Mother Orchard’s Playlist

www.chapterlilaria.com(A love of fresh air
frames this effort.)

a hundred miles below
at tasks of watching
blade-striped
bees
crawl
into foxglove bells,
half-filled with dew—on a good
day
there is
lavender.

 

lightly settled in

a new moon, washing the
winds while we work
enchanted
to good deeds & kind
words, pulling evergreen
thoughts
from
Mother Orchard’s
silent shadow.

witnessed here
by the waters
of life—we are
harvested
in gorgeous
sunlight.

{Image from www.chapterlilaria.com}

Quotation from Coco Chanel

www.mournerslane.com“You live but once; you might as well be amusing.”
~ Coco Chanel

{Image from www.mournerslane.com}

Fresh Poetry ~ “The New Earth”

Creator by WeWork - The New Earth(As indicated
through mystical temperament.)

New life rushes on yonder
horizon: of azure blue,
a watchful eye
swings
from East to the west;
in resurrection’s boutique,
a dragon army rides bearing
distinctive badge.

How shall Osiris
rise again?
Bathe in our love
of sunlight,
any manner of joy.
Twenty fresh cities claim
a sign
of the sun deity;
shadows fall away from
their source
of light;
silence unifies
metaphysical minds.

After the apocalypse
in Eden,
fear thickens time to weave
a blanket covering
past impulse.
To hunt the creature
adorning the forbidden tree,
ritualistic angels weave lines
of light—seamless fibre that strands testament
to the depths of centuries.

Armed in belief
that heaven & earth
align
birthright through history,
concealed
dragons speak—happy-clappy,
inspirational
news-you-can-use,
together-we-can-do-it,
ABC,
123, paint-by-numbers
positivity
motivated by waves
of a secret universal
tongue.

Strange to behold, this world
of magnetism.

{Image created by WeWork}

Fresh Poetry ~ “Refutations of the Fleur d’Amour”

Leona Carrington - RefutationsMemory strikes like a train;
the shock of an empty glass
rewinds naturally.
That strange summer began
to prohibit desire; sexual perimeters
expand,
so the rules deepen which govern
secular behaviour.
The plot here is simple & fun
to write—initiate devout participation;
penetrate the Zen of seduction
onto a familiar horizon
of ambition incapable of retaining any language
but the sensual.

 

Anxiety-model women express
emotion
in worried eyes.
They whisper when others leave the room;
false evidence, appearing real
led by hormones to drown demons in a flood
of pretend emotion—that was what mother
taught her.
As women of that temperament understand,
drama is bad for complexion so
the ego surrenders feudal aspects
of loyalty & faith.

Track the roller coaster: At fourteen it was
a whisper;
screens kept dividing so she punished them
by taking away the light.
When they didn’t care, she organized
a deeper fury.
Toxic in shame; she falls in love
with disapproval.

Is it a fear of failure which renders
success
so brilliant?

Start of the next chapter: What is to be
her secret name? The spirit name?
Just before the last snowberry falls
into the nectar of dawn,
with the sun of life she rises
to meditate.
Raise the spell of the Fleur d’Amour:
In the passages of memory
she twists like a fading star;
thoughts like fish float through
as the dreamscape of an
emerging soul.

An ironic coda: Power up her sleeves;
from those deep pockets—she reasons
like a junkie,
fast & self-serving,
with all incumbent strange codes & restrictions.
A film of lurid association
covers her when she returns from
the experiments;
a Dorothy already tired of Oz,
more tricks in her than a pair
of foxes.
So complicated she should come
with instructions.
Back when she was living the life, she sang every
song on the radio.
Today?
For emotional relief,
she bullies the stereo all night,
a mind blown to pieces.
Wants people to know the darker side
of ambition,
how everyone gets more & more
decadent & before you know it,
they are crazy
for drugs.

This is only half of the tale—her side
of the story.

