but I do believe in rituals and definitely have some pagan belief systems. Always have, always will.

Summer solstice was yesterday. This is a traditional holiday celebrated around the world. Midsummer, when the North Pole of the earth is tilted toward the Sun. In Europe thousands of Pagans and non-Pagans go to places of ancient religious sites such as Stonehenge and Avebury to see the sun rising on the first morning of summer. We in the northern hemisphere receive more sunlight and it's summer. It is a time to celebrate growth and life but for pagans, who see balance in the world and are deeply aware of the ongoing shifting of the seasons, it is also time to acknowledge that the sun will now begin to decline once more towards winter.

Many more people throughout the world hold small ceremonies in open spaces, everywhere from gardens to woodlands. Bonfires are lit as darkness comes and effigies and fireworks are thrown into the fires.For many years,in the same spirit of pleasure and fun, our family carried out summer solstice on the beach below our home in northern California.

During the day, we would gather dried brush and leaves to make a Jack Straw man. Formed out of two strong tree limbs, we would wrap the dried hay and brush around the frame, making a scarecrow type of figure. That night the kids and their friends and my friends too, would haul it down to the beach and place it in a deep hole dug in the sand. Little slips of paper, with our worst fears written on them, were tied onto its frame. In the spirit of madcap revelry, the kids would really get into it.

Nothing was too bizarre to write down. “Don’t let ‘Ratigan’ (a Disney charachter) ever come into my room at night,” said the youngest.

“Make my teacher pick on someone else,” says middle daughter.

“ Don’t let mommy divorce daddy” one of their friends wrote.

“Allow my money worries fade away” I write.

“Release me from doubt about making all the house payments” from a girlfriend. and “Help me not feel alone all the time”

Finally, when the sky turned dark, usually, a match was taken to the Jack Straw guy. I would turn the portable tape player on and crank the music up. David Bowie was always a good one.

'Let's dance put on your red shoes and dance the blues.

Let's dance to the song they're playin' on the radio

Let's sway you could look into my eyes

Let's sway under the moonlight, this serious moonlight '

As the Jack Straw figure caught fire, our little heathen group swirled in the sand, mesmerized, by the light and the heat. Afterwards, more logs were thrown on the remains while we sat around the fire talking about what fears we burned and why. A storytelling night, each one more extravagant and rich.We learned a lot about each other especially when we then talked about our hopes and what we wanted instead. Each year was different, a new group, new friends. So many memories.

Sometimes, like yesterday, I remininsce about that other life and that other time. I called my son in Texas last night. “It is solstice today, honey.” After a long pause he laughed. “Gee mom, you don’t still burn the Jack Straw guy, do you?”

“No, I don’t think the Czechs would like a burning cross on their river,” I replied. “Probably remind them of some Nazi torture ceremony.” He seemed relieved. “Yeah, my friends thought you were some kind of witch back then. But they always wanted to go back to the beach with us. It kind of embarrassed me, to tell you the truth. You were such a kinky mother.”

“Still am, honey, and I don’t think I will ever change.”

Happy Birthday to me

It was raining yesterday morning when I woke up. Darn it! Another birthday bust with not much planned and the weather was not cooperating. In a funk, I called darling daughter Lily.

"Mom, just come down to my flat, " she said, "I have something planned."

Well ok...at least she remembered my birthday.

Soon she and her dog, the wily Lex Doberman, and I were on a train to Kutna Hora. Though we got a late start, and the train was delayed, we journeyed for just over an hour and landed in this medieval town late in the day.

The guide books called it pitcuresque. I would say it is on the splendourous side as the wealth of the town was mining silver ore in the l4th and l5th centuries and was once one of the richest places in Europe.

It's big claim to fame, besides the remarkable villas and chateaus set in verdant forests, is St. Barbara's Cathedral, an early monumental baroque building with its filigree reticulated Gothic supporting system. Just below and down a winding street, we found a leafy cafe terrace, encircled by stone statues overlooking the old and wealthy complexes of ancient burghers and tradesmen.

Lily, lex and I, tired from hiking up through the town on this hot summer day, rested there for a few hours, eating a cheap and delicious lunch, having birthday desserts and lots of beer. Most czech restaurants welcome dogs and this place did as well, bringing him bowl upon bowl of H20, which we often laced with a little beer. It mellowed him out considerably and he snoozed the afternoon away.

