The aftermath of abuse is long-lasting. After bruises heal, actual and figurative, the trauma caused continues to linger. It stays with you, but not only that, it can be passed on. Passed on to children, and grandchildren. Spreading out for generations, so pervasive that an entire people, an entire race can wallow in self-hate and self- degradation and never understand why.
Take a moment listen to how the scars of abuse survive, long after the abused and the abuser have perished.
In December of 2018, my mother’s partner and a significant father figure in my life passed away. His name is Lorenzo ‘Logie’ Meachum, and he brings people together in life and in death.
This may seem out left field, but there are so many examples of things that divide us; race, politics, sex, education, money. All these issues tear people apart, but one of the things that can unite us is music.
Logie Meachum was a marine, fireman, educator, historian, storyteller and so much more, but he was also a blues musician. He sung the blues, and his music came from his heart. He had the extraordinary ability to make up lyrics on the fly, all he needed was the music and he was good to go.
His personality, like his music was infectious and once you were touched, you’d never be the same.
When you’re sitting around listening to Logie sing or listening to him regale you with a story from his colorful past, boundaries just fell away, and everyone was the same; enjoying good music, good food, an interesting ass story and most likely a drink to go along with.
I knew Logie for scarcely five years, and the impact that he had on my family and my life has been momentous.
Never have I been so struck by how one person can unify people than I was at the benefit held in his honor this past weekend.
As I sat in the corner of this large ball room, I watched as people young and old, family, friends and strangers, black and white came together to listen to the music Logie sung; listen to the stories that Logie told and raise money for his son’s that he involuntarily left behind.
The goodness of people can unite us.
I can’t say it any simpler than that.
When someone wants good for you, or does something good for you, gratitude and paying it forward unites us.
It is so easy to pay ill treatment forward.
They fucked me over so I’m going to fuck over everyone in my path.
This individual cheated on me and broke my heart, so I will destroy the heart of any potential suitor, because I am just so broken inside.
In Logie’s final years, he received some of the worse treatment by those who meant so much to him, but even that withstanding, he did not take his strife out on those around him. Instead he opted to lift up friends and strangers alike.
That is a hard way to be. It’s hard to still be good, even while being treated so poorly, but it’s something to aspire to.
My life partner, Sedrik Cannady aspires to it. He always has, even before meeting Logie. He reaches out to those who are in need to offer advice and understanding to those who may not receive it anywhere else.
Accepting of those who would normally go unaccepted.
Offering a helping hand despite so-called boundaries.
This altruism has not always brought him the gratitude that I feel he deserves, but he despite his best efforts to close himself off, to protect himself from the ill treatment he has received, when someone needs help, he wants to help.
That’s how he is.
That’s how Logie was.
And it’s what we should all aspire to be.
Give, even if you get nothing in return. That’s the best way to save all of us.
It’s sad how the best of us perishes, while the worst of us lives and thrives. They persist, continuing to spread their venom and appealing to the worst in us.
I challenge everyone and myself, to appeal to the best in us. Let’s lift each other up in words and deed.
Aspire to be better.
That way the ones that are with us can see the good of the work, and the ones we have lost will not have lived in vain.
In seventh grade, I was introduced to my first real writing class where I began learning the rules to writing prose and poetry. We had to break up into groups and have our drafts read by others in the class, and they would give you their ideas if they could focus long enough on the task at hand. I liken myself to a mountain goat standing sideways on a jagged cliff. I am quite happy standing alone, and I do not generally require the validation of a group, especially if they don’t really give a damn anyway. With that in mind, I was quietly resistant to this process. Quietly, because I didn’t have a choice in the matter. I have never enjoyed peer editing, and the absolute worst writing tool to ever be introduced to me was an outline.
Countless times I have had teachers tell me to do an outline for my essay, or do an outline for my story. They might as well have told me to speak another language. I mean . . . I knew what they wanted, but when I sat down with pencil and college rule paper with the intention of doing one . . . I would just go blank. And whatever I did manage to write down . . . look, if an outline was meant to be the bare bones of the material, then my outline was the bare bones of the bare bones.
So, instead, I would just write. I would sit down with my pencil and paper and just get started. Every time, I go with my instincts and simply just write: the ideas and creativity flow like that artificial yellow stuff they spread on popcorn at the movie theaters. (Really man, don’t eat that stuff. I’m fairly sure it ain’t butter.)
Now, here I sit, many moons later, and my conclusion thus far is . . .
GREAT WRITERS DON’T PLAN!
Rather simple, huh? But I believe this to be the gospel. When you have an idea, a strong idea, just sit down to your keyboard and the word processing software of your choice and get started. For me, the creativity just flows. As I take the time to slowly reveal the personalities of the characters, their motivations shine through and take on a life of their own. It’s like I’m a conduit, and the only reason why the story isn’t told faster is because I’m not typing fast enough.
Sometimes, it gets bothersome . . .
My characters are like, “What the fuck are you doing?”
“What?” I ask.
“We’ve got things to do. Quit with all this work shit and start typing!” they demand.
“I have to work so that I can have a roof to write under!” I bellow back to them.
“Alright then. We’ll bitch louder and louder ’til you get it done.”
In other words, a great story will not be stopped. Doing an outline equates to overthinking the thing. And then once you have this pristine little outline, what are you supposed to do then? Stick to it, I guess. But that doesn’t mesh with me because sticking to a rigidly detailed outline is not creative and being able to put fingers to keys and create a vast world with dynamic characters out of nothing is the epitome of creativity.
Plans fail! Just write. As it bubbles to the surface, get it all down. You never know what wonders may be waiting to burst past the gates if they’re not bound by a leash. You don’t try to catch lava in a cup, do you? Hell no! Volcanoes erupt unrestrained without malice or mercy, destroying everything in its path, but from that destruction, beauty will one day emerge.
Home remedies have been around forever. As time has passed with advent of so many groundbreaking and society changing medical discoveries, many of those remedies have faded into the obscurity of time.
With the addition of so many unnecessary ingredients to our water, produce, and meats that lead to so many highly debilitating and life shortening diseases, there has been a grand return to these home remedies; to lengthen and improve lives without all of the side effects. Often times, those old school remedies work better than those prescribed by your primary care physician. I am going to discuss another one of those remedies: Melaleuca alternifolia, also known as tea tree oil.
Tea tree oil does amazing things for the skin, especially irritated, damaged, dry, and itchy skin. Anecdotal evidence on the way.
Case #1:
My daughter complains that her armpit hurts. So naturally, I tell her to take of her shirt so I can take a look. When she lifts her arm, I can see that she has a landscape of fine red bumps under her armpit and down her side. Even though, she never complained about itching, I first tried applying hydrocortisone with zero result. And her complaints about pain associated with the rash, led me to consider a possible skin affection. I decided that I would apply tea tree oil to the rash before school and before bed, and if it had no improved in a few days then we would venture to the pediatrician. Within two days she was no longer complaining of pain, and two days later, the rash was gone.
Case #2:
I, like many, have adult onset acne. This means I have to be careful what type of moisturizers I put on my oily face, or else will have painful break outs. After finding an inexpensive, non-pore clogging lotion for my face, I decided to mix it with tea tree oil, after researching that the oil was good for acne. And I am so glad I did. I can mix the oil with the lotion without it feeling greasy, and my outbreaks have reduced greatly, which also means I have fewer acne scars. One step further, if I do have an outbreak, I can apply the oil directly to it, and not only will it sooth it, it will reduce the pimples lifespan.
Case 3#:
I have allergies and therefore, itchy skin and therefore, itchy ears. Terribly, incessantly itchy ears, and my poor daughter has the same affliction. So, as a short term remedy, I will drop two drops of tea tree oil in our ears, and after a couple of days it diminishing the itching and we are not constantly digging in our ears. One word of caution, dilute with a carrier oil, because tea tree oil can burn irritated skin and that causes a seven year old to resist this treatment.
Case #4:
I had my second ear piercing done years ago, but I have neglected keeping an earring in the second set of holes, so over time, they would partially close up. So, whenever I got a wild hair to wear earrings, they would hurt going in and generally be uncomfortable. One day, after acquiring a set of inexpensive stainless steel studs, I cleaned the posts, covered them in tea tree oil and slid them into my ear. Yes, it was a little painful, but the discomfort was minimal and after a day, my ears felt like I’d been wearing ear rings in them all along.
There you have it. My four anecdotal case studies displaying the healing and soothing capability of tea tree oil. I can’t live without the stuff now. I always have a bottle on hand, because you never know when your skin might act up. Please understand, I’m not saying that traditional medical solutions are wrong or obsolete; not at all. It’s just always good to have a first line of defense when something arises. A household armed with frankincense, turmeric, apple cider vinegar and now, tea tree oil will always a healthy step ahead.
I haven’t been active on WordPress for a while. After I published my book back in April (#ahavenamdistperdition), the ball, as they say, has been slowly rolling. I often find myself briefly tangled in a small conundrum. The book is written, the book is published and now…. Ahhh, I can breathe and just create more fiction.
If only it were that simple. It isn’t. The truth is, no matter how tempting one’s laurels are or how comfortable resting on them may be, none of us can afford to do so.
Being a self-published author means that I am the writer, editor, publisher, agent, fundraiser, event planner, etc, etc, etc…. (Did anyone catch the reference to “The King and I???”, anyway, I digress). At one point, I thought that the entire process of writing was ‘doing the work’, but for me, the work comes after the story is written.
And I have not been visiting my WordPress site, because I have been trying to ‘do the work’ on other fronts; not only by putting my work out there, but by putting me, my face, out there, too.
I had my first book reading back in September, and it was a wonderful experience. It is gratifying to get feedback from those outside of your immediate life circle.
So, in the spirit of ‘doing the work’, I am going to spend a little more time on WordPress. I’m hoping to post at least once a week. I think on some level I got a little discouraged; not knowing exactly how to proceed; but I’ve got it figured out now. Just keep ‘doing the work’ and figuring out other ways to ‘do the work’ and I can’t go wrong.
By now, you might be thinking, “What the hell does she mean… ‘doing the work’?” Well, nothing good is going to happen by doing nothing. One had to research the best way to accomplish whatever it is you want to accomplish, for me, it is marketing my novel and writings. Then you have to vet that research and discern what is best for you. Sometimes tips will work, sometimes they won’t. Then you have to try out what you’ve narrowed down and see what happens. If it works, great, it not; try again. Take another avenue. And if it does work… try again and still try another avenue. And remember to breathe. Don’t get bogged down and in layers of minutia. If you feel the waters getting murky, step back and breathe until you can resume your course. I think that is what I had to do by taking an extended time away from WordPress; I was taking a breather.
The succinct message that I want you all to gleam from this rambling is that I am back on WordPress. I am ‘doing the work’ and last, but not least, don’t forget to breathe.
Hmmm… breathe. I think I’ve mentioned that one before!