{Painting by Leonora Carrington}

“Zen By Default” ~ An Outtake

ASMR- Fear of Darkness ScriptWhen night falls, the face of a darkened breeze changes expression. To my concern, once everyone is finally asleep, I still feel uncomfortable. Sitting in the safety of the front porch, I fidget & listen. Sound is more distinct in darkness & as the eyes try to focus on something concrete, the ears fill with the movement of night. In this buzzing world, nothing is permitted to surprise. Poised for some unknown danger, I catalogue each sound, scan each shadow gauging any potential for genuine threat, ready to react. No noise is insignificant & from within this anxiety, I fantasize about defence.

Even during daylight hours, behind a performance of sassy confidence, I look over my shoulder when no one else is around. It didn’t at first but this place scares me now & I don’t want anyone to know this.  Donna & Stephen sense my edginess but dismiss it to intense enthusiasm brought on by watching too many movies. I amuse myself by imagining their reactions were they to comprehend the magnitude of this apprehension. If they suspected how I clung to their presence, losing myself in wave after wave of contact, conjured for self-preservation & validation, they would turn away. We have boundaries, unspoken yet strongly positioned & if detected, these needs of mine would shatter a silent accord.

Sometimes I watch from an unseen place, trying to detect the same fear in one of them, hoping that any similarity might offer the opportunity to reveal my true nature. I watch but recognize no signs. I re-join the group, my talkative blithering enough to deflect the desperate truth.

This darkness finds me locked in entanglements which prevent any return to a world of light & order. When the captain of the ship is lost & not even the winds of chance will stir—this is what chaos feels like. Fears too great to ignore & imagination is unkind in the face of all this empty space.

What do I do now that I’m too frightened to reach the place where darkness is dispelled?

& & &

This part is from the past: I still have courage to take the Stephenson’s dogs for long walks. It has become our custom, this daily hike & they wait patiently until I’m ready. Each morning, after finishing a mug of tea & the first cigarette, I rally Toby & Sally from their posts. Operating from the comforts of ritual, formation is the same—the friendly cockapoo is scout, racing ahead but never out of earshot & the purebred Sheltie stays back with me, barking & circling her great excitement.

We linger at the spot on the lane-way which serves as crossroads—to the left is a beaten path which leads up to old growth forest; straight down the road continues to a neighbour, then eventually the highway. At my indication, we veer towards the trees & excitement breaks them both to race ahead. We have embarked.

The first leg is through the waterway. At this time of year, the area is dry & there is no trace of a creek I’m told bubbles beneath the thick canopy of green leaves in springtime. When snow at higher elevations melts, a picturesque stream forms to meander down the hillside but all I see now is a dry bed.

The dogs dash ahead, noses to the ground, absorbed with investigating the comings & goings invisible to a human eye. Occasionally, they break-off from the path, following a scent too powerful to ignore. A gentle call brings them back & our pace quickens. We are eager to reach the opening ahead.

Past the safety of the waterway, we move into the field jokingly referred to as the “U.F.O Landing Spot.” It’s an area which was cleared decades ago, by a former owner & is distinct because of it’s absence of trees. Apparently, Stephen went through a phase where he was convinced such an occurrence might be likely & this open area was the perfect spot. I believe none of this but the name sticks.

7-themes.comThe first stop is at a patch of wild daisies mysteriously always in bloom. I stop to gather a small bouquet, the dogs circle round & around with intensity they never reveal back in the compound. Their impatience is clear so I hurry. Once flowers are gathered, we continue across the open field, moving around clusters of re-growing trees & stepping over rocks which have tumbled down the nearby mountainside.

We move fast, our pace encouraged by fresh air & morning sunshine. Crossing on a diagonal, we reach the spot where we must climb the steeper part of a mountain. By now the dogs, who had memorized this route & could lead unaided, allow me to loose myself in streams of spontaneous thought, maintaining only a faint awareness of where we are heading.

