cat people tarot

Ace of Wands: Creation. Beginning. Invention. Start of an undertaking. Fortune. Enterprise. Gain. Inheritance. Birth of a child. Beginning of a meaningful experience. An adventure. Escapade.

Three of Wands (Virtue): Practical knowledge. Business acumen. Enterprise. Negotiations. Trade, Commerce.

September 11th

Just when I’m thinking it couldn’t get any worse, the date creeps on me and I realize there are people who have suffered in much worse ways, like having to choose between jumping to a certain death and incinerating in an office building. So perhaps I shouldn’t sit here and feel sorry for myself anymore.

Too Much Information

When I swore I’d never write about this, I guess I lied.
The part of it that none of you will ever understand, that I can never explain, is how much it hurt. The absolute bloocurdling, mindsplitting, unfathomable pain of my guts spilling out into my body cavity and my spine all but snapped in half and still somehow I’m struggling to get on my feet, I’m smiling, I’m politely asking to be allowed to just go to sleep, just for one minute, and I’m fading fast and my blood pressure’s dropped to almost zero and I cannot wrap my head around how much it hurts. I think I’m going to go mad, I think I’m going to split in two. The human nervous system is not equipped to process this sort of pain. And yet there I was, coherent and reasonable and asking softly if please they could just let me close my eyes, if please they could just put me under. And they’re begging me, pleading with me to stay awake, because if I close my eyes I might never wake up and I think at some point my mind just snapped. I don’t think I really came back to my senses for months after that. I don’t know if I ever really came all the way back at all. Apparently I was moments away from dying. I was bleeding to death. I somehow stayed awake until the operating table where they cut my skirt off even though they’d already cleaned the surgical area, presumably for dramatic effect. And there on the operating table, on my deathbed, I was yelling at them about ruining my good black skirt and then I begged them again to put me under and this time they did and I woke up sore and disoriented in a dull morphine haze in a hospital bed, still not really getting it. I asked if I could go back to school the next day. Two months and most of a vital organ later, I would emerge from my Chrysalis a torn and jaded moth and all I could think about was at least I would be thin now because that’s the sort of fucked up thing a teenage girl thinks of at times like that. Like I’d won some sort of liposuction lottery or something. But jesus holy fuck I could never even begin to explain how much it hurt. I myself can’t fathom it. It just fucking hurt so bad. It isn’t the nearly dying or the isolation or the uncertainty of the thing that got to me. I’ve known a number of people who’ve faced death or been sick or been traumatized. But I’ve never known another soul who could understand how much it hurt. It just fucking hurt so badly. I hope I’ve described it inadequately because I wouldn’t wish that kind of suffering on anyone, even a pale ghost of it. But I’ve never committed it to print until now and I wonder if it’ll somehow help me to do so. They always say write what you know and maybe this is what I know better than anything. So there it is. It hurt. It just fucking hurt. It hurt so bad. I can’t begin to tell you how much it hurt…wow, that feels better somehow.

So, um, have a nice day?
Sorry about all that.
Lalalalala…

I don’t know where that came from. I’m not even having a particularly bad day or anything. It just worked itself up out of some long buried scar tissue and – there it is. Funny how the human mind works. I don’t think I ever even really remembered what it exactly felt like until just now. I mean obviously I had some idea it had been unfathomably painful, but I hadn’t quite remembered the details of it in quite so intricate a matter.Kind of surprised at myself, actually.

Slave House

When I was ten, visiting the ancestral familial stomping grounds of the Southern Illinois-Kentucky border, I was taking to visit the following “tourist attraction.” I don’t know if it’s haunted or not. I just know the horror of it is absolutely chilling. The absolute worst of what mankind can inflict on mankind. The stalls where they lived were dark and cold and had no room to sit or lay down – they slept standing. They were bred like horses. Anyone who can walk into that place and not feel crushing sadness and horror and guilt at being part of a species who could do this to itself is an inhuman monster indeed.

