"Wouldn't it be neat, if the people that you meet, had shoes upon their feet and somethin' to eat and wouldn't it be fine if all humankind had shelter" ~ Wavy Gravy
Saturday, May 21, 2011, 6:01 PM
Living near a freeway means that you hear a lot of sounds, like backfiring vehicles or accidents. I didn’t give it a thought. We ate dinner, watched a movie and went to bed.
Sunday, May, 22, 2011
I awoke at the usual time, 5:45 AM. It’s a well-known fact that cats a) have no snooze alarm and b) do not understand that one might wish to sleep in a bit on the weekend.
I fed the cats, let one of the dogs outside (the other was doing his best impersonation of a cushion, snuggled up with my husband and trying to be invisible).
I blearily switched on my laptop to do my regularly scheduled book promotion activities and made an astonishing discovery: the so-called “rapture,” despite my most cynical beliefs, had actually happened as the fundamentalists predicted.
Among those reported to have disappeared without a trace were leaders of the so-called National Organization for Marriage, the unfortunately bigoted niece of a civil rights leader, two industrialists well known for “astroturfing” antigovernment organizations, father and son “Libertarian” politicians, numerous Grand Dragons of the Ku Klux Klan; it was an altogether astonishing list. Also among the missing were a well-known antigay church official, the author of California’s Proposition 8, and the Palm Springs Cross Lady ...
I didn’t understand. How could these folks, who in my mind represented the antithesis of what Rabbi Yeshua taught, have been taken up as the Elect?
I had no doubt that my friends at the Metropolitan Community Church would still be here; given the list of the Chosen and their beliefs, I couldn’t imagine anything else. So, I dressed and went to morning services -- which were just as warm and joy-filled as ever. We made plans to share “first fruits” again in a couple of weeks, to replenish the little food pantry we operated for locals in need.
When I got home, my husband was watching the television news.
“Sit down, he said. “You have got to see some of this.”
The storehouses and granary at Salt Lake City’s “Welfare Square” were opened up and food being given away to anyone who was in need -- without requiring a voucher from some church official to say they were a member in good standing. The hoarded food was being handed out by many who had stood against the prophets’ positions on the Equal Rights Amendment, marriage equality and the late 1990s purge of feminists and intellectuals. One person interviewed said, “I knew that if I waited long enough, the church would come around. I’m just surprised that it took an event like this to make it happen.”
Similar stories were all over the news as more liberal and progressive ideas were being discussed without fear tactics and lies being spread by the opposing side.
Proposition 8 was rescinded by Monday afternoon, since the citizen-interveners disappeared. Without the leadership of the National Organization for Marriage around to prop up or agitate for another intervention, marriage equality was restored.
Within the week, all of the anti-science educational doctrine proposed by Raptured school board members was off the table. Comprehensive and age-appropriate biology lessons, including sex education, reentered curricula all over the nation.
We even did a better job of reaching out to those of other cultures and belief systems. World peace looked like a foregone conclusion as we all worked together on alternate energy sources, sharing technology and making sure that everyone had enough food, clothing and shelter.
One of my friends sent me an e-mail about the GLBT support group that an anti-equality church started for its members, with emphasis on helping the youth accept that who they were was just fine and that they did not have to be closeted and lonely.
All in all, it was an amazing time of peace and prosperity on Earth.
Meanwhile, in Heaven ...
The female head of the National Organization for Marriage took off her shoes and put her feet up on the seat in front of her. She leaned over to her counterpart as they watched Earth on the big-screen TV, just like a certain “Left Behind” author had promised they would.
“I don’t get it,” she said. “Where’s the fiery torture? Where’s the misery? Those Left Behinders actually look ... happy! And prosperous! That’s not how it was supposed to be.”
She turned to glare at the author, who was passing a box of tissues to a clearly disappointed and sobbing member of Concerned Women for America.
“Yeah, what gives?” The ultraconservative television commentator turned to look at a quiet man standing in the back.
