Sunday News

I for one miss the old days. Back when the news was simply news. Those times when I received a stack of carefully printed pages rolled and delivered by thoughtful hands to the entrance of my drive. It was a delicious part of my day on those rain smattered Sundays. Mornings when I could arise with no place to be. Awaken my soul slowly to the new dawn. Gently push the dogs off the bed and crawl from beneath warm covers as the sunrise starts to brighten a  world still quiet from nighttime’s slumber. Enveloped by that pre dawn silence I’d go, wiping  the sleep from my eyes as I wandered to the kitchen to fill the pot with cold fresh water pumped directly from the well. The headiness of the coffee a sensual pleasure as I added a heaping scoop of rich sumptuous grounds to my old but faithful percolator. The enjoyment found in the simple routine of pulling open the back door and setting my dogs free to inspect the perimeters of the yard proper . Allowing them to take care of any business they’d withheld during the night. At this point I’d judge the possibilities of the day. No cell phones to check. No gaging the number of approving likes I might have received on a photo I’d shared before I drifted away into sleeps embrace the night before. Just myself , a pack of romping dogs bounding out to check the most immediate fence line and nature in all her fresh awakening glory.

Once the coffee was prepped I’d grab whatever outer garment was closest at hand, slide my bare feet into yesterday’s mud encrusted boots and head outside as well. I truly relished my stroll down the long drive to obtain that trusted old friend, my newspaper. No checking of machines illuminated  brightly with messages from worrisome souls near and far. Just me and a pack of dew wet dogs taking the first steps into the new day to obtain the news of the past. The clacking of the now leafless tree branches  and the refreshing wind whipped rain drops were my background. Wood smoke wafting up the valley on the breeze let me know the neighbors were awake as well. No posts were needed of their breakfast preparations to let me know this important fact all the while demanding a reactive emoticon. The towering pines would put off their brisk scent clearing my head as I walked. Not those odors emanating from a plugged in warmer complete with manufactured fragrance of my choice, but the reality of rich damp earth and a vibrant aroma of pine needles rich with sap. It’s my belief that this head clearing bit of exercise simply increased the flavor of my coffee on these late fall mornings when I allowed my every sense to awaken in its own time.

That Newspaper was there, cast expertly in the gravel wash next to the ruts left by many an ingress and egress into the drive. Damp and darkened by moisture from the misty morn, that rolled tube of salient information awaited my gentle touch to coax forth the words within its pages. I’d retrieve the rubber banded roll from its resting place, reassure my accompanying dogs that it was indeed not a stick awaiting a toss and amble back up the drive. A symphony of chirping birds serenaded my journey along with the far-off cries of a crow somewhere in the forest announcing a newly found breakfast bounty. Carrying the paper gently in my hands I’d take in the glory of all that was tangible while hungering for my hot rich cup of coffee. Imagine my luck at not having a machine to reboot?

Back in my kitchen the paper was laid next to fireplace to dry as the silver percolator now installed upon the range began to bubble. The essence of drying newspaper mingling with the pungent odor of fresh coffee is reminiscent to me of hope. Hope the coffee will jolt my neurons into the maximum amount of action and hope that the words printed upon that delicate parchment will be well thought out and informative. Words well executed and fat with information that will allow me to form my own thoughts. Statements and sentiments to savor while drawing on my ownlifes experiences and knowledge of history. Words placed to be perused and pondered, allowing me to gain my own conclusions and form my own opinions . No instant pulsing headline accompanied by an earnest, yet dissatisfied or down right upset picture of the poster accompanied by a hashtag and a link. All blasting at me like a white-hot prod demanding an instant  response. Not something to subtly ponder  or a band of prose to ruminate about during my morning as I collect the fresh eggs from beneath the chickens in their warm   safe coupe. But a leading statement encouraging me to read to respond not to consider. A response that if given, could mean my day would be exalted into the glorious realms of high approval by people I’d never met or cast into the bowels of disapproval hell by, once again, people I’d never met.

But those days of fragrant papers and gentle light have faded. Information comes at me in a million pinpoints of light like the theater version of jumping to hyperspace. I often wonder if my thoughts are truly my own or some Pavlovian response generated without care nor consideration. Quite possibly the latter although I do guard my conscience. As my computer announces an incoming proclamation I hear Sampson, the oldest of my dogs baying out a warning. A peek out the backdoor, coffee cup warming my hand against the day’s chill, reveals he has located a threatening and ominous appearing pine cone. He circles the beast, ruff up. Closes in, takes a sniff and does what in the language of dogs comes natural. He lifts his back leg and drowns it in a steaming golden river. Behind me on the table the computer re-informs me of my message. I look at Sampson  now joyously bounding off towards the forest, smile to myself, head back into my warm kitchen , walk to the table and press the power button to off. Now let’s be honest, I’m just not that tall. But Sampson’s solution did cross my mind.

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First Day of Fall

The first day of Fall and it seems like just yesterday I was tearing off my pantyhose in the bathroom at my office and kicking out of my work wardrobe. I’d have  slid myself  into a well worn pair of cutoffs with a soft cotton t shirt and headed out of the city.  The traffic would be terrible as usual, bumper to bumper, as I was rolled down that road to freedom with my a/c blasting on high. I’d recall watching the computer screen fade to black as I switched it off with a “Thank you Lord, this week is done”.

