Monster - part I

Zeus summons.

Far in the hills she wanders, proud, possessed,
following the call.

Temptation of a godly lust lures Lamia
to Elysian Fields.

In greening glade, he regards his prize. Lamia -
dusk-head mortal, splendid to his sight.

Zeus, as Eros guides his mighty swelling sword,
is sorely cruel and swift and strong.

Under midday Sun, Zeus takes her basely, deeply
in godly fashion.

In terror the maid finds truth: god is...
mere a man.

Lamia lashes out her pain in body, soul
and mind. She draws his sacred blood.

Beaten, battered blind, she scores his perfect flesh.
Zeus incensed! This mortal dares to wound! Cursed, lovely Lamia.

For this, deems Zeus in terrible thunderous voice,
are you damned!

No man shall want your lethal love, save
when he sleeps.

You will go not in this beauteous form,
but as the lowest of the beasts.

And when your pleasing him is over, done,
then shall you drain his pounding blood.

You are eternally banished from brilliant hours - hated,
abhorred, and cold.

Rouse not a god with your ripened fruit
and then withhold!

So spake Zeus. And Lamia lay forlorn, forgotten
until the Sun prods her to shade.

At last Selene appears in the darkling sky
argentine-white, bestowing moonbeams on the Fields.

From the confines of her cave Lamia comes,
and she weeps.

Bitter salt sluices the veil from her eyes,
soothing her sorrow.

She thrusts her fisted hands toward expectant stars.
A clear, cool resolve escapes her throat:

Attend me then, O gods on yonder Mount!
What Zeus has wrought, so will be.

For my revenge, I swim the sensuous streams
as Goddess Snake.

He that evokes me with uncaring carnal fantasy
will find release. His final request.


Thus vows Lamia. And bows her weary head.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...- part 3

It's tomorrow again in Muland. I'm truly hoping this will be the last of my holiday series, but I can't be sure. See, we're getting to the original intent of my story and I'm having a really, really hard time writing this. I don't want you to think I'm getting all paranormal or religious on your collective butts. Neither do I want to come off as pathetically emotional, though in order to state my case, all the above elements must come into play.

For some time now, I've recognized little events that can only be described as too convenient to be simple coincidence. I think if they'd occured at any other time, I would have never have given them a second thought, but at the lowest point in my life I thought about my Christmas story for the first time in 30 years. While I won't go into details, I will tell you that it was Christmastime and remembering the ranch changed me more than any antidepressant, any counseling or any type of rehab could. Since then, I've been acutely aware of the world and its people around me. And since I've always wanted to explain the inexplicable, I began to formulate a theory of what we call the spirit. Believe me crazy, tell me I've got way too much time on my hands, but don't call the guys in the white coats just yet. Please, read. Think. Research. Question. Above all, keep your mind wide open. Your life might depend on it.

It may not have been Christmas Eve, but it was darn close to it. The dogs woke me one night. Not unusual in itself, but instead of whining and poking their cold, wet noses into my ear, the four of them stood by my bed, as if waiting for me to sense whatever it was that got them up. Kind of puzzled (I was way too old to believe in Santa), I put on cold-weather gear and boots because I never let the damn fools out by themselves in the middle of wildcat country. Mostly, our mutts would rather run than fight, and I for sure wasn't going to offer myself as a tasty distraction in order to save their hairy asses. Pa drilled it into me five ways to Sunday that I was not to go outside after dusk without at least a .38. He'd rather I took the 20-gauge, but hell, it was almost taller than I was, and I couldn't aim it as well anyway. Having been so conditioned, I promptly left unarmed except for a flashlight. Which, it turned out, I didn't need either. Now in the movies there'd have been a gorgeous full moon and snow to reflect its eerie platinum light, but all I had was the barest sliver of said orb and the ambient glow of the Milky Way, which was more than enough to see by. At the time, I gave it hardly a thought as I followed the dogs down to the horse corral. It did occur to me, however, that it was strange that they trotted almost single file along the trail, not weaving from side to side with noses to ground, gobbling up interesting scents along the way. Eight ears at attention, eight paws padding silently, four snouts up, they gave the impression of pups with a purpose. Neither did they stop to pee and poo which pissed me off royally since that was the whole idea behind this excursion. I was tired and cold and just wanted to get back to my bed. I started to call them to me, but the sound of my voice in the deep quiet creeped me out a litte. They didn't seem to hear me anyway. We were nearly at their intended destination when I finally woke all the way up.