At lO months, now he is still a canine wunderkind, pulling me, his "grandma", up the steeper hills, always raring to go.

We could have spent a week there, and found many little quaint hotels and boutiques that would suit both dogs and traveling girl shoppers . There were parks and forrests to roam, chateau gardens with hidden obelisks and glades for Lexie, the dog who loves to sniff about.

We will go back, I think, another time this summer. The total birthday expense was just under $30 via train for one day in Czech paradise. The happy birthday to me was simple, elegant and perfect. Thank you Lily!

Surrealism 101 at 1 am

Last night was free museum night in bohemia and it was surreal. Over 50 culturally gothic places stayed open until the early hours of Sunday morning attracting thousands, who wandered through this ancient city, never opening their wallets, much.

Choices ranged from Spanish synogogues, Baroque concert halls and hip hop galleries with vaulted ceilings and turreted balconies. Our plan was to hit some of these places, chauffered around on free buses and end up at the 1000 year old castle on the hill. Though the plan changed frequently (there was just too much to do) and though my feet were willing, we finally just made a beeline for the castle.

It was a balmy night and there were hundreds of people milling about, the party atmosphere thick with locals who wanted to see the castle rooms that are often under lock and key. It took 800 years to build the cathedral and castle complex, a jig saw of old stone and marbled complexes. Palace intrigues and palace plagues along with the history of baroque lives lived so long ago. Its a wonder that humans are compelled to build huge gothic edifices, storing the treasures of their age, and here we are so many hundreds of years later, getting a glimpse of
high culure, knights and their ladies, in modern times.

We came out and strolled into the old city of Mala Strana, a soft summer night, with hordes of revelers still out and about. We found a many floored nightclub below the castle. Sitting there drinking martinis high up on the terrace, illuminated by the turrets above, I remembered the story that it was the Rolling Stones who paid for the castle to be lit from below when they played here in l990. Now it sits like a crown jewel, an ancient silouette in the summer night sky.

Funny thing - old Mick was singing 'little red rooster' on the big speakers behind us, as we quaffed down vodkatinis and marveled once again that this place is such that you can have the best of both worlds, old and new in one cultured place.

Maybe you can go home again

I was 12 or 13 in l967 and my cousins took me to the original event. My mind was blown (as they say) by the people, the good vibes and by lots of great herbs. I don't think I have been th same since then because it indeed showed me another lifestyle and way of thinking.

So, here it is 40 years later (gasp!) coming around again. And I think the timing is right. Perhaps it will kick in the old way of protest, the protest of love over greed, as it was for me and so many others back in l967. I think there will be a lot of people at this thing.

Maybe they will cal it "GREYSTOCK''

"SUMMER OF LOVE" == FREE CONCERT
== GOLDEN GATE PARK ==

SAN FRANCISCO, CA, May. 23, 2007 - The Summer of Love 40th will
be held Sunday, September 2nd at Speedway Meadows, Golden Gate
Park, from 10am to 6pm. ADMISSION IS FREE.

CONFIRMED ACTS INCLUDE: Ray Manzarek (the Doors), Country Joe McDonald(Country Joe and the Fish), Canned Heat, Michael McClure (Beat poet),ruth weiss(Beat Poet), New Riders of the Purple Sage, Nick GravenitesBand with David Laflamme, Alameda All Stars (Gregg Allman), MerlSaunders (supporting the effort), Terry Haggerty (Sons of Champlin), DanHicks, The Charlatans, Essra Mohawk (Mothers of Invention), Barry "TheFish" Melton (Country Joe and the Fish), Elites.summeroflove40th@yahoo.com,www.2b1records.com/summeroflove40th.

You cant go home again

Apparently, once you leave AFF and start blogging on another site you are then banned. I just was checking over there to visit my friends' blogs and was told that I am now suspended, because I advertised this blog to them.
Maybe they will lift the ban in time, but for now, I will be excommunicado. Too bad as I was not ready to leave there

What about me?

This is one of my favorite videos. I show it to my students and it always sparks a good discussion. What do you think?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FDSAAlrqAHM

Denver Airport and the Continuity of Government

Continuity of Government in the United States

For years there has been a buzz about the billions of dollars cost overrun and strange goings on at the Denver International Airport (l5 billion dollars over budget). Rumors have it (by the original builders and contractors, airport personnel) that massive tunnels have been built underneath the airport that actually crisscross into New Mexico and the Rocky Mtns.

