NIGHTINGALE

18^th Century Vienna was glamorous and corrupt, and the pathway to fame could not be trodden in innocence. Count Maximilian discovers Klara in a Nightingale Cage, an orphanage for the abandoned children of musicians. He educates her, fosters her remarkable vocal talent and initiates her into the art of love, intending to create the perfect mistress. The Count controls every aspect of Klara’s life, until Fate, in the form of handsome Akos Almassy, takes a hand. The tall, dark Magyar violinist can make beautiful music and healing potions, too, but can he rescue Klara from the Count—and live?

An excerpt from my latest Viennese romance, the story of a premier Nightingale, Maria Klara Silber:

"I sincerely hope that my accompaniment will be acceptable. And please let me add, Fraulein, that the memory of the Eurydice you sang last Christmas will only die when I do."

              At his side, the Baron gravely nodded his massive head.  He, too, had much admired Klara in the role.

              "Thank you, Herr Almassy."  Klara smiled at the compliment, offered by a musician who was fully competent to have an opinion.  Singing Eurydice had been both a joy and a universally acknowledged triumph.  What the nuns had taught was sinful pride - wicked, but apparently inextinguishable-insisted she should take pleasure in her vocal skill, in her achievements.  She could feel a flush rising, coloring her cheeks and tinting her bosom.  All the humility drummed in during childhood was often at war with the vainglorious world in which she now moved.

              Herr Almassy's eyes followed the progress of the blush with interest.  They were extravagantly lashed and there was a hint of the exotic, a tilted fold at the corner. The color was interesting, a hazel that tended, not to green, but to amber, like one of Signor Manzoli’s exotic cats. 

              And how his eyes were looking, as if he could pierce straight through her chaste exterior to the white-hot essence!

              She found Herr Almassys' aquiline nose and high cheekbones compelling, and began to imagine him as some long ago Attila carrying fire and sword across the Hungarian plains.  His black braid, thick as horse tail, slipped over one strong shoulder as he bowed to kiss her hand.

              His lips grazed her knuckles, and Klara was struck by a series of inexplicable sensations.  First, came a startling flash of deja vu, as if this raw moment had already had a thousand repetitions.  Hard on the heels of that came another sensation, one even stranger, perhaps because it had been so long since she'd felt it in relation to another human being - a rush of absolute joy!

              His lips were soft and warm.  They lingered.  To actually kiss the hand and not the air above it was somewhat daring, but the feeling that they were already intimate was so powerful that she experienced, not displeasure, but a thrill.  She caught the scent of him, healthy, manly, and something else as well, something musk and green, something from a wild, dark mountain forest.

              The salute to her hand completed, he lifted his head.  In the instant his eyes pierced hers again and the world of up and down was no more. 

              She was falling, head over heels, a long dizzying descent through clouds.  Falling…

~~Juliet Waldron
My Website

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Looking Back by Roberta Marley

This past year became a watershed for me. I marked my 50^th birthday in April, and then my daughter celebrated her 21^st birthday within days of my milestone. But these weren't the most significant events.

At the end of July, my first love (I guess first crush might be more apt), Simon Ward died. He was a British actor who was a significant player in my hopes and dreams for most of my teen years. (My obsession was a constant nuisance for my family). Within a day of his passing, I was reading about the death of Angharad Rees, an actress who'd been the heroine of Poldark, a British mini-series that I'd watched and loved during this same period.

Then in December, my beloved 88 year old father had a fall and passed away within the space of a week. My daughter and I needed to move out of our house and in with my mother, so that I could care for her in my childhood home. My past was slipping away and these changes were brutal and painful for me.

Obviously, the passing of my Dad was very traumatic. But why did the deaths of Simon Ward and Angharad Rees affect me so strongly? I believe it's because it was finally clear to me that the girl that I was is gone, and all the hopes and dreams that she had were never going to materialize. A tiny part of me had never stopped hoping that maybe my dreams could still come true.  Now I obviously need some new ones. But I'm still trying to make my peace with the old ones.

