My Photographic Eye VI: Trees and Leaves

type="text/javascript">

Trees & Leaves
Copyright 2012-All Rights Reserved

Photography can be its own form of meditation. -Ansel Adams

Everything has beauty
but not everyone sees it. -Confucius

                     














We have nothing to fear and a great deal to learn from trees, that vigorous and pacific tribe which without stint produces strengthening essences for us, soothing balms, and in whose gracious company we spend so many cool, silent and intimate hours. -Marcel Proust

How Flowers Got Their Colors, Scene 3

Copyright 2011-All Rights Reserved 

3. Looking for Mother Nature

The party set out after the Council of Flowers decided to send four ambassadors--Sweet William, Tiger Lily, Impatients, and Lavender--to see Mother Nature. Heather Honeybee declared that she would fly a bit ahead as scout and check back at regular intervals to report. Bessie Mae  and Rufus stayed with the four ambassadors.

It was midmorning when they started the journey. Over hill and dale, they went for several hours with the sun beaming down. Sweet William felt a bit wilted from the sun, as did Impatients. They wanted to stop and rest but Butterfly urged them on, pointing out that they should want to quickly reach their destination quickly and solve their problems.

Tiger Lily agreed. "This trip is taking longer than we thought. We should keep going."

Soon, the company found themselves in a shady glade with overgrown, tall grasses on either side of them, and creeping vines covering the ground. The dim light and profuse foliage made it hard to judge the lay of the land, so it was tricky going for the little party. Several times, Lavender stumbled, but her companions kept her steady on her feet and they forged ahead.

Bessie Mae Butterfly was circling overhead and Rufus Hummingbird was flying a bit ahead of the Flowers when a piercing shriek cut through the air. At the sound, Rufus zoomed back and Bessie Mae dive bombed down through the thick foliage to see what was wrong. One, two, three…Bessie Mae counted as she circled over head. Where was the fourth Flower? Where was Sweet William?

Lavender continued to shriek while the others stood around her, their eyes following the direction of Lavender’s finger which was pointing at what looked like a large hole under a tree. “He fell down there! Down there! Help him!”

Rufus peeped in through the tree limbs with Bessie Mae hovering near. At the bottom of the hole was Sweet William who was shouting up at Lavender.

“Shut up, Miss Thing and get me out of here!”

“How?” She cried. “You’re too far down there!”

Tiger Lily leaned over the hole as far as she dared. “Can’t you climb up?”

“If I could, I would,” Sweet William snapped. “Get me out of here, now!”

“Anybody got any ideas?” Impatients asked, his voice riddled with frustration.

Nobody had noticed that near the entrance to the hole, Ananzi, the Spider, had spun a beautiful, crystalline web overhead. She rested on its strands, calmly witnessing the commotion. “I can help you,” she called out to Sweet William.

All heads swiveled in her direction. Sweet William gazed up, his eyes mesmerized by her tantalizing voice.

“Please, do,” he responded gratefully. “It seems I’m surrounded by grossly incompetent traveling companions who suffer from a deplorable and utter lack of imagination. Dear lady, being at your mercy, I am yours to command.” Sweet William had turned on the charm. If he could have, he would have bowed and doffed his hat to Ananzi, the Spider.

She smiled at his words. But her smile, Rufus noted, made her look like a bloodsucking vampire.

Rufus scowled and flew close to Bessie Mae, his wings going faster and faster. He had recognized her as Ananzi, the trickster. “I don’t like this. This babe is Ananzi, the trickster. Can’t trust her no kinda way. Remember the old spider and fly story?”

“Yes,” Bessie Mae said. “But what choice do we have? We don’t have a way to get him out.”

Ananzi spoke to Sweet William again. “I’ll send down a strand of my silk. You grab it and I’ll pull you up.”

Rufus whispered to Bessie Mae: “Let’s keep a sharp eye out.”

Ananzi spun a long strand of spider silk and shot it in his direction. Sweet William grabbed it and was swiftly lifted up. Ananzi angled the strand so that Sweet William was being pulled closer and closer to the glistening, beautiful web where she sat on her long, hairy spider legs. Just as he was within her reach, Butterfly and Hummingbird swooped over, took him by his tiny arms, and flew him away from her.

“What are you doing?” Sweet William demanded of them as they set him down beside his three friends.

“Yes,” said Ananzi, “I’d like to know that myself.” She looked peeved, as if she’d just missed out on a good meal.

“Thought we’d lend you a hand,” Bessie Mae explained, as she shooed the party of four on their way.

Rufus flew as close as he dared to Ananzi.“’Preciate cha, m’am, for all you done, but business calls, so we gots to slide.” 

“Hmmp!” Ananzi grunted, knowing she’d been outsmarted. “Next time don’t look to me for help.”

“It’s been real,” Rufus said and flew on to join the company.

Hours later, the party had long since reached the end of Meadow and their way turned into a rocky, dusty path which made it harder for the Flowers to walk.


Sun’s heat began to make them wish they’d thought to bring some water for refreshment. They felt tired, but wilted and dry.

The journey had become more of a challenge than anyone had imagined.
 

To make matters worse, Heather Honeybee, having scouted ahead, flew in and reported that the mountain where Mother Nature lived was still quite a ways off.


Heather, Rufus, and Bessie Mae took a quick conference on the situation. They felt sorry for the brave foursome. Though it was not their fault, they felt guilty that the journey was so hard on the Flowers. Unfortunately, no one had an idea about how to get to their destination quicker. They had no choice but to continue on their way.


It was late afternoon when Tiger Lily looked up at the sky. It had turned the color of charcoal and smoke. Gray bar clouds floated overhead like lost ships on an angry, unpredictable sea. “Look,” she said, “at how the sky has turned dark.”

Bessie Mae, observing the clouds, felt Wind rise. “We’re in for rain, I think.”

"Oh, no!” cried Lavender. “I put on my best frock. Rain will ruin it!”


“At least we’ll get refreshed by it,” Sweet William put in as he moped the sweat from his brow.

“Maybe the clouds will pass,” said Rufus.

As the party trudged on, rain pitter-pattered down. Lightly, at first, then harder. And harder still. Wind pushed the big, fat raindrops this way and that until they gathered into a stream that swirled around their feet, then rose to their ankles and legs. To their horror, the dusty road they had been traveling had quickly become a lake. The Flowers had to make a dash to the side of the road and take shelter under a very tall bush while Rufus, Heather, and Bessie Mae clung to some of its branches. Bush, or no bush, all of them were getting thoroughly soaked.

They hovered together miserably in a steady downpour. Nobody could find a dry spot. Frustration crackled in the air. “Let’s get out of here and go home,” Impatients shouted over the heavy patter of rain.

“Fool, we can’t move til it stops raining,” snapped Sweet William. He pointed to the washed out road where rain water had made a lake. “We can’t get across that. We’re marooned.”

