jacq22

Time for painting.

jacq22 — Fri, 15 Mar 2013 03:57:57 GMT

Part of today's working, as well as HOUSEWORK!!! DUH.
Am doing a series of paintings about two women, originally I painted two Bowling ladies, and sold one, so did two mini ones, this is a sort of off shootI do have fun with them, they are "going gothic" here. The original ladies were slightly more staid, and certainly not raunchy like this.

jacq22 — Fri, 29 Jun 2012 00:49:40 GMT

Reflecting on the health care issue in America.

We used to have private health care, we no longer do. When we had it we were fit!

I suppose coming from a life lived in countries where health care is generally covered, I find it difficult to comprehend the issues. NZ, England, and Australia have reasonable schemes.

I had TB while in NZ and only one bill for injections we had a problem with,
and my babies born there? No cost at all.

In England it was covered. Here in Australia as we came to live here when we were middle aged we have been lucky.

Husband had a vien operation, a prostate operation, a mass in his back taken out, and a blockage dealt with All for virtually no cost. I think we paid some for the anesthetics once or twice. But generally this was done without cost.

We both pay for a specialist, but on medicare get about two thirds back,

My recent operation, so far no bills. When you think of the care I received and the food and the drugs, amazing. So we do live in a 'lucky country' Realise its not the same for everyone, we have reached the age where care is needed, and are receiving it.

So with this in mind I will be watching what happens in America

Live Journal. Series 8. Week 30-5. "Appropriation"

jacq22 — Mon, 11 Jun 2012 07:30:14 GMT

Appropriation.

Quote.

‘Sherry Levine's After Walker Evans (1981) is a photograph of a Walker Evans photograph. She is challenging the concept of ownership: if she photographed the photograph, whose photograph was it, really? And she is addressing the predominance of male artists in the textbook version of art history. Sherry Levine is a feminist artist.”(From Image Duplicator) ‘

This artist became famous for replicating photos.

What is wrong with appropriation, if I photograph a puppy or a lily and I then paint it, won’t it just be like another lily or puppy? So some else has painted a lily, am I then banned from painting lillies? What if the light was just like the light when they painted their version? So many sunsets are painted how can we tell which was the original? OK, I know a totally 'line for line' and 'stroke for brush stroke' copy is entirely wrong. But Pop art exploded when Andy Warhol painted the Campbells's soup cans. So did that allow for trend setters to copy even more?

I love painting, I love trying to capture light. I look at the great artists from the early part of the 1900’s, Van Gogh, Monet, Degas, Cezanne, Matisse, then my heart nearly bursts. The colours sing, the light is so pure. I am stunned and speechless when I am close to their work. I cried when I saw a Van Gogh up close.

I so want to paint as they do!, and if I copy it, am I wrong?, I just want to get closer to them, to see how it works; how they achieve that image. I can only do that by working from the original example. I suppose it’s only wrong if I try to sell it as mine. But it is mine. I did it after all.

I admit I have copied images, I see a shape, a figure, a line in a fashion shot, and I copy it because it talks to me. I change the colour, the size, the background, perhaps, the hair…then it becomes mine . I make it so.

I am obsessed with fashion and had some old magazines I bought; they show patterns from the 1920’s and 1930’s. One of them I altered slightly and painted in my style the result I show here. The original French magazine is delightful, but I simplified it and made the background more abstract. More 'me'.

I strive for beauty, and if in my quest I am carried along by the immense talent of those old masters I can only hope as I copy, or study, some of the colour and magic will rub off, and I can achieve the perfect symetry I see in my head. So far, however I try it has eluded me. ( Entry 5 of five),

Voting for entries starts after the 18th. By then I should be in severe pain but have a new knee, so will not be replying commenting or reading, unless life treats me kindly! Good luck to all my friends. Read and vote to support us.

http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/574285.html

Sherrie wrote in her “Statement” of 1982 that “The world is filled

Live Journal Idol series 8. week 30-4GOBSMACKED

jacq22 — Mon, 11 Jun 2012 04:39:41 GMT

GOBSMACKED

Starting the early shift was always hard. I had a ritual which helped, I put on my make -up as I drank the tea I made.
My watch, pen and badge were on the dresser, uniform hung on the door. Shoes ready to go, lunch cut the night before, out the door at 6.40am, with a squirt of light perfume. I needed to get myself looking and smelling good, it was my armour against whatever the day brought, like a protective shield. If I looked like crap I lacked confidence.

I was a personal carer, trained by the government as a ‘pseudo’ nurse. Someone to do the basics, OK I could take blood pressure, pulse, respiration, and I had first aid training, Had psychiatric lectures, and disability care under my belt, as I had done two courses over four years. But essentially we were saving the real nurses some of the work load. More and more, that load consisted of paperwork, or computer statistics. But don’t get me started on that!

A normal morning meant helping those who were too frail to eat breakfast, spooning food into mouths that really wanted to close, talking to souls who didn’t want to ever hear or see again. Sometimes it was so stressful, knowing the person would rather die than eat and live another day. There were lighter moments though when laughing helped to break the monotony for the nurse and the patient.
Then the real work began hoisting them into a sling, bathing, shaving, washing, toilet time, and the icing on the cake for me? was making them look good to face the day. I loved to add my touch, a bit of lipstick, a pretty shirt or scarf for the women, a crisp jacket for the men. Just to show the world they were still special They deserved more, but I gave the time I could spare.
The scramble ended with clearing up the rooms tidying bathrooms, then morning teas, more showers and therapy sessions, and before we needed it; the lunch appeared and the feeding began again.
One little 90 year old lady monopolized me, her ways of stretching the time I spent with her were creative at least. She would pretend she was falling, or lose her stockings, and as I tried to 'hurry slowly', she would call me back to check her clock, see her sherry supply, view a picture of her as a bride, I did spend more time with her, but mornings were too busy to linger, as much as I wanted to stay, there were four people waiting for me to get them up. Nancy eventually let me go with a kiss and a hug and told me I was her favourite. But I suspect she said that to each nurse!

Her husband was also in the nursing home, he had a room across the hall, his dementia was severe, much worse than Nancys, but they seemed to be happy enough, looking out for each other, and always kissing goodnight. She called him ‘Daddy’, and told me tales of her life in Germany, and his too, they had harrowing memories, he had been conscripted, a young soldier, he had no choice. She had been in Austria, and had a hard existence. Yet after all their troubles they had survived, and settled in Australia, they had been married for 60 years.
Some days the smooth running was disrupted, someone having a psychotic episode, or a nurse unwilling to help when we requested it, so when we couldn’t get a second person to lift the patient it made it impossible, lifting alone is taboo now, the showers were inevitably late.

Then as lunch approached there were still the heavy people in bed. But mostly by 2pm we had the work done and we were nearly going home. Just the deadly records to deal with. Everything was written twice. Once in the hand held device we carried, then in the ‘on line’ notes. Any incident had to be recorded, every skin tear, scratch, pimple or redness of skin, any behavior problems, bowel malfunction or diet disasters. We dreaded having too many incidents and tried to avert them whenever we could. But strange things happen;

So as I sat in the room with the night staff giving their report of the night, I hoped it was a good day, the large nurse kept up a monotonous relay of which bowels needed help, who had been out of bed overnight, who needed to see the doctor, and gave the usual warnings about keeping records up to date.

When suddenly all the beepers went off at once, an emergency.

We checked the room on our pagers and found it was the little lady, Nancy. Probably lost her sherry I thought.
As we all arrived at the room the scene was like a bad movie. Blood spattered all over the walls, and on the bed. Arcs of blood; across the windows; on the curtains.
Near the bed was a patient recently transferred, a nice mild man who kept getting lost, kept missing his room, and was very confused. His head was a mass of wounds and blood, his left eye closed; We then saw ‘Daddy’, he was holding a huge walking stick, looking angry, and threatening the man.

We swung into action, removing all the patients, and getting them looked at in casualty which luckily was the other end of the same hospital. The room was thoroughly stripped and cleaned, an army of cleaners moved in and it was soon almost pristine.
Reports took a while that day. New laws meant we had to involve the police. So we had a 94 year old being interviewed, although he was unable to comprehend why. His language skills had regressed so that he now only spoke German. The other man was swiftly transferred yet again, hardly aware of what had happened. Although he needed stiches, and was bruised, he recovered.

Nancy told me later, ‘Daddy found him in my room, and he thought he was trying to get into bed with me.’
‘Daddy is very jealous.’ She remarked.

This is No. 4 of Five entries. http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/574285.html

Live Journal Idol series 8 Week 30- Entry 3. "Scared money never wins"

jacq22 — Sun, 10 Jun 2012 06:37:19 GMT

Scared money never wins.

Life in a small town can be stifling, we all know too much about each other. Yet here on a ‘day out’ we are comfortable together. The bus lurches past misty pastures, there is talk of milking, and how cruel dawn starts become; how the prices for milk are bad.

Women with pale, pinched faces, and winter coats lean into the steamy windows; some of them glad of a brief rest, so they try to sleep. Men become noisy, talking of fishing and the football. There are silly jokes, and some ribald tales. A young guy at the back shows his rear at the window. Some are already into their third beer before we arrive.

We sit close together sharing a cheese sandwich, talking about what we will do when we get there. It takes three hours at least to get to Melbourne, my husband plugs his radio into his ear, and I read until it makes my stomach do somersaults.