It takes me a good hour to come clear of the city and hit the wide open country side; another just to arrive in the low country. But even if it’s hotter that Hades on the worst day, I’d always pop open the sunroof and roll down the windows just to bathe in that pungent low country air. Yeah, I know its 2017 and I’m a woman now in her mid fifties. I should be getting my nails manicured and awaiting details of grandchildren near and afar. But old dogs don’t like new tricks and I’m pretty much an old dog at this stage, plus I never slowed my roll enough to pop out the first kid, so if a grandchild showed up it would be hell holy miracle. As for the nails, my destination held no future or purpose for a fancy shaping and a fresh coat of polish. I was doing as I’ve always done and heading to the horses . Those gentle beings of peace and power I’d enjoyed in solidarity with many like minded women across the nation, oh give me a break, around the world for as long as my memory serves.  13690803_1037510816324545_5437322099073137052_n

Now I know many of my business compatriots tend to think a lady of my advanced age and obvious sophistication would be delicately sipping chardonnay and discussing the latest fashions on a patio overlooking a vibrant cityscape on a Friday night. Wrong. A lady of my advanced age and sophistication is whipping her car in to a country convenience store to pick up a twelve pack of beer and two of those she will not delicately sip, but she will slam back as she walks barefoot through the pasture to catch her fat horse.  Once beer two has been chugged the lady of advanced age and now possibly dubious sophistication will feel pretty darn confident that she can just climb on her horse bareback and ride it back to the barn to be saddled. The story might sound a bit better if she rode the fields in a daring manner and  bareback. But a lady of advanced age needs the saddle bags for the rest of the twelve pack.

Now all that being said, there’s possibly nothing better on this earth as I see it than being out under the sky with a summer slick horse between my legs, the sounds of the cicadas singing in the treetops and a cold beer in my hand. Out on this rich black earth I’ve watched the corn go from tender sprouts to giant stalks waving high above my head. I’ve seen a million fireflies dance in the forest that lines the riverbanks and the thick Junes bugs dance in the grasslands . I’ve raced many a storm home across the pastures with lightning cracking across the skies and thunder roaring in the distance. Though I consider this land blessed it often  seems like a million degrees with a hundred percent humidity out in these rich Carolina fields. Even with the cooling of the evening hours sweat still rolls down your chest and drips from your legs. My sassy steed always has a slick sheen of perspiration across her glossy  coat after a day in the sun. The slightest breeze is the most sacred of gifts and from that one is instantly reminded the smallest of things truly count. By this time  I’ve watched the lily pads in the ponds go from vibrant circles of green cast upon the blue black canvas of the water, to green circles with brilliant blooms of pink and white. Crops have sprung to life, kissed the skies for a brief time and fallen to the harvest as rode the edges of their domain  on many a sultry Friday night.  But just like the days in that shimmering summer sun have etched a few more lines upon my face and freckles upon my skin. The memories of those dusky rides have will forever remain the core of my being and that which carries me when the nights become long and the days become short.

 

So on this first day of Fall as the seasons meld into one another and Summer recedes into the past, this lady of advanced age who gives not a whit about sophistication is still going to shed her panty hose at five o’clock, pick up a twelve pack and head for the horses. Yes, she’ll slam two down on the way to catch her fat horse , she’ll look at the leaves just starting to turn with the first blush of Fall and she’ll decide not to ride in bareback this time , but to enjoy the stroll.12295308_903397193069242_7256518864315359349_n

The Current

I watched the sunlight ripple across the waters of the eddy pool. Off to my left the ocean roared with the intensity of an untamed lion, but beneath my gaze the trapped saltwater  was gentle and clear. I had tied a piece of fish  to a string hoping to catch the blue crab I’d seen scuttling along the smooth sandy bottom. I tossed my bait watching it rise, arc and then fall into the waters . It sank gently and came to rest on one of the miniature dunes that had formed upon the eddy pools floor. I settled in to rest upon the waters edge gripping my bait attached string and watching  the many schools of minnows hurry by . Quick shadows racing to the shallows and then just as rapidly fleeing to the depths. I let the suns rays warm my face and the steady breeze toss my hair . There I drifted for a bit , allowing my existence here to be nothing more and nothing less.

I was not conciously aware of how long a time passed, maybe a few minutes maybe more. But I had become gentle in the moment, just myself , the cawing of the seabirds whirling above my head and the oceans many vacillating moods . I felt the smallest tug at my string, faint ,yet discernible and I looked towards my bait. The blue crab had found the tasty delight of rotting fish and gripped it with one of its handy claws. It was a lovely crab I noticed. The ivory whiteness of its shell outlined with rich vermillion around the black edges on its claws , the vibrant red slowly fading to gentle pink. Ivory then took over and mingled with many hues of blue. Becoming those of the skies  and then the color of the seas the colors darkened across its back. I watched the crab hold the treasured piece of fish with the largest of its claws and reach with the smaller to pick off a parcel of the flesh which it promptly gobbled up.

