I had totally forgotten this song until the other day when the line “I don’t want your money honey I want your love” popped into my head. So I had to search the web and found the Uber-trashy, NOT punk by any stretch of the imagination,  Transvision Vamp. This was their only decent song and I dedicate it to Alien Boy and who ever else has a nice 6 pack and smile….if I was clever I could have put together a vid of my own with said 6 packs and Alien Boys wafting across the screen to the music. Alas, I have no time for such japes so you’ll just have to make do with the wonderfully trashy Transvision Vamp…..

A little Irish humour wafts up from the floor…I based this on the only joke I know – or at least, can remember.

Himself went into Confession, and knelt in the Holy stall.
He said, “Father, forgive me, for I have sinned – shall I start with the great or the small?”
The Father said, “Now listen, son, I’ll tell you where to begin,
We’ll save the best for last, and you start with the smaller sin.”

“Well, Father, me brother has a farm, and he brings me meat for me dish,
And I eat it on a Friday, for, God Help Me, I can’t stand fish.”
“Now God doesn’t care,” the Father said, “if the man owns a couple of dairies.
You can’t eat fish on a Friday, so that’ll be three Hail Marys.

Now tell me about the other sin, though I fear for the state of your soul.
If it’s any worse than the first one, you’re looking at Hell’s black hole.”
So Himself said, “It’s my neighbor, she looks like that Sharon Stone,
“With lovely blonde hair and a killer shape, and she just won’t leave me alone.

“Each day when I’m making my dinner, I see her out on her lawn,
“And, Father I swear she has nothing at all but little bikini pants on.
“She’s giving me lustful thoughts, and Father, I’m in such a state,
“For here I am a married man with more than enough on me plate.

“I’m having to fend for meself these days, while me wife is at her mothers’,
“The old lady’s sick, and the worst of it is, me wife has four big brothers.”
The Father scratched his chin, and then he nodded and said,
“Three Hail Marys is not enough, I’ve got to get into your head.

“There’s a trick we priests have often used, which I’ll pass on to you,
“You say to yourself these powerful words, until you believe it is true –
“’You’re not a lovely young girl, says you, you’re a withered and wrinkled old crone.’
“If it worked for me with Sophia Loren, it’ll work with this Sharon Stone.”

Next Friday came and the Father was passing down the street.
He thought he’d call in and see if Himself was eating meat.
The door was standing open, so the Father went inside,
And found your man in the kitchen, and crept up to his side.

Himself was cooking his dinner as out of the window he stared,
At a lovely young woman sunning herself, and his lips were moving in prayer.
And this is what the Father heard, as Himself reached for the dish…
“By the Holy Crook of St Patrick, you’re not a steak, you’re a fish.”

Gail Kavanagh

Just hanging out…and and looking to have some fun

You know…

FUN.

As in not taking every little thing in life seriously.

Except for things like

Alien Boy

and

those guys from CSI

and Pirate Songs.

Of which the world needs more of.

So if you can’t sing, guzzle Margaritas and duct tape skinny Scotsman to trees with a hangover in your left eye…um…sing, guzzle Margaritas and borrow some tape from Lori or Jane, Heaven knows they’ve got plenty because Cle is always stealing MINE and giving it to THEM.

Ha.

Like I couldn’t figure it out.

So cheers, and if anyone knows where the floor is, be so kind as to point me in the right direction.

Thank You.

A.M.