The annual Casino trip is a fund raiser, they have raffles as we travel to the city, and the fare is subsidized by the Casino, they provide a huge ‘help yourself buffet’ as a sweetener. We get vouchers to eat there, shuffling groups in lines; organized and regimented, like cattle to the abattoir.

The lights when we arrive are dazzling, I get a moment of dizzy excitement. A rush of adrenaline, unconscious of my actions I feel for my money, yes the purse is there; yes it has notes in it, I can’t wait for the noise and the whirl of those wheels, the clunk of money, the bells and whistles, the heart stopping moments when I might,-- just might, have won a fortune. Yet the guilt I feel makes me say,

”Shall we have a walk along the riverside first, get a coffee or something?”

But I know he feels the same as I do, that rush to experience the dazzle of the unfamiliar machines, the huge expanses of carpet. The size of the place is frightening, I always get lost, yet we dive towards a machine each. Staff come round with cold drinks at the machines, so we don’t leave and stop spending.

“I just might put a dollar in" he says. The eyes glaze over, and we are both lost.

Which is so sad as we can’t afford to lose. On what we have to manage on, this is madness and it won’t last long, the money we saved to come on the trip, would buy a load of wood, or a week of grocery items. Yet when asked, we say,

“Yes we’ll come, put our name down.”

Our money is so little when we look at what others put into the hungry machines, we always hope this is the time we come home laden with cash, or a new car, or a holiday from the spot prizes. Vain hopes;

Our sensible friends from the town go to the Fishing and gaming Show, or the Quilt exhibition, or the movies. They shop in the city, and eat at the Casino but don’t stay. Very, very, wise, country people who know what hard times are.

The feeding frenzy is a spectacle too, like so many sharks in a school of fish they dive and grab. We gape as we watch piled plates pass our table. “Is he really going to eat that?” I find room for two desserts though.

Then it seems within minutes the money has been swallowed like the crème caramel I ate, slipping away with no sound. My purse is flat and so are my spirits. My husband I find doing slightly better, so he gives me a hand full of coins. I lurch from small wins and moments of elation, to despair in a few more minutes.

Then there are the empty hours, no money and nowhere to go. Beside me I see the full range of the obsession. The habits, the quirky rituals, as I sip a free coffee I observe;

The old lady who taps the screen three times between pushes, her scarf drops to the ground, her stocking are wrinkled but she has eyes for the screen only.

The young Asian man who bets the highest amount he can on each push, he wins, and soon has money in every pocket , but as I watch he puts the lot back , every crumpled note and even the small change. He starts to hit the buttons with force as if punishing them.

The glamour girl who looks like she might have been out all night, plays fast, but covers her eyes and never looks at what the screen shows. If she wins, she hits ‘gamble’ plays high stakes, and loses every time.

Loud yelling from one dark haired man, and his friends as they win the big prize, and then drink, until they are all escorted from the building.

Then the sad little man who presses slowly and carefully, and says, quietly, ‘Come on be nice to me’, as if talking to a lover.

We sit together and have a meal of monumentally disgusting food, given to us because we have enough tokens. It is not a good feeling, we have no money to be part of the elegance of Casino life, but we know that too is an illusion. There is a very strict dress code for the elite, for the rooms, where losing enormous bundles of cash, is an obligation. No tie, no entry. But a smart suit and a suitcase of cash, “Do come in!”

Why is it men wear bow ties to watch beefy thugs try to kill each other at the fights?

Why is it the racing fraternity, has such high dress standards? To get in the marquee they expect hats and very expensive shoes, top hats even at Ascot , where you mingle with royalty.

Yet bookies are just nicely disguised money snatchers. It seems that to lose money in buckets you need to dress like landed gentry. The more you can speculate the more you accumulate they tell us, and if you do it in an Italian suit does it help?

Back on the coach, with our cold coffee in a flask; and some sticky sweets gathering fluff in our pockets, we try to ignore the depressed mood that descends on us.

The Casino trips have stopped now, and perhaps it was for the greater good. We had already decided we would never go on another. The town has the benefit of the money we spend now as we buy the wood or the groceries. Perhaps the netball team lost out as they were the recipients of the money raised, but I think in the end we actually won.

This is entry 3 of five.

Voting for them starts after the 18th. By then I should be in severe pain but have a new knee, so will not be replying commenting or reading, unless life treats me kindly! Good luck to all my friends. Read and vote to support us.

http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/574285.html

Series 8 Live Journal idol. 30-No 2. A Cesspool of sorts.

jacq22 — Sat, 09 Jun 2012 06:56:17 GMT

Running doesn't always solve the problem.

It was siesta time, the silence punctuated only by the flop, flop, of her sandals as she walked back from the beach. Green shutters swayed in the breeze, drifting like eye lids closing, she found she was holding her breath, the silence was so complete.
The doorway of her villa was in deep shadow, someone could be crouched there, waiting, but only a startled lizard zig zagged across her path. running for the rocks. I should be running, thought Sophie but instead she swept wide the doors, flooding the room with light.
From there she could see the dazzle of clear water and below the bay of yellow rocks.. She dare not think too far ahead, but at least for a little while. This was still her home.

The sand was painfully white outside they were at the beach bar pausing for a moment after the midday rush.
"Is Mitch coming back tonight? asked Mercedes wiping her hands.
Sophie called over her shoulder
"I'm not really sure."
Perhaps to avoid further questions, she went outside to clear the tables. The sunlight through the raffia roof made patterns on the brown bodies beneath.
Sophie helped most afternoons, collecting glasses and helping prepare the simple food. The older men joked with her she had adapted well. They even encouraged her stumbling Spanish. Mercedes had grown fond of Sophie. Was happier with her than some of the younger women, at least Sophie didn't mind working in the heat of the day. They washed up in the cramped kitchen, to the sound of some plaintive love song on the record player. As if to herself, Sophie said,
"He will be with his friends from Palma, ...I may not see him at all."
Yet she was already planning which dress to wear, and wondering if she had changed in a month. Before sunset was the best time, still the heat burned through her almost to her bones.
Riverlets of moisture ran down her stomach; she was sleeker, more muscled now, her long brown hair curling to her shoulders. Her legs deeply tanned from afternoons spent walking along the beach. She swiftly showered and changed into a strapless cerise dress, and high mules, a single pearl on a chain around her neck. With a spray of perfume she was ready.
It was the isolation that had attracted her to this place. There were about a dozen villas the fishermens' homes, two restaurants and a’Supermarcado’, and the sprawling beach bars of course.
One each end of the small sandy beach, the had huge jars of glossy black olives and dark dry hams hanging from the roof. Not many tourists found came to this beach Preferring the town with its shops. Pleasantly devoid of notices about chips or bacon and egg,. It had suited Sophie well, but today workmen called after her as she strolled by, they were erecting shiny new telephone boxes. How alien the glass and steel looked in this landscape. She didn't look up, the gentle puff of dust that rose with each footfall kept up the same rhythm.
She had innocently smiled once before, and there had been a banging on her shutters in the night
.
That bleak spring when she had made her plans seemed a hundred years ago, not mere months.
Only when the children were settled had she finalised everything. She left unanswered questions; three adult children, and a rather dull husband behind.
The money from the jewellery would one day run out she had to prove to herself she could survive alone. James, was probably convinced she had lost her mind, perhaps she had. But with halting Spanish she got by, did all sorts of jobs, even washed tablecloths for the local restaurant. She was experiencing a delayed rebellion, trying things she had never done. James had said years ago;
"You could never survive on your own"
She was almost sorry her tracks were so well covered and he wouldn't find her.
She was drawn like a magnet to ‘Joeys’ a place in town, it gave her a crash course in living. The place had a bad reputation she later found.
Old ladies in black crossed themselves and muttered as they passed it. But by then Joey had become a friend, a kind listening ear when she was lonely. His clients were drifters and misfits, others who were running; like herself.
Bibulous characters like Kenny and Bill; drinking brandy for breakfast and telling affected little stories to whoever would listen.
Annette was a regular too. Hair piled high, jewellery glinting; purple eye lids flashing. Artfully preserved, she must have been in her mid sixties, but still lived a wild life. Still prowling, seeking out men to devour. For a while Sophie wondered if that would be her fate too.

Sometimes she watched young mothers on the beach and she was reminded of all the patchwork days of motherhood. They seemed so young these girls, with their fat babies on their hips, feet bare, hair long and free. Yet she had been barely twenty when Molly was born, not much more than a child herself. Happy times to look back on, egg and spoon races on green lawns; lop sided birthday cakes she made and iced. Marzipan chicks at Easter; shivering and tiptoeing with lumpy stockings at Christmas; she only remembered the pleasures. So far away, like a dream.