The current world faded away from me and disappeared into the background. This moment was just myself,  the sun, the surf and the crab beneath the waters . It picked another sliver of meat off the bait I had deftly secured to the string, held it in its smaller claw and turned. It turned not away from my gaze , but towards it. With that gentle move our eyes met. Mine, the human’s , the predator , the one supposedly at the top of the food chain. It’s, the crab’s , a creeper of the oceans floor , one who could exist above and below the waters, supposedly a mere crustacean , non-sentient. Time slowed between us and I saw the lesser claw extend the prized sliver of fish towards me. An offering perhaps . I had brought the bait , yet we must share. The world beyond our slowed moment in time would say this was crazy . The world beyond our moment would explain this was just a movement against the current. I would now agree with the world. In their perception, I was crazy and this most certainly was a movement against the current.

The blue crab moved towards me not away as it ate my declined offer of  fish. I released the string and let the binding strand float away across the breeze rippling surface of the eddy pool. My eyes stayed locked with gentle being beneath the waters. The crab seemed to sit back as if waiting. I sighed to myself and released all the strings. Cut loose all the bait. Became closer to being my truest essence of self. I let many strings float away that day, under the watchful eyes of the crab as it feasted  upon the decaying fish. I had been attached to the decay to long and now was the time unmake all the unnatural that had been instilled in me. Yes, the world beyond this moment would say I was crazy, but I simply decided to move against the current .

Off to my left the ocean rumbled with a tumultuous crash as the incoming tide breached the edge of the glassy pool opening it up to the wide endless seas beyond . The inflow lifted the crab and it floated. Our eyes stayed locked for one more moment and then it turned to swim the current outwards  towards the freedom of the  seas.  I sighed to myself, arose to my feet, gave a symbolic wave to my departing crab and turned to do the same. To move against the current  and to finally be free.

Winds 

Heaven forbid the winds of change have started to blow. We have started to peer behind the curtain and figure out the ruse. All we truly want is to live, laugh and love. To watch the sunsets give way to the nights path and see the sunrise grace the land again. To see the wonder in our children’s eyes as they awaken  to a pristine winters snowfall or to smell the rain cleansed freshness of a new spring morning. But they found the worst that was in us and enticed us with a shiny bauble and a wheedling song of glory in things not souls. The flowers that grace the meadows are free, the stars that decorate the night skies have no price, the heat of passion between two lovers comes not with negotiations but with  joyous surrender. On those times we embrace the magic of such , those of the dark places, those whose souls are an empty void, quake in fear.

When the storms uncontrollable roll across the land, when the lightening strikes with the fury of a lover scorned across the hillsides, when the very body of the  earth shakes like a dog beset by fleas they try to blame us. Put guilt upon us for the happenings they cannot control. By all costs they must have power . Alas they don’t realize it’s a poisonous dark power upon which they feed. Not the power of freedom and joy but the power of enslavement and hate. If by any chance we start to seek the light, embrace the joy and pull back the curtain revealing their deceit . They pit us one against the other taunting us with in the injustice of better baubles than the other. They know that should we  ever awaken and step off their treadmill, that their feast of darkness will subside. That we will turn as one, a force of light against the feasters of dark . Free will towards goodness is seven fold the power of thier enslavement and force towards what they preach is right. This they know and harbor deep within their disguise , yet they toss and turn in sleeplessness for that gnawing unsatiable hunger for power from darkness keeps their nights with out rest . But should we unite  and embrace the sunrise, smell the flowers , dance barefoot in the streams once again.  If we can finally find the heart to kiss our children,  hug our neighbors and throw the mighty stick of freedom into the gears of their cleverly built treadmill. They will starve and crumble feeding each upon the other . They will be cleansed from the earth by the brilliance of the light like a moldy fabric set out on a sun kissed summers day. 

So today as  phrases are parsed and photos are shared trying to enlarge the rift. Take the time to smell  the flowers , smile at your co workers and embrace the natural world. Be the stone that starts the ripple , for ripples turn to waves are and many become a tsunami. Rip back the veil and return magic to this land. For it’s there in songs of the birds, the blowing of the breeze  and the coursing of the babbling brook. Be what they cannot control. Thank the sun and moon, the clouds  and the rains, you’ll feel the strength and they’ll retch in fear. Be the ripple. 

Sunday

This day more than that, or more than those which had come before. I  loathed the thought of leaving. I preferred it back here in my realm of giant oaks and slowly moving waters. The trill of the crow in a far off treetop, the song of the cicada heralding in another day and the  softness of the moist sea air as it caressed my skin are the music to which I dance. The partitions between the times are thin here on the creek. One can hear the jingling of the coach horses harness of many moon times ago as easily as the croaks of the bullfrog on the waters edge today. It’s that proclivity I have to drift between the worlds past and those of now that is and always has been my fiercest addiction.

Nature with all her free wheeling souls has put no boundaries upon time and each of her loyal subjects lives with out fear of  a certain hour of the day. This is far more than I can attest to my fellow beings in the human world. That would be , according to a certain blue jay, why their ability to swing between realms is nominal or non existent. Now on this thick Sunday morning one must take the rantings of such a vivacious bird into hard account. Nature holds tight to her own and allows them gifts that humankind has long since left behind, yet covets with all their being. I tossed a large hunk of heavily buttered , strawberry jam laden bread his way, a reward for his insight and also his compassion for he knew I was one of the few that prowled the corridors of time and that I hated the return to the clocks. Those devices humanity had engineered to propel them ahead in hopes of attaining more power and control. Yet, they had lost the magic of history  along with the songs of the past , not the chorus mind you, but the gentle whispers of life. My Jay floated down from the moss laden branch upon which he held court and proceeded to pick apart his tasty offering.