“The Pirates That Don’t Do Anything”

we are the pirates we don’t do anything
we just stay at home, and lie around
and if you ask us, to do anything
we’ll just tell you, we don’t do anything

well I’ve never been to Greenland
and I’ve never been to Denver
and I’ve never buried treasure in ST Louie or ST Paul
and I’ve never been to Moscow
and I’ve never been to Tampa
and I’ve never been to Boston in the fall

we are the pirates we don’t do anything
we just stay at home, and lie around
and if you ask us, to do anything
we’ll just tell you, we don’t do anything

and I’ve never hoist the main sail
and I’ve never swabbed the poop deck
and I’ve never veered starboard, cause I’ve never sailed at all
and I’ve never walked the gang plank
and I’ve never owned a parrot.
and I’ve never been to Boston in the fall

we are the pirates we don’t do anything
we just stay at home, and lie around
and if you ask us, to do anything
we’ll just tell you, we don’t do anything

I’ve never plucked a rooster
and I am not too good at ping-pong
and I’ve never thrown my mashed potatoes up against the wall
and I’ve never kissed a chipmunk,
and I’ve never gotten head lice
and I have never been to Boston in the fall

(pirate captains log 2002
who be this band relient k
and why they be so full of contradictions)

we don’t know what he did
but we’re down with captain kidd
we don’t wake up before lunch
but we all eat captain crunch
we don’t smoke, we don’t chew
we watch captain kangaroo

and I’ve never licked a spark-plug
and I’ve never sniffed a stink bug
and I’ve never painted Daisies on a big red rubber ball
and I’ve never bathed in yogurt
and I don’t look good in leggings
and I’ve never been to Boston in the fall

we are the pirates who don’t do anything
we just stay at home, and lie around
and if you ask us, to do anything
we’ll just tell you, we don’t do anything

we are the pirates we don’t do anything
we just stay at home, and lie around
and if you ask us, to do anything
we’ll just tell you, we don’t do anything

   Were Pen was hovering madly like a possessed bee.  She was so angry she was spitting ink and making quite a mess. 

   “What’s the matter now?” I asked warily.

   “You – I – you have the nerve to ask what’s wrong. As if you didn’t know.”

   “All I know is you’re acting weird, even for you.  What’s wrong?”

   “I just think it’s unfair, that’s all.”

   “What’s unfair?”

   “The way you represent me in the Were Pen stories.  Like I’m some mean old muse, a wicked writing witch with a whip (which is hard to say fast 3 times in a row, BTW).  Sure, Gertie gets to be the wise woman everyone loves, with her cozy quilts and her china teacups, but they just think I’m out to aggravate you, to “really sock it to you.”

   “If the shank fits…”

   “I may say one or two tiny harsh words, just to keep you on track, but let’s balance the picture a little.  I’ve got a good side, too.”

   “I know,” I agreed.

   “Then why don’t you tell all those readers about the good things I’ve given you.”

   “Such as?”

   “Well, what about that very special present, that pebble in your pocket.”

   I instinctively reached into my pocket a touched the smooth river stone.  “Yes, that is a very precious gift, something I try to appreciate each day, and when I forget, it’s a good reminder.  I owe you, Were Pen, and I will tell all Lemuria.”

   The Were Pen became still, and seemed to take on a brighter shine, as I told the story of the Pocket of OK…

    “Once upon a time, there was a woman who worried too much.  She was afraid she wasn’t good enough, smart enough, brave enough, talented enough – you get the picture.  She knew bad things happened to good people and she hoped it wouldn’t be her turn any time soon.  So one day, as the woman, whose name was Kezza, sat trying to think of something to write in her journal, she thought, “The Muse must hate me! Or worse – the Muse doesn’t know I’m alive and trying to channel some inspiration!  Or worst – She knows and she doesn’t care because she thinks I’m no good, I’ll never be a writer, or an artist, or even a good email buddy…”

   As she sat there, writing a few words and crossing them out despondently, she heard a voice.  “Hey, take it easy!”

   “Who said that?” she asked.

   “Me.  Your pen.  Your Were Pen, to be exact.”

   “Were Pen?  Like a Were Wolf?”

   “Yes, or like Ged’s magic blue were light in Ursula K. LeGuin’s Earthsea Trilogy.”

   “So you’re magic?”

   “I like to think so,” replied the Were Pen.

   “Can you help me with creativity?” Kezza asked.  “Help me get inspired?”

   “I can do more than that.  I can give you a priceless gift.”