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-haven-amidst-perdition-sidra-owens/1126303853?ean=9781478786689
https://outskirtspress.com/sidraowens
https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/a-haven-amidst-perdition
https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Sidra_Owens_A_Haven_Amidst_Perdition?id=ATk1DwAAQBAJ
Check out my blog and website at: https://sidraowens.wordpress.com
As well as my youtube channel: The Wicked Orchard –https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCGP5RkKX2lVw9ggeO-r0MAA/videos
and some of my commentaries on Comparative Reasoning
The solar eclipse took place on August 21st of this year, and as far as that cosmic event was concerned; it was both eventful and uneventful. I was able to view a total eclipse from the only vantage point available, since I was in Chapel Hill. Handfuls of people stood outside my work building, looking up at the sun, viewing the eclipse, with some good hearted people sharing their eclipse glasses with those who didn’t have any. A coworker of mine warned, as she departed for the day, that we should all look out for everyone else on the road, on the drive home. Everyone is crazy, but the eclipse has made folks a special kind of crazy.
Depositing this in the back of my mind, I ended my shift and drove home. Despite the fact that I was tired with no desire to go back out into traffic, there were still errands to run; the inevitable trip to walmart that we all take at least twice a week, so that we can all have our time and our cash sucked into oblivion. Walmart disdain aside, we travelled our normal route, my family and I to get there, and while sitting at a dead stop, at a red light, waiting to turn left; a car on the far side of the wide and extremely busy intersection, ran the light at a moderate speed. It was funny, for lack of a better term, because I saw the car coming. I saw it veer, as though it were intentionally aiming right for us. I just knew that the vehicle would realize its egregious error and correct itself, but it didn’t. The car hit us at no more than 20 miles per hour, maybe even less. We were fortunately, uninjured; shaken up, angry, scared, but alive and well. The vehicle was still functional at that moment, not even aware that it was nearing its end. As my hands began to shake, and the dismay at the incident took root immediately afterward; I had to watch, seemingly in slow motion, as the other car backed up, veered around us and sped off down the road. I would’ve felt better if they had paused to give us the finger, but no, we got none of that. No care, no assistance, no admittance, no apology, nothing. We had two very polite and helpful witnesses, but no license plate. We had a description of the vehicle, but the police didn’t arrive for another hour. The brakes just barely brought the vehicle to a stop, as we moved it off of the road, all of the coolant leaked out, along with many other vital fluids.
In NC, if no one gets the plate in a hit and run, and no one is injured, then you have to eat it. And that is what we did. We had to eat it. We had to eat the fact that even though, we could very well be getting spied on through our webcams by the NSA, there were no cameras at the intersection where the accident occurred. We had to eat the fact that a tow that would normally cost 40 or 50 bucks, cost 165 since the police called for the tow. We had to eat 35 a day storage fee, we had to eat a 70 dollar tow back to our home. We had to eat the fact that paying for all this was eating into our food money. Now how ironic is that.
Then there has to be the search for another car; having to most likely, acquire another bill. Having to deal with loan applications and credit scores, and institutions telling you that your situation may be dire, but we cannot help you to keep it from getting worse. Having to inconvenience others… That may be the most unsettling part.
On the flip side of that, this entire ordeal has reacquainted me with my good fortune. I am a believer in astrological signs, and I have read many times over the years, that Sagittarius’ are lucky. In all of my immaturity, I would always think to myself, “Luck? What the hell are they talking about? I haven’t won the lottery or nothing like that.” But in the past two years, I have looked back on my life and realized many instances where I was very fortunate. Lucky. Thankful that things had gone safely one way and not dangerously another. My fortune allowed me to continue to get to work every day, without concern or having to explain to the supervisor my “situation.” I was able to get food and supplies for my family whenever I needed it and not made to feel as though I was a burden. I was even given access to another vehicle for a very short time, and in driving it, my luck rained upon me again, when a dry rotted tire blew only a minute from home, after I just turned off of the highway, allowing me to safely navigate the monstrous V-8 home without harm or incident.
This month my partner finally began to see the monetary benefits of all of his hard work, putting himself out there despite fears and doubts. People signed up to come to my first book reading at far greater numbers than I had anticipated, google contacted me and now my novel is up on google play books and I got a couple a more sales to boot.
But on the other hand, my sciatica acted up so bad that standing still was excruciating, and I ate something, drank something or inhaled something that made my top lip swell with an allergic reaction. So for a week I scratched the inside of it with my teeth, while slathering it with vaseline until it thankfully began to rebound. And on top of that, our daughter caught a cold that she bounced back from in three days, while her father and I linger, with he even sicker than myself, but luckily my voice has cleared just in time for Saturday’s reading.
I found a car. A car I wanted. Not just something to get around. It had a price decent enough, but still, another bill. My propensity toward luckiness allowed me to be able to get this vehicle, even though I would need assistance; with the assistance seeming to be gladly offered; for future repercussions, we must stay tuned.
And despite a more than generous donation so that I would have books for my event, and despite ordering them in what I thought was a timely fashion, the books have not arrived. Hell, that haven’t even shipped yet. Messages went unreturned, chats unanswered, except to say your ticket has been resolved, we will email you with your order status, only to never do so. I did finally speak to a person but she could not answer the questions of whether my books had been printed. And even after two failed transfers, at least eight consecutive phone calls and two desperate messages, I am no closer to knowing their status.
Suffice it to say, it has been a more than interesting month. The hills and valleys have been momentous, and the Sidra of ten years ago would have shed many a tear by now, but… tears don’t move you forward, especially when living means that life happens. And I’m certainly not giving up on that. Some things you have to get through, and smile as much as you can during while learning simultaneously. I was stressed about the books last night, but that has passed. We found more clues to the ailments that plague my partner, bittersweet, but answers are answers; and our daughter got into the run club that she’s wanted to get into for a year. I promised she would. Mission accomplished, thanks very much to my fortune. I am fortunate and it cannot be measured in dollar signs. All in all, I can say that this month has been unique, and I can’t label much more than that, because it just wouldn’t be descriptive enough.
-If you have enjoyed my commentary or my short stories, then please check out my youtube channel, The Wicked Orchard; where you can listen to me read my short stories
-And don’t forget to check out Comparative Reasoning here on wordpress for written commentary on a whole hosts of topics.
-If you’d rather listen than read, definitely check out Comparative Reasoning on youtube, where you’ll hear of earful of social, economic and political commentary.
My Debut Novel is also available for purchase:
Empathy.
Do you have it? Do you know what it is? I’m willing to wager that maybe 80% of the American populous don’t know or care to know for that matter.
Empathy is the ability to understand and share feelings. It’s the ability to step outside yourself and understand what some else I’d going through.
Humans are not born with empathy. We are naturally born selfish; it relates back to instinctual self-preservation. If you want to survive, you have to think of self. But in a society where interaction with others is needed, empathy is needed as well. So it must be taught by parents, grandparents, teachers and eventually peers.
Unfortunately, our society, in this country, is not centered around aiding or understanding our fellow man. We are all suffering under the thumb of the corporate controlled Congress; who would have us all believe that the minorities, the immigrants and the terrorists are to blame for your lot in life. Meanwhile, they subjugate us with their morals, turning us into cogs in the machine rather than citizens.
The key to this country is simple. Do unto others, as you would have them do unto you. The Golden rule. Empathy. It’s so simple. But it will take the further crumbling of our republic into eventual revolt and bloodshed, before empathy will re-root itself in our society.
How many of us will have to flee our home for unknown refuges, like so many others all around the world? A dark scenario, I know, but highly probable when you examine the road we are travelling.
So…
Got empathy???
I know to some this may be a small milestone, but for me, this is another step in a long journey and dream that is slowly coming true.
I have spoken to the person, who left the review, and the thing that is more gratifying than a sale, is the fact that they really enjoyed my novel. They loved the characters and went along for the ride that I created.
I want to thank her for purchasing the book and for enjoying it so much. I also want to thank anyone, in advance, who takes their time to check it out.
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-haven-amidst-perdition-sidra-owens/1126303853?ean=9781478786689
https://outskirtspress.com/sidraowens
https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/a-haven-amidst-perdition
Check out my blog and website at: https://sidraowens.wordpress.com
As well as my youtube channel: The Wicked Orchard –https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCGP5RkKX2lVw9ggeO-r0MAA/videos
#ahavenamidstperdition
#thewickedorchard
#newnovel
#newauthor
#africanamericanauthor
#selfpublished
#writers
#fiction
#stories
#literaryfiction
#womensfiction
Necessity is the mother of invention.
That is an understatement.
When I realized that I could write letters, send queries, beg and plead to literary agents and publishers alike, to read my work, or I could self-publish and spend that energy promoting my already published work, I underestimated the number of roadblocks that I would be encountering.
They are numerous. The time where people were eager to take a chance on an unknown are fading if not gone. Personally, you’d think an independent bookstore; a bookstore who is fighting the good fight against franchised mega-conglomerates, would be the first to throw their hat into the ring and give a self-published author a shot. But much to my dismay, most are not. Not all but most.
So, it is my job to not only be, author, editor, and self-publisher; I must also put on the hat of event planner.
I am planning a book reading, with music and a book signing at the end. I am excited and will be updating progressively, as it nears.
I am also open to suggestions. I know that there are a lot of writers, poets and storytellers out there, and if any of you have any ideas or suggestions regarding self-promotion, I would deeply appreciate it.
I have also published my new novel on Kobo. Now it is available for purchase on Kobo as well for you avid e-readers. I’ll be placing that link along with the others links for Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Outskirts Press.
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http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-haven-amidst-perdition-sidra-owens/1126303853?ean=9781478786689
https://outskirtspress.com/sidraowens
https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/a-haven-amidst-perdition
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-If you have enjoyed my commentary or my short stories, then please check out my youtube channel, The Wicked Orchard; where you can listen to me read my short stories
-And don’t forget to check out Comparative Reasoning here on wordpress for written commentary on a whole hosts of topics.
-If you’d rather listen than read, definitely check out Comparative Reasoning on youtube, where you’ll hear of earful of social, economic and political commentary.
-It is not our differences that xenophobes fear, but our similarities, which truly gives them pause.
S. Owens
There are a lot of people suffering around the world, because of xenophobia. We all know that this heading breaks down into racism, sexism, homophobia and let us not forget; my religion is better than you religion. But usually the driving force behind these bigoted points of view are elitism. The thought that I’m better than you just because. I think all of this is born of man ingrained fear of death, and the fear of what comes after, that drives the few to step on the neck of the many. All in pursuit of the key to their mortality. Regardless of when we die, and regardless of what uncertainties lie there after, if we can express love and care for one another, then it will always be a life well lived.
On Mother’s Day, I promised I would do a post for Father’s Day. I try hard to keep my promises.
Parenting is hard. Any parent knows this. Any child who grows up to one day be a parent, realizes this. Mothers and fathers share hardships, but they also have hardship unique to their stations, in life, as a mother or a father.
Fatherhood is hard. Fatherhood is hard, because inherently, especially in the US, being male can be hard. The expectations placed on males to be a “man” in this society can work against what it takes to be a good father.