“But I’m all wet!” Lavender whined.

Tiger Lily growled, “You don’t say?”

“Whose idea was this anyway?” Impatients asked. “We should have never left home. This is crazy! As soon as it stops raining, I’m for heading back.”

Sweet William agreed. “This does seem to be a disastrous undertaking. We’re putting ourselves at risk. And we’re not even sure where we’re going! I vote to go back.” The other two nodded their heads as well.

“No! We’ve got to keep going! ” Urged Heather, keenly aware that this was a life or death mission for her and her bee colony. For what would honeybees do without the nectar of flowers?

“Why don’t we wait until the rain stops to make a decision?” suggested Bessie Mae.

“Yeah. Don’t jump the gun, folks just because we’ve run into a few little problems!” Said Rufus.

“Little!!” growled Tiger Lily.

For the next hour, nobody said a word. Finally, the rain stopped. But there was so much water that they would need a boat to move from the spot where they’d been marooned. The three winged companions moved into conference mode.

“We need a change of luck,” Heather declared.

"You think?” asked Rufus in his most sarcastic tone.

Rufus eyed a flock of black and white birds that had flown in and lighted on tree limbs nearby. They were magpies and they were jabbering at each other like nobody’s business. Rufus recognized the voice of one of them.


“Say, man!” said Rufus, beating his tiny wings faster and faster to hover near the four birds. “I ain’t seen you in month of Sundays! How you be?”



Next: Scene 4









photo courtesy of http://www.weforanimals.com/









 

How Flowers Got Their Colors, scene 2

Copyright 2011-All Rights Reserved

2. The Flowers

Honeybee was in a dither. "What do you mean that the Flowers have no colors? How can I got back and tell that to my unit commander? They'll laugh me out of the colony if I tell them a story like that!"

"Word!" Shouted Hummingbird. "You trippin Butterfly. No-color Flowers? That's wack!"

"Yes," Butterfly agreed. "It sounds far-fetched, all right. But, what do you see when you look down there?"

They all looked down, shocked at the sight of the gray, ghostly things from which they were supposed to gather nectar.

If these are Meadow's Flowers, Butterfly thought to herself, the sight of them is altogether depressing. Not one of them attracts. Not one summons us with brilliant, glowing color. How sad!

Aloud, she said "We could stand here all day wondering and debating. the only real way to find out if they're Flowers is to ask them." And she fluttered down with the other two following and landed on a blade of grass.

Hummingbird, wings beating faster than ever, hovered just above Butterfly and spoke to a clump of 'something' on the ground. "Say, can you tell me where the Flowers at round here? We been checking out Meadow, but we can't find the place to play, so to speak. Can you help us out?"

Honeybee elaborated further: "We don't see any colors so we know there can't be Flowers here. Please tell us where to find them!"

There was an audible gasp from all the Flowers. Their petals shook in unified indignation.

But it was Sweet William who spoke first: "How dare you!" He huffed. "I don't believe I've ever been quite so insulted in all my days!"

"Of all the nerve!" Said Impaitents, indignant and angry. "What do you think we are? Weeds!"

Honeybee was flabbergasted. "You mean you really are Flowers?"

"Not too bright are you?" Snapped Impatients, living up to her name. "Of course, we're Flowers. Anyone with a half a brain can see that!"

Butterfly fluttered up and down angrily, then decided to challenge her: "Well if you are, why don't you have colors so you can attract us and we can get the nectar we're supposed to use to pollinate?"

The Flowers, one and all, looked at each other quizzically. "What," bellowed Tiger Lily, "is this thing 'color' you keep referring to?"

Honeybee almost fell over. She couldn't believe her ears."You mean you don't know?"

"Know? What is there to know!?" Cried Lavender, who was very excitable indeed.

"Color," Butterfly broke in, "is what Rainbow over there is made of." She nodded toward the edge of the horizon where Rainbow shimmered blissfully.

Hummingbird, who lacked tactfulness, told them flat out: "Yo! Y'all some dummies! You suppose to have color. Everthang suppose to have it. Specially y'all. When y'all vibed in at the Beginning, that was when you was suppose to take the colors y'all was assigned by Big Momma--I mean, Mama Nature. Like you, Miss Lavender, you suppose to be purple. And Brotha Bill, your petals suppose to be sportin some scarlet or rose. That way--"

Sweet William, fussing with his suit and tie, as he did every morning, bristled at Hummingbird. "Miss Thing, please take note. My name is not  Bill. It's William... Sweet Wlliam. And I'll thank you to call me by my proper nom de plume."

"William," said Impatients, "stop throwing French phrases around. It's irritating, especially when you don't know what you're saying. But let's get back to what Hummingbird--"

"Call me Rufus. I'm Rufus Hummingbird, delighted to meet cha." He inclined his head politely and dipped his wings at her.

"Yes," said Impatients. "Delighted. But what were you telling us earlier about these... what did you call them?"

"Colors," said Hummingbird.

"You say we should have gotten assigned colors at the Beginning when we vibrated in?"Asked Impatients.

"And if we had, we'd look like Rainbow, over there." Said Tiger Lily.

"Not exactly like Rainbow," Butterfly put in. "She has many colors, but you should have gotten one color of your own.That's the way Mother Nature planned it, I'm sure. In order for you to fulfill your purpose. And for us to fulfill ours."

"Yes," said Honeybee, "you have your purpose and I, that is, we have ours. And we need each other to carry them out."

"So, what happened to you," asked Hummingbird, "when you vibrated into being?"  

"I think the important question is where do we get this color you say we should have?" Cried Lavender, excited by her own question.

"As you say," Hummingbird agreed.

"Well," demanded Tiger Lily, "where can we get it?"

Butterfly said: "Why from Mother Nature, of course."

"And where, might I ask, is she?" growled Tiger Lily.

Sweet William said: "I heard that you can find her over the Mountain in The Cave of Sun and Moon."

"Heard from who?" Hummingbird challenged, his wings beating extra hard and fast.

"Why, from Gravpevine, of course," William said, tossing his dainty head saucily.

They all looked over at Crossroads. Grapevine hung on his sign, twined round and round his arms. It was a good place for her to hear every kind of tale from traveling passersby, going hither and thither.

"Well, do you believe her?" Asked Butterfly.

"She knows her business. Never wrong yet," said Sweet William.

"Hmm," Butterfly said. "I'm thinking we might have an answer to our problems."

"Well, I want to hear it because I really can't go back to the hive telling a wild story like this." Honeybee said, bzzing round and round.

"What you got in mind, lady?" Hummingbird asked Butterfly.

"My name is Bessie Mae Butterfly, Rufus."

Not one to be left out, Honeybee said: "And mine is Heather Honeybee."

Sweet William said with a touch of sarcasm: "Now that we have all that important stuff settled, let's get back to Rufus' question. What do you have in mind, Bessie Mae?"

