wonderplum's Xanga

Gotta keep plugging....

Sun, 06 Dec 2009 05:42:25 GMT

(another part of the story- I'm doing this randomly and will have to figure it all out order-wise later)

Nic showed me a photo of herself today. ONe from when she was younger. And while I know she used to club Miami-Vice style with the short skirts, padded shoulders, and Earl Klugh playing in the background, while I know she was probably pretty (she's beautiful now in her 50s), while I know she must have been fun (she's still so silly she can bring herself to tears), with all this running through my mind, it's still hard for me to ever imagine her young. It's hard for me to picture her with life still laid out before her, untouched, unmarred by bad experiences, unwritten, unscripted, still open to possibilities and achieving her potential.

Because when I met her, she had already decided it was over. SHe had already decided that, though she wanted desperately badly to go back to school, she could never learn anything new. Havign lived through several partners and living with a failed ex-husband, she had already closed the door on love. Having flown by the seat of her pants, she had already decided that it was better to stay grounded. Even if that left her unenthused about future prospects. Even if she even realized that she had assigned herself to defeat.

So here was a young Nic- more than beautiful. Hair streaming down her back, the full watt smile, her double dimples puncturing both round, full cheeks. And she looked carefree. A misnomer, I know, because I dont' think the woman has ever had a day of peace. I don't think her inner demons have ever let her go, ever let her enjoy the moment she's in now because they keep expecting her to pay back atrocities that were done to her.

I consider myself lucky. I've never been asked to peddle a religion that turned its back on me. I've never had my family turn a blind eye to a respected church member, an uncle, who was abusing me. And others.

I've never had to run away, drop out of school, shield my child from violent men, live in a car, deal with the mob, ask my children for a forgiveness they won't extend and my parents for an admittance they won't dare deliver.

Maybe that's why I see both myself and her as still full of potential. I only wish she could see it in herself. She sometimes reminds me that she was smarter and more beautiful then than I will ever be. I think she does this because she's envious of the opportunities that I have squandered. I'd be mad at her if we weren't such good friends, but deep down, I understand that Nic needs to be appreciated and loved. Which I do. We have a bit of a mutual admiration society going on between us.

I admire who she is for surviving. Sometimes I'm not sure what she admires about me. It isn't the brain- though that's what she claims- because I know that's envy and that she occasionally despises me for how easy I learn.

I admire her for not falling victim to all the traps that someone of her past so easily falls into (booze, abuse, crime). I don't htink she believes me when I tell her she's strong, that I have faith that she can still conquer the world.

We've both given up. I think most people might claim that the things we have in common are we are both strong, passionate, caring women with a ridiculously silly streak. They're wrong. What we have in common is that we don't push ourselves out of fear, that we take our current situation (of which we are both deeply unhappy but will only complain about the superficialities of it when it is the deep, oh the deep deep pervasive melancholy of not being where we want to be) as the way it has to be because we've already declared ourselves a failure.

And I know that people think I'm great at a job I think I half-ass. But the same goes for her. To an extreme. She's a talanted, dedicated woman working a low pay, thankless, mediocre job. I'm not where I'm supoosed to be, but at least I'm in a related realm. Nic's worlds away from where she ought to be. And worlds away from that photograph.

But all I could say was "You look cute" and move on to somethign else.

Saturday, December 05, 2009

Sat, 05 Dec 2009 21:06:01 GMT

As I don't usually give men credit for anything, I'd like to throw them an unusual bone for recognizing something that women forget: boobies are magical.

I think that as little girls, we know this. We can't wait to grow a pair of our own and are mystified when we see them on adults. But then we get a set and lose interest. We chastise men for being so enthralled with what we come to consider just another body part. And then we have children and for a very short while, we are reminded- boobies are magical.

My son can fall and skin his face; he can be wailing over some invisible threat, he can be cranky about teething, he can be sad, lonely, any negative emotion, and I can thrust my breast in his mouth and suddenly the screaming stops, the tears cease, his body becomes limp and sometimes, he even falls asleep. You can solve just about every baby worry with a little bit of booby, because somewhere deep in the recesses of the primordial human mind (which is what the baby functions off of), everything is okay when there's booby.

War, famine, a failing economy, the destruction of the earth- none of it matters so long as there's booby. There will always be food; there will always be comfort, there will always be a soft place to rest one's head. There will always be booby.

IN other news, I've had one of those weeks where I actually feel appreciated (unfortunately, this has nothign to do with my son, the ingrate). I missed Monday and Tuesday because the day care was closed. When I came back on Wednesday, this new girl told me that she had had so much fun the last two days and everyone had told her, "Just wait until the teacher gets back." I also received an e-mail from the company from which we contract skills trainers for the kids saying that my classroom is the most requested place to work and that when people are 'shadowing' as part of their job training, the reason why we get so many is because they think of my classroom as an ideal environment and want the skills trainers to see how a program shoudl be run before they get placed in some other school. Wow.

