Thursday, May 26, 2011

Where my imagination goes...

So I've had this idea that I wanted to write a Sci-fi type of story for awhile. I start to think of something, plan out my galaxies and other-world type sha-bang-ga-bang and than it fizzles. A great deal of it has to do with the fact that I can get obsessive when I research things and my tangential mind starts to wonder off into a variety of places and I forget what my origin of thought was. Yet, I've been circling the wagons of this Sci-fi concept for awhile and when I got a gentle nudge (I'm not being sarcastic, it was actually a flattering nudge) from Nicole Kurtz over at Mocha Memoirs Press to submit something I committed myself to focusing and getting it done.

But it seems my imagination went on hiatus. I couldn't finish my stories Tasty Bits or Fire and Ice for Beautiful Trouble Publishing and my poor little sci-fi story got neglected again. Even cycling into another round of insomnia couldn't be used for anything productive. I was at a great lose until I decided, "Fuck It", if my creative center didn't want to be found than it could stay lost. I had a plethora of things I could be doing instead. Now, what is that saying, when you let something go, if it comes backs it was yours or meant for you or...whatever, the point is where ever my imagination went it brought something back for me.

It's actually so strange that I couldn't help sharing. Now it may never become more than what it is but if it does, I swear Nicole, it's yours, if you want it of course (now that's my gentle nudge).

Unedited Excerpt

When the end came it wasn't a great shock. Like the slow rolling wave of change it seemed to envelop everyone before they'd realized they'd been swallowed. The cry "The End is Nigh" lost it's resonance when people accepted "The End" had always been there. It was of no fault of their own that they didn't notice. One has their life to live, planning for its conclusion can take up far too much time. Now as the masses finally awoke to the reality of their situation, was there panic, a post apocalyptic existence of hidden dwellings and the anarchist pledge? Hardly, it was rather anti-climatic, because like the great master of evolution the human race had become, it adapted. After all, life had to be lived, planning for its conclusion would have to wait.

But I digress from the real purpose of my tale. This isn't a story about "The End" but more of "The Beginning", not quite the "Once Upon A Time", but a "Happily Ever After" of sorts. This is the story of one man and one woman, brought together during this time of change that didn't seem so different. A comedy if there is an allowance for tragedy, because what would a story of the human condition be without both. The story of two people that realize endings are often the start of great beginnings.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Love me...

Hola mi amor,

I recently experienced a bump in the road of wedded bliss. The argument was so trivial that it doesn't bare repeating but the feelings that it left behind do require some reflection. The gist is both Sig Other and I were left holding hurt. Mine because he hurt me and his because he hurt. There was the "conversation" in which we both explained how we felt and held accountability for our actions. All the hard work that needs to be done to maintain a healthy relationship. During this conversation I stated my boundary and drew a firm line in the sand about behavior that would not be tolerated from either him or myself. To which he replied, "I guess it's true only mother's love unconditionally."

The statement was so fascinating to me because after almost 10 years of being with him I learned something new. We think of love differently. In the conversation that followed he explained how he would love me regardless of any action I did to him, therefore loving me unconditionally. Needless to say I was shocked because my love does have conditions. It requires trust, honesty, and respect. It requires that you care for me, and treat me, yourself, and our relationship with integrity. It requires you value me as an individual as much as you value yourself. When explaining this he nodded and agreed but still felt that when all those things failed to exist he would still have love for me because his attachment is so deep that the roots of it could not die (this is me taking artistic license with his words but you get the idea).

That night as I slept next to this person whom I love as much as my next breath I wanted to cry because my love could never be like his. My love is fierce and true but if it is not fed, if it is not nurtured, it will wither away and die. Rolling over I snuggled up to the one that I have chosen to give my love to and in that moment I realized that "loving" was not going to be enough, it would take work.

As always I find solace and inspiration in poetry and here is a one by Pablo Neruda that articulates most eloquently how I feel.

If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

This poem was taken from

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Lets be scared together...

Well Howdy,

I've been gone for a hot second but dear readers you must know that I haven't forgotten you. That job I've been planning to leave for quite some time just won't let me go. Quite mob like it is, just when I think I'm out it keeps sucking me back in. BUT, through it all I've been able to complete the third story in my Goddess Chosen Series, Time For You And Time For Me is over at Beautiful Trouble Publishing waiting anxiously for you AND a fun little ditty called Love's Bloom at Shara Azod's house, apart of the A is for Amazon series, sits with bated breath hoping you'll arrive. Yes that's right, even with adversity I rise up and whip out the prose for my adoring fans. Selfless I am, so selfless.

Anyhoo, I'm now sick (shocker) and have been sequestered to my bed all day. Yawn. The majority of my enjoyment derived from reading the post in the Jayha and Jeanie yahoo group. One of the threads that caught my attention the most today was the horror movie one. I LOVE to be scared and contributed to that one in particular with great gusto between my bouts of pain induced unconsciousness. Now this got me to thinking about a short little scary story I'd written, just a few lines strung together for my morbid amusement, and I decided to share because...well because sharing is caring. A select view have already seen how the inner workings of my brain can twist toward the macabre but so bolstered by the fervent agreement of my fellow horror lovers I thought it only fair to extend to it to all you wonderful people. (this is the point where eerie music begins to swell up) Muahhhhaaahhhaahh

Untitled and Unedited Scary Story
Janet Eckford

"They say another girl has gone missing," I tell my husband while making his eggs.

"Um, damn shame," he answers absently while he reads the paper.

"That's the third one this year," I say as I continue watching eggs firm and crumble.

He likes his eggs that way with just a little bit of crispness around the edges. Sometimes as an added bonus I put cheese in them. He loves cheesy eggs.

"Um, damn shame," he replies still as absently.

Turning from the stove I carry the steaming plate of eggs to the table. Smiling up from his paper he places it down on the chair next to him and rubs his hands together in anticipation.

He really loves my eggs.

"They say they found her in that old ravine on the other side of town," I'm obsessed now and can't seem to stop.

Spooning food on his plate he gives another non-committal response with a variation on "damn shame". I watch him as I've watched him these last twenty years. You see this is not the last girl, I know there will be more.

They say they never know. Some give adamant denials, while others have that stone face resigned stature of the shocked and awed. Others weep, sobbing to the jury of public opinion. They say they never know but they do.

How can you not when you love a monster.

"I hope this is the last," I say staring at him.

He takes a bite and smiles a sad secret smile.

"Um, damn shame."