The black brackish waters of the creek off to the side of  my porch, the place that was my haven, where I allowed myself the treat of drifting, had started to ripple. A signal that what had been a thick fat vein of water was starting a return to the sea. The Jay finished his morsel giving me the head tilted, bright eyed glance that I expected from such a delightful fellow. We both knew well the mothers heartbeat and that not far from our lush forest eyrie the tide was receding from the lands. Out on the beaches  waves would be starting to crash and roil as the sea pulled back . A lover slowly withdrawing what had been a long life giving kiss to the coasts of this rich landscape. There would be a scurry in the depths as the fishes raced back towards the big waters so as not to be trapped and vulnerable in the deceiving eddy pools left behind as the waters retreated. The deep creek dwellers would be awakening to begin their  search for the mornings repast on the soon to be exposed banks of thick black plough mud. I  shivered to my core as my modern humanity induced nature reminded me that it would soon be time to leave my idle for that restraining world of walls I so resented. Yet I so needed for the laws of this time said I must if I cared continue my existence. s1

My Jay gave a leap catching the air with one flap of his wings and returned to the branch where a free Blue Jay could look down upon an enslaved human. The glisten in his eyes intimated to me his amusement for it seemed  so many humans thought they were so smart . As  I met his eyes the harness of the coach horses jungled with the restless stamping of their feet and then faded into the heavy thud of the car trunk being closed. It was time, the snake that was the highway would soon embrace me in its venomous grip and the poison of the walled times would begin it steady debilitating drip into my veins. The bullfrog on the bank silenced what had been his steady croak, the crow’s trilling had subsided when the waters of the creek had begun their outflow to the sea and there on a gentle Sunday morning , myself and the Blue Jay locked eyes for not a moment in time, but for a moment in many.  You’re right I said to him as I rose to leave. Its time to flee the walls of steel, cement and millisecond’s. Its time to drift through the many prisms that are the realms and dance with the worlds within, take succor from the magic lost in history and engineer the catapult that breaks through the prison walls.   Yes, the highway is today, but tomorrow with be a soft dirt path. s3

Voices

I watched the cream melt away into the darkness of my coffee cup. The thick light swirl took the darkness of the potent brew away and turned it into a lighter shade, a sort of dawn. I drank it down, hot and rich, with any bite that was the darkness now assailed by the light that was the thick rich cream. Just another Monday when we rolled into another week, another month and another year. A cavalcade of many which all seemed to move by so rapidly they were akin to the blurred advertisements on the side of a passing city train. In any case I was thankful for the sheer joy of  just being outside, the air didn’t hurt my skin like it seemed to in the  ever so efficient climate controlled offices  where I often spent my Mondays. There was no honking of horns here in the country, no mad rush up to the lunch hour. It was simply sweet bird song and the rustle of a morning breeze in the Magnolias near the tables by which we were seated. My dreams of mental escape seemed instantly destroyed when my compatriots all picked up their cell phones with which  to begin their exchanges, receiving the guidance and data that would begin our day. I just stared at my coffee. No manila envelopes full of papers handed out this time round, no making of notes or in my case, no sheets of white paper upon which to doodle Lilly pads, frogs and shooting stars. Yet the loss of the simple folders was barely noted by the rest . There would be nothing to hold, no paper to rustle as decisions were made and ideas collaborated upon.  I found this sacrilege distasteful at best. The cicadas started their song to herald in the heat of the day as I  simply excused myself from the table, took a last gulp of coffee, and dropped my phone in my purse as I rose to depart. Oh yes, I could sense the amazement felt by some at the sheer fact that I had done such a thing. Surely if I was going to the ladies room I could continue from there via text, never missing a beat in what they all felt was to be an exciting interaction, me not so much.

I wandered away from the place that had once been a peaceful veranda, where farmers and traders had ensconced themselves over an early morning repast, speaking of weather and tides, fast horses and strong mules. Today it was a world I cared not to recognize, inhabited by those who would never notice or even acknowledge the pair of Towhees busily foraging beneath the fragrant gardenias next to the rail. Yet they were very comfortable texting with the girl on the other end of the phone complaining about the trials of   her commute into LA. I think I was at that point done. I wondered  away down the hall of the historic old Inn where they’d housed us, the worn boards of the  floor visible, yet the with the voices of  old  sealed forever in  a heavy gloss of plastic and wax, not creak nor a breath, just frozen in time. By the time I made the back door and headed down the path away from them all the vibration of the phone in my purse was simply as much of an after thought as the deerfly buzzing around my head. A blood sucking thing, which needed to be swatted and banished into the eons of eternity.