Movement is fuel for fantasy. In this freedom, the mind forgets limit. I organize indulgences & weigh the merits of former interest. In fantasy my character grows strong. I understand complex situations with an ease absent in the regular world. Inside the privacy of a mind scarred by loneliness & loss, there is nothing I can’t assimilate. These projections take on an intensity that shadows reality & my will is loosened as the grip on immediate reality relaxes. Like waves in an ocean, I splash through levels of awareness in the comfort water provides.

We reach a small meadow at the top of a steep incline. This is one of my favourite spots on the property. I’ve been told by Natasha that during the winter months, a large herd of elk gather on this part of land & this flatter area is a sleeping place. Framed by the edges of old growth forest, the openness allows for visibility of predators & the natural grasses provide a comfort no other area offers. I breathe & space fills with a peace that is savoured like prayer.

We cross this sanctuary & ravens arrive to investigate. High above, black birds, large birds hover slow circles. I call a greeting in a weak attempt at speaking their mysterious language. We are part of the tribe, I assure them through my strange croaking. Sometimes they answer back & these exchanges feel friendly. The ravens are the barometers of the land. It’s possible to tell when something has been killed in the vicinity, for the raven tribe, some forty in total will gather above the kill-place to celebrate. Their swooping grace is offset by shrieking calls; they are the eyes from above & I am comforted by this vigilance.

We reach the end of the field. This is where the mullein grow—tall, slender, odd-looking plants that rise up to flower nearly seven feet, as though training the eye to look up into the towering heights that mark the beginning of the old growth forest. Stepping inside this closer world is crossing a threshold into another atmosphere. There is quiet tension in the air which is unique to this part of the walk, as though the trees can sense our presence.

endangeredecosystems.orgFollowing a path beaten by visiting elk, far below the top branches that block direct sunlight, around thick-barked trunks of looming pines, we slow the pace. The dogs dash less, their investigating more purposeful. In filtered sunshine, I feel a lightness of spirit; I feel protected.

We reach the halfway point. It is customary to stop, the dogs taking a short rest while I busy myself with the continuation of a project started not long after arriving here. A tree which had fallen over, causing the roots to rip up through the earth, had one day frozen me. From a short distance away, it was the head of a dragon, breaking through the soil of the forest.

Natasha’s words came to inspire: This is the elemental dragon—my attempt at an intersection with an invisible world of wonders. This is an opportunity to blend sensibilities, to visualize the invisible beast I fear will stalk my life forever. I want to make it solid, I need to understand what it expects of me.

The dogs pant their exertion as I arrange nearby rocks, collected to indicate the dragon’s teeth & scales. This springs the illusion to life. Over the weeks, it has grown to an imposing figure, standing as sentinel—a menacing gargoyle designed to survey the natural order. This is a creature brought to life from my own mythology, one who will guide to new perspectives in an invisible world of natural order.

kristenplescow.tumblr.com

I work carefully though it is never long before my canine companions become impatient. Satisfied with whatever additions have been made, after placing an offering of the bouquet of daisies at the base of the sculpture & a quick prayer to seal the experience, we head back.

Continuing down a slope that extends through the columns of towering trees, sunlight is layered in fragments through overhead branches & moisture that clings to the moss sparkles against our movement. The path back is always random but a general direction clears as slowly we move towards what is for now, home. The dogs are slower on the return, often lingering behind, wanting to stretch the time away from guarding duties as long as possible. At my urging, they come forward but their pattern of delay is to repeat itself until we are in sight of the compound.

I feel a sense of resignation as we climb the final hill that brings us to the edges of the Stephenson yard. While the dogs race ahead to check on anything they might have missed in our absence, I pause to savour final moments of contentment. There is a sense of calm which accompanies these walks. I feel perfect, Everything is just as it should be in the world.

Then it changes. Within minutes of re-connecting with this environment, the magic is out of reach. Where does this shift come from? How can it stay perfect like this forever?

{Images by: ASMR – Fear of Darkness Script@youtube.com & 7-themes.com & endangered ecosystems.org & kristenplescow.tumblr.com}

 

Fresh Poetry ~ “Moriah Conquering Wind”

www.photoshopcreative.co.ukIn the beginning:
What is eternal
is incapable of commencing.