Parenting in general requires the right balance of sternness and gentility, and I can tell you from experience that that is a hard tight rope to cross. But the “stigma” of being a man in America says you should be hard, tough, take no one’s shit, and let nothing get to you, ever. I know that many are working to change this, but that sentiment is sadly woven into the fabric of this country.
To me, it seems hard to be a loving, nurturing father and be a hard as nails “man” at the same time. This stigma of what a man should be relates directly to how boys are treated, as they are raised. Girls are treated delicately, little princesses to be catered to, but boys, they are supposed to take a licking and keep on ticking, no matter what. No matter what the licking is; whether, emotional, social, physical, mental. Damn man, that’s too much to ask of anyone. Men are not supposed to be vulnerable; they’re not supposed to feel pain, it’s viewed as weakness, softness, feminine. All that is bullshit.
I hope to have a son one day, so that my mate and I can raise him differently. So that he can decide what kind of man he will be, and thus, what kind of father he will be, if he ever decides to be one.
My time with my own father was brief. My parents divorced when I was young and he died not too many years later. My memories are few; many good, most not so good. If he had not had to deal with the struggles of being a “man”, as defined by society, maybe things would have been different.
Fathers’ are humans, just like mothers. But they do not get heavily doted on, or get the cute crafts for father’s day. And deep down, in their heart of hearts, most fathers’ would absolutely love them. I know my mate does.
Fatherhood is hard. It requires a firm hand and a soft touch. Unfortunately, many boys who become men, fully receive the firm hand but never the soft touch and therefore, they never master it. I ask that for all those who read this, for all those who are able to reach out and embrace their own fathers, give them that soft touch and I believe that you will receive it in return.
Happy Father’s Day everyone.
Before I begin, I want to preface this by saying that I am speaking from my own point of view and my own observations. There will be many who agree with what I point out, and some that will not. But that is how conversations work. Opposing ideas provide an opportunity for growth. If we all agreed with each other on everything, then that would most likely mean that we are not individuals, but carbon copies of a very faded original.
Culturally and socially, there have been an assortment of complaints about the lack of African-American imagery in media. When compared to the vast array of televisions shows and movies produced in the United States on a yearly basis, anyone would be hard pressed to find two handfuls of African-American characters, who are not side notes; who represent an authority figure or who carries the entire program on their shoulders.
Some might say, well, there’s Scandal and a few others that are holding strong, what’s the fuss about?
The fuss is… That it is 2017, and some believe that the banner of equality between the races should be flying much higher than it is. In truth, the quest for unity, despite, gender, creed or color, seems to be getting lost among the weeds. We are more divided than we ever have been and the crevice between us is steadily expanding.
At this point, everyone is riddled with distrust, on the border of loathing, and no one is willing to take a risk; not politically, not socially; not culturally; not even for mindless entertainment.
Let me give a tiny speck of my background to express what I mean. I love to read. I have loved to read since the fifth grade, when I spent 4.25 on my very own paperback; a Nancy Drew mystery. From that point forward, I consumed anything that caught my interest and it never mattered who the author was or what they looked like. I have evolved to the point where I write books, not just read them, and I still read books the same way. Most authors are going to write from their own point of view, pulling from their own backgrounds and experiences, which is understandable. But they also have the power to search, research, imagine and conjure up things way beyond their scope and our collective realities. Unfortunately readers are not always that diverse. They will read the fantastical as long as the hero and villains are something they have never seen before, or if they look just like them.
That leaves 12.5% of this country in quite the conundrum. They are open to explore and enjoy anything produced by the majority, but that patronage is not reciprocated. Even though, African-American authors, artists, and film makers are creating from their own points of view, the sheer fact that they are representing and expressing the many facets of the black experience, means that they will be immediately alienated by the majority, no matter how universal the content may be.
For some, they may not be consciously aware of what they are doing; preferring to use personal tastes as a scapegoat.
Example: Those types of books are just not my cup of tea.
Truth: They’ve never ever even given “those” types of books a fair chance.
Example: A bookstore lists in their criteria that any self-published book must be vetted to insure that it is suited towards their clientele.
Truth: Bookstores are about discovery. Put the book out there and let your clientele discern was is and is not suited for them.
Where does that leave us? It is difficult enough to be picked up by a traditional publishing house; and then if you choose to bear the burden and publish it yourself, you are derided for it, and if your happen to be in that 12.5%, then you are relatively invisible. A wealth of creativity bound and cloistered due to unconscious fear of the other. We are all more alike that anyone realizes; one must take a chance and see what comes of it.
There once was a time that African-American’s could take solace in their local black owned bookstore; to find the gems they otherwise would not discover anywhere else. But with the expansive horizon of technology and the internet laying ahead of us, brick and mortar businesses like the local black owned bookstore, have become a thing of the past; less than 100 remaining in our fair United States. Even your non-multinational books store, on the many corners, of many a main street are suffering due to technology, but for some bookstores, this makes them more exclusive rather than more universal.
Sometimes taking a chance on the other is not a bad thing; neither is it wrong, nor a cause for concern; it’s an opportunity for people to pick up a book, view a work of art or sit down to a movie, and realize that there are many lessons to be learned from the experiences of those who are various shades of brown. Seeing the beauty in our differences will reveal the truths of our sameness.
For those who are like myself and value a good story because of the story, and not the preconceived notion that the characters are just like me; I applaud you and I appreciate your love of the long held tradition of storytelling. Share it, teach it, pass it forward.
No matter what color I am, or what color my characters are, I write for everyone, and I want all the world to enjoy my stories and feel as deeply for my characters as I do.
-If you have enjoyed my commentary or my short stories, then please check out my youtube channel, The Wicked Orchard; where you can listen to me read my short stories
-And don’t forget to check out Comparative Reasoning here on wordpress for written commentary on a whole hosts of topics.
-If you’d rather listen than read, definitely check out Comparative Reasoning on youtube, where you’ll hear of earful of social, economic and political commentary.
Please take the opportunity to check out my debut novel, A Haven Amidst Perdition. It is available at the links below:http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-haven-amidst-perdition-sidra-owens/1126303853?ean=9781478786689
For most of you, and for your parents and your grandparents, mother’s day has always been around. It’s not a religious holiday or a pagan holiday, and it started out with the best of intentions. One woman wanted to pay homage to one mother, he own mother, hence the spelling, mother’s day, not mothers day. But of course, like many things in this country and society, it was bastardized and wrapped in pretty packages, covered in flowers, cards and trips to golden coral.
If you want to know the sad truth behind it, check out this link:
But this all leads to a conversation that I have had with my boyfriend many times; when it comes to holidays, there is no rule or law that says we have to celebrate for the reason that it was initiated, or for the reason that it is currently known for.
This may seem silly and naïve to some, but I think you can remake and re-imagine any holiday the way you see fit, as long as it make you happy and doesn’t harm anyone else.
There are greek and roman festivals thought to be in celebration of mothers, like mother’s day; and they have been celebrated for thousands of years.
I guess what I am trying to say is, do not give in to the commercialism, but instead, revel in the spirit of the day. Yes, it can be a day of thanks, but more than that, it can be a day of quiet reflection. A time for children of a cognitive age to reflect on the all the times mom made them happy, made them sad, lifted them up, disciplined them, and comforted their broken hearts. Not all mothers are ideal, and not all mothers are cut out for parenting, but I think optimistically, 90% of mothers do the best they can, especially since we are operating without a net.
The relationship between mother and child, son or daughter, is not an easy one. It will always be a direct clash between independence and guidance. Hopefully, on days like this, we children can stop a moment and say, I understand what you’ve been getting at mom, and I know that you tried.
Anyway, I’m rambling. Of course, I’m a mom and a child, with powerful and intricate dynamics on both sides of the coin; dynamics that I can never explain in words; the emotions are just too numerous and run to deep.
So for all of you, who can hold your mom in your arms, and for all of those, who can only hold her in your memories, Happy Mother’s Day. May a smile and a tear warm your heart today.
PS: Don’t feel left out daddies. Believe me, I will give you your due on Father’s Day. I think that would be fair.
For those of you who follow my blog, first of all, let me say thank you for doing so. And second of all, you ‘may’ have noticed that I have not been posting as much as I once did. I have given explanations and occasional update informing you all that I was in the process of publishing my first book. In comparison to some many other heartfelt ventures, this one has proceeded fairly smoothly. There were four tedious rounds of editing, even though, I have read and edited this novel countless times, much to my dismay. And after few, brief internal struggles and some out of pocket expense, my first novel has been published and is available for purchase.
Presenting “A Haven Amidst Perdition.”
I am so thankful to all those who have supported me through words and deeds (donations). But more than that, I have encountered so many who appreciate my writing and have been pushing for this, maybe for far longer than I have. Thanks Sedrik for all of your suggestions, and listening and re-listening to me tell this tale to you, over and over again. (Yes, the repetition of that statement is on purpose.)
For all of you, who have enjoyed reading my prose and my points of view on various topics, I hope that you may find it in your heart (and your wallet) to take the time to indulge in this read, and grow to love the characters as much as I do.
Of course, it is available via Amazon, Barnes and Nobles, as well as Outskirts Press, and these links will be listed below for your convenience.
And once again, thank you to all for your kind words and encouragement!
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-haven-amidst-perdition-sidra-owens/1126303853?ean=9781478786689
https://outskirtspress.com/sidraowens
-If you have enjoyed my commentary or my short stories, then please check out my youtube channel, The Wicked Orchard; where you can listen to me read my short stories
-And don’t forget to check out Comparative Reasoning here on wordpress for written commentary on a whole hosts of topics.
-If you’d rather listen than read, definitely check out Comparative Reasoning on youtube, where you’ll hear of earful of social, economic and political commentary.
Days pass, one at a time.
Steps are taken, one at a time.
Breaths inhaled, one at a time.
Why must thoughts come in battalions?
Why must we be overrun with the desire for frivolities that drive us to distraction?
Feverish wants consume our days and seep into our nightly dreams.
What joy could be had if a thought were like a breath?
A source of rejuvenation.
Full and complete. Nourishing.
Revitalizing.
Instead of scooping out an endless cavernous hole of ambitions unfulfilled.
Each thought taken like each breath.
Explored from beginning to end, complete in its entirety.
We can close the gate of cognition;
Allowing the battalion to enter single file;
One day at a time;
One step at a time;
One breath at a time.
Days pass, one at a time.
Steps are taken, one at a time.
Breaths inhaled, one at a time.
Why must thoughts come in battalions?
Why must we be overrun with the desire for frivolities that drive us to distraction?
Feverish wants consume our days and seep into our nightly dreams.
What joy could be had if a thought were like a breath?
A source of rejuvenation.
Full and complete. Nourishing.
Revitalizing.
Instead of scooping out an endless cavernous hole of ambitions unfulfilled.
Each thought taken like each breath.
Explored from beginning to end, complete in its entirety.
We can close the gate of cognition;
Allowing the battalion to enter single file;
One day at a time;
One step at a time;
One breath at a time.
We Are All Animals!
Humans, as a whole, like to think that they are one step above every other species on the planet. Or many more steps than that to be honest. And that just isn’t true. We are animals, like frogs, dogs, cats, bats and the millions of other creatures that exist on this planet.
