Category Archives: Humility

Antierra Manifesto – blog post #34

[begin blog post #34]

They eagerly listen and seek to incorporate many of the innovations I propose.   We turn to the design of the axe blade itself. 

“Too heavy for any woman, even I” I say.  “Try leaving just the outline of the blade and remove all the metal inside.  Think of it as a sword blade cut in three sections, the longest cutting edge curved, the other two used as braces.  Weld them here… and here.  See?  Then try a new design – one with two blades opposite each other.  That will cause excitement, guaranteed.  Look, if I roll the handle with a powerful wrist action the blade spins around its axis, thus, and anything it contacts is sheared off as if it had contacted a milling blade…”

“A milling blade?”  The look of intense interest is almost comical, like leading a class of first graders on a field trip.

“Don’t they teach engineering to men here?”  I ask, being deliberately provocative.  The smith’s face darkens momentarily and I know I’ve walked in dangerous waters.

“Begging your pardon sir, but how do you know about blending metals?  Is there teaching for this?”

“This of no matter to gora.  We not speak of teachings here.”  The subject is closed.  I keep my mouth shut and await developments. 

“Tell what you need to fight, we make.”  He raises his finger at me in a warning gesture.

I bow my head and lower my arms, then speak in a much lower, subservient  voice, “Please, light and deadly, always, when designing weapons for females.  Survive on skill and speed we do, not strength.  Longer we last, more money owners make.  They see results from good weapons, smiths get credit, as you say, yes?  Good arithmetic?”  The two I’m addressing look at me quizzically.  No ‘arithmetic’ for these guys. 

Then I show them my relatively larger feet than those of a typical T’Sing Tarleyn female.

“Where I from there be people train to use no weapon to kill – just body.  Feet be good killing weapon in hand to hand combat.  You hear I kill trainer by using sweeping side kick many years ago when first I here, yes?”  Some nod knowingly as I demonstrate by knocking down a bundle of what could have been potatoes, from a ceiling hook, raising my foot higher than the tallest of them.  I pick up the bundle and swing it back into place, hiding the fact it was almost beyond my strength.

There is one thing you learn in these kinds of worlds, not very different from Earth: that those who think themselves stronger are easily impressed to observe those they consider weaker do something they cannot do.  It’s up to the “weaker one” to immediately change the subject, let it go.  Never rub it in that you can out-do a man at anything.  If they see you beat them at something they will accept it, once or temporarily, but if you make it look that you are gloating in the least they will find some justification for nailing you when you do not expect it and they will never miss their chance. 

The only safe place to gloat over a man is in the arena when you know you have beaten him and he still does not realize he is a walking dead man.  If he is a particularly vicious type who has raped or tortured other females, now is the time to let him know that you are taking revenge for their pain and death.  Let him face and feel the terror he has been inflicting on others.  In any other situation, when under an authority that has power of life and death over you, remain subservient even when it is obvious you are superior.  You cannot reject them but they can reject you.  Here subservience is best expressed by always reverting to pidgin talk when addressing men.

“Please, I would like foot weapon is call ‘sandal’ that straps to foot and has blades mounted on it.  Make retractable if that be possible?”

I had to describe what a sandal is.  Except for the richest among them who do so strictly as an affectation, no one wears shoes, having no need of them.  But they catch on quickly especially the head smith after he decides to ease his now huge erection in me.  He takes me as casually as if he were taking a drink of water.  The others watch and smirk.  I have difficulty getting used to that, even after all the years I’ve experienced the casualness of it.  Perhaps it’s because they are also raping you when they do it, stealing your power if you let them by not being prepared for it.  Almost every act of fornication here is an attack upon the woman.  As an act of love it would be a violation of their laws on sex.  But breaking their law on casual sex seems much less of an offence, probably because it is rape, the socially acceptable humiliation of a female.  

“I see head trainer,” he belatedly answers after rubbing his dirty hands on my breasts and feeling my hardened nipples. “Maybe I convince.  He approve, yes, we make for you.  I credit young apprentice here,” – points to a young boy working with a hammer on a piece of what I take to be white-hot steel – “for new ideas.  He be about gora size so he be one to think of thing like that.” 

It was a definite insult, not just a slip of the tongue, a serious goading for whatever reason.  Maybe the head smith does not like the boy and would like to be rid of him.  The boy fires his master a look of pure hatred that could mean trouble down the road.  To be compared to a female is the lowest of insults.  To say to a man, “You’re a gora!” is to guarantee a fight, often to the death.  I suspect this boy has yet to pass his puberty rite and has not killed his first female.  His eyes sweep over me with utter contempt.  I know he’d attack me if he did not already know that would be the most foolhardy, and terminal, thing he could do.  He knows that if he did kill me he could claim I was the cause of the insult he had to avenge.  Probably he would only receive a mild reprimand and have to pay back some of my value by winning a fight in the arena sometime in the future.  Of course, that also depends on who it is owns me and my fighting skills and how much they are worth…  He’s not so stupid that he does not realize to attack me gains him two ways to die: at my hands instantly, or in the arena by and by.