Please allow me to go back to the beginning. For as long as I can remember, I have been an Anglophile.  Just the idea that a country existed that had a queen who occasionally rode around in a carriage and wore a crown seemed proof to me that fairy tales were not necessarily fantasy.

And there was dress-up. If we were going to put on costumes and make up stories, I always wanted to play – as I put it - "old fashioned." I loved the idea of the past and history. Having the perfect costume extended to Halloween, of course, and I was blessed with a mother who sewed beautifully. Of course I had to be a queen complete with an elaborate gown and crown one year, and Laura Ingalls Wilder in a prairie dress and bonnet another.

Flash forward another five years or so. I didn't have much to feed my obsession until one Sunday night when I was going to turn off the TV and stopped to watch a man  gallop his horse across the screen, greet a foreign princess and welcome her to England. This was the opening chapter in a drama called "The Six Wives of Henry the VIII" and I was probably the only preteen in America who would spend the rest of her adolescence watching "Masterpiece Theatre" religiously.

I was smitten and mesmerized. This was the closest I was ever going to get to time travel and that's when I knew this was what I wanted to do. Even if at that point I thought I was going to do it all – research, write, design the costumes, compose the music, act and direct or even produce historical dramas.

 A year or so later, I discovered Simon Ward, a British actor who was the star of a film about the young Winston Churchill. And there was something about him that I really liked. He was blonde and handsome (at least I thought so) and  looked like an  aristocrat.

Up to that point, I'd never had a crush on anyone. This was the age of pop stars - Bobby Sherman and David Cassidy, etc.  They really hadn't done a thing for me. Granted, with my obsession, I suppose it was inevitable that it would be an actor with a British accent. But I remember consciously thinking that it was about time for me to have my first crush  (I was always in a hurry to grow up) and this guy would do perfectly.

I spent a lot of time in my room. (My Mom's nickname for me was the Ivory Tower Princess. I decided at one point that my production company would be called ITP productions. Today I have itpwebdesign, instead).  In sixth grade, I cranked out a novel about a young woman named Rachel who was a lady in waiting at the court of Elizabeth I.  It had no plot line. It would be a few years before I realized that if bad things don't happen to the characters you love, there's no story worth telling. But mostly I wrote screenplays, and scribbled out bits of themes for the music, designed costumes and movie posters, read tons of historical novels  and hated doing my homework and studying for tests.

And I had lots of great music to listen to for my soundtracks.  Ralph Vaughan Williams, William Walton, Edward Elgar, and eventually George Gershwin and Debussy. And there was also Rick Wakeman's "Six Wives of Henry VIII" and Alan Parson's Edgar Allen Poe album. And I can't forget Emerson, Lake and Palmer. Their stuff was perfect.  It was by turns romantic and very dramatic.  

Keith Emerson's Piano Concerto No. 1 (I wish he had written more), was the soundtrack for my own Poldark adventure. In the summer of 1976 (which was also the year of my first visit to England), I was a volunteer guide at Rockford, the 18^th century home of General Edward Hand. He lived  here in Lancaster,  was a physician and Washington's Adjutant General in the American Revolution.  I had a beautiful gown that my mother had sewn for me for the Bicentennial celebrations, and I wore it for the candlelight tours before Christmas.

  

But in my mind, I was the young colonist who had fallen for a British soldier, one of Ross Poldark's comrades. After the war, we were unwelcome in America, and  ended up on Nampara's doorstep, looking for a safe haven. My husband was crippled by his war wounds (all of my characters' names escape me now) and he did not survive long in Cornwall. With his death, my young American widow was ostracized by the community, and had to deal with the gossip that Poldark was romantically involved with her (they were not), while comforting her in her grief. Unfortunately, I don't  remember how her story ended.

In the summer of 1984, I made my second trip to England and finally met my first love. By this time, I was a college graduate with a degree in history and still trying to figure out how to launch a career as an historical researcher and writer. (My dream had almost been completely crushed by my advisor at college. He told me there was no such job). At least I was over the worst of my obsession with Simon Ward (having learned several years before that he was happily married, old enough to be my father and had daughters my age).