"We'll all go find Mother Nature and ask her to give Flowers their colors," said Bessie Mae Butterfly triumphantly. "It's the only way."

Next- Scene 3

Original Myths-How Flowers Got Their Colors, Scene 1

Copyright 2011-All Rights Reserved


1. Honeybee, Hummingbird, and Butterfly

One morning, shortly after the beginning of things, a spring shower drenched Meadow, after which Rainbow, lustrous with colors, appeared in the sky.

photo credit: http://www.freenaturepictures.com/



At the north end of Meadow, Honeybee looked out of the beehive and said: "What a perfect day for my first time to collect Flower nectar."



Honeybee had spent her childhood inside the colony, learning the ropes. Now she was 21 days old--an adult and ready for her first foraging flights. Today, she was flying to the center of Meadow where, it was rumored you ought to be able to get a really big nectar load from the combine of Flowers there.

Before she left, she was told by the Nectar Gathering Supervisor that finding and gathering nectar from Flowers was just a matter of color cues. That is, a Flower's color would always guide her straight to the nectar pouch. Furthermore, the Supervisor said: "You are expressly instructed to look for blue and violet Flowers because we bees are especially attracted to these hues."

Honeybee was the type who could be relied upon to follow instructions. Sometimes, she could be a little anal about it. Most of the time, however, this trait of hers served her well. When Honeybee flew away from the hive, heading for the center of Meadow, she felt good about having been carefully instructed and she thought she was fully prepared to do her job.

When Honeybee got to the meadow, she noticed Hummingbird beating his wings at light speed as he flew back and forth, inspecting someting pale and ghostly growing amid the green blades of grass.Close by, Butterfly was doing the same, darting to and fro from one gray thing to another.



As Honeybee drew closer, she looked down at the pallid cluster of sickly looking things languishing in the middle of Meadow. She could not tell what they were, not could she see Flowers with colors anywhere.

Round and round, she flew for several minutes, looking for colors to cue her. But she found none. She was confused, so she bzzed over to Hummingbird and asked: "Is this the centerof Meadow? I was told I could find Flowers here, but I don't see any colors like blue and violet to guide me to them."

Hummingbird was just as perplexed as Honeybee. "This the right place, babycakes. Matter a fact, I been lookin m'self for orange or red Flowers to turn me on to the mother load. Been lookin for an hour and I cain't find nuthin," he admitted. "Les ask Butterfly. Them butterflies pretty good at figurin things out."

They zoomed over to Butterfly who had paused and was staring at the gray things below her. "Pardon us,"said Honey bee, "do you know where Meadow's Flowers are? I was told to look for the colors at the center of Meadow, but I can't see any colors at all. There's nothing down there except for the green grass.
So I don't know where to look."

"Same here," said Hummingbird. "It's a problem cause I gotta take in a load  a necta so's I can pay the rent, know what I mean?"

"Well, I think I've figured it out," replied Butterfly, stroking her chin. "Those drab, colorless things sticking up between the blades of grass are Flowers. At least, I believe they are."

"Say whaat?!" Hummingbird was so astonished at the very idea that he stopped beating his wings for several seconds.

Honeybee stopped bzzing, and just hung in the air speechless. She couldn't comprehend the idea. It went against everything she had been taught about life and how the world functioned. When she recovered herself, she proclaimed, "Whoever heard of Flowers without colors!"

Butterfly, who was something of a detective, had a very logical mind and she replied: "Whoever is right! But we are at the center of Meadow where Flowers are supposed to be, and, as you said, Honey bee, there's nothing down there except green grass and some pallid looking things that could possibly be Flowers. As a famous detective once said, 'Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of butterfly--or a honeybee--can invent!'"

Next: The Flowers, Scene 2

Original Myths - How Flowers Got Their Colors, Prologue

Copyright 2011-All rights Reserved

1. Prologue


At the beginning, all things came to be in this dimension by vibrating themselves into being from the engergy of All-Spirits. Each thing, as it came into this dimension was to bring its own particular color with it.

And so, the shining Sky children--Sun, Moon, Rainbow, and Stars, came to be by rippling and shimmering themselves into the heavens.

Then came the Four Sacred Elements: Earth, the Pillar, manifested itself by whirling and spinning faster than the eye can see, while Fire, the Resplendent One, flickered and crackled; Water, the elixir, surged and gushed; and Wind, the Sage, wafted and danced itself into existence.

One by one, other things vibrated themselves into existence, like Mountain, who came to be by quaking and thrusting itself up so that it stood tall and mighty against the sky, and like Valley, who dipped down so that it lay snugly beside Mountain. Plains and Meadow and Trees and Grass blazoned forth by rolling and zigzagging into the spaces where Mountain and Valley could not fit.

Then Flowers wiggled and waggled themselves into being so that they peeked out between blades of Grass sprouting on Meadow. But, alas! Something had happened to them as they vibrated!

This is the story of what (happened). And who (was brave enough to find out). And how (everything was put to right).

Next Time: Part 2- "Honeybee, Hummingbird, and Butterfly"

My Photographic Eye IV: Shadow Patterns

Copyright 2011-all rights Reserved

                                Shadow Patterns

shifting creatures
fantastic
prodigy of light

                                        
shadow patterns
dark reflections
mated
to
shining sun

I see you
shadow patterns
playing here
and there

hiding
in shadow
making
night moves
in
the light of day.

Sand: Photo Group II

Copyright 2010-All Rights Reserved


sand

specks of time
gritty between my toes

grains of rock and shell
swept on
wind and water

skipping
rough and tumble
across landscapes

piled high
stranded
in
dune castles
ashore.

Clouds Dream: Photo Group I

Copyright 2010-All Rights Reserved

clouds
dream

shapes fantastic

feather
skies

with
floating magic.

The Mee Street Chronicles: Interview with the Author

Copyright 2007-All Rights Reserved

Interview with Author, Frankie Lennon, About Her Memoir

1. Briefly, what’s the book about?

The Mee St. Chronicles is a very candid, passionate memoir of my battle to claim my own life and sexual identity. In it, I narrate stories starting with my childhood and take you with me on my turbulent life journey & struggle to find freedom from the many prisons that bind me. How the conflicts in my life play out give my stories page-turning drama that I think readers will enjoy.



2. How did the book come about?

The idea of writing about my life experiences had been at the back of my mind for years. It took my old friend, Nikki Giovanni, to act as catalyst for this. She had planned to edit a book of stories and essays and she asked me to contribute. I did by writing a piece called “The Code.” Although the book never came to fruition, that story ultimately launched me into writing the stories of The Mee St. Chronicles.


3. How is your book like or different from other memoirs?

Well, mine is about my battle to claim my life and my sexual identity. The fact is, “out” Black Lesbians are not crowding the field to write about their struggle to claim their lives with integrity in a world that often appears very homophobic. Of course, there’s Audre Lourde who wrote Zami years ago. And Alice Walker has written a short story or two about living in the life. My book is a different kind of memoir. I put myself out there on several fronts, including my battle with alcoholism. I tell it like it is.