On eof my aides sat me down and told me how it's not the same without me (I only missed two days!) and that she really loves working with me, that I'm her favorite teacher (and she's been in the system for over ten years). Also, usually when a teacher is gone with sub plans, everyone turns it into a free day. Not my team. Turns out they followed a schedule very close to what I would plan and engaged in the sort of activities I usually do even thought I know they'd rather not. That's a high compliment on how orderly and routine we must be, which is odd becaues I usually feel as though I'm floundering.

On Thursday, I brought out a mat and had wrestlign matches (some might call this exploiting retarded children for my own amusement; I call it PE). They don't really wrestle. The number one rule is you can't hurt anyone; plus you have to stay on the ground and most the time I have them wrestle adults. A little later in the day, one of the students from next door was crying silently at the table and wouldn't go to lunch. No one knew what was wrong. I went over, stood him up for a hug (again, the magic of boobies as he buried his head in my chest) and asked him if it was because he lost the wrestling match. He shook his head "no." Then I remembered he hadn't really been into the wrestling which is odd for him. So I asked him if it was because everyone had made gingerbread houses that morning and he's not supposed to do holiday- related activities (because he's Jehovah Witness- this was done in the classroom next door; I would not have been so culturally insensitive). He sniffed a bit and hugged harder. I just held him and then asked if he felt better. He said yes and went to get his lunch. Afterwards, this hippie-dippie nurse who was tube-feeding one of my students told me how amazing I was. That even though she's only there for a few minutes each day, she keeps witnessing these events where I intuit what a student needs or what has gone wrong even when the child is unable to communicate that on their own. She says she's learned a lot watching how I validate the students feelings, but never feel sorry for them or allow them to feel sorry for themselves, how with a few words and gestures I seem to solve problems and make everyone feel better.

I had been unaware that I even did this. I guess I just don't even think about it. I told her that and one of the other adults chimed in, ":That's what makes it so effective and amazing. Because it's natural" So I'm feeling pretty proud of myself. Or at least as though I've found my calling and it doesn't matter so much that I don't make a lot of money. Even if I were independently wealthy, I woudl keep doign htis because it's where I am needed. It's where ican make a positive difference and not everybody can say that about their jobs.

Hooray for me!

pre-continuative

Tue, 01 Dec 2009 01:59:43 GMT

(okay, so now I'm doubling back to an earlier part of the story)

I decided to join a writing club. I was excited about the prospect of writing again, but secretly I was more enthralled with the idea of getting out of the house. Everyone seemed... I don't know... Excited with themselves, with what they were doing, and I felt I couldn't muster up that same enthusiasm. I've always wanted to write a book. Maybe a collection of essays. But I'm beginning to believe this is one of those crackpipe fantasies like making it into the movies. I could get self-published, but then that's the same as appearing in home movies and telling people I've been in films.

I've never understood that particular fantasy- wanting to make it big in Hollywood. I get the 'wanting to be rich' part. But then why not become an investment banker. At least that way you don't have anyone looking through your garbage, critiquing your every social move, or trying to fictionalize your 'real' life (though I guess we all do that for ourselves to some extent). Plus, you can never wear sweatpants in public again.

I guess some people do it for the glory, for the fame, but let's call it what it is- a trifecta of deadly sins- pride, lust, and reversed envy. They want people to want to be them. To be as beautiful (airbrushed) or as talented (though you don't necessarily need any of that these days). Becoming a star is a bit of a crapshoot. And it's not like anyone goes into it because they want to change lives, open people's minds.

Or maybe they do. I want to win the Pulitzer. Not for the cash, not for acclaim, just for the recognition. Just a nod of acknowledgement that hey, that's pretty good, you're pretty talented, now you can go back to your 'real' life with the house and the kid and the mortgage and responsibility.

I wonder if I'd quit. Maybe I'd opt to do a movie, adapt it to a screenplay. So then I could dress up in Roberto Cavelli haute couture, get golden hair extensions, hire a personal trainer, dazzle them on the red carpet, and have them go through my garbage. Stalk my children, take pictures through the windows of me in my ratty tatty underwear.

No thanks. I just want my son and future daughter to know that anything is possible if you dream it (and then, of course, put in the requisite effort- hard work, diligence, and talent). Not like Hollywood where all you have to do is sleep with the right people and find an agent who isn't afraid of hard work, diligence, and lack of talent.

In any case, we gave ourselves an assignment- to write every day for a month, and I thought, "wow, what a fabulous idea (bask in the glowing sarcasm)! So that's the answer to all my writer's block." Except I shouldn't be sarcastic. I go months and months without writing a thing, and a novel that will never make.