But the white bearded, broad shouldered smith laughs loudly – the first hearty laugh I’ve heard on Malefactus.  And I start to wonder… the smith could be useful if I could somehow draw him into a conspiracy to get Deirdre out of this place, away from Hyrete and off Elbre.  I too have that female ectohormonal power men so dread here.  The power to seduce just by being what nature has endowed me with.  My “rebuilt” body is still very attractive despite its scars.  And he’s had a taste of it and what I chose to express with it.  How much more of it does he want?  He would know many traders I warrant, but how could I trust them not to sell her back into the same situation?  I shake my head to free myself of these mindless thoughts.  Always I comeback to worrying about ‘my’ Deirdre.

Dreams are one thing.  Reality too often plays out differently.  And in this place, reality has a way of hitting you on the side of the head.  Not literally this time, but in my heart. 

The days continue to slip into weeks, the weeks stretch into more months.  Since my healing and interview with the doctor – I still don’t know his name – I have heard nothing.  Deirdre has had many “interviews” with all the men in the compound but she seems not to mind, or care.  She had expected her life to have been as a provider of erotic pleasures and has been thoroughly trained for it.  It doesn’t make it any easier for me though, because I seem to worry about her every waking moment.

In all of that, I am a fighter.  I had anticipated that sooner or later I would be forced to use the axe in a fight and that day has come. 

[end blog post #34]

Blog-battle Short Story

I’ve decided to participate in a “blog battle” at  https://blogbattlers.wordpress.com/2019/02/05/blogbattle-loss/   The subject for February is “Loss”, the story a 1000 words, give or take a few, and be posted by the end of the month.  The creator, Rachael Ritchie, will use this blog post link to join this story with others or so I understand.  I had to post the story (my story) so that is why you are seeing it here.  It’s short and my might enjoy it. It’s of my favorite short story theme: encounter, love, loss, redemption and fulfillment.


The Moon, Anali and Hope
 [short story by  ~Sha’Tara~ ]

She had made a decision, a choice.  She’d stopped watching the news one day, then she’d left the church.  She walked out of her parents’ home some time after that and took the bus to a smaller town up into the valley.  She rented a tiny apartment and found a job at the local library cleaning up and re-arranging the children’s section, and as general go-for. 

Anali asked herself, was it all just an impulse? No.  It was, she thought, her destiny, and destiny should be honored. 

Destiny, then, brought her to meet Charlie.  He swept the sidewalks and collected garbage for the town.  A charity job, perhaps, but one that needed doing.  Charlie was considered slow, and definitely abnormal as he thought everybody was a friend and never got angry or upset at anyone.  Anali liked Charlie.  They sat together on a bench by the library on warm sunny days, shaded by a rustling maple tree.  On other days they met at the McDonalds for a coffee and muffin. They didn’t talk much, there was no need for what was developing between them required no words. 

Anali wasn’t bright, and she knew it.  She wasn’t what you’d call pretty and she knew that too.  But she knew she was a human being, and that Charlie was a wonderful human being.  She wasn’t unkind, but Charlie taught her to be more so, more aware of the world around them, and the world’s needs.  Charlie stuttered, and his slowness of speech allowed Anali to keep up and understand him. 

“I feel sadness,” he said to her, “about lost things, and hungry things, and things that have no real home.  I guess I know what that feels like, and maybe that’s how it is, how you learn to feel things.  I can’t fix the world.  No one can do that, only God, and he’s angry at us so he’s not helping.  So, if I want to help I have to be nicer to everyone, and everything.  God will see that and he’ll think, that is a good thing.  And he’ll come down and help us.” 

Anali understood that perfectly. 

Was it just the moonlight?  It seemed to Anali that the moon had been shining every night of June forever, getting larger and larger in the night sky, then hanging out, pale and unwilling to leave the blue sky of morning.  It hung like a pale balloon above the tall, old, dark green cottonwood trees bending over the river, casting shade where fish jumped after low-flying bugs. 

That river was called Hope.  She had no idea why they had called it that, or what the native peoples who had fished its banks had called her, but she thought, Hope was a good name.  When I have my daughter, she thought, I am going to call her Hope, and I’m going to give birth to her on her banks, under the full moon.  Anali was a dreamer, like Charlie.

She’d been sitting silently in the tall grass on the bank of the Hope river when she heard footsteps in the grass of the park above her, then the swishing of a body pushing itself through the tall grasses she was pretending to be hiding in.  She rolled quietly on her back and looked into the blue sky, and the pale moon.  Waiting.  Waiting, and ready.

He cast his tall shadow over her prostrate form and looked down.  Not at her, but in her.  And she knew then that some things are written in the songs of the thrush; the call of the kingfisher; the whisper of the rising mid-day breeze in the willows, but mostly in the path of the moon.  She shielded her eyes and watched him bend down to her, kneeling on the soft earth beside her body.  He stretched himself beside her and she cradled him in her arms.  

