Lips mover with grace,
Stride with unbetouched by old.
A gleam of hope and prettiness.
A shinning star within a universe in each breathtaking eye.
A smile that is, a always, touched by the very hand of the creator.
Mystical in ones beauty, beauty in one’s whole being.
True love has crept into my heart,
And I have rejoiced: I thought I’d die alone,
Until I saw you striding down the street,
Like a shy duckling who thought she owned the world.
Graceful, challenging, charismatic,
Dedicated to no one else but me,
And my heart beats stronger for you and you to return too
Catch my dying breath, my last whisper:
My first and last love was you.
Happiness may be a state of mind, but dying in your arms,
My mind was clear and focused on those lips that
I wish to kiss and those sweet, soft hands.
I wish to squeeze you with more strength,
And hang on to live just one more night.
I see those eyes, I fall so deeply in,
I see the body I crave, I see the tenderness in those
Soft hands and in my heart I know I am happy
And I know that, in all my life, no matter what I was chasing,
I know that my true love was you.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Ashes and Dust
Within the dying embers of the sun we lay
in the blissful gold-dampened silence.
Our hearts, together, float with the shallowness
off of our breaths and the gentle whip of the wind.
The encompassing water falls among
the cascading swiftness of our feet as they push
our run towards the freedom the future holds
Or, at least once held for us.
The thunder claps and the torrents flow
with lightening force behind us,
our skirts billowing in the whistling gale
that forever shirts the boundaries of our consciousness.
The ground quakes with the laden
footsteps of those who run behind us,
those who make the fire burn upon our backs,
and the pain flows where they repeatedly abuse.
Their eyes are passionate with the hate
that they know lives twicefold in us,
the flow of "natural" reverses upon itself,
our subservience abandoned
As our laughter echoes through a place of
ashes and dust,
once of greener sweat and where our blood
flows past our scars to the cracked and thirsting ground.
But now we hide among lushness,
swaying beauty and cascading skies,
where strokes of the deep blue thunderous clouds
vacantly look for a way from their broken despair.
Like gunshots, they are loaded tempers,
waiting for the trigger to be ever so slightly touched,
pushed beyond the limits of the ashen sky
and the bloodied ground.
Deep wounds that lay,
festering and refusing to heal
upon our laden backs,
carrying too much pain, hate and sorrow.
in the blissful gold-dampened silence.
Our hearts, together, float with the shallowness
off of our breaths and the gentle whip of the wind.
The encompassing water falls among
the cascading swiftness of our feet as they push
our run towards the freedom the future holds
Or, at least once held for us.
The thunder claps and the torrents flow
with lightening force behind us,
our skirts billowing in the whistling gale
that forever shirts the boundaries of our consciousness.
The ground quakes with the laden
footsteps of those who run behind us,
those who make the fire burn upon our backs,
and the pain flows where they repeatedly abuse.
Their eyes are passionate with the hate
that they know lives twicefold in us,
the flow of "natural" reverses upon itself,
our subservience abandoned
As our laughter echoes through a place of
ashes and dust,
once of greener sweat and where our blood
flows past our scars to the cracked and thirsting ground.
But now we hide among lushness,
swaying beauty and cascading skies,
where strokes of the deep blue thunderous clouds
vacantly look for a way from their broken despair.
Like gunshots, they are loaded tempers,
waiting for the trigger to be ever so slightly touched,
pushed beyond the limits of the ashen sky
and the bloodied ground.
Deep wounds that lay,
festering and refusing to heal
upon our laden backs,
carrying too much pain, hate and sorrow.
My Soul to Keep
My soul to keep,
Locked inside a barren body,
Waiting for an escape not so patiently
Till its allowed to leave.
My soul to keep,
It speaks to me like no other
And whispers its council,
Not to be misunderstood.
My soul to keep,
Colours of beauty but also of darkness
Light of kindness, but also of hate
Duality of soul but in multitudes.
My soul to keep,
No one can appropriate it,
Its all I have to set me free
Away from humanity's plea.
My soul to keep,
Only mine for a while
Till it is not needed here
To nourish my body.
My soul to keep,
Not anyone else's
It is inside of me,
Wandering, free.
My soul to keep,
It is only a cushion
To fall upon when someone else's
Pushes you over to earth.
My soul to keep,
Until I have no need for it
My soul to keep,
Until…
Locked inside a barren body,
Waiting for an escape not so patiently
Till its allowed to leave.
My soul to keep,
It speaks to me like no other
And whispers its council,
Not to be misunderstood.
My soul to keep,
Colours of beauty but also of darkness
Light of kindness, but also of hate
Duality of soul but in multitudes.
My soul to keep,
No one can appropriate it,
Its all I have to set me free
Away from humanity's plea.
My soul to keep,
Only mine for a while
Till it is not needed here
To nourish my body.
My soul to keep,
Not anyone else's
It is inside of me,
Wandering, free.
My soul to keep,
It is only a cushion
To fall upon when someone else's
Pushes you over to earth.
My soul to keep,
Until I have no need for it
My soul to keep,
Until…
Friday, October 3, 2008
Loved By Another Chapter Three
MAY SECOND
We arrived at the estate three weeks ago with twelve indentured slaves, who have never known the breath of freedom. Some of them have no fire within there eyes, they are shattered souls, keepers of shadow, sinking into a world not attached to their soul. My own ignorance continues to surpass my imagination. All I have done since I came here is become increasingly agitated and incensed at the horrific side of human nature. How do I endeavor to escape such a political farce, my own shameful place among participating within this is a wound within which perhaps I will never recover. I am blinded, continually, by my ignorance. Always so blind. This journal has become as if a bible for my stupidity, even though it is almost blasphemous to suggest as such an association with the holy book. Although, this has given me an insight of my experiences toward enlightenment up until this point, and how it is being hampered, or even outright denied. Even I, who have lived a conventional life with a particular institution; I do not comprehend how I have remained so lacking with the intelligence or compassion to learn.
