Apparently, being concerned about the environment and supporting Same Sex Marriage is red.
Communist red that is!
Or rephrased as Green is the new Red!
Let’s look at the history then…
Caring for the environment was never a priority for any communist state. Name one. Certainly not China. Or the Soviet Union. Both countries are replete with environmental disasters.
As for same sex marriage and communism, they never walked down the same aisle. Name one. Chechyna is continuing that old tradition.
Maybe what was meant was…anything I don’t agree with is red/communist)…
So do you know what communism is?
Communism essentially puts the means of production in the hands of the workers. Name one state that does that. Anybody? Anybody?
The USSR tried. Then the state ran all production, much as any self serving totalitarian dictatorship would.
Even red wasn’t red!
And as for Green being red, it never was.
Next time research history so you can actually describe what you’re opposed to. Otherwise it’s like saying beware of danger without saying what it actually is. Maybe it’s not dangerous at all!
I knew not love, Until it was called from me, And named so by another. I asked of love, If love was called from me, Then I was always a lover. Love said to me Living still and solitary Was nothing without another You who knew love, Once called out from you Named love by a lover. Did you ask love Did love call to you Or were you always a lover Unless...you knew love Was the only creator.
“You shouldn’t encourage her,” Juanita’s mother pontificated.
“Me? I thought it must have been you.”
“I never said a word. She made it all up. By herself.”
“She has some imagination, I’ll grant her that. But she’s only a child. She’ll get over it. In time,” said her dad patiently.
“Reality catches up with us all,” sighed her mother.
“It’s just a pet. One of many,” replied Juanita’s Dad.
The back screen door groaned. Both parents looked at each other. Always they were bound to the unspoken rule. Parents must be seen and not heard. At least not in front of the children.
A click of heels announced itself. A pink tutu swayed first side to side then up and down. A moppet curl appeared as if from nowhere.
In leapt Juanita. She skipped lightly, her face beaming, her voice joyous.
“I said my prayers,” she said. “Just like I was told to.”
“Juanita…”, her Dad began. Her eyes smiled at him.
“Who told you that?” Snapped her mother.
“My friend. The one you can’t see.” Juanita’s voice was like running water.
“Sometimes, things don’t…,” counselled her mother. Juanita tossed her curls. And laughed. Neither parent could look at her. Nor could they speak.
“We know Misty is sick,” interjected her father.
“And sometimes sick people don’t get better,” added her mother.
“They do. She said so. I said so. And Misty will too”, Juanita said confidently. “So there,” she concluded.
Her tousled hair flew. She nodded.”I know.” She pointed to herself. Then she pointed upwards. “And He does too.”
And she danced away. The back door thudded shut. Mother and Her parents exchanged forlorn looks both clouded by doubt.
“I don’t know where she gets it from,” her mother said, “she’s only going to be disappointed.”
“Well, I didn’t tell her. She certainly didn’t get those pious thoughts in her pretty little head from me,” her father chuckled. “I have a whole canon of atheism to defend. She’ll get over it.”
“I know. Losing a pet is a horrible experience for a child to go through. And she’s making it far worse by denying it,” her mother replied.
“I’m going to have to bury it, you know,” her father said grimly.
“If she’ll let you. She still goes back to it hoping it will wake up.”
Both parents looked outside. Juanita was bent over a prone black body. They only turned away for a second. But that was enough for both of them to feel a warmth steal in from outside. Enough to make them shiver.
A scratching like steel wool against a fry pan. Then a dull sproing. Then a rusty metallic groan. The outside screen door had swung open again. Both parents looked at each other.
Unusually or rather as usual then there was a thump. Soft rubber paddling on wood. Then the soft pitter patter up the stairs. Four paws padded in. Black eyes glittered from a smooth furry head. All suffixed by a hungry meow.
“What?” both parents spoke at once.
A click of heels. A pink tutu. A shake of curls. A flutter of angel wings. Then Juanita appeared. Skipping, dancing, smiling. “See!” Her parents still couldn’t.
When I saw Michelle Ocker’s post on the 30 Day Creativity Challenge, I thought: “Let’s Do This.” Good enough for them, good enough for me.