There were other pleasures now. 'Mitch has been asking about you" Joey said with a twinkle. A young man, had eased himself from a bar stool and strolled over. His hair was sun streaked, his clothes casual; expensive.
"Well Maam nice to meet you, my good friend Joey says you are a fugitive, and I'm intrigued mind if I sit here?”
"Looks like you have" she smiled, not sure she wanted the intrusion at first. So that was how it began:
They drank champagne, shared a paella, and found they shared a similar sense of humour. He talked about his family. His mother was French his father an American who had settled years ago. They owned a cheese factory, one of three on the island. He said he dealt with the business, flying to Palma weekly. Sophie told him a little of her life but was happier listening to his.
"You could fly to Palma tonight. I know someone who is going at three." He murmered. She was flattered, but shook her head.
"Not I have obligations, but thanks.”
It was after four when Joey yawned and signalled it was way past closing time. They walked out into the half- light, Mitch pulled her strongly to him. She went, perhaps too eagerly; too easily
.
The afternoon heat stunned Sophie as she walked through the garden. Mitch had invited her to his villa. There were shady arbours a fountain and along a terrace vines stretched right to the edge of the cliff.
Inside the huge marbled floored living room held two sofas of white leather, there were heavy glass coffee tables and white rugs. A gleaming brass surround framed the open fireplace and it was filled with rich purple flowers. He took her round sliding back doors to reveal a view of the garden or the pool.
She later discovered he wore pure silk; pale grey shorts, that clung to his hard body. He was so perfect she felt she must constantly touch him, as if to retain this memory. It can’t last she thought, things like this don't.

In July the fiesta finished with fireworks and the town felt hung over. Sad streamers blew in the wind. Mitch had gone. The last time he had just kissed her gently and said "See ya.” he didn't phone or write.
A sudden vision of home, safe and constant returned, but she pushed it away, thought only of Mitch coming back to her. Waiting in her bright dress in the bar she felt a chill,a premonition, at that moment he swung through the door, a girl on each arm. One gloriously leggy; with almost white hair; the other, a rounded red head. He signalled for her to join them, smiled his usual lazy smile. Sophie finshed her drink, and shook her head in answer.

At the bus station the heat and dust made her feel dirty and used. She sat for a moment on a sticky seat amongst the paper cups and bottle caps, the night dragged on as she sat and waited till dawn.
At a small cafe she drank coffee to pass the time. She realised she was surrounded by English voices, it was August, people were enjoying holidays. She was aware of the mess she must look, decided she would get back to her villa on the next bus, to sleep and then to plan. There was something familiar about the girl in front. Sophie almost started to retreat, but was too slow, the girl turned.
"Mum, oh my God is it you?" Her daughter’s face crumpled and she ran to hug her and cry too. Holidaymakers in short brushed by, but the two were oblivious to them.
“We had given you up, I can't believe it, we thought you must be dead.”
She held her daughter she had missed her, missed them all, shakily she asked "And Dad, how is Dad?"
“Deadfull Mum!, not the same at all it's really knocked the stuffing out of him". Sophie paused trying to imagine James less stuffy, it was difficult.
.
There was a little money over when she had paid for her ticket. it would be her insurance, an ‘escape fund’. But for now she was willing to try again. Perhaps James would accept some changes, take her out for a meal, or to the theatre, leave his stamps for once. She was soon packing bright dresses, pale trousers and high heels away. She left out a simple blue dress to wear home then went for a last walk. The sea was milky in the evening light, the sand still warm between her toes. A butterfly swept up by the wash of water floated in,
"Poor thing" she whispered "but at least you stretched you wings in the sun didn't you?" The sun finally dipped, and it was dusk. Sophie turned to go home.

This is part 2 of five entries. Voting for them starts after the 18th. By then I should be in severe pain but have a new knee, so will not be replying commenting or reading, unless life treats me kindly! Good luck to all my friends. Read and vote to support us.

http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/574285.html

Live Journal series 8 IDOL Entries for week 30. Part 1.Disappear.

jacq22 — Fri, 08 Jun 2012 04:53:41 GMT

DISAPPEAR.

Butterflies were dancing in the grass, Kate watched them as her mother made a fire to wash clothes at the Creek. Lovis allowed Kate to come because she was a good child. Lying down in the grass, she was chatting in her sweet way to the birds and the insects, happy and in her own dreamworld.

Her other four children were told to stay in the cabin. James Sage her husband, was out clearing the ground for a new crop, They had some horses stolen last year, it was 1793 now, early April and a bright sunny day, They recovered the horses with help from their neighbors, the man ran off avoiding capture. James and Lovis hoped life would settle again without these dramas, they loved their home and their young family.

As she lit the fire and went to get the clothes Lovis was humming a song. But when she returned to the cabin and walked back through the grassland, her heart stopped, there was no sign of Kate. She was missing! No movement save the grass sighing and the gossamer wings of butterflies glinting. Sick and faint from worry she called for Katy, then went to find James.
All night and day they searched every creek bed, and cried together when they didn’t find her. No sleep came as for weeks they called and walked the fields.
The neighbours scoured every hut and secret place a child could hide, using imagination they tried to eliminate anyone who might harbor her, but the search was hopeless.

James did detailed searches, becoming quite crazy looking for her, in desperation he contacted a woman called “Granny Moses”. So James travelled to see this woman who was supposed to have clairvoyant powers. She was in the mountains of North Carolina. He made the arduous journey with a strong conviction he would find answers. He needed to know just what had happened to his dear Kate. With tears in his eyes he told the story again to the elderly woman.

He was told when he had finished his story, “ Katy is alive and well, but you will not see her, your wife will outlive you and in very old age will hear of Katy, but will not see her.”

James had to endure the horrors of war as he followed Washington through campaigns, and this was made harder because he was distraught about never finding Katy. He returned home to work on his land, yet often although they had more children, they both talked of Katy, and at every family gathering she was remembered.   The memories were fainter, but in a Mother and Father’s hearts she lived on.

Thirty one years later James died and was buried at the farm, and Lovis stayed on her land at Elk Creek, her children grown and scattered now.
Charles one of the boys settled in Kansas and in 1854 met an Indian agent. The agent looked at him questioning where he came from and did he have a female relative amongst the Shawnee Indians?
He went on to explain that there was a white woman who bore a striking resemblance to Charles. At first Charles thought this was not his concern, then he reflected and asked the agent if he could see the woman?

The woman was sent for, and appeared in front of Charles, when he saw her Charles felt sudden shock, this woman who was about sixty, was the image of his mother twenty years ago. All the features and colouring were the same.

She told him through an interpreter her name was indeed Kate, and although she spoke no English now, she recounted her history which included three marriages to Indian chiefs, and the birth of one son. Her son had since died and so had her husbands. She had been with the Cherokees and the Shawnees and living in that area for a while. She also knew she had once come from another place and been stolen by a white man. Her name she always kept, she was still Kate.

Another brother lived in Missouri, Samuel was able to come and confirm she did look like his sister. So the brothers wrote to their mother asking if she could remember anything special about Katy. Lovis was nearly 90, but wrote back with the information.

The letter came at last from Elk Creek, yes, she had a birth mark on her shoulder, and they discovered the ginger coloured birth mark and knew without doubt this was the sister they lost.
As they all went through the elation of a preparing a proper reunion with her mother and the family, Kate who was packing to go on the journey became ill with pneumonia and died. The earlier prophesy came true.

She was buried in a family grave, her ashes joining those of her Mother and brothers, under a western plains sky, which even now has changed very little, and there are still those who pass on the story, and those who listen and understand the saga of the family, fragments of other lives that will continue in folk lore.
That blood runs through my veins, the blood that made James the strong man he was, the blood that made the other members of the Sage clan go to America and Canada, and become part of a new world. Yet in a sleepy Somerset village, the graves mark the ones who stayed behind my great grandfathers. Imagination is our transport, we can fly like the eagles over Western Planes, or skim over lakes in Ontario, we can soar over deserts in Australia, there are no boundaries and with us we carry those memories and they will never die.

The above grave is one of my family, The Sage family originated in Somerset. They were mostly farmers.
Some facts are not consistant in the records, Kate was Cate in one, Lovis was spelled Lovisa, and the grave of Kate may in fact be on an Indian reservation. But I love the story and only found it recently.

This is part 1 of five entries.   Voting for them starts after the 18th. By then I should be in severe pain but have a new knee, so will not be replying commenting or reading, unless life treats me kindly! Good luck to all my friends. Read and vote to support us.

http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/574285.html      Thank you!

.

lj idol series 8. Week 29. "Laviathan"

jacq22 — Tue, 29 May 2012 05:24:24 GMT

LEVIATHAN

. He really was ugly in this light, why had she agreed to come! His eyes were devouring her, she felt vulnerable, precariously isolated in this dark place. As her heart pounded and he drew closer she felt like an animal, trapped and in desperate peril. The very odour he exuded was inducing fear.

‘My dear’, he sneered, ‘how amazing to find you here.’ She backed away, ambushed, now with no escape, feeling the cold metal behind her.
Exposed now in this harsh lamplight, his face appeared more distorted. The rocking boat swung the light back and forth.
Everything she hoped for was now in jeopardy. With a sickening sense of foreboding she tried rashly to smile. The deck tilted suddenly.

‘Hello, Mr. Jones, you frightened me to death.’

‘If you lay a hand on him, you will remember the struggle and never do it again!’
The quote came back to her. A quote about a different monster. The mythical monster.

He was not a myth but was the real and immediate threat. The waves crashed against the hull, and in the dark recess of the lifeboat dock she was hidden from view. Few strollers were out on deck tonight anyway. The biting wind kept them in their salons. The liner was not due to dock until morning. In New York, a job waited, and her new employers. A chance for her to get a toehold on life, and help her mother.

Jenny’s strong spirit had kept her seeking change. It was what set her apart from the wenches serving in ale houses and in service. Her bright eyes and creamy skin, her love of living. In spite of the reality of her life, she had always been an optimist. Always tried to see the good in others; until Mr. Jones that was. Her chance to leave the squalor and poverty of London hanging in the balance.

