Day 162: Fictional Writing: Veronica Cosh

| Aspergers Girls

I’ve been working on a fictional story for a couple years. I have about 65 pages scribed. The manuscript is still in the infant stages, but I thought it would be fun to introduce the characters to you. They are morphing, as I morph, so I look forward to seeing what becomes of them….I am thinking gorgeous, hot, dark, tall, hunk of unavailable burning love for the main character, though…just saying.

Veronica Cosh and the House of Mirrors

By Samantha Craft

Freda screamed on cue. “Put your lips together and blow, Baby! Blow, blow, blow.” Freda repeated the words again, kicking her stocking-covered legs up and down like a toddler splashing in a shallow pool of water.  Jane tried her best to balance the wobbling ottoman, while shaking her head at Freda and letting loose a flitter of giggles.

Veronica shared a wide smile with Irene.  “I wonder what ever happened to Mr. Blue Eyes,” she queried.

“Oh, scrumptious Mr. Blue eyes,” Freda quickly interjected with a Southern drawl.  She fanned her chubby face. “What eye-candy!”

Veronica raised a narrow-necked glass filled with deep red wine. “To divine Mr. Blue Eyes!”

Irene, meanwhile, kneeled down in front of Freda and pulled out a small wrapped gift she’d hidden under the ottoman, and holding the present high in the air she cheered, “To finger-licking-good, Mr. Blue Eyes.”

“That’s a definite winner, or should I say wiener?” Freda laughed. All the ladies lifted their drinking glasses and toasted, “To finger-licking-good, Mr. Blue Eyes!”

Veronica set her glass down on the table in front of the couch, the light of the crystal lamp igniting a flame in the speckled-green of her eyes.  “You guys shouldn’t have,” she murmured as she gestured to a pile of opened presents near Jane’s feet.  Irene handed the gift to Veronica, while Freda ran her fingers through her bun of silver-gray, gave Veronica a sidelong glance, and referring to the present said, “Maybe this year, you can learn to play Love, Love Me Do.”  Looking pleased with herself, Freda then exhaled an easy-sigh, smoothed her dress and crossed her ample legs, acting as if she was the sort of person that belonged in an English teahouse. After she spoke, Freda pinched off a sizable piece of brownie from the plate she’d held hostage on the arm of the chair. Veronica, in her excitement, tore through the wrapping like a kid in search of a golden-ticket.  “You shouldn’t have,” Veronica exclaimed, holding up a small, unopened blue box, “but I’m so glad you did!”

Irene placed her hands on her hips. “What’s this make now, Harmie, fourteen or fifteen?   Or am I aging you?”

The name Harmie had come into existence quite by accident after a heavy night of drinking.  It was fifteen years ago, near the outskirts of Cannery Row when the same four friends had gathered to celebrate Veronica’s thirtieth birthday.  Veronica, donned in a knee-length tight black skirt, had bent over that night to retrieve something—maybe it was her keys—no one can remember for certain.  Nevertheless, Veronica had leaned down and on her way up the lead singer of the band on stage had pointed straight at Veronica’s rear end and shouted in his Irish-accent, straight into his microphone, “Put your lips together and blow, Baby!”   Unknown to Veronica, in having bent down, the slit of her skirt had pulled slightly apart causing her pink panties to give a peek-performance.  This one event, this one evening, had been wrong in Veronica’s eyes in so many ways. First off, Veronica didn’t wear skirts, but on this one rare occasion had been persuaded by Irene to evade her well-worn, easy-fit jeans. Secondly, Veronica didn’t like to drink alcoholic beverages, except once or twice a year, and when she did, as in all the previous nights of her birthday, she limited herself to one special drink, like a well-aged red wine. And lastly, and perhaps most importantly, Veronica didn’t frequent bars, and quite frankly hadn’t step foot in one since the 1980’s when her and her younger cousin used their fake IDs to sneak into a surfer bar in downtown La Jolla. All in all, Veronica avoided crowds, and how she’d wound up in a tight skirt, drunk in a crowded bar, was beyond her.

