"TORTURE" An excerpt from soon to be published book!

A week later, I was on a cruise ship sailing out of New York harbor, remembering Graham's pride as I pondered my own pride at having made it to this long awaited reward. Settled into a balcony chair outside my cabin, I marveled as the ship passed directly in front of the Statue of Liberty – so close, I felt as if I just leaned out long enough over the railing, I could almost touch her. There she stood, seemingly inches in front of me, tall and triumphant in her everlasting pose, while I reposed triumphant in my own glory that I had made it to this point. Ahead heaved the open ocean. Rest.

Extending over the horizon, the ocean swelled and undulated with beckoning blueness, the cerulean sky above sparkled clear with its blueness, while inside me, a disquieting depression rose in its own blueness.

Everything blue.

I didn't belong on a cruise ship. Not yet. I couldn't walk.

Impressively, I made it to the ship's gym first thing every morning. Watching the sunrise over a rippling ocean does make it easier to exercise willingly. On the flip side, my foot hurt and I limped along in pain, barely able to enjoy any activities. After navigating those long hallways to get anywhere I'd be in devastating pain and desperate to return to my cabin. Thus, I spent a majority of my time on my balcony thinking and watching.

The fall foliage never manifested anyway. At each port, I bandaged and braced my ankle and attempted to go out and explore, but by the time I staggered the length of the ship and hobbled down the gangway, my foot swelled, pounding and throbbing, practically begging a return to my balcony. Dejected, I had to turn around and go back before ever making it off the quayside.

In Halifax, I managed to make it to the famed gardens where the resplendent colors of flowers and trees and vistas were worth every painful step. A Canadian landmark, these gardens are surrounded by beautiful iron gates.

In St. John, I hired a taxi for a brief tour of the sights and quickly bonded with the driver, also named John, who ended up driving me around all day showing me his favorite places and wouldn't take any extra money for those extended hours. We went to the Bay of Fundy, his favorite museums and markets, and he delighted in showing me a particular spiral staircase with no supports that remains in place over one hundred years after construction. John told me his stories. (Okay, I give up – why do men want to tell me the stories of their lives?) His confession about his alcoholism and how he reached instant sobriety with the birth of his child moved me.

Otherwise my days were cut short, unable to accomplish what I would start out to do.

Being a sort of V.I.P., and sort of disabled, I disembarked first off the ship back in New York and first into the customs hall where the agent greeting me had yet to adjust his date stamp to October. I waited while he set it, upside down, instead of October 1, he set it to the mistaken date of October 10, and he stamped my passport. I looked down and knowing the date to be October 1, walked off smiling in amusement that the 'homeland security agency' had everything under effective control. I arrived 'back to the future.'

Just Another Lori Story.

Excerpted from the soon to be published : "TORTURE"

Follow the Baton: A blog Hop

I received an invitation from Wendy Van Camp who writes the blog nowastedink.com to pass a baton in a blog hop - which since I sometimes limp, seemed like something I could stride into ...


I guess it's sort of a chain-letter-kind-of-thing, but since it's a blog and not a letter, it leaves behind the unfortunate stigma associated with the former.


Besides, it's fun, right? Well, I'll let you know after it's done.


First of all, I've got to overcome my computer liabilities - as in, I'm not very good at it. Then, I have to master the links. (Refer to previous comment). After that, I pass the virtual 'baton' to 3 fresh writers of blogs, all of whom have impressed me with their passion and words.


But before all that, I answer 4 questions - which makes me think I'm the youngest boy at a Passover Seder. (There's an illusion to distract you ... ) So, here goes the relay ...


1) WHAT AM I WORKING ON?


I am writing my first book, a memoir, titled TORTURE, about a trauma accident and the ensuing fallout. (Pardon the pun) It has been an arduous journey, nearly three years of my life, and will publish later this year.


2) HOW DOES MY WORK DIFFER FROM OTHERS OF ITS GENRE?