‘I saw you leave the dining room and thought how brave you were my sweet one.’ His podgy hands reached out to her.
‘What do you mean?’ she said shrinking away.
‘You said we could meet sometime, and we have much to discuss, but on such a night! ‘

Jenny had a bunk in steerage, he had sent numerous messages from his first class cabin, most of them she had ignored, till this one. Her final decision was one of desperation. Hidden in her sleeve she took the only weapon she had, and hoped it wasn’t needed.

‘You should not delay me sir, tell me what news you have of my Mother, I’m cold and need to get back inside.’

Jenny thought about her Mother, last seen at the door of the almshouse, desperately thin and resigned to her final days being in that dreadful place. Having money defined who you were, or if the path you followed was smooth or rough.

The man now before her had a pock marked face, skin puckered and erupting in pustules. His huge frame swelled even larger in the middle, buttons strained on his snakeskin waistcoat. He towered above her, and slowly pushed his hand into a pocket, taking out a pocket watch before replying.

“You have reasons to be nice to me’ He replaced the watch, his piggy eyes surveying her, smugly waiting for her reply.

Jenny shook her head, ‘I know nothing of those reasons Mr. Jones.’

‘Well my dear lady, I have been busy, when I heard you were to sail from Southampton, I so wanted to be on the same vessel, and had much to arrange Mr. Mancula has my authority to find a small cottage, your Mother can be more comfortable, her needs are few, she can see her days out on the edge of the Forrest of Dean, now isn’t that kind of me?’ He looked pleased with himself.

Dark waves and small glinting lights distracted Jenny. The shore was getting closer.

She remembered her first meeting with the vile Mr. Jones. In the service of Lord Hall and his family, he had been a guest of the family invited because of his business connections. There for the shoot, he had quickly shown he found her irresistible.
Why hadn’t he wanted Annie instead ?, Annie would have bedded him; no, he wanted her, and made that plain. Jenny had managed with some help from George the footman to get away, or keep herself in view of the family. Mr. Jones found out as much as he could gleaning information from Annie, who was not likely to pass up a chance for easy cash.

Jones lunged suddenly grasping her around the waist, trying to put his face close to hers.

The name of the liner she sailed on was the same as the monster she had read about as a child, she remembered snatches of the story... her body fought as her mind tried hard to find a way out.

She twisted away trying to get free from the wall and closer to the rail. With her left hand she pushed at his face. Her right hand delved into the sleeve, but then his strength defeated her. For a moment he smiled a foul smile of triumph and he attempted to pull her supple body closer.

Her courage returned and she smiled a hestitant smile. She needed a moment or two, some precious recovery time, for one final act. Concentrating on a spot on his throat her eyes tried to keep focused as he kissed her cheek and slobbered in her ear, his evil breath made her blanch, but she kept her resolve. With a sudden pounce she stabbed deep into the side of his neck, hitting the jugular. He twisted in pain away from her; The small paring knife in his throat, silencing him, except for a choking sound as his blood oozed.

Horrified Jenny leapt back away from the torrent of blood. He slumped across the rail his head low towards the sea, as if the fates were there to help her, he lost his grip and went almost slowly into the dark waves. The engines churned on and he was soon lost.

There was a faint sound of music from the salon, a late dance still in progress. Jenny felt nausea wash over her, and stumbled towards the lifeboat. The cool bulkhead behind her head supported her until she recovered. A squall of gale force swirled around the ship, and lashing rain washed the deck.

Her whole body trembled,, and her teeth chattered. There would be a cold dawn to face, and moments of pain when this returned in nightmares. The enormity of her actions may haunt her forever. Yet as she went towards the music, she felt only release.
She imagined sending her mother money and bringing her to this vibrant city, it would be so good to spend their days together.
Her job as a nanny and the thought of the beautiful park where she would walk the children lifted her spirits. Yet for Jenny the sea would never give her rest. She eventually settled in the mountains far away from the sound of the relentless waves.

Footnote the ’Leviathan’ first took paying passengers in 1923, it stopped service in 1933, and was broken up in 1938.

Quotes about the mythical monster;
Can you pull in the leviathan with a fishhook or tie down his tongue with a rope?
Can you put a cord through his nose or pierce his jaw with a hook? Will he keep begging you for mercy? Will he speak to you with gentle words?
http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/571850.html

100 things No 1. Inspiration.

jacq22 — Sun, 27 May 2012 04:46:56 GMT

FOR ME INSPIRATION OR THE FIRE THAT DRIVES ME COMES FROM STRANGE PLACES.

Today there were several news items that caught my attention. One of the stories about bullying had me wanting to write, so am writing a letter to the paper. This is not the letter just a bit of background;

The mother in the article confronted the bully and told him she would cut his heart out with a spoon. Like that.

My middle child was being bashed every day when he was about 8, I didn't know but a mother told me when she witnessed it. He had come home pale and tear streaked but didn't tell me this happened for a week or two. Anyway I dealt with it full on, no 'pussy footing' about the school and the 'procedure' I went straight to the mother. She denied her angelic child could do this, but other mothers confirmed it she had to concede, and it stopped. Similar case when I was 10, My mother took me to the school made me punch the boy who was hitting me, I was scared stiff too. OK this would be frowed on now, but hey it works.
Another mother empowered her girls when bullied on FB. They rang the person and said they would be round to discuss it. Bullies don't like direct approaches, they can hide easier. I have had the subtle bullying other women sometimes try. Leaving you out, doing the whisper campaign, which means spreading something unpleasant about you which is not true. Again I confronted that when it happened. If you leave it they win. If you fight it you still may lose friends, but at least you tried. Never give up.

So this article made me want to write, perhaps not poetic and lyrical, but real life.

lj idol week 28. series 8. Walking on eggshells.

jacq22 — Sun, 20 May 2012 02:34:54 GMT

A modern tale.

Maggie is at her evening class, it will be at least two hours before she comes back, sinks into a chair and falls asleep, telling you first she had a ‘hellish’ day and did you pick up the dry cleaning? Juggling Melanie’s spaghetti to her table at the high chair and watching the toast for Tim, you try to keep one eye on the sport’s report on T.V. Mealtimes are always chaos, Tim is five now and tries to be good; just now he’s picking up toys beneath Melanie’s chair, you try again to hear the score while buttering toast. The bellow as Tim pokes Melanie and she retaliates with her spoon finalizes that opportunity. Soon, you will be splattered in soap and toothpaste and starting the bedtime stories.

Then three glasses of water and six threats of ‘ No TV,’ later blissful silence will settle on the toy strewn lounge. Only then you can close your eyes and dream of golf courses, of days when you had a few drinks with the boys. Those days are confined to the past. Guilt-ridden you pick up squashed biscuits; half chewed toast and crumpled storybooks. The mirror shows your pale face, badly needing a shave. Haven’t had a holiday for a while and sleep starved nights don’t help. Melanie is only two and wakes often, she always frets for Dad, suppose it shows she bonded with you at the start, as you were the one who woke for her in the first weeks.

It was different for your Dad, he would come home, grunt, put the paper over his face and await his call to the dinner table. Dreadful cholesterol rich meals; crunchy potatoes and gravy. Then he would smoke a pack of cigarettes and drink a few bottles of beer. Maggie your wife, watches everything, and eats like a bird herself. You remember when she was pretty and had a bit more flesh on her bones, and sex is off the menu unless It's 'on her schedule.’
.
There should be some spontaneous fun , or is that taken out of the contract? You asked if she could make something like a dessert and got your head chewed off. Mum used to make steamed puddings, you sometimes find yourself dreaming about hot syrup dumplings, an escapism of the culinary kind. An indulgence in food porn.
You have to get a presentation ready for the sales meeting tomorrow. So, you quickly eat some cold pasta and start working. Eyes feel heavy, it’s hard to fight sleep. You even snored in the middle of Rathbone’s sparkling new advertising ideas last week.

Putting the books back a copy of the ‘Female Eunuch’ falls into your hands, strange that book must be thirty years out of date, when women were downtrodden and burned bras, you consider how times have changed and replace the book next to the old bible. It’s easier to conform than spend life treading on eggshells.

‘The way we were.’ 1960.

This wasn’t the way it should be. My eyes were stuck together through sleep deprivation, and feeding the baby had taken an hour. The pale winter sun showed up the thick dust in the living room, a pile of ironing was stacked so high it might fall off the chair. I know the washing in the laundry is starting to make its presence known as the smell is creeping down the hallway. Must do something or he will be provoked again. Not much time.
How long does that give me before he gets home? About four hours. Hope he feels better, and also please....please don’t let there have been another drinking session, and then him grabbing me. The outcome... rough, brutal sex, and for him alone. The baby cooed, and I looked back, she was so beautiful, and together we were coping OK. I was still feeding her and she was four months soon. Money was short and I had to really budget to make ends meet. Tom was still going out with the boys every Friday, which seemed unfair, but what could I say? I could just afford a lipstick and my hair was a tangled mess, other women managed, guess I would.
In my irrational moments I railed against this imbalance, after all women can learn to shoot, if they can’t fight can’t they? I really felt that desperate some days, and was barely keeping the angst under control.
As Tammy slept I quickly disinfected the washing, and tried to make the pile smaller. I actually buried one diaper in the garden, before attacking the rest with scrubbing brush and bleach. Hanging out four lines in the tearing wind was exhausting.