For my first point, all animals in the animal kingdom are prone to deception. I was discussing this point with my mate yesterday. Our daughter is in the stage of life, where she has figured out that lying may get her out of trouble or it may get her what she wants. Much to our benefit, she is bad at lying, so it easy to catch her and keep her accountable for her behavior and decisions. This stage of life is true of all children, and I very much believe that it is up to the parents to instill, honesty and accountability, so that there are not a bunch of lying ass adults running around in 10-20 years.
Another example of animal dishonesty is the Cuckoo Bird. They are brood parasites. They find another bird’s nest, full of eggs and lays its own egg in it. So that when the nests owner returns it hatches its own eggs and the cuckoo’s egg. When the Cuckoo egg hatches, the bird is usually significantly larger and taking up all of the resources from the other baby birds, who actually belong in the nest.
There are other bird species, where the female will accept a slew of gifts, during mating season, from male birds that she already knows, has absolutely no chance. But why not get free food from everyone and mate with the only stud bird flying around.
Lions and other predators have to creep, sneakily, to ambush warthogs or gazelles or any other prey animals.
And prey animals will alert other prey animals to the activity of predators, infringing on another common rule of life, which is to mind one’s own business.
The point that I am finally coming around to is that unfortunately dishonesty and deception is just par for the course for us Earthlings, but fighting against that, is the one thing that makes humans stand out from the rest of the animal kingdom. It doesn’t make us better, but it does put us in a place where it does not have to be a dog eat dog world.
Follow the golden rule! (Do unto others, as you would have them do unto you; for those of you who don’t know it.
Be honest. Be accountable. Set the example for those around you and may your nest be filled with all of your own eggs in return.
Welcome Spring!
If you can see the image above, you may agree that it epitomizes the transition from winter to spring, or at least it used to. This transition is far muddier than it used to be due to climate change. For the entirety of the winter, our temperatures have been fluctuating from fall temps to spring temps to bitter cold and cycling randomly since before the arrival of winter.
So, in the context of the image above, the rabbit would get close to leaping into the vernal warmth and joy of the coming season, but lady spring would yawn, blink her eyes a little and then doze back off into sleep.
Since the ‘official’ start of a calendar spring kicked ofk yesterday, maybe she’ll snap awake and stretch out her arms, bringing bees, birds, beauty, pollen and storms, with as much wonder and suffering as one season can muster.
This time of year is also another opportunity to implement change. It has been just over three months since the change of the new year, and maybe your resolutions have failed. If you are not want to believe that change can come any day, then you can view spring as that next opportunity to do it better for the rest of the year.
Here’s to blooming, beauty and change!
We are a society of naysayers. We are likely to shoot down an idea, no matter how great it is, simply because the idea was not our own. Unfortunately, most of us have a strong attachment to being right, and two things can happen as a result. 1. You will say anything to be right. No matter how ignorant or stupid or degrading, as long as you are lording over someone in your rightness, you are satisfied. 2. One who may take strong offense when others do not accept their suggestions or their rightness, especially when compared to the accepted rightness of others. Both fortunately and unfortunately, individuals are individuals. They mostly likely will not always listen to each other, and if they do, they may listen to the right thing at the wrong time. Often times, many people fight so hard out of childhood to gain their autonomy, the thought of someone constantly directing them, as a parent would, is akin to forcible de-evolution, and they strongly resist. And this resistance may not always be cognitive or conscious. What one must determine, is whether or not someone is forcing their rightness onto you in order to control you or in order to be helpful, and validate themselves. This second variety is trickier; because with the first kind, if you don’t listen to them, they’ll get mad and then try to control you at a later date, but when it comes to the latter, if you don’t listen, they feel like less of a person and they feel under valued. The truth is, that person is valued, but often times, people want to navigate their own issues and feel their own validity. I think it is virtually impossible to validate one’s self and another individual all at the same time. Someone is going to feel slighted. Communication is the answer. (Isn’t it always?) You have to communicate with those that matter around you to navigate the pitfalls of rightness and the twists and turns of validation. You have to express that just because you to don’t dance like a puppet on a string, when you receive their suggestions, it doesn’t mean that you view them with any less value. People often have to learn and receive in layers. And truthfully, sometimes people are not mentally ready to receive information that might be helpful, especially if they are processing their own ideas. The best thing to do is recognize that you are processing your own ideas, and relay that to the one who is making the suggestion. And if you are the one offering a suggestion, receive that information, understand it, and give them the time they need to go through their mental processing. They may come to you needing your help, they may come to you to explain what they have come up with, or, maybe they won’t come to you at all. I think either way, it can be fine. It eliminates the sense that someone is trying to control you and cultivates the sense that they are extending potentially helpful advice.
Truthfully, when it comes to raining down your rightness on someone else, it is usually about wanting to feel important. Life makes you feel out of control and unimportant in so many ways on a daily basis; so it is understandable, sometimes, when people are unwavering and forcibly trying to assert their own importance on the necks of others.
What a dichotomy we are as a society. All the time, we are told to be an individual, question authority, rebel, revolt, go your own way. But when it comes to one-on-one interactions, people get riled when others don’t listen to and follow there every utterance. It gets hard to trust yourself, and when you turn yourself into a drone, floating on the whims of others, you are profoundly looked down upon.
It’s a social, personal and emotional tightrope we all must walk. I think openness and understanding may be the only way across.
So, for those of you who do follow me, I have not been posting much. Just here and there. And there are multiples reasons for that. First of all, life just happens, and you get caught up in work and home and attending to the needs of those you hold most dear, as well as yourself. But all that aside, I am currently in the middle the self-publishing process for my very first novel.
I had to go back through it and re-edit, of course, but now I have been working out the details of the book layout and I am super, super excited. Granted, a lot of this process has been sitting and thinking.
I had to come up with a back cover, which wasn’t too incredibly difficult, and then I had to do a headline for the back cover, which was difficult, especially since I had no idea what that was. Then there was designing the front cover, finding the right image, and the right color, but the hardest part was the author bio. Author biographies are always difficult, at least for me, because you have to consider what you want to say about yourself. Your first thought is… There’s nothing to say. Admittedly, this is my first book. I haven’t won any awards, no writing contests, nothing to pad my literary resume and make someone say, “Hmm, she seems promising.” I just have stories to tell; characters that are just bursting at the seams to express themselves. So after days of pondering what I should put in the author bio, discussing it with my made, and swimming through the drowning pool of self-doubt, I decided to use my author bio to brief touch on the source of my inspiration, rather than a bullet point list of accolades (which don’t exist anyway).
I checked so many websites trying to explain what an author bio should be, or what a back cover should be, and honestly, they are all appealing to the wants of a traditional publishing house. Since I am not going the traditional avenue, I thought, “Screw it. I’m gonna do what bests fits me and this manuscript.”
As I indicated above, I am super excited. I think my excitement grows as each step in the process goes by. I will be making updates until the finished product is available.
I will be doing this repeatedly for a long time, but I want to extend my profound thanks to all of those who have supported me, both in words and in deeds, by donating to my gofundme. I never would have been able to do any of this without you.
-If you have enjoyed my commentary or my short stories, then please check out my youtube channel, The Wicked Orchard; where you can listen to me read my short stories
-And don’t forget to check out Comparative Reasoning here on wordpress for written commentary on a whole hosts of topics.
-If you’d rather listen than read, definitely check out Comparative Reasoning on youtube, where you’ll hear of earful of social, economic and political commentary.
Two Days Removed…
We are two days removed from Valentine’s Day, and the world has returned to the hum drum hustle and bustle that we are always inundated with.
This may not be the most uplifting post. I am not against Valentine’s Day, I just want to discuss how, for those who are truly in love, Valentine’s Day is unnecessary.
Like most every holiday we celebrate in this country, Valentine’s Day is highly commercialized and seems to only work in favor of females.
On Tuesday, I was in Walmart, shopping for school supplies, fully aware that it was Valentine’s Day, but not truly caring. And almost as if they were coming in via conveyor belt, I saw one older guy after another scanning the Valentine’s aisle, searching for flowers, candy and stuffed animals. Poor fellas. I’m sure there were tons of other things they could have been doing, but if they don’t put out the money for this day (and some have to put out a lot of money), they’ll never hear the end of it.
In my humble opinion, the truth is that if you show your affection every day, then Valentine’s Day won’t have to mean so much. Don’t get me wrong. You don’t have to buy your woman flowers and candy every day. I would never condemn Earth’s men to that fate. What I am talking about, are the little things. The little things are often what makes life worth living. For example, I love ice. I would rather eat a cup of ice than drink a soda, drink juice, drink anything for that matter. So we go through a lot of ice at my house. And furthermore, we have to manually fill the ice trays and sometimes I forget to perform this task. A little thing that brings me joy, is when my man fills these trays without my asking; and even if I do ask, the fact that he does it for me, makes me happy.
Now I’m sure many of you are thinking, “Ice??” She must be a cheap date. And to that I say, Ha Ha Ha. Very funny. Anyway. It’s all about dismissing false pretenses, and getting to the root of what makes you and your significant other happy. If you like buying gifts for your girl or guy, and don’t feel obligated to do so just because you engage in coitus on a regular basis, then have it. Do what you enjoy. But if your driving force is, if I don’t get them something, they’ll never shut up, it may be time for some re-evaluation. (Hmm, that may be too harsh…) It may be time to talk about what’s truly important… (Yeah, that’s better.)
A long time ago, I asked my boyfriend’s mother, what she and her husband were doing for Valentine’s Day, and she said nothing. At a certain point, you just don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day. Being a teenager at the time, I thought that sounded terrible. But now that I am more than two decades removed from the questions, with a house and a child with that same boyfriend; it’s best to focus on the things that count. I don’t care whether or not he bought me flowers, I care that he was the first person to change our daughter’s diaper, when I was post-op and couldn’t even stand on my own; or making hot tea for me, when the cold winter air sends me into a coughing fit.
Valentine’s Day is one day a year. For that reason, it shouldn’t mean more, it should mean less. Show your love and gratitude every day and that way, you won’t have any regrets.
-If you have enjoyed my commentary or my short stories, then please check out my youtube channel, The Wicked Orchard; where you can listen to me read my short stories
-And don’t forget to check out Comparative Reasoning here on wordpress for written commentary on a whole hosts of topics.
-If you’d rather listen than read, definitely check out Comparative Reasoning on youtube, where you’ll hear of earful of social, economic and political commentary.
Not every female capable of reproducing has maternal instincts and on the flip side of that, there are some females who can and will mother too much. I like to call those women, Mother Hens.
A mother hen is a woman, who, once those maternal instincts kick in, they are full bore, all or nothing. They will care for you no matter what. They will feed you, dress you, clothe you, provide for you, and care for you when you’re sick or healthy (preventative care). Having a mother hen is a wonderful thing. It’s all warm and fuzzy and you feel like someone understands what you’re going through. That can be especially beneficial for someone who is chronically ill. If you are sick, it’s good to have someone who understands that you’re not faking; that you are going through something real and tangible; and they don’t down you for not being able to participate in regular, every day activities.