Oliver had taken me to the market, in spite of my obvious exhaustion from the travel and the travel yet to come, to teach me about the “natural inferiority” of the “slave species,” as if they were nothing more than cattle and in truth a lot worse. Oliver was acting as if they were intolerable, as he spoke of “them” and “their problems,” spitting out the words as if they were dirty. I almost asked him that if they repelled him so much, why was he so keen to own them. What stopped me is the knowledge that he would buy them anyway, and then attempt to prove why they are so inferior. Rather, he asserted his authority by making them run behind the carriage, stating “trash does not travel with us, either of us at any time, Hallie.” I would rather have ran with them even if I shared his belief‘s than ride with Oliver. It would have been the blessed choice among many evil ones. I have found my word’s in there souls.
Three of the women are young, dusky brown hair that is pinned back so severely as to stretch the skin over skeletal looking cheekbones. The two older women have snow white hair that makes there defeated faces look even more harrowed. There are seven men of mid age, strong and large, meek as babies. They are all here to begin work, except a woman to accompany me and serve the household. Oliver will not have any of the men inside the house, due to a belief that no male entity should ever serve women or participate on any level of household service. This, of all things, is something he feels strongly about.
Oliver and another estate holder were talking at the action of bodies, and the other man suggested that the market such as this was in a large city six days travel west of out estate, but that it provided the best quality stock available. He was only here as there was an estate foreclosure in this area, so there would be available merchandise. The whole three days was immoral and disgusting, these privileged men and women not pretending, but rather believing that there was absolutely nothing wrong with purchasing another human.
Two days after we arrived at the estate, Oliver left for the other market. The house and estate are massive, and yet I am still so very afraid that it will still be not enough to contain us both, the ugly self-righteous presence of Oliver everywhere. I have my own special apartment, set high and away from any main thoroughfare. The size is luxurious compared to the ship and travel accommodation, and for that I am grateful.
The staff quarters are appalling in comparison with what I have. It is a dilapidated building with only one room for all of them. It was overcrowded with the twelve, let alone the eighteen that Oliver brought back. Eight women and ten men, all as dead as the rest of them. There will be five staff for me, the rest for the estate work. He has barley spoken to me since his return. For that, at least I must be grateful.
MAY TWENTY NINE
There is much to tell. Things have not yet calmed. Once the estate had at least started looking like one, Oliver had started to visit me. Upon my subtle attempts to dissuade him, he forced himself upon me after a week of this. And then every night after. Until I became ill and I blooded the bed one night. He was furious, saying that I am here to serve him, that I must create a son. I fear that this cannot end how either one of us expects.
After this incident, Oliver has taken to spending most of the time out in the fields, supervising. He has taken to a quite young boy, one of the workers he named Tarquin. I have no idea where he found the name, how unusual it is. Tarquin must be about 13 or so, and Oliver has this appalling parental act when around him. What Oliver does not see is the hate that fills the boy’s eyes every time he turns his back. Then again, Oliver is so blind, his severe lack of observation of the world beyond himself is incomprehensible. I hope for an end to this trade in souls, and am proud that Tarquin is powerful enough to hate, to fume, to resist all of Oliver’s destruction and damnation, as with this hate means that he can love, and this can give him more, give him a future.
Oliver is also growing frightfully skinny, and often does not eat much, if at all, when he returns to the main house at dusk. He has left me in charge of anything domestic, but there is nothing that escapes his notice. I cannot do anything to assist the living conditions of any one anyway. Oliver resents that the household leftovers, the dinners that he leaves usually untouched, go out to the slaves. He told me it was more useful to burn the food than to give it to “breathing garbage.” I am not enough to defeat this monster I am married to.
I have only been here a short while, yet I lie awake and so rarely sleep, the sorrow of this situation impacting upon me greatly. The darkness of night defines my darkness, that defines the darkness of the day to come. The nightmares I can scarce remember haunt me even in daylight. Sometimes I feel that, as a lady, I should not have to deal with this, the garden parties, the cool elegant beauty of a depraved world. I should be with a husband who is the world as its definition, confident, strong, handsome, and I should be waltzing my way through freedom. But it is not, and now never will be and I can no longer afford to dream of a life that will now not exist. I cannot unremember these people and the cruelty inflicted upon them.
A couple of days ago, Oliver suggested that “the slaves be chained at night.” He noticed the aghast look upon my face, and set out to punish me for it, as he does not like any displays of emotion or dissent in front of the staff. He said that at least rules are to be posted. He started to explain that “If rules are not available, Hallie, inevitably mistakes will be made. Mistakes cannot be undone by anyone by God, and these are the Godless, they are not the children of God. They are mistakes themselves, and along with the mistakes they make, cannot be undone. They must learn the consequences of any unauthorized actions. They must have rules.” Was there any point in telling him most of them cannot read, denied the basic simplicity of education? Being educated and only associating with educated people all his life, Oliver would not consider the possibility that someone may be illiterate, even if he himself considers slaves unworthy of education. This whole situation is such a fallacy, as allowing them self determined decision making and initiative can save lives, can bring fortune, if not to one’s pocket, but to ones soul? That more than anything, to define oneself by the dictatorship of control and power over the ability to segregate others tells more about the devil in you than the sin in them?
We arrived at the estate three weeks ago with twelve indentured slaves, who have never known the breath of freedom. Some of them have no fire within there eyes, they are shattered souls, keepers of shadow, sinking into a world not attached to their soul. My own ignorance continues to surpass my imagination. All I have done since I came here is become increasingly agitated and incensed at the horrific side of human nature. How do I endeavor to escape such a political farce, my own shameful place among participating within this is a wound within which perhaps I will never recover. I am blinded, continually, by my ignorance. Always so blind. This journal has become as if a bible for my stupidity, even though it is almost blasphemous to suggest as such an association with the holy book. Although, this has given me an insight of my experiences toward enlightenment up until this point, and how it is being hampered, or even outright denied. Even I, who have lived a conventional life with a particular institution; I do not comprehend how I have remained so lacking with the intelligence or compassion to learn.