Two hours to go; put some meat in to cook in a casserole. He likes a pudding, quickly rub some butter and flour together, a few apples remain, so make a crumble. Tammy wakes and I am feeding her; slumberous as she gazes up at me. I am almost asleep as she sucks and smiles, relaxing in the sunlit room.

He will say ‘What have you done all day?’ Inferring he has been slaving and I have been lazy. So I change and settle her and rouse myself to chores again. I will not tell him how tired I am, or how depressed I feel. Those admissions just antagonise him.

I spray polish around, and swipe at the worst areas of dust. The casserole smells good, and the crumble is a bit too well cooked but I fervently hope it will do, Half an hour...... a quick wash a spray of cheap perfume and a slash of pink lipstick. Tammy is playing in her pen, the table is laid. I flick on an electric log fire. Almost too late I notice the ironing pile, Oh god, quickly I abandon everything and stuff it in the nearest cupboard. He hates domestic chaos and snapped acerbicly last time it happened. The car drives into the garage, and as a not quite perfect ’Stepford’ wife I go to welcome him home.

http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/569110.html

Sold something

jacq22 — Thu, 17 May 2012 00:10:11 GMT

Yay, good start to my day, this painting 'The Fisherman'(before it was framed) I took to a shop yesterday and today it is sold... so am doing a happy dance. the cash will be very necessary this week, or any week!

Have also taken a lime green framed painting of the children to the shop...crosses fingers.

Cursing as I can only find the photos of these 'unfinished' the fisherman I worked on a lot more, must go through my photos and make a new art folder! when there is a spare day?

Third post of some art, I change styles a lot!

jacq22 — Sun, 13 May 2012 05:52:58 GMT

Have to get smart to go out for Mother's day meal, so no more playing here!

Gave away one and sold one of these. At a flamin garage sale too!

A few more art bits from my work...its accumulating. Well you did ask!

jacq22 — Sun, 13 May 2012 05:37:30 GMT

I sold the washing lady for very little and I liked her, sad isn't it? Have way too many paintings stacking up. But love starting a new one.

Friends asked to see a few of my works. So here are a few.

jacq22 — Sun, 13 May 2012 05:27:40 GMT

Probably have about 80 or 90 around the house, have sold some.

ljidol series 8; Week 27. 'Once upon a time'

jacq22 — Sun, 13 May 2012 01:48:01 GMT

Once upon a time I was a small girl, living through air raids ‘There is a war on,' was the excuse. I don’t remember it all, but seared into my head behind my eyes, with flames and fire I see a crashing plane. I was three, and standing on the back path. My parents urging me to the shelter. “ Quickly, come on, Daddy will carry you.”
The smell of the warm rubber of a gas mask against my face as I protested; Then the fog like darkness of the shelters; Back to my cold bed when the wailing sirens stopped. Back to my flannel sheets and my hot water bottle; Another air raid we had survived.

The wooden veranda, where I sit, slants slightly to the left, years ago that part was a ‘sleep out.’ I imagine the old bedstead there, with its occupant waking to go and work at the Co-op. They tell me he weighed the dry stores and let the children sit on the scales too. This house has seen different times, it is a hundred years old, it is a place for reflection, looking out as it does onto the main street. The wooden floor echoes with my footsteps, today is warm, the sun heats the front first then creeps to the side. My hanging baskets of impatients will soon be over, as winter starts to bite at them. Today they nod in a balmy breeze.
Once upon a time I didn’t live in this half of the world, where the sun gets so hot it can cook eggs on the path. Instead I lived where winter had a cruel edge. Even as a child I cried for the sun. I used to stand by the window watching the rain, and longing for the summer to return. Hating those winters I stayed in England until I was nineteen. Then, escaping with my artist husband to sail to New Zealand, I started a new life.

My first summer in New Zealand I devised ways to take everything outside, I was the mad English woman. who ironed outdoors, whose small daughter ran barefoot and naked. When Kerry was only seven months she had a play pen set up in the shade with a blanket beneath it. My agile baby daughter got her feet under the blanket and pushed the pen into the patches of sunlight,
That first summer we spent long days outside, playing and sleeping, with me cutting up vegetables or sewing as Kerry played in the warmth. That love of the sun, and being free. I like to think it is my legacy to her.
Now she only visits; It takes a full day or two of torrid travel to close that gap between us. We dream of our time together when we will again drink cold wine, and tell secrets. Knowing we are forever connected by our sun worship, and a binding thread from those far off days; we survive.

From my chair beneath the shelter of the verandah I can watch passing life, school buses, and housewives with shopping jeeps. I stretch out my feet feeling the wood reflect back heat. The magpie with a broken wing has made his way to me, a perilous route from the bowling club. Danger lurks when you can’t fly. He comes to feed on cheese and scraps, and basks in a warm spot against the fence, head on one side in an imitation of mediation. When he is threatened he runs along the back lanes, one wing speeding him as he holds it up. He survives.

The peace for a moment is complete, then I turn my back on the world outside to cook and clean. Still needing this routine even for just two of us.
Once upon a time I was a busy mother, with a job and three children, I crammed cooking and housework into spare corners of my life. I baked bread and made three different meals at once.I worked in a hotel, or a hospital, or a clothes shop, I stayed out until dawn at parties. I lived every wild moment, never leaving room to breathe and reflect. I cared for my dying mother in law, dried teenage tears when love went wrong, had moments when my life nearly went off the rails because of the stress, but made it all work, kept the threads of life woven together. I survived.

Once upon a time there were picture perfect days; like the holidays in Devon, when the sand was washed clean reflecting the sky, and the sea was like silk. Not only the place but the time is one I wish I could return to. Ten of us went on holiday. There was endless food to prepare; and wet sand-logged trousers to dry. Travel was in a transit van, with Grotty our dog on my lap, his face a picture of pleasure. I would arrive covered in blonde dog hair, and have to cope with an over excited dog vomiting grass in the lounge. His perpetual happiness at being with us was a joy. Now I know those last holidays when the children were not quite grown up were so precious. We rented a house and took my parents too; for them it was a brief respite from the daily struggle to exist and the last time they both enjoyed good health. Those were good days, once upon a time.

Now I still cram my life full, but have oceans of silence. Days of tranquility; I need to have deadlines. So I paint, and enter competitions and try to create art and cook in tandem. In quiet moments words jam my mind, the keyboard becomes my escape, and there are a dozen reasons why the ironing isn’t finished. The thoughts burst through and find their way to a page, captured everlasting. They survive.

Once upon a time I was sensually alive, it was the core of my being. Sensuality is still my soul food, reaching out like warm fingers to the world outside, unchained desire still etched deep in my skin, it was once the driving force, the very scent I exuded. Sex is power, sex is stronger than we ever know. Yet I was unaware of my power, had no idea of the unharnessed roar of it. Too late I know what I had, and lament its passing. Yet I will not cry too many tears, the past is gone, but in my life I have had more love, and joy and wonder than I ever deserved. Is this my happy ever after?

http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/566865.html

ljSeries 8. Week 26.

jacq22 — Sun, 06 May 2012 09:37:30 GMT

Hotel Paridiso, A Play,

Characters. James, and Marnie. Married to each other.

Two large women also guests who have latched onto them. One called Fran, the other called Barbara.

Scene, a hotel dining room, four of them round a table, desserts being eaten.

Background noise of cutlery, music, and conversation.

Rain outside.

Having watched the two large women consume enough at dinner to fill several dump trucks, Marnie decides on polite conversation.

Marnie. “Are either of you married?”

Fran. “Nope, fancy free these days, almost given up men for all the trouble they are. I was married once, but don’t have much luck with men generally.”

James. “Did your husband die?”

Fran. “No, but If I had my way he should have died. No, I divorced the pervert. He was into all sorts of weird stuff, I’ve never been able to look at a vacuum cleaner in the same way since!”

She snorts and scoops huge mounds of slippery ice-cream into her mouth.

Marnie. “Is it still raining?”

Fran. “Yes bucketing down. But I love being cosy in a Hotel like this, you can drink yourself stupid then crawl back to your room.”

Barb. “Done that before haven’t we dear?”

The food is the focus for a few minutes; Fran has a huge ice-cream sundae, Barb, has three serves of a French cake, James a plate of cheese and biscuits, and Marnie fruit and cream.

Silence for a while as they eat.

Marnie looks at James, who is making little towers of biscuits and cheese.

Marnie. “Thirty eight years for us, isn’t it darling?”

James. “Yes, get less for life, but better the devil you know.”

Marnie. “Don’t start that! Anyway he only stays with me for the cooking.” She looks smug, basking in her security.

They smile at each other, and resume eating.

Barb. “Hey Fran, what about your latest admirer, he was something wasn’t he?”

She stifles a laugh. “Go on tell them Fran, tell them about Walter.”

James sits back in his chair, leaving his unfinished cheese. Looking bored, his eyes searching the room for escape.

Marnie leans forward, and spears a strawberry. “So what happened with this Walter?”

Fran smiles and wipes her chin, cream has dribbled onto her pink satin blouse.

Fran. “Well, I met him when I played in a band in Melbourne, he came round and watched me for weeks then asked me if I wanted to come out for dinner, must have thought I looked starved.”

Barb. “Your Rubinesque charm got to him didn’t it!”

Fran. “Yeah, you’re right, he told me just that. He liked bigger women, fancied me like crazy. So eat your heart out, Kate Moss.”

Barb. “Too many stick thin women about, can’t see the point myself, life should be enjoyed, eat drink and get shagged that’s what I say.” She laughs raucously and drinks more of the wine.