But there is a limit.
Mother Hen-ness, for lack of a better term, can be smothering, intrusive and downright annoying at the wrong time, or from the wrong person. We all know that mothers can give too much, especially after their children are grown, but I suspect that adult chronically ill children are hard to relinquish, when you have cared for them for so long.
But what I am talking about is if that mother hen is not your mother, but your significant other, man or woman. Their devoted need to care for you, and to aid you, like a child or an invalid, can repel the intimate, physical side of a relationship, especially if that physical side is often affected by the chronic illness. At this point all sorts of emotions can enter the picture; guilt, helplessness, resentment, fear, abandonment, and this from both the ill and their caretaker. Openness and communication are the only way to combat this; openness about one’s physical state, their mental state and one’s emotional state. Let the mother hen know that at times, they don’t need a caretaker, they need a companion and a lover, and that they’ll be notified when those times are. There should be no lies about feelings, no lies about whether one can continue once intimacy has begun and no guilt about having to stop midway. Things happen. Be adult about it and understand, the mere attempt is enough to make one feel loved and appreciated for more than their illness. And sick or well, all any of us wants is to be loved and appreciated. Openness and communication is the best way to make that happen in a healthy relationship, even if one of the participants is not.
It’s Monday morning and we are just over half way through the first month of the new year. Time flies, as we all know and learn the older we get. I haven’t been posting as much, because I finally finished my fifth book, and I have been spending a good deal of my writing and posting time, editing it. With the editing complete, and the title chosen and firmly in place, it is time to place my focus back on my very first completed manuscript.
Back in mid-2016, I started a Gofundme so that I could self-publish my first book. During that time, I have received a lot of generous support, donations and well wishes from co-workers, old friends and loved ones; and now, after reaching my Gofundme goal, I am ready to begin the self-publishing process. I want to give my profound thanks to all those who have and are supporting me throughout this process and cheering on, as this journey proceeds.
I was advised by my significant other to give, my first manuscript another read through for continuity and editing purpose, and although I am eager to continue research, and begin work on my next story, I am going to heed his advice and give the first manuscript another read. With this being said, my posting may not be as frequent as it once was, but sometimes when you begin a new leg of a journey, it requires all of your focus until you hit your stride.
In the meantime, I thank all those who check up on my blog to see what I am up to, and I will still be posting and commenting on those that I follow, as well as others that may sudden strike my fancy. And of course, you never know, if the mood hits just right, I might be busting at the seams with something to say. One never can tell.
It’s been quiet in the Wicked Orchard. Why? Pray tell. Since you asked so nicely I will tell you. Not only is it the holiday season, but I also very recently celebrated a birthday, and on top of all of that, I was on vacation from work. I only take one actual vacation a year, so I wanted to relax and spend as much time with my family as I could. And I did. Unfortunately, my vacation is over. I am well rested, but I would much rather be at home, amusing myself with my daughter, while playing games, watching videos and talking to my boyfriend about any and everything under the sun.
I gave myself a birthday gift, before my vacation, and finished my fifth book. In doing so, it allowed my brain to take a rest, but the closer I got to returning to work, the more my brain began to storm about my next project. I will be begin the editing process shortly for my latest, nameless, manuscript, and along with that, I will begin researching for my next book.
Christmas has passed and I hope that it was lovely for all of you who celebrated it and for those that didn’t; I hope that your days have been filled with all of the joy and cheer that we should have every day of the year. Sorry for the excessive rhymes.
It’s recess time, and all the first graders are led out onto a playground, where they are turned loose by their handlers. As the shrieks of temporary merriment erupt from every eager child, five gather together underneath the little house that is connected to the slide. All sitting with their legs crossed, they stare at each other with their hands, cradled in their laps.
“Ok.” One little pig tailed girl speaks up. “What do we got?
“My baby brother started sneezing with snot coming out of his nose. So I rubbed my hands on his face, while mom was in the kitchen.” A brown boy with glasses says.
“My grandmother said she got the crud. Don’t know what that is, but we held hands and sang songs after she blew her nose.” A little red-head with freckles relays.
“My big sister’s been coughing and coughing. She got a sore throat. I just stood in her room while she was coughing and stared at her until she yelled for me to get out. She hates that.” A little blond boy says, as he sniffs and wipes his nose across his bare arm.
“Everyone is sniffling and wiping their noses on my bus. I just traded pencils with everybody.” A dark skinned girl with black braids adds. “What about you?”
“I touched the teacher’s grading pen.” The pig tail girl answers.
“Wow, she’s really sick today. You’re really going for it.” The red head remarks.
“Are we sure we wanna do this? I mean, we’re gonna get sick, too?” The brown kid with glasses asks.
“Did you lose your candy?” The pig tailed girl asks, with a frown.
“Yeah.” He answers.
“What about the rest of ya?” She asks the gathering. “Didn’t you lose your candy?”
“Yeah.” The blond kid says sadly, with his eyes cast downward.
“They threw away mine.” The girl with braids says.
“See! That’s what I’m talking about. Parent’s hiding our candy, throwing it away or even worse than that, eating it themselves. Just so we can’t have it. Just cuz we want to eat it all. It ain’t fair.” The pig tailed girl exclaims. “Didn’t you work hard for your candy?”
“Yeah.” The boy with glasses says. “We walked all over this big neighborhood for three hours. I was tired and my feet hurt, but I got two big bags full. But… I ain’t seen them bags in weeks.”
“I wore a furry cat costume. And it was hot and I sweated. But that didn’t make me stop trick or treating.” The girl with braids says. “But it’s gone in the trash now.”
“My mask was so itchy. I had to take it off and then no one knew what character I was.” The red head recounts. “I earned mine too.”
“Parents and teachers tell us if ya earn it, then that’s good, but they took it all away. So… This is what they get.” The pig tailed girl says with a nod.
“Yeah, but we’re gonna get sick too!” The brown kid with glasses reminds them.
“I’m already sick.” The blond kid says matter-of-factly.
“Listen up. We’ll get sick but we’ll be better in a week, maybe two weeks. Plenty of time until Christmas. They’ll start to be better by then and in the meantime, those of us who know our candy is still in the house, can slowly get some when they’re weak.” The pigtailed girl outlines.
“Yeah.” The red head adds. “Adults always get weak and don’t wanna be bothered when they’re sick. Long as you’re quiet, you can get whatcha want.”
“That’s right.” The blond says.
“But they threw my candy away.” The girl with braids chimes in.
“We’ll give you some ours. Or save some Christmas candy for you, so it’ll be fair. Everyone in?” The pig tailed girl asks.
Hearing the question and feeling the moment of truth, everyone nods their agreement to go forward with the plan. After that, each child pulls their hands from the nook formed by their crossed legs and holds them out to the side, exposing their scabby palms, their marker covered fingertips and their dirt-impacted fingernails. Next, they each interlock hands forming a circle of commitment, making sure to grind them together. Then, they start shaking each other’s hand across from each other, until every bacteria and virus covered paw has been grasped and shaken by another. Taking it one step further, the pig tailed girl takes her infested hands and rubs them up and down over her face, closing her eyes, but making sure to swipes them over her lips. Equally inspired, the rest of the children follow suit until they hear the shrill voice of one of their handlers call out to them from ten feet away.
“What’re you kids doing under there?!”
“Nothing!”
All the children reply in unison, as if compelled by some telepathic cognition. Immediately, all five children scramble from beneath the little house and begin playing with the other kids; and all of the adults are none the wiser.
Separation of church and state is always under fire. Now, they want to stick religion in between one’s rights and their life. Comparative Reasoning breaks it down quickly. Tell us what you think.
I have not made a new post in more than a week. I miss posting on a regular basis, but it seems that my mind has been deeply occupied with the impending finish of my current manuscript. I am at the end. I am sure of that. But constructing it so that it succinctly pulls together threads that I have been weaving over these many months, is proving to be an immense task. It only let’s me know that the story needs to percolate more in mind.
I think this lack of creativity is due in part that I am sick. I have had a significant cold since before thanksgiving and it is taking its time, running its course. Once it subsides, and if my daughter could give her father and I a reprieve and maybe not bring home any more viruses from school, I think I will be back in full swing creatively and posting regularly again. Please be patient with me.
I am a city girl. Not a big city girl, no. I would not be comfortable in a place like New York City. I’m a city girl from the south. But I have no experience on a farm either. I have never fed chickens, rode horses or fed cows. With all that being said, I wanna spend a brief few moments, speaking about the latter. Cows. I like cows a lot. And granted, most of them have a less than stellar existence among us humans, used to produce our food, milk and clothing; I think that without even trying, cows are one of the most facially expressive animals around.
For example, you don’t see anything on this face… I’m willing to suspect. But I see first and foremost…
–“What the hell are you looking at?”
Next, I see…
–“Now, what the fuck do you want?”
And lastly…
–“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”
Then there are the happy or maybe even cute cow pictures. We all know that whenever an animal sticks their nose or snout directly into the camera, it’s incredibly adorable. And eve with as cute as it is, you still get a sense of…
–“I don’t need your approval.”
Or
–“I don’t have to pay for my leather.”
And of course…
–“Yeah, I’m just a cow. But you’re still not looking away.”
Ok, so I know what you’re thinking. Every emotion that you’re putting to these expressions is either disgruntled or arrogant. And that makes it all the funnier. No one thinks about a cow not giving us humans the time of day, but why not? Aren’t they entitled to be like, “Fuck ya’ll. I want out of this one-sided relationship.”
On the other hand, some are hams… beef… Ya all, know what I mean. Looks like she’s posing. She’s ready for her close up. We don’t know if the photographer worked hard to get this pic or they merely said, show me your inner cuteness and the cow delivered.
Needless to say, I am a fan of cows, and all of their many expressions; any commercials using cows humanely, like the Chick-fil-A commercials and billboards (although I do not support the company) or the California Happy Cow Commercials, which I find so hilarious are alright with me. Seeing that they have been a centerpiece of human existence for a long time, keeping us fed and clothed and catching hell for it in the process, they will eternally deserve their place in the sun, and they are entitled to have an attitude all they want. They’ve earned it.
So shines a good deed in a weary world.
-Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (1971).
I think that it is safe to say that many of us are weary. Both politically and socially, the last year has left many of us drained, disillusioned and just plain tired. The US government, justice system, and political machine lack transparency, decency, morals or sense of justice for anyone who happens to be some shade of brown or female; not to mention poor, underemployed or disabled.
With all of this being said, what is most important is how we, as people, treat each other. There is so much fear and uncertainty about the future of our rights and freedoms; and whether or not they will still exist after inauguration day 2017; we need to be able to lean on each other for support and understanding as the edges of reason continue to blur out of focus. All of us sensical, reasonable people living in the world cannot afford to apathetic or indifferent to ills of our fellow man, just because their color, sex or religion is not our own.
We need to be able to look on each other with kindness and understand that we should judge each other on our individual merits, judge each other based on our deeds, and cast all knee-jerk xenophobia aside. We need good deeds to shine now more than ever. We are all we’ve got.