I used to write everyday, and if I could get back to that I would, but I'm not going to solve my fictional sparsity by churning out crap. Because I've tried methods such as this before and they always turn into thirty page lamentations on how I need to exercise, why I shouldn't have eaten that deep-fried bacon-wrapped hot dog, who pissed me off that day, and most vexingly, what I want to write. I just never follow through on that last part (nor on the exercise).

But I get the point. It's hard work. And every time I actually do sit down and write, I rid myself of the blockage that keeps me from writing. Sure, I'll have to sift through thirty six pens of ink to discover one nugget of wisdom, but perhaps there's a story on all of that.

I just don't want it to be about my baby (damnit, I don't want it to be about him). And I don't want it to be about myself in some former life (like before the baby, damnit there her is again). I want to write about somethign I know nothing about. Like engineering or science or royalty falling in love with a warrior. I want to write something blaringly false, but comforting in its ignorance.

Nah, nah, nah, I want to write the truth. Or at least some truth as I somehow see it. So I guess this isn't too faulty of a start. It'll be laborous and time-consuming to start, but if it's not a trial, it's not worth doing. Lies. Sitting at the beach is certainly worth it, as is sitting in a lazy boy reading trashy romance novels. Those aren't difficult to push through; they just don't produce any tangible results (excpet for this fabulous tan and this vague conception of how the ton functioned).

But I'm not gonna follow the rules. I'm not gonna work on my story; I'm not gonna keep a journal; I'm not gonna give myself any needless instructions or strive for some end product. I'm just gonna meditate and open my mind to the resuts, letting them flow through my fingers, onto the page, and pretend that this is the beginning of somethign I want to do.

cont..

Mon, 30 Nov 2009 20:03:25 GMT

.(scratch the last paragraph)

Or so I've been told. What Sapiens refer to as Gods have been around since the sapiens (I'll cease capitalizing as one does nto capitalize dogs or fairies) began civilizations. The true difference between sapiens and the other animal species is their capacity for Belief. And imagination. So the Almighty created Beings that addressed these beliefs and imaginings and let them intermingle on Earth.

But by definition, these Beings did not fit into a three-dimensional world, could not be constricted by time and space, and so an additional Sphere was created that encapsulated the Earth but could not be seen from it. At first, the Beings choose to live amongst the people, retreating to their outside Sphere when they so desired. Yet as time passed, the sapiens grew less interesting, more fundamental and dogmatic. Gone was the creative, enterprising spirit that allowed for humour and tragedy, for wisdom and magic. Civilization, societies, day-to-day dronings, acceptance of what is, arrogance and apathy- these killed the Being's interest. Where was the fun?

But it didn't kill it for all. And it was at about this time that I came into the picture. I won't go into my origin story; that's unnceccesary to the plot. What I will say about myself is this: I am the Clerk, the cataloguer of which Beings have dabbled in which sapien lives.

I came after Hercules, after Hanuman, after Gilgamesh. I came into play when the stories continued to be told, but ceased to be created (except for some politician's glory). I came to document interaction between Beings and sapiens that would go unnoticed, because no one really believed anymore.

Loki, Eris, Coyote- they all still act in devilish ways, scheming, playing, making fools of those they choose. They just do so less often and in increasingly subtle ways.

So here's how I file- there are Regional Beings, ones who have etched out a sphere of influence on the Earth, tied to the land in which they first emerged and continue to have an affinity for. There are traditional Beings that follow a specific religious, spiritual, or ethnic grouping and migrate with them wherever they might go. Lastly, there are the guardian Beings, who pick and choose at their own volition the sapiens they will both serve and master. These categories are loosely specific as any Being acts at will.

In any case, densities of where the Beings hang out is directly related to the history and unearthly magnetism of a place. Jerusalem is a hotbed of Being activity- which is why it is in constant turmoil. It is a place of miracles and unbridled emotion, of illogical desires and single-mindedness. More recently civilized regions located where the ground/air is not infused with proper aspect- these towns (think Los Angeles) do not attract Beings.

Perhaps I have not explained this all well, but all that matters is that one gets the gist, understands that magic still exists, that the world sometimes functions beyond scientific understanding. Sapiens knew this once. It's only a reminder I offer so that the rest of my story makes sense. (baby woke up; time to go to Costco)

Sunday, November 29, 2009

Sun, 29 Nov 2009 07:29:00 GMT

I'm going ot attempt to continue my story. But seeing as how I don't remember where left off, perhaps it'd be best if I started in the middle. Or maybe somewhere off to the side.

In the beginning, there were gods. And as gods begat beings and beings invented gods, there became an Almighty, and then a legion of powers that be.