Except for the fact that I rarely create a habit, I tic-tac back and forth until it sticks. 30 days may change that. Then the impostor says to me, you can’t be creative. You start and then stop. But being creative means anything goes. Besides it might be worthwhile to see what I can try. And I already have a few ideas. And if all fails, I can fold an origami crane.
And that hat will be my motivation. Curiosity!
A kiss. A heavy unmoving kiss. Like my first : open mouthed and no movement. A kiss that flowed over me and washed me downstream.
I woke a little. I drew a breath. I held it. I threw up my arms. I pushed her away.
She didn’t want me. I wasn’t interested. I had other fun. Now all I could feel was soft down. Under a heavy weight. Then I couldn’t breathe.
But rather than the suffocating dark, I could see all of the basement. And smell its smell : antiseptic mixed with sweat. And her still over me, pushing the pillow flat over my face.
My car, her car now, washed and waxed last by me, was parked off to one side. Tools, another computer never to be assembled, motherboards, network and graphic cards, hard drives, memory cards and floppy disks were scattered across my bench against the front garage door. At the back, arranged in a circle, a new sofa-bed, a hairdresser’s chair, a table and the dentist chair. In the middle, on a raised table, cleaned and ready, sat the tattoo machine, ink wells ready for another day customer.
I hated the dentist drill whine it made. My ears, first, then my jaw, all hurting as if ready for another root canal. She made sure that each morning, her electric pen woke me up, clientele or not. Hence the industrial strength earplugs. Which is why I had heard nothing.
The sofa bed, extended and unmade, blanket over pillow. And me under it. Never to be woken. Unless…
“State your case!” The voice came from behind me. From the white light from where I had reemerged.
“Who are you?” I asked. Silence ruled the afterlife it seemed to me.
“Your testimony must proceed followed by our consideration and then any actions or sentence will be sanctioned or pronounced. This process will take some time”, belled the white light’s voice.
“I remember being told that in a previous life,” I snapped. “I just want to get on with this, get it over and done with. I want to make sure she pays for what she has done to me!”
“I want revenge,” I said, “Revenge for what she did to me.”
“And what would that be?” The sound enveloped me and the basement. Yet there was no echo.
I recalled my past. First the angry words, the hefty blows, the affair. The creation of an open marriage. Open until I was caught out! She said that if she can’t keep me where she wanted me then no one could! And this night I left her furious. I don’t know what provoked her. I turned around and her face was red. Her pupils were dots again. I stepped back quickly. I tried to stand beyond arm’s length. But I was too slow. And she did it again. She windmilled her fists at me. I tried to demonstrate but couldn’t.
I waited until she fell asleep. I left her in front of the TV. I walked quietly, no stomping when you’re angry remember, into the bedroom. I shut the door, got my nightclothes on, put away today’s clothes and prepared tomorrow’s.
Until she shoved me out.
Then I fled to the basement, hid under the camp blanket and my stolen pillow. And fell asleep. Until she woke me twice. And now this ghostly court.
“Isn’t this the next life?” I asked, “Isn’t this something you should already know?”
“Indeed that is true. But as Ghost Guardians we cannot let anyone back into the previous life unless they have a valid case!” There is no humour in the afterlife it seems.
“Isn’t revenge enough?” I replied.
“Under the appropriate mitigating circumstances,” was the reply.
“We are asking the questions here,” they intoned.
I nodded. Although I didn’t have a body to do so.
“Why are you asking me this? You should know. Now can we just get this over and finished with. Let me do what I need to do.” I was furious.
“Have you considered forgiveness?”
“Forgiving her?”, I expostulated.
“Are you, are you…After what she did to me!” I said.
“It would easier for all concerned,” they replied.
“You know this as well as I do. She has stated so that she would never forgive me nor accept my forgiveness.” I was turning out to be a better lawyer in the afterlife.
“Would that be appropriate and thus mitigating circumstances then?” I concluded.
“Indeed. You may proceed. But we must make you aware of the overarching and constant consequence of being granted revenge!”
“Which is?” I replied.
“That you forfeit your eternal soul to us until she relents!” Which was no different than in the previous world!