But he was so kind and gracious and charming. He just smiled politely when I blurted out that I'd been following his career for years and I hoped to work with him one day. I still remember my mother's comment when I showed her the photo my girlfriend had taken of us – "that's the first time I actually thought he looks handsome."

 My last photo is of another bucket list moment in England in 1984. On another summer afternoon I donned an antique nightgown (it looked exactly like a white summer gown from the turn of the century) and hat, and strolled the grounds of Crathorne Hall in Yarm, County Cleveland, England. My childhood friend Linda convinced me to sit down at a table that had been set for tea for a guest at the hotel (and it hadn't been cleared yet) and play lady of the manor long enough for her to photograph me.

 

In this story, I was Elizabeth Eshton, the American cousin visiting the lord of the manor, Colin Hathaway (played by Simon Ward, naturally).  Elizabeth's former governess was making life hell for everyone (because she had her designs on Colin, even though he was married to Amy, a suitable lady).  And Elizabeth was going to have a very hard time making her mind up if she was going to fall for and marry Colin's younger brother Jack or the young village vicar. Of course now we could say that I was preparing for my role on Downton Abbey.

Suffice it to say, I'm trying to come up with some new dreams and get back to writing while I open a whole new chapter in my life.

Handel at the Met

 

 

“Not often they give us Handel!”  I spoke with enthusiasm to the elderly gentleman seated nearby as we waited for the Met @ the Movies to start. I was excited about what I was about to hear, but as all he said was “Thank heavens, no!” I understood he wasn’t as jacked as I was about our prospective entertainment.

Giulio Cesare was first performed in 1724. It was a hit in its day and has again acquired traction among Baroque opera fans.  I was familiar with the music because during the 80’s, when I’d began researching Mozart, I’d acquired a Handel CD called “Arias for Senesimo,” featuring Drew Minter, a trailblazing countertenor vocalist. Mozart, I knew, had frequently written for castratos, who were still a feature of his operatic world, and I wanted to get a sense of what that sound was like.  And I say trailblazing, because our society no longer finds it acceptable to castrate boys in order to preserve their vocal high range, so these operatic roles were, until recently, sung by cross-costumed women.  At the time I began exploring this musical tradition, I’d read the works of aficionados who sternly maintained that countertenors-- men who can sing beautifully either in “head voice” or “falsetto”—did not have voices of “true operatic quality.”  (Take your pick for how to describe the countertenor’s method of sound production.) Thirty years later, however, attitudes seem to have changed and there are many talented countertenor singers now performing at the summit of the operatic world. 

As was usual at the Met @ The Movies, I was the youngest person present, a phenomenon which saddens me.  I sincerely hope that opera, that glorious, arcane art, is not on its way to the culture junkyard.  I have to admit that Giulio Cesare is definitely not the kind of opera you’d take a neophyte to hear/see. Not everyone can handle the sight of man with a beard and a substantial belly singing soprano. And this particular dramatic form, Opera Seria, was already considered “old-fashioned” in Mozart’s time. There isn’t a lot of character development or action. The structure of each aria is not complex, either. In their own day they were often noted simply as an “Aria of Love,” an “Aria of Rage,” an “Aria of Joy,” etc.

I spent the next 4 ½ hours watching an all-star cast, with 3 countertenor leads.  Caesar was sung by the brilliant David Daniels, while his antagonist, Tolomeo, was played with crazy flair by Christophe Dumaux.  A third countertenor role was sung by Rachid Ben Abdeslam, whose sweet, supple voice would have been praised by Mozart as “pouring like oil from a bottle.” Further gender bending occurred as Alice Coote took the part of a Roman boy in what is traditionally called a “trouser role.” 

As tolerant as I am of period quirks, I was happy that the legendary femme fatale Cleopatra was played by a woman, the multi-talented Natalie Dessay.  At the finale, she performed a song and dance number which showed that not only could she sing opera, but she could dance to it, too, and be as cute while she did so as any full-time Broadway hoofer.  