   “What do I have to do?”

   “Just close your eyes and open your hand.”  I did.  I felt something small and hard and round and smooth placed into my palm.  “Open your eyes.” I did, and I saw a small worn river stone, marked with one word, written in bold black ink.  It said “OK”.”

   “’OK’?  I don’t understand.”

   “I am giving you this gift to remind you of this simple message:  Everything is, or is going to be, OK.  You, as a person, your life, your writing, is, or will be, OK.  You may not realize every dream, or travel to all the places you wanted to, or meet all the people you wanted to meet, or win a literary prize, or get published by Random House, but everything is going to be OK.  When you start to worry, and you forget that, just touch the stone and remind yourself, ‘Everything is going to be OK.’”  And it will be OK – eventually.”

   “Are you sure?” I asked doubtfully.

   “Would a talking Were Pen lie?” she asked, slyly.

   So Kezza put the rock in her pants pocket so she would always have a pocket of OK, wherever she went, and she lived OK ever after – some ups, some downs, but basically OK, and she always tried to remember what a wonderful gift it is to have an OK day.

By Kerry Vincent © 2008

Her name is Jingle and his name is Milo

and they have come home, just before Halloween like

 they always do-

which is by sunset.

Only this year

their hometown is empty and the drive in where Milo asked Jingle to be his wife has fallen into disrepair and the food in the freezer at the Twilight  is rotting away in the darkness

just like the rest of the town.

Milo follows Jingle through the empty streets and he is almost afraid to look at her, but he stops her and puts his hand on her shoulder and turns her around and she says, ” where is everybody Milo? “

And both of them stop and listen to the silence, waiting for an answer and the silence does not answer them back.

Not this time.

   Gertie and I were sitting on her back porch, relaxing, drinking iced mango tea and watching clouds form and pass on. 

   “Gertie?”

   “Yes, Kezza?”

   “Isn’t someone supposed to show me my life tapestry while I’m here in Mudjimba Island?”

   “I think Enchanteur did mention that once.”

   “Are you the one who will tell me what it all means?”

   “What do you think, child?”

   “I hate when you answer a question with question.”

   “I know,” said Gertie, chuckling softly.

   “I wonder where my tapestry is?” I said.

   “It might be inside my house, in my old cedar chest.”

   “Really?  It’s been here all along?  Can I see it now?”

   Gertie sighed and took her time answering.  “Yes, dear Kezza, you can see it whenever you want.  But are you sure you want to?  You might see something you don’t like.”

   “Hmmm.  I know, but I’d rather know, so I can deal with it.  Even if it’s bad.”

   “Sometimes we look for answers, and then find out we were happier just asking the questions.”

   “You may be right, but I am a curious cat!”

   “Like Here & Now?

   “Why Not?”

   The animals heard their names, slightly raised their heads, and went back to sleeping in their sunbeams.

   “Wouldn’t it be nice to be content like them, not caring about the future?”

   “Yes, but I’m not like that.  Gertie, please show me my tapestry.”     

   “If you insist.”

   I followed Gertie inside.  She went to her old cedar chest, lifted the lid, and brought out the most beautiful tapestry I had ever seen.

   “Oh!  It’s lovely!”  But I didn’t see any pictures, no clues about me or my future.  “What does it mean?”

   “You see that teensy bead right there, Kezza?”

   “Yes.”

   “That’s you.  Everything else you see – those glorious colors and shapes and textures and patterns – that’s the whole of life.”

   “And I’m just a little speck?”

   “You are tiny, but you are a beautiful pearl, connected to the whole of life itself.  You are part of the design.”

   “Not a very big part.”

   “You don’t have to be big to be part of something wonderful.”

   “Oh,” I said quietly.

   “You sound disappointed, Kezza.”

   “I am.  I thought my tapestry would tell me how I fit in, what to do, where to go next.”

   “You’re here.  That’s enough.”

   “Is it?”

   “What do you think?”