Oliver had taken me to the market, in spite of my obvious exhaustion from the travel and the travel yet to come, to teach me about the “natural inferiority” of the “slave species,” as if they were nothing more than cattle and in truth a lot worse. Oliver was acting as if they were intolerable, as he spoke of “them” and “their problems,” spitting out the words as if they were dirty. I almost asked him that if they repelled him so much, why was he so keen to own them. What stopped me is the knowledge that he would buy them anyway, and then attempt to prove why they are so inferior. Rather, he asserted his authority by making them run behind the carriage, stating “trash does not travel with us, either of us at any time, Hallie.” I would rather have ran with them even if I shared his belief‘s than ride with Oliver. It would have been the blessed choice among many evil ones. I have found my word’s in there souls.
Three of the women are young, dusky brown hair that is pinned back so severely as to stretch the skin over skeletal looking cheekbones. The two older women have snow white hair that makes there defeated faces look even more harrowed. There are seven men of mid age, strong and large, meek as babies. They are all here to begin work, except a woman to accompany me and serve the household. Oliver will not have any of the men inside the house, due to a belief that no male entity should ever serve women or participate on any level of household service. This, of all things, is something he feels strongly about.
Oliver and another estate holder were talking at the action of bodies, and the other man suggested that the market such as this was in a large city six days travel west of out estate, but that it provided the best quality stock available. He was only here as there was an estate foreclosure in this area, so there would be available merchandise. The whole three days was immoral and disgusting, these privileged men and women not pretending, but rather believing that there was absolutely nothing wrong with purchasing another human.
Two days after we arrived at the estate, Oliver left for the other market. The house and estate are massive, and yet I am still so very afraid that it will still be not enough to contain us both, the ugly self-righteous presence of Oliver everywhere. I have my own special apartment, set high and away from any main thoroughfare. The size is luxurious compared to the ship and travel accommodation, and for that I am grateful.
The staff quarters are appalling in comparison with what I have. It is a dilapidated building with only one room for all of them. It was overcrowded with the twelve, let alone the eighteen that Oliver brought back. Eight women and ten men, all as dead as the rest of them. There will be five staff for me, the rest for the estate work. He has barley spoken to me since his return. For that, at least I must be grateful.
MAY TWENTY NINE
There is much to tell. Things have not yet calmed. Once the estate had at least started looking like one, Oliver had started to visit me. Upon my subtle attempts to dissuade him, he forced himself upon me after a week of this. And then every night after. Until I became ill and I blooded the bed one night. He was furious, saying that I am here to serve him, that I must create a son. I fear that this cannot end how either one of us expects.
After this incident, Oliver has taken to spending most of the time out in the fields, supervising. He has taken to a quite young boy, one of the workers he named Tarquin. I have no idea where he found the name, how unusual it is. Tarquin must be about 13 or so, and Oliver has this appalling parental act when around him. What Oliver does not see is the hate that fills the boy’s eyes every time he turns his back. Then again, Oliver is so blind, his severe lack of observation of the world beyond himself is incomprehensible. I hope for an end to this trade in souls, and am proud that Tarquin is powerful enough to hate, to fume, to resist all of Oliver’s destruction and damnation, as with this hate means that he can love, and this can give him more, give him a future.
Oliver is also growing frightfully skinny, and often does not eat much, if at all, when he returns to the main house at dusk. He has left me in charge of anything domestic, but there is nothing that escapes his notice. I cannot do anything to assist the living conditions of any one anyway. Oliver resents that the household leftovers, the dinners that he leaves usually untouched, go out to the slaves. He told me it was more useful to burn the food than to give it to “breathing garbage.” I am not enough to defeat this monster I am married to.
I have only been here a short while, yet I lie awake and so rarely sleep, the sorrow of this situation impacting upon me greatly. The darkness of night defines my darkness, that defines the darkness of the day to come. The nightmares I can scarce remember haunt me even in daylight. Sometimes I feel that, as a lady, I should not have to deal with this, the garden parties, the cool elegant beauty of a depraved world. I should be with a husband who is the world as its definition, confident, strong, handsome, and I should be waltzing my way through freedom. But it is not, and now never will be and I can no longer afford to dream of a life that will now not exist. I cannot unremember these people and the cruelty inflicted upon them.
A couple of days ago, Oliver suggested that “the slaves be chained at night.” He noticed the aghast look upon my face, and set out to punish me for it, as he does not like any displays of emotion or dissent in front of the staff. He said that at least rules are to be posted. He started to explain that “If rules are not available, Hallie, inevitably mistakes will be made. Mistakes cannot be undone by anyone by God, and these are the Godless, they are not the children of God. They are mistakes themselves, and along with the mistakes they make, cannot be undone. They must learn the consequences of any unauthorized actions. They must have rules.” Was there any point in telling him most of them cannot read, denied the basic simplicity of education? Being educated and only associating with educated people all his life, Oliver would not consider the possibility that someone may be illiterate, even if he himself considers slaves unworthy of education. This whole situation is such a fallacy, as allowing them self determined decision making and initiative can save lives, can bring fortune, if not to one’s pocket, but to ones soul? That more than anything, to define oneself by the dictatorship of control and power over the ability to segregate others tells more about the devil in you than the sin in them?
Loved By Another Chapter One
FEBUARY EIGHT
I live in a world where enemies are made in an instant, but kept a lifetime. A world where isolation is a welcomed and society is a place of segregated punishment, where just simple birthright of colour condemns you to a life of inept, debilitating suffering.