The clearest segue into a ghostly, hypersensitive
world
follows Ariadne’s thread stretching
without knot or slack
into
the astral representation—it flies with such force!
Strong desires charge powerful emotion
wayward & needful;
fetish is lost in a labyrinth of natural ecstasy.
In such raptures lie the secret
to Moriah’s holy instance but in the spirit
of clean magic,
old & new,
she will need a deeper scheme.

Asking to transcend immutable laws
of nature?
Carried by astral winds across a flooded world,
at the swiftest banks of the riverbed,
a whirlwind lands.
Contemplate the dream: a brief coded exchange
into mystical double vision for
she will
believe it’s next lesson—the same for years
of mystery.
Spoiled in faith & determination
of others,
Moriah settles for participant, swirling to blend
under the wisdom of hidden centuries
a product of furious blood;
the enchanter’s lament:
Time be the matrix where
liquid,
fluid sex becomes a doorway to
sublime versatility for
Moriah possesses this courage not to
extinguish burning desire,
instead resting in all that is corporeal; satisfied
in flesh.
Once spirit is paralyzed & all
power arrives through the lust
of ego, in fevered loins,
she finds higher mystical notes.
To thrust downward,
penetration
must include swift, rotating glides—marvel how pain,
the mother of mercy & knowledge
vibrates.
This is magic as power, used
to encompass the mixture
of dissimilar things,
of a fuller spectrum,
spiced with astral sex & tantric projections which
render her suggestible
to silly superstitions & great virtuosity
in sudden transitions of mood—the price of anchoring oneself
to the flux.

With nets of steel,
Moriah came of age
ascending through all she ever loved,
inside an oasis
of compliance glorious & celestial.
She still hears whispers of souls who
brave
to make right chaos in this land.
To assist in focus, she pulls
backward,
piece by piece to shoot
forward—in retributive form she is
Mount Moriah,
the will of Eternal Nature
whispered by a cooperative commonwealth,
shaping as she has been so
profoundly,
exquisitely
moulded herself.

Snow fairies fly
for the season,
darkness will end
as shadows of starlight at dawn;
that soft light which
comforts in the early hours,
like a dream insisting on reality.
It will take time for the true nature
of Moriah’s crusade
to surface,
for the mystical fan dance
of promise & threat,
an exploration of humanity, making
peace with the over-soul,
social sciences inlaying a magic
of continuity & repair—still.
It is the fashion
of the day to be
distracted.

 

{Artwork from www.photoshopcreative.co.uk}

Quotation from Ajahn Chah

 

PPT007

 

 

“Do everything with a mind that lets go. Do not expect praise or reward.”

~ Ajahn Chah

 

 

 

{Image from www.ajahnchah.org}

Fresh Poetry ~ “Pseudo Grandmother Moon”

Max Ernst…for the love of B-sides, obscure sequels
& failed enlightenments.

A strange shadow runs
through the randomness of
instinct; an assumptive layer
of interpretation—a ghostly image
pulled through prophetic channels
by
reflection & contemplation,
driven wild from instinct by
an inexorable drive
to barter for secrets of the Labyrinth,
to take it all back into
the seething clay;
a quest to avoid disaster;
a purified tapestry blessed with the art
of detecting divinity & demonstrating
a bias for
pure sacrament.

Fragmentation is epidemic—who’s mind
is reading
who’s?
Repentance is fear & hope
combined with
any form of goodness becoming
unbalanced
when carried into extremes.
Can nemesis be blocked?
Myth equals oral tradition;
keep all truth for yourself,
those joys of hazing blind faith,
the interior scenes focused on symbolic intervention
but
offer sacrifice to repair the
lonely damage—fakirs, monks & nuns
alike, those conscious souls
programmed by faith—sanctuary
for all who
without admixture of matter,
don’t make it past the state
of modern theology,
perfidious & cruel.