It's my first book. That should tell you it will be different. I've published many articles and written for numerous projects, but all that becomes irrelevant to a certain degree when one undertakes the task of a book. Although I've read many memoirs and consulted many experts, in the end, it is my heart and soul bleeding onto the pages, so it will be uniquely mine.


3) WHY DO I WRITE WHAT I DO?


I'm writing a memoir for all the usual reasons - a cathartic expression, a need to tell my story, a searching for illumination regarding what happened to me, to get out the proverbial 'thorn'. But, mostly I write because I had no choice. I've come to the conclusion that most memoir writers write because they have to. It's write - or be wrong.


4) HOW DOES YOUR WRITING PROCESS WORK?


Process? Hahahahahhahaaaa. *Falls out of chair, laughing* First, I had to develop a 'practice'. That took a long time. I tried an outline, but memoirs have a way of drawing outside the lines. I make lots of notes and unfortunately, they occur at the most inopportune times - say, like when I'm in the shower? Or, driving 80 miles an hour? At the gym, on a treadmill? The best stuff comes when I'm not even trying. But the book does consume me, both awake and asleep. (What's that?)


Now, I do write everyday. Because if I don't, the guilt gremlin chases me around. Often I write more than once, but early mornings seem to produce the best results. I know. I know ... other writers have already pointed this out. But it's true. When you are closer to sleep - at either end - stuff seems to have more gravity.


The computer is too difficult (I already made this point), and I like the feel of pen and paper, and a certain free flowing kind of pen. I handwrite into a journal, then transcribe to the computer (erroneously counting that as a sort of edit), then copy it in 14 different places and ways (because I don't trust my techno skills), and actually print it on paper, too, for a read and cursory second edit.


PASSING THE BATON:


I will pass the baton to 3 other writers whom I admire greatly and hope you will enjoy discovering the same and more with them! First, I thank Wendy for inviting me to this party - (where's the cheese?) and she's always writing or entering contests and inspires me with her amazing word counts, which usually amount to the words I write in a month, but Wendy does them in a day!
http://nowastedink.com  is Wendy's link.




1) Gerry Buncher


I have known Gerry since I was a teenager. (way, way back in the dark, dark ages ... of black dial phones and typewriters - Goggle it if you need to know what those are ... ). Gerry didn't know it then, but he was a formulating inspiration to me. Perhaps as the director of a youth musical I participated in, he sowed the seed of show business, which eventually became a career for me. We had fun. We went our own ways. And then Facebook, that illustrious finder of all people from everywhere brought us back together. Now, Gerry inspires me more. He is passionate for his causes and a promoter of good health in a time when that is an anomaly. I hope you will discover him for yourself. He is a cool cat. (Vernacular to go with the dark ages of our youth together.)


Here is what Gerry writes about himself, along with his link:
t was a dark and stormy political/cultural/religious night with demons and devils roaming roughshod completely out of control. Hyperbole and hypocrisy harmoniously ran through the veins of politicians, pundits so out of control that unless stopped there was no telling how ruinous and ridiculous this virus would get. So it was time for Gerry Buncher to Blog away the stupid, identify the insane and call out the fiction lovers smacking them in the face with fact. For over five years seeking truth, justice, equality and freedom Gerry Buncher has tried to set a record straight regarding the virtues and victories of people whose voices are never quite as loud as the monsters and the makers of those of creatures.
gerrybuncherblogspot.com has been around for five years. I have taken my two an half decades of communal service experience of listening to people in hopes of finding solutions into writing my blog. I have selected topics that I believe are used to divide and conquer when in fact they should be nothing more then reasons to find a common ground. In communal work the ideal is finding a sense of community, and just exactly your place in that environment, for me to blog is to also find sanctuary.
http://gerrybuncher.BlogSpot.com




2) Catherine Yesayan


Catherine is a member of Women Who Write - WWW - an esteemed writers group nationally known and facilitated by the amazing Vicki Abelson. (Vicki is also an incredible writer and sponsors monthly salons and writers workshops.)
Catherine has a depth of understanding about many world events and a personal story unlike any other. I've heard her read and her blog is a tribute to her life and the lives of others. Give it a look!