It seems that this past weekend, my simple blog attained 50 followers, and then lapsed into 52. I am so humbled and appreciative that so many have taken an interest in what I have to say, as well as liking the stories I write and the little bit of poetry that I produce.
I want to give you all my profound thanks for taking the time to visit my blog, and for lending your encouragement as well.
Thank you!
-If you have enjoyed my commentary or my short stories, then please check out my youtube channel, The Wicked Orchard; where you can listen to me read my short stories
The common talking point for the last half of the election, since the primaries ended, is that a third party vote is a wasted vote. I soundly disagree, and I’ll tell you why.
The right to vote is something that has never been guaranteed to anyone throughout the ages. When Aristocracy ruled most everything, no one voted. And no one would dare vocalize the desire to have a say in how governmental decisions are made. Democracies and republics have always had to be fought for. People bleed, sacrifice and die to be able to have open elections and be given a say in how their country, their governments and their lives are run.
Notoriously, the US is no different. Colonists rebelled and revolted against the aristocracy of Britain so that they could form a free nation. Simple farmers and craftsman battled the British, with some help of course, and won; and began forming the United States of America, where citizens could vote for their representatives.
Now this leads into a lot of details that were left out. Women could not vote. They weren’t men and no one gave a damn. Blacks couldn’t vote. For one, they weren’t even called blacks, they were slaves, and not viewed as citizens or people, they were property. Latinos were not even a consideration way back when.
So as time goes by, this eventually leads to other fights. Women had to fight, organize and protest to propel women’s suffrage to the forefront of American society and eventually gain the right to vote.
Fast forward fifty years, and blacks found themselves in the same position. They peacefully protested, suffered, fought, bled and died so that they would be able to take some sort of control over their lives and be able to legally vote for this country’s representatives, just like every other citizen.
That’s a lot of fighting, a lot of blood and a lot of death, just for someone to come along in 2016 and make you feel like it is your obligation to go with the status quo, and vote someone that you hate just because their opponent is that much worse.
It’s not fair to those who came before us; it’s not fair to us or to those who are coming behind us. We are obligated to vote for who we think represents our ideals and our hopes for our country and ourselves. If the two most dominant, prevailing candidates don’t fit the criteria, I am in no way required to vote for them and neither are any of you. We should always vote our conscience; vote for who we think will represent us and make our lives better. For me, this election, it was not Clinton and it was no Drumpf. I voted for Jill Stein and I feel just fine because her platform did not pander to the corporations or pretend the racial divides in this country do not exist, nor did she insult, or victimize anyone who wasn’t white with a phallus. She cares for issues that I support for the betterment of my life, the life of my family and the country as a whole, no matter their political affiliation.
By voting my conscience, I honored myself, my family and anyone in the past whether a vassal, a colonist, a woman or any person of color, who could not vote, who could not voice their choices and take some semblance of control over their own destinies.
-If you have enjoyed my commentary or my short stories, then please check out my youtube channel, The Wicked Orchard; where you can listen to me read my short stories
I always deeply appreciate it when someone decides to follow my blog, and I can’t tell you how it feel to be nominated for an award. I was nominated for the Black Cat Blue Sea Award and I am more than honored. I just hope I do this post correctly.
The Black Cat Blue Sea Award is given to those bloggers who strive to write for everybody, and no matter how many viewers they get, make an impact on reader. This award is an expression of gratitude to the nominee. It should be awarded to anybody that you choose deserve it and it doesn’t mean that they must have hundreds of followers and likes.
This describes me perfectly because I do not have a lot of followers but I still do my best to put my best foot forward and provide positivity and realism through my posts, as well as a good story every now and then.
I was nominated for this amazing award by PoojaG; and I would like to take this opportunity to thank him for noticing what I do and for being moved to acknowledge it.
The Rules
1. Anybody nominated can nominate eight bloggers.
2. The nominee has to answer three questions asked by the nominator.
3. Questions should be inoffensive and you can ask any three questions to your nominations.
Questions that I was asked are:
I hope that answered all of the questions without excessive rambling, but these questions seem to tease at issues that I feel passionately about.
Here are my questions:
Ok, now it’s time for my own nominees.
Congratulations, you guys!
-If you have enjoyed my commentary or my short stories, then please check out my youtube channel, The Wicked Orchard; where you can listen to me read my short stories
And don’t forget to like, share or follow anything that struck your fancy!
are blessings divine?
I have a barbecue sandwich before lying down. I know it might fuck with my bowels, but when ya got IBS everything fucks with your bowels, so I say fuck it. I get one of those extra large surplus hamburger buns and fill it with slightly spicy, grilled, smoky pulled Boston butt. I add coleslaw and sweet pickles with mustard on the bottom piece of bread. It’s good. Since that last bout of bronchitis I’ve been having trouble tasting some things, but all of the flavor comes through with this sandwich.
With a full belly and the rest of the family already asleep; I finally lay down on the futon and after a little effort getting comfortable, I fall asleep.
Little did I know that the barbecue would affect my mind, not my bowels.
I open my eyes and I‘m standing in front of my old elementary school. I’m full grown and everything appears so small. The doors are rusted and falling off of the hinges, and it makes it easy for me enter. The walls are coated with years of thick dust and stained with dirt, while the paint slowly peels away from the dry wall. Long defunct bulletin boards sit unused while old rusted miniature desks are strewn about the hallways. It smells dank and old and sad; laced with pain and plain evil. As I blink a couple of times, I can see the ghost of children past moving through the halls in single files, led by a teacher now decrepit or long dead. Second by second, the apparitions manifest in to solid entities, laughing and yelling, some cavorting together, others subsisting alone.
Then I see me. I see me being led by the hand by my mother, the standard harbinger of my pain; pulling me out of my class. The class I hated but the only one I’d known that year.
I know where I’m going. I know where she’s taking me. The land of the lost. The land of misfit toys. Where ‘problem’ kids are sent to rot and be forgotten. I know where I’m going. The label, the stigma, despite its falsehood. Despite that huge lie that it is. The retarded class. That’s where I’m going. That’s where I’m going. It hangs above my head, even now. It hangs above my heart, even now. Coloring my every thought and aspiration, even though it is a lie. A lie whose truth can never be told enough.
“Are we going home mom?” The little me asks.
“I’m taking you to a new class for smarter kids.” She answers.
“Don’t believe her!” I yell. “She’s lying to you, like she always does! Don’t believe her!”
Suddenly I can feel the weight in my hand. My hand wasn’t so heavy before, but it weighed so much, yet so little. Things had slowed by then. I could see us walking away, little me and mom, but so slowly. When I look at my hand I see the gun, the dark metal, the slight glint from an unknown light source. I don’t like guns, never have, but this feels comfortable in my hand. Necessary. I raise it naturally, as if I’d done it a million times before and I level it at my mother’s back. Can I do this? She is the only mother I’ve ever known. But her betrayal, that painful betrayal seems everlasting. How will I ever get up from under it? And she has never paid. Never paid like I paid. Paid for a debt I didn’t owe. I pull the trigger and it is smooth and easy. Easy. The bullet flies through the air in an instant, striking her in the back of neck, instantly taking her down. Faster than a wildebeest in the Serengeti. She falls flat with an unnatural thud. A mere twitch before stillness, but I know… I know that her every sin was etched on that bullet, like it is etched on my tortured soul and when it struck her she knew. She knew the whys of my pain. She knew the whys of my rage and it cradled her through the expulsion of her final breathe.
Little me stands looking at me as I am. No fear, not even confusion.
“She lied. Didn’t she?” The little me asks.
“Yeah. Just like always.” I answer.
When I look to my right, I see the class I was taken from. I step inside and see the teacher and the students of 35 years past, all frozen in time, learning their grammar school lesson. I see the teacher who did not respect my ills, who believed the bully over the bullied. I see the girl who took my toys and began this downward spiral in to faux retardation because it was easier to assume lies rather than question for truth. My arm rises smoothly again, naturally. I deliver a slug to her temple. She does not see it coming, but like my mother, her sins are etched as well and she knows. The class stops and stares frozen and I deliver another slug to the bully, the girl; whose says they’re sugar and spice and everything nice.
When I step back into the hall, I can feel tiny fingers loop through my left hand and I can see little me; holding on tightly. Calm and unalarmed. He looks up at me, the same sad brown eyes that have stared back at me for 40 years.
“Did you save me?” The little me asks.
“I did.” I answer.
“Will things be different?” The little me asks.
“They’ll be better. We can make things better now.” I answer.
My hand is light again. I look down and the gun is gone. We walk together to the dilapidated exit and step into the dreamy outdoors. No cars. No people. No wind. No sound.
“Will you take care of me now?” The little me asks.
“Now I can. Now I can take care of us both.”
Mom brought pain and now she’s gone. School brought pain. Teachers brought pain. Bullies brought pain. And as we move into the school yard, distant ethereal images of my middle and high schools slowly fade from view. Fade from existence. The future is wiped and nothing is set. The disgrace undone and the lie unfulfilled. The label of shame, of diminishment, slowly fades from my heart; slowly fades from my mind.
“We can start over now.” I say.
When I suddenly awaken I expect to be alone. My covers are drenched, but the water pooling in my eyes isn’t sweat. They are tears, flowing hot and fresh. My head hurts but inside I feel light. I can still feel the light touch of small fingers in my hand, but when I look, they are not the fingers of little me. They belong to my daughter, who is lightly gripping my hand and staring at me in the dark.
“What’s wrong, daddy?” She asks.
“Nothing baby. Why are you out of bed?” I ask her.
“I gotta pee. Can you take me to pee?” She asks.
“Yeah, baby.” I answer.
I get up. And take my daughter to pee, tears and sweat still running down my face. My head hurts but I feel free.
As my daughter rubs her eyes, while sitting on the toilet, I look around and nothing has changed. It’s my house, my daughter, my bathroom, but I feel different. I feel better.
As she wipes herself and flushes the toilet, she grabs my fingers and we walk back to her bed. She lies down and I tuck her in, wrapping her up.
“Goodnight daddy.” She says.
“Goodnight baby.” I say.
As she drifts back off to sleep, I realize… I saved myself. Through my pain, through my rage and with a solid, handful of violence. I saved myself.
Finally. I saved myself like I wished so many would have or could have…
Finally, I saved myself… And as I stand over her in the dark, I know now that finally, I can take care of us both.
Written By: Sidra D. Owens
Date: October 30, 2016
Halloween was yesterday and I took my six year old out to one of the large, wealthier neighborhoods. No one trick or treats on my street. It’s dark and riddled with construction. Anyway, this year the cherished candy lollapalooza occurred on a weekday, a Monday, a school night, so candy acquisition had to be done early and fast so that littler ones can get to bed. So, we set off. Her in her fuzzy cat costume and blue pumpkin bucket and me, still a little unsure about whether or not we were too early. As we moved further down the lane, we begin to hear other children and the tell tale shrieks of joy and sugar. Satisfied, we soldiered on and eventually ran into a miniature Kylo Ren and his father, hitting up the same houses that we were. As the two kids began to talk, our two small groups merged to continue this trick or treating journey. And it went well. The father of Kylo and myself introduced ourselves, shook hands, and talked leisurely about Halloween being on a school night and having to get all that we could before it was time for bed.