The horses stood in the midst of the field, no snorting or stamping, no whinnying, all looking in the same direction. Only their tails made an occasional soft swishing. The dogs moved in between and under their legs with hardly a whisper where they, too, stood motionless, gazing at the fingernail moon. I was beyond creeped and all the way into freaked until I stopped and looked for what might have captured the animals in such a trance. I saw nothing but a midnight-blue sky dotted with thousands of crisp stars that hung suspended, like frozen snowflakes, overhead. In the heavy silence of the moment I almost turned to run back to the house, to comfort. I was half convinced I was far into a weird dream, for as in such a dream, I couldn't move. I was rooted to the spot yet suddenly alive as never before. Wave upon wave of sensations passed through me: the smell of fresh manure, the heat from the animals, the feel of clean cold air, the stale taste of bed-time hot chocolate, the sight of every frost-covered pine needle on the nearby tree. And with it came a sense of anticipation. Of yearning. Of hope. Of kindness. It had nothing to do with the so-called birth of Christ. This was more along the line of a visceral racial memory.

I don't know how long we were out there, my animals and I. I didn't recall that event in the morning. For that matter, I forgot it for thirty more years. But every Christmas, in whatever part of the world I was in, I went out into the night without knowing why. And the older I got, the more I drank in of the majik we could all share if we only knew what to look for.

Golly. Guess we will have one more episode...if you want to know what I honestly think happened then and is still affecting me now.

Sweet dreams,
Mu

The Wolf at my door...and on my couch

"Chistmas": once more on hold. For the nonce, let us skip forward to when I was all grown up and married with a two-year-old daughter of my own. Pa n Ma acquired a wolf-dog; part Labrador and part wolf, whom I had the honor of naming "Loki" after the Greek god of mischief. At first I was leery about introducing Melis to Loki. Wild animal (A) + small child (B) = (C): dinner for A. But Pa assured me that all would be well. By this time, I realized that the older I got, the smarter my dad became, and I figured I could trust his wisdom regarding his only grandchild meeting the Big Bad Wolf Who Was Really A Big Lazy Lovable Lab That Wouldn't Even Chase His Own Tail For Fear He Would Catch It. But still...
I open the door. Melis runs in, straight for Loki, arms outstretched. Loki sees Melis. Loki yelps, runs to the bedroom and hides under the bed. I look at Pa, he looks at me, we burst out laughing so hard I think I peed a little. I snatch Melis onto my lap to get HER calmed down because she was ready to dive under the bed after the doggy. Slowly, carefully, the Big Bad Lab Who Would Be A Wolf pokes his head back into the kitchen kinda sheepish like and slinks over to sniff my daughter. Evidently finding her acceptable into his pack, he hesitantly nips her poofy jacket (okay, I wasn't totally convinced re: Pa's judgment and tried to put as many layers of clothes between skin and fang) and tugging gently, leads my precious baby off my lap and over to his toy box. She was then allowed to climb all over him, pulling ears or tail, poking her tiny fingers into his mouth in search of the wet, slippery tongue that bathed her face whenever it had the chance. Loki responded with an audible sigh that conveyed either contentment or patient resignation. Maybe both. A great friendship was born that day, as well as a great curiosity about all things Wolf. After much research, I decided that one day I would have one of these wonderful creatures for my own. After the kids were grown, of course.
So thirty years later, I am the proud (at times, exaspirated) guardian, companion and alpha bitch to a wolf-dog. Miakoda, whose name is Cherokee for "power of the moon", is considered F5 - about 75% wolf. Her sire was F1, 90% malamute. Her mother, 100% timber wolf. Loki, in comparison was probably F1, or 20% wolf. And yes, the correct term for the cross is wolf-dog, not hybrid, since the cross isn't between two different animals. Genetically, less than .2% seperates wolves from any breed of dog, even poodles (who look like they share more genetic material with sheep) or chihuahuas (who may have bred with rats at some point in evolution...). The facts the general public doesn't know about wolf-dogs could fill volumes, but the most important is that a person can never "own" one. Much like cats, they choose to be with someone. They are gentle, shy, wary of anyone not considered part of their pack and extremely hard to train. They are not aggressive by nature. Wolf-dogs have the median intelligence of a three-year-old child, they never forget anything and are stubborn beyond belief. You must earn their trust and respect; in turn, you will have theirs. Even then they'll prefer the company of other dogs to humans. I'm convinced they think people aren't good enough for them. Not so wrong, actually. They rarely bark, but howl often, sometimes because they're lonely, sometimes because they're happy and sometimes just for the sheer hell of it. But you can find out more online if you're interested. The personal stories, you'll have to look for in my blog. There will be a few.
Back soon, Muoooowwoo!