Catherine writes about herself:

I'm game. the name of my blog is BEYOND THE BLUE DOMES. I started my blog on May of 2009. In earlier posts, I shared memories about growing up in Iran during the Shah, fleeing the country at age thirty, because of the Islamic revolution an...d then raising a family in the United States. Lately I'm posting my thoughts on stories or news that have touched me. My theme is exploring social realities and the intersections within cultures, and preserving history.

http://beyondthebluedomes.blogspot.com/


3) Cheryl Nielsen


Cheryl is also a member of WWW and we have exchanged several interesting comments back and forth. I recently enjoyed meeting her at a workshop with WWW, and she specializes in divorce coaching and has already published works relating to that subject. Cheryl is enthusiastic about helping others avoid the pitfalls of painful separation and her attitude and attributions make her an expert worth reading!


Cheryl writes a terrific blog and here is a partial bio from her site:
 Cheryl Nielsen was born and raised in Southern California.    She speaks two languages – English and “Wine Babble.”
She is the author of the book entitled: Meritage Divorce: A Blend of Financial, Physical, Emotional and Spiritual Guidance…Through Wine Colored Glasses  and coaches through Meritage Divorce Journey Workshops adapted from
her book.  In her coaching practice, she combines her personal wisdom, vineyard experience and love for wine with her coaching skills to assist clients in becoming “re-produced.”  The journey is laced with wine metaphors and analogies and embarks on self-discovery through the “barrel refinement process.”

http://meritagedivorce.com






All three of these writers will entertain and inform you at the same time.


I'm running to the end of the line here - (looking for the water boys ...?) and there it is - The Finish Line.


Happy Reading Everyone.


Just Another Lori Story.

LIFE IS LIKE A CAR WASH

LIFE IS LIKE A CAR WASH

Why did I wake up this morning thinking life is like a car wash? I'm not certain, but the idea struck me, which means it's worth exploring. So I did. I thought about it, as I absentmindedly went through my early morning fluff and buff routine.

Isn't it true? It's as if we get hooked onto the thingy and get pulled through whether we change our mind or not. Once the course is set, we're going.

We get scrubbed and beaten – washed and rinsed – sprayed and foamed, sometimes blinded by the onslaught of surprises and colors. The stream varies, from harsh to sprinkle tingly. We see clearly, then we don't. Hot and cold, wet and dry, wax and polish, repeat. All the while, inching forward, like it or not, one step at a time. Being pulled into the unknown. That which we like, along with that which we wish we'd skipped over.

At the end, we're blown and buffed dry. Leftover spots are carefully wiped clear. A slap of completion signals renewal and a new beginning. We worried for nothing while we were at the mercy of the tugging and torrent of unexpected encounters, leading us blindly along to more unknowns.

Eventually we come through the tunnel. All pristine and clean and refreshed. Ready to begin another journey. To we're not sure where …

No matter how we felt during the journey, we're glad we did it when we review the results. We're purified now. Ready to start anew.

After paying whatever price due, we go forward. Because that's the only way out.

Then, we smile. Because we're glad, in the end, that we did what we did.

Life IS like a car wash. Enjoy the ride.
 Just Another Lori Story.

SLEEP?

SLEEP?

I miss sleep. SO much. I stalk sleep – I plot and plan and drift, but no sight of slumber. It's been so long since I've encountered lovely sleep that I fear I shall never see sleep again.

Eventually, I suppose we shall all see sleep. For always. When sleep eludes as effortlessly as an unwanted friend, it's the permanent midnight we dream of. How sad.

Sleep is a barometer of wakefulness. What we are feeling, thinking, doing, wishing, wondering … if sleep avoids us, we are avoiding something else. Denial only denies more sleep. Yearning only leads to more yearning. Sleep plays the persist/resist game better than any other illusion. The more we want, the more we think about it, the less likely we are to glimpse the vision.