The Almighty is air, breath, light, and energy. Earth, wind, water, fire. The Almighty created the powers, the field of the powers, the underlings for them to toy with, and the ground on which those underlings played.

The Almighty created creation, conceived conception, and imparted into each of us, those above and below, with a sense of vocation. And within our existences, he created conflict so as to judge....

I go too far. I only know of what he has done. I certainly don't understand, nor can I pretend to understand, the inner workings of her why. If we all have purpose, surely s/he has one to. Maybe belonging to some higher realm again in which even s/he is a plaything. But I know none of this. Only what contact I have in this circle as a file clerk, tracking the movements of the Beings, the Sapiens, and the myriad of wonder in between.

Hmmmm. I see I am no good at narrative. That's what happens, I suppose, when one merely takes notes. The shuffling of the index cards is one thing- a list of facts I could easily give. But putting them together into a story that makes sense? And I forget myself. I do not weave the tales; that is not my forte. I merely keep the data and for what, I still do not know. But this particular case, not alone in its cross-filings, not exceptional in its circumstances, certainly seemingly no more important than any others... somehow it has managed to capture my interest. I, who pride myself on being detatched, on being able to look on the Sapien world and the Beings Space with a critical, objective eye, disinterested yet dutiful in taking notes and keeping files....

It is notable to me to have a pronounced opinion. That is what I noticed first. And then I began to think, have I been biased? Have I been partial? Have I allowed my thought to sometimes be independent of events? Have I strayed? And then does this mark my trial, the great hurdle, the philosophical turnign point?

Or have I been begging over the millenia to have such a crossroads and therefore manifested it into being, at will, a spiraling of interest sparked by one case being catalogued at such a time as my independence asserted itself?

Logically, I conclude the latter. And with all this being hashed out, I should chose to return to the story, but not before offering up some clarifying information for those who don't have the details I am privy to.

As I said as I began, there exists an Almighty, whom for the intent and purpose of this story probably does not bear mentioning again. I was not there in the beginning, so while I can not be positive on how it all went down, I can conjecture from what stories I have heard from those who were there nearest to the onset of this existence we know.

It started with the rock, with minerals and vapors, then with flora and fauna. And then came the Sapiens, different from the experimental species before because, while all creations bear the mark of the Almighty, only these new Beings had somethign more. An additional element of the Almighty. And as s/he morphed them, evolved them, they became further separated from the other animal species, already differentiated from the flora, again from the minerals, again from the vapors of light and space and energy.

And then another idea emerged, another set of Beings, with again a breath closer to the Almighty, and in this set we find what some Sapiens call Divinity.

Friday, November 06, 2009

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 23:09:35 GMT

I know everyone always talks about how it's all over once you have kids, that there isn't any time for yourself anymore, that you won't clean the house, take care of yourself, sleep, breathe, anything.

I thought they were exagerating.

They're not.

That being said, I've recently been furloughed. I'm especially bitter because, nationally, the whole fiasco is being portrayed as somethign the teachers have done- that we believe we can squeeze five instructional days into four, that we agreed to take fridays off for the rest of the year, that it was somehow our idea.

Bullshit.

THe governor, who now is acting as if she's heartbroken over the state of education and she wishes the teachers hadn't agreed to our new contract (wtf!?!), originally wanted to cut the school year by 24days. We whittled it down to 17days, an 8% paycut not counting the increase in medical costs. Our other options- to go on strike or to lose 8% of our workforce, thereby increasing class size and losing elective course teachers and having to rearrange school structures.

The governor is an evil bitch. For real. See, the teachers union refused to support her in the last election (exactly because she's an evil bitch who does nothing for education) and in an attempt to stick it to us, she tied our raises (which, by the way, did not even meet the increase in cost of living) to random drug testing- an expensive procedure that we'd be the only state to unleash on teachers. After giving herself, her cabinet, administrators, and all her other friends massive raises, she decides the dept of education is going to have to help pick up the deficit, along with firefighters, police, and county and state workers.

So to summarize- wealthy people got raises, poor people saw pay cuts. She lost millions of dollars on a superferry because she adamantly refused to follow the laws for environmental testing and proceeded with a plan that harme hundreds of migrating humpback whales. She has over a billion dollars slated for a rail transit on Oahu that gets partially paid for with our outerisland taxes. She refuses to raise taxes on tourism or businesses. Right now, while things are heating up, she just got an all-expense trip to Japan and China paid for out of taxpayer money.

She just released 75million dollars to go to Construction contractors to do school building repairs, but couldn't spend half that to actually pay teachers and keep kids in school. Seriously, how does this not make the national headlines?