I hold the title of Lady, my husband a Lord purely on birthright rather than any other form of accomplishment. As an aristocrat woman, I was a precious commodity sold for breeding purposes. Once sold I have been condemned to a frontier lifestyle, a punishment that seems without end, a life without my sisters, nor the parents who condemned me to this life. I guess I should have expected this, as my older sisters were political and social marriage gains, rather than for love. But my sister’s husbands were decent men, where they found compassion, delicacy and love in the end, I have found hate. My husband, though, is the kind for whom ownership constitutes life and insubordination equals death.
We sailed to this miserable new world, leaving my home, my country, my life, my family and all that I have ever known for a my husband’s dream of perfection, a place where he can rule undisputed.
There is something about Oliver that is unannounced, some form of compromised dignity that is so full of shame that have made this lord escape his domain of privilege and power. Whispers of unhealthy appetites gained while in the army in India, ripple through aristocratic society where army service for at least one male per family is almost mandatory. What began as whispers of contempt, uttered behind masks of societal privilege, of children and of acts with them that are unmentionable, gradually became less that whispers when regarding my husband. Yet still, these barely concealed rumors became large enough, threatening enough, to make him flee to a half born country such as this.
If he finds this journal, he will consider this the highest form of insubordination. He will not kill me, but rather he will torture me until death seems comparably favorable. But this is all I have, words no longer lonely but volatile within the tyranny of grammatical conduct. This is how I survive, how I live. This, in a foreign life, is the only thing of myself that I have left to centre me.
We are here, in a city of noise and dirt and immigrants. Oliver has left to pursue earthly pleasures that I notice his eyes as it casually passes over, and then rejects me. In this alien environment, I am left almost solely alone. Terribly alone. Comfortably alone. In eight weeks we will reach the estate that Oliver has purchased, on one of his earlier expeditions. In the last eighteen days, we will reach a market where a race of people is balanced precociously on the systematic destruction of another.
FEBUARY TEN
There is only a little over a month before we leave this place full of restless, contemptuous energy. A journey to an estate that will be worked and kept by owned bodies and insulted souls. They do exist here, to my husband’s bountiful pleasure, but when conversation inevitably turns to the issues of an uncultured south, of these people who were imported, and who are abused and breed for enslavement. I have no further definitive statement than this: the ownership of another is appalling. How can any such objective humanity support this fallacy, this destroying destruction of our collective soul? I have asked so much of my life, too much. I hide behind my wealth, my privilege. How do I help the plight of slaves, when I have no courage, no ability, to stand for myself, let alone for something far greater than anything that I have ever encountered. I desire an alternative existence behind the façade that this imprecision of my life, yet I do not seek yet this change, I do not challenge myself by defying my husband, out of debilitating fear.
FEBUARY TWELVE
There is shopping. The theater so poor, it cannot really be considered as such. From this small period of time that I am left unattended, I can escape this hotel, this room with all the little and pretty, things that are dressed in shades of twilight and sunset. Shades that make your soul want to sleep, cast itself adrift from its own habitat. Oliver is often out on business in this port city, heavy with traffic and people, the Irish and the French, the languages and the flavor from street culture. I have not yet looked around, not yet seen how so many can live in such a small space, and still yet survive.
The dinning room here is classically European, but the culture here for dinning conversation is hazardous, a minefield of politics and often barely understated incitements of undercover beliefs. The journey here is only the rest before the storm, there is so much residual static confusing any emotions here, twisting the heat of this city into brutal perspective. This estate that Oliver purchased is far enough from this port city, into heat and heavy, burdened weather that leaves the heat here as faded warmth, as if were the dying of the day.
The ladies here are disproportionate in comparison to the ladies back home. Here they seem to be soft, as if rare fruit yet have razors in there mouths. There is a solitude here, though, a quietness that is temperamental, as if expecting disruption but basking in quiet voicelessness. It is in this sense of solitude that I can contemplate the barrenness that my existence has become.
FEBUARY FIFTEENTH
I have asked so much out of life, too much. I hide behind my wealth, my privilege. How do I help the slaves, when I have no courage, no ability to stand for myself, let alone achieve something far greater than anything I have ever encountered. I desire an alternative existence behind the façades that imprison my life, yet I do not seek it, I do not challenge myself by defying my husband.
I cannot abide my life as a prisoner, of my marriage, of this country, of this human tragedy. My own Ignorance surpasses my imagination. There is so much I did not know, did not feel. I have been oblivious to humanity, to the cruelty it inflicts. I move within the same circles both at home, and here, those that are the law makers, the leaders of men, the leaders of countries. No matter how they endeavor, such a political farces such as this cannot now be undone; it is hazardously clung to as if it were achievable to sustain.
I am shamed, participating within the framework of the oppressor, so much so that I am wounded and may never recover. I am blinded, continually, by my ignorance in regards to matters of culture and propriety, so much so that I cannot seem to gain any sense of knowledge. It has given an insight even to my experience that up to this point has been denied.
FEBUARY SEVENTEENTH
The fugitive slave law, which was enacted 7 years before I arrived in this godless country endeavor to destroy not only the lives of those who have no control, but those who force control, who force an ideology and God’s wrath to end the indecency of this peculiar institution. Many people are publicly forcing the issue to a violent forefront, and many have been for years. Many have the courage that I seem not only not to have but am then unable to give. Women who are speaking out against this appalling institution are denounced as unladylike and indecent. This is simply for having moral dignity, something which fails against my husband’s stronger will, and for fear of his detestable, ungentlemanly friends.
They are forced to be Christian, forbidden to speak or sing with their own voices in their own words. Slaves, or in fact anyone, do not need to be Christian to be free, nor should they be expected to be Christian. God loves them no matter the way of their worship, as the only requirement imposed by God, not by their enforced subjugation and fear by numbers style of belief.