James pales and fiddles with a biscuit.

Fran. “Watch out Barb, we don’t want to leave this place in a hurry, not a repeat of Spain, slow down on the sauce girl.”

Barbara just makes a rude gesture.

The married couple look uneasy, shifting in their seats.

Fran. “Anyway, this Walter, asks me out for dinner, so I thought why not? I hadn’t been seeing anyone for six months. Took me to Chapel Street; we had lobster.”

Marnie. “Was it lobster thermidor?”

Fran. “No idea honey, just know it was lobster, and he bought the best champers too.”

Marnie. “Remember when we first had champagne?” a misty glaze over her eyes.

James. “Yes, our honeymoon, I thought I was so sophisticated ordering it!”

Marnie puts out her hand to touch James.

Marnie. “We wanted it to be special, we only had three days.”

James. “So what I did was check out the motels, and just to make it memorable, so we could say ‘we went to ‘Paradise our first night,’ we found a motel called just that.”

Barb. “What - - Paradise?” And she laughs.

Marnie. “It was damned cold I remember, I wore little baby doll pyjamas and we ate Chicken Maryland.”

Barb. “God I would have frightened the horses if I wore baby doll pyjamas! “ She splutters, spraying cake crumbs everywhere. “Anyway back to Walter….”

She scoops up more food and pauses.

All three watch fascinated as the sticky cake is crammed in.

Fran. “At the end of the evening he drove me home, and I was a bit out of practice, didn’t know whether to ask him in, you know a night cap and all that! I felt silly and I was just sitting there.”

Barb. “Tell them what happened next.” Barb squirms in her seat smiling.

James is now fiddling with his cheese, Marnie is spooning the last mouthful of fruit in. They all stop and wait.

Fran. “There I was in the car, trying to decide about the coffee, when whoosh, he pressed a button and I was flat on my back like a stranded whale!”

James tries to control a snigger. “Sports car was it?”

Fran. “I think it was a Porsche, but he definitely had sport in mind.”

Marnie glances at James and they both laugh.

James takes control for a minute. “Brandy anyone?”

He signals to the bartender who takes an order for four large brandies.

They all sip their drinks.

Marnie, looking coy. “I fell for his car first.”

James. “Jezebel?”

Marnie. “Dear old Jezebel, it was so draughty, a thirties model with soft sides and gaps where the wind whistled in.”

James. “Amazing how little you feel when you’re in the first flush of lust.”

Marnie. “Darling!” She says in mock shock, “Go easy on the brandy.”

Barb. “Hey Fran you haven’t finished your story, spill the beans about the rest. You two will never believe this, it caps the lot!”

Fran. “A few days after my encounter in the Porche, I saw him in town.”

Barb. “Oh this is brilliant!” she gushes.

Barb holds her chest and gasps. Cake stuck to her fingers leaves greasy tracks on her lime green top.

Fran. “There he was dressed as a woman! Black tight skirt, stocking, and panda eyes, the lot!”

Marnie. “What ever did you do?”

Fran. “I confronted him, said what the hell are you doing in fishnet tights?”

Barb. “He had the answer didn’t he? Glib as anything.”

Fran. “Yes, swore he was a private detective and was following someone.”

The brandy glasses are drained. The laughter subsides.

James. “Well, I’m heading for bed, coming?”

Fran quickly bats her eyelashes and replies, “Ready when you are!”

Barb. “You’re hopeless Fran, come on let’s go to the bar and see if any drunks are desperate enough. Face it girl they would have to be, to do a horizontal dance with either of us!”

Marnie. “Goodnight, we might see you at breakfast, we leave at ten, how about you?”

Fran. Unless we get lucky, we are too. See you.” With that the two sidle over to the bar, and order.

Fran. “Two cocktails please, What do you reckon Barb, ‘A slow screw’ or ‘Between the sheets’?’

Barb. “Both honey, you’re a long time dead.”

Footnote; Based on a real encounter we had in Ibiza, the two wonderful ladies were large, but very happy in their skins, they were also the best dinner companions, I raise my glass to their memory.

Here; for more entries to read. http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/564152.html

Series 8, week 25, lj entry. "Closer"

jacq22 — Sun, 29 Apr 2012 21:52:21 GMT

Closer. “The Sea of Grass”

The sound was of a motor spluttering and coughing into life. A savage sound breaking her reverie.
There was a young man in a denim shirt walking behind a mower. A pale swathe of exposed roots appeared in the sea of green. Seed heads billowed up dancing in the sunlight as he moved purposefully across the paddock.

The house seemed so empty now. Frank’s chair looked almost forlorn, the recliner still holding the shape of his buttocks. Her ears strained to hear the remarks about what was on TV and his frequent, cry of “How ridiculous!” She missed the sneering, the acid comments, the predictable tirade; she missed Frank.

Teeth clenched as she pushed the thoughts away. But they came back anyway. Whispered secrets as they lay on a blue blanket. Midsummer days, with sun seeping under their eyelids. Languid warmth, and Frank so close to her.
Then the sound invaded again.
"Go away!" she almost screamed. "Leave me alone!" but the throbbing motor relentlessly sheared her haven, moving closer to the house.

Her hands stretched out to feel the smooth marble of the fireplace. The cloying scent of mown grass filled her being. It had been early spring, their romance gathering speed as summer approached. Had she really been so young? It felt like a dream now. The ‘sea of grass’ she called it, her place and Frank’s, a special place.
Silly old goat she thought, he deserted me and we were only a year off our sixtieth anniversary! How could he? Just like him, no thought for her.

The children, well they had their lives. Who would want to come and see a dotty old bat like me Viola sighed, she had been alone one whole winter now. They came with their ‘ipods,’ and music plugged into their ears. Grandchildren running like young colts, and their parents with all the talk of holidays in Venice, the stock market and going to the gym. Viola kept up with some of the technology, tried not to pour cold water on too many of their new schemes. But inevitably she crossed one or the other of her brood, and it ended in tears. She suddenly realized she was more like Frank lately. Had it rubbed off on her? Heaven forbid.

Lacey was special though; with her flashing eyes and her loping gait, like a young gazelle. They say that sometimes eye and hair colour skips a generation. Lacey had inherited her looks from Viola, not from her delightfully zany mother Jenny. Luckily she made up for dun coloured hair and hazel eyes with her infectious joy for life.
Jenny was musically talented though. At present she was single again after another broken relationship. Sometimes Viola wondered if she would ever settle down.
Lacey was like her grandmother, eyes like spring skies, black lashes, and pale skin. She was beautiful; willful; talented.

In the corner of the room, its dark wood glowing, sat the piano, dust shrouding its lid. Just for an instant, Viola imagined she could hear the music, soft and lilting the way Jenny had once played. Now it stood neglected. There was talk that Lacey would like to have music lessons, but Viola had heard nothing lately, another madcap idea she supposed.
Viola moved to the window. The grass was short now; the soft green sea had become a sharp yellow pathway. Memories kept coming back, unasked. The void her life had become filled to bursting with them.
She sighed, almost a sob, remembering his lips on her throat. She closed her eyes. Her fingers traced the warm flesh, touched her lips. Her eyes opened and she again saw the room as it was, just empty.
Lost days, lost years, when had she become so old, and so spent?
Regaining control, she decided she must know who that was out there in the grass, in her domain. Had Jenny sent him?

Another sound drew her eyes outside. As a white sports car came through the gate, and screamed up the drive. The door opened and a long cream skirt swung out, followed by a supple body, her blonde hair shining in the noon sun. Arms outstretched Jenny ran towards her.
“What have you done to your hair?” asked Viola. Incredulous as she saw how beautiful her daughter looked now.
"Never mind about that now, I had some highlights; let me look at you….. Mom, oh, God you're pale!".
A worried frown curled her brows as she gathered her mother into an embrace. Her tears fell as she drew her mother closer.
"I'm here now, we'll soon sort you out,” she whispered through her tears.
Shaking free Viola bristled.
“I do NOT need ‘sorting out’, as you put it.”
“Well how do you feel about a paying guest and housekeeper, plus a rather sexy handyman?”
Viola was heading for the kitchen and the kettle, she said nothing.
Outside she could see her beautiful grand-daughter, black hair flying, playing with Smitty the dog.
But she had already started planning. The small room over the eaves would be right for Lacey, there was a double room in the back. She hummed as she put cookies on the plate
“Better call that handsome gardener in”, she said as Jenny got the cups. “And tell him I don’t want the grass cut so short next time.”
From the other room a sound mingled with the kettle singing, the piano was being played harmoniously, and the notes filled the corners of the house, seeking out the darkness. Lacey played, and the notes seemed to carry straight to Viola’s soul.
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This is an Intersection piece, I am with the amazing, wise, Myrna Bird, and her piece needs to be read first. She wrote "Cesspool."

To get to our entries: http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/561685.html

LJ IDOL series 8. Week 24."In my wheelhouse"

jacq22 — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 01:30:07 GMT

The Brooch.

“He’s looking for his penis, you know, he thinks he’s lost it”, Doris said.
“You shouldn’t say things like that Doris” I replied, but smiled.
Some of the surprising statements uttered by Doris made conversations with her interesting, if at times confusing.
I worked at the nursing home as a carer. My craving for a life of luxury was unlikely to be realised. The fact that I enjoyed the work helped, the wages certainly didn't allow for caviar or champagne.