Through the Eyes of a Child - part 2

Hey y'all. In my world it's tomorrow and time to carry on with "Christmas In America". So - we left Frankfurt in a propeller aircraft on Friday, November 13th. I will never forget my first whiff of airplane fuel; still and ever the best perfume on god's earth, eliciting the promise of adventure, the unkown. The noise of the props rumbled like the worst thunderstorm. The tarmac under my feet thrummed as if it, not the plane would take me to a new future. I was eight and anything was possible. Twelve hours later, after a three-hour refueling in Reykjavik, we landed in Newark. Behold a new scent! No, not the Jersey stockyards. The ocean I had just crossed. Never realized how the two completely seperate smells are inextricably linked in my memory...
Don't remember much of the car trip - I lived in the cargo space of Pa's Karman Ghia for three days - but I do recall that we stopped over night twice. I made him stop at whatever motel had the most gaudy neon display. How I loved those lights. One morning we woke up to find that the motel property bordered on a cemetery. Cool!
On to Colorado. Where I was promptly deposited in second grade, not knowing a word of English. You take a kid from anywhere and plop her into a group of kids anywhere else, and let me tell ya, it takes her exactly 6.7 seconds to spot the bully. Of course, he found me first. Sucker followed me home, too. Seems he lived two houses up from mine. I couldn't talk to him, but thanks to Opa, I could cuss like a sailor in German. I could run like the wind and when I refused run anymore, I kicked and bit like a chihuahua on angeldust. Obviously, the kid didn't understand me, but I think he caught the general drift. Wish I could say he never bothered me again, but we were doomed to repeat this epitome of childhood comedy nearly every day after school. Sometimes I won and sent the little shit home crying. Sometimes I was the bawling baby. The only thing that changed was that soon I cussed fluently in English. Pa contributed his part of the language lessons.
I don't remember much of that Christmas, except that it was my first introduction to electric tree lights. You know, those big colorful 9watt energy gobblers that look like glowing easter eggs? And hey - they decorated the houses too so it looked like the whole friggin neighbor hood was on fire. Other than that, the rest of it was, well...Ma n Pa did the best they could, but where once there were many, now there was just us three. Where was the sense of majik? Had I left that behind, too?
It didn't happen until Pa got a job as caretaker for a YMCA ranch. 1400 acres of mountain land, two lakes, stables, miles of trails, toboggan runs and sledding hills, an honest-to-goodness ghost town far back in the woods, and for most of the year, my personal playground. As a 13-year-old girl, I should have missed having friends, but I had school to go to like everyone else. In fact, my early experience with total language immersion actually paid out by giving me a talent for grammar, spelling and bully-pounding. School was easy, but I hated it. I never felt like I quite fit in. Pa must have known this because once every couple of weeks, he'd let me stay out. The terms were that I work with him, and I got a totally different education. That man made sure I learned to shoe horses, mend fence, drive tractors, plow snow and shoot straight. We spent hours cutting wood and polishing the toboggan runs. I learned how to track mountain lion, bear, rabbits, deer and other denizens of the ranch. All the while, Pa talked about what we were doing and why. He also taught me more effective bully control. He taught me about the behavior of the animals we lived among, especially horses and dogs. I quickly figured out that our packs of pups and half-dozen ponies were the best friends I could ask for. I was alone a lot, but I was never lonely. Best of all, in the last year that we lived on the ranch, I found Christmas again.
We'll get to that in part 3. Tomorrow.

WTF, Chicago?

