Candid Corvid Productions

She had a fellow peer who was a recovering healer whom she encouraged to get back into “the swing of things.”

However, she decided she would not let this friend work on her because her friend was even more empathic – and wide-open-receptive to spiritual things.

The trail blazer knew by now that something was attached to her. That it was drawn forward when she let her guard down, or when she was exhausted.

It had the nack for playing on others’ perceptions. She could sit back, not participate, and just watch as people projected onto her – if she wanted to.

Maybe it was some sort of untamed gift for her using. But, who in their right mind would want to mess with an insatiable genie?

She could sometimes feel that it was from the blackest core, filled with hatred’s envy – just waiting. It frightened her to think that it might ever be able to use her as a tool.

Her immune system felt constantly fatigued, as if its presence was always feeding, depleting energy as her cells fought to keep it from infiltrating.

She couldn’t allow her friend to access it: it would take advantage of weakness.

Ignorant anger targeting her throughout her life’s growing was the reward for her taking on the Satanic curse – meant for her mother.

I’ve been interested in who they are and what they could be.

I never asked for much, but when encountered their resistance to growth, this is where conflict between us happened.

They wanted to stop maturing, expanding, challenging – they wanted to just give up and stay where they’d reached a point of “comfort.”

I am not opposed to this if it still lends productivity. But, I am resistant to acceptance if it does not inspire their healthy progressing.

This is why I considered marrying a younger man: the men my age or older have just given up.

However far they’ve advanced in their life to their current rut has been concluded as “enough.”

I just can’t live like that, partnered to a living “relic.”

Life is for exploring and adapting to.

Our self expressions are here to be charismatic!

It’s not that I crave material things, its that I crave ease of functionality.

I am not attached to money – but having it lends sense of security.

I love the shape of deep bath tubs, built well for luxurious relaxation.

I get a thrill when seeing or touching something of fine craftsmanship.

Clothing made of quality weave, which slides and glides or hugs elegantly entices me.

Shoes that are sassy in subtlety and solidly grip while walking – yet are smooth when turning – keep me feeling grounded and responsive.

If I had heels on, they’d be made so I could run in them: not too high and with ankle support.

I crave the comfort of purpose and ability, in all things.

I arrived late to the night’s outdoor gathering. I wasn’t sure what they were doing, and hung back to get the feel of it.

As I turned to leave, he emerged from the bustle and offered that we could go for a drive.

I was flattered and accepted, as it seemed he was not needed, and no one took notice of our leaving.

We got into his smooth-running, low-set easy luxury, and it pulled out of the gravel lot onto the winding country road.

I enjoyed just taking in the scenery: looking across and past him into hidden valleys as they revealed – and to my right, into depths of dropping hills as we ascended.

I enthusiastically thanked him and sat back, sighing with contentment, as it was nice to be the passenger and take in marvels I usually miss as the driver.

He smiled – a bit surprised at my genuine elation over such a seemingly simple gift.

He parked us high in the mountains and offered for us to go trail climbing. Gravity was easy, and its laws were permissive.

At one point, where all we had were ledges for handholds and gaps under our feet to hover over, I easily pushed and pulled lightly with my hands until on solid ground – no fear inside me.

He followed as I proudly stated I could handle myself (amazed at my own sense of confidence), and that I was used to challenging the boundaries of reality.

Throughout the journey, we spoke of little things. I was aware I was chatting gaily while my tones were variable and mixed with heartfelt laughter.

He was observing our interaction, as well, and I wondered what he thought of me.

Our relating seemed effortless in all things, and I felt protected by his company.

I remember him sitting in the blessed, cool relief of our concrete-floored garage in the impending doom of coming summer.

Two warped women were there, one on each arm, as he rose to meet my entrance when I arrived home, early afternoon.

How old was I?

4, 5, or 6?

Back when the bus would drop you off for walking home to unlocked doors and the lack of parental supervision.

I told him {for once, my voice openly spoken) that he did not belong there, in our home – especially with those women!

I must have screeched at him like a tiny dragon: indignant – and unexpected.

Something about his energy had alarmed me. I could sense black night around him, and his reaction to my claim proved my instincts correct.

He’d thought to mess around with my mother.

I don’t know exactly what he had intended, but he’d brought these hussies to help him teach her a lesson as part of his scheme.

He unleashed once-barely-restrained venom onto me – and I became the hapless target, as he spewed poison for her rejecting his “virility.”

He conjured evil around him – which came crackling – while attempting to frighten me conceptually by what he did not know I could somehow perceive.

He told me he had prepared a curse for my mother that would bring her to her knees, destroying her free will, and making her his servant as the lowliest worm for all of eternity.

Something in me quivered – then snapped – and I called forth the thundering Voice of Authority.