There are many esoteric symbols, panels and statues there.Military personnel are seen to go down through the elevators and never reappear. Electromagnetic flux in the area may come from a massive underground systems although there are no power lines about. I have felt this myself when I flew there freqently over the years. It is as if you are emotionally wired and you dont know why.

There are lot of things that have happened that people will not talk about. Like who funded it and why did they construct it when they had a more than adequate airport (Stapleton) that was more central to Denver.

It has been suggested that it is part of the existing plan to build structures that will house l00,000 people in case of apocalypse. The Federal government is funding this scenario may someday unfold (2012). Somehow the Denver Airport is part of this plan.

The main points of such a plan(Contingency of Government) in the United States are to suspend certain parts of the United States Constitution and to allow the alternative use of federal land and buildings (including use as internment camps) by FEMA for the housing/detention of US citizens as required, as well as any rescue/recovery operations.

It also allows for power in the US to be centralized to the White House and "appointment of military commanders to run state and local governments and declaration of martial law.

The Federal government is funding this scenario that may be about to unfold (2012). Somehow the Denver Airport is part of this plan.
Anyone know more about Denver?

Truely Unbelievable

Just as Goebbels said, some lies are too big to be disbelieved. It is this lack of disbelief that is so dangerous. The inability of Americans to see through the Big Lie to the secret agenda allows the neoconservatives to escape accountability and to continue with their plot. There is no longer a government for the American people.
This paradigm shift has utterly destroyed the foundations our national and humanistic identity has been built upon.

Instead we have a police state controlled by mentally unbalanced fascists, headed by an ex-cheerleader with alcohol and substance abuse problems. For more on how the shift happened, check out the blog link below.


http://www.informationclearinghouse.info/article17863.htm

Old stories made new

I am going to post some old stories on this new blog. So some of you have read them before. I am still trying to find my way here. But already, I like the ability to post a little easier and the quality of the pictures are better.

The Majestic

What follows can be read as an extravagant thought experiment – a kind of poker gamble played in the realm of ideas. To take the wager, no belief is required. All I ask from readers is an open mind and a willingness to consider things in a different light. Can you do that?

The story begins one Memorial Day about ten years ago, on a journey down to California from Oregon. As a traveling researcher on a government project, I had been swamped with logical details and supervision of a multi state research team. I was worn out and needed rejuvenation before the next phase began.

Headed down Hwy 5, each kilometer takes you past another view of Mount Shasta. Shasta is a mountain of extravagant beauty and many moods. It dominates the landscape in Northern California and parts of Southern Oregon. You’re on the north side of the mountain, so there’s a lot of snow up there, but as you curve around toward the west, the ridges begin to peek out of the snow and subtle textures of rock appear.

Driving down into the valley, I saw a large alpine pastiche of pines, tilled fields and hillocks plopped down by one or more of Mount Shasta’s volcanic convulsions. I couldn’t help wondering what it was like when this mountain was emerging. It had such an imposing appearance, rising more than 10,000 feet above its base. It rose like a colossal cathedral spire at the head of the Central Valley, a dazzling devastating face whose after-image stayed burned on my consciousness like a dose of snow blindness. I noticed the little town of Weed and being dusk, decided to stop for the night and rest.

That night in my motel room, I dreamed of a great white pyramid of shimmering snow. In my dreams, I felt the tingling feeling of the wind on my cheeks even when there was no wind. Waking with the lingering memory, I decided to investigate the mountain’s allure.

Over coffee and a lumberjack breakfast in the two diner town, I read about the numerous mysterious legends that spoke of the significance of Mt. Shasta as a place of powerful earth energies. More than any other mountain in North America, Mt. Shasta is a focal point for contemporary spirituality, attracting individual seekers as well as a variety of religious groups.

The waitress had another take. “Everytime I turn around, I expect to find another ‘woo woo’ coming through here. Bunch of pod people.”

But she did rave about the other legendary place nearby, The Living Memorial Scultpure Garden and gave me a brochure. Set at the edge of the Valley northeast of Mt. Shasta, it was dedicated as a war memorial with larger than life metal sculptures depicting figures from a multitude of wars.