After Veronica’s panties had made their evening debut, Veronica had shot up and braced herself against the high circular bar table, her blushing cheeks mirroring the violet-hues of her trussed up hair.  At that point, she almost jetted across the crowded pub but was instantly distracted by wide-eyed Freda spouting pink bubbles from her nostrils. It was then, as Veronica glanced over at the stage, that beneath the glints of lights, she spotted the lead singer still smiling.  He gestured toward a stout bald man holding a harmonica, and said to the silenced crowd, “Put your lips together and blow, Joe!”  He lifted up his frothing beer and toasted the house, explaining in his brusque accent, “Our band is named after the harmonica company in the town of Trossingen Germany, near the Swiss boarder, the original birthplace of the beautiful harmonica.”  He then set his beer down on a barrel and pulled out his silver harmonica from his leather waist-holster.  “Please, continue to enjoy this lovely evening, while I give you a wee sampling of what this lovely instrument can do.”  For the next few minutes, he pressed his lips together and blew out Love, Love Me Do, as the tipsy ladies at Veronica’s table all sat mesmerized in their high stools.

Irene had clapped, secretly harboring a hope that the Irishman would hold an impromptu pop-quiz on the subject of harmonicas, offering his chiseled body out as the providential main prize.  Her thoughts had travelled to the string theory she’d heard about at a recent quantum physics lecture.  The professor, a rather distinguished-looking man, had compared the universe to a slice of bread:  “Our world and the planets above are all a part of one big loaf of bread, one thin slice, and the other universes, or alternate realities, are right next to us, other slices of bread, completely oblivious to us, as much as we are to them.” Irene happened to know lots of miscellaneous facts.  She’d inherited her father’s satiable appetite for learning, and unable in her early years to settle her mind on what exact career path to follow, Irene could tell you practically anything about the subjects related to music appreciation, C.S. Lewis, tarot cards, beginning watercolor, human sexuality, and cultivating irises.  Irene would have been the first to admit back then that she was cursed with the decisiveness of a ricocheting pinball.  She’d realized early on she wouldn’t be able to choose a college major, even if the life of her cat depended on it.  And sighing to herself in the bar that night, she had pictured the morbidity of her circumstances, in only a way Irene could—she saw her plump cat spread out and nailed like a skinned-squirrel skin to a wooden fence.  And in this drunken vision, heard an ominous voice call out from beyond: “Pick a college major or I’ll kill little Kit-Kat.”  But Irene, at that time in her life, could not have made up her mind.  Not even to save her precious Kit-Kat’s life.

Shaking her head from side-to-side, Irene had refocused on the singer on stage, and made a mental note not to drink too much again.  The song ended.  The crowd cheered.  And standing at Veronica’s side, back on the same slice of bread with everyone else in the bar, Irene squeezed her eyes together, trying to make out if the lead singer was winking at her, and thought for a fleeting moment, maybe she’d study to be an optometrist.

When the band Hohner Harmonicas was on break, the brawny singer made his way past the crowded bar to the ladies.  For a short moment Irene thought maybe, just maybe, it would be her lucky night.  Shy Jane, who was now nursing a bottle of mineral water, was the second to notice the broad shouldered Irishman approaching.  She had nervously tapped Veronica and then peered over the top of her gold-rimmed glasses, flashing her silver braces.  Reaching the table, the singer offered a polite, “Hello Ladies.”  Then, quite unexpectedly, he dipped into his holster, pulled out his silver Golden Melody harmonica, and wrapping his lips around the piece, and playing to no one in particular, blew out the tune to Happy Birthday.  All the girls clapped, including Jane who kept her hands hidden under the table.  The singer, upon finishing, slipped his wet harmonica into Veronica’s empty glass.  “For you, Lovely, for being such a good sport,” he said.  The word Lovely dipped down, up, and then down again, riding the waves of his Irish dialect. Dreamy sighs had circled the table. Mature Freda, busted up laughing. “Thank you, Mr. Blue Eyes,” she giggled. The Irish musician then dabbed Freda on her button nose, winked, and smoothly turned around. Sauntering back deep into the bar, he faded away gradually beneath the blinking lights strung across the high wooden rafters.

That’s how it all started, because that is the precise moment Irene, still panting from the mere brushing of the brawny man’s hairy bare arm against her skin, had held up the silver harmonica to Veronica, and proclaimed loudly, “Veronica Harmonica, press your lips together and blow, Baby!”