I live in a world where enemies are made in an instant, but kept a lifetime. A world where isolation is a welcomed and society is a place of segregated punishment, where just simple birthright of colour condemns you to a life of inept, debilitating suffering.
I hold the title of Lady, my husband a Lord purely on birthright rather than any other form of accomplishment. As an aristocrat woman, I was a precious commodity sold for breeding purposes. Once sold I have been condemned to a frontier lifestyle, a punishment that seems without end, a life without my sisters, nor the parents who condemned me to this life. I guess I should have expected this, as my older sisters were political and social marriage gains, rather than for love. But my sister’s husbands were decent men, where they found compassion, delicacy and love in the end, I have found hate. My husband, though, is the kind for whom ownership constitutes life and insubordination equals death.
We sailed to this miserable new world, leaving my home, my country, my life, my family and all that I have ever known for a my husband’s dream of perfection, a place where he can rule undisputed.
There is something about Oliver that is unannounced, some form of compromised dignity that is so full of shame that have made this lord escape his domain of privilege and power. Whispers of unhealthy appetites gained while in the army in India, ripple through aristocratic society where army service for at least one male per family is almost mandatory. What began as whispers of contempt, uttered behind masks of societal privilege, of children and of acts with them that are unmentionable, gradually became less that whispers when regarding my husband. Yet still, these barely concealed rumors became large enough, threatening enough, to make him flee to a half born country such as this.
If he finds this journal, he will consider this the highest form of insubordination. He will not kill me, but rather he will torture me until death seems comparably favorable. But this is all I have, words no longer lonely but volatile within the tyranny of grammatical conduct. This is how I survive, how I live. This, in a foreign life, is the only thing of myself that I have left to centre me.
We are here, in a city of noise and dirt and immigrants. Oliver has left to pursue earthly pleasures that I notice his eyes as it casually passes over, and then rejects me. In this alien environment, I am left almost solely alone. Terribly alone. Comfortably alone. In eight weeks we will reach the estate that Oliver has purchased, on one of his earlier expeditions. In the last eighteen days, we will reach a market where a race of people is balanced precociously on the systematic destruction of another.
FEBUARY TEN
There is only a little over a month before we leave this place full of restless, contemptuous energy. A journey to an estate that will be worked and kept by owned bodies and insulted souls. They do exist here, to my husband’s bountiful pleasure, but when conversation inevitably turns to the issues of an uncultured south, of these people who were imported, and who are abused and breed for enslavement. I have no further definitive statement than this: the ownership of another is appalling. How can any such objective humanity support this fallacy, this destroying destruction of our collective soul? I have asked so much of my life, too much. I hide behind my wealth, my privilege. How do I help the plight of slaves, when I have no courage, no ability, to stand for myself, let alone for something far greater than anything that I have ever encountered. I desire an alternative existence behind the façade that this imprecision of my life, yet I do not seek yet this change, I do not challenge myself by defying my husband, out of debilitating fear.
FEBUARY TWELVE
There is shopping. The theater so poor, it cannot really be considered as such. From this small period of time that I am left unattended, I can escape this hotel, this room with all the little and pretty, things that are dressed in shades of twilight and sunset. Shades that make your soul want to sleep, cast itself adrift from its own habitat. Oliver is often out on business in this port city, heavy with traffic and people, the Irish and the French, the languages and the flavor from street culture. I have not yet looked around, not yet seen how so many can live in such a small space, and still yet survive.
The dinning room here is classically European, but the culture here for dinning conversation is hazardous, a minefield of politics and often barely understated incitements of undercover beliefs. The journey here is only the rest before the storm, there is so much residual static confusing any emotions here, twisting the heat of this city into brutal perspective. This estate that Oliver purchased is far enough from this port city, into heat and heavy, burdened weather that leaves the heat here as faded warmth, as if were the dying of the day.
The ladies here are disproportionate in comparison to the ladies back home. Here they seem to be soft, as if rare fruit yet have razors in there mouths. There is a solitude here, though, a quietness that is temperamental, as if expecting disruption but basking in quiet voicelessness. It is in this sense of solitude that I can contemplate the barrenness that my existence has become.
FEBUARY FIFTEENTH
I have asked so much out of life, too much. I hide behind my wealth, my privilege. How do I help the slaves, when I have no courage, no ability to stand for myself, let alone achieve something far greater than anything I have ever encountered. I desire an alternative existence behind the façades that imprison my life, yet I do not seek it, I do not challenge myself by defying my husband.
I cannot abide my life as a prisoner, of my marriage, of this country, of this human tragedy. My own Ignorance surpasses my imagination. There is so much I did not know, did not feel. I have been oblivious to humanity, to the cruelty it inflicts. I move within the same circles both at home, and here, those that are the law makers, the leaders of men, the leaders of countries. No matter how they endeavor, such a political farces such as this cannot now be undone; it is hazardously clung to as if it were achievable to sustain.
I am shamed, participating within the framework of the oppressor, so much so that I am wounded and may never recover. I am blinded, continually, by my ignorance in regards to matters of culture and propriety, so much so that I cannot seem to gain any sense of knowledge. It has given an insight even to my experience that up to this point has been denied.
FEBUARY SEVENTEENTH
The fugitive slave law, which was enacted 7 years before I arrived in this godless country endeavor to destroy not only the lives of those who have no control, but those who force control, who force an ideology and God’s wrath to end the indecency of this peculiar institution. Many people are publicly forcing the issue to a violent forefront, and many have been for years. Many have the courage that I seem not only not to have but am then unable to give. Women who are speaking out against this appalling institution are denounced as unladylike and indecent. This is simply for having moral dignity, something which fails against my husband’s stronger will, and for fear of his detestable, ungentlemanly friends.
