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Issue Number 7 (Web Issue #3?) Winter/Spring 2001
Last Previous Save : Sunday, 22 August, 2004 1:04 pm

 

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Table of Contents: 

Two Poems ("River Trees" & "Spirit Journey") by Little Dove (Directly below:) 
Zen Poem, by Jim Wellington (<-- Click on title, or Scroll down a bit) 
Gauging Priorities, by Joan Pond (<-- Click on title, or Scroll down a bit) 
The Troll of Barondale Public School, by Catherine M. Harris Davies (with guidance and inspiration from E. Davies) ((<--Click on title, or Scroll a little farther)) 
downsize, by Hamish (<-- Click on title, or Scroll down a lot) 
Transformation, by Emilie Sue Pellenz) ((<--Click on title, or Scroll even a little farther)) 
jazz, by Hamish (<-- Click on title, or Scroll down a whole lot) 
Editorial? "About Losing One's Personality" by Sparkly (<-- Click on title, or Scroll down a LOT)



 
 
 River Trees

Trees
Great old spirits
residing by clear flowing waters.

Radiating
life's pure breath.
Fanning the flame of spirit.

Connecting
heaven to earth.
The cool moist earth,

Penetrating
body and soul
with wild harmonies.

Growing
roots from feet,
planted in spirit and earth.

Flowing
waters open
heart .. mind .. soul

Waking
transforming
body to spirit.

Little Dove
 
 

Copyright © 2001 by Little Dove, All Rights Reserved

Spirit Journey 

Hearken the call of the bird and the sky
the thought, the vision, the sound
within.
Free the brokenhearted bird
wounded healer, mystic, friend.
The stillness of a river flowing
life giving waters
holds forth the spirit key.
Revealing, trusting, shielding, probing
the mind, the heart, the soul
of man.
Open the portal, the crystal city,
the oracle of greatness. 
begin, become, transform
from fish to man to lark to feather
to tree to root to worm to dust.
Released 
from the cavernous depths 
find purpose, find meaning, find light,
find Life. 

Little Dove 
 

Copyright © 2001 by Little Dove, All Rights Reserved


 



 
Zen Poem 

The World is a braided pumpkin 
Carried on the shoulders of a worm 
Your smile just saved a million lives 
Isn't Love Outragious? 

       Jim Wellington c. 1980? 

Copyright © 2001 by Jim Wellington & Aerendel. All Rights Reserved. 


 



 

Guaging Priorities

We sat in the den watching, 'Queen For A Day'.
A clapmeter gauged applause,
to calculate which life was most bereft.
Grandma Annie sat on the divan,
critiquing the show;
as though she knew who lied
and who embellished.
She relished each story of pain and woe.
Her mouth hanging open,
her eyes blued; 
glued to the tiny set with rabbit ears.
And all my bother wanted to know,
is it dinner yet? 

       Joan Pond 

Copyright © 2001 Joan Pond. All Rights Reserved.

 




 

The Troll of Barondale Public School

                by Catherine M. Harris Davies

     Not very long ago, at the corner of Barondale and Wildwood, there was an empty field. Oh, there were a few houses and a playground, but mostly there was tall grasses and ducks that swam in mini ponds created by the rain; there were dried up Christmas trees and broken bricks and twisted bicycle rims. In the middle of this mess there was a sign that read, "This land is planned for public school purposes. For information please contact the Peel Board of Education."

     So it was for a few years and in that time there were babies that grew into toddlers who later went to kindergarten, some of them at Nahani Way.

     Then one day there came the diggers and the bulldozers and trucks of every shape and size. The ducks flew off, the garbage disappeared, a hole was dug in the ground. Workers put in pipes and bricks and concrete blocks. There were roofers and framers and plumbers and electricians, everyone who was needed to create a building was there.

     One of those workers was an old guy named Joe. Now Joe was a little fellow, very quiet and very efficient. He showed up every morning and when he left every night his work was always completed. Joe was there the whole time the building was being built; some say he was a welder, but no one's really sure.