Their clothes came off, easily and naturally, without haste or shame and without a word they came together and made love by the Hope river. Anali thought she had reached a place of near perfection.  It would take a while for it to complete itself, but Anali was very patient.

There was a bad accident in town.  Anali didn’t read the papers and she didn’t have a TV but she heard people talk.  She understood why Charlie wasn’t at the bench then, and why she never saw him again. Anali knew about loss, personal loss, and she thought, this too will be all right.

A year or so later, with glowing face and a child in her arms, Anali stood by the banks of the Hope river.  She walked to the edge and holding her own Hope over the waters, let her see her own reflection.  The baby went “oh, oh!”  Across the narrow channel a thrush called.  An otter slipped into the water followed by three playful young.  Two young raccoons stared at her from the top of an old fallen tree trunk, curious, not scared.  

From the pale moon high in the blue sky, Charlie looked down, tears of joy forming on his ghostly face, so Anali pictured it.  She looked up and knew he was there waiting for her and someday they’d be together again.  She smiled and cuddled their baby tighter – so he could feel its warmth through her.  She felt a deep, peaceful happiness.  She’d found her perfection and all was as it should be. 

The Antierra Manifesto, Blog post #9

(Tiegli’s story, part 2)

[begin blog post #9]

“And the honour?” I refrain from asking about the evil juice – no time.  I find out later however that the “evil juice” is a concoction made from dried and powdered chakr (pronounced shoak) root – an indigenous herb that grows profusely at the edge of the desert, readily available and cheap – that is mixed with the blood of one’s kill after a killing orgy.  The drink is usually shared with several males.  It is a bonding which, they believe, makes them invulnerable and immortal, despite all evidence to the contrary, I might add.   

Tiegli continues with her story:

“Returning from fight or hunt alive, telling of dangers and wounds received, and saying “I do this again!”  Showing off skins,  part of animals and people too; dead bodies; captive slaves and scars on body – all good for male pride.”

“Is any woman ever recognized for her endurance or courage or the money she brings her owners?”

“That be outrage.  If man ever praise woman for deed he be disgrace and treat like female.  If not rich to buy out, he castrate and flog like woman in arena.  Or he given for special fun to bad, vicious fighters in compound for trainer fun and kill.  How you not know? Everybody know this.”

She tucks her body against mine and I feel her desire for sexual comforts which I give her freely.  She will die having known a moment of gentleness and companionship and will know that she is more than an animal.  I wish I could kill her as she rests against me but that is not what she would want.  She needs to return to her arena and maybe discover the additional courage to yell when she makes her kill.  Maybe she will scream that she is just as human as the men who came to watch her die, or to kill her.  Maybe she will upset a tiny bit of the status quo, enough for me to find the match I need to light the fire I came here to light.  Yes, what this place needs is a cleansing fire; nothing less will do.

I say, more to her mind than ear: “Tomorrow you must scream at them that you are human.  You must yell your own taunts over your kill.  Strike hard and die with courage and make them see your pride.  I am not really Spirit of the Desert Beast.  Just let those superstitious males believe that for now.  I am, indeed, from the stars, that I remember now.  I am here to share your pain for it is known from far away.  I am here to find out everything there is to know about this world.  This means I will die just like you, probably soon.  I will return to my world and find ways to help your people.  And I will return again as a fighter.  I will speak to the women and give them new ideas – dangerous, illegal, bold ideas.  They will have to decide whether to listen to me and trust I’m speaking truth or remain in their condition.  Would you like to see me again when I return home?”

“Hah…”  She hesitates then whispers hoarsely, “You speak strange; like sex slaves train concubine.  Good speak, many words you have.  You say I allowed to decide for me?”

“Yes, you are allowed to decide.  Tomorrow they may kill your body but you will find out that you are still very much alive – more than you’ve ever been.  When your people come for you and if you want to see me again, ask them to direct you to a world called Altaria.  It’s a very difficult world to reach, hidden in folds of space from prying evil eyes like Albaral.  But you can find it if you remember some basic words from me.

“Tell them you are the friend of Antierra from T’Sing Tarleyn.  If they do not understand, tell them you are the friend of Al’Tara whom you met on Malefactus.  They will contact people from my world and will be able to send you there.  Using my name as code-word for access you will be allowed to enter.  There you can wait for me if you wish.  Or you can learn what you want to, then leave and go anywhere you want.  Anywhere.

“Remember to keep your name, Tiegli.  You will not look as you do now and no one will recognize you, not even me.  So I shall ask for you by name – and it will be a famous name for everyone will know who you are and where you are from; how you lived and how you died.  You will be loved there.  All my friends will be your friends and they will show you many wonders.  That is my gift to you, Tiegli.”

“Your words, sweet; touch like lover – I had one, I know ; she  killed maybe one, two year? I never have again.  Much losing pain.  Almost killed too, I so tired from losing pain that time.  I know you be as say.  I die bravely, oh yes sure.  I die most happy, tomorrow.  I go to your world and wait for you, yes?  But you come back here, I no promise come with you.  I not crazy woman like you.  Can I go from you, die, no promise I return and your people they still keep me, not kill me?”