They are forced to be Christian, forbidden to speak or sing with their own voices in their own words. Slaves, or in fact anyone, do not need to be Christian to be free, nor should they be expected to be Christian. God loves them no matter the way of their worship, as the only requirement imposed by God, not by their enforced subjugation and fear by numbers style of belief.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Toxico: Chapter One
Xahylia woke to fine herself screaming until breathlessness prevailed. She inadvertently woke her daughter, sleeping within her own nightmares beside her. Gasping harshly enough to make her cough rather than breath, she turned to her sleep interrupted screaming daughter. Across the hall, another child was crying hysterically. Kassie Fumbled, thrashing out at Xahylia’s hands as she was attempting to escape the covers, but only made it more twisted. Eventually, three year old Kassie escaped the damp covers and crawled into Xahylia’s arms, shaking like a stunned animal.
The ground shook, causing the hotel to quiver. A gigantic whip of lightening broke through the sound barrier, to which Kassie howled almost as loud in response. Xahylia attempted to keep calm and cool for Kassie’s sake, but after that thunderous crash, it was harder to control her own shattered nerves. Her thoughts were frayed, in disarray, scattered on a desolate wasteland of fear. The hotel wobbled, frantically gripping onto its foundations for support, as if it owned its own existence, one that was not susceptible to nature.
Somehow through the melancholic wailing of the wind and the fighting of the elements, Xahylia heard someone screaming and pounding at the door. The door was actually bouncing on its hinges, which were swearing in exhausted protest. With Kassie clinging desperately to her neck, almost cutting off her air supply in fear of letting go, Xahylia stumbled like a drunkard, but eventually made it the three meters from the bed to the door. A large man, dark and hansom, entered the room, in the same kind of way Xahylia had made it to the door, carrying a young boy, pale and clinging to the man as if he were sown on. In accented English, he introduced himself as Amori, and the boy as his son, Oskah. Oskah looked small and frightened, too pale and withdrawn: he seemed about four or five years old. Once both children were vibrant and energetic, but now both were trapped inside the world of their parents, with nature’s vicious ambiguity forcing them into an unwelcome reality. Amori suggested that they might be “safe in better number,” just in case something was to happen. His English was stunted as he struggled to stop from conversing in his native language. Oskah did not even attempt to translate, although he must have been fluent in both languages. Amori continued to struggle until Xahylia suggested that it would be better to stay together. Evidently he understood better English than he spoke.
Eventually Kassie and Oskah fell asleep upon Xahylia and Amori. Both parents had fitful dozing broken sporadically by bursts of lightening and the rusty, crackling laughs of thunder, as if it were taunting them to stand against its ferocious power. As the day emerged quietly from the quelling storm and the tumbled, beaten down city, the survivors slowly gave essence to the darkened day. By two that afternoon, the day was clear and bright, the slight drizzle of the morning’s hazy beginnings were lazy, puffing up from the decaying, cracked cement and ruptured asphalt into a milky mist. The gray-white mist made Amori and Xahylia’s passage to inspect the city and its damage hazardous, but exciting just in its treachery for Oskah and Kassie. The pair were exuberant, but cautious, as the residue form the nights storm had not yet evaporated from there young, but extremely impressionable memories, their games and giggles twinkled with uncertain fear.
As the quad approached the West side of the city, any forms of life were non-existent. There was not a fly, not mosquito, nor even the most resilient of rodents, the cockroach. This disturbed Xahylia, as bugs and rodents were thought to be able to survive almost anything, even nuclear holocausts. Amori was apprehensive, because to him, this situation felt like it belonged in one of those cheap B-grade horror movies he so enjoyed as a child. Even the oxygen in this basin city was thin, it was nearly non-existent. They were all beginning to see that all of the West side of the city was a crumbled ruin, where numerous bloated, dead bodies, tinged with almost painted greenish yellow, assaulted there eyes. Oskah and Kassie were looking at the bodies, fascinated and horrified at the same time. The pair had already survived through more than any other toddlers should have. They shouldn’t have to see this, accept the cruelty of life so soon. They were still so fragile in there development.
Amori, whose defaning silence and quite contemplation initially served unnerved Xahylia, harshly grumbled his first profanity. Amori thought his eyes betrayed him, but maybe it was his mind refusing to comprehend the strewn, lifeless bodies. There decay purile and inhumane in its surprisingly advanced stages. Kassie lifted her head and cried at her mother “What that yuck smell mummy?” The question was contemplated as both Amori and Xahylia sniffed, apprehensive, unsure and afraid, fear encompassing them in their own delusions of safety. Their chests and throat constricted to closing, both panicking, fighting to draw breath. The revolting, gross, almost acidic rotting smell was noxious as it inhabited every molecule of their bodies. Xahylia looked around and confusion momentarily flooded her consciousness. She thought that scavengers, or at least some rodents, were usually around the corpse. Oskah and Kassie had already covered their own noses and mouths with there jackets. Amori and Xahylia followed suit, covering there own noses and mouths while under-arming the closest child and escaping the horrific smell.
A few moments later, Xahylia forced herself to calm down, and stopped. Amori took a couple of seconds to realize. He reluctantly returned to her side. Kassie and Oskah were initial holding on, but struggled to the ground when they stopped. “What should we do?” Amori asked. Xahylia shrugged, slight disdain shrouding her voice, “Check out the rest of the city, and assess the damage: Amori struggled to grasp the concept. “Won’t there be police?” Xahylia shrugged again, “Yeah, but the community center and the city hall have both been demolished. There are no local police around. There is something wrong. What do you want us to do?” “Go to that government incinerator plant” “Why?” “There must be many people there. Police, that seem to be missing from here.” “I don’t like Kassie in large, angry, scared crowds with little or no supervision. Is that where you want Oskah? But if you feel it is necessary.” Amori studied her face for a few moments, then responded, “I guess looking won’t hurt.” Amori turned and called “Oskah.”