 

~~Juliet Waldron 

 Please Visit my Website

 

 

Movie Review: Lincoln

Before starting the review, let me state my background. I was born and raised in Illinois, the Land of Lincoln. When I was growing up, saying anything negative about Mr. Lincoln was practically next to a sin. For more than the past twenty years, I have lived in Virginia, where many have a vastly different view of Lincoln. Neither extreme portray the man in an accurate light. As a student of history, I like to see the reality, rather than some caricature. In that regard, the movie was partly successful.

I enjoyed the fact that Lincoln came off as a human being. Like everyone else, he had faults. In the movie, he told bad jokes, and apparently that was accurate to his nature. I also liked the fact that he didn't have the deep baritone voice that some attributed to him. From what I've read over the years, the deep voice was some figment of imagination dreamed up by Hollywood. Unfortunately, that's pretty much all I liked.

Even though Lincoln was portrayed as human, he apparently rarely swore. I'm certainly no prude as some of my characters have done their fair share of swearing, but I have no idea why someone would use such language incorrectly for a historical person, unless it's to help boost ratings. Throughout the war, Lincoln was plagued with constant depression. For some reason, this detail was overlooked and would have added tremendously to the plot, but I wasn't the writer.

During the opening, a couple of soldiers had memorized the Gettysburg Address. I find the scene totally implausible. Have you or do you know anyone who has ever memorized a president's speech? I rest my case. Sorry, but the Gettysburg Address only became more well known after Lincoln's death.

I could continue to nitpick other historical inaccuracies, but I fully understand the concept of writing historical fiction. I generally don't understand why if a fact is known, why someone would change it. The true history is usually much more fascinating than anything made up. Anyway, the movie centered around the Thirteenth Amendment. During the entire dialogue, nothing was ever mentioned about how the Emancipation Proclamation had not freed slaves living in Delaware, Maryland, and other border states.

Lincoln was personally against slavery, but in the beginning of the war, his focus was to keep the states together. Freeing the slaves became a genius political move at a later date. With the entire movie focusing on the Thirteenth Amendment, it became a political drama. One theme I noticed was how little things have changed over the years. Because I have studied the Civil War in depth, I was aware of that fact, but truly, if I had wanted to see a political drama, all I had to do was turn on the news.

At two and a half hours long, I found the movie BORING.

Kim Murphy
www.KimMurphy.net

Crone Reminiscing

Crone Reminiscing

A striking studio portrait of a well groomed man, staring out at the world with the innocence of youth; what dreams did he have? What plans and ambitions? Then he was strong, vital, ambitious, quite ready and able to take on the world. Where is he now? His descendants, if any, perhaps not interested in treasuring his photograph for future generations to recognize a resemblance, or to seek out his wisdom.

A thick flannel sheet with yellow stripes at the ends and an edging of blue blanket stitching brings memories of cozy nights in chilly beds.  The need to be practical and frugal nurtured many creative life skills. When the centers were worn down to the bare threads they were neatly "turned"; cut down the middle, switched over and the edges sewed together putting the thin edges on the outside to be tucked under the mattress.

 A vintage coffee tin, rusted orange and faded black with gold lettering. How many pots, cups and mugs of coffee were made from that battered container? What counters did it sit on? What crowded shelves? What kitchens where sleepy families prepared to face the day's work? Long days, often with little pay were an integral part of its era. Endless conversations around well-used kitchen tables, wooden tops marked and dented with the tools of living. Words of love, of family plans, of neighborhood gossip, of accusations, denials, of grief, and whispers of comfort.

If the multitude of cast-off items could speak, if they could tell the stories they had witnessed, taken part in, heard of in passing through the many years, what tales they could tell us.

Church Rummage Sale: rubbish to some, treasures to others

BOB as GOLLEM, or LOVE YOU, MOM!