Through the years the name had been dutifully shortened from Harmonica to the more suitable and endearing, yet still annoying, Harmie.

~~~~~~~~~~~

© Everyday Aspergers, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. https://aspergersgirls.wordpress.com

Day 161: Star-Filled Knight

| Aspergers Girls
source unknown
Elf Princess Samantha (giggles)

 

Star-Filled Knight

Tether me to your virtue, wrap fraying rope around my body whole, and tie substance to thy pole

The north the south, makes no difference, just tether me straight against your being

Tether me too, upon your heart, and wrap ribbon round my eyes, to close me to the dark

The light about, spin round and round, touch the hidden pieces buried in memories dim

Invade my thoughts and dreams with energy of late eve, the uninvited visitor at my door

Enter and entice with sunlit eyes and shoulders broad, kneel down and greet me as knight to fair lady

So I may lower myself to cold floor waiting, and be enveloped in tinseled warmth and beauty bold

To desire little between sunrise and sunset, beyond the visions of the land where lovers blend

To walk through corridors of long ago nights, and drink the potentiality of forgotten lifetimes

My silent prince, my wandering warrior, trapped in the torrential wind of imaginary dragons

Breathe not such misery, embrace eternity, the talisman crystal-bright upon beating chest

Reach through the broken glass of illusion, and touch, the scarlet drape shrouding secret treasure

A cavern so deep and luxurious that only the trickling of your interwoven branches can reach

Like root, like dagger, like cherry off tree, fall into me, into the depth below so we may rise as mystic rain

The two as one, untouched in circumstance and reality, only moving as source intended, winter to spring

Blossomed at last, beneath the melting snow, turning upward in pure delicate petals of morning

To arise, fledgling of desire, fragile wings spread in jasmine air, the hint of freedom engraved through form

A universal centipede of walking stick, a mountain top moved, a stallion through clouds, magic made

From the simplicity of blindness, to release the worldly ways, and believe in the eternal flowerbed of life

To reach in my tethering sweet, and release passion through desired imprisonment of cherished belief

That all is as intended, the preordained ebbing flow of star children, their wishes blown on amulet waves

To stand at shore and await what comes, arms open, rope at side, and eyes set to the open endless sky

~ By Samantha: Princess of Elf Land where all dreams come true

Day 160: Decreasing Photons

| Aspergers Girls

I have the hardest time writing when I am trying not to confront what is troubling my mind.

At those times, when angst is knocking on spirit’s door, I tend to write romantic and lust-filled poetry, or distract myself with stories from the past. I tend to grasp onto my muse, my anchor, a jolt that compels me into another state of reality.

Today I am insecure. I am insecure about my appearance, my personhood, my ability to shine, and my very spirit. I am looping in thought. And the taters are hitting the fan. I am worried that I am not enough, even though innately I know I am. I am worried that I am a facade, even though at my core I know I am authentic. I am worried about my health and a host of other items.

Insecurity is an emotion I’ve dealt with pretty much my entire life on earth, at least ever since my mother and father divorced. My insecurity quadrupled in size when my mother divorced my stepfather, and I was never able to see my step brothers and sisters again. My insecurity grew when my best friend was kidnapped, my pets died as I predicted, my homes constantly changed, and my mother became lost in her own world. The emotion mutated and divided when I mistook a teenager for the man I would marry someday and teenage girls for trusted confidants. And grownups as safety. The emotion enveloped the whole of me when I reached adulthood and realized I was very much still an infant.

I remember being so brave, so strong, and trying and trying to do the right thing. If I could only do the right thing, then life would be manageable. I remember with clarity the day my friends collected starfish on the ocean shore; I remember running up the sandy hill to the the truck, and hovering in the camper shell weeping, because no one would listen as I cried and shouted on the beach that the starfish were living creatures, and my friends were killing them. I remember lots of times crying in enclosed spaces…in tents, in closets, under covers, in bushes….anywhere I could escape the sadness surrounding me.

I figured if I tried hard enough, I could make a difference in my world and within myself. Take away the horrible pain. I thought if I tried enough, I too would get the promises, the opportunity, the good stuff.

I tried so hard that I succeeded in many ways, I gather. Only I don’t know what I succeeded in or for whom.

I like to pretend sometimes I have the answers.

I like to pretend I am carrying this grand light of wisdom and trust, of faith and hope, of all things precious and divine.

I like to pretend ego is in the backseat, Source at the wheel, and my present moment is the only one that matters.

I like to pretend.

I can’t tell imaginings from reality. I can’t find the line. I doubt the line even exists.