4. Why should people buy your book? What does your book offer the reader?

They should buy because I tell powerful stories, exciting stories, stories that make you think and re-evaluate some issues. They should buy it because I offer the reader the chance to see and experience my naked feelings, conflicts, fears, and struggles. I get down to the nitty-gritty in The Mee St. Chronicles, and you get the chance to experience my trials and tribulations along with me. It will be exciting, funny, and heartbreaking. And it will never be dull.
Page 2 Q&A with Answers

5. Who are you targeting as readers?

There’s something for everybody—young and old, Straight & Gay, Black, Latina, White, people fighting addictions, people with the virus, people who know or don’t know about living Jim Crow in the South. My stories are stories about finding out who you are, about trying to make sense of your life, about learning how to get rid of the shame that binds you.

6. What have you learned about yourself as a result of writing this book?

I’ve learned that understanding who I am and finally not being ashamed of that was worth all the struggle. And I’ve learned that I really am a good writer whose work people like very much.


7. What inspired you to write this book? Why did you take the time and effort to write it not knowing whether you’d be published or not?

First, the act of creating pushed me forward. Writing quenched a lifelong thirst and filled a void because I began to honor and express the creative spirit within. Second, I wanted to preserve my memories by telling my stories. Memories are all about identity for me. And telling you who I am, through my memory stories, set me free. No more secrets to poison my spirit. And third, I thought that my stories might help to set many people free. Or at least put their feet on the road to freedom. Especially those who feel different and think they are cursed by that difference. These stories are to reassure them that they aren’t cursed. To encourage them to keep going no matter how bad things look or what others may say or do. To tell them they aren’t alone, that there’s somebody else who’s survived choosing the wrong road more than once, who’s fallen off the road several times, who’s lost the road completely, but who, in the end, has finally found her way.


8. What has been the greatest delight in your writing career so far?

Getting The Mee Street Chronicles written and published.

9. What writers have inspired you?

James Baldwin, Nikki Giovanni, Judith Ortiz Cofer, bell hooks, Stephen King.

10. Who has been the greatest influence in your life?

My pastor and friend, Archbishop Carl Bean. His work in and out of the pulpit continues to leave its mark on me.

11. What advice would you give to beginning writers?

Keep writing. Make time to write no matter what. Don’t give it up and don’t let anything or anybody stop you.

(end)

Order my book at Amazon or Borders Bookstores or at my publisher’s website under the book title or under my name, Frankie Lennon, at
www.Amazon.com< www.Borders.com
www.Kerlak.com

Excerpts from The Mee Street Chronicles: "Scotch on the Rocks"

Copyright 2007-All Rights Reserved

Introduction to "Scotch on the Rocks"


"What’s Goin On?" is a scene from the story, "Scotch on the Rocks" which is in my memoir,The Mee Street Chronicles. This story is about the first time I was confronted by an alcohol counselor about my drinking. Alcoholism is a serious disease. Most people are like I was. They don't know or understand that it is a disease. Before the drinker can get help to treat it, the drinker has to first acknowledge that alcohol is a problem. Then she or he has to be willing to get help. This story is about my attitude toward my drinking at that time of my life. And what happened after I was confronted about it.



"What's Goin On?"


The five o'clock crew at Allen's Lounge was off and running. The place buzzed like a busy hive. What's goin on? I heard Marvin Gaye ask over the chattering hum of the crowd. Home free! That's what's goin on, I answered in my head while situating myself on a barstool. No alcohol counselor and his stupid questions around here! I nodded hello to the regulars lining the bar like pigeons waiting for bread crusts. Behind the bar, Allen, tall as an ostrich and dark as bitter chocolate, counted bills and change to balance the cash register. Jay iced down the beer while Les, looking like a sad-eyed, basset hound, poured up half-dozen drink orders as Katie, the waitress, reeled them off.

I lit a cigarette and glanced up at the huge, lighted mirror in front of me. Scattered at tables, men in blue or gray work uniforms, just getting off from work at Whirlpool or Alcoa, drank quarts of Budweiser or shots of whiskey, smoked cigarettes, traded lies, hawked the women, and speculated on which one might want a just-for-tonight lover. The women, in bright colors, sat in groups of two's and three's, cutting their eyes at each other, whispering behind their hands, or throwing their heads back in noisy laughter. Most of them sipped pretty drinks—the kind I never had much use for—like Tom Collins or Tequila Sunrise, although some toyed with a glass of beer.

I caught Jay's eye and winked. He was a beauty. An x-rated honey-dripper. Cinnamon skin, thick eyelashes, naturally arched eyebrows, sculpted, full lips. And so good in bed that I could pretend my woman-jones didn't exist. Sometimes, all his sexiness and beauty triggered my inferiority complexes. At other times, my ego swelled with the idea that a sugah-lump like him had picked me to be his woman.

"What's up?" I asked as he came toward me

He shrugged, slapping a napkin on the counter. "Gonna be jumpin in here tonight. Allen's got me working the night shift, so I won't get by your place until 2:30. You want your usual? It's on me."

"Yeah, scotch on the—"

He finished it. "Rocks, lemon slice, water back."

"What else?" I smiled.

He grinned at me and started to pour. As he did, a voice hollered out.

"Give her another!" It was Sylvester sitting at the other end of the bar; he slammed two quarters down for Jay. I waved at Syl and nodded my thanks. He, in turn, lifted his shot glass ceremoniously in salute.

Jay put two drinks in front of me, went down the bar to collect for it, rang up the order, and trotted off to the john.

I shifted my sight to the mirror behind the bar. It ran the length of the wall. The bottles, in front of it, artfully arranged in stair-step fashion, caught my eye. Like ladies of the night displaying their wares to the highest bidder, the shimmering liquor winked and promised good times: Scotch in emerald green bottles, whiskey in topaz brown bottles, vodka and gin in diamond-clear bottles. I picked up my glass and sipped. Nothing like the first scotch of the day, I told myself while savoring the bitter, slightly oily taste of J & B.

A good feeling began to settle over me. But before the good feeling could make itself at home, out of nowhere, I heard the counselor ask: Do you want to quit?

Spooked, I glanced over my shoulder, frowning as I scanned the crowd. Was that asshole of an alcohol counselor in here? Did he follow me to Allen's? But, no. There were only Black folks here, getting down to some serious partying. I stared into the golden liquid in my glass. Do you want to quit? He’d asked me. An icy tremor passed through me. How could I give it up? My palms felt clammy and I wiped them together.