 

 

Returned from a 4 day road trip—3 of which were mostly road. The cats missed me, but particularly Bob, because he welcomed me home in his usual over-the-top Uber feline way. Hadn’t been in the house again for more than an hour, when I heard keening outside the door. It’s “Tigger’s” wurra-wurra-wurra, deep, and, somehow, both penetrating and nasal. Nasal of necessity, because he only makes this yeowly cry when he has some pitiful victim clamped between his jaws.  Yesterday, amid the blooming daffodils and the greening yard, the red buds getting ready to burst and send the human community into a coordinated allergy attack, was the last day for a poor young bunny, probably  little more than a month old.

 I foolishly opened the door and Bob rushed in carrying it, a tiger with head held high, proudly bearing prey. The sad little head and ears dangled on one side of his mouth, the adorable baby legs on the other. I ran to catch him and he dropped it at my feet. When I gathered the body up in a napkin, it was still warm and floppy. I wanted to cry.

“Damn you, “ said I, which was not the response he was looking for, even though I didn’t really push the regret and sadness I felt into the words. After all, he’s not a kid, he’s a cat, and, in his feline way, he truly meant to say "thank-you" for my return. I placed the corpse back outside on the porch. Bob followed and lay down beside it. He stretched out, head up, like a Serengeti predator relaxing with a fresh-caught antelope. As I gave him a quick stroke, I realized that like the LOTR’s Gollem, he’d brought “master” a lovely present.  

As Peter Jackson wrote for his Gollem: “Eat them! Eat them, they are young and tender!”

~~Juliet Waldron

Come, Time Travel with me

General Marsena Rudolph Patrick

In my research for my upcoming title, I Had Rather Die (please note the title change from previous blogs), about rape in the Civil War, I've come across many dark, heartbreaking stories. Oftentimes, the officers weren't as sympathetic to the women as one would have hoped. General Patrick was a notable exception. He was from New York and a graduate from West Point. Whether he was considered a good general by historians, I really don't know. My research was of a very different nature.

In 1864, Virginia, a woman had been raped by two men. She sought out General Patrick to report the crime. Through her tears, he listened to her story and promised that he would do whatever he could to bring the men to justice. At the same time, he wasn't hopeful of the outcome. In an army of over 100,000, he informed her that it would be difficult finding the men responsible for the attack.

He wrote in his diary:

There seemed to be no clew [sic] to the perpetrators, at first, but the leader could not keep away from the Spot, after the crime, & was the first to speak of it-- He was arrested & to make his own Story good, he had to tell of his comrade-- They were identified by the woman & her cousin...

As it turns out, not only were the men found guilty, they were among the few soldiers who received the death penalty for the crime of rape. Such a finding was rare during the era because few took the accusation of rape seriously. This is partly what impressed me about General Patrick. He went the extra mile to help a woman seek justice.

A couple of months after the execution, he rode out to the woman's house again to see how she was doing. She told him that they had a guard, so the soldiers didn't bother her much, "and she is now 'All Right'..."

An abridged version of General Patrick's diary with the title of Inside Lincoln's Army was published in 1964, but I sought out his actual diary at the Library of Congress. That's how I felt as if he had truly shared a piece of himself with me. His writing was detailed and eloquent. I wished I'd had the time to read all of it. More importantly though, I wished I had a way to thank him for taking a woman at her word and helping to bring the perpetrators to justice.

Kim Murphy
www.KimMurphy.net

Crone Yearning

Spring winds are sweeping

Trailing skeins of tundra swans

Radiant chevrons of stark beauty

Drawn North by magnetic mystery

I am walking more

Damaged muscles regaining proper cadence

My hungry heart yearns for open fields

 Distant trees, meandering river spirals

With the wings of a swan

I could be there now

Buoyant upon the living waters

Supple though the rippling weaving reeds

Stoicism: Exit Stage Right

          Remember the stoics?  Those guys in togas who sat on their front porches and solved the world’s problems in Ancient Greek?  They came up with the idea that avoiding hedonism and facing danger with a stiff upper lip would save them from… from…they thought that being stoic was a very good thing.

          I don’t know when or how I got the idea that bearing pain and not complaining and carrying the rubber plant on my poor little ant-back would make me… better? stronger?  less likely to end up in… in… that admitting pain and complaining were not very good things.