The black and grey low country dirt beneath my feet looked cool and inviting. I made a brief stop to dislodge my tennis shoes allowing myself to feel it’s cool reassurance under my bare feet and between my toes. Rich dark soil from the inlands and sandy patches from the coast, soft yet gritty. I became a little more alive at this point. My path was a sweet one with giant ancient oaks on either side whose branches reached upwards towards the glorious life giving sun, each out reaching limb adorned with heavy swaths of Spanish moss. These magnificent ancient sentinels gave my escape route a cheering audience of birds and tossing leaves encouraging me on as I ambled. In the distance I heard the leader of our little pack on the verandah utter a few choice swear words and then I was too far gone to hear nor care.  Cropland in full summer growth spread out around me on past the oaks who had become my guardians as I continued my flight. I came upon a moss laden water trough, one of the old stone and cement kind, full of crisp clear water with the mud at its base churned up by many years of stock coming for refreshment from an oppressive summer’s heat. You could see the hoof prints from the most recent visitors and if you were one who knew this place, had it beaten into your soul with everyday living, you would know who had come by the simple shape of the print.  The base of the stones was surrounded by thick fragrant mint which melded with the scent of the sea in the heavy coastal air and the odors of verdant growing crops giving each breath I took a cleansing effect. I felt my senses become sharper and the long lost electronics drowned reality of simply being, living in the moment, actually feeling part and parcel of what counted becoming stronger and more clear.

As this occurred I stared into the waters of history there at the trough, that watering hole of old, no creatures  around to take on replenishment at this moment, they were all back off across the  pasture in the woods where they would sleep out the mornings heat in hopes of a cooling early noon thunder shower . I knew this to be fact and I knew it more than I knew the lady who had slipped off her shoes to go through check in for her flight to this place the night before. The lady who moved through a life dictated by clocks and commerce, a life that was a vague reality to her core, yet did so because it was what was to be done.  But the ghosts of history often screamed at her in the darkness of night, in those hours when one’s sleep is the deepest and the mind is allowed to drift  down the immortal path ways that  our world has so often forgotten. A dragon fly circled the waters finally landing on one of the delicate branches of mint, its iridescent green the most vibrant of colors, shiny and slick. The voices were strong here on the edge of the meadow. “The muscadine wine is next to the sweet butter in the spring house, but watch out for the bees in arbor as you go ”. Yet the spring house had long fallen to rubble , this was a mere whisper from the past echoing through the voices of history. Then the one thing I knew, more than the fact that my steadily buzzing phone needed me to state my stance on this or that, was that these voices needed to heard, that they counted and their songs were true and their history was a sweet prism of million different lights.

Off towards the coast storm clouds were building and lightning cracked across the sky. Yes the storm was coming, but not until this singer sang her song. I reached my hand into the soft leather of my rather expensive purse. The type with someone’s initials on it, someone I had never met but felt it of grave importance to have their initials upon my purse . I caressed the cool slick case of my cell phone, it enticed my fingers to slide across the glass and check the world inside it. Yet the caw of a large black crow out across the corn field announcing the arrival of a hunting hawk warned me off. I simply grasped it, pulled it from its resting place and dropped it gently into the waters of the trough. Let the nymphs and sprites have at it, possibly the iridescent dragon fly could deal with the frustrated lady in LA. I watched the bubbles as it sank, the brilliant colors of screen become confused and that strange electronic world fade into black.

Clearcut- Coming Summer 2017

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I guess she swore off love somewhere between Tennessee and Montana. The pain she felt as she rolled through the hills of North Carolina, the tears that rolled down her cheeks as she crossed late night into Tennessee dried with the sunrise. The world behind her, a miasma of pain and loss. Who was he? The man who brought so much to her heart and yet destroyed her world? A world she’d built from pain and sacrifice. Did he even know what his machinations has caused? She hit the gas as she rolled for the Kentucky border. Who was he and why had such a brief encounter disturbed her world so much? She could still smell the fresh cut earth, she could still feel his embrace that made everything good in a bad and evil world. She could smell the musk of him as their eyes locked, the magic of their embrace that night under the hot Carolina moon . But she’d read him wrong, or so she guessed. The look in his dark eyes was fire, passion and eternity. Yet he’d sold out. She reached a hand over and caressed Duke the ancient hound that had refused to leave her rig when  she’d loaded Lycan and rolled out. Storms a still arching  behind her over the Carolina hills. Yet sun was cresting over the great Mississippi as she rolled into Missouri, gateway to the West. She wiped her eyes and drove on . He was simply, not what she had had thought.

 

Ash Denton stared in the mirror as he straightened his tie. The tinkling of glasses at the party below a background to his existence but not to his heart. He raised his eyes to the TV on the wall. A news story played out from one of those small towns that never really effected a man of means such as himself. Yet it rolled across the screen. His blood drained, there she was, the blonde from his project, his saboteur. And by all the Gods known to mankind the woman he loved more than life itself. “Don’t deny it Ash” he told himself. Not a minute had passed since he had touched back down into his world of high rollers and city lights that he’d not thought of her. Smelled her essence and  felt her heat which had absorbed his soul under that hot Carolina moon. The news story was simple, a dam broke in the new development up on the hill, flooding the low country. His dam. His project. The blonde stared at the camera, golden eyes, heartbreak and tears running down a gilded, freckled cheek. As the story rolled the sound of gunfire echoed in the background. The announcer said no lives had been lost but a mule had been put down. Luke, his breath caught in his throat. He stared at the screen, the gun fire, and the blonde winced in pain. Here he stood, millions at his disposal, a party in full swing celebrating some achievement, of his of which he had no clue. His body went limp his breath would not come. Ash Denton, always so in control felt his world spin.