How does the fact that she's now acting contrite because she didn't even apply for federal assistance for education (she's very anti-Obama) not come to the surface? What about the US secretary of education claiming that she has misappropriated funds she has received (ie, priorities going to facility repairs (money to her contractor friends), administrators (her poitical allies), and beign funneled off to other pet projects instead of going to actual education)?

Let me add this food for thought: there was a program, hailed by Georgetown as a successful example of how to assist low-income youth, in which all uninsured and underinsured children were provided medical coverage. The legislature passed it to go into effect for an additioanl two years and for funds to be appropriated to keep the program running. Governor Lingle refused to release the funds. She had already vetoed the legislation, and thankfully the veto was overruled. But she still holds the state checkbook and so she just didn't allow the money to go out.

How is al lthis possible? She's become a dictator on our island chain and nobody seems to do anything about it?

HELP! Somebody, save us!

In other news, I am not just bitter about this but other cuts to my educational programs that I run; my child is consistently sickly; I am not writing, exercising, and have been subsisting on a diet of caffeine, sugar, spam, cheese, and cocoa; my grandfather passed away; sleep never takes over; and am altogether not in a good place right now, hanging on to my sanity by a thread. Btt it's gonna be okay. I'm pretty sure that it'll all turn around soon.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Thu, 24 Sep 2009 04:11:03 GMT

(first half of this sotry was from a couple months ago; the second half o f the conversation I finally got around to finishing today)

"I heard you were coming for me." Delilah smiled at her younger sister, the one who never came to visit, the one who thought she was smarter, stronger, so sophisticated.

"Didja now?"

"You know how fast word travels through the rumor mill." She smiled as she jumped off her ladder. The shelves were designed as if for a library, but instead of books, the shelves housed an assortment of curious little knick knacks, crystals, and small abstract art pieces.

"Except I never told anyone I was coming. And certainly Jezebel never said anything." Agnes already felt that this was a bad idea, but knew that Delilah was logically the next step. "So I'm assuming the rumor mill was the sapce between my lips and your eavesdropping."

"Eavesdropping. Rumours. It's all the same." She flipped her hands, letting a giant amethyst on her finger sparkle and reflect light off the crystal bangles on her wrist. "In any case, I know why you're here." She put up the same hand to stop Agnes from interjecting. "And so I am prepared to tell you whatever you need to know."

"How much preparation does it take?" Agnes imagined a straight-backed, mahogany-colored leather chair, adorned with brass buttons and nothing else, and sat down.

"Oh, you know," Delilah flipped her wrists again as she spoke. "Meditation. Remembrance. Running through the files stored in my mind to recall the details of a case I had hoped to banish from memory." She tossed her hair back, long waves, and looked at her little sis. "You really should do something about that mop- shear it short, let it long, but that lip-length bob does nothing for you."

"Is that so?" She eyed her elder and admired her style only in the sense that it fit her personality. While Agnes was streamlined, a lot of simple pieces, pinstripes, clean lines, solid bold colors mixed with lots of grey, Delilah was about layers. She wore flouncy skirts with strappy sandals, peasant tops corseted in leather. If she wore a silk scarf in her hair, she wore a chain choker. If she wore a daintily crocheted dress over satin, it was belted with a tight leather strap. It was about soft volume and then restrained. Chained flowiness. And her conversation ran like that. Off the subject and flowery, but then to the point.

Agnes was more streamlined. In both dress and conversation. All tangents must lead to a separate and necessary point. And one must get there fast. But when dealing wth others, she often let them lead and stilled her tongue so as to gather pertinent information that could be used later. Plus, the other conversatee felt they were given free reign and often loosened their tongue.

"Oh, Agnes, if only you could trust. Too much knowledge and not enough fact." She shook her head and Agnes heard bells, somewhere hidden on her person, ringing. "So be it." Two glasses of ruby wine came off the shelf in crystal goblets. "Where would you like to begin?"

"Well, you already know already." Agnes took the wine and gulped rather than sipped. It'd be better if she could relax through this. "I'm stuck on a case wherein Mother Maui stole one of my clients and I'm working on trying to get her back. Jezzie mentioned that you had gone through a similar predicament not long before, only a few rollovers and so in a contemporary setting. I was wondering what you have/had done- did anything work? what failed? what was your general assessment of the situation?"

"Ah, yes, and that's where the reminiscing (spelling?) began." Delilah took a huge sigh and fell back onto a love seat equipped with large puffy pink satin pillows. "She was beautiful. Cute, really, in just so many ways, what with her jump roping and double dimples and ticklish little smile. I was so sad to see her go." And here, she really did frown, in that childish, piquant way that some adults maintain.

"Did she have a name?"