   “You know how I hate when you answer a question with a question…”

   “I know, I know.  It’s part of the Wise Woman Creed – “Never give a straight answer when a mysterious one is more confusing.”

   I looked at the beautiful tapestry – and my tiny part in it.  It was beautiful.  I was part of it.  I tried to convince myself it was enough.  

   …But I still felt like no one would notice if one tiny seed pearl went missing…

Kerry Vincent © 2008

Settling into a steady swim with broad sweeps of her powerful tail, Thalia moved quickly over the ocean floor strewn with shells, little fish seeking food, a discarded can here and there previously tossed onto the beach by someone careless and taken out with the tides, pieces of beach-washed and eroded glass of various hues from old soda and beer bottles.  She wasn’t exactly sure where she was headed so she ranged along the shoreline a bit, looking for something that would show her the way.  There was enough of the human in her to be annoyed at people throwing things away rather than recycling or at least placing into garbage bins.  The fish part just observed the objects as part of the landscape.  Until one gets caught in a plastic ring holding a six-pack of cans togetheror swallows a metal tab from a can.  None of us seem to be really aware until us, or someone we love, are hurt.

She entered a current leading away from the beach, a current of warmer, faster moving water.  Deciding to follow that for a while, Thalia changed direction with a flip of her tail and her fins, and basked in the warmth of the water.  She could see lights flickering in the distance and assumed it was the play of sunlight on the surface, reflecting down.  But she could discern colors in the light as she approached, colors becoming increasingly vivid and tantalizing.  The colors of the rainbow!  Here is where the rainbow intersected with the sea.  How beautiful!  But the other fish seem to be avoiding the area.  I wonder why?  It would be like my time of riding the rainbow to Rainbow Beach.  All that color and light surrounding me, embracing me.  Dare I risk it?  Will it be the same or is there a problem? 

She circled around and around the area where the crayon-lights penetrated the water, watching the fish as they approached.  It was almost as if there was a barrier: they would swim up to a point, then turn around and dart away.   The colors sparkle!  It looks as if the light-crystals would penetrate into whoever or whatever was in its path.  Light therapy!  Let the body be immersed in colors of all hues to help heal and become whole.  But there is also a hum, a sound, emanating from the rainbow.  Light and sound therapy!  So each organ and body part takes what it needs to move to the correct vibration, whether of light or sound or any combination it needs for wholeness and wellness.  Each being knows what it needs.  This would allow each part to receive the frequencies necessary for its growth.  Synergistic!  The whole is equal to more than the sum of its parts.   The merging of sound and light—what could be better?

Thalia edged into the whirling mix of colors and sounds, arching this way and that to be sure all parts of her were exposed.  She wound up automatically twirling in the encounter, not sure what she was seeing or feeling or hearing.  Closing her eyes momentarily, she gave herself up to the experience.

Once again she was riding the rainbow.  But this time she was not only riding the rainbow ever upwards through the ocean, she continued the ride into the air as the rainbow curved around the earth, then up into the heavens.  It was all part of her, one with her.  She was that and that and that as she encompassed all things.  She rose so high she was now coming back down, around the earth again, and then up through the earth and emerging into the ocean again.  She was back where she started, but was no longer who she was when she started.  She recalled the quote by TS Elliot: …the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.

Then suddenly, the colors and sound disappeared.  In their place was darkness and silence.  She waited, holding on to the sense of wonder.   The smell reached her before she could see what it rode on.  A putrid, disgusting, overwhelming smell of fumes and sulphur and noxious toxins.  She recoiled reflexively as her gills reacted to the smell of decay and corrupting flesh.  The darkness thickened, shimmered and took on a hideous form.  Was this the Triton she heard about?     Half man and half fish?  Exacting a price to allow anyone to pass to the Island of Mudjimba?  She remembered pictures from mythologies, teeth bared, grotesque smile. The better to eat you?   