Too tired to climb a mountain that day, but intriqued by the idea of large sculptures in the desert below the mountain, I drove out there to see for myself. The father of my oldest daughter had been a L.E.R.P in Vietnam. Many of my lovers had been Vietnam vets. It was Memorial Day and I could pay homage with a little ritual to them if nothing else. Since I travel with a sage smudge (for cleansing hotel rooms) and candles among other assorted ritual tools in my suitcase, I brought those along too.

I drove out to the place marked on the map. The sculpture garden is high on the Modoc Plateau, twenty three miles from Weed. Somber, haunting and spiritual, the site had a surreal beauty. Fifty-eight thousand pines, a living memorial to the 58,000 American dead in Vietnam, also grace the site. Although it is dedicated to veterans of all conflicts, the site has been developed as a park for everyone.

There was only one other car there as I began to walk through the desert where the sculptures were placed. The only sound was two sets of wind chimes in the trees, softly ringing in the wind. Immediately, I felt a sense of timelessness.

Maybe it's because I'm Irish, and my Celtic heritage, with its belief in "thin places," has seeped into my imagination "Thin places" are those places where the everyday world and the realm of the divine meet, where the walls that we normally experience as solid, dividing one reality from the other, are permeable. They are places - or even the moments - where God leaks through, where the divine peeks in and waves at us. In these holy places, extraordinary things happen.It was hot and there was no wind, yet the chimes fluttered a sweet tune as I began to see the sculpture groupings.

Each of the ten larger-than-life-size metal sculptures depict the passions of war, portraying themes such as Those Left Behind, POW-MIA, The Nurses, The Refugees, and Coming Home.

They were arranged within walking distance of each other with the stark landscape and distant view of Mount Shasta as a backdrop. The series of huge metal sculptures, the beings, were beautiful, simple, arranged to memorialize the veterans in each war.

They evoked a powerful emotional sense of homage and peace and anguish of those for whom there was no homecoming.

I sat, with my ritual materials, beside The Nurses and cried - cried for the sheer horror of war and its violence against innocent persons and for those who try to muffle out faith and love.

The sun was blocked by clouds and the wind picked up. As the soft breeze dried my tears, I began a ritual of renewal. For me, for for the earth, for truth and beauty.

Just a simple ceremony, burning sage, calling in my guidance, the four directions, to heal the wages of war, to heal the destruction and the scorched-earth effects of globalization and to remember that another world is possible. I began to sing softly, my lone voice in homage to the beings and what they meant.

I felt at peace, and slowly rose up, standing below a grouping of three metal beings with their arms raised toward the mountain. Standing below them, I began to swing my arms too in a circle, from side to side in windmill fashion. My eyes swung with them, focusing on the mountain, then the beings, then the remote desert all around me.

Suddenly, a brilliant shaft of sun pierced the clouds. It illumined the statue and the bright beam traveled downwards into me. With it came a feeling of bliss, a sudden movement of energy up my spine, along the arms and shoulders, giving the sensation of lightning throughout my body. Wind blew across my face, just like the dream of the night before.

I stood paralyzed by such a feeling of love, an intensified understanding and sensitivity of love, and a deeper insight into direct knowing of so many dimensions. It was a transcendent state of joy. Indescribable really, it felt like liquid fire and liquid light. Far richer, deeper and body encompassing, and better than any orgasm I have ever had. I didn't want to come back and kept looking straight at the mountain in the distance, realizing its mystery had claimed me.

Every Memorial Day where ever I am, I remember the gift I received at the Memorial to those who never come home. It is my psyche that determines that this event revealed a deeper order of signficance, a resonant phenomena akin to turning a lock to a more conscious state. It was then and always will be, an event that was both numinous and inexplicable.

Secret Gardens

The stairs at Vrtbovska Garden. This is the epitome of a secret garden in the middle of this ancient city and one of my favorites.

It is fully secluded. Here, time is suspended. It seems haunted. I go there frequently to paint and sit wondering on who else has climbed these steps.

I practice some of my skills here. Clairvoyance.
The term clairvoyance means clear seeing - seeing that is not muddled by the opaque world of material objects normally defining our limited sense of space and time.