We both watched as Clem still searched his lap for an elusive something. Doris was ninety-two, and she wore her hair pulled so tightly in a bun, it seemed if you let it down and released the tension her face would crumple and collapse.
“I like men.” she stated, “Put me next to a man.”
Oh Doris I thought, you are a woman I admire!
How mis-matched her face and body were; her face was deeply lined; yet her body could have belonged to a younger woman. The skin so smooth, it was like alabaster. The beauty she had once been was easy to imagine. As I put her next to Clem she said “When I was young if you had sixpence you could buy anything.” Clem stopped looking at his lap and smiled in greeting.

During my lunchbreaks I took Doris to the garden and we talked as I ate my sandwiches. Flowers were bursting into bloom, the air was full of jasmine, and grass was thick around the edge of the concrete courtyard. Doris dozed under her floppy blue sun hat, and then woke again in time to share my chocolate biscuits. As she nibbled at her biscuit she gazed at a cherry tree, and told me a story of Paris, and a young man who had pursued her. Her mind was like a butterfly, flitting from one subject to another, telling me of husbands who died before I was even born and lovers she had known between her marriages. She talked of tea at the Dorchester in London, and of a brooch a suitor had given her. She looked tired though, so I said, “It’s getting cold Doris, we should go in.”
Next day the train was delayed at Richmond, so I was late. I usually breezed in to say hello to Doris first, but this day something made me hesitate, as I heard voices in her room.
The nursing director’s voice was low but insistent, “No, they requested no resuscitation, and no drugs, we must adhere to the wishes of the family and the resident.”
Doris lay still, her white bun tight on her head, but her mouth was open as she laboured to breathe, normally pale, her skin was flushed and mottled Out of the silence, one of the things she had told me returned….
“Had I known I could not have children I would have had such fun in Europe”
I didn’t want her to labour and struggle only to become a pale version of the Doris I loved. Her spirit was not meant to be erased so cruelly. Leaning close to her white head I whispered “Don’t fight Doris, just go to sleep, let go, I’ll hold your hand, please just go to sleep”. She gently squeezed my hand then released me.
The funeral was very small, about a dozen assorted mourners. Her niece shed no tears, but was pleasant to me. “She liked you.” Mandy said, “Thank you for all you did.”
“I loved her.” I said, and meant it.
“I have a small suitcase of things you might like to have to remind you.” Mandy said quietly.
Flustered, I said, “There’s no need.” but Mandy insisted. I knew Mandy had inherited well, so said no more.

Some weeks later I had almost forgotten about it, and I was sitting in my small garden, when a young man came to the back gate and left the battered case for me.
I sat with my bare feet in the sun, musing about my life, and how Doris had touched it. In my mind I saw all the places of her stories, I lived through her memories. As the shadows grew and deepened, I eventually clicked open the locks of the case and pushed back the lid.
Something soft brushed my hand; it was a white ermine cape, smelling of lavender. It was so elegant, creamy white and with a clasp of glittering stones. In the pocket I discovered a small silver perfume phial, the source of the musky smell, an icon of her earlier life-style.
At the base, on the yellowed paper lining of the case, lay a purple velvet purse with a silk tassel. The gold button closure was stiff, but with a little effort I opened it. Inside, was something bulky. It was the brooch, the one Doris had told me about.
My hands trembled as I took in the details, rubies, pearls and gold. The elegance of the design made me think it might be Faberge! This could make a difference to my life!
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Vivaldi flowed over me like a stream; my lap was covered in a crisp white table napkin. An attentive waiter hovered nearby. The sounds around me were the tinkle of teacups and quiet conversation. The Dorchester was just as Doris had described it.
“You would care for more tea Madam?” The quiet voice inquired.
“Yes please, and could you bring me more of those delicious cakes?” I asked, and then I raised my teacup and whispered. “Here’s to you Doris, I am going to have such fun.”

http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/559264.html
This is a story that contains grains of truth, real conversations, and perhaps a few dreams that didn't come true. RIP Doris.

lj idol series 8. week 23. The Weak Force.

jacq22 — Thu, 12 Apr 2012 10:26:53 GMT

FUTURE FORCE.

"Please Dave listen, its true" pleaded Eva.
"Just look out there. Three crashed cars, in our street, those men lying there, explain that?" she looked at Dave, his face, still pale, still shaky from what?
"You don't remember anything do you?, they made sure of that, its part of their plan!” Eva continued.
"But why would anyone do this, it seems so crazy," she questioned. “Why haven't I been affected? apart from hearing that noise I feel normal."

Dave shook his head, but followed her inside. His small room seemed suddenly confining He felt claustrophobic, and very conscious of Eva filling the room.
There was a heightened awareness of her scent, her shape.
"Steady boy", he thought, "you must still be wobbly". He had rented two rooms in Eva's house for two years now, and treated her with polite friendship usually.

Eva sat down, ignoring the pile of papers that slid to the floor as she did.
She was suddenly pacing again, unable to sit still.
"We have to get the other men to safety'- but it may be too late already", she added lamely, pulling the curtain aside to see the street. The men still lay where they had fallen. It was eerie, so quiet, no children or animals around either.

A few women stood together at the corner, yet they looked distracted, concentrating on the red streaked the sky. Other women stood hands clamped over their ears.
Dave started to look for some clean mugs, he flicked on the kettle switch, feeling stronger now, more in charge. "Sit down Eva, let’s have a coffee." Dave murmered.
Eva sat, and was quiet for a moment, her eyes wary, watching Dave.
He had nice back, strong, lean, and good legs in his dark jeans, she still felt some concern as she noticed his hand shook as he handed her the steaming mug.
Eva took the brew, and her hand touched his. The skin brushing hers briefly, she felt a jolting buzz inside. Pushing the thought aside, she was too confused to acknowledge what had started to stir in her.
Again she tried to explain, "These people are trying to control us Dave, - oh, its such a mess!" she paused, looking really worried now, "they expect the women to just let it happen, because we are weaker but hell we can fight back!".
Suddenly Dave said gently. "You really believe this Eva?"
"Yes, how do you explain it then?" she implored.
"I can't think straight, look how about some eggs, I haven't got much in the house, but can do that for us" he was trying to calm the situation.
" I would like you to stay a while longer, I really need to come round a bit anyway." Dave added.

Eva was on her feet again now, "No I must tell the other women to go inside, and escape from that noise, I just know that noise is the clue."
She rushed to the door before Dave could protest. Yet as soon as she reached the doorway her face contracted in pain as the violence of the sound hit again. He closed the door behind her, as she fell back, real concern on his face.
She stood close to him, and grasped his shoulder hard.

"We should do something, there's so little time" His dark eyes seemed to enclose her, she allowed herself to be led, feeling a little safer now she asked, "Do you feel any better yourself?" she asked with concern.
"I'm almost right." he said slowly, "a bit shaky, but my heads clearing now."
"Who can we contact anyway, and how can we protect you from this sound?"
"I know ". Then he laughed as he thought of a solution, "How about my old bike helmet?"
"I suppose it's worth a try." she smiled weakly.
He went to the back of his cupboard and brought out an ancient steel helmet. It might work. Brushing a few cobwebs from the inside he placed it on her head.
Standing very close he put it on and helped her adjust the strap.

Far above the silver machine hovered watching and listening. The seeds had been planted; Now the final phase, a green panel lit up inside the sphere.
A countdown began. Some of the bodies, began stirring. Only those with greyer hair remained. Their faces dark, their eyes devoid of life.

Dave was filled with sudden warmth, heat coursed through him. His eyes burned into Evas, he pulled the helmet roughly from her head it fell to the floor with a metallic clatter. With a cry Eva almost fell too.
Their breathing became ragged, laboured; mouths open, fusing, aware only of their consuming need.
Clothes joined the forgotten helmet; a chorus of similar sounds floating in through the open window joining the sounds they made.

One relentless sun burned in the sky, then a welcome breeze started to stir leaves, birds began singing, and confused couples appeared picking up discarded clothing, regaining their lives. Children ran from hidden places and started to play. Dogs woke and barked.
A silver flash signified a presence leaving, to return again next year for the harvest.

This has been my entry for The Weak force.
http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/555757.html,

Idol series.8. Week 22. Intersection "The Bridge".

jacq22 — Mon, 09 Apr 2012 11:39:13 GMT

Bridge to Maturity.

It was bone numbingly cold. The clock said 2.30.am as we drove to the bus station. A quick goodbye to my parents and I was alone. This excursion was unusual for the mid fifties, school trips were rare, and the journey for me, a shy fifteen year old would be the longest trip I had made so far. Two hours on a coach, and four at sea.

I was the only one of our party who remained on deck and wasn’t sea sick. I felt quietly proud of that, it proved I was a born traveler didn’t it? The steamers slid slowly into the harbor of Dieppe. I was at last ‘on the continent!’
Softer air and warmer breezes assailed me, and as I set foot on French soil on my way to Paris I began to allow all my senses to savour every new feeling. Sunshine danced and flickered as we drove along the boulevard to our hotel. Paris didn’t just creep into my heart; instead it grabbed me by the throat, and dared me not to like it. The vivid personality that is Paris was evident in every landmark, like the icing sugar dome of the Sacre Coeur, the four legged monster Eiffel Tower or the glimpses of the river winding round the Il de la Cite. Even the lethal weapons of traffic hurtling about didn’t faze me. I was opened mouthed and drinking it all in.