"Of course she did. Doesn't everyone?" Delilah scrunched her eyebrows and laid back on the sofa, which elongated just slightly so she could stretch out a bit. "But we'll call her.... Gloria Vanderbilt."

"Isn't that the woman who makes purses?"

"Is it? I thought the name sounded familiar. Only it isn't her. Or any real Gloria Vanderbilt. That's just a fictional name. But the person was real. So real and so honest and so troubled and.... you know my gig, yeah?"

"Your gig?"

"How I function? How I cull my caseload?" Agnes looked blank and Delilah credited it to the youth assuming only they had their particulars. "Just as you grab the tangential-thinking intellectuals whose creative genius is thwarted by the very locked thinking that makes them special, so I tend to a very specific category of young ladies."

Agnes had to smile at that description that so nearly described all the women on her caseload. "And your specialty is?"

"Those who have suffered abuse. Those who break free in an attempt to empower themselves but too often just escape into another cycle of something that chains them."

"Really?" Agnes had never given much thought to her sister's caseload and was slightly unnerved by the noble sound of it.

"Yes, really." Delilah smirked. "And more than that, we have something in common, you know. Your girls excel in essays, in diatribes that mask their pain and highlight their inadequecies. My girls are poets, who reveal the pain, the self-loathing, the surrender, because they feel they can never overcome their own foibles and transgressions." She waited a beat, and when there was no response, she added, "And they all love to dance."

Agnes smiled and Delilah continued, "Isn't that amazing? You can hear your girls the same two ways that I can hear mine- when they write something out in that stream of consciousness style that begs to be acknowledged and when they're out on the dance floor somewhere letting their body do the storytelling for a change."

"Okay, so I get it. We're a lot more alike than I'd wish us to be."

"No. That's not my point. I dont' want to comapre us so much as I want to compare them- your holly and my Gloria Vanderbilt."

"And what comparison have you made?"

"Oodles, just oodles. Some more significant than others." She clasped her hands together in excitement and all her bangled bracelets tinkled together. "They both work with children. Disabled children. Children that others may have given up on and that's their biggest pet peeve- is when people give up on or abuse children. They're both disgusted with people and find it inconceivable that anyone would hurt a child."

"That describes a lot of people."

"Enough to do somethign about it? Enough that my Gloria wants to become a vigilante and hunt down those who physically or sexually abuse children so she can kill them. Or send them off to war."

"To war?"

"Yeah, let them do something worthwhile before they die."

"But hten wouldn't they just abuse people over there and make the situation worse."

"Exactly the sort of thing your girl would say, but that's not the point." She huffed and physically flipped off the sentiment. "The idea is that they have this in common- that they work with disabled children and share a passion for learning and want for themselves, more than anything, to achieve greater learning, to be smarter than they already are. Though they are both clever, in their own different ways. Gloria has a lot of common sense, understands people, and has wisdom from experience. Your girl, Holly, is well-educated and logical and has a mind like a sponge."

Agnes bit her lip to keep from responding, hoping Delilah would get to her point, but knowing that interruptions only led her further off track and her sister would get there eventually. Perhaps it was a good sign that she had paused to collect her thoughts.

"They both are silly and like to play and take no offense at being on the butt-end of a joke. If they're made fun of, they just take it, but then lash back later with no hard feelings. They're both pretty humble, but really only because they don't believe themselves to be deserving of praise. Pretty typical for women, in general, really, especially ones that are relatively bright and passionate. In any case, they have a similar demeanor, are both beautiful, and are totally broke."

"Sounds like a lot of people."

Delilah pouted. "You ruin the fun in everything." She made a nasty face equivalent to stickign out one's tongue, sipped some more wine, then said the next bit quite quickly. "Fine, then, here's the coup de grace- they work in the same school, same classroom even, and are actually quite good friends."

"What?!?"

"That's right," Delilah said with little excitement, still feeling slightly put out. "They're friends. They know each other. They're privy to each other's little trials and tribulations and neither of them are from Maui. They both moved there and got stuck and so all their dreams and aspirations have been put on hold, probably never to be achieved."

"Well, that may be the case for your Gloria, but not for Holly. I'm getting her out. I'm finding a way to get through to her. Hopefully before her roll-over."

"Good luck with that, but I tell you it's a lost cause."

"Why? Because you couldn't do it? Because you were too lazy to really even try?"

At this, Delilah shot up. She was sick of Agnes's false notions about herself. " I did try," she shouted, throwing her wine glass across the room. "You know, you think you're so smart, so much better than me, so ready to conquer the Sphere, but I'll tell you this- there's a lot you don't know. A lot more that you don't know than that you do. Don't you think it's an odd coincidence that two people so similar, with similar interventions from our outside influences, get snapped away by the same Being, and wind up in the same classroom?"

"You and I both know that coinceidences such as those don't exist."