The man smiled at him beatifically before adjusting the yarmulke on his curly black hair. His brown eyes and olive skin betrayed his Middle Eastern origins. The plain sandals on his wounded feet slapped the floor as he walked down the aisle. Unlike those in the seats, his clothing was simple; he didn’t seem to own much of anything.
“I am so glad you asked,” Rabbi Yeshua replied gently. “You see, I had to get all of you out of the way so that the others could get on with doing my work. Isn’t it marvelous that we can watch it happen?”
Betrayed by a Kiss
Originally published in Sui Generis, 2010
He came to me in my dreams.
At first, there was only a fog ... a cool mist ... and yet, in my dreams, it seemed almost sentient. I would awake with a surprising melancholy, as though I had been abandoned. And yet, I had dreamt only of fog ... a fog whose tendrils caressed my skin with a lover's touch. A fog that whispered my name, even though I knew it to be impossible. On the nights that the fog did not come, I dreamed of the distant, mournful howling of a wolf. Again, I could hear my name borne on the wind, discernible in the animal's cry.
The first night I dreamed of his face will be with me always. Pale skin, green eyes, cascading black curls: his was the face of an angel. How I longed to kiss his full, red lips, entangle my fingers in his raven locks ... to feel him at my very depths. I awoke in a tangle of bed sheets, awash with disappointment that my dream was quashed by the light of day. I went about my morning routine, haunted by the memory of my dream lover's eyes.
To me, this entire sequence of nighttime phenomena was best ignored. I shook my head, hoping to physically cancel the reverie that I entered yet again. A stranger's face could not possibly have meaning, any more than my name could be whispered by a teasing curl of mist outside the window.
I turned my attention once more to the scientific journal in front of me. This was my weekly time set aside for catching up on anthropological literature; my assistants knew I was to remain unmolested absent dire emergency. I suspected that they departed early on Friday afternoons whilst I was thus occupied, and I did not begrudge them. I, on the other hand, sometimes found myself looking up at the clock to find that it was after dark. The museum's guard had walked me to my car more than once; he thought it unsafe and unseemly for a woman to venture out into the lonely lot after dark. That I had distinguished myself both academically and in anthropological fieldwork made no difference to him. To him, Elena Pritchard, Ph.D., was just another woman in need of protection.
I gave up on the journals, unable to focus my attention. I had a stack of correspondence to review as well; that ought to suit my poor concentration, I thought.
I signed several letters and placed them in my "out" box to be sent on Monday; they were all routine letters of appreciation for donations to the museum's collection. Many of the items in question would be consigned to storage rooms, but the donors would have our thanks ... and a tax deduction.
What a cynical creature you're becoming, I thought. Where on earth had that come from?
I checked my e-mail and made the appropriate responses. Yes, I could attend that meeting, speak at this luncheon, participate in a panel. Sometimes I wondered what motivated me to stay so busy. I denied to myself that it was because of a lonely apartment
. I had no need of companionship; anyone could see that I was occupied by my work and had no time for such frivolities as dating or romance.
At least, that was what I told myself.
What had Percy Shelley written about that broken statue? "I am Ozymandias, king of kings"? Who was fooling whom, I laughed wryly to myself.
Again, time had passed and it was later than I thought. I had found a good parking spot near the museum's back door, so I did not call the guard.
I slipped into my jacket and stepped outside into the foggy San Francisco night. Mist twined around my ankles and limned the parking lot's lamps in a dull, golden twilight.
Someone was lounging against my car; he was tall, dressed in snug-fitting jeans and a black leather motorcycle jacket. His back was to me, and I saw raven-black hair curl around the coat collar.
I called out as I approached. "May I help you? That's my car you're draped on."
He turned to face me and I looked into a stranger's green eyes ... a stranger of whom I had dreamed.
"I know," he responded, standing away from the vehicle. "I've been waiting for you for a very long time."