There'd been times when I'd thought about it. Especially when I'd come into Allen’s, and somebody at the bar would ask me if I remembered what I'd done the night before. I hated that question. It shamed me. They knew what I'd done, but I didn't. It was unnerving because a big, black hood had dropped down over my brain. What I'd done the night before was gone. Wiped clean. When someone asked me, I'd drop my eyes, afraid that I'd made a fool of myself. Afraid that somebody was going to rib me for it and I wouldn’t be able to, couldn’t play it off. How could I when last night was a bunch of empty pages scrolling in my head?

I pulled on my cigarette. Why couldn't I remember? What was happening? Maybe I should seriously consider quitting. But when that line of thought came to mind, I had to have a drink since thinking about quitting was unnerving. By the time I'd finished drinking and thinking, mother scotch had moved the whole idea to the back burner.

What's goin on? Marvin asked me, his voice fading on the last notes of the song. I took a long swallow of scotch, almost draining the glass as The Isley's kicked "Love the One You With" into high gear. It was then that the door swung open so hard that the hinges squeaked and sang. I turned my head to see who was coming in. There at the entrance stood Jay's wife—a harmless-looking, brown terrier with the soul of a war dog. For a millisecond, she was motionless; then, she swooped in.

Thank God, Jay was in the john. If she had come in a few minutes earlier, she'd have caught me sitting here carrying on with him. But she didn't need to catch me to know I was guilty. When Jay was here, nine times out of ten, I was, too. Marsha knew, like everybody else in Evansville, that I was Jay's sideline woman. It was a common practice. Husbands took lovers; wives looked the other way. Marsha didn't frequent the bars, so ordinarily Allen's Lounge was safe territory for me and Jay. But not, it seemed, today. In the mirror, I watched her double-timing it straight to me, her jaws tighter than Dick's hatband. She stomped up beside me and stopped, hand on her hip, glaring. Without looking at her, I lifted my glass to drink, weighing the threat of danger her presence signaled while cold sweat inched down my stomach.

"What the hell," she addressed me in ringing tones, loud enough for everyone to take notice, "do you think you're doin in here with Jay?"

At the sound of her voice, the bar's noisy crowd suddenly came to attention, slipping into the I-was-a-witness mode, drinks forgotten as eyes turned to watch local drama.

Marsha moved a step closer. "Ain't I tole you bout this shit before?"

Survival instinct screamed for me to get the hell out of the bar, but my feet had turned to concrete. Careful not to look her in the face, I took a drag on my Pell Mell and tapped some ashes off the tip.

She took the drama up a notch, playing to every person in the room. "I hope," she proclaimed, "you don't think I'ma jus sit back in some corner while you fuck around with my husband."

I could feel her breath on my neck. Was she going to jump me? My heart was thumping in time with the record's beat. Since I'd never been a fighter, I had zero confidence about myself when it came to fisty-cuffs, but if she made a move to beat my ass, would I just sit here and let her?

The crowd hung with bated breath on every word. She huffed and puffed for them. "I'ma tell you one more time to leave Jay alone."

I kept silent, gambling that she'd interpret my silence as browbeaten humiliation and leave me be.

She pronounced her final threat with a flourish. "Don't let me have to tell you bout this shit no more!" A dramatic pause, and then: "You hear me?"

The challenge hung in the air. Despite the fact that I was shivering in my boots, the smart-ass in me finally reared its head, ready to deliver me to the hangman's noose. I opened my mouth with the intention of sarcastically assuring Marsha that I had, indeed, heard her. But Jay glided up before I could say a word, and quickly steered her out of the bar.

(end)

Order my book at Amazon or Borders Bookstores or at my publisher’s website under the book title or under my name, Frankie Lennon, at
www.Amazon.com< www.Borders.com
www.Kerlak.com

Excerpts from The Mee Street Chronicles: "Predators"

Copyright 2007-AllRights Reserved

Introduction to "Predators" from The Mee Street Chronicles

The excerpt below is from the story, “Predators,” in my memoir, The Mee St. Chronicles: Straight Up Stories of a Black Woman’s Life. My memoir tells you stories about my battle to claim my own life and sexual identity. This story is about a time when I was living as a closeted Lesbian, masquerading as a heterosexual. The Anita Bryant campaign, which served as catalyst for what happened that day in the bar, was going full throttle in the 1970's. This is a story of how that noxious campaign affected me.

"Predators"

"Homosexuality is not a deviation; it is a variation. And people need to know that."
Peter J. Gomes, Minister

Allen's black and white television sat on a beer cooler in a corner behind the bar, and you couldn't really see it unless you were sitting almost on top of it. From where I usually sat at the bar, I could see it fine if it was on. Today it was, and I was watching Les build my drink when the CBS Evening News came on. The anchor, Walter Cronkite, always distinguished, always credible, opened with the story of the "Save Our Children" campaign. It had started a short while ago, Cronkite said, pausing to glance down at the sheaf of papers in his hand, with Anita Bryant and her organization pushing for Miami to repeal the city ordinance prohibiting discrimination against homosexuals.

As soon as the word homosexual rolled out of Cronkite's mouth in basso tones, everybody seemed to come to instant attention. I shifted my eyes away from Les to the television broadcast, feeling everything inside me go stock still, just like a rabbit that's caught the scent of danger in high grass.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Katie, the waitress, headed for the jukebox, but Cecil, sitting at a table behind me, stopped her.

"Wait up, " he said. "I wanna hear the news." Katie shrugged and backed off.

That was unusual. Watching the news got very low priority even when there were only a handful of us at Allen's, so my nerve endings went on alert. Plus, I'd heard about Bryant's campaign. Which in itself was enough to get anxiety skipping through my veins. The campaign was getting a lot of national play and in Evansville, people were paying attention. At the very least, conversations gave it a passing nod if not full blown commentary. Not long ago, a man that I'd thought was open-minded and liberal had stunned me.

“Anita Bryant is right,” he'd raged after I'd asked him what he thought about her campaign. “That scum should be hunted down and put in a concentration camp somewhere away from normal people.” I particularly remembered his eyes while he'd said it. They'd gone hard and black and lightless. It was his eyes that had frightened me the most. He'd shown me his Mr. Hyde face, a part of him that I didn't know. And that part had drawn a line of separation in the sand with me standing one side and him on the other although he didn't know it. Didn't know about Stacey, about my woman dreams, about the real me I kept chained in secret corners. Nobody here did.

Glancing around, I realized that only a couple of familiar faces, the regulars that made Allen's so comfortable for me, were here today. Clyde, on the barstool in the corner and John, next to him. The rest—Cecil, Sonny, Nance, Gloria, and Betty—came in less often. As always Les was behind the bar and Katie was waiting tables, but there were a few others that I didn't know. For some reason, without the regulars that I knew so well, Allen's felt less cozy, less like home. Was there a chill in the air? I pulled my cardigan sweater closer around my chest.

On camera, Cronkite reminded us that aside from being a Miss America runner-up, Anita Bryant was best known as spokeswoman for Florida orange juice commercials. Bryant had gotten famous for telling the television audience, "A day without Florida orange juice is a day without sunshine."