     It took a few months for the school to be built and Joe never missed a day. In fact, he would often walk through the neighborhood after his shift, smiling at the parents and kids and dogs and cats. Joe liked the area so much that he decided he wanted to stay. He liked the children and the school so much that he decided to live there. Quietly he built a secret house for himself behind the school under the pavement. It had a tunnel that led to a trap door in the grass at the back, and a door in the basement of Barondale that only he could see. And that is where he lives to this day, or so some say.

     Allison was nine years old and in grade 3. She lived with her mother who worked a lot, and her teenaged brother who was sometimes very mean.

     One day a student in another class made fun of her very colourful dress.

     The dress was her favorite and she didn't know why the girl called her a clown but it made her feel very sad. So sad that she went to the back lawn, sat down, and cried.

     "Who's crying?" came a voice from deep underground.

     Allison looked around. Was somebody talking to her?

     "Who's crying?" the voice asked again.

     "Me?" Eyes wide, she looked behind her and there stood a little man.

     "Why are you so sad little girl?" he asked.

     "Because when people are mean they hurt my feelings. My brother's really mean to me, and my mom works all the time, and today some girl I don't even know called me a clown!"

     "Ah, I see," he said and smiled. "I think I have a solution for you. Wait here." Allison blinked and he disappeared. She blinked again and he was back. The man held out his hand. Sitting in his palm was a little green haired troll. He picked it up by the hair and handed it to her.

     "Little girl," he said, "my name is Joe. And this is a very special troll. Put it in your pocket. Whenever someone is mean to you, hold the troll in your hand and wish very hard in your mind for the troll to help you find the answer. Then listen to your heart. I promise you, you'll feel better. And maybe you'll hear the solution."

     "Um, okay, thank you, Joe." Allison replied. She looked at the troll in her hand, and when she looked up again, he was gone.

     The bell rang and the children ran to the doors in a blur of colour and sound. The rest of the day went very well for Allison.

     That night her mom phoned to say that she would be a little late. Her brother was supposed to make dinner and it was supposed to be Allison's choice. When her homework was done and her tummy was rumbling, she asked her brother to do her dinner.

     "I want macaroni and cheese with tomatoes tonight." She told him.

     "We're having liver and onions." He gruffed.

     "But it's my night to choose and I want macaroni!"

     "Too bad! I'm in charge. We're having liver and onions."

     She hated liver and onions, and her first inclination was to stamp her foot and yell, but then she remembered the troll. She put her hand around the troll and wished very hard for the answer. A tiny voice inside her told her exactly what to do.

     She didn't get mad. She didn't yell. Instead she said with a firm, clear voice, "It's my turn to choose dinner. If you don't make my macaroni, I'll tell mom and you know what she'll do. She'll tell you what your dinner is for the next week and you know it."

     "Yah right, pipsqueak." He said and at that she headed straight for the phone and started dialing. "Hey!" He yelled.

     "Or," she said sweetly, "you can make what you want to eat and you can make what I want to eat and we'll both be happy."

     He grumbled and complained but he did as she said and she was really happy.

     A few days later she wanted to play Nintendo but her brother, who had been playing for 3 hours straight, refused to let her on it. She could have turned the game off on him, she could have yelled and screamed, but she didn't. Holding the troll in her hand, she said nicely, "Mom got that for both of us. You can let me have a turn, or, I can tell mom you never let me play it and she won't let you play it for a week." Then Allison smiled. "Or, you could be a nice big brother and play a game with me. Which would you prefer?"

     "Oh, all right," replied her brother.

     In her class was a boy who'd been picking on her from the time they were toddlers. He pulled her hair, he hid her homework, he stole her shoes, he messed up her desk, all bad things, but one day he called her a really bad word. The kind of word Allison heard her brother's friends use when they thought no one could hear them; the kind of word that would make her mother change the channel if it happened on a t.v. program. She told him right away to stop calling her that, but that only made him use even worse words.

     The troll in her pocket told her to talk to an adult, and that's what she did. She told her mother who told the teacher who told the boy's mother who told him to never, ever behave like that again. So he didn't.

     The funny thing was that the more she used the troll, the less she needed it. Until the day came when her mother was crying, sad about something, and Allison looked all over the house for her troll and couldn't find it and she didn't know what to do. So instead Allison went to her mother and gave her a hug and a kiss and said, "Everything will be all right, mom." Just like her mom says to her when she is sad and her mom smiled and said, "Thank you, sweetheart." And got them both a big bowl of ice cream.