          I have gone through many years of being strong, and stoic and confident. I have perfected the art of masking pain, sorrow, and feelings of anxiety or indecision. In fact, at different times I have walked around with clinical depression, debilitating anxiety, slipped discs, badly sprained ankles, and rotator cuff tears that went unacknowledged. And I thought that was a good thing, until recently.

          I awoke one morning in December of 2012 with a nasty kink in my neck. It was a very tough month emotionally, and I figured the pain would go away along with the stress I was under at the time. Then it was February and my neck was still hurting. I made an appointment and informed my family doctor that my neck was terribly sore, and I probably needed physical therapy. It had worked well before! He said a few things about pain relievers and x-rays or MRI’s if necessary, but he agreed.

          I went to therapy twice a week for a month and a half with good intentions and a sunny attitude until last week.  I decided that all the exercising was great, the heat and stim and ultra-sound treatments were wonderful, but I was still, in fact, in pain. And I had had enough of that. I went back to my doctor and said that muscle relaxers might help quiet this one stubborn spot on the right side of my neck, and he mumbled some things about orthopedists and second opinions, but he agreed.

           Armed with a new attitude and my Doctor’s prescription, I walked into the physical therapy office and  told them I was not going to do everything they wanted as many times as they wanted today. And the fun began.

          “It sounds like we better start with the stim first. Then we have to evaluate your progress for the insurance company.”

“That evaluation is going to hurt,” I said. “I probably won’t be doing much after that.”

“Let’s wait and see what happens,” he said, followed by that smile that says he knows exactly what will happen.

“I won’t do much more, I don’t want to hurt myself.”

“Well, why don’t you just do some lifts, like this…”

          And so it went. I whined through the evaluation, even though I was secretly pleased with how well I did. I said I’d had enough after one rep when he had asked for three. I made faces, sighed, and did everything I could to signify my lack of cooperation short of stamping my feet and yelling “Waaaah,” like a 2-year old. Finally, I heard my name and laughter rippling up the hall through three therapists and two assistants. I had to ask.

“What’s so funny?”

“Michelle wants to know if you’d like some cheese to go with that whine.”

          And I really didn’t care! I laughed along, but secretly acknowledged to myself that I liked being kind to my body. It doesn’t deserve punishment any more than I deserve pain. In a younger state, I would have said, “she’s getting old and weak.” In fact, I am getting wise and more respectful of my body’s future. Healthy food, gentle exercise, relieving stress with yoga and meditation – these are finally becoming very high priorities. And right up with those is the refusal to tolerate pain.

          My proud immunity to weakness can Exit Stage Right. When I hurt, I will whine -- with or without the cheese.

Air Travel, 1950's

Pilot ready to go, DC-3

(You'll agree, a wonderful shot!)

I was young when we took our first trip to the British West Indies.  In those days, air travel wasn’t quite the routine it is today, and the air route to Bridgetown, Barbados, was not a single hop. One reason for this was that although jet planes had just entered the commercial sphere, travel to the West Indies was not the popular run-of-the-mill destination it is today. The piston-driven planes and prop jets on which we’d travel had top speeds of a mere 200-350 mph v. the 550 mph of true jets like the Boeing 707.

Vickers Viscount

 

We’d fly from Syracuse, New York on Allegheny Airlines to La Guardia, on a trusty DC-3 or one of the newer Convairs. Then, the next day, somehow or other—I remember, sometimes via small planes, taxis, and buses—we’d travel across NYC east to Idlewild (now JFK). From there, we’d fly to Bermuda, and then the long leg to San Juan, where we’d pick up flights that took us to Barbados.  Mom was an Anglophile, so we often traveled BOAC, (British Overseas Airlines Corp.) though sometimes we’d go Pan Am for that first long leg, flying in DC 6’s and 7’s, or on TWA on the famous “Super Connies” (Lockheed Constellations), whose stick-insect bodies and three vertical stablizers marked them out. 