"Exactly. So maybe there's something else going on. And I know what you think of me, that you believe I'd just shrug it off, cest la vie, and moe on to the next girl. But it's not like that. It's never been like that. I am very involved." She came face to face with Agnes. "I went down there."

"You went down there?"

"I went down there. And you know what I discovered?"

Agnes hesitated, wanting to know, but wondering if what her sister was goign to say would be accurate, uncolored, purposeful. "What?"

"Ever hear of such a thing as atonement, Agnes?"

"Of course."

"Well, that's what these girls are doing down there. So even if you went to save them, I doubt they'd follow you out. They're i ntheir current circumstances becasue they believe they deserve them. They take what comes without resistance because they feel that is their lot in life- too much involvement on our end perhaps. Gloria and Holly seem to be of a mind that life flows around them and takes them to where they're supposed to be, to the next exciting adventure, but now the currents have ceased and they can't figure out why they're stagnant, how to go about affecting change."

"I thought these girls were both doers."

"Only becasue we always set up the circumstances, we staged a scene on which they could act out nothing but excitement and without our manipulating the backdrop, they don't know how to write the script." She calmed herself. "YOu've got me so upset I'm not making sense. Let me try again: They are quirky girls. They know how to be cheeky, quirky, and individualistic. What they cannot seem to do is reach out beyond their immediate environment. We provided them with opportunities; we whisked them away into all sorts of different settings; we made funny stuff happen, strange events, and they acted their roles accordingly. But they weren't happy. Even when they were having fun, they weren't really happy."

"Happy is subjective."

"Well, then they weren't subjectively happy. Because underneath it all, they believed they deserved less. They believed that whatever misfortune, travesty or abuse, befell them, that it happened because that's what they deserved. So now they settle into complacency, serving others, acting as martyrs, living sparsely, because they're atoning for perceived sins."

"Atoning for perceived sins?"

"Yes." Suddenly, a sobering cup of coffee arrived, rich with cream and honey. "Gloria is beating herself for what she did to her children and Holly beats herself for what she did to her parents."

Agnes also called forth coffee and took a sip. "So you're saying Maui is a monastery?"

"To some. Many call it paradise and wind up there as a reward to themselves. For others, like our girls, it is a place of hard living, where they will have just enough to get by, but never enough to leave, until they finally forgive themselves for mistakes they've made in the past."

"But that doesn't explain why Mother Maui took them in and blocked us out."

"Oh yes, it does. Think of her as Mother Superior, finding tasks appropriate to their talents, keeping them downtrodden so they stay and work to better a land that other outsiders are hell-bent on destroying. Even some of the locals themselves."

"Maui is vacationland."

"For tourists. IT also has high rates of domestic violence, drug abuse, people working multiple jobs to keep up with the cost of living. And how much does it suck that most of the jobs are in the service industry where you make yourself subservient to the rich and famous? Delivering them fresh fruit baskets daily that they don't eat and need to be tossed while you're family can barely afford groceries?"

"But I thought you said they worked in a school?"

"Oh, they do. I'm just trying to make the point that it's not all as wonderful as it seems to be when you actually live there and aren't just visiting."

"So what do you suppose I should do?" Agnes felt slightly humbled.

Delilah was shocked. "Are you asking for my advice?"

"I am."

"Well, then, I'm sorry to tell you that I have none." She thought a moment. "Nope, none. It's not that I want you to give up. I just want you to understand that sometimes these Beings are more complicated than they seem. Sometimes, no matter their talents, no matter how they';ve bettered themselves, no matter how good they've become, they still don't see themselves as worthy. And until they do, well, I don't know. What hope do we have in really inspiring them?"

"I'm going to talk to Margaret."

"Go right ahead. And Agnes, " she reached forward to hug her sister. "Thank you for coming."

Tuesday, September 01, 2009

Tue, 01 Sep 2009 02:44:05 GMT

"I've been feeling a bit wicked." She set down her tea. "You know, nothing malicious or with an intent to harm, just something devious along the lines of 'all's fair in love and war.'"

"And which would this be?"

"Pardon?"

"Is this love? Or war?"

"Little bit of both really." She adjusted herself on the cushioned seat. "It's for reasons of love that I go to war."

"I once wrote a story about a battle." She leaned in close, as it was seldom she divulged her great writings that no one had yet to see. "It was the tale of a warrior queen, impregnated in the aftermath of battle, and getting ready for her first mission after the birth of her son."

"Does this have anything to do with what I've been talking about?"

"Just wait. Listen. See if you can draw comparisons."

She heaved a giant sigh, resigning herself to hear out a story that was in no way applicable, but that she'd have to nod to gratefully out of respect.