Now, I thought to myself, she'd switched to selling something else. Something dark. I could hear aggravated murmurs from Cecil and the other guys sitting at his table. I drew in a ragged breath. Keeping up my camouflage was harder with Anita Bryant stirring things up. Where was my drink? I glanced at Les; he was moving in slow motion.

Cronkite went to a film clip of Bryant at a Midwestern news conference. A newsman asked about her motives for the campaign. Surrounded by microphones, the dark-haired, former beauty queen beamed at the camera and opened her mouth to oblige.

"Since homosexuals cannot reproduce," she said, striking a tone of both sincerity and loathing, "they must recruit children to freshen their ranks. We must not allow them to continue."

I clinched my fist, furious, thinking: "How can she get away with saying a pure lie like that?"

Somebody, a woman's voice, growled: "One of them mess wit my baby and he gonna get his ass kicked!"

I blew out a frustrated breath. What Bryant was saying boiled down to a load of crap. You didn’t choose or get recruited like you were joining the army or some kind of club. You were born the way you were born.

I thought about Stacey and rubbed the palm of my hand across my lips. Nobody had recruited me into being attracted to women. Nobody had forced me to love her. That admission woke up The Corners, the place, at the back of my mind, where I'd vaulted my secrets. Like autumn leaves, they began to crackle and rustle. Which served to unnerve me even more than Anita Bryant. Mostly, I could keep them quiet and still as a tomb.

On screen, you could see the reporters scribbling furiously on their pads. Bryant was gabbing away, talking like she'd made some kind of a scientific study and was releasing the results.

It pissed me off that people put the rap on us for what pedophiles did. If you paid attention to your stats, or to what the neighborhood grapevine whispered about the husband down the street, you’d know that damn near all pedophiles were heterosexuals. To cover that up, folks muddied the water so that people would confuse pedophiles with homosexuals. But they weren’t the same at all.

I paid attention to the screen again. Why wasn’t somebody questioning Anita Bryant’s claims? The reporters were just standing there, eating it up like starving animals. That was the scary part. I lit a cigarette and I dragged my hand across my lips again. When Les put my drink down in front of me, I almost knocked it over grabbing for it.

One reporter finally asked Bryant a question. He wanted to know how she chose the name for her campaign. She put one white hand to her neck and looked earnestly into the camera's eye.

"We chose the name because we want to save our children by stopping these homosexuals. They're predators!"

(end)

Order my book at Amazon or Borders Bookstores or at my publisher’s website under the book title or under my name, Frankie Lennon, at
www.Amazon.com< www.Borders.com
www.Kerlak.com

Story Excerpts from The Mee Street Chronicles: From “Fever”

Copyright 2007-All Rights Reserved

Introduction to "Fever" from The Mee Street Chronicles

The excerpt that you’re reading today is a scene from the story, “Fever,” in my memoir, The Mee St. Chronicles: Straight Up Stories of a Black Woman’s Life. My memoir tells you stories about my battle to claim my own life and sexual identity.

“Fever” is about the first woman I fell in love with and our love affair. Although “Fever” is very much a love story—which makes it a universal story— on another, significant level, the conflict and essence of this story is captured by these words: “The greatest struggle is within.”

Long before the whole book was finished, I sent this story to my writer friend, Nikki Giovanni to read; she called and told me that it was very brave of me to write it. But I didn’t write it because I was brave. I wrote it because it’s a story that NEEDED to be told.

“Fever” takes place in while I’m at college. I’ve met and fallen for Stacey. And we have begun an affair. The scene called “Secret Lives” that you’ll be reading takes place shortly after the affair begins.

Enjoy my story!

"Secret Lives" from "Fever" in The Mee Street Chronicles

For a few weeks, our secret life remained securely hidden. Then, there was that close call one afternoon in my room when Lynn, a student in one of my classes, barged in without knocking. Going by looks, nothing out of the ordinary was happening in that room, but if you went by gut feelings, the room was heavy with tingly, I-got-a-itch-for-you vibes. Stacey and I were sitting on the bottom bunk bed, books on our laps. Because my head was turned toward Stacey and away from the door, I didn't see Lynn coming in. But something in Stacey's expression scared me enough to make me jump to my feet, my book landing with a heavy thud on the floor.

It was a weird moment: Lynn at the door, wearing her usual dull-witted, sleepy look; Stacey seated on the bed with a startled, almost terrified expression, and me up and ready to take on whatever unknown bugaboo had darkened my door. When I saw it was only Lynn, my alarm drained away, and I asked her, with more roughness than I intended, what she wanted. As she told me, I noticed her dense expression changing. Into what? Curiosity? Slyness? While I hurriedly dug out my class notes for her, she stared, mouth half-opened, at me and then at Stacey. With guarded wariness, Stacey, I saw, was taking Lynn's measure herself. Everything seemed to be taking a long time, or, at least, it felt like forever before I found the notes and held them out to her. Lynn took them, nodding her thanks, and wearing a kind of smirking grin as she backed out of the room.

The door shut and I realized I couldn't breathe, was, in fact, holding my breath. I sucked in air as Stacey lit a cigarette.

"That," Stacey declared, "was way too close for comfort. We've got to be careful from now on. That girl was like a hound dog smelling a fresh trail."

I wrinkled my nose. "Lynn? She couldn't find her ass if you showed it to her in a mirror." I waved the idea away, moving close to Stacey again. "Does not play with a full deck, that one."

"No, baby!" Stacey snapped. "No. Pay attention. That one smelled our vibe. And we cannot afford to let that happen again." Stacey's voice had turned into an ice storm.

I still didn't see cause for alarm. "I don't think she suspected anything," I said, sitting again, putting my arms around her. "Lynn's too stupid to notice stuff like vibes."

"No!" She shook me off and drew back. "No! Don't do that! We'll get caught doing things like that!"

If the room had been feverish with steamy vibes before, now it was a below-zero blizzard. I backed off and got up, fumbling for my cigarettes. As usual, my hands trembled when I was scared. And Stacey's tone of voice had scared me. She'd never used it with me though I'd heard her use it before when she meant to cut somebody to the quick—slice em, dice em, and serve em up on a platter. She was known for her sharp tongue.

I could see Stacey trying to take a hold of herself and calm down. After a moment, she spoke. "Look, you're my girl, Frankie. But we're not like them. So let's don't act like them."

I was confused. What did she mean, let's don't act like them? Did she mean for me not to put my arms around her? Not to kiss her anymore? What was wrong with showing affection? And just who was them? "Who're you talking about Stacey?" I shot back, knowing the answer all along.

"You know. Them." Her voice was a cold wind. "Those freaks! Bulldaggers!"