     The next day Allison went out to the back of the school and sat down where she'd sat before and quietly called out for Joe. In the blink of an eye, he appeared.

     "Joe, I don't know what to do!" she exclaimed. "I lost your troll! I've looked everywhere. Now people are going to be mean to me again!"

     Joe gave a little laugh. "Let me tell you about magic trolls," he began, "for they are very interesting creatures. They'll stay as long as they're needed and then poof! They go away and wait for some other girl or boy to come along who needs their help."

     "But what do I do now? What if some one is mean again?"

     "Do like you did with the troll. Look into your heart and ask what you should do. The answer will come. You don't need a thing to help you with that. So long little girl, take care." And he vanished, just like that.

     On the way back to the door she saw a dejected looking grade one boy sitting by the wall. She asked him what was the matter, and when he told her his problem, she noticed a green cat's eye marble on the ground. She picked it up and gave it to him.

     "Let me tell you a story," she said, "about the Troll of Barondale Public School."

The end.

© 2000 Catherine M. Harris Davies



 
 

downsize

had my fill 
of our claustrophobic love 
motorway vengeance 

silver of injection 
sweet sweet credit 
slip back 
home cinema comfort 
deja reruns vu 
sometimes I think I miss you 
change channel 
terminate bodyguard contract 
take hair samples 
dark fiber glass eyelash 
exhibit A 
join gun club 
spiral into a haze of friendly fire 

       Hamish 

Copyright © 2001 by Hamish. All Rights Reserved.

 




 