As they headed toward the East side of the town, the small group passed the north/south main street. Numerous people were scattered in a loose handful, looting, crying, screaming, and generally looking forward to an early grave. The four were passing a city whose future was embedded, like a thorn, somewhere in the past. Xahylia saw a gun shop. Somebody had already broken through the security, and there were possibly two or three people in there, but what she wanted was a gun. She was afraid and didn’t trust any of the other people to act in a sane and rational when half the city was demolished and inhabited by rotting copses.
“Amori…”grabbing him by the arm”…I’m going to get us some guns.”
“Do you think we need…” But Xahylia was already walking towards the gun shop, Kassie balanced on her left hip. Amori, holding Oskah, followed her into the store. There was another woman in there loading a semi-automatic, but ignored the new entries. Xahylia was already loading a handgun, and had three more in front of her, each with several bottles of bullets each. Kassie was sitting on the counter, watching her mother intently.
“Do you think this is a good idea, getting a gun I mean?”
“What else would you mean? A few moments of dark silence, brooding followed. She looked directly at him, her shadowed green eyes blazing straight into his almost black ones. He wanted to look away, but was intimidated by her fearless, determined gaze. “Can you shoot? Do you know how to use one of these?” Her voice was forceful, in command, placing the loaded gun into the hand not holding Oskah, who was watching in childish bemusement. Amori’s throat closed his hand clammy around the heavy metal gun, hesitant, unsure “Ahh…”
“Ahh what, yes or no?”
“Yes….I can” his voice cracking under the pressure and the intensity of her burning gaze, his mind freezing his English, his cheeks blushing red. Oskah shifted around and went to reach for the gun. “No”
“But why” his innocent eyes yet all knowing.
“They are not toys. They are for protection.” Then Amori pushed the gun into the belt in the small of his back, Oskah’s sneakered foot kicking him impatiently, smearing the handle design into his gently muscled back.
Thunder rumbled. “We should get bags, food, water, somewhere to stay. It may storm again: the hotel is probably not safe, judging from what we’ve seen in the Western Districts. Most likely a earthquake…” He looked at her, startled, then out of the barred window. “We don’t get earthquakes here, were not…” Amori’s attempt at butting in sent Xahylia’s patience to attack Amori’s already bloodied nerves “No, we are not on fault lines, but earthquakes still do happen.” Xahylia paused, noticing the bewildered look on his face, like fish noticing a hawk’s talons moments before they descent into unwelcome oblivion. “Look, I’m unsure about the safety of the hotel, and I am not risking Kassie’s life, nor my own” Xahylia had finished loading the fourth gun, pushed two into her pants belt at the small of her back. She threw the last one too Amori, “So you know where we could get some of the stuff we need?” she asked as she grabbed and army surplus bag and threw in extra bullets and some little silver packets. “A convenience store is
The ground shook, causing the hotel to quiver. A gigantic whip of lightening broke through the sound barrier, to which Kassie howled almost as loud in response. Xahylia attempted to keep calm and cool for Kassie’s sake, but after that thunderous crash, it was harder to control her own shattered nerves. Her thoughts were frayed, in disarray, scattered on a desolate wasteland of fear. The hotel wobbled, frantically gripping onto its foundations for support, as if it owned its own existence, one that was not susceptible to nature.
Somehow through the melancholic wailing of the wind and the fighting of the elements, Xahylia heard someone screaming and pounding at the door. The door was actually bouncing on its hinges, which were swearing in exhausted protest. With Kassie clinging desperately to her neck, almost cutting off her air supply in fear of letting go, Xahylia stumbled like a drunkard, but eventually made it the three meters from the bed to the door. A large man, dark and hansom, entered the room, in the same kind of way Xahylia had made it to the door, carrying a young boy, pale and clinging to the man as if he were sown on. In accented English, he introduced himself as Amori, and the boy as his son, Oskah. Oskah looked small and frightened, too pale and withdrawn: he seemed about four or five years old. Once both children were vibrant and energetic, but now both were trapped inside the world of their parents, with nature’s vicious ambiguity forcing them into an unwelcome reality. Amori suggested that they might be “safe in better number,” just in case something was to happen. His English was stunted as he struggled to stop from conversing in his native language. Oskah did not even attempt to translate, although he must have been fluent in both languages. Amori continued to struggle until Xahylia suggested that it would be better to stay together. Evidently he understood better English than he spoke.
Eventually Kassie and Oskah fell asleep upon Xahylia and Amori. Both parents had fitful dozing broken sporadically by bursts of lightening and the rusty, crackling laughs of thunder, as if it were taunting them to stand against its ferocious power. As the day emerged quietly from the quelling storm and the tumbled, beaten down city, the survivors slowly gave essence to the darkened day. By two that afternoon, the day was clear and bright, the slight drizzle of the morning’s hazy beginnings were lazy, puffing up from the decaying, cracked cement and ruptured asphalt into a milky mist. The gray-white mist made Amori and Xahylia’s passage to inspect the city and its damage hazardous, but exciting just in its treachery for Oskah and Kassie. The pair were exuberant, but cautious, as the residue form the nights storm had not yet evaporated from there young, but extremely impressionable memories, their games and giggles twinkled with uncertain fear.
As the quad approached the West side of the city, any forms of life were non-existent. There was not a fly, not mosquito, nor even the most resilient of rodents, the cockroach. This disturbed Xahylia, as bugs and rodents were thought to be able to survive almost anything, even nuclear holocausts. Amori was apprehensive, because to him, this situation felt like it belonged in one of those cheap B-grade horror movies he so enjoyed as a child. Even the oxygen in this basin city was thin, it was nearly non-existent. They were all beginning to see that all of the West side of the city was a crumbled ruin, where numerous bloated, dead bodies, tinged with almost painted greenish yellow, assaulted there eyes. Oskah and Kassie were looking at the bodies, fascinated and horrified at the same time. The pair had already survived through more than any other toddlers should have. They shouldn’t have to see this, accept the cruelty of life so soon. They were still so fragile in there development.