Are you the one who named it,
you ugly believer?
Then you get nothing—ask for
an autograph. You lose
the most infamous instance,
hence the chipped crown,
that symptom of the Apocalypse
dark & impure, wise beyond what is
practical, doubt-addicted
in a place of honour,
full of obligation & renunciations—the secret delights
of calling
the shots.

Who among us doesn’t have
a secret?

Given supernatural abilities,
after weighing the risk/reward ratio,
this world is more eerie
than before.
Think of the many
hundreds & thousands
who
remain anonymous along the trail
of altruistic action;
chivalry of the West
joining philosophy of the East,
fuelling dense Ætheric mental vehicles,
corrupted beyond hope,
knowing
truth only through metaphor, hidden
within
archetype & symbol.

In trying to make sense of
the story,
signs of preservation emerge:
the currency of this empathy is
blue, the colour of Isis
underneath a blazing star—
lascivious scenes spinning concepts
of cohesion,
from control to surrender;
manifestations of will inclined to separate
death from the web
of life,
from a centre pin initiated by the force
of Ancient wills weaving shadow
into armour;
from a thick dark bubble critical
for remedy.

*Enable comments*

The revolution will be looped.

{Artwork by Max Ernst}

Quotation from Chogyam Trungpa

Khenpo_gangshar2“If you must begin then go all the way, because if you begin & quit, the unfinished business you have left behind begins to haunt you all the time.”

~ Chogyam Trungpa

 

 

 

{Photograph by Kengpo_Gangsgar2}

 

Arleta Blue ~ Part Two of Three

woman_depressed - www.alternet.org(Arleta pulls out the Blackberry & sends a text message.)

Sometimes? I can get as hot as a Texas pistol when I’m angry but that day—at that particular moment when my world had been so completely rocked—I didn’t get upset. ‘You’re having an affair,’ I said quite plainly, considering the shock I was in. Naturally, he played dumb. ‘I went into your email, Daryl. I read the letters you sent to her.’ ‘Who?’ he says, still pretending not to follow. ‘Stormy Weather?’ I enjoyed the look of guilt that spread across his face. ‘Now Arleta,’ he pleaded weakly. ‘It’s just electric masturbation.’ He threw me a real line about how he had never met her in person and it was just an Internet-thing & you know what happened? I decided to believe him.

(Arleta inhales deeply, smoothing back shiny hair.)

It all kind of made sense: If he hadn’t actually touched this ‘Stormy Weather’ how could it be considered a real affair? Besides, if a former first lady of our country could overlook a little sexual indiscretion on her husband’s part, then I should be able too, right? He is a man after all, & every woman in this world has to wrestle her worry about whether the dog is going to stray, so I backed off. I decided to turn a blind eye & let him have his fun.

(Smirking to herself, Arleta slams the phone open & shut.)

Call it a sense of adventure; call it stupid denial—I might even agree with you. I couldn’t get past it—how forbidding him was only going to make the matter worse—the irresistible lure of forbidden fruit. God alone knows how big a fool I’ve been in the past, trying to get blood from a stone. I watched my mama grind my daddy down into a stub, so I well understood that a big ‘ole hissy fit will only fan the fires of any curiosity. I didn’t want a divorce from him—I wanted the man I had pre-Internet. I always knew Daryl would stray one day; any woman who thinks her husband won’t is an old-fashioned idiot. It wasn’t like I’d caught them in bed together, for Jeepers sake. Besides, ‘Stormy Weather’ looked quite a bit like me, which was kind of flattering so why not let him have this harmless little fling in the non-physical world of cyber space.

(Arleta closes her eyes & sighs deeply.)

