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It is a whirlwind in here

Alison Alexandra And Amanda Ponder A Seaman’s Help For A Storm At Sea

“It is a dark and stormy night.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.”

“But it could be.”

“Could it – if it isn’t?”

“Oh – I think so.”

“Well … maybe – possibly.”

“Oh – think of the possibilities.”

“On such a night?”

“Yes.”

“In such darkness?”

“Yes.”

“With a storm raging.”

“Oh – such a storm.”

“Putting us at the whims of the ocean toss.”

“Tossing our good barque – yes.”

“Will Ellerton save us?”

“Ellerton has his other duties to the safekeeping of the ship.”

“He won’t come knocking with his manly hand upon the door?’

“No.”

“Not to direct us to our lifeboat station?”

“If he comes knock knock knocking with his manly hand upon my door, he won’t find me there.”

“He will get no response to his manly knock?”

“No.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I will be in here with you.”

“On a dark and stormy night?”

“Yes.”

“Then he will come to knock knock knock on my door.”

“Yes. With his manly hand.”

“And will I answer?”

“Will you wish him to join us beneath the covers?”

“Oh – I think so. Do you?”

“Yes – I think so.”

“Then I will answer his manly hand and ask him to come in and he will say that the door is locked and I will say then use your master key and he will ask if I am sure and I will say …”

“What?”

“I will whisper to you for your assent that he is supposed to join us.”

“I will so consent.”

“Then I will most firmly and directly answer that he can come in and he will enter and we will hear the door open and  he will comment about how dark the room is and I will tell him to follow my voice and we will hear him close the door and …”

“What?”

“Won’t you be nervous?”

“I’ll be expectant, which is a positive nervous.”

“Then I will guide him with my voice.”

“What will you say?”

“I’ll ask you for your advice.”

“And what will he think when he hears both of our voices together?”

“He will think he is in heaven.”

“And he will be.”

“Yes.”

“Then I will advise you to tell him that, since there is a storm -“

“On a dark night.”

“Yes – that is, of course, the basis of it – to tell him that he better have his sea legs steady to cross the room so he can firmly handle two damsels in distress.”

“He must be firm?”

“Oh – yes – I think so. As firm as firm can be. Don’t you think that should be his preexisting state?”

“When he reaches the bed?”

“Yes.”

“Then – yes – Yes, I think so also.”

“And we will give him an appropriate welcome and make room for him on the perhaps-not-quite-wide-enough bed and he will say ‘no-no, I think I should be in the middle if I am to tend to you both, and ease your minds about the storm in the night’, and you will say – “

“ – what?”

“Then you will move closer to the edge of the bed and you will say ‘climb over me, Ellerton, for there is now space for you’, and when he carefully climbs across you …”

“ – what?”

“Then you will find out if he is indeed firm as firm can be to handle both of our needs.”

“And if he is?”

“Then you and me will go paper/scissors/rock in the dark to see whose needs are tended to first.”

[Image] https://i.ytimg.com/vi/EGpZwUV7IXs/maxresdefault.jpg

Ghosts At Sea Make Sailors Sing A Song

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And the wind is whistling past the  graveyard and past the land and past the sea and past the ships upon the sea and past the sailors upon the decks and in the companionways, tethered by their ropes and harnesses and heaving their axes and mauls against the shattering ice coating their still upright ships and even here even in this peculiar time the sailors revert to their age-old method of coping with their labours at sea and the perils of the sea and they break out into thunderous shanties – yes, even thunderous enough to best and beat the thunderous wind and crashing waves – that tell of wind and waves and women and graveyards and ghosts and the whistling that is supposed to keep the ghosts at bay, and, keep the bodies beneath the ground.

“Heave ‘er to, boys/

“Heave ‘er to and smash her down/

“Get the rhythm, boys/

“Get the rhythm so we won’t drown//

“It’s girls or ghosts, boys//

“Girls or ghosts that we next meet/

“Smash that ice boys/

“If you want our meeting sweet.”

“They’re singing about you,” says Alison Alexandra.

“And you, too,” says R/Jane-the-Ghost. “And I don’t mind if you’re the one to win.”

“It’s the wind, boys/

“Screaming like Banshees from Hell//

“Give ‘er Hell, boys/

“Or that’s where we will dwell.”