“Yes.”  I manage to whisper with the lump in my throat and full, free tears flowing.  “There are no conditions bearing upon you when you live on my world except you learn new things and accept that you will be happy.  You can live there free, happy, as long as you wish.  Then you can go anywhere you wish, choice is always yours alone.  No one kills on my world.  No one dies.”

She nudges against me, her small face tucked between my breasts.  I feel the moisture of her tears.  “Your world is beautiful place, Antierra.”

“No more so than yours can be – and will be in time.  All worlds have, within themselves the power of choice to be ugly or beautiful.  It is the intelligent, sentient and self-aware life on those worlds that determines which choice they will make.  For you see, as women are slaves of men on your world, so is every world a slave of its ISSA life forms.”

“You have strange words; speak strange things.  Much power.  You be the Desert Beast giving passing dream of power to dying woman.  I content.  Sleep now.”

Too tired myself to ask any more questions, I let her sleep cradled between my thighs and breasts.  But I cannot sleep.  I feel her rhythmic breathing and the beating of her strong heart.  I try to imagine her in a different environment.  This wreck of a woman is no older than I, yet looks to be fifty.  I move my hands slowly and deliberately over her body.  I feel the many scars, some badly healed from lack of medical care.  She would not have been a favourite of the medical attendants this one, so she suffered the more.

I gently massage a swollen deformity on her back, probably from a blow of that stick weapon I described earlier.  Again, I feel the urge to just break her neck and save her from her final ordeal; it would be so easy, and seemingly so compassionate.  But see, I can let her live to die and allow her to have another kind of happiness: a flicker of hope that I am as true as she wishes to believe and she has a future where she can be human. 

I start that damning circular thinking again, trying to sort out my feelings, the old and the new.  If I give in to bouts of compassion, or to the weakness of love, will I fail in my purpose?  Or is it the other way around: if I do not allow any compassion to flow through me, and if I do not allow the pain of loving, either this friend I am about to lose or that enigmatic doctor whom I insist on believing knows more than he shared with me of love for a woman, will I become spiritually dead and lose myself in this maelstrom of mindless violence?  Surely then I will have failed.

Ah, Tiegli, old child woman, how beautiful you are.  I remember what possessions meant to me and so many others on Old Earth in what now seems like a never-never time.  Yet here you are, naked, bereft of family or friends, scarred, abused, battered, ignorant of most things taken for granted elsewhere, living in pain and your entire wealth lies but in your name.  Yet it is a wealth beyond any imagined by those who have made fortunes betting on your skills, your sweat, your blood and your life.  How did your leader baptize you?  In whom, or what?  Did they use their own blood?  Was it in the name of some goddess of long ago through whom they keep in touch for a tiny bit of humanity, of sanity? Was it in the name of their unborn and dead children and equally dead dreams?  Who will teach me about that goddess?  How will I find her?  How will I bring her back to empower your lives before everything is destroyed?  ‘All in good time’ I hear my mind intoning.  And my immediate reply is, ‘How will I find “good time” on this world, in this place?’

Finally I fall into a fitful sleep troubled by a dream in which a pack of hairy red demons chase white angels whom, upon being caught, vanish as mist.  The demons gather together on a high dune with their empty hands raised and howl like wolves at the false sun that shines only darkness upon the desert.  Blood drips from their mouths and their hate consumes them.   They fall upon the red sand, writhing as if flames were devouring them from the inside.  Vultures swoop down and proceed to tear at their still twitching bodies.  Then only the dunes remain but the real sun does not rise above them – there is no morning.  Eternal darkness reigns. 

When I awake I am alone in the cage.  Soon the gates open and guards and handlers watch as we file out to relieve ourselves, wash and eat.  Tiegli the Undaunted; “The Crone” no longer exists for us, though by muted sounds from the arena we know the fighting is still taking place – and will probably until late in the day or for as long as the complement of female victims they have allocated lasts.  And we will hear the screams of delight from the packed crowd when the last gladiator falls.  But I know that these women never think of a fallen gladiator as dead.  Only if you kill yourself are you considered dead.

No gladiator is ever dead as long as another takes her place in a line-up, and  on this world that seems to stretch to the end of time itself. 

[end blog post # 9]

I Had to Write This…

I had to write this…
[thoughts from   ~burning woman~  ]

Just finished watching, for the umpteenth time, the movie, “The Statement” (2003) with Tilda Swinton and Michael Caine.  Basically another story of hunting down Nazi murderers of innocent and helpless Jews in WWII, this time in France under the fascist, heavily pro-Nazi Vichy regime led my Marshal Petain. 

The point here is that these mass murders happened 80 or less years ago – one Earthian life time and here we are, poised to do it all over again.  Isn’t that just fantastic how quickly we forget our ignorance, stupidity and murderous mob tendencies just to start again? 