 Super Constellation

My Dad had wanted to be an aeronautical engineer and he loved aircraft, so he always managed to have a few words with the pilot.   In those days, we could go up front and  look in at the flight deck, at the impressively uniformed pilot and co-pilot in their dial-and-gauge filled cockpit. Once on BOAC, we had a memorable ride from Idlewild to Puerto Rico on a Bristol Britannia, a 4 engine “whispering giant” turbo prop, which could fly with a top speed of 385 mph, and at the serene (and then remarkably pressurized) altitude of 20,000 feet. That was a real change from the noisy piston planes barging and bumping through turbulence and clouds. The older planes would drop for what seemed thousands of feet and then leap up again while still within a big cumulus, tossing overhead luggage down upon us and leaving our stomachs somewhere up on the ceiling. From those, we’d emerge almost deaf after so many hours of banging and rumbling.  

 DC-9

On the island hops, we’d be on feeder airlines again. BWI, British West Indian Airways, flew some Vickers Viscounts on the grand run from San Juan to Trinidad, Caracas and on into South America. Often, though, it was back to the good old DC 3’s again, where, lugging my carry-on, filled with books, teddies, a Swan Lake L.P. and sundries, I’d clamber up the steep rise of the gangway to find a window seat. Once in the air, I could see the islands and reefs surrounded by azure water and white caps, an astonishing change from the filthy frozen piles of snow we’d left behind in New York a mere 24 hours ago.

 

--Juliet Waldron

About the pictures:
 Love this image of boarding a plane, the way it used to be done, by lining up on the tarmak with luggage in hand. This appears to be a period shot of a DC-9, SAS. The Super Connie with her 3 tail stablizers appears to be in an air museum. It was a pretty singular looking plane.


Find more of my writing at:
http:www//julietwaldron.com

Insomniac #1

 

Art by Milosaur

 

It’s 11:11 p.m. Sometimes it’s 12:12 a.m. And other times it’s 3:33 or, maybe, it’s 4:56.  These are clock times which snag my imagination. They happen mostly the dark hours, when I wake up, check the time, shake my head and stagger off to the bathroom, or to let the cat out, or to wander around the house for a bit until my old joints unkink a little so I can go back to sleep. I suppose I shouldn’t waste time thinking about whether it means anything, but the problem is that during the 60’s I dabbled in numerology, and that even earlier, sitting on the floor to the off-stage right of a Barbadian bar, I read books about ancient aliens visiting earth, prehistoric collisions with Venus, or African tribes who knew all about the invisible-to-the-naked-eye-dwarf companion of the blue giant star, Sirius. I’ve been soaking in this other-worldly, one-brick-shy-of-a-load content since I was a post war child, with predictable results.

Whenever I wake up I always look at the clock, and because there is usually some variation of what I take to be a “meaningful” configuration, I’ve begun to imagine these are messages—from somewhere, about something. Don’t ask me what, although I’ve spent plenty of nights wondering.

Are these omens, messages from a hitherto uncommunicative universe? 

Will the TARDIS land in my bedroom?

Is something from some hideous Lovecraftian dimension with three toes and along snaky snout waiting just behind the door?

Is my ship—long awaited—about to come in?

Or is it all simply a series of unrelated events, just “random chaos ”(as one of my friends has it) business as usual on this particular plane?

 

 

 

 

Juliet Waldron

 

http://www.mozartswife.com

Dr. Clelia Mosher

Dr. Clelia Mosher was born during the height of the Civil War. Her master's thesis disproved the belief of the day that women only breathed from their chest, rather than their diaphragms. Her research showed that apparel, namely corsets, were responsible for the erroneous assumption, and women were not inferior to men.

Afterward, Mosher attended Johns Hopkins in order to pursue a medical degree. She turned her attention to the subject of menstruation. She created breathing exercises for women who suffered from painful menstruation. Once again, her research showed that common beliefs about women were wrong, and that women who failed to stay active while having their periods usually had worse pain.

In 1900, Mosher received her medical degree, and she opened a private practice. During an era with few female doctors, she struggled to get clients and finally accepted a research position at Stanford in 1910.