"Back to my story..." She attempted to put on a storyteller's false bravado, but the skill was lost on her. "She consulted an oracle before leaving on this seemingly easy, diplomatic mission, and the gods instructed her to breastfeed her son as often as possible in the fortnight before leaving and to releave herself regularly into leather pouches that could be packed in the snow. They also told her to pack twice the food rations she'd usually take along." She sipped her tea. "This was a harsh, winter journey."

"Mmm-hmmm" she replied, as patiently as possible.

"So our heroine assumes the gods are mocking her, that as a mother she has no place in political maneuverings, and angry with them, she plans to disregard their advice."

"And then somehow comes to ruin because of it, right?"

"No, not at all. Because despite any misgivings she may have about their advice and how useless it would be, she has read her myths and legends and knows that the advice of the gods shoudl never be taken lightly. So off they travel to a large manor/castle/kingdom maybe a few weeks away and as they near, they find the villagers to be starving. The women so malnourished that they cannot breastfeed their own babes; the men unable to feed their families because the same duke/lord/whatever they were planning to consult/pacify/unite with comes and demands the fruits of their labors in abundance."

"So naturally our heroine surrenders her breast, some milk, the extra food and then has this particularly village and maybe one more on the way to join her. Am I right?"

"This times you are. I think. I never really write the story, just sort of thought about it."

"And again, I'm not exactly sure how I see this fitting my situation."

"There are many kinds of battles, many forms of ammunition. Sometimes the most benign and ludicrous items in your arsenal are the most effective."

"I'll consider that."

"Oh yes, and always trust the gods' intuition."

Tuesday, September 01, 2009

Tue, 01 Sep 2009 02:16:08 GMT

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Tue, 28 Jul 2009 03:15:53 GMT

The sky was a muted rose-gold with sharp shards of brilliant light still piercing through and casting shadows and those she watched below. As the clouds shifted and shaped, like ivory or opal, tufts of opaque white and translucent bluishness, she started imaging the sun and clouds forming exotic pieces of antique jewelry.

"I wonder why abstract art is such a relatively new concept." Agnes spoke, knowing someone stood a few paces behind her. The jasmine and patchouli gave it away.

"Because sapiens think they've mastered the art of realism." Jezebel's voice was confident, yet soft, a manner Agnes had tried in vain to copy, as she always sounded flighty or perturbed.

"Huh." She kicked at the blank air in front of her, willing open a hole beneath her feet to stare at the city scape beneath her. "What about surrealism?"

"Over and above what is real." Jezebel came closer, but stayed out of her friends line of vision. "It would seem that having conquered what is real, sapeins must move beyond it... to what is unreal. To what is incongrous, unlikely, absurd."

"So surreal is basically supernatural- a step above what is actual." It was a statement, not a question, but she expected Jezebel to disagree.

"Well, perhaps. But sapiens would never call it that." She moved into view so she could glimpse what Agnes stared at. "See, supernatural to them denotes some sort of otherworldliness, some sort of spirituality or godliness or the idea that certain aspects of life are unimaginably out of their control." She put her hand on Agnes's shoulder, a quick squeeze to promote eye contact, and obligingly Agnes looked up. "Surrealism is their artistic explanation for the juxtapositions are strange coincidences that we, in fact, supernaturally cause. Those who are drawn to such an art form are drawn to us, looking for answers, through art or literature, for why life is so complex and strange."

"But it doesn't have to be."

"No. And for many , it is not. But there are so many of them out there, breeding, multiplying, stretching out across the canvas of earth. And they, in turn, become our paintbrushes, our medium for creating surrealist works. Because we are, of course, the supernatural, the surreal, that thing that hovers above them producing irony and inconceivable coincidence."

"Hmmm."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"Of course not. But I've got a lot to think about." Agnes turned to face her friend. Both of them were barefoot and Agnes's eyes came only to the swanlike neck of her pseudo-mentor, something like a sister, teacher, and best friend.

"I, too, have been thinking. Running through my mind's recesses to see if I could come up with anything useful. And it dawned on me that, not long ago, a similar situation occured with Delilah. She lost one of her vessels on that same island." She smiled, expectantly. "You might want to talk to her."

"Oh, no no." Agnes took a step back and Jezebel's grin widened. "She's flaky and bright and energetic and optimistic and all those things that grate on my nerves."

"And she's your sister."

"Well, so are you. But I like you."

"And you love us both." Jezebel hugged her close. "Just talk to her. I know you've been worrying about this Holly case, and if she can't give you any insight, at least she can, in her absent-minded way, provide you with some direction. She makes an excellent sounding board."

"Alright, alright. I'll try it." Agnes shoudlered her way out of the embrace. "But only cause she's a relative of yours. Otherwise, I'd have no patience for her."