There were so many bakeries near our hotel, the heady smell of baking bread was always in the air. Everyone in our little street carried a loaf under their arm, or so it seemed. The underground had a sweet smell, hard to define, a mixture of perfume, cigars and an aromatic pipe tobacco that was popular then. As it was April there were flowers everywhere, and the street sellers spread across the pavements, jostling with the coffee drinkers and the artists. We did all the tourist things, gazed at Mona Lisa, went to the tomb of Napoleon, and shopped in Bon Marche. Most of all though, I wanted to stay; and wear a long black sweater, and swig absinthe from a bottle on the left bank. I knew without any doubt I belonged in Montmartre with the struggling artists. I imagined being under the bridges with one; as he devoured me with garlic flavoured kisses.
My first real exchange with a French boy was on a boat trip on the river. We swopped slips of paper with addresses. I think I wrote to him for about two months before he wrote back ‘Dear Susan’ instead of ‘Dear Jacqui.’ Love died and romantic dreams were on hold for a while, after that.

My newly acquired taste for coffee, foreign boys, wine and fashion stemmed from this one trip. Ten short days changed my expectation of my life. The understated elegance I saw on the streets of this city became my yardstick, - ‘that was how women should look’ I thought. Females in my native Bristol, mostly wore grey coats and headscarves. The cold winds from the channel not conducive to high fashion. Most of them had worked hard all their lives in factories anyway. If you dressed up you were thought to be 'flashy.' I so desperately wanted to be flamboyant, ostentatious, and wild. But this was not the time, not yet anyway.

On the last night in Paris we travelled to the city by tube in the twilight. When we got to the Champs Elysees it looked like a lighted caterpillar leading to the Arc de Triumph. I walked away from the group to absorb these last moments. The reflected lights of Notre Dame danced on the inky water; the beautiful bridges arcing gracefully. I memorized every detail, ‘I am coming back’ I vowed.

We went back for our 25th wedding anniversary and loved it so much we went again, both of us as spellbound as I was at 15. We had a small room in the roof of a hotel in Montmartre, I was in heaven.
Now I stir my creamy coffee, and gaze at the river. Along the wide path a fashionable parade of people come thronging. The pungent scent of garlic and seafood drifts from the restaurants along the river. On the bridges across from the busy cafes and shops, people stop to admire the view. A cruise boat pulls away and I hear laughter and the clink of champagne glasses. I walk up the steps to the roadway, the elegance of the carved buildings picked out by late sunlight. The Cathedral clock strikes as I wander looking at the winter fashions in the shops. Clang!; suddenly I am in real time again, a tram passes, this is Melbourne. Melbourne, with its winding, muddy river at its heart just like Paris; with art galleries and coffee shops. Cobbled laneways and the bustle of China Town. Melbourne hasn’t quite taken the place of Paris, it never could, but it’s a close second.
http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/553736.html

This is an intersection piece, I am paired with the wonderfully talented kickthehobbit Her piece is The Straw.

Note; Yay awesome partner has penned a fabulous piece and between us we can walk hand in hand into a French dream. Find her entry here; http://kickthehobbit.livejournal.com/470420.html

jacq22 — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 22:51:00 GMT

Went to hear Jane Clifton speak, she is an actress, a rock chick, now writes books, she has written two crime novels but the one we bought (got sucked in) was the one of her chronicle of her moves. "The Address Book" Army life made her move often, and then she was nomadic anyway, she decided she would revisit all her homes. The first one was in Gibralta.
Anyway, I was so enthralled, as she also keeps a journal, which she said lately is full of misery, that struck a chord. I can relate to the odd misery write up!

Every time I hear an author speak I become fired up and want to write more.

Well at 8,30. Have already been out and taken our paintings (9) to the Regent Theatre, they will be hung and judged today, and on sale tonight. Very rarely do much though as artists from all the place show work. Have sold only two in eight years, been 'Highly commended' a few times, and husband has sold one and had a special prize for a drawing.$300. last year I did far better at a small art show, won money there.

Apart from half a block of chocolate son brought and some brownies we are chocolate less, might have to do something about that!!

LJ idol series 8. Week 21. Intersection week.

jacq22 — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 04:51:30 GMT

THE STRAW THAT STIRS THE DRINK.
The small sharp teeth of Romany sink into the furry underbelly of Tinker. Ocelot patterned softness is exposed. A small squeal of protest then pumping back legs give him the upper hand. The two small creatures roll off the edge of the bed.

Warm air, sickly and cloying fills the room a rich potion making eye lids heavy. 34c. says the electronic device outside the Country Club. I have been on the veranda until now, my thoughts trailing away unfinished. I feel betrayed by this weather, startling light so intense it hurts, the sounds of children in the swimming pool, and blue as far as I can see.
Where was this heat when I needed it? She came for warmth, and to for us to be together; my daughter. We had that stolen time together, but with frigid temperatures she was permanently attired in a pink sweater. Mounds of coloured tee shirts lay in her suit case; frothy skirts lay hidden in the dark wardrobe, unworn.
‘Guess it’s the sweater again’ she said each morning.

We should have known the unexpected happens when you least expect it. How could we know we would be searching for firewood two days after Christmas? The tumbling kittens stop fighting, as their mother returns with her musical call to them. In seconds they lay quietly feeding, save for Tinker. He has bonded with humans and flops down close to my leg on the bed.

My daughter and I have some sunny memories. Wearing straw hats and drinking wine, or walking along the endless beach at Woodside.
Precious days we will need to store away in some mental space, times of sharing silence; she played with the kittens, or listened to music, with both of us tied into our thoughts.

She has returned now, is back where snow invades doorways and ice leaves tracery on windows. I remember when I lived there, the dun coloured hedges in bleak dark, winter, the soggy ground refusing to let green shoots burst forth. As I lay here hiding from the midday heat, she will be sleeping too, hibernating, and evading the cold.

The striped body of the mother cat lies flat exposing the white skin where she had her operation. No more kittens for her, Gypsy chews at her tail and she flicks it. The soft mound of his belly rises and falls as Romany sleeps, and he twitches in a dream. Soon the kittens will be gone in different directions, away from the gentle life I provide. They have been sleeping on soft beds, had good food on demand, the harsh reality of life awaits them. For the mother cat too, the time will be anguished, I already know she will search for them long after they are gone. Looking for small traces; hunting for their scents. A tangible bond broken

I peer at the clock, telling me its 1.32, and still 30c out there. I try to retreat inside my head and picture where she is now. In a 200 year old house, while outside her window frost stiffens the grass stalks. She will be wearing layers of clothes and leather boots. For a moment I listen and hear the radio playing a song we both like, a sixties melody. Music heals the soul. Drifting into sleep I am linked to her, on a floral cover surrounded by sleeping kittens. Music connects us, I will tell her when I phone about the song, it goes between us, and helps to heal the gaping wound of distance. When I phone, she tells me she took home an empty perfume bottle of mine. The straw she clutches to reach the drink, and the tears start in my eyes.
“What the cheap Avon stuff?’ I query.
“ It just reminds me, Mum.” She replies and we are both silent remembering.

This has been an intersection piece for idol my wonderful partner is xreesex we have combined to write on a similar subject. Her entry was so real, so honest and beautifully written, I felt every word, please read its beautiful.
Reece is http://xreesex.livejournal.com/1303986.html

To entries;
http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/550720.html

Saturday things.

jacq22 — Sat, 31 Mar 2012 03:17:30 GMT

Missy loves a lie in on Saturday.
Well she is a lady;

For me no Thursday 13, but just some random stuff.

Last night we got delightfully drunk, and staggered home.

We are out tonight for a meal for husband's birthday, so look forward to that.

Bought a blouse (should not have)originally 130 dollars got it for 35, classic cream silky shirt blouse. Tell myself its an investment!

Today due to buying blouse am counting small change. To make enough for shopping needs.

Having to find and write with a partner this time, which is a different experience. Live journal writers down to 59 of us, from 329...

Bon voyage to Lorraine!!

Bought a hunk of ham and we cut it up for lunches etc, made six bags full.

Bought minced beef, ditto, made five bags for 12 dollars. Will make hamburgers, meat balls, lasagne.

Have apples I must cut up, a few left from the parrots, cockies and blackbirds. They have all eaten their fill of apples this year.

I am in limbo today, we have prodigal son with us at the moment.

Now must cook, write or paint.

jacq22 — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 21:52:58 GMT

Help!!! have actually got through the last stage of idol, the DOOM and now a new challenge have to find a partner to write with.... am totally confused, sorry no time to do Thirteen yet, might be a Saturday special?

Bits and pieces.

jacq22 — Wed, 28 Mar 2012 03:12:51 GMT

A small example of son's work, he is still working in the city. Has either too much work or not enough. The way of the world.

My son and grandson might turn up tonight, just as I no longer have any home made goodies! So better get cooking.

Am trying to do a strange self portrait, bit difficult at the moment. But guess I will get there.

The ljidol is this week being judged by an independant panel, called the Gatekeepers, it is dreaded by all those seasoned lj writers, so could be curtains for me, but I really aimed for 20 weeks, and made it!!! so be it.

A well loved Doctor died suddently last week, a huge service held today, and I didn't go, feel badly, but I still care a great deal that he is lost to us, he will be missed.

Beautiful sunshine, which is good for all of us, should get out and pull out some weeds, but am torn between cooking, art and garden!!

Right on with more work now.