Sometimes I think I shine too much. Sometimes I think I lost the earthly cloak that stops the inner glow, that stops me from becoming depleted. I wonder what I’ve given up in order to shine. I wonder if the dark is perhaps a better place to go.

I thought writing would be my avenue, my escape, a way I could finally be me. But the pressure is building and the patterns are starting, and everything seems a repeat. Again I am soother,  lifter, giver, sweet Sam, adored,  gentle, kind…so kind. I’m still flawed. I get that. I’m not perfect. But I lean to the side of trying to be perfect, trying to be what I think others want to see. I make others my gods, my suitor, my love. I make people my exact reflection; their opinions my barometer. I see in my own mirror what I imagine others see. And then I tell myself not to. To stop. To trust. And then I wonder what and whom to trust, when my very existence seems a dream.

No matter how many times I tell myself I am enough, I still search. I think that if a certain person loves me then everything else will be erased. I dream of being rescued. I dream of escaping this life. A life that by most standards is wonderful. I have no idea where I would escape to. I have absolutely no idea. I just know I long to escape.

My mind is constant. Everything and everyone is questioned. Each comment I answer is weighted and analyzed. Each word I write a drop of blood, a hope that I spoke correctly, I answered honestly, I did my best. Each letter of the alphabet carries the weight of an elephant.

Typing is not typing. Typing is risking. Each word leads to thoughts. Each thought to more evaluation. Why do I care? Why can’t I let go? Why can I not accept me? Why does one person hold my world and my worth? Why can I not care only about the other and not about me? Why is my ego still here? Why do I have any motive at all except love? What is the right amount of drive? Am I too driven? Am I not driven enough? Am I too honest? Am I not honest enough? What is telling the whole truth, if not laying out my emotions? What is truth?

And yes, what of this light? This grand light? Is it anything beyond descending and decreasing photons………….

________

Day 159: Tater Angst

| Aspergers Girls

Sadness set in this evening, or what is soon to be yesterday evening. I blame it on potatoes. Carbs usually make me tired, trigger pain, and make me question my entire existence. Yes—this is the power of the Tater Tot in my life.

tater tots
Potatoes

Other things besides deep-fried hash-browned potatoes do that to me, too—trigger stuff. All sorts of things, really, and all day long, and sometimes into the late night.

It is interesting, to say the least.

I have all these parts of me, most of which I very much appreciate, but then I have these additional parts, that in many ways feel like spare parts left over from an old model. All these parts just lying around, scattered about on the ground, serving no purpose but to cause me to stir….which I guess is a use in and of itself….to stir me.

It’s super hard at times. Seems so much in my life is a potential tater tot. I employ all types of remedies to avoid the taters; I really do. So much positive thinking. So much positive measures and actions. All in all, I find spending time with me marvelous. That is until the taters come.

Thing is it seems these taters, they inspire me. Something about the tater angst, I reckon.

Enough

Rabbit hole

What you think

Of how I should exist

Created dungeon

Walls of dirt

Evaluation and judgment

To please, yet again

Unsettled penetration

Unmanageable persuasion

Hand raised high

Shielded

Rising

To the blue sky

Goodbye earthly things

I Whisper Enough!

I Whisper I am enough

I Whisper you are enough

Enough, enough, enough

I keep whispering enough

—

Sam, june 2012

source unknown

Mr. Muse

I use you, Mr. Muse

A diamond in my pocket

A tickle in my loin

A rescue to my drowning

A raptured delight to lover’s song

Your whispers magic

Your power gold

How I long to wrap you in all of me

Twist and contort to fit my every groove

Keep you, me as master

You as slave

To my every desire

Come, I’d say

Whisper now, love now

Bleed your rivers thick

Delectable

Delicious

I feed off

Nibble and concave in passion

Vampire elfin princess

Engorged with crimson pearls

Oh, my Mr. Muse

To trap you and hold you

To cage you like a bird

But free

But free, my gentle man

You be

—

Day 158: On Fear

| Aspergers Girls

This is not a religious post.

Here are my thoughts on religion: Day 23 The Sacred Hours

When I receive things in prayer, often the words I hear are common to me.

(*) Therefore “angel,” “heaven,” and “eternal life” are in the text, because those are words that resonated with me at the time of the writing. The words can easily be replaced to fit another’s comfort level.

This was scribed by me over a year ago. Had I asked this same question today, no doubt the response would be somewhat different in word choice and content. Still this stands the test of time for me. I continue to find the message comforting and affirming.

Spring 2011

On FEAR

(by Samantha Craft)

There is a lot of energy in your area that is directed towards fear: fear of illness, fear of disaster, fear of future, fear especially of repercussion of past choices. This fear is a necessary part of the process of human evolution. At the same time, this fear is necessary to release.