I had done everything I could to make my home proper & correct so I played along, turned that blind eye & allowed him to carry on with whatever he was doing in the spare bedroom. Yet rather than appreciate this noble understanding of the male psyche—none of my other friends would have ever dreamed to put up with that nonsense, believe you me—Daryl didn’t appreciate a thing I did for him. He just kept pushing it & pushing it further still, until one morning after he’d been on the frickin’ computer the whole night long, he comes down to the kitchen to say he’s decided this whole ‘family thing’—the very ‘thing’ we’d dreamt of & created together, at great sacrifice & effort—this whole ‘family thing’ was now ‘obsolete.’ Lord have mercy—that was when I lost my mind.

(Arleta pauses a moment in reflection.)

When I was a bartender, just before I met Daryl, I worked with this woman who had a nervous breakdown. She was a tad weird normally but one morning, she came into worked all dressed-up in her wedding dress. It was quite a pathetic site actually, because she had been married many years before or I should say many pounds before & she must have really fought her way into that old gown. It had ripped all along the sleeves & the zipper in the back was torn pretty much wide open—fat squeezing out everywhere—it wasn’t a pretty site, let me tell you. She came into the bar & acted as normal as she could. Like she wasn’t bursting out of her wedding dress, until someone went up & asked if everything was alright & then she burst into tears. Right in the middle of the room, bawling like a baby. Crying, sobbing—couldn’t seem to stop. People were laughing & I felt sorry for her at the time but I thought—come on! If you’re having that bad a day, maybe it’s best call in sick?

(She pauses for dramatic effect.)

I feel differently about that woman today.

(Arleta fights back a few tears.)

The truth—that’s what made my husband leave me & the boys for Miss Stormy Weather, a.k.a Beth Chapman. I was taught to chose your battles wisely in this world & there was no way I was taking this dirty shit lying down! If my family wasn’t worth fighting for, what the hell was? The problem remained: after Daryl left? I was lost at sea—broken & humiliated like a drowned surfer or a skier caught in an avalanche. I never in my wildest dreams saw this coming & didn’t know where to turn. I lay on the couch watching terrible television for weeks, the will to fight draining out of me, all the while looking for something on television to make sense of the endless chattering in my mind. Then suddenly—through all of that pain & confusion, mine as well as everyone else’s I was absorbing on the television, I suddenly remembered a piece of scripture from Sunday school. ‘Faith which may not be understood now might reveal itself tomorrow.’ I can’t recall if it was Jesus himself who said that but it got stuck in my head, that’s for damn sure. One morning, I woke up & instead of being angry & full of that terrible, burning shame for having lost my husband to another woman, I knew my next move.

(Arleta sends another text message while continuing the story)

Rage should not be wasted on revenge. It can serve as a rudder to navigate a course through rough waters—into some new frontier for adventure & excitement. I’d always secretly felt sorry for those Internet people, spending all their time in a phony electronic world but if that bastard Daryl insisted on eating, smelling, listening, watching, feeling, tasting & screwing anything he wanted—then why couldn’t I? According to him, there was a whole electronic frontier just waiting to be conquered so why the hell should I sit getting fat on the couch when I could be the creator of my own destiny? Let him walk in the sun with Stormy Weather—I went out & bought myself a laptop.

(Arleta snaps the phone closed.)

It was just the beginning of summer vacation for the boys & I decided to give them a break from their mother’s nervous breakdown. I’d tried to make it easy for them, to be strong when they were around & say it was all gonna be okay, but my boys are wise beyond their years. In a funny way, I think they felt responsible for what happened by insisting the computer be brought into the house in the first place. They noticed how their mother was really suffering & were so sweet but they needed a chance to get over what had happened too. I decided to send them to their grandparents for the summer—they couldn’t pack their bags fast enough & after tearful goodbyes at the airport, after I promised them a new mommy when they returned, I drove back home fixing to connect to this infamous world wide web.

(Arleta eyes the Blackberry.)

Now y’all need to understand— I knew absolutely nothing about computers. I’d been the stay-at-home, traditional kind of wife & the www-thing had taken place in a world far away from cleaning toilets & making brownies for a church bake sale. I marvelled at how it all so suddenly became completely accepted. Twenty years ago this thing would have sounded like science fiction & I was clueless about how to get in on it myself. To solve this predicament, I did what any smart American woman does when she needs help—I called customer service. There I found the good people at Dell support both courteous & patient. Soon I was all ready to log on.