Hey y'all! What can I say - my "tomorrow" isn't in the same time-frame as yours. We'll get back to the Christmas thing soon (now that it's after). But I gotta get this off my chest...and yes, that pun is entirely intended. You see - oh god, how can I admit such a shameful, dirty, stinky, politically incorrect secret - wait...that's how I roll: I AM A SMOKER. OF CIGARETTES. (insert gasps here) and hey! I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU THINK!
Now, I'm a considerate smoker. I don't smoke except in designated areas - hell, I don't even smoke in my own house. I don't smoke around non-smokers, co-workers, children, or the neighbor's dog. He sneezes. I also know that cigarettes are nasty, they make my hair smell like an ashtray and will shave some 5-odd years off my natural lifespan if I don't die of lung cancer first. There is no acceptable excuse to continue this disgusting, self-destructive habit, even if it's harder to kick than heroin (yeah, google it). I will tell you that I don't drink, do drugs, and haven't been laid in four years. C'mon, people. Let me have something besides blogging!
Anyhoo. I've put up with my smoking freedom taken away piece by piece. I have had total strangers (and my boss) tell me in this condescending, pitying, hah I'm so much better than you voice, that "You really should try to quit, dear. Those things will kill you. You know I'm only telling you this because I care about you." Really? A: you don't even know me, and B: it's none of your business since I'm not blowing smoke in your face and C: do I look like I'm stupid enough to not know about the dangers? Well, maybe I do. Whatever. But I have to take this crap because people "care about me". Puuhhleezze. These are the same caring people who wouldn't dare tell someone they need to lose, oh, say 50 pounds or that their hair color makes them look like they washed it in an unflushed toilet. THAT's not PC. Oh no! It's okay to make us smokers feel mortified, unclean and disgusting. Am I projecting? Could be. Perhaps there's a non-smoker in me after all....naaahhh.
So last time I had a lay-over at O'Hare Aiport, the most frustrating airport in the world, I'm looking for the smoking lounge. The last refuge for lung polluting low-lifes. It was there six months ago. It's gone now. I ask some offical-looking dude who informs me they removed smoking lounges from all Illinois airports, and I would have to go outside to smoke. WHAT? I just spent 30 minutes running from one concourse to another with my carry-on bags that had I had carefully packed with all my 3-ounce toiletries in their own itty-bitty sandwich bags, and I would now have to run back to the baggage claim area, step 40 feet away from the building, indulge my one and only habit, wait in the security line another 40 minutes and get back to my gate? Hokay. Worth it, but aggravating as hell.
You know what, though? On the way back, I noticed 7 fast-food joints and three bars along one concourse. So should I be a nice person and tell the lard-ass in the seat next to me, whose love-handles are hanging halfway over my lap that she really should lose weight because I care about her and am worried that her cholestrol habit is costing billions in obesity-related health care? Or the guy who just tripped over his Bali loafers and exhaled a stale alcohol "'scuze me" into my face that I'm concerned that he will likely get off the flight, eventually find his car and crash into a minivan filled with preschoolers? Noooo....that wouldn't be nice. So as always, thanks for listening. I'm gonna go get me a Marlboro to smoke in my 15degree garage and not hurt anyone but myself. Oh, and don't worry - lung cancer patients die really fast, so don't lose sleep over your increasing insurance premiums. K?
Mu, out.