Old Slave House: Cries, whimpers of a haunted past

Oct 30 2001 12:00AM By

By MARY KAYE DAVIS Register-News

ALTON – Troy Taylor, president of the American Ghost Society, says one of his favorite haunted spots in Illinois is Hickory Hill – better known to many Southern Illinois residents as the Old Slave House. The Slave House closed to the public in 1996 and has been purchased by the state of Illinois. Plans call for the home to open as a state historic site in the near future. Hickory Hill was built in 1842 by John Hart Crenshaw. In those days, it was illegal to own slaves in Illinois, but because it was so difficult to find anyone to work the brutal salt mines of Saline County, it was allowed that slaves could be leased from other states to work in Illinois, according to information from Taylor. Crenshaw owned several salt tracts and began to put slaves to work. He initiated a scheme that would bring him more money than the salt mines could offer, devising a plan to kidnap free blacks and put them to work in the salt mines. He also sold the free blacks back to slave owners in the South, creating a reverse “underground railroad,” Taylor said. When the house was completed, Crenshaw added a few touches, such as having a carriage door that opened directly in the house so slaves could be taken up a secret passage directly to the attic. The slaves were kept In the attic at night and, some say, subjected to brutal torture. According to the stories, there was also an underground tunnel that led from the basement to the river, where slaves could be loaded at night. Crenshaw devised another plan, historians say. He wanted to create slaves of his own, so he selected a slave for his size and stamina, then had the man breed more slaves. This man, known as Uncle Bob, was said to have fathered as many as 300 children. He lived until age 112, dying in 1948. Taylor describes the attic at Hickory Hill as a chamber of horrors. A dozen small cells had bars on the windows and contained iron rings where shackles could be bolted to the floors. The air was stifling because there was only a small window at each end of the attic; a whipping post was also located there. In 1842, Crenshaw was brought to trial for selling a free family into slavery, but the case couldn’t be proven until after the trial was over. Crenshaw’s slave-trading days were over, however. He died in 1871. Many years later, Crenshaw’s house was opened as a tourist attraction, and tourists reported hearing strange noises coming from the attic – noises which sounded like cries and whimpers, along with rattling chains. An “exorcist” from Benton, Hickman Whittington, wrote an article about the house in the local newspaper. Whittington was in perfect health when he visited the mansion, but later in the evening he fell violently ill, dying hours later. As the years passed, no one would dare spend a night in the house’s attic, but in the late 1960s, two soldiers who saw action in Vietnam ran screaming from the house, reportedly after being surrounded by ghostly shapes. The owner refused to let any more visitors in the home after dark, but in 1978 he relented and let a Harrisburg reporter named David Rodgers spend the night. Despite hearing a lot of strange noises, Rodgers beat out 150 previous challengers to become the first to brave the night in the attic. Taylor said he’d asked a former owner if he believes the house is haunted. The former owner said he’d never encountered a ghost in the home, but his wife hadn’t been so lucky. And she refused to set foot in the former slaves’ quarters.

(detritus)(dream)(poetica)(myth)(opinion)(divination)

Laborday Blues (detritus)

Half drunk still, he lurked in the shadows and I stood in the doorway and he said I looked like Tori Amos “in a cool and beautiful way” but the camera had a low battery so this can be neither confirmed nor denied. Still I felt the need to preserve it for posterity. Vain and selfish creature that I am. Sometimes men who you know don’t love you are the ones who are most complimentary. And certainly you can trust them more. But holy fuck I’d have paid good money to hear a thing like that. Last week I found my keys and the remote control and I felt as if I’d won the lottery. I am a woman of simple delights. Every day, when I fail to wake up dead, I am grateful, except on the days that I wish I was dead which are thankfully sporadic in number mostly. Life is a mess but such a happy chaotic mess all the same. Love is what radiates from my girls’ rosy faces and lights up their eyes.Sweetness is a name for refusing to let the assholes that make up the general population get you down. Politics are overrunning my television. Fuck the fucking fascist regime. Vive le France and God Save The Queen and there’s no future and England’s dreaming. Vive le revolution. The answer my friend is blowing in the wind. Just vote and vote justly. I am a simple woman of simple joys but I’ll be damned if I sign my rights away to the corporate oligarchy this November. It’s labor day. Which means. Respect the working man! Fight for justice! Support your fellow man! It was never meant to be a day of picnics and white sales. Read Michael Moore today or listen to Jello Biafra or register to vote. Do something, damnit! It’s not too late (says the eternal optimist…)Just. Do it. Right Now.

thank you and good night

“If I Should Fall From Grace”

This is a documentary about Shane MacGowan about what a lyrical genius and an unrepentant drunk he is, and it’s just f’ing awesome, I must say. Cameo appearance/interview segments with the fabulous Mr. Nick Cave abound. There’s a bonus sing-along feature and an interesting little outtake of Shane peeing in the bushes. Klassy with a Kapital “K.”

Also rented “The Last Seduction” which was noirishly badass and I’d somehow never gotten around to seeing. And some Japanime because I’m a bit of a geek. No tentacles, though.

My latest read was exquisite in its fashion: “Idlewild” by Nick Sagan (son of Carl.)
Like “The Matrix” with shades of “The Breakfast Club.”

Other joys of late:

A “new” old Pernice brothers CD found at Barnes and Noble before my cash ran out for the week.

Latte from Caffe Nation, complete with an encounter with an old acquaintance that keeps popping up randomly every couple of years.

Peach pie and Beamish Stout at the Congress Street Grill (unofficial motto: exquisite diner cuisine cuisine served with a sneer)along with nibbles of Lizzie’s “gianormous” pancakes.

But number one on my list has been the joy of manning the front desk today, so I have leisure to read and websurf and post. It’s like a vacation on the job, except for those occasional pesky callers…

(detritus)(dream)(poetica)(myth)(opinion)(divination)