Granted, we haven’t yet quite decided which race or class of people are going to suffer our wrath, but we’re ready to “do it”.  Most likely the educated and well-informed voting mob will pick on people of some sort of colour to slaughter. Refugees, they’re pretty safe, not too dangerous.  The Muslims, well, that’s a different matter, they tend to fight back. We’ll definitely need the police, the Security state, maybe the army on our side for this. It’s but a matter of putting the right people in government to pass the laws to legitimize the slaughter and that’s never been a problem.  The problem is motivating those still sitting on the fence.  They may have to be our target this time.  Great, those stupid liberals won’t expect to be a mob’s target: sitting ducks.  

You see? That’s how it goes.  The circles just get bigger, nothing essential changes.  And why is that? Why doesn’t anything change and why do we put on the rose coloured glasses and insist that somehow, yes, things have gotten better? Was the 20th Century with its two devastating world wars followed by endless wars and the cruelest form of exploitation of resource rich emerging countries really better than the Hundred Years War?  Is that a rhetorical question or what?

What is our problem?  I’ll tell you, and I’ll keep telling you, as long as I have breath: our problem is that as a species, as a collective, as a “civilization” we don’t give a damn. We are not the least empathetic, though we can be so easily conned by our various propaganda machines into believing that we are, indeed, kind and loving “at heart” and that it is only the few; the minority; that is psychopathic and loves war and killing.  It isn’t. It’s a very, very big majority that is in love with violence and that never gets enough of it. If you don’t believe me, check out the internet and video games. Check out how much money derives directly from violence or the promotion of violence.  

Not all violence means bloodshed and death, though we certainly enjoy doing that best. Violence is everything that causes some sort of harm to others; to another – human, animal, plant or planet, for one’s selfish benefit or one’s enjoyment.  We need to get that very clear in our head for it is the same as what religion calls sin: the inflicting of pain and loss upon any “other” for one’s own satisfaction, benefit or pleasure. 

There is but one antidote for this Earthian condition that is destroying this world and possibly much of the biological life on and in it, and that is for all *ISSA beings to choose to become compassionate.  How many times have I said that? Doesn’t matter because it’s like the wind in the leafless cottonwood trees here in winter: sound and either you like it or you don’t like it, but the wind doesn’t change its tune whether you’re comfortable with it or not.

I’ve been following the current protests highlighting climate change and elitist rip-offs called the economy and assessing the chances of such protests actually accomplishing anything at all. My conclusion is predictable: the protesters are going nowhere.

Oh, what a terrible thing to say! Of course they’re going somewhere; they’re making some politicos change their minds… wow! Problem with that is, these mind-changing chameleons are opportunists. They can see the tide flowing in and they are just smart enough to move the blanket, the umbrella and the cooler a bit higher up on the beach. Still same beach, same picnic, same people. They’ll be safe from the rising waters and who cares about those who are already up against the cliff? Their problem.

If there is one thing activism has taught me back then, it’s that to address one “big” problem it is absolutely necessary to address all “big” problems. You cannot address climate change without addressing global poverty. You cannot address poverty without addressing over-population. You cannot promote alternative sources of energy if you are not condemning consumerism outright. You cannot blame right-winged politicians for screwing the planet if you are blinding yourself to the fact that your “left winged” politicians (the ones you would happily put back in charge) are as corrupt and often more so.  You cannot address justice if you are not, first, dedicated to destroying your billionaire elites – and I mean destroy utterly.  You cannot address and hope to make a dent in any of the above if you are not primarily committed to stopping all wars, genocides and where police operate out of control as in the US, stopping all government sanctioned mass murder.  You cannot in all honesty address and oppose any of the above if inside yourself resides one ounce of racism, misogyny, bullying and oh yes, patriotism. How many realize that patriotism is fanaticism that leads to terrorism?  It’s always been that.

Finally (this has to stop somewhere) nothing at all will ever change as long as there remains one Earthian anywhere convinced that s/he is entitled; if particularly blessed in some way or is superior to anyone else.  In other words, until Earthian pride is completely subdued by humility… we are doomed. We were taught; we were given chance after chance; we know right from wrong and as long as we choose wrong we can’t expect that anything will ever come out right. 

“We knew that the Earth was flat, we knew that we were the center of the universe, and we knew that a man-made heavier than air piece of machinery could not take flight. Through all stages of human history, intellectual authorities have pronounced their supremacy by ridiculing or suppressing elements of reality that simply didn’t fit within the framework of accepted knowledge. Are we really any different today? Have we really changed our acceptance towards things that won’t fit the frame? Maybe there are concepts of our reality we have yet to understand, and if we open our eyes, maybe we will see that something significant has been overlooked.”Terje Toftenes (take from the film “The Day Before Disclosure”)

*ISSA: intelligent, sentient, self aware

I Choose to be a Teacher

[a short story by Sha’Tara]