(Arleta opens the phone & types something on the keypad.)

Being online felt like the first time I went water-skiing—shaky, exhilarating but completely out of control. It felt like trying to read your watch, in a tidal wave. There were a lot of re-starts & back tracking & a few tears of frustration. I hadn’t typed since high school & all of those confusing abbreviations in the chat rooms & those tedious registration screens— I tell you—but once I got used to the cyber world, I was clacking away at that gizmo like a guinea hen picking scratch.

(Arleta looks at her Blackberry, then laughs at something on the screen.)

The reward for my effort was the completion of a challenging task but I was still pretty angry with Daryl back then, so I happily chatted with other men. I got the feeling that anyone I’d meet online was either crazy or soon would be. After several missteps, I finally met someone who asked me out for a nice dinner instead of a naked picture & descriptions of what I wanted to do to him in bed.

(Arleta laughs to herself.)

The guy had said to me he had a ‘football players build’ & I have to admit, I was kind of excited by that. It had been a long while since I’d actually enjoyed sex & thinking about this guy really got my juices going. Well—after one big whoopty–doo buffet meal at ‘Foody Goody,’ I regretted not asking him which position he played on that football team because it definitely wasn’t the quarterback.

(Arleta adjusts her dress.)

So that was it for the romance idea. I started shopping online & it was like a big old tornado sucking that money up so I put away the credit card & rather than get discouraged, I decided to spread out into international waters, something outside my own backyard. Soon I was chatting with people I never knew existed: A person who explained how crop circles are actually made by a whole team of people, for instance & a nurse who had tragically applied the wrong medicine to a patient. All of these fascinating people online—a former member of some boy band I’d never heard of—there seemed to be a website for anything & everything.

(Arleta clutches the Blackberry to her breast.)

I discovered that being online was good for you, like daily aspirin. Everything we need to know about the modern world is right in here. So strange to say this now but it seemed like I’d been waiting, just passing time doing things that didn’t seem as vital as being online. I could not for the life of me understand why I hadn’t done this sooner. Finally, I was starting to enjoy the notion of being free.

(Arleta wipes the screen of the Blackberry with the sleeve.)

Those people who imagine themselves from a different time because they don’t understand technology? You know the types who wander around in historical garb, experiencing the excitement of life in another century? I was once like them but not any more. If the digital culture is like a wave, then I was riding the wave on a broken ironing board—a fierce, bright light shining from my eyes. I’m sure y’all realize that information carries fast in the undercurrents of that world—the speed of conception, plus & feeling like an ancient navigator, from a more luminous dimension, I flowed through the currents of the Internet, preparing for destiny.

(Arleta stares off into the distance.)

Being online had helped push back the walls that had closed in on me. Going from site to site, like some wet hen trying to find a place to roost—no story is too insignificant—a galaxy of voices out there to shine alongside but that turbo-speed, digital pace is draining. I didn’t feel like I had any opportunity to reflect on anything. It was just a constant stream of fresh material. From the millions of online possibilities, I knew there had to be a focus to my journey. I must have logged into countless databases to read what seemed like a million clever online suggestions. Everyone wants to somehow make a difference in this crazy world, but I was feeling overwhelmed by the sheer possibilities. I needed to make a statement about our broken home—that much was clear, but was still frustrated by the inability to come up with a good idea for a blog—until all suddenly, I got inspiration as clearly as if it had been a direct message. Something political in nature was required but something that would highlight the positive emotional aspects of a demoralizing situation. That was the original vision—build an integrated community for Internet widows. All those who have been abandoned because of online extracurriculars, both men & women, young or old—my website would be a refuge to those trying to recover from the selfish acts of others.

Brian Kerrigan
{Artwork: woman_depressed ~ www.alternet.org & Brian Kerrigan}