The smell and sight was so overpowering, she wanted to recoil from him.  Not just odious, but a sense of evil emanated from him.  The hell-fire red eyes added to the sense of evil.  Was this Triton?  Or something else?  Much worse?  The smells became suffocating, and the baseness, the heaviness of his presence seemed to drag on her.  Repelling–yet drawing her as a magnet of negative pole draws one of positive pole.  Lumps all over his face and body, maybe tumors?  Black, sharpened teeth.  Arms outstretched as if to welcome but seem more ready to envelope and annihilate.       

And yet?  She knew she was that, too.  She needed to relax her fears and extend love to this creature, whatever it was.  A few deep breaths, a remembrance of the rainbow experience and the connections to all things, “this, too, oh Lord.  I am that.”  She could feel the love fill her from Grace, and pour out of her, from Grace.  She reached for the black crystal in her hair and offered it to him, in love, in connection.  His aura altered as he graciously received the crystal, and held it close to better see.  Thalia could observe the crystal first enhancing the red fire from his eyes, but then changing it into many colors, like the rainbow, and finally, into sparkling white light.  

His appearance changed.  Long seaweed-rope hair, crystal ocean-blue clear eyes, human upper body and arms with green fish tail.  Still strange but more familiar.  His words bubbled out:  Sirrssle…welcome home!  You’ve been away for a long time.  We’ve missed you.

What do you mean?  Who are you?

I am your father, Sirrssle.  You disappeared many, many tides ago.  We could find no trace of you.

My father?  How can that be?  You now look familiar, but…

I gave you this black crystal when you matured to the egg-laying stage, to protect and remind you of your ocean origins, no matter where you travelled.  And now you bring it back to me.  I am the Guardian of the Deep.  Those who are frightened of me in my other form, flee.  Those who can accept or even love, are allowed entrance.  You have returned to your family, from once upon a tide.

But I am human now.

You did not appear human as you swam here.

I am able to shape-shift.

Can humans do that?  I didn’t know that.

They can if they focus and are able to move beyond themselves and what they think is their identity.  Most don’t.  But I don’t look like you.

He held up a polished piece of glass, now a mirror.  She could see herself, no longer all fish but now a meld of fish below with green scales on a fish tail with human features.  Well, not exactly human—my face would be considered ugly by human standards. My long, rough rope-hair looks rather coarse and ungainly, and is such an odd shade of brown with green highlights.  And my skin is really slightly scaly with protrusions that I thought were tumors on him.  No, I would be considered ugly.  But somehow he…father? Doesn’t seem so ugly now.  He seems natural, like a mer-person.  Pre-Atlantian or future earth… or both? 

Come. 

He swam off, to who knows where?  She hesitated, looked in the mirror again, then followed.

Thalia had met the Triton, and he was her.

Thalia   (http://healinghaven.wordpress.com)

Tuiren motioned me to sit on the bench.  I looked around the weaving shed – there were canvases and looms with tapestries both stitched and woven in various states of progress.  Also hanging on the many hooks which lined the walls were large hessian bags with initials on each one.   I looked at the tapestry which was directly in front of me, the one I had seen on entering.  Tuiren smiled and shook her head, “This is not yours”, she said.   She wandered over to the bags and selected one which had a J inscribed on it.   She also picked up a canvas which had some indication of stitching upon it but with loose threads hanging.   She brought both over to me and sat down beside me.  She laid out the canvas on the table before us, looked at me and said,

“Well, what do you think?”

I sighed deeply already getting the significance of what she was showing me.  I had come here expecting a completed piece of work but, of course, I am a work in progress so the tapestry would naturally reflect that.   I looked to her and smiled saying,

“I understand.  These stitches are the steps I have taken already…..the threads hanging are those steps I have yet to complete, the stories I have yet to finish, the words I have yet to speak.”

Tuiren handed me the hessian bag.  I looked inside to find spools and hanks of different coloured yarns and threads.

“You are to take the canvas and the threads with you and as you continue through your life, record the steps, the words, the pictures.  Are you disappointed?”