“Anee?”
No answer.
“Aneeta!”
“Yes ma…”
“What are you doing up there, sleeping?”
“Finishing the boys’ room ma.”
“Leave that, come down. I need you to go to the Bellamy’s and get me fresh produce. We’ll have payin’ guests tonight.”
A pretty young woman of about fifteen, with thick auburn hair adorned with a couple of ribbons, comes down. Her heavy footsteps indicate how reluctant she is to obey her mother.
“Mom, can’t you send Petee?”
“Pete’s in the lower meadow with your pa, he’s working. What’s wrong with you?”
“I hate the Bellamy’s mom. Joram is always shoving his hands into my dress, feeling me. I hate him. I hate what he does. And he smells like something dead.”
“Well, look who’s so high ‘n mighty now! You’re a woman now an’ Joram, he’s grown into a fine young man and he fancies you! Do you have any idea how much land the Bellamy’s own, or lease?”
“That’s not the point, mom. I don’t like him and I don’t want him. I hate it when he touches me and breathes on me.”
“That may be girl, but it’s time you learned some facts of life. How do you think I fed you and your oldest brother when your pa was in the Lord’s wars?”
“They did that to you?”
“Well, Mr. Bellamy did. He was a fine looking young man then, exempt from the war, and for convenience sake I was called the widow Lacey. I was still beautiful then too.”
“You’re still beautiful, ma! But that’s not right, what they do, is it? I read in a book at the butcher’s last week that it’s wrong. The book was on the corner table and I was waiting for my cut. It was called a “digest” and had many stories in it. This one was by a woman. She wrote that we shouldn’t be “sexually molested” she called it, and we should be able to vote.”
“You read that did you? I warned your pa not to teach you to read, that it would only cause us all trouble, and here we go. You read what other people think. Can’t you think for yourself? Joram Bellamy is sweet on you and he makes sure you always get the freshest produce, and he gives you more than we pay for. Last Fall they sold us their best pig, no extra charge. Don’t you understand anything?”
She points to her breasts: “It’s time you realized the value of these in a man’s world, Anee. And the lower part of you as well. We have a certain value and there is an exchange. It’s been that way forever, don’t you go questioning it and upsetting things for us. The Bellamy’s are much richer than us; they’re our neighbours and it’s you and I that keep things good between us. Your pa doesn’t question my loyalty to him, but he well knows how I kept our small farm and fed my children during those years he was gone. I started to talk about it once, long ago. He put his hand over my mouth, then took it off and kissed me, long and sweetly, and he thanked me. That is the kind of man your pa is.”
“I know pa is good, ma. But this is about me. I don’t want to settle with Joram. I don’t like him at all and certainly not that way.”
“He’s young, what, seventeen? He’ll grow up, mature, be more like his dad.”
“Well that settles it then: I don’t like his dad either. He’s done it to me too, you know. And he smells bad too!”
“Yeah, I know how he smells. But some of it is the smell of success and money. We’re lucky some of that smell has rubbed off on us, girl. Don’t be so particular. One would think you were born in the Lord’s castle with a silver spoon in your hand.”
“You don’t care do you! I want an education and I want to become a teacher, see? I can’t have a man if I’m to be a school teacher.”
“Oh, a teacher is it? Listen to the professor. Miss Radick has a lot of years in her yet, there won’t be any need for a new teacher in these parts for many years, girl.”
“I don’t mean around here, mom. I mean to go and teach in the coal mining country. They can’t get, or keep, teachers up there. I’ll be needed, for sure.”
“The coal country? God help us! You’ve taken leave of your senses, girl. Half the people there don’t even attend services. Men are drunkards and beat their wives. The children are half naked and starving most of the time. And the dirt, it’s in everything there. What an idea Anee.”
“I read about that too, ma. They need teachers like myself, girls with farming and gardening experience. I can teach them to grow food and I can explain about basic hygiene.”
“What are you talking about! Who is Basic Hy-Gene? Is that somebody you met at the butcher’s also?”
“Ma, hygiene means cleanliness. Basic means plain. Plain cleanliness. It’s not just the job, ma, it’s something I’ve known for sometime that I want to do. I need to do it. It’s a calling, see? Like a vocation? Do you understand that?”
The mother stopped, turned to face her daughter – they were the same height and their eyes met. There were tears in her mother’s face. Then she reached for her daughter and embraced her.
“Oh Anee! Of course I understand that part. I was there too, and I turned away to marry your pa. He was so good to me, and I knew I would be forever safe with him. But I was afraid also; afraid to learn how to read n’ do numbers; afraid it would change everythin’ for me. I hid from my calling in my family. I wanted security, not adventure.
I suffered a long time over my choice and now it’s come back to me in you. I suppose that’s fair enough; that God would give me you so you could go and do what I chose not to.
I will go with you to Bellamy’s and if Joram is there I will explain your choice to him. It doesn’t matter what he says, you will be a teacher, Anee. Your pa will be so proud, I can’t wait to see his face when you tell him.”

They both put on their long grey coats and boots to ward off the damp air and residual dew of a sunless day and walked silently, hand in hand, to their rich neighbour’s farm. A keen observer would have noticed there was a certain lightness to their steps.