Fear creates more fear, even as fear sleeps below as nothingness. It can create. This fear is nothing, and yet it produces. This is a concept of debate, but nonetheless true.

Without fear we do not learn to release fear. In the process of release, we discover, if even for a small moment, a sense of tranquility and knowingingness that is best described as lifting of the veil.

In fear we find refuge from our common problems; we escape momentarily from what is around us in the present, and let go of where we stand, our foundation slipping beneath us into oblivion even without us taking note. People respond to fear like iron flecks to magnet. This fear calls to us, promising us solution and reprieve from our ordinary dwellings of spirit.

This fear is a falsehood, with false intention and false promises.

Answering the call of fear does not do little; answering the call of fear does great—in this we mean there is no small amount of consequences of responding to the call of fear; there is only large amount of consequence.

Fear begets fear, begets fear. Fear instills fear. Even a discussion or revelation of the consequences of fears’ travels, begets even more fear.

There is similar process with love, except love currently (for you) does not have the same magnetic pull. Perhaps because the axis of the earth, as you perceive it, is more prone for fearful thoughts and circumstances. Perhaps more because the axis of the mind is more prone for fearful thoughts and circumstances. For as the earth is on an axis, thus is the mind, spinning out of control with the simplest of perceived threats.

WE must turn back and find from where the threat has risen, from what the ultimate fear has stemmed from. When we look closely, and with open spirit eyes, we shall soon rediscover what we already innately knew; we shall witness that fear is always a derivative of death. What we fear ultimately is what will bring us to death. Death is perceived as an enemy, a curse that falls on the unlucky and cursed. Death is something to escape, to run from, to spend countless energy in all forms sprinting from.

There is no escape. Death is here. Death is all around you. Death is in the flower giving birth; to the tree releasing his soul; to the ocean bleeding on the shores; everything sheds, releases and is reborn.

Instead of running from death, it is beneficial to run towards love.

WE are so busy creating in our minds the scenarios to escape death, that we become blinded by our neighbors, by the needy, by the naïve, and staves of hopelessness.

You need not fear this word created as Death, for he is as real as your shadow, as real as the reflection on the water where you look and cannot touch. For if you touch these illusions they diminish before the brain can process their possible existence.

You too will diminish, as a shadow that was born for only moments. In this moment you are but an existence within an existence, a shadow within a shadow.

There is no escaping a threat that does not exist. Only escaping a mind that tricks you as the coyote tricks the layman. You are but a crippled traveler, thinking he has set eyes upon an oasis in the desert, running towards the illusion of water to relieve a thirst that does not exist.

Fear not this self-created death—fear more the response you have created in your world to an illusion—to the actions of the fearful—to what you leave behind and forget when fear is the house you reside your spirit, your soul.

You are so much more than illusion and self-created pain and fear. You are like the dove with the laurel branch offering guidance and reassurance amidst a land that has been washed away. You need not fear, for your wings will carry you to the highest ground, to the place above fear, where you can look down, as a scope to the world, and examine all that is beneath, before, and after.

Above are the answers; lift your head to the heavens (*), and then go above this place of fear.

You have no control over the evolutions of time, the events that mark your destiny, the places you shall and shall not travel.

This is written: That no man shall know the end times until the end times have past. That no man shall suffer unknowingingly and undutiful without the assistant of his angels. That no man shall be alone. For if one man is alone, all man shall be alone.

And in the end, when the sun has ceased to shine, and the heavens (*) have opened welcoming every last soul to the eternal promise (*) , we shall sing for all that has past, for this enemy in fear, for this teacher; for though he has troubled and hindered, has forbade and tackled, he has also inspired the multitudes to cling like diamond to his sister, and rocket to the sky.

We shall be triumphant, not in our measurement of fear or release of tiresome aches. WE shall be triumphant in our ability to overcome the magnificent foe of fear.

And in this way, when we gather together around the burning embers of fear, embracing the love that bleeds from fear’s core, then, and only then, shall we see the illusion of all that was, is and is yet to be.

There is no you, only us, only we, only eternity in the notion of forever. You are love. You are fear. You are everything you embrace. So we beseech you to embrace love, to see the heart that resides in the core of the fear that grips you. Love yourself, love your neighbor, and in this all will be healed. Forever.