Surprisingly I was not and said so, “Actually no…after the experience of my first night here and how you explained that to me, I have a greater understanding of what the message of this particular journey is and it is basically this: I am in charge of my own destiny,  hence there is no completed tapestry, no final picture or story, how could there be, I am still living my life and in that I continue to journey.  I also am acutely aware that there are stories I want to tell to complete my own healing.  The reticence I have felt in doing so is lifting.  You are showing me, both with the adventure last night and this weaving shed that the connection/s I thought I had lost are still alive, they are where I left them when I stopped ‘stitching’ and all I have to do is to pick up those loose ends and continue where I left off.  I have everything I need.”

Tuiren packed the canvas into the thread bag and handed them both to me.  She then embraced me in a way that felt totally complete.

“Time for food”, she whispered as she let me go.  We walked back to the cabin, the smells of cooking wafting down reminded me how hungry I was.  I was feeling very calm and at peace with myself for the first time in a long while.  It felt good.  Katha dished up plates of herb rice with beautifully spiced vegetables whilst Danu poured the tea.

“There are many places for you to visit within Lemuria – do not be in a hurry to leave, tread the path that many before you have travelled, along the Soul Food Silk Road.  I would recommend you visit White Owl Island first, followed perhaps by Ithika -  you will find much to your liking I am certain.”

“Oh I will, thank you,”  I replied.  There was indeed so much within this domain that I wanted to explore and experience.

I remembered that at some point I was supposed to join with the other travellers to continue our journey up the Kerith.   I had no idea where anyone else was or what they were up to but it felt like it wasn’t anything to worry about.

Jill

http://wyrdspirit.wordpress.com

     Gertie fed me a wonderful dinner of greens and cornbread.  She had already informed me I would be spending the night at her cottage, no arguments.  So at least for now, I knew where I would lay my head, and what I would do for the rest of the evening.

     “Rest up, child, you don’t know what tomorrow will bring,” Gertie said.

     I helped Gertie clean up and then she said, “There’s nothing more I love in this life than to watch the sun go down, with a glass of wine in my hand.  Join me on the back porch.”

     We walked outside to an evening that was cool and pleasant, with a slight breeze.  It had rained while we were eating supper, so there was a fresh scent in the air, and the glittering of crystal droplets on the grass and leaves.  We sat down, poured wine, and clinked our glasses together:  Gertie announced, “A toast – We made it through another day.  We witness today as it draws to a close – and we are thankful to be here.”

     “Amen,” I said, taking a sip.  Looking up from my glass, I saw the most beautiful sight before us:  a double rainbow.  “It’s a miracle!”

     “Every day is a miracle – this day just happens to have a frame around it.  The rainbow is a blessing – all those colors, embracing the light…”

   “Sometimes I think the world is such a bad place – so many bad things happen – and then I see something like that…”

   “You know what they say, it takes both rain and sunshine to make a rainbow…The world is both good and bad, delicious and devastating – but it’s the only one we have, so we have to honor it and protect it.  This is it  – for better or worse, love it or hate it.  I choose our world, this life – the whole package – rainbows and tsunamis, falling in love and breaking your heart, getting a baby to smile and saying a last goodbye to a pet in too much  pain – we take the bitter with the sweet, the joy with the sorrow.  The best we can do is to be present each day, and, like my mother always said, do our best to make the world a better place if we can.”

     “The world is a better place because you’re here, Gertie.”

     “And you, too, Kezza.  The world needs you, whether you know it or not.  You are at the nexus of here and now, of being and meaning.”

     “I am?  I’m just me.”

     “That’s good enough.”

     “Really?”

     “Yes, I think you’re good enough, Kezza.  Smart enough, strong enough, kind enough, capable of darn near anything once you set yourself loose!  I think you’re pretty good, Kezza, just the way you are.  And you know what I always say…”

     “Pretty good is hard to beat,” I said, quoting Gertie, and laughing with her.

(c) 2008 Kerry Vincent