A Bit of Wisdom from my El Issa Days

[essay on compassion – by ~burning woman~ ]

El Issa’s name should not be new to those who have read some of my blog articles. I’ve mentioned her work in my life, her teachings on compassion, on detachment, on servanthood to the point of voluntarily giving one’s life for another. Some will even remember the dream I related where she described to me how she healed her world in the darkness of her Shadowlands.

I came across a book some years back called “The Gods of Eden” written by William Bramley. Seven years of intensive research by this man looking for the answer to his life-long question: why do humans indulge in war? culminated in this book. This is what struck me as I was reading today. I am going to quote some parts from Chapter 12 entitled “The Jesus Ministry.” This passage is about the so-called “lost years” of the life of Jesus.

Quote: “Several years ago I happened to see an intriguing film documentary by Richard Bock entitled The Lost Years. The film suggests that Jesus journeyed to Asia where he spent his teens and early adulthood studying the religions practiced there. One source from which the filmmaker drew this remarkable conclusion was the “Legend of Issa,” a very old Buddhist document purportedly discovered in the Himi Monastery of India by Russian traveler Nicolas Notovitch in 1887.

According to the Buddhist legend uncovered by Notovitch, a remarkable young man named “Issa” had departed for Asia at the age of thirteen. Issa studied under several religious masters of the East, did some preaching of his own, and returned to Palestine sixteen years later, at the age of 29. The significant parallels between the lives of “Issa” and Jesus have led to the conclusion that Issa was, in fact, Jesus. If true, such a journey would certainly be omitted from the Bible because it contradicts the idea that Jesus had achieved spiritual enlightenment solely by divine inspiration.

If Jesus was an Essene (a point already made in Bramley’s book) and he traveled to Asia under Essene sponsorship, and if the Essenes indeed followed an Aryan tradition, we would expect Jesus to be sent to study under the Aryan Brahmans of the Indian subcontinent. According to the legend of Issa that is precisely what happened:

“In his fourteenth year, young Issa, the Blessed One, came this side of the Sindh [a province in Western Pakistan] and settled among the Aryas [Aryans]…”

Upon Jesus’ arrival, “the white priests of Brahma welcomed him joyfully” and taught him, among other things, to read and understand the Vedas, and to teach and expound sacred Hindu scriptures. This joyful reception quickly turned sour, however, because Jesus insisted upon associating with the lower castes. That led to friction between the young headstrong Jesus and Brahmin hosts. According to the legend:
“But the Brahmins and the Kshatriyas [members of the military caste] told him that they were forbidden by the great Para-Brahma [Hindu god] to come near to those who were created from his belly and his feet [the mythical origin of the lower castes];
“[…] But Issa, disregarding their words, remained with the Sudras, preaching against the Brahmins and Kshatriyas. He declaimed strongly against man’s arrogating to himself the authority to deprive his fellow-beings of their human and spiritual rights. “Verily,” he said, “God has made no difference between his children, who are all alike dear to Him.”
“Issa denied the divine inspiration of the Vedas and the Puranas [a class of sacred writings] …”

I don’t need to quote more. Anyone interested can find this book and read it for themselves. The point I wanted to make here was that I’ve discovered why El Issa’s teachings so closely and intimately paralleled those of Jesus still found in the Christian section of the Bible called the “New Testament.” In nature, they are the same person.

Incidentally, because of my intimate relationship with El Issa I’ve come to understand why those teachings mean so much to me and why I think that applied properly, with detachment and true self-empowerment they have the power to change the direction man has taken and bring this world to a true “new age” of understanding and peace – without Earth having to go through some horrific aspect of “Armageddon.”

A conflict ends when one of the protagonists discovers compassion and finds that she or he would rather die than cause harm to another. Indeed the basic teaching of El Issa to me over the years has been, “Far better it is for you to give your [physical] life for another than to take another’s life to protect yours or that of a loved one. Life is much, much more than most even have an inkling of.”

War is our greatest sin, our greatest folly, our greatest downfall. But according to “Issa” it is not inevitable. Each one of us has the power to end it – right now, without any need of further interference from so-called divine beings, or for that matter, aliens. Who but us knows this place best? Who but us has the most to lose if things continue as they are today? Seems to me it is foolishness to expect some unknown entity to care more about this world than we do.

A thought: How do we know when we are truly free? When death is no longer either feared or desired as release from responsibility or from pain.

Think about this: as people, we expect nature to provide for us. When we believe that nature is a bit slow in responding to our expectations or entitlements, we force her hand. We’ve been doing this for millennia and with so little negative reaction that we’ve come to think of it as the proper way to proceed. Force and violence is good, waiting, nurturing, sharing and accepting is bad. We made ourselves into violent creatures and from our violence we became vile creatures with no intention of changing.

Now ask yourselves this: what would happen to the world if we all became compassionate beings “overnight”? Then ask, “Why not? What’s preventing me from choosing compassion as my sole modus operandi? Is it because I’m afraid, a “chicken shit” or because I too believe that might is right and to not use force to get my way indicates that I am a weakling?”