Accessing memory is a proces of finding the right code - the right reference beam to bring the holographic image back to life. Just as a computer can contain the data that is accessible only with the right command, so do our mental images require the proper mental image to unlock them.

When I paint, I am looking at shapes and shadows, spatial structure, light and darkness with focus and intensity. Often, other images come to me, or music, or stories of another time. I cannot say if it is real but it is real to me.

I have seen people walking up these steps. Who were they? It is an enigma to me in the secret garden of my mind.

Cowgirls swimming upstream

An unusual spring morning greets us as we head north. The saddle creaks as Sting rocks me slowly up the trail in the noonday sun. Ten women, spaced every one hundred feet or so rode on horseback ahead of me. One of them, begins singing,

All I'm ready to do is have some fun
What's all this talk about love
I'm ready to run
I'm ready to run
I'm ready to run

Two more voices joined in, alto and base, harmonizing.

I was thinking how pretty the view and the sound of capable women singing as we slung along the trail high in the mountains.

Each spring this group of friends hosts a trail ride at different ranches in the county. The ride would last several days. The women set up their own version of "camping" out under the stars and prepare all the meals together. We would ride horseback each day, discovering the varied terrain, grasses, wildflowers and wildlife in different regions of this northwestern county. It was a nice break from our families and a chance to visit with other women with common interests.

Unlike me, most of them had traditional lives, taking care of their husbands and kids, daily ranch chores, tending stock and large gardens. And unlike Annette, my good friend. We called her the cosmic cowgirl. I was her sidekick as she had taught me many of her horsewoman skills.

Long before we met, she was running a family owned 25,000 acre ranch high in the Bald Hills. A redneck rodeo barrel racer, she used to ride 30 miles downhill to the local country store for a candy bar, just to get out of the house. Now three daughters later and a divorce behind her, she began to discover her ‘psychic’ skills. Anything she did was full bore.

Re-entry college students, we had been ‘playing’ in the dimensions all through college, learning and then teaching others to practice the latent abilities that lie within each of us. Our art classes included meditation, clairsentience, and clairvoyance - exploring different ways to interpret the information received. We also grew herbs in our gardens along with muti-hued flowers that attracted hummingbirds.

Her horse, Sting was an old friend, a heavily-muscled quarterhorse/morgan cross with great athletic ability and versatitlity. I knew that he could probably run a quarter mile faster than any other horse in this string. He was coal dark and handsome, a stout and steady mountain horse, with a cooperative disposition..

Now, reining him up the trail, my tail bones ached as I knew they would. My face was getting sunburned and I was thirsty, but I still wouldn’t trade this time with the ‘cowbelles’ for any city pleasure.

Later we stopped for the night on a shady plateau above a slower clear mountain stream. Unloading our saddle bags and sleeping gear, some of us gathered firewood, others started dinner or took care of letting the horses out to graze, rubbing them down, checking their feet.

It had been a long second day, we were all tired, and as we laid around the campfire that warm spring night, they asked us whether we had brought the brownies.

“You ladies all want to try em”, we laughed. “We said we would bring them and we did, but you you can’t tell anyone we were the ones who made them.”

“Oh come on, we all know what you all grow in your gardens. And out here this is our chance to try it.” More than several of the women were nodding their heads eagerly.

“Ok, here’s the deal,” we said. “Each of you that want some, get a quarter of a brownie and see how you feel. Then if you think you want some more, we will monitor how much.”

Breaking off pieces, over half of the group started munching. Soon someone picked up a guitar and began playing George Straight.

‘I wanna dance with you
twirl you all around the floor
that's what they intended dancing for
I just wanna dance with
I wanna dance with you
hold you in my arms once more
that's what they invented dancing for
I just wanna dance with you’

We sang and giggled and drank beer and told stories about heartaches and good times for a quite awhile before that fire. The moon came out all silvery and lit the river below in arching light and shifting shadows. The ladies were high on each other’s company and brownie medicine.

The night was warm by the fire and the soon jackets and blouses were stripped off. Someone suggested a swim in the moonlight.

“Ok, let’s get naked and everybody stay close.” All but a few splashed in, our bodies in all shapes and sizes, matrons and daughters-in-laws, buxom and white, swimming in the mountains on a starry night.