"Have you?" I whispered, unable to tear my eyes from his gaze.
"Oh, yes. I have." He extended a pale, graceful hand to me and then drew me into his arms. His hands were cool as they caressed my cheeks, cupping my chin and tipping my gaze upward to meet his eyes.
I caressed his silken curls as I whispered, "Who are you?"
As his lips touched my throat, I could have sworn he said "Judas.
Counting Blessings Along the Horseshoe Canyon
In September 2006, I took advantage of an opportunity to visit Albuquerque, New Mexico. Along with investigating the city proper, I went to Horseshoe Canyon to photograph the pictograms and petroglyphs left there not only by the Anasazi peoples but, to my surprise, the settlers. That visit inspired this story.
“Get you back in the wagon, Hattie.”
Her husband’s voice was harsh.
“Yes, Mister Johnson.” Her voice was listless.
“Told you to call me Dan’l, gal. This ain’t your fancy East coast parlor.”
No, it wasn’t, Henriette thought as she dragged herself away from the ancient carvings. She was fascinated by all of the symbols carved into the rock walls of the arroyo. Horseshoe Canyon, it was called. Her husband, Daniel Johnson, had plans to turn his now-ragged herd of cattle into a vast empire here in the New Mexico gulch. He’d scratched his own name amongst the ancient symbols.
Johnson’s promises of wealth and prosperity had impressed Henriette’s father so much that he’d essentially sold her in marriage.
“He’s a solid man,” Papa had said. “You, with no prospects to speak of now, should count yourself fortunate. It’s all arranged with the parson for tomorrow.”
Counting, indeed, just as Papa was counting on his share of profits in the ranch; Johnson had given him a deed the day the betrothal was sealed. In the saloon, of course.
Henriette swiped a hand across her reddened brow. If Mama were still alive, she’d have spoken up. Instead, Henriette was in a wagon train from Cincinnati to this strangely beautiful place. Her fair skin was sunburned, her pale hair dry where it was uncovered by her hat. Johnson had given her an enormous calico sunbonnet after a while; she eventually gave in and donned the horrid thing. Likewise the plainstuff dress that Johnson deemed “ a sight better than them furbelows.”
He was rough ... callous. He was also nearly twenty years her senior and clearly though himself quite the fellow for getting the hand of the “uppity” twenty-three-year-old.
She looked despairingly at her roughened hands as she climbed up next to her husband. Her gloves had worn through some time ago. Johnson mocked her over them anyway.
“You’re gonna be scrubbin’ clothes on a board with lye soap, Hattie. Ain’t no call to be worryin’ about your hands.”
“I don’t suppose, Mister Johnson, that you could call me by my proper name?”
“Don’t sass your husband, gal. I ain’t going to call you a fancy name like that. You’re Hattie.”
God, how she hated him. She especially hated the nights when he would roll over in the wagon and do what he called his “manly work” -- always without preamble. No kisses or caresses for Daniel Johnson. Henriette lay still during those times, grateful for their brevity. Now that she’s seen the stone pictures around Horseshoe Canyon, she was determined to pretend she was one of them when Johnson came to work. Not a real woman, just a stone image.
:”Thought I was gettin’ a better bargain to wife,” he complained as the oxen shambled along in the wagon traces. “You’ve said hardly anything since the weddin’ and you won’t call me by name.”
What was there to say? Johnson boasted that he’d taken his annual bath the day they married. He could read, write and figure but had no use for refinements. Henriette knew that he saw her as a trophy that he could turn into a workhorse, and her own father was happy to see it happen.
Henriette looked at her husband, trying to keep the disapproval from her face. He had taken off his shirt; his red Union suit top covered his chest and one suspender strap had fallen down his arm. He needed both shave and haircut; on his head he wore something that was a hat in name only.
“Daniel,” she ground out miserably.
“That’s more like it, gal,” He cuffed her shoulder so hard that she winced.