Tis the Season - part 1

Hey, y'all. I was going to wait until Christmas Eve to post this, but seein's how I'm going to Virginia to spend the Holiday with my older daughter and her family, I somehow don't think I'll have the time.
So let's get some background on Mu before I launch into my lecture:
I was German for the first eight years of my life. I went to a Catholic school for three years, which may account for my distaste of religion. Hell, I was scared to death of the nuns (those mamas is MEAN), the priests that came once a week to hear our confession I believed to be demons straight out of our coloring books and I truly knew the holy water fonts were filled with acid that, while not burning my fingers, would surely burn my sinning soul. PTSD, anyone? I lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment with my Oma and Opa cuz Ma was working, and as children are wont to do, accepted all, questioned nothing and was happy. This may seem like a scene out of the last century, but in post-war Germany, we honestly had no hot water or central heat. We burned coal for warmth in the kitchen and living room (I remember stacking the bricks in our cubby of the apartment basement - next to the potatoes), and took baths in a big tub filled with warm water heated on the coal-burning stove. I knew my Opa left to go work...somewhere...while Oma cooked, cleaned and shopped all day. We had seperate stores for everything - the butcher, the dairy, the bakery, the green-grocer, and we hoofed it, toting bags of vittles damn near every day. On Fridays, we loaded up the laundry in a wagon and headed for the communal wash-house. Then we hauled it all back home where Oma spent the rest of what was left of the day ironing. Did I mention that my aunt and two cousins lived in this tiny apartment with us? They slept on the couch and floor. I slept with Oma and Papa in their big, down-covered bed, with a hot-water bottle at my feet. It was wonderful and wonder full.
Come Christmastime, Oma (in addition to all the other responsibilities she handled without whine or whimper) baked exquisite cookies and cakes. We observed Advent by sitting around the kitchen table. The centerpiece was a real evergreen wreath wrapped in red velvet ribbon, sporting three red candles and one white. We would light the candles on their respective Sundays, pray, and then eat the sweet, satisfying goodies Oma worked to hard to bake. Since suger, butter and eggs were still extremely expensive there and then, I think the rich sweetness we enjoyed was the love she put in.
On the day of Christmas Eve, Opa came home early, panting and cussing (NOBODY can cuss like a German), dragging in that most symbolic icon of the Season: the Tree! Oh, how fresh it smelled. For a kid growing up in a concreted building, with a postage-stamp back courtyard that boasted an even smaller area of grass, that Tree represented freedom; a world outside and of course, MAJIK! After much further cussing, consumation of brandy and more cookies, Opa got the Tree put up. Taking a much-earned feetsup, Oma and I and whomever else (meaning the whole fam-dambly) decorated the honored Pine with a dozen crystal ornaments, lots of tinsel and would you believe - real candles in their own little tin holders that clipped onto the sparse branches. Fire hazard be damned - that Christmas Tree was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Since we celebrated on Christmas Eve in the old-country tradition, suddenly Saint Nicolas in full official regalia would appear, accompanied by the Christ Child, who, in a flowing white gown and veil topped by a bejeweled crown seemed as pure and light as the falling snow. At the time, I didn't realize that these Majikal visions-come-to-life were actually one of aunts and uncles dressed to impress. The kids got bare branches that had chocolates tied to them with golden thread and the grown-ups all got bottles of wine. Only now does it dawn on me that my guardians saved and scrimped all year to afford these costly luxuries. Our revered visitors then blessed us all and took their leave. I guess sometime later the actors reappeared; we were too busy opening the present or two that Oma and Opa bestowed upon us with great solemnity. And then the party started. I remember one year very clearly, when Opa had imbibed one too many glasses of Christmas brandy, sang a traditional German carol in a quite impressive baritone and promptly fell backward into the Tree, which blazed up like a bonfire what with all the candles lit, kinda like in the movie, "Christmas Vacation". We got Opa up n outta there post-haste, put him out, brushed him off, grabbed the water bucket(we weren't totally safety challenged), doused the Tree and partied on.
That's enough for tonight. I'm going to recall that dreamish time while it's fresh in what loosely passes for my mind. Tomorrow you'll read about Christmas in America. Don't worry - I really AM going somewhere with all this. But maybe you'll enjoy the journey, too.
Sleep well.
Mu

Oh. Bama.

Hey, y'all! I'm not going to regurgitate Limbaugh, O'Reilly, Beck or any of those guys. They're professionals. And although they claim that "they've been there", I seriously doubt that their "there" is the same as MY "there". Or yours, in most cases. I'm just your average schmuck who has ideas that don't always go over so well in social settings. You wanna talk about Main Street - my house is the one with the For Sale sign in the weed-infested front yard. Which one is yours?
Anyhoo. I'm thoroughly ticked today (well, more so than usual) because I'm dealing with health insurance companies for my mother. Ma has Alzheimers, and 18 months ago had to move to a nursing home cuz Pa couldn't help her anymore. They're both in their 80's. Upshot is, Ma's monthly premiums on her supplemental insurance will increase threefold next year. Now mind you, she's on Medicare and Medicaid and needs yet another insurance to cover her meds. Here's how it works: Medicare covers 80 percent, Medicaid covers the rest EXCEPT most of the medications she needs. Last year's drugs, retail, came to $9,600. Without the supplemental, Pa would have paid $4,800 of that. So all in all, the monthly premiums are worth the money. So that's okay, right? But when I called the insurance company and asked why the huge increase, I was told it was due to the increased cost of health care. Pshaw. I work in a medical office, and let me tell ya - my docs work their educated butts off for less money than you'd believe. I update the Medicare allowable charges every year, and every year, they allow less and less compensation for lifesaving tests and procedures. And oh, private insurance compensations are based on Medicare allowables.
So here's my opinion: Medicare is government-run, the privates are scared to death that they'll be put out of business and are increasing costs, which means that no one will be able to afford insurance, thus being forced to enroll in Medicare, which will force doctors out of health care altogether because they can't afford to stay in business what with the minimum-wage compensation resulting in everyone but the fat-cat politicians dying for lack of healthcare, therefore pissing in what's left of the gene pool and the human race is going to hell. Slowly and painfully.
Have a nice night.
Mu