“I feel like a salmon swimming up stream,” someone yelled. And so we pretended we were. Eleven beautiful, bare beauties, free of responsibilities and children, husbands, or chores, spawning in a wild green river on a clear spring night.

Later, as I got out of the river to dry off, I glanced over to the horses tethered in the meadow nearby. Sting turned his head and stared at me with those big, expressive intelligent eyes. Was that a wink I saw or was he just blinking sleepily at me.

“I know, bud. Kind of crazy, us human kind.” He just reached down for another clump of grass doing his job, being a horse. Tomorrow he would haul me over another mountain, cantering over the rolling coastal hills back to home.

The “Salmon Run” became a legend amongst some folks on ranches in Northern California and some ladies are still practicing the psychic arts.

The Redwood Run along the Redwood Highway

I was lost in my memories this morning lying in my bed. This is the weekend of the 30th annual 3 day biker run up the northcoast and my oldest daughter, Kellie is attending yet again.

Halfway across the world, I know that she is having herself a real good time. I cant wait to hear the stories of this bacaanal of all calvacades on the river. I so wish I was there with her, playing with all those good looking hombres and their mighty big chariots of chrome.....

It is such a good party and a raucous crowd, well mannered, but hearty in their habits after roaring up the highway for hours to get in the middle of summerland on the river. This year Gregg Allman of the Bros is playing along with Joan Jett. To be laying up in the natural amphitheatre, on a blanket with stars overhead, a well muscled mustachiod fella by my side. Sigh....Perhaps next year.

Here is a story I wrote about the last time

Sexy Fit’s research about gang bangs made me think of this story. No, not about me, though I watched – a memorable group blow job (ratio 30 men, 2 women) in the wilds of Northern California. It was about this time last year at the Harley bikers’ campout famous in these parts, known as the Redwoodrun (google it for more info).I was camping with a group of friends and we had taken the bikes out for the day, gone sightseein’ along the Ave of the Giants (380’ redwood trees along a lazy river).

It was a beautiful drive on a hot day, but a long one for me riding on the back of his bike. We arrived back at the main camp, ready for BBQ and the main night event, Santana under the stars.I was wandering back to our tent sites, when I noticed a pack of men at the end of the camp row…lots of men and they were lookin’ at something, laughing, general revelry being had.

A curious girl by nature, I headed that way.Ooh baby, standing there in this circle of massive men flesh were two beautiful young women all in purple. One had long dark hair dressed in braids with purple ribbons, purple thigh high leather boots, a purple bikini top and short purple leather skirt.Her sinewy framed friend, was just as exotically outfitted in a short, tight purple dress, a blond/mauve pixie hair cut and down there, a purple pussey.

I knew this cuz I could see it in all its glory. A big leather clad man was on his knees giving her a thorough tongue lashing. Her friend, one knee up, was preparing to receive the ministrations of another tongue. She had purple pussey hair too and I was riveted. These women were enjoying themselves, laughing and talking to the men. The men were throwing them questions, taking pictures, standing in line so to speak. Soon the action changed again. The braided girl seemed to choose one of the guys for a blow job. She beckoned, he opened his leather chaps, and zipped down his jeans. He had a huge hard on which she proceeded to lick and suck. Her blonde friend did the same with the guy who had licked her pussy.

He was a fine specimen, big, sun bronzed, flowing long hair, muscled thighs and a large, thick cock. Watching them was getting me turned on.Probably the best thing about this was feeling the absolute lust of all these men, circled around watching. Here it was a hot summer night in the mountains, stars coming out, a natural setting and surrounded by really good looking, virile men, admiring the arts of cunnilungus and cock sucking.

I loved gazing at their faces – raw lust, desire, grins and laughter as we all watched a good show. The men were respectful, awaiting their hopeful turns. The two women seemed to be glorying in all the attention, no money changing hands. I found out later, the purple pussey posse made the rounds of many tents that weekend. These buxom girls were legendary at the Redwood Run where the ratio of men to women is about 30 to 1. One of the best parties ever.

A bohemian in bohemia

Welcome to my world....open the door and come in

Lex, as he is now....nine months later

Lex, the pup

January 2007

Just a day after I flew home, I went and retrieved my daughter's puppy, Lex from his caretakers. She is still in California until Sunday.