 

Tessa Mcreary pushed her rig across the river towards the Missouri countryside. She had stopped along the way to walk the big stallion Lycan and the acceptance at the truck stops had been great. A leggy golden blonde accompanied by a golden horse, well the thumbs up had been many. A girl in love with a black eyed city man who had broken her heart was another story.  A story that was one she would never let anyone read. The gunshots from when she’s lost Luke the mule echoed in her brain and she so wanted to hate him, the man from the city who had destroyed her gentle world. But by all the stars in the sky, she could not. She could simply follow the only path she’d ever known and run from the pain. So she rolled west, towards the big sky, anonymity and freedom. Put that time with him in her past if she  could, but she could still feel his eyes, those moments of being lost in them, his touch,moments complete.

Some point before the acceptance speech, Ash Denton, man of fortune, leader of business, just went crazy . He had heard the gunshots , seen her pain all on a video screen and felt detached from his world, yet it was his world, this one of power in which he reigned.  yet, he couldn’t smell the earth, hear the roar of the waters, save Luke, nor her. With all his power, all his money, a world outside of his grasp had spun wildly out of control. The crystal glass of high end vodka turned end over end as he threw it at the screen. A man who had just realized being a man meant so much more than accolades and millions. A man whose heart pulsed with a wild undying love written on the stars and uncompromised by the restrictions of society proper. He tore his tie from his neck and headed for his car, I-95 would take him south, he’d hit the blue ridge by dawn. So this is the story Ash Denton, a man of incalculable  means chasing his heart into the night and this is the story of Tessa Mcreary, a runner from a world that had caused her pain and heartache.  Yet this is the clashing of souls, the story of destiny and the story of love beyond the boundaries.

Roses to run for….

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What the heck has happened to the Kentucky Derby? The Run for the Roses? My Old Kentucky Home? Where are those folks that prayed over a blue grass field on a cold January day as a new foal tested its legs on the winter hard ground? A smile of understanding on their faces as legs new to this world found their strength and gave flight to the babe across grasses green. Where are those who live and breathe the scent of fresh pine shavings and horse sweat as the summer heat swelters in across the pastures? They struggle, they budget and they do without, yet they embrace the passion of something deeply encoded in their DNA and keep going even though the odds are long. All I’ve seen today is some sort of detached Red Carpet Gala. Who’s wearing who’s what and who’s with who. Where are those who mucked the stalls and mowed the fields, cutting back here and there in hopes that young colt they’d been raising could run for greatness? But Oh look Boink Boink has on Givenchy!

Well to be honest I’ll tell you where they are, or to be more correct where we are. We’ll be the tired lady who’s pulled a 60 hour week in a world we detest, but the one who does it with a smile because it allows us to be here. No not sipping champagne and hoping to be the next viral hashtag of the moment. But here, here in the seedy sale barns and desolate kill pens that are located all over this land. We won’t be dining on Lobster or winking at Billionaires. We will be cracking that ninety nine cent can of Vienna Sausages and watching the kill buyer. Yes, if we’ve got to wink, we might and yes, if we’ve got to do more, well, we may. But somewhere this side of a Lady on TV with more names than a Hanoverian Warmblood Stud who’s telling us the pedigree of her billion dollar bet. We will be the ones with our hearts caught in our throats as a beat up, half-starved relative of Hanoverian ladies billion dollar bet stumbles into the auction lot. We will hope and pray. Sometimes we’ll remember the payday loan place we passed a while back, add, subtract and calculate that we’ll have the money the pull the beaten soul from this hell. Somewhere in the back ground we’ll hear the semis rumble as they fire their engines and get ready for long, cold, waterless, hungry, journey to the north. We will smell the diesel, our blood will run cold. A journey that will carry the beat up, half-starved gray filly a relative of the fancy ladies bet, north to have a bolt shot through her head. Dead or not even quite, she’ll be chopped, minced and packed. Brilliant eyes will shine no longer, a gallant heart will beat no more and hooves will never again find their flight across the grassy green earth. But oh look, Edna Farquar Mills Helms Rosenburg Jones is wearing a daringly short skirt at age 78. Who’s it by?

The winds will blow, the kill buyers will shout and the scared filly will run up and down a 20 ft lot. Miles away surrounded in glory and grandeur a well attired man will smile to himself as he places his money on a colt. More money than the lady in sale barn has ever known. He does it simply because he likes the dam’s name. The same dam that gave life and nurture to the terrified filly now shuddering under the vicious crack of the sellers whip as she runs back and forth with nowhere to go. The well attired man sends a text to his well-heeled buddies to take the gamble on the colt upon which he’s laid his thousands. At the same moment the tired lady places a post on Facebook to her friends begging for money, if she just had enough she can save the gallant gray filly. The filly, it’s in her eyes, she has fire, and she deserves a chance. The whip cracks again and the scared filly runs.

A busy café in downtown Manhattan. The place to see and be seen. Two wealthy businessmen dine on filet mignon, sucking down gin and tonics. They both grasp their phones as the incoming texts vibrate the table. Their well attired boss at the Derby just gave them a line on a horse encouraging them to place a wager. The waitress at the bar, waiting on another round of gin & tonics, cringes at their stares and checks her phone. She sees the post, a wild eyed gray filly scared to death, in a kill pen in Montana, a lady she’s never met, but has followed her threads needs money. She’s trying to save the starved terrified filly. She loads the drinks on the tray and heads back to the businessmen. They are not so busy texting that they forget to ogle her. She smiles to herself, here you go girl, maybe I won’t ever run free, but by God in Heaven, you will. She smiles at them and leans in close as she serves their libations. She cannot stand their eyes upon her, nothing more than an item for their play, but she sees the filly spinning in the kill lot, hears the crack of the whip and decides her path. The men smile as their phones go off once again, the well attired man informs them of the windfall. The bet he made on the horse by simply the name of the dam had paid off. They smiled, polished off their drinks, asked for her number which she gave and left her a more than generous tip. In busy café in downtown Manhattan a waitress makes a call.