Amori, whose defaning silence and quite contemplation initially served unnerved Xahylia, harshly grumbled his first profanity. Amori thought his eyes betrayed him, but maybe it was his mind refusing to comprehend the strewn, lifeless bodies. There decay purile and inhumane in its surprisingly advanced stages. Kassie lifted her head and cried at her mother “What that yuck smell mummy?” The question was contemplated as both Amori and Xahylia sniffed, apprehensive, unsure and afraid, fear encompassing them in their own delusions of safety. Their chests and throat constricted to closing, both panicking, fighting to draw breath. The revolting, gross, almost acidic rotting smell was noxious as it inhabited every molecule of their bodies. Xahylia looked around and confusion momentarily flooded her consciousness. She thought that scavengers, or at least some rodents, were usually around the corpse. Oskah and Kassie had already covered their own noses and mouths with there jackets. Amori and Xahylia followed suit, covering there own noses and mouths while under-arming the closest child and escaping the horrific smell.
A few moments later, Xahylia forced herself to calm down, and stopped. Amori took a couple of seconds to realize. He reluctantly returned to her side. Kassie and Oskah were initial holding on, but struggled to the ground when they stopped. “What should we do?” Amori asked. Xahylia shrugged, slight disdain shrouding her voice, “Check out the rest of the city, and assess the damage: Amori struggled to grasp the concept. “Won’t there be police?” Xahylia shrugged again, “Yeah, but the community center and the city hall have both been demolished. There are no local police around. There is something wrong. What do you want us to do?” “Go to that government incinerator plant” “Why?” “There must be many people there. Police, that seem to be missing from here.” “I don’t like Kassie in large, angry, scared crowds with little or no supervision. Is that where you want Oskah? But if you feel it is necessary.” Amori studied her face for a few moments, then responded, “I guess looking won’t hurt.” Amori turned and called “Oskah.”
As they headed toward the East side of the town, the small group passed the north/south main street. Numerous people were scattered in a loose handful, looting, crying, screaming, and generally looking forward to an early grave. The four were passing a city whose future was embedded, like a thorn, somewhere in the past. Xahylia saw a gun shop. Somebody had already broken through the security, and there were possibly two or three people in there, but what she wanted was a gun. She was afraid and didn’t trust any of the other people to act in a sane and rational when half the city was demolished and inhabited by rotting copses.
“Amori…”grabbing him by the arm”…I’m going to get us some guns.”
“Do you think we need…” But Xahylia was already walking towards the gun shop, Kassie balanced on her left hip. Amori, holding Oskah, followed her into the store. There was another woman in there loading a semi-automatic, but ignored the new entries. Xahylia was already loading a handgun, and had three more in front of her, each with several bottles of bullets each. Kassie was sitting on the counter, watching her mother intently.
“Do you think this is a good idea, getting a gun I mean?”
“What else would you mean? A few moments of dark silence, brooding followed. She looked directly at him, her shadowed green eyes blazing straight into his almost black ones. He wanted to look away, but was intimidated by her fearless, determined gaze. “Can you shoot? Do you know how to use one of these?” Her voice was forceful, in command, placing the loaded gun into the hand not holding Oskah, who was watching in childish bemusement. Amori’s throat closed his hand clammy around the heavy metal gun, hesitant, unsure “Ahh…”
“Ahh what, yes or no?”
“Yes….I can” his voice cracking under the pressure and the intensity of her burning gaze, his mind freezing his English, his cheeks blushing red. Oskah shifted around and went to reach for the gun. “No”
“But why” his innocent eyes yet all knowing.
“They are not toys. They are for protection.” Then Amori pushed the gun into the belt in the small of his back, Oskah’s sneakered foot kicking him impatiently, smearing the handle design into his gently muscled back.
Thunder rumbled. “We should get bags, food, water, somewhere to stay. It may storm again: the hotel is probably not safe, judging from what we’ve seen in the Western Districts. Most likely a earthquake…” He looked at her, startled, then out of the barred window. “We don’t get earthquakes here, were not…” Amori’s attempt at butting in sent Xahylia’s patience to attack Amori’s already bloodied nerves “No, we are not on fault lines, but earthquakes still do happen.” Xahylia paused, noticing the bewildered look on his face, like fish noticing a hawk’s talons moments before they descent into unwelcome oblivion. “Look, I’m unsure about the safety of the hotel, and I am not risking Kassie’s life, nor my own” Xahylia had finished loading the fourth gun, pushed two into her pants belt at the small of her back. She threw the last one too Amori, “So you know where we could get some of the stuff we need?” she asked as she grabbed and army surplus bag and threw in extra bullets and some little silver packets. “A convenience store is
Loved By Another Prologue
I wonder what have taught my daughter as she grew, had I been allowed her privilege. I guess I would have taught her to seek beauty, that there is so higher order, that beauty comes in many manifestations. War, through seeming to be beautiful and enticing is an illusion, a hate hidden by beauty by way of curiosity. I would have taught her that actual beauty is so present, swelling from all of us and from the naturalness in all we do.
I have managed to live through a civil war in a country not my own and a world war in a place I no longer belonged. I settled to live in NYC because here beauty, an obsession that I have been seeking all my life, manifests to include every aspect of life. The streets are filled with many people, many languages, many cultures and nature makes her appearance all over the place to remind us that although we live more among each other that with her, she will consume us all. Everybody is at lest represented in this city, a city of outcasts who can only belong here because there is no other place to go. This city is an anomaly made entirely of other anomalies, which is why I stay.
I am often lead to wondering if my daughter is anywhere here, but I cannot dwell on the past, on this, as I am too old to dwell on a life such as mine. This diary I am leaving to the
At the beginning of the Great War, in 1917, I was already an old woman and was traversing
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