Lex has doubled in size and remembered his 'grandma' and is surprisingly affectionate with me. But oh my god, I forgot how much time and energy a big 4 month old Doberman takes. Plus my aging cat Georgie hates him and lets him know hourly.

I have spent great amounts of energy trying to protect one from the other. Lex taunts him barking and Georgie retaliates by chasing him and swatting him. Its a royal pain in the ass and I can get nothing done. Georgie is a lot more ferocious than Lex and only weighs about 6 lbs.

Lex now wears a muzzle type strap when he goes out in public. It has made him a bit more subdued on trams and I dont feel like a wild animal trainer. He loves people and other dogs and is a joy to take to the park across the street.

I will be so glad when darlin daughter gets back and takes over control of 'Mr crocodile'. He will have a professional trainer soon and all this will be manageable. I think this will be the last 'youngen' I will ever raise. Puppies and toddlers are just too much work.

But the park across the street is lovely, cold and wild and he forces me on long walks daily so I am walking off all the rich holiday food while contemplating the disturbing news of my brother. Its given me time to process what it will all mean in 2007.

My kids, Lily and Dan

Lily, Lex's mentor

Honni's world

The view from casa honni

Beautiful stromovka, the 312 acre kings preserve where knights jousted 600 years ago. I love to paint there just steps away and below the flat

There are no closets here

I live in a large white flat where the sun wraps around the rooms from dawn til dusk. That is my cat Georgie in the corner. He is deaf but enjoys his white world, where white cat hair never seems to disappear. The following is a story about finding my 'home'.

Loneliness, delusion, abandonment, marriage and divorce had all come to visit very early in my life, blocking serenity, contentment and courage.

At twenty-five, some of these monsters stayed stuck in the closet, while others waved their scary faces from behind the masks of normal situations. But they all stayed like uninvited guests who would not leave the house of unknown.

I wanted to be somewhere, anywhere the monsters couldn’t lash the old wounds, whipping like a leather belt against cool, smooth skin

Gauntlets are the stuff of every life, but when you learn, young, how to pick them up, how to work against the demons, life can seem more merciful alone.

At thirty-five, I began carving the demons out, like chipping away at a hard block of ice, coaxing them from their hiding places, melting their faces using a blow torch with stubborn determination. Each achievement came with a cost. I hurt people, as if a stallion rearing up, pawing them away if they got in my path. I knew no other way. No one had showed me.

I warriored on, raising children, nurturing my gardens, learning, listening, invoking the spirits from above, trying to resolve my loneliness. Not waiting for the rescuer, I salved heartaches. Asked for playtime with the male gods, asked to stay strong for my babies, made choices that were healthier, tried not to be hard on myself. I did not fear poverty or solitude to do my interior work.

‘Wait, wait, I think I get it now. I think I can do it better. How did you get to be thirteen? How did you get to be twenty? Yes, of course you must leave. I love you, baby. I love you mommy. Can I hold on to the serenity now without you?

By forty-five, I understood it was me that that had to dream my life into my reality. I had far less to fear though I kept thinking it must be me who was all wrong, me that could not be happy with an ordinary life. No man worked very hard to dissuade me.

I wanted the tall, clean white rooms that opened out to air. I needed to paint vivid canvasses on the walls high above ancient parks. I wanted the freedom to write in old cafes, meander down dusty streets in the sun, where no one knew the tempests that once haunted. I chose to leave that other life.

I had to decide what would go over the sea and what would stay. I sold almost everything and divied up the rest into small legacies. The girlfriends got the vintage clothes and hats, my brothers received the Persian rugs, and various womens’ shelters got the rest. And rather than being sad at parting with so much, I found my new minimalism exhilarating. I dug down and all that was left was the bare, clean bones of a woman with a rich inner life, a PhD and a resolve to recreate from the ground up. I brought my paints and pastels with me.

Sometimes I step out-of-scene for a moment, checking to see if I find some errant monster thought rising from the shadows. Am I a used girl/woman pretending to be new?

I am not old, writing here in the big white flat with my paintings on the wall. The tall double windows are open to the sunshine, birds trilling in the leafy bowers across the street.

The demons, the monsters, the tempests sit quietly in the corner, they are my friends, reminding me only of ermine cloaked beggars and prostitute nuns. I think they stand guard, providing always the impetus to dig deeper, explore the wilderness within, craft my words and life with courage. I am at home and there are no closets here.