The lady at the sale barn cold and exhausted raises her hand, offering her last dollars in a final plea to save gray filly terrified for her life. It’s not enough, her world spins. Her phone vibrates, a girl in New York who she’s never met has the balance, and she’s sending it now. She places the bid, the filly turns sharp in the far corner of the pen and crumples to her knees as the whip licks her sweat tendered flesh. Time stands still as the words “Sold” echo across the pen. They did it, one tired lady, one fed up waitress and somewhere unbeknownst to him, a well attired man, saved a filly to run free another day. Oh but did you hear? Instagram sensation Lula broke a seventeen thousand dollar heel coming back from the paddocks and had a wardrobe malfunction.

So what have they done to our Derby? But more than that, what have they done to our horses and to us? In any case a well-dressed Billionaire has just decided to go into the horse business deciding to follow a certain mare’s bloodline. A waitress in Manhattan has just packed her car, picked up her last check and is rolling for Montana. One exhausted lady is kicked back in her pick up eating the last can of Vienna Sausages with a tired gray filly munching hay happily in her two horse trailer and damn they taste good. The woman with more names than a Hanoverian stud? She doesn’t give a crap, but hey neither do we.

Fate

The winter storms came blowing in down the mountains and in to craggy little Montana valley. All was good in so many ways. But it was also unsettling in so many others. I took a long drought from the cold draft my favorite bartender had pulled for me in the local dive. Yes, I could have called it a pub, I could have called it bar, but it was simply a cowboy dive. Dim lights, a couple of pool tables and not the most appetizing bar food. We knew each other there, no putting on of airs. Our hope, dreams struggles and heartbreaks had been shared in this little building at the base of the wild untamable Rockies. It was simple , a highway ran through , accompanied by railroad tracks and a sometimes gentle ,sometimes roiling river which had been the creator of this s valley ran through this place we all called home.

Yeah, no glamour here, but a cold beer after a hard day’s work , the sparkle and laughter in the eyes of friends. It made it a reality that gripped my core and bound me to this wild land. I finished my first beer and the second was already waiting .Oh my friend Snow Eyes Crystal, how different our lives had been, but you pour the libations that send my mind off into the thoughts pertaining to the amazingness of destiny. Myself, a southern gal who spent her younger years on the manicured equine jump courses of the South. A fine thoroughbred between my legs, the passion I felt for all things equine deftly encouraged. Such a pastime would allow a girl of breeding to find the perfect match. I guess my sear suckered, cigar smoking, banker daddy never guessed that his blonde beauty would go rogue. But yes, it happened. That first week of sorority rush when the skies glowed Carolina blue. I sold the entire contents of daddy’s well-furnished condo to a guy named Mike Levy from New York. Took the money and headed west. That boy from New York probably knew me better than I knew myself due to the fact that he left an eagle feather in the envelope that held the cash when enabled my flight. So much for freshman passion under the Carolina skies.

Now Snow Eyes never gave up much, a Blackfoot, born and bred in the wild country we now called home. The “we” are wild girls and quite a bunch we are. Ranching is tough and you either have it in your blood or you just need walk away for you won’t make it. So as snow kicked off western boots dried in the hallway, I waited on my roommate, my buddy and my truest friend. My cold compadre finally wandered in, one Saanvi Patel. Herein lies the rub of risky horses and wild skies. It attracts a myriad of spirits and unbridled souls. Maybe it was the trip to Yellowstone in her youth, but Saanvi saw the wild ones running free across the open range, a storm rolling in across the mesa and the best directions of family simply fell on deaf ears. Two years into college Saanvi loaded her barrel racer “Sam” in his trailer and headed west. Oh and yes, the whole equestrian thing had been great with her family until she choose barrel racing and penning calves. But to be honest rodeo pictures of Saavni decorate Patel businesses all over the east coast. A photo of a long dark haired beauty in a Stetson cutting cans in a wall of horse and rider kicked up dirt. Large brown eyes, dark hair blowing behind the mistress of the powerful, nostril flared steed she rode, both united and running against the clock. Not something one expects to see beneath a picture of Ganesh and a peacock unfurled. My girl Saavni, colt breaker extraordinaire. I laughed and offered up a toast as she walked in. Snow Eyes smiled behind the bar and pulled Saavni a cold draft.