“NO! you shall NOT succeed!!!” commanded the warrior skreeling from inside of me.

“Your curse will backfire onto you, for my mother is 10x as strong as your sniveling!”

And then, as vexation consumed him, he cast the curse vindictively at me as he fled the scene with his witches.

The power of the hurt rage consuming him and the implications of what had just happened froze me solid.

I checked-out of reality, drifting around the house in a daze.

I had just taken on a pissed-off dark wizard and bluffed him, redirecting his ire onto me.

I tried to tell my mother what he had done, but she cut me off mid-sentence, determined to go after him and “tear him apart” for his ego.

She did not listen – and would not have believed me – so I let it drop, telling her that he’d already been humiliated.

If she didn’t believe in these things, how could they be part of reality?

With age, time speeds.

Maybe having an infection distorts and snap-shots frames of perception.

Perched in a Starbuck’s lounge above the shoppers, I nestle with a rare cup of hot chocolate in pure liquid cream.

Yes, I added whipped cream on top, with chocolate sprinkles crunch-melting.

Give me a cinnamon-dusted straw and a pure chocolate spoon to enhance stirring and drinking.

A small cup of refreshing ice water on the side compliments internal warming with hydration.

With life accelerated, its small moments as these that must be captured –

And joy embraced that I’m now in a multi-cultural scene.

As I make my “debut” in the “public” light and try to bring myself forward honestly, it occurs to me that there are concepts that I can approach factually and exploratively with an open mind and caution that perhaps others cannot respond to so equanimously.

This means that I feel constrained in broaching some subjects of uniquely-angled interest, except through creative nuance by only lightly discussing them in the “surface” world. 

i have private blogs where I go to ponder and explore deeper psychology, which I call “the underground.”

I am still “but a shell” out here at times. and must return there for deeper musings.

I have not tested this idea regarding COVID, but when my eldest child was a baby, she came down with a fever. I made chicken soup with the bones and meat cooked into a thick broth, carrots, celery, and lots of garlic. The idea I learned in massage therapy school and related healing, the lymphatic system is where larger molecules of fats get pushed out of the body. So the good fat broken down into particles in the broth get pushed through lymphatics, and this pushes out viruses. When she went to sleep after eating the soup, her body broke into a sweat, pushing out toxins – and her fever broke. I have wondered if this would help people with COVID.

As she turned down the lane, she saw the cider house still open – though it was late.

“Why not?” allowed her reconsidering, and after backing up, she then eased to the side and forward into the parking lot.

When she got to the top of the stairs, the doors were locked, after all.

She could see the two gents behind the counter pouring drinks for themselves, glad the day was done.

“Ah, to be them for a moment!” she lamented, wistfully.

Then, she accepted defeat with grace, and headed back to the car.

Just as she was getting in, one of the men invited her to return if she was just getting a couple of bottles.

“Everyone needs a bit of cider on a Frdiay night!” he welcomed repeatedly, warmly.

She accepted his offer joyfully, and they spoke briefly about cider types and flavors.

She inquired and found she could try a small sample tray of on-tap exotics in the future.

Feeling nourished – and possibly saved – she purchased two cans by different brewers, and headed home to her evening.

As she parked the car in the back of the building, she noted the heavily-coated man walking into the light, coming toward her.

Bundled up tight against the icy night air, he hoisted two bags she surmised were full of bottles.

As he passed, he said nothing and asked for nothing, seeming content upon his purpose.

Suddenly inspired to add to his cause, she hailed him as he moved away, and asked if he was collecting.

He said yes, and after they discussed the heavy weight of her contribution, they arranged to meet at his rest stop in 15 minutes.

When the time came, she drove to meet him.

As she pulled up, he shed his outer layers, revealing a decent shirt and pants, as if he wanted her to see him as a worthy human.

He told her his name, then she gave hers, and she said how happy she was to have met him.

He thanked her, sharing that he was saving up to get a certain kind of phone and that she was helping him boost to meet his goal.

She donated three bags of empty No. 1 Rosemary Water bottles, sure that the creators and shareholders would be happy to have their ingenuity in spirit expanded.

Her family needed the little bit of money that recycling gleaned, but this man had carved a niche for himself that she felt needed promotion.

“You’ve become a brash, young man!” his mother exclaimed.

“Why don’t you just settle down and marry? Haven’t you had enough ‘fun’?”

“Mother, you know they need me – I’ve only just begun!”

Worriedly, she conceded: “As long as you’re happy…”

My mother taught me that you don’t walk away from family – which is funny, because she drove me away by how she and her then husband treated me when I was fifteen.

This is when another break happened to me – a split, off from another reality.

A week before my sixteenth birthday, she stripped me of the friends I had gained and the Bachelors I could foresee by sending me away to take care of my grandmother.