As we approached the end of the lane, we could see far more children, parents and decorations, as one home in particular was putting the finishing touches on a haunted house run out of the garage. As we continued forward, a little guy dressed like someone from Halo approaches the children and asks them if they want candy. Of course, they say yes and they follow him to his front door, where they are halted by the little Halo guy’s father. Within moments, he is asking if they can go trick or treating with us and dad says yes.
Here is where it gets interesting to me. Halo guy’s father walks up to Kylo’s father and introduces himself, and they shake hands. Now, when Halo guy’s father briefly locks eyes with me, I consider introducing myself, but upon viewing my immediate dismissal by him, I decided against it. From that point forward, it was as if I did not exist. The two dads fell few steps behind discussing their lives, their families, their separations, dating, and the important messages found in church, along with having the ability to go on sabbatical from one of their jobs. All the while, rather than make an ass of myself trying to talk to them, I continued in what I was there for; keeping my kid safe while she has fun trick or treating; reminding her not to walk through anyone’s grass or to not go to homes where the lights were not on. By the end, I am telling my child and their children, which homes they have already been to and how far we are going before we turn and go back.
In the end the two boys were too scared to go to the haunted house once it was operational. By that point, Kylo’s father called me by name, and announced it was nice to meet me, and which point, I did the same, while Halo guy’s father continued on back towards his own house, as if I did not exist and had not been looking out for his kid.
My girl, of course, was ready to step into the haunted house and though brief, we had fun laughing and screaming and being scared. She had no idea, just as little Kylo Ren and Halo Guy had no idea of the putrid air of xenophobia that had been swirling around the entire encounter. The children saw no differences, and I’m glad that they didn’t. But I ask you my fair and intelligent readers, what was the main difference between these two dads and me??
-If you have enjoyed my commentary or my short stories, then please check out my youtube channel, The Wicked Orchard; where you can listen to me read my short stories.
I have been thinking for a while that my planets are out of alignment. In truth, I don’t delve that deeply into my individual motivations, but having that thought run across my mind so much in conjunction with the things going on in my life, I decided to look it up. And it turns out, I was right. Saturn needs to get the hell out of Sagittarius because it’s jacking me up. I’ve been trying to maintain my grip on the wheel of my growth and self-evolution and Saturn highjacked it. I open my eyes and I’m headed off of a bridge and plummeting into the Milky Way.
But now I know. Now, I can stop letting life live me and live life. Retake control and continue shaping the me I want to be. As many of you well know, doing that is tough. You have to fight work, environment, society, laziness and genetics; especially genetics. Slipping into old, bad habits or traditions can leave you comfortably ignorant, and unfortunately, that is a major problem with our society and the world.
Don’t be comfortably ignorant. Stay grounded on this planet and don’t let other planets fuck up your evolution. Move forward with your mind open and eyes aware. Stay positive. Negativity will kill us before anything else will.
My last post about my recent rejection from a literary agent had me a bit dismayed. Not severely. I mean I’m not ready to hang up my keyboard and forget this whole writing thing. Not even close. But I think I figured out why this agent could like what I wrote but not be able to work with it. And… my realization still leaves me rather vexed. Let me break it down for you.
So, in my limited experience, literary agents only want to read works that fit their genre. And that’s fine. They can read whatever they wanna read. They can represent whatever they wanna represent. But personally, I have found that I have never been able to classify my work that way. I can’t come out and say, “I write erotica,” because that wouldn’t be true. My writing has lots of erotic elements, but it doesn’t stop there. I’m not a one trick pony. Some of my works would fit in women’s lit, historical, romance, urban (I hate that designation); but you see what I’m getting at. My work can’t fit perfectly into any one genre.
Then, that got me thinking. Hmmm. So… so far, every agent and publisher who would even accept and unsolicited manuscript, have tucked themselves neatly into a little box. A box of romance or mystery or sci-fi or horror, but a box nonetheless. And these boxes have rules, criteria or a formula that a piece must follow, if they are going to get a second look. So if you write something, no matter how magnificent it may be, if it does not fit in the box they are hiding in, you will be soundly rejected. That pisses me off.
No. This is not sour grapes or being a sore loser. People lose every day; I’m part of people and I’m used to it. But I’m pissed off because it means that no one is willing to take a risk. No one is willing to say, this isn’t what I am programmed to read and pass forward, but it’s worth seeing how far it may go. And I’m not just talking about what I’m writing, but anyone whose work doesn’t fit into the cookie cutters of traditional publishing. Not guts, no glory. No risk, no reward. Those catch phrases don’t just apply to football or rugby. They apply to all facets of life.
Instead of classifying my work under any specific genre, I will begin by saying that it falls under literary fiction. I’m sure that may become more specific, as time progresses, but that is where I’d place it for now. With this in mind, not only will I continue to move towards self-publishing but I will also continue to look for those agents and/or publishers who may take an interest in a story that does not stay within the lines.
-If you have enjoyed my commentary or my short stories, then please check out my youtube channel, The Wicked Orchard; where you can listen to me read my short stories.
Let me begin this post by saying that I am trying to be a published writer, not just a writer. Whether I self-publish or I am somehow recruited by traditional publisher; that is my goal. I found a literary agent, who was taking queries from unrepresented writers, and my manuscript seemed to fit the agent’s genre of interest, so I thought, what the hell, and I submitted a query.
Fast forward, one month later. Granted, I was expecting it to take three to six months so imagine my surprise when the response popped up in my email. And yes, it was a rejection, but the agent took the time to say that they really enjoyed it and saw the potential in my writing. And despite liking it, they weren’t sure how to place the project, so they opted not to pursue it any further…. Here is where I take issue.
This is not a love story or some poetic gesture. So the adage that if you love something let it go and if it returns, it’s yours; that shit don’t work in this case. If the agent plain out just didn’t like it, then cool, I get that. But I don’t get ‘I really enjoyed it, but don’t see a place for it’. That don’t sit right with me.
Since I was given no additional information, it can be deduced that because it doesn’t fit into a particular pre-made box, then it isn’t acceptable. But who gives a damn about pre-made boxes? Those don’t do you any good unless its moving day. If you like something, why not throw the entire weight of your convictions behind it? Don’t treat it like a crush. Say you like it and then linger on without any kind of action at all until it’s too late and the object of your desire has moved on to someone who actually said something.
This post/rant spills over into submission guidelines, too. I will admit I like to put sex in my writing. Not sex for sex’ sake; I’m not writing porn, but often times sexual contact can drive the story. And I like to use that. People are animals and one of the primary ways in which they communicate is sexually. That is the truth and don’t let the family values nut jobs make you think differently. But I digress. Anyway, when you read the guidelines for romance or erotica submissions, they want happily ever afters or plots where the eventual love interests hate each other at first before falling desperately in love. All I would need now is to plaster the latest incarnation of Fabio on the cover and I’d be in business, right? Wrong. What happened to wanting to read a great story? A story where unconventional characters find themselves in less than traditional situations. I don’t write in such a way where the entire story is dominated by an on again/off again love hate relationship that grows against all odds. If people want that, they can just look up any of the hundreds of romance novels or romantic comedies that have been released over the years. But real life is about strife and pain; overcoming it and sometimes succumbing to it. Is it too unheard of that people may want to be engaged in a story that invokes the entire gambit of human emotions? Not only love and arousal, but hate, disdain, sorrow, pain, remorse, revenge; all those basic guttural emotions that make us, as people, who we are.
Despite my dismay, my resolve has not been shaken in the slightest. I will continue to write and I will continue to seek the best ways to share my stories with the world. I’m not looking for a happily-ever-after, I want a life-goes-on ending to this tale, because life continuing is what makes life worth living. At least, I think so.
-If you have enjoyed my commentary or my short stories, then please check out my youtube channel, The Wicked Orchard; where you can listen to me read my short stories.
For those of you who have read some of my past posts, I am very much an advocate of natural home remedies for some of our everyday ailments. So today and I am going to deliver two more discoveries that I hope you will find as helpful as I have.
Turmeric
I have done a fair amount of research on turmeric but I have not really had the opportunity to try it out. I purchased a large pouch of turmeric from our local Asian food market and it had been waiting in my kitchen cabinet, just waiting to be of use. This weekend, it’s time finally came.
My daughter is in first grade and like most young elementary school students; she and her classmates seem to trade virus quite regularly. Since she started school, her father and I seem to always be getting over or coming down with a cold. This makes it hard for the body to rebound as quickly, and back in June her father developed bronchitis because of it.
Fast forward to this past weekend, and once again, my household is battling a cold. And just as it did before, I could tell that it was going to lead to a case of bronchitis for my boyfriend. So… I looked up some info about what exactly turmeric can do. Aside from being a powerful anti-inflammatory and pain reliever; specifically when it comes to bronchitis, it helps to move the mucus out of the lungs. My research says to mix a teaspoon of powder to milk to make Golden Milk, but my boyfriend cannot have milk, so we used water instead. After mixing the turmeric with one teaspoon of hot water, we let it sit for a while and then he proceeded to drink it. Now, I will be honest with you. It did not taste good. He was able to drink it down, but it wasn’t a pleasant experience.
Now, the day before, he had been coughing every three to five minutes, with mucus and having a hard time talking because he felt out of breath. An hour after drinking this tea, his cough had diminished to once every 15 minutes or so, with mucus, but he could speak normally and his chest no longer burned when he coughed.
The next day, I added a teaspoon of turmeric, cinnamon, honey and a couple of dashes of black pepper. The effects were the same. Better actually. He had improved drastically from the day before. Giving him turmeric tea every day until his cold clears up is a welcome change from having to take him to the doctor or worse the emergency room, so that they can load him up with steroids, inhalers and prophylactic antibiotics. I have nothing against these measures, but if you can fix some things simply at home without risking antibiotic resistance, I think it’s a good idea.
Red Raspberry Leaf
I discovered red raspberry leaf as a solution to a heavy, prolonged menstrual cycle. Fibroid tumors can cause women’s monthly cycles to be especially unpleasant with painful cramps and heavy, extended bleeding. Being a female who falls in this category, I was searching for some relief; and I discovered red raspberry leaf. It research and found that many women will this herbal remedy in capsule or tea form during their second and third trimesters of pregnancy. The reason they do this is because the red raspberry leaf tones the uterus, so that the contractions for delivery are far more productive, labor is shorter and deliveries are faster.
With this same thought in mind, toning the uterus for easier cycles seems logical. So, I purchased the red raspberry leaf in capsule form and took two capsules on the first day of my cycle many months ago. I noticed an immediate difference in the severity of my cramps and the length of my cycle. I was extremely pleased. But suffice it to say, after a few months, I found myself having, what I would call, monstrous menstrual cycles. So, as it approached this month, I decided to really put the red raspberry leaf to the test. From the first day, I took two capsules and did so every day for four days. It was like night and day. For the entire duration, I only need to take pain medication for cramps once. I was not riddled with headaches or overly fatigued. My flow was not extremely heavy leading to accidents and more than frequent trips to the rest room and it has only lasted for five days, not ten days.