Transformation

by Emilie Sue Pellenz


    She held her hand up in the sunlight streaming through the window, examining the Braille-like bumps that encircled the back of her wrist and ran up the sides to her thumb and index finger.  The rash had not been there two weeks ago, she knew.  Perhaps it was stress.  She had gotten bumps like that before, years ago, on her knees and elbows and wrists, but not this bad. She felt her elbows, running her fingers over a few scattered bumps and sighed.  They kind of itched. She scratched her wrist, and watched as little pinpricks on blood appeared. 
    The rash upset her...she thought it had gone away for good that last time. It must be stress, she thought again, that is, unless I'm turning into a dinosaur. 
    She grinned.  It would probably serve her right, after so many years of studying them, to actually wake up one day in a museum somewhere, a reconstructed set of bones or a modeled replica to be stared at all day by tourists. Insanity ensues, she laughed in her head. But she stopped smiling when she noticed more bumps on her arm, and got scared as she actually watched as a few more yet appeared. Pushing aside her textbooks, she lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. I need to rest. That's all. Make the stress go away.  But there was a tinge of fear and self-consciousness. After all, how strange would it look to have to walk around campus all day, with these little bumps all over your arms?  It wasnít as noticeable when they're just on your hands, but the more there are, the more visible they would have to be. She felt sick.  Calm down, this isn't helping.  She pulled on the regeneration mask and fell asleep.
    As she slept, she dreamed she was flying, at night with a gazillion stars all around her and the moon was big and bright. She flew high above a shoreline looking down at the beaches and rocks, singing softly to herself. The waves crashed gently on the sand, and nearby houselights twinkled, but something was still missing. The wind rushed through her hair and fingers, and it was then that she wondered how she was managing to stay up in the air. The dream went dark and she woke up.
    She pulled off the mask and rubbed her eyes, looking at the clock. Almost eleven. Her room was dark, and the light coming through the window was now the moon.  The day's intense heat had subsided to about sixty degrees, and it was still relatively warm.  Her fan whirred comfortingly across the room, sending a breeze that felt nice.  She got up and went to wash her face in the bathroom, letting the cool water run over her wrists. Reaching up for the switch, she flipped on the lights, and mildly swore when she saw her reflection in the mirror.  The bumps now covered her arms, washing over her shoulders, up her neck and down her sides, meeting the ones that had spread up from her knees and down her calves. Under her knees, the skin had started to take on a more plated appearance on the front, faint diametric lines where the flesh now overlapped, right down over the tops of her feet and toes, and on the bottoms of her feet as well. 
    She blinked in disbelief. The same soft, ridged plates covered her abdomen, chest, and the front of her neck right to the point of her chin.  The plates were silky and tender, with an iridescent sheen. The bumps had darkened to give her a lightly bronzed skin tone, how she usually looked after bad sunburns healed. The golden tan faded to the pale ivory of her natural color at the plates.  I'd almost think this was cool, if it wasn't for the fact that I look like a freak. I must still be dreaming...  She turned of the light and stumbled back to bed, falling into the nest of pillows and blankets.
    When she woke up the next morning to the sound of Marilyn Manson blaring from the clock radio, she shot up in a panic to turn it off, I forgot to turn down the volume!  and clawed at the mask that wasn't on her face, then remembering she had taken it off in the middle of the night. Slapping the clock's button, she dropped back into the bed. It was then that the kitten started mewing at the door, and she got up to let her in. When she opened the door, it ran away, her tail all fluffed up.  Odd cat.  But she looked at her feet and was shocked. The second dream hadn't been a dream... and more had happened since. 
    Her toes had reconfigured, her big toes now smaller and farther back towards the arches, the second and third and fourth toes considerably larger and longer, and the pinkies were nowhere to be seen. Each toe was tipped with a sharp, dagger-like, shiny onyx talon; the second toes' being largest, long and hooked. Her hands had similar claws. She went and stood before the full-length mirror in the bathroom to get a better look. All of the plates and scaly bumps were still there, more pronounced, covering her entire body, and definitely more resembling some kind of reptilian hide than a skin condition. 
    Her feet were longer, and it felt more natural to walk on her toes, her lithe, muscular legs slightly bent at the knee to compensate. Tops of her lower arms were now covered with a soft white down with short quills and secondary feathers towards her hands.  Her neck had developed somewhat of an S-curve to support her new facial features: Her skull had become more like that of a dromeosaur, with a shorter snout. Her delicate looking jaw now held rows of sharp, beautiful teeth, but the closest she could manage to smile was to let her lips pull back into a quasi-grin.  Her blue eyes were now larger and set on the sides of her head, but could still look forward down her snout. She was a hunter. 
    Beyond this, she still had the basic human form and continued to look very much like a young woman. Her blonde hair cascaded behind her, and was topped with a crown-ridge of elegant feathers. Turning sideways in the mirror, she saw she had also grown a functional tail for balance.  But on her back was the most curious thing...her shoulder blades were coated in down, and harbored juvenile wings of spectacular blue-tipped white plumage. She was both ecstatic and confused at the same time, her brow furrowed. Raptors don't have wings.
    The wings then started to shrink, and absorbed back into her flesh.  I didn't mean that the way it sounded!  she exclaimed in her mind, but it didn't help. She watched helpless as everything else melted back to normal. Then the room got very dark, so dark that she couldn't see a thing... she felt like she was floating, or perhaps falling through space. 
    "We give you life," Said a voice in the dark, "and you question us. Yet you take for granted that you will wake up every morning."
    "We give you health," Another voice said, "and you question us. Still you do not make use of your strengths when you focus on your weaknesses."
    "We give you love," a third voice said, "and you question us. Though you often choose not to see them, those that surround you care for you, and more have yet to realize."
    "We give you freedom," the voices chorused, "and you question us. You watch people fighting in far off lands, and to make it go away, all you have to do is turn off the TV. You are a but a girl, yet you drive a car, attend college, and even wear pajamas to class. You come and go as you please.
    "But when you give yourself wings, you still question us, and question yourself. You pass it off as fanciful, as surreal, and impossible.  You fail to embrace what gifts you have, what is rightfully yours. You control what you can accomplish, so set out and make it right. Work hard, and be proud of all that you do. You'll never fly until you wake up."
    The voices were then silent.
    She opened her eyes, and stared up at the ceiling, hugging a stuffed dinosaur. She held her hand up in the sunlight streaming through the window, but the bumps on her hands were all that was left.
    It's just stress.
 

Copyright © 2001 by Emilie Sue Pellenz. All Rights Reserved.
 