The words made me flush with embarrassment; and, at the same time, I felt the sting of insult, of absolute put down. Why did she have to use those names? It was the same as calling us niggers. Or calling girls bitches. Anger rumbled in my chest, the kind that would usually goad me into starting an argument, but I didn't want to fight with Stacey. Besides, I could see she was already fighting, struggling with some invisible thing inside herself. A nerve at her temple moved up and down, throbbing. Her mouth was a tight slash. Whatever this thing was, it was a fearsome opponent. And it made her face ugly. Silence lay hard in the room, and I let it lay. The thing to do right now, I told myself, is keep quiet. Be cool.

Stacey peered at me across the room. "I guess this is our first lover's quarrel, huh?"

I said nothing. Mostly because I didn't know what to say. Doubts about Stacey and me swirled round my head like fireflies. The undertone in Stacey's voice when she'd used the word bulldaggers was poisonous. Hateful. How could she feel that way about herself? About me? Anxiety wrapped its fingers around my heart, forcing me to take a long, hard drag on my cigarette. She was watching me, waiting for a reply. Still, I said nothing.

"Forgive me?"

I didn't want to make her madder, so I nodded, abandoning my feelings, ignoring my unease. I nodded because I was afraid to put my feelings into words. Afraid to pursue the threads of doubt setting up house in my head. Afraid of the doors doubt might open that couldn't be shut again. The meddling voice in my head was shouting a warning from a distance, but I turned the volume down on it. All the while, silently beating myself up for a coward. A chicken-hearted coward.

(End)

Order my book at Amazon or Borders Bookstores or at my publisher’s website under the book title or under my name, Frankie Lennon, at
www.Amazon.com<
www.Borders.com
www.Kerlak.com

L.A. Observations 6: Me, The Dog Lover

Copyright 2010-All Rights Reserved

Dogs are, according to Wikipedia, domesticated forms of the wolf. Did you know that they inherited complex behaviors and social hierarchy from their wolf ancestors? And they communicate non-verbally. Did you know that? Like wolves, dogs are pack animals exhibiting a complex set of behaviors related to determining where a dog is positioned within their social hierarchy. Socially, they’re as sophisticated as people are.

I confess: I’m a dog lover. Growing up on Dandridge Avenue in Knoxville, Tennessee, I had, at one time, 5 dogs and 3 cats. I still have pictures of my dogs and I’ve framed them and put them on one of my walls along with other friends and family.

I live on a street where there are a lot of dogs. For instance, my new neighbors across from me live with Ama and Blue, two Great Danes. Blue is white and Ama is black. They’re puppies—very beautiful, big, big puppies—with very loud barks and mournful howls. Then to my left and one house down, there’s another new neighbor who walks her five white Shih tzus everyday. There’s adorable. And in her same triplex, there’s a man who walks his black and brown miniature Doberman every day. I’d never seen a “miniature” Doberman before.

Most days, I walk my next door neighbor’s dogs. The neighborhood knows me because I do. When I walk, I wave to whoever is sitting out or ambling about. As for the dogs, I fell in love with them and since I walk anyway, I asked if I could walk them. My neighbor was more than happy to have me do it. I nicknamed her dogs The Honeys: Boo (whose name is Guy) and Poo (whose name is Sybil). They’re both found dogs—black with white markings though they’re not related. He looks like he’s mostly Labrador Retriever and she’s in the Terrier family, part Whippet, which is a Greyhound breed. When they’re at home, they look out the window to keep the neighborhood “secure.” If somebody strange stops too near my apartment, they do the crazy sounding “Some stranger is out here that we don’t know” bark. That tells me to go see who or what is lurking outside.

I love my Honeys. Such interesting personalities. In the pictures above, Boo is the one with the blue toy in his mouth and Poo is stretched out on my red rug.

Poo is a firebrand—independent, fierce-hearted, and stubborn. When she was young, just a little cutie pie, she could run like the wind. The first time I saw her do it was at our walking/hiking park between La Cienega and La Brea. I let her loose on a huge green hollow—Janice’s Green Valley, it’s called—to run off leash. And run she did. She astonished me. I’d never seen anything like it. It was like watching a racehorse; her feet hardly touched the ground, all four legs pumping, then leaping to stretch straight out; she went airborne with her legs pumping, leaping, and stretching as if she was being held up by invisible wind currents. I’ll never forget the sight of her… exploding with joy just to be running free like the wind. I thought I’d never get her back, she’d run so far, so fast, but she came when I called her. Turned right away and came back, she ran straight at me as I knelt on the grass with my arms out, and leaped up into my chest.

Now, Boo was a different story. He looks scary to some, but he’s a gentle, playful rascal. When I first began walking Boo, several years ago, he slipped out of his chain. To be truthful, I didn’t put it on correctly. It took him a few seconds to realize he was free as a bird… and then he flew with me chasing behind him yelling for him to Stop! And screaming at him to: Come back here, Boo! He had me chasing him for 45 minutes as he explored new streets and other people’s back yards. One guy saw Boo dash into his back yard which was full of bushes and hiding places. We tried to lure him out, to trap him, to trick him. Nothing worked. Boo finally took off and the guy hollered “Good luck!” as I ran behind, looking like a crazy woman. Finally, having had his jolly fun for the day Boo decided to let me catch him. I bitched at him all the way home. As we trudged back, me fussing, he looked up at me with those big eyes as if to say: Don’t be mad. I’m did what comes naturally.

Yes, The Honeys are a pair. Both of them are very territorial. They didn’t like it when a pair of Chihuahuas, Mimi and Joy, came to live upstairs, over their heads. Although there’s a big back yard, large enough for all four of them. Boo and Poo wouldn’t hear of it. They threw a hissy fit, so now the Chihuahuas get walked twice a day, instead of coming out into the back yard. The white one is aggressive, if you can picture a frail-looking dog bow-wowing in a tiny voice as being aggressive. She tries to be the tough one; I’ll give her that. By contrast, her tan companion is very shy. She keeps creeping up to me as if she’s going to let me pet her this time. Then she chickens out and runs.

I see a lot of cats roaming around and scooting out of sight if there are dogs about, but the only neighbor that has a cat is David. Her name is Blue, too. She’s white with blue eyes. He puts her on a leash and lets her preen and sun herself outside in the yeard as if she’s the queen of hearts. I think she’s the queen of his heart.

I like pets. I wish I could have a pet but my apartment doesn’t allow them. It distresses me to no end when people don’t take care of theirs, or worse let them loose to live or die on the streets. My minister once pointed out that “dog” spelled backwards became the word, “god.” He said dogs love us unconditionally (no matter what we do to them), just as God does, and that they deserved to be loved back the same way.

I couldn’t agree more.

The Book of Days VI: Reality Checks

Copyright 2010-All Rights Reserved



Reality checks are my touchstones for living each moment despite the chattering, tricky monkeys in my head.

1. Be yourself whoever you are… and the hell with it.

2. Social Security benefits will never give me/you/anybody enough money to live on. And The Powers That Be make damn sure it stays that way.