Being an artist in Bohemia, I get to paint my world.

This is the land where I live

This is the land where I live. The houses are very old and the streets are paved with stone. It is a magical place, in the middle of Europe.

I am the mother of this beauty, kellie, who was born when I was l6. Here is a story about us

Labor Day Weekend 2000

The weekend campout started down in Southern Humboldt County, Northern California. We were camping with a group of friends. Party over, we left for home on Labor Day. Our trunk held camping equipment, ice in the cooler and one leftover T-bone steak.

A very hot day but the journey back home was a straightshot up the freeway. We had half a tank of gas and were good to go. When one of my buddies handed me a cookie, I thought why not, and nibbled a piece.

Being it was Labor Day, the highway was crowded. I remembered there was a backroad that could get us home along a more scenic alternate. Daughter had never driven that route, but I had many times, so we veered off the exit and went offroad.

We were chatting, laughing about something and came to a fork in the road. She mentioned the sign had an arrow pointing to our eventual
destination. But I had driven the road and I knew it was the left fork so kept going in that direction. A serious flaw.

The road was as I remembered for about l0 miles.
But as we started to dip down into a new valley, it narrowed considerably, then turned into dirt and sharp rocks. Looming suddenly at our side were a group of big Longhorned cattle. They looked like yaks. They stared silently as we careened by.

Our adventure had turned more complicated. "Are you sure this is the way?" she asked suspiciously. Not wanting to worry her, I remained unperterbed. "Yes, all the roads lead back up to the top and eventually we will come out where we are supposed to." She was not comforted.

Minutes ticked by. The road dipped down and back up over the undulating mountain range. We could not turn around, it was now further in miles than going forward. My gas tank was starting to register red. Still I did not panic. Afterall, I was a mountain girl, had camping equipment in the back, had meat, and matches.

Then we saw a sign ahead. "No Trespassing. You are now entering the *****range, a private hunting preserve. Only members of this gun club are allowed." Uh oh! At this point, we were driving on fumes, fearing gunshot at every turn.

As the car jerked down the road, dust flying, I knew we were in dire straits but still remained calm. Perhaps it was that cookie. Daughter was showing serious anxiety.

Way up at the top of the next range, I saw a ranch and thought, ok, we can walk there if we have to. The car kept going and the silence of the mountains was deafening. We were out in the middle of nowhere, no one knew we had ventured out here, it was l00 degrees in the shade and almost out of gas.

Finally we crested to the top and saw the ranch driveway. Giddy with relief a new glitch developed as the gas gave out. It seemed all that hard scrabble driving had wrought damage on one of the back tires. When the ranch owners opened their front door, they saw a dust covered Camry, two tired, frazzled and overheated women with no gas and a flat tire. "How in the hell did you get here?"

Daughter says moral of this story is:

"If you are going on a trip with my mother,
Make sure the gas tank is full.

Take along the following provisions xtra gas can, plenty of food and drinks, a GPS global positioning system, a flare gun, and a satellite phone. One more thing, if she has a cookie with her, dont go."

Here we are, summertime in Moravia. It is a beautiful land, full of orchards and fields of sunflowers.

This is my daughter Lily and her Moravian sweetheart. They married young, too young. He is my son too though he stayed in LA and she came back to the old world of Bohemia. His relatives only speak Czech but we talk in languages that are understandable through the elixer of slivovitz.

My home in bohemia

I am going to post a bunch of pictures on this blog before I really begin writing. There are many stories to back up the pictures. What I hope to do in the discussions on this blog is to line up some reference photos so that my friends can see who all and what all is the context of my life.

hey ...this is me

Looking repeatedly into the past, I do not necessarily become fascinated with my own life
but rather the phenomenon of memory

The act of remembering becomes less autobiographical and very often feels blessedly impersonal

The traumatic moments fade into a reverie of events that happened to someone else - that girl who rushed forcefully into her experience

She is well seasoned now. Her instincts are like a bright sun, now low and sharp in the sky
Its radiance comes with shadows, flashing cobalt on deep water, sparkling

I am kin with her, that impulsive girl of so long ago. She is my child in the phenomenon of memory

GRADUATION DAY

MITCH AND LINDSAY...GOOFBALLS