Henriette could not help thinking of another man called Daniel. One who was handsome and refined. One who was clean and well-dressed. One who, before he died of a cancer no one knew he had, had asked to marry her. One who had been the first to do his “manly work” with Henriette -- but with gentleness and care.
She could only hope that Mister Johnson’s figuring abilities were poor when she gave birth to the other Daniel’s child in this harsh, new place.
A Cutting Observation
As an anthropology student, I was taught never to interfere and only to observe. Yet, we know from quantum physics that the mere act of observing an event alters it. Maddy winds up more deeply entrenched than she plans in this story.
“I was just supposed to observe,” Maddy thought as the small, dark women attached silver ornaments to the auburn braids at her temples. The ornaments had come from every household in the village, to honor her. “I wasn’t supposed to participate.”
The weight of the metal-adorned braids gave her a headache. The back of her waist-length hair was painted with clay pigments: green, black, yellow, white. The tribal women decorated their own hair in just such a fashion.
She had reckoned without Ayela, the tribal chief, with his close-cropped golden hair and blue eyes. An adopted son of the previous chief, Ayela stood literally head and shoulders above the rain forest indigenous folk.
Ayela had no clear memory of his birth family, but he remembered enough English to answer Maddy’s questions. He asked questions of his own, too; like, why did Maddy not wear her bride price in her hair as the young women of his tribe died. When their moon blood came for the first time, he explained, a girl’s mother would bring her to the village center and cut her hair -- except for two braided locks at the temples, which the father would adorn with silver beads and ornaments. Each year until her marriage, more silver would be added.
Somehow, over the course of their conversations during Maddy’s time living with and learning about the tribe, Ayela fell in love. Now, Maddy would have firsthand knowledge of the group’s wedding rituals.
The women, whose names Maddy realized she did not know, decorated her upper body with the same pigments, drawings whorls and patterns. She wore only a soft, chamois-like skirt -- the traditional wedding attire for a tribeswoman.
Her face was decorated last. She longed for a mirror, but that was forbidden as unlucky.
After a long while, the women led her to the village center, where Ayela stood waiting. His adoptive mother, Xilia, stood next to him. Ay
ela was painted and decorated as well; a pattern of spirals on his body and angular lines on his face. Maddy presumed they echoed her own designs.
Ayela said a few words to the crowd in his adopted tongue. Xilia did the same. She then held up an obsidian knife to show everyone.
“Now this woman surrenders her girlhood,” Ayela translated.
Ayela told Helen to kneel and she did so. Xilia lifted the heavy hair at the back of her name and gathered it into one hand. Maddy felt the quick jerking of the knife sawing through the long, decorated locks, baring her nape as her hair was roughly cut away. Ayela had not prepared her for that; she reached a hand around to touch the uneven ends. She held back her tears as Ayela helped her to stand and led her through the cheering crowds to the bridal bower.
There, he sawed through the two temple braids and tied them to his sash; now she understood why she’d seen men carrying long ropes of silver with them. She could only imagine the picture she presented now. Yet, Ayela was kissing her passionately.
They smeared the pigments on one another’s bodies as they came together; the perfect designs were ruined.
This was also a tradition, Ayela explained. They would show themselves the next day, paints awry and her hair cropped, as proof that the marriage was consummated.
Maddy wept as Ayela ran his pigment-smeared hands through her rough-cut hair, leaving swatches of color all over the strands.
It would be an amazing article when she returned home. Her hair would grow again. She swallowed and smiled at her husband.
Ghost of a Chance
This story was born of a conversation I had with a friend. It was one of those ‘”careful, or you’ll end up in my novel” things.” When he asked what kind of character he would be, I told him that I saw him as a Roman centurion. He countered with “What about a veteran of Kitchener’s wars?” My response was “Which one?” With the Second Boer War under my belt, I came up with a story idea -- and lost the notes. The good news is that I was able to reconstruct most of it. The better news is that the story is much improved since the original concept.
Around the World in 80 Pages Page 2