3. Everything that I think is NOT true. Let’s put it another way: Because I think it, doesn’t make it truth. My head often tells me lies.

4. Today: The good news is … I feel my feelings. Today: The bad news is… I feel my feelings. Ride with it. Hi-oh, Silver and Away!!!

5. Being kind and considerate helps to relieve some of the unnecessary suffering we put ourselves and everybody else through.

6. Time and friends are as precious as pearls.

7. Having true faith requires me to take the risk of stepping over the edge, so I can take wing and…fly.

8. You can’t outrun uncertainty, change and choices.

9. You are your greatest teacher.

10. Live in this moment. The next one ain’t guaranteed.

Adventures of a Maverick Author 5: Tribute

Copyright 2010-All Rights Reserved

Tribute to My MSMC Spring 2010 Literature 16 Class

4/30/10. Today was the last meeting for my Mount Saint Mary's College Literature class. The theme for the class was one I chose and have taught before. It's name reflects that theme: “Out of the Closet:” The Literature of African American Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgendered Authors. It's been an honor and an exciting adventure to teach this subject.It feels as if we had only just begun this journey and I am sorry to see all thirty of the ladies in my class go. They were exceptionally bright and open-minded... willing and ready to read about a new genre and to learn from what they read. They told me that they’ve learned a lot.

So have I... from them.

They have given me courage. To teach. Most of all, to keep writing. Sometimes, most of the time, really, it’s just hard to sit at a computer and put words that make sense on the blank page. Knowing that my words, my experience is of value—motivates others to keep trudging, plowing through in sunshine and in storm—well, this keeps me going at it. Especially on the days when I’m in front of the computer and it all seems way too much because I’m defocused, scattered, exhausted, and afraid that nothing coherent or interesting will ever again make it out of my head and onto paper. That’s when I’ll think of you, ladies.

You have taught me that people are more and better than what they know themselves to be. That they are willing to reach out, ready to empathize—ready and willing to feel what others feel.

You have taught me that people stretch and grow. That they will go through a mysterious door into unfamiliar, even frightening, territory. That they will step through and beyond the door of limitations, beyond taboo stereotyping into a place of enlightenment and freedom.

You have freed me to be who I am even more. To stand straight and tall. To love fully. To live from the center of the page, so to speak, all the way over to the edge of the margins. To trust in myself… in all of who and what I am.
For all of this and more, I acknowledge and thank you. I wish you well on your journey …
Anita Aguilar
Bianca Aldama
Krystal Aquino
Denise Carrera
Elizabeth Chavez
Michellin Dela Rosa
Laura Delgadillo
Denise Garcia
Katherine Garcia
Jasmine Gutierrez
April Hernandez
Jerquisha Jones
Angela Larios
Ariana Lopez
Magdalena Lopez
Vanessa Mateos
Lucia Vasquez
Yesenia Mendoza
Juana Molina
Alma Rosales
Denise Santiago
Viviana Santillan
Amelia Sili
Celeste Soto
Karina Morales
Rauna Landing
Joanna Valenzuela

The Book of Days (A Journal) V: The Tape in My Head

Copyright 2010-All Rights Reserved

It was Rev. Carl Bean who first shined the light on the tape we carry in our heads. He was the one who told us about all it that particular Sunday.

The tape in my head. Everybody has one, I suspect. Some of us know about it and some don’t. After that sermon, I was able to find mine by the slimy trail of toxic shame it leaves inside me. I was especially able to find it through tracking down one overriding voice taped long ago and stored carefully in the crevices of my brain… the Auntie tape.

My tape comes from my past. From my childhood. Yours does, too, I imagine. Whatever the origin of yours, the tape now sits there in the dark of your brain… a nightmare ready to hunt you down and drive you crazy. It sits there waiting the optimum chance to click on automatically. (Or maybe yours is always running, its sound being just below the threshold of hearing.) Whichever it is, when the tape jumps into action, the sound blows into your brain at a screeching volume. It yells horrendous, soul-breaking things at you. Maybe yours doesn’t yell. Perhaps it whispers in a hypnotic tone. Perhaps it lectures you in a rational tone of voice. Whatever. It doesn’t matter, the debilitating, destructive effect on you and your life is the same.

Though I have other voices inside my head—the twelve monkeys being a notable example—these others don’t necessarily originate from one person or time in my past. The Auntie tape does. Whenever it finds an opportunity, the Auntie tape clicks on. The voice on the Auntie tape is ALWAYS unloving, severe, harsh, mocking. It beats me with its cat-o-nine tails, draws blood by reciting its standard list of my failings, shortcomings, and imperfections.

The tape in your head pounds away at you like a hammer determined to break your spirit down into hard little pebbles. It natters at you, telling you that you’re lower than the dust on the ground. That nobody will ever love you and if somebody does, you don’t deserve it. That you couldn’t touch the hem of so and so’s coat. That you’ll never be anything worthwhile. That you’ll never be happy and why bother to try since you don’t deserve to be anyway. That your life is and will always be hell—one long, grim struggle to keep going through a desolate landscape. It goes on and on until you’re ready to dive off a cliff or the nearest tall building to escape.

When I found out what was going on with my tapes, I looked at the effects on me. It had kept me blind and miserable.

Without my knowing or realizing, it had conned me with distorted thinking; it had deluded me into believing lies about myself and other people; it had tricked me into doing self-destructive things. And I had attracted people and things that were the same as I. But there is an antidote to the effects of the tapes, I found. I call them Mirror Affirmations.

I stand in the mirror, look myself in the eyes to fully “see” me and I say things like this:
I love you just as you are, Frankie.
You are a good looking woman: Beautiful inside and out.
It’s okay to be who you are—not perfect, but whole and good.
You’re lovable; I love you and other people do, too.
You deserve all of life’s good things.
You’re a precious and worthwhile human being.
I’m growing and sometimes that’s painful, but it will pass.


Sounds hokey. Sounds way too simple to work. It does though.

I wish I had known about it when I was younger. A lot younger. I think they might have saved me or helped me avoid falling in some nasty ditches and some hurtful quagmires. I never knew, when I was younger, that affirmations could change my reality—the reality that begins (and ends, really) inside me and that manifests itself outside of me. I never knew that I didn’t have to live up to or live out someone else’s evaluation, opinion, or expectations of me. I never knew that I needed to love myself before I could allow you to love me. And that if I didn’t love me, I’d do everything I could to make the tapes in my head become my life’s reality. Which, ultimately, could rob me of living a life of serenity, of joy, of hope, harmony and balance. But, I know now.

So now when the tape clicks on (or the volume goes up to blast-off level) in my brain, I remember what to do. I say one or several of my affirmations. If I have to first shout for the voice on the tape to shut up, I’ll do it. Then I say the affirmations I need. However many times I need to say them. Which shuts the tape off.

Too bad it isn’t permanent. But some ogres you have to vanquish over and over, I’ve learned. That’s just the way it is.