I took pills – until they stopped working. I stayed on a schedule – that eventually scheduled me … off.

I stayed up, I exercised, I meditated, I read. Nothing worked. Except escalation of anger, because I've lost something I cherish. Restful sleep.

This malady is not uncommon to writers. Or other creative types that are thus so because they can't sleep. I know that, and I wanted to be a writer, so sleeping will not return unless I'm willing to relinquish the pen. And I can't. Cray-cray is my new normal and it denounces sound decision making, you know, like do I want this or that? What day is it? Am I doing the right thing? What's that burning? Oh, it's just my life going up in smoke. Without sleep.

Occasionally, when my punitive grief gives up the ghost and I accidentally lull towards a lullaby, nightmares replace once vivid and vibrantly beautiful dreams and jar me awake to the excoriation of a self-examined existence. It's not pretty. The mirror reflects endings rather than beginnings. All frayed endings.

My new sleep is like a rotisserie. Tossing and turning and never quite done. Restless. Recalcitrant. Revolving through twisted sheets and tormented thoughts. I can't get my brain to turn off. Useless as it is.

All that's left is anger. And questions. Where did sleep go? Does it miss me? Does it think about me too? Does it secretly search me in the night?

Will I ever see sleep again? Eventually, I suppose I shall. It may come too late for any dreams.

Maybe it's the dreaming I really miss.

A VOLVO REVOLT

A VOLVO REVOLT

With cautionary trepidation, I illegally crossed the double-yellow line today to pass a Volvo. This is not the first time for that risky maneuver. It's like a tic or a superstition – I cannot be behind a Volvo.

Warning: If you drive a Volvo, or you are a fan of Volvo's, this blog may be dangerous to your sensibilities, and I recommend you stop here and visit another day. (If you're a friend of mine, and you drive a Volvo, you're exempt – this diatribe doesn't apply to you – you're already my friend and I excuse your one known foible.)

It all started long ago – so long ago, I don't even remember how or when. What I do remember is that most times when a random idiot driver cut in front of me, or worse yet, a moronic, decidedly unfit driver apparently lost recall of where the gas pedal is located, causing me to slam on my brakes, I took notice of a recurring common denominator. Volvo. Always a Volvo.

When a huge back-up appeared for seemingly no congruent reason, I'd glide by in the left lane, and approaching the front of the mess, yep, you guessed already! A Volvo … in front of the pack, slowing down the masses of more mild-mannered drivers, oblivious to what I had already discerned – Volvo drivers choose Volvo, because they know they can't drive. And they've heard Volvo's are built like a tank (true) and will protect them from the rest of us, who actually understand the rules of the road and stifle our fears while maintaining full use of our brains.

After endless encounters with these 'tank' tormenters, which by the way, are mostly unattractive vehicles as well, I developed the odd idiosyncrasy of simply avoiding them. Pass, move over, let another car in between, whatever it takes – just don't follow a Volvo. Before too long, it became an instinctual habit, like hand washing, except it was my dirty little superstitious silly secret.

Years passed. I successfully avoided hundreds of Volvo varmints. Until, that is, one day, stuck in multiple lanes of horrid Christmas shopper traffic, I felt ill. Scary sick. I wanted to pull over, off the road, but no one would let me. I signaled. I waved. I pleaded with my best 'please help me' facial cues, but Christmas has a way of bringing out the worst in jolly jerks stuck in traffic.

My body unsympathetic to my plight, found a way to curtail the conundrum. I passed out. Fainted while driving, with my foot firm on the gas. And smacked into the vehicle in front of me. A Volvo.

Apparently, I spun my wheels against that car until smoke and smell of burning tires brought people running to my car, banging on windows to rouse me from my public pass-out routine. A fire engine and ambulance blared sirens to get to me. Dazed and disoriented, it dawned on me I'd hit a Volvo.