“Revenge once granted allows you freedom of action. You may haunt, appear as a vision, you may even speak to her, speak to others, appear or disappear at will, even rearrange or reanimate objects. All within the constraints we set. In the meantime, we ask that you show the proper respect for due process.” said the Ghost Guardians.
“And if she doesn’t relent?” I replied.
“Then she and you are both doomed for eternity!”
“She will never relent, she will never forgive,” I replied. “But you know her soul better than I ever did.”
“Perhaps if you spoke to her?”, the Ghost Guardians said gently. And their voices were like silken music.
I nodded again. Perhaps two souls for the price of one?
And now I’m lying on the bed under that pillow waiting for her to stop killing me so I can start gently haunting her back to another afterlife.
I always choose my words carefully Even more so as you listen to me But somehow silently now suddenly I see my secrets have drifted out to sea. As a witness now my thoughts unfurl My secret privacies untangle and uncurl Confidences once kept in fear by me Now freed soar high above the sea. And because you listened to me My silent secrets once solitary Are calling and beckoning to me As they climb beyond the sky and sea. But I realise now that previously, All else I I kept hidden and close to me. And now I've told you we both can see, Yet another secret has drifted out to sea. So dimly I discern Perhaps there might be A sanctuary of safety For me and my secrets by the sea.
My niece got engaged yesterday to her partner. Now my brother has two daughters instead of one. I’m joyful for both as they’ve found that love is love is love. But it took me a while to understand…
For I must have lived in a sexual vacuum. Growing up I never even knew what homosexuality was. Then in my teenage years, the epithets cat and poofter were bandied around.
I still didn’t know what they were talking about. It sounded bad so I wanted no part of it. I didn’t even know about heterosexual sex!!
Then later, at university, I discovered what homosexuality was. And decided it wasn’t for me. And paid no attention to it. Even in the Catholic Church it wasn’t mentioned at all.
And so I slumbered happy in my ignorance.
That was until I joined a Pentacostal church.
When it happened, I was working in Sydney, away from home. I working back as there was a huge amount of work to be done. But I couldn’t work more than forty hours so I finished early on a Friday. So when we had drinks of a Thursday, of course I would hang back.
And I started talking to one of my workmates. And he freely admitted that he was gay. And I was so confronted I kept talking to him!
And then he told me what he did in his spare time. He was counselling and assisting people with AIDS. Remember this was the nineties when the prognosis was almost always pessimistic. And my immediate thought was that’s where I’d find Jesus, ministering to the modern-day lepers.
For the established church has a poor record of ministering to minorities : women, homosexuals, sexually abused, etc, etc, yet it is those people to whom the gospel is preached. Sometimes I think they’ve missed their mission by the length of heaven!
That was Sydney. Then I went back to Brisbane. And listened to the worst sermon ever (See When Will There Be Rainbows in Church?)
And since then I’ve met others, a man who was a mentor to me, a lesbian couple who were like an old married couple, a man through university who had been in a long-term relationship.
And I couldn’t tell the difference between their love for each other and my love for another.
And then my niece (now engaged) came out. Which was a joy and blessing to everyone, for she had found out who she was.
And surprisingly, they’re not pedophiles, nor totalitarians wishing to impose their values on others.
Just people living their lives, trying to find happiness, same as you and same as me.
And dear reader, before you condemn homosexuality and same sex marriage, follow my path, meet them for themselves.
And then make up your mind.
As a writer who was in a verbally abusive relationship for many years, the current political climate is rather familiar.
Funnily enough my main reaction to both is the same. It’s not being offended at being insulted. After the initial six weeks (in a relationship) or fifty years (in politics), I become bored…
And much like being called a creep, bastard, wanker, an apostate (had to look that one up as I was not studying for the ministry), oversensitive, etc, I have the same sense.
That the standard of political sledging has slipped: to the same level experienced by those in abusive relationships!
Insults on repeat.
And similar to sport, my prescription is the same. We need to raise the standard see Australian Institute of Sledging?
For I do prefer, the insult that make me laugh. The one that makes me think.
Not the one that makes me nod off. Been there, Heard that.