Dr. Mosher is best known for her unique research that she began in the late-nineteenth century and continued through 1920. She surveyed forty-five married women about health issues. The questions ranged from background, education, and how many children. More interestingly, the topics she examined also explored sexual practices and birth control. By no means is the study an exhaustive, scientific one. All of the women were from the North or West, most likely white, and well-educated, clearly biasing the sample selection. But the study lends an extraordinary rare glimpse inside Victorian life.

Contrary to the stereotype of frigid Victorian women, Mosher's survey revealed that most women enjoyed sex. The women responding to the survey varied as to what they knew about sex before marriage from nothing at all to having read advice manuals of the era. All but four (two refused to answer) women admitted to using some sort of birth control. In fact, the women weren't shy and 75 percent admitted to having orgasms.

For some unknown reason, the survey got buried and wasn't rediscovered until the mid-twentieth century. Dr. Mosher's sex survey was finally published in 1980, forty years after her death.

Kim Murphy
www.KimMurphy.net

Sacred Soundsharing

Have you ever wondered how certain combinations of sounds, in a voice, a song, even a written phrase can bring such deep pleasure that all of life seems somehow so much better, more alive, and more harmonious?  

In Celtic shamanic studies women and men learn the power inherent in words, in the ancient poetry and songs, in the repetitive beat of the drum, the spangle of the rattles and the call of the spirit animals. Some have been surprised to hear of the high degree of influence held in Ireland during ancient times by the migrant poet/bards for they could sway public opinion to or from the ruling monarch/ leaders of the scattered clans. Daily life circled through simple prayers of greeting the morning light, for lighting the hearth fires, for safe passage through to evening return. In the Celtic world view all of life was intertwined and sacred sounds wove through from beginning to end and then to start again, like a refrain sweet high and low.

Chanting, singing and the resonance of musical instruments can be found in spiritual ceremonies throughout human history, continuing to our present time. Cultural traditions and paraphernalia continue to migrate along with traveling people. In North America we enjoy open and easy access to Tibetan singing bowls, Irish bodhran drums, and a seemingly endless variety of music-making tools. Certain sounds open and expand our most inner core, alter our perceptions, and sometimes enable us to walk a lighter path.

The following is a variant of The Kalevala, a compilation of folklore poetry/ songs collected by Elias Lonnrot in the 19^th century. Previous to the effort of Lonnrot and many other history gatherers Finnish poetry was primarily an oral tradition. The poems were often performed by two people, singing alternatively, chanting and replying in a form of verbal dancing.

Kalevala Day is celebrated in Finland on February 28 to honour Elias Lonnrot's first version of The Kalevala in 1835.

I am thinking           I am wanting

To arise and go forth singing

Sing my songs and say my sayings        hymns ancestral harmonizing

Magic verses we have gathered                        kindled by wild inspirations

There are other words of magic                        variations I have learned

Claimed in passing from the wayside   when the frost was singing verses

Many a rhyme the rain recited           with the drumming in the leaves

Other poems the wind delivered        through the saplings songs came drifting

Magic charms the birds have added     and the treetops incantations

There are still other songs           magic words learned in silence

Plucked from the wayside           broken off from the bracken

Torn from thickets             dragged from saplings

Rubbed off the top of hay           ripped from verges

The cold recited me verses          the rain kept bringing me songs

The winds brought me many whispers            lake waves drove some to me

The birds added harmonies        the trees magic sayings

These I wound up in a ball           arranged in a circle

I put it up in the granary loft       safe in a round metal tin

For a long time my songs have been in the cold       housed in darkness

Shall I pull my songs out of the cold?   Draw the verses out of the frost?

Bring my box into the quiet house?      At the end of the long bench?

Shall I open my chest of words?                        Unlock my song box?

Clip the frayed end of the tangled ball?           Undo the knot in the string?

I will sing from a leaner mouth              intone over water

To gladden this twilight                to honour this memorable day

Or to delight the morrow                        to begin a new day

In honour of all the individuals who find magical power in sounds and do the sacred work of gathering and translating the old words and music, making them available for others