Ok. It goes without saying, but I will say, I am not a medical professional and anyone should consult their physician before taking natural remedies. Especially if taking medication for various other chronic illness.
But if you’re healthy and having some issues like these, I really think it would be worth a try. These two natural remedies cannot be any worse than what the multi-billion dollar pharmaceutical companies are peddling.
“I want to live!”
“I want to live!”
Overly dramatic?? Maybe. But as each day passes that exclamation rings louder and louder in my head. See, I’m a writer. I have never been published unfortunately; but my goal of becoming published, whether traditionally or untraditionally has not faltered.
Everyday this exclamation cycles through my mind. No, it is not the early signs of mental break. They are my characters. I have four fully completed manuscripts; all full of characters who are ready to replay their story over and over again for whoever is willing to crack the binding, or load a web page and read it.
I long for the day when everyone will have the opportunity to love my characters, as much as I do; or to hate them for that matter. So until that day arrives I will continue to strive to publish what I have completed and to continue to improve my craft so that I can create more universes for us all to lose ourselves in.
I have an active Gofundme Campaign so that I can self-publish my first novel. Any donations or assistance would be welcome and appreciated. For those of you who are wondering, “I’m not sure if I want give my money to this. What if her writing is awful?” That would be a fair query, and no one should dive into to anything without doing the research. I have all of my short stories posted on my website under Completed Short Fiction. Please take a look and see if you enjoy what I have to offer. Now, if you are one of the millions of us, who doesn’t have a lot time to read, I am also reading my own short stories and posting the audio up on youtube on The Wicked Orchard . This way you can load the entire playlist for Quittin’ Time, my first short story, and listen while you’re driving to work, doing the dishes or on your way to sleep. If my style of writing doesn’t appeal to you, I completely understand, but if you do enjoy it, consider donating, or at least share with anyone you think might be interested. More than raising money, I want people to enjoy my stories. I want to invoke all of the emotions that have laced in every word. I want to make people feel and hopefully make them think, too.
When we are born, it’s all about us; our needs, our comfort, our sleep. Human babies have needs and they usually have their needs met by screaming their heads off, when they’re not met. Most people know this and I have mentioned it in past posts.
As we grow, one of the various roles of our parents is to teach us empathy. Empathy is defined as the feeling that you understand and share another person’s experiences and emotions. I have taken the time to include the definition because many people behave as if they have no idea what this word is, what it means or how it is shown…. But I digress.
As we get older, we should learn that our own individual wants and needs are not all that matters in the world. We are not the center of the universe and all does not revolve around us. This is how you can learn to show love for you parents and family, and feel sadness for their ills and misfortunes. This, in turn, leads you to be able to comfort those around you. These emotions can then extend to people outside your social and familial circle, allowing you to feel the pain of strangers in your own city, your own country and even abroad.
These feelings of empathy can lead one to charity work, wanting to help the disabled, the less fortunate, the sick and the destitute. It could lead to participation in professions that aid others; doctors, nurses, teachers.
Empathy can lead other to give money out of their pocket, or food out of their kitchen, because sometimes money and food can run out just days before the next pay day. And rather than let another go hungry, people will give of themselves. Empathy allows you to identify with the misfortune of others, whether physical, mental, emotional or financial, because you understand that just a single flip of the cosmic coin and you might find yourself in the same position.
Unfortunately, empathy in our society is on the decline, a sharp and fast decline. It is rapidly being replaced by entitlement. Entitlement has a couple of definitions, but the one that I am focusing on is, the belief that one is inherently deserving of privileges or special treatment. There is a growing number of people in our society, who identifies with this definition. It is deeply associated with instant gratification. As children, we have no real sense of time. A child asks for a treat and mom says, in 20 minutes. Two minutes pass, and the child asks for it again. The child is reminded that 20 minutes hasn’t passed and they need to wait. Five more minutes pass and the child asks again. Having no sense of time, they don’t understand having to wait. The patience of waiting comes over time with proper instruction.
The problem is that teenagers and adults that are well past this stage of development, exhibit the same behavior. Not because they have no sense of time, but because they want what they want, when they want it and feel that they should not have to wait for anything, just because they’re them. They think that they are better or special. They think that their plights, problems and desires come ahead of everyone else’s. This sense of entitlement leads to a complete and total lack of empathy. They don’t know what it’s like to be sick without insurance, so the idea of needing public assistance for medical care is ludicrous. It’s costing them. They have never been disabled or associated with anyone with disabilities, so they don’t care for programs to help them. They’ve never been persecuted because of their race, sex or age, so they go so far as to believe that these things never happen, just because it has never happened to them.
Apathy is the bedfellow of entitlement and it is eating away at the conscience of society. It is a bigger problem than racism, classism, sexism, terrorism and money in the political system. It is a bigger problem, because if people don’t give a damn about other people, they are liable to do anything to them without remorse. We see it all the time. A kid gets drunk, gets in a car and runs over people on the side of the road, killing them. He gets house arrest and even after a light sentence, he breaks his probation and tries to flee the country. His life is more important than the lives he took. A police officer pepper sprays peaceful protesters and ends up suing for emotional trauma. The supposed Democratic Party sabotages the campaign of one of their own; one who cared for the rights of all people, rich, working and poor, in favor of someone who has the interests of those who already have enough over those who barely have anything.
Empathy has always been a rather ethereal, wispy concept, sometimes slipping right through the fingers, but from time to time in the history of our country, we, as a society, have been able to grip it firmly and lift each other up; but it was never easy. It took hard work and sacrifice, pain and death. But now, empathy can’t even be seen floating on the winds. More often than not, we are every man for themselves and to hell with the rest.
So…
What can we do?
Well, we could just be better, but that takes effort that the apathetic and entitled don’t want to exert. So, it’s up to us who give a damn, to be mindful and vigilant and take every opportunity to inspire a change in our world; one conversation, one phone call, one post; one vote at a time. Taking these strides may change things from the smallest interaction between you and a co-worker to the world stage which governs our society. Close your eyes and for once, picture yourself in someone else’s shoes. Train yourself, as we should train our children; like we used to train our children, to be patient, understanding and kind. Bullying children turn into bullying adults; but adults can choose to be better, they just have to want it be better.
The skin I’m in
Is the same as yours, by touch,
Color, matters not
Love is not a rational thing. The deeper your love is the more abstract it becomes.
Let’s not get it twisted. I’m not talking about:
I like you. Do you like me?
Check yes ___ or no ____
And I’m not talking about that puppy love that makes you count down to see who will hang up first.
Granted, all that is cute and it makes you feel warm and nervous inside.
But what I’m talking about is after that. After the puppy love wears off and after the shine of newness has dulled and you begin to really learn who it is that you’re loving.
At that point, you start to decide whether or not you can deal with your own bullshit and the bullshit of your significant other as well.
Yeah, by the time you are calling them, your significant other or your other half; you’re in deep.
It’s more than just dates and sex; it has to be. You plan your life around the other person and the reason why is because there is an enjoyment there beyond description.
You say “I love you,” just because you don’t know what else to say to express that level of emotion that you feel for them and they feel for you.
It’s more than kisses and hugs; there are shared memories, shared experiences; inside jokes that only you two can comprehend. Something so profound and interwoven, that when you speculate what life would be without your other half, you must admit that everything would lose its color, its flavor, its very essence.
It’s being able to recognize their touch even under the haze of anesthesia; or having them hold your hand as you try to stand less than a day after a cesarean section. It’s having them hold you when damn of pain breaks and tears are nothing less. It’s all this and so much more.
When I think about my life and my love, my mind always goes back to a quote from Susan Sarandon in, “Shall We Dance?”
“We need a witness to our lives. There’s a billion people on the planet, what does any one life really mean? But in a marriage, you’re promising to care about everything. The good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things, all of it, all of the time, every day. You’re saying ‘Your life will not go unnoticed because I will notice it. Your life will not go unwitnessed because I will be your witness.”
When you find that significant other, that other half, whether married or not, the love is so deep, so profound that it’s beyond words, it is far beyond the simple verbiage that is love.
I’ve only scratched the surface. I’ve tried before but it’s hard to thoroughly express what I feel on this topic. But I hope that some of you now have an inkling of what I mean.
*I have to give credit to Maggy at maggyliu.com. Her poem, “the all or nothing type,” just set my mind ablaze.
Recently, I did a post about natural remedies to everyday problems. It included apple cider vinegar, lavender essential oil and a few others. This is an update to that. I want to share with you all the wonders of frankincense essential oil.
I have not been using essential oils long, but it did not take me long to understand that frankincense is one of the most, if not the most potent and powerful essential oil around. It is also expensive. So it took me a fair amount of time to order it, but once I did, I must say I don’t know how my family has lived without it.
Anecdote #1:
I have a six year old and as most parents know, rough and tumble kids get minor scrapes and abrasions all the time. On this particular Friday afternoon, she comes home with a scratch across her right cheek. It was slightly raised and red, but causing little discomfort. The frankincense oil had arrived the previous Wednesday, so I thought what the hell. I mixed several drops of the oil with my carrier oil of choice, which is jojoba oil. I dabbed some with a q-tip and spread it across the scratch. She returned to playing and all was well. Four hours later at bed time, I repeated the process. Fast forward, 24 hours later, at bed time, once she is lying down, I think, “I need to apply more oil. She has school pictures in five days.” So, I dab some on a q-tip and go to apply it to her cheek, but… I can’t find it. I lean closer and closer, but it is nowhere to be seen. So, naturally, I retrieve a LED flashlight and after leaning down to a distance of six inches from her face, I finally see a super thin scabby mark where the original scratch had been. Amazed, I applied the oil and the next day, I could not even see that. By the time picture day arrived, she was scratch free and ready for her close up.
Anecdote #2
I suffer from sensitive. It’s very reactive and I break out easily. I’m plagued with eczema, but I deal with it. On this particular day, a particular painful bump appeared on my back and thought to myself, once again, what the hell. I applied the bump for two days and by the third day my boyfriend could not even see it anymore.
Anecdote #3
The reason why I bought the oil to begin with, was so that I could naturally treat my ganglion cysts. After two days of applications, they have reduced in size and much of the burning pain associated with them has faded.
Anecdote #4
Lastly, I have used it to retreat the acne on my face. Anyone with acne knows that oil on the face is generally a no-no; a big no-no, unless you want to be riddled with painful blemishes. But one more time, I thought what the hell and used it, with a carrier oil, and it worked better than the daily cleanser my doctor recommended.
I really just can’t say enough about this stuff. And this is only scratching the surface regarding all the things the frankincense oil can do. Research it yourself and give it a try. It’s anti-inflammatory, anti-microbial, healing, scar reducing effects are a must have for any home. The pharmaceutical companies can’t manufacture anything this wonderful unless side effects include, oily flatulence, high blood pressure and death. Anyway, give it an honest try. 5,000 years of use world-wide used can’t be wrong.
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