Maybe my lifetime revolt and avoidance was in preparation for just this moment, and I failed my own premonition.

The real kicker is health insurance, namely Blue Cross and Blue Shield. They had taken my money forever in timely paid premiums with no claims, because, generally, I enjoy good health, despite my odd beliefs about one particular brand of vehicle.

After this accident, I had to go to the hospital to find out why I fainted, incurring a small bill and I made the appropriate claim.

Unbelievably, Blue Cross denied my claim (and I denied paying premiums any longer) stating 'driving unconscious is NOT an emergency'.

Ah ha! That explains Volvo drivers. And I still won't follow a Volvo.

 

 

 



 

 

 

 

 



 

 

 

 

 

 



 

 

 

 



 

 

 



Psychic Cycle

PSYCHIC CYCLE

Only like a bicycle in the sense that it goes around and around, the psychic cycle swirls between us and all around us whether we are aware or not. It is the matrix of the universe which rises up to meet us and all our thoughts caught in the maze.

Did you ever hear the phone ring and guess who it is before you answer? Sure. It happens to all of us. Or think of someone you haven't heard from in awhile and then hear from them out of the blue? Not coincidence. Or have an unwarranted fear follow you around for days, and then it happens … we create what we fear. Another reason fear is advisably frowned upon.

Endless stories of guardian angel appearances or supposed synchronicity jam our collective consciousness. To pray for someone is to love them. The power of prayer is not to be overlooked, even if you are not a believer. Because it is not always a religious endeavor – rather, a spiritual signal with all the power of an electrical current racing through the macrocosm of all there is – an ethereal message that matters. That's why when groups, or cities, or whole countries profess prayer for whatever person or cause, it is often reported to have an effect. Prayer can be felt, rather than be expressed, because the feelings fall below language. We don't always understand what we know to be true.

I don't want to get all GOD on you, yet the analogy is there. God talks to crazy people (I vouch for this), or others of professed religious fervor, but basically, God uses messengers to talk to the masses, whether priests, rabbis, ministers, or common conduits, because a Higher Power is just that – Power. Too powerful to communicate directly. So an intermediary is used and useful.

Imagine electricity. If it was not harnessed and delivered to us via poles and wires and outlets that are regulated, well, then, it would be as devastating as lightning. Poof! You're toast. A goner. We couldn't take the intensity of direct access, therefore a conduit is necessary to protect us while keeping us within the reach of that power. Yet, we control it. Access, intensity, location, all of it. Where you plug in is up to you.

And it is the same with psychic cycles. Whether you call it intuition, prescience, clairvoyance, however you name it does not matter. The Law of Attraction, what you reap is what you sow, what goes around comes around, etc. It's all true and man has been musing on the subject since time began, at least since the Burning Bush beckoned Moses, right?

Last week, I awoke in the middle of the night, with the beautiful sound of the ocean outside my beach-front condo. I could not lull myself back to sleep. Thoughts of Marcus crept in, first stealthily, then steady and strong and would not subside. Marcus … Marcus … Marcus … Why hadn't I heard from him in so long? Would I ever hear from him again? I love him so much and I miss him, and we used to stay in touch or see each other all the time, and now it's been too long and where is he? Marcus … as I finally drifted back to sleep.

When I got up later that morning, what do you know? Yep, an email had come from Marcus, who lives in England. These sorts of things happen to me all the time, so I laughed with relief and wrote back to him. Bragging about my psychic skills, you know, how I conjured up his thoughts of me and all that. He wrote back again telling me how brilliant and amazing because HE had been thinking about me all day the day before, deciding he must write or call. Ah, so it was Marcus that started the psychic sequence, not me. Do you hear that, ego? It was Marcus! Who thought of you, who signaled you to think of him, who woke you in the middle of the night – not the other way around. I love this! The psychic sequence.

So much better than the phone ringing and knowing who it will be.