She thought that removing me from the situation would help everything. Being with her mother gave her a sense of control over me.

It is one of my deepest regrets and a heinous tragedy that the wounding from both my ex’s and my own childhood ended up being passed to our children when they were in their teens.

At least I recognized tbey needed to be given the choice to decide their destiny when we lived temporarily with my parents and chose to return to their schools on the Central Coast and be homeless.

We climbed out of that pit together, although I “lost” my eldest to the confusion and pressures of what then transpired as she went to high school and tried to find a way to create her own family – free from our losses.

What’s important about all of this is that I saw the issues underlying throughout our family’s progressing timeline, yet was not taken seriously.

Like Cassandra with her prophecies, my sight was biased as triviality. I was branded a “mad woman” for begging others to see.

The irony is that my middle name is Cass. Her legacy has always haunted as a tease, playing with my conscious perceptions.

And, with such a strong, Greecian goddess name as Athena, I thought it was my duty to learn and uphold any wisdom I could find in all things.

It has been my goal in life to always improve myself, and Cassandra’s example has guided development of my intuition.

I’ve been surprised that no other person of my name that I have met has taken its meaning seriously – beyond the novelty, or an excuse for indulging ego.

Our names are an important aspect of who we are. They set the tone for how we could be living.

The sweetest little tubby tube of a dachshund you ever saw with black, sleek, flat fur and a brownish-pink belly.

She used to sit up on her hind legs – the long length of her swaying – to beg for scraps and treats.

I remember her progression from energetic puppy into complacent cylinder.

We grew up together.

I almost remember when she got that crimp in her tail from missing the sliding glass door timing.

At least, I remember the before and after.

She didn’t last long after grandpa died.

But, by then, she was ancient in dog years.

She used to chase me around with a fly swatter if she thought I was being naughty.

She was dead serious about her aim, once she got her mind to it.

No matter what, I knew to not push her past that point of no return.

I knew she’d make sure that I would never forget it.

Other than that, we got along fine.

She’d send me to the kitchen to get snacks and watch my own TV while she watched her golf, loudly.

A cigarette and a cocktail later, early evening.

She wasn’t a lush – in fact, my grandparents were highly respectable.

It was just the swing of the clubhouse scene.

She’d let me watch her make dinner, but barely help.

Her meals were her own secret recipes.

I guess they were the one thing she could maintain control over.

And man-oh-man – she knew how to make our tummies crave her artisanry!

She had this magic Italian dressing mix that I could never reproduce again.

And her mac-n-cheese with Ritz crackers crumbled over the top – baked in – was heavenly!

A piece of candy or two was given to me as a rarity.

There were jars in the large kitchen drawers of latest selections.

And always, I was permitted a slice or two of the forbidden Kraft sliced cheese.

She knew how to take good care of me, and always played cards until late as my partner until grandpa came home.

Coming home at 2am.

Smell of cigarettes, alcohol, and sweat – highlights of an evening’s production.

Crisp damp of a new morning clinging, he was like Jack Frost – heart happy and singing.

It was a kind of letdown that he had to come home, again.

He’d go straight to the couch after barely saying hello to me and grandma.

He used to let me lay alongside his length and snuggle while he’d smoke his cigarette as reclined.

He rarely spoke about his engagement.

Maybe he’d comment about what was on TV.

He’d tolerate it when I again begged him to stop smoking to avoid his later cancer.

And soon, his mouth would drop open into a loud snorking sound.

Grandma and me, we used to tease quietly – joking.

Then, “Hey, Grandpa…Wakeup! You were snoring!”

He’d make his apologkes and shuffle off to bed, yawning.

It was our ritual when I’d stay over.

I missed him, while he spent most of his time chasing glory.

I take most of the hits to keep my family healthy.

This is where a partnership comes in handy.

I am not feeling sorry for myself in saying this, but I know I’m not like the rest of them.

You know.

The other single mothers needing a man to step up to the scene.

Yeah…it’s just a flimsy illusion of hope for me to cling to.

My husband projected onto me.

Everything I did and said became an impetus for him to countermaneuver.

A reason for denying me.

I was multitalented.

His mother was this way.

If I got angry, rather than coming to my defense, he criticized me – and by his gaze berated.

I felt under constant scrutiny.

Nothing I did, no mater how beautiful, pure, or innovative was worthy of his approval.

I know now that it wasn’t me.

That it was because he became injured, and this kept nightmares from his past constantly playing.

But, when you come away branded as “bad” by someone you once trusted and loved, it’s hard to find reprieve.

It can’t be forced, but must be earned.

A lot of sh** went down to make someone’s resiliency scatter.

It must be fed with given trust.

It must be carressed by promises kept.

It must be shown that Light Is the Truth.

And that darkness is the fallacy.