How could you (generic) wage war in a world of compassionate people? How could you cause pain or harm deliberately as a compassionate being? How could you accept social injustice? Racism? Misogyny? Imagine the joy felt as a world as we inexorably x’d out our long list of societal evils?

Well, there’s no magic in it, is there. I’ve made that choice and I hope that it shows a bit even on this blog. I’m an ordinary member of the great uneducated, unwashed, never heard masses. No better certainly, hopefully no worse, morally speaking, than any other. That being said, as I’ve said it before, if I can do this, anyone can do this. It’s a matter of choice and if you (generic) choose not to consider becoming a compassionate being, what does that say of your character? That would be a frightening admission!

The offer is simple, the consequences from accepting can save a world and possibly billions of lives.

Too much to ask?

Quote from the fantasy novel, “The Sword, the Bow and the Staff” by Sha’Tara: … “The strongest arm isn’t the one who can throw fires, move storms, overthrow a fortification or destroy an army.

“The strongest arm is the one that cradles a child; that picks up a broken body and heals it; that wraps itself around the grieving and provides comfort; that blocks a blow meant to harm an innocent. That is the strongest arm.

“The second strongest arm is the one who can wield the sword, throw the spear, shoot the bow, pull back and notch the wire of the crossbow or manipulate a staff but only in the service of justice.

“In the end it comes down to humility, courage and compassion.”

An Unexpected and very strange Dream

[as experienced by Sha’Tara]

There are those of us who are born dreamers. No, I don’t mean wishful thinkers but people who have unusual dreams that require serious interpretation. Is the dream a revelation? Is it for me of for some other person? Is it a “generic” prophecy, and if so, how to properly “download” the message file that it may then be presented to that lucky “generic” crowd?

Do I have to mention that I use the word “lucky” tongue in cheek? How many dreamers have had their dreaming career cut short when they kept saying things the lucky recipients did not want to hear, or which their leaders took exception to?

Water under the bridge and all that… but here’s a dream for you that should, perhaps, leave you scratching your head, as it did me, and continues to “do me”.

That was last night. I was having what must have been a peaceful sleep and the evening before was quite uneventful although I did try to watch a movie called “Captain Fantastic” which I could not finish. So what happened?

The dream. First, the scene: a steep hillside and it is quite dark though it is full daytime. I’m walking past a large black building on my left, climbing uphill, searching for some kind of path although the territory is not totally strange to me. Coming up behind me huffing and asking me to wait is…

You won’t believe this: none other than Donald Trump. To say that I’m shocked (in the dream) is an understatement. I don’t know what to say as he approaches. He puts his right hand on my shoulder and says, “Thanks for waiting, thanks a lot. Look, I know this will seem crazy but I want you to listen to me very, very carefully. First, I need you. I’ll explain why but let me just say that I know all about you, and your feelings towards me in particular, and all politicians. Also that you are no fan of America as an ideal. OK? Now please let me talk. I don’t have much time.”

“I’ve had a revelation (the word he used was different but it’s the best I can come up with) and I’m in terrible shock. All my life I’ve been a taker. I still can’t believe I’m saying this but it’s true. Now I’m in a position to reverse this. I want to be a giver, both in my politics and my personal life. I don’t know where that will leave me but I feel I have no choice in this. I repeat, I need you to help me because you understand what such a shift means.” He turns and motions to an individual I cannot see. “My assistant wants to speak to you. I’ll wait.”

A woman appears and approaches me. Is it KellyAnn Conway? It could be, looks like her but she does not introduce herself. She takes my arm and leads me into a dark brush-filled area, stops and looks straight in my eyes. She says words to the effect: “The president is in shock and I’m at a loss on how to handle this situation. We, I, have come to you because we, I, know I can trust you. If I can convince you to help us through this transition, I know you are essentially incorruptible and that you will do it, not for us and not for the opposition but for the people. This is all about people, not politicians, not elites, not anybody special. I, I mean we, no, the President (the way she said it makes me capitalize the title here) wants to turn everything around. He says he knows he has to, but has no idea how to proceed. Who would believe him? Who would trust him? I feel like I’m assistant to the Grinch who stole Christmas and is awakened on Christmas day by all the little Who singing happily as if nothing was missing. The President want to return Christmas to the people. He needs you understanding and your help. Will you help us? Long ago you wanted a chance like this but now that you no longer care we know you are trustworthy.”

I would have liked to be involved in more of this dream but I think the shock of it actually woke me up. I lay wide awake for a long time, forcing myself to remember the details in the dream and what they might mean. I got the symbolism of the “Black House” as how I would see the White House because of the corruption it houses. Also the entire sense of a very dark day is how I perceive the global situation we are in. The brushy area represents the political mess. Beyond that, having Donald Trump and KellyAnn Conway asking me for help even though, yes, I know what such a revelation as he explained having experienced, does entail, is a bit more than much. But then, what’s self empowerment for in the end?

Was my mind playing a really sick game, or is there something going on, even if in some altered reality? Is compassion challenging me to “love my enemy” in this scenario? What sort of personal power was I being offered?

Who is the message for? All bets are off but I’ll accept opinions!