Now these wild lands of Montana are big skies, tumultuous weather and nothing about life out in this big old bad country is easy. So I guess the question that needs to answered is how did three girls, wild free spirits find each other? The stockyards. Yep, Billings, Wyoming. Just like those fashionistas stalking the garment districts of New York hoping to be discovered. The runways of the sale barn were our catwalk. Truth be told, two of us could have done the NYC catwalk thing. Myself and Saavni, Snow Eyes not so much. For myself and Saavni came from families with dreams of MRS degrees, well made matches and futures defined by family connections. Snow Eyes on the other hand was reservation bred. Many stormy nights huddled by the toilet in a decrepit mobile home, tears flowing freely as her father disagreed with her mother, drunken battles brought about by no hope for the future. Just a government check that changed little from time to time. Her cousins had a barn full of Appaloosa horses and she found her soul bareback out beneath the Creators skies. To be honest there was not a horse gone rogue she could not bring to heel, but odd girl she was, she only picked some and let the others fly free. She said she felt their spirits were more of the big lands and maybe they should be allowed to perish at the hands of the killers than live a life of slavery. But I digress, it was a stormy night across the big sky when the three became one. You see the talent to run an unbroken steed through the sale, up and down the ally comes at a price and for those looking to get rid of unwanted stock, putting a pretty girl on the back of a wild horse ups the price. So we hung out at the chute picking up rides at twenty bucks a shot. Yeah, it’s odd three girls, backgrounds diverse, hanging at the gates, trying to pick up rides. But Snow Eyes talked to Saavni and they both talked to me. We pooled our money and got a place on a ranch running Angus and quarter horses. So this Friday night as the snows blow in around our world, we embraced each other’s spirits and celebrated the weeks end with warm embraces our valley bar with the winds whistling through the pass, the days of the cowgirls of the big sky were good.

The Emirates airliner banked right over the Pacific, a runway illuminated with brilliant lights, Aakar , stared out at the runway , so many miles, so many long nights of study. Yet here he was in Montana, the USA, he knew little of this place. Maybe stories of cowboys and the wild, the rugged lands haunted his mind, but this night, exhausted after miles of travel all he could do was focus on the job ahead. ….More to come

 

2017

Funny how they  failed to sense us. How they did not see us coming ,nor felt our heartbeat. How they ignored us. Those who did not dance in the light but stoked the fires that made it shine. Yet they did not. So we watched, we worked, lived, loved, laughed and waited. Oh yes, they ate the costly roe of the sturgeon and drank the gilded bubbles born of the chalk hills. But we were always there. A grease stained paper bag of biscuits on a wood smoke scented morning, full of heart and sustained with passion written in our souls since birth. Yet today they scream, shrill and penetrating. How did we? How could we? Don’t we see? Well my dears. Yes, yes we did. We saw very clearly and very well.

After time upon time of being told “who we were” what we felt and how we should think. The people of this great Country cocked their heads to the side and said “We know who we are, But who are you?” You’re alien to us, you who dictate from your pedestals who we should be. Allow me to clarify in the most explicit of ways exactly who we are.

We are the young girl in her twenties, slathering on lotion so her legs will be soft in her first apartment. A simple place she can call her own, no it’s not much, but it’s cozy. It’s enough for her to have time with the man she loves. A space to find herself and find out if the blue jeaned, flannel draped fella she’s felt a connection with will be able to take it to the next level. Not a whole lot, marriage, children .Maybe their futures will hold more, but for her a small place full of love will be enough.

We are the mechanic on a hot August afternoon, sweat stung eyes, aching back, looking for the 5 o’clock hour when he gets his pay check. Hoping there’s enough left over after the bills are silenced for a thick grilled steak and few cold beers. A gentle rub with a work worn hand on the silk soft head of his youngest as he watches the sun set over the valley and he finds the strength to go another week.

We are the second generation rancher who’s felt the drought coming and dug a pond in the corner pasture for his cattle to refresh themselves and drink, only be told by some wall eyed hippopotamus in Birkenstocks from the EPA that this is not his right. He gently bows his head, looks toward his rangeland and returns the rafts he bought for his children to the store.

We are the young girl whose horse,( which had been her wings she was young) colicked on a trail ride one July morn. Her joy of just making the cheerleading squad at the local high school shattered by the harshness of reality. A young one whose tears flowed, for her family had not the money for the vet to save him. (Fear not for, magic is reachable and I tapped the well, she kept her friend.)

We are the people of this big, great, once free land that know exactly who “We are” So when we receive the checks for our hours of labor, see the dollars, be they many or few, each and all in its effect, seized and utilized to our detriment, we rear like a stallion on the mesa and strike out.

We are not you in the concrete towers, we are man and metal, worn and beaten. We know a good dinner after church on Sunday, the hugs of a child, and the hope of each and every sunrise. So no, you did not see us coming, but we heard a clarion call loud and clear. A man for whom we’d have paid no attention reached out to us, a man from, yes, a gilded tower. But a man in the truest sense of the word. A man with the foibles of his existence, yet a leader with nobility, fire and brilliance. He had all in all the definition of kings and towers, but he looked through his window and saw us. The sweating mechanic, the love struck woman hope for the future blazing brilliantly, the farmer letting his ranchland run dry, and yes the hopeful cheerleader who learned that magic was real that day in the hot Carolina pines.15826343_1186917394717219_5263238553884853353_n

So as the Year of Our Lord 2017 comes upon us, we have been returned to the light. Hopefully mankind returns to freedom. The future is on the shoulders of the individual for we are not a collective and the power that emanates from each and every free choice is the one and the all. Unity of fragments verse the pulsating existence of one. Run the numbers. But I have great hope for your future. Please Make America Great Again, kill the parasites and cauterize the wound for this mage is tired and there are fish to feed in another realm.