 

jazz

beauty and expression 
there s so many things you can say without words
the sounds and silences make up a sentence
the music tells me stories
only they get lost in the translation and the beauty of it is that you don t need to learn the language you feel it
roughly translated 
Wynton marselis pumping out those aching notes tumbling and rising at the same time
in english
HERE! NOW! HERE! NOW!
or universally YEAH! YEAH! YEAH!
that Kerouac cliche undermined into boxset gold editions words written overintellectualised
that it was a celebration of NOW
the jazz ecstasy blues majestic pause counterpause
the sound would not exist without the silence
What we need now is a celebration
not a reduction fitting fashion
cyncism is a betrayal of the souls  desire for MORE! MORE! MORE!

I guess I was always looking for that sadness
that heavy feeling like being weightless at the bottom of the sea
when everything is so condensed radioactive glowing in the dim light
just something that would make you/me feel
from the ocean floor you can only see the flicker of stars
in all their beauty and brevity
at least this cold glow remains
suicide is motivated through hope
it is fragile and final
some subconcious life wish messages miscommunicated between the brain and the body
inhale that cold liquid
and you ll never know that the stars have always been there will always be there
I can hold my breath forever

      Hamish

Copyright © Hamish. All Rights Reserved.
 




 
 

"About Losing Your Personality"

   by Eleanor (OohSparklyShiny)




[Stuff ya gotta know to understand this: 

     The 'posts' she is referring to are messages sent to "INFP List" [ email Jim @ qaeglan@snet.net to be told you should have read the following paragraph, taken the keirsey version of the MBTI, found out you ARE an "INFP" and then followed links to find the list.]

     An "INFP" is somebody who has been tested, using the "MBTI" (Meyers-Briggs Temperament Index) (A version of which might still be free at <http://keirsey.com>) and the results came up: "Introverted (I) iNtuitive (N) Feeling (F) Perceiving (P)." ((Opposite of : "Extraverted (E) Sensing (S) Thinking (T) Judging (J).")) There are sixteen possible combinations of the four polarities (Introvert/Extravert) (iNtuitive/Sensing) (Feeling/Thinking) and (Perceiving/Judging). Theory and practice can, and do, fill many books. Links to many of these books can be found at the keirsey.com site. I suppose I should engineer some kind of standard disclaimer along the lines of, "If I was making money selling those books I wouldn't be sending you to their site." -but if you're reading this, you probably figured that out already.... ***AND Sparkly is one of our very favourite people in this or any other universe. So maybe we've been charmed by her wisdom, but we think she makes her points very well. Hows that? an editorial inside an editorial? I, I mean, "We" absolutely love the image of her unwrapping herself in a nice safe safe place and finding something inside to be tickled about. And "we're" tickled too. She's sharing those Thousand Christmas Presents with lots of us. And now you get to help us celebrate her presence (and presents) too... (Ooh- pretty....:) jrw]


A few posts have mentioned the feeling of losing one's personality. I can relate to that - I buried most of mine for the greater part of my childhood and all of my married life. Why on earth? To keep the peace, to protect myself from criticism and humiliation from loved ones (which I think for all infp's equals hell) and to keep myself from being in a position where I had to defy, disagree, or otherwise cause emotional pain to people I cared about in order to remain "true to myself". Rather than remain true, I buried my personality to survive and to keep relationships intact.

Don't do this if at all possible. At least not without being aware of it. It hurts everyone. You're not just suffocating your own Self - resentment about your sacrifice, your loss (and it is, one of the biggest I can imagine) will leak out and contaminate virtually everything. When you feel that hazy, nasty combination of vast hollow emptiness and low buzz of anger, that's probably why.

If you're still at home with your parents, just *be aware* that that's what you're doing. You may have to continue to keep your personality, your self, under cover for a while, but be conscious of that fact that you're doing it. Don't neglect or starve your spirit. Still dream, still nurture the parts of you that you have to protect. Survive however you have to. And the minute you're in an environment where it's safer - rejoice! Celebrate, and be *who you are*. 

I almost think (almost - sometimes I'm sure it is and sometimes I'm sure it's not) that having to do this is a hidden gift, because unwrapping yourself when you're in safe territory is like a thousand christmas mornings. There are few things as wonderful as realizing who you really are, and that you're tickled with this person.

Anyhoo - my two cents. Is anybody putting all these pennies somewhere? Save 'em, maybe we could buy an island somewhere where infp's could decompress.

:> E
 
 

Copyright © 2001 by OohSparklyShiny. All Rights Reserved.

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