(Image) https://www.stives-cornwall.co.uk/wp/wp-content/uploads/Sea-shanty.jpg

Ghosts And Spirits And Satan Filled My Week

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Seven days have been bracketed by the supernatural – beyond my control but probably through my encouragement.
In my current novel, seven characters are telling ghost stories to wile away the Pandemic. I’m on ghost story number five.
This is a verified event, and I have been to the location. Because it is so well known I have done a lot of research on it before I started writing the story. And, about half way through my story, the following happened.
I knew two women who lived together decades ago, and both were demonstrably clairvoyant – I had absolutely no doubts. I haven’t seen either of them for years, but I thought of them as folk I’d like to talk to in my Mary Ellen  ghost/poltergeist quest. Then up popped an email from one of them, telling me the other had died, and sending her Obit. Wheels within wheels from the Otherside.  And then, immediately in the next email I received, was further information from a source I had been querying, concerning Mary Ellen. Pushing and shoving from the Otherside?
Eventually, my main research was to try and find if Mary Ellen lived out a normal life, or died in an Insane Asylum as many sources said.
Then, two days ago, I got an email with the subject heading “Mouseport Obit”. Now, I did a slow double take, as I had not heard that name for a long time. “Mouseport” was the name I chose when these two ladies got a cat. It was kinda a double pun on “Mosport ( Canada’s first permanent motor racing facility, built about 50 years ago) and  a ‘port’ for ‘mice’. One of the comments on the Obit page, was from a person who talked about Mouseport (obviously a different cat, but the name had been retained). So you never know where your puns are going to go.
At the time I got this email, I was still searching for further information, but I had started using a different search engine – Duckduckgo. I did come across sites I had not before seen, and queried a couple of them.
Late last night, I received a definitive (as much as one can get) from an author who had done deep research about the end of Mary Ellen’s life. As suggested by many other sources (which said she ended up in “Upper Canada”), this author (who had actually talked to a nephew of Mary Ellen) had found that Mary Ellen had moved to Sudbury and operated a Boarding House until her death.
So, I’m going to say I had help in my research from diverse sources.
Monday I will get back to continuing the short story.

What Goes Up Does Not Necessarily Come Down

This is a story told to me by a lawyer who seemed to be pondering his future. I do admit I have embellished what, originally, had barer bones. And – perhaps – I assumed too much

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“Have you ever been in the train station at Place Ville Marie in Montreal? The escalators that come up by the Queen Elizabeth Hotel.  I had a lot of travel to get to work when I lived in Montreal, and made train and bus connections.

“One morning – a Thursday – as I was going up the escalator, I saw a girl coming down from the street. She had short red hair, and a green skirt with a white blouse. Coming down that escalator, with that wide space between us. She was looking at me the way I was looking at her – interest and excitement and whatever potential that leads to. We stared into each others eyes as we came level, and craned to look back as we passed.

“That was stupid enough. I should have jumped that barrier, or at least gone down after her. But I had a job, and was young, and things like that just don’t happen.

“Next morning, even though I was looking for her, and hoping so much, I couldn’t have been more shocked by a ghost. when I saw that red hair. She had that same look – of shock.

“God, to be so unsure of what to do, and stupid to the ways of the world, and even to have that stabbing thought that it can happen again tomorrow. We stared and stared, you could almost feel electricity between us. At the top I waited as long as I dared, hoping she would come up. I had to get my bus. I just jumped it as it was pulling away.

“That was a Friday. I sweated through the weekend, full of grand plans about telling her to wait, or to come up to me, or yelling my phone number. She wasn’t there, of course – on Monday or any other day. I looked the rest of the summer, then it was back to university.

“I mean, to be given one chance like that and waste it. But two. I’ve never forgotten, even now with a wife and kids, I wonder what might have been.

[Image] https://thumbs.dreamstime.com/b/retro-style-escalator-4759569.jpg

God And The Elephant Talk About Beauty

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    The elephant was standing in the rain, enjoying the rivulets which streamed along the creases of his skin.

     It was cleansing and refreshing, and he occasionally flapped his huge ears, causing a small waterfall. The birds and monkeys kept a safe distance.

     “You’ll be creating your own weather system,” said the cloud, which was part of the larger cloud covering the whole sky. “Trunk squalls and violent ear showers.”

     “Just a portion of your abilities,” said the elephant.

     “Part of something is part of everything,” said the cloud. “I don’t do my works on my own.”

     “A humble part,” said the elephant.

     “Humble neither in might nor main,” said God. “That would be the estimation of most of my species – both animal and plant.”

     “I feel humble.”

     “You are humble,” said God. “But I don’t want you to feel humble.”

     “Excuse me?”

     “I want you to realize how wonderful, how exciting, how important – how equal – everything around you is. The blade of grass you eat; the stream from which you drink; the ants under your feet who keep the earth healthy; the butterflies who make the plants grow.”

     “The butterflies are beautiful.”

     “They’re all beautiful.”

     “I’m not so sure about the ants,” said the elephant.

     “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” said God. “And I behold everything.”

Kafka Ponders The Past And The Ghosts

 

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In Kafka In The Castle I fill in Kafka’s missing diary entries. It is believed that many of the gaps in his real diaries, he removed and destroyed.

14 March 1918

The past.

 And again the past.

Why can we not be rid of that which – moreso than practically anything else in life – is gone?

I am not even sure what I get from memories. Why do I stroll along the road, reach some humble heights, and imagine (by glancing in a particular direction) I can be closer to a person or event? For even if I reached that place, there would be nothing to recapture.

I am not the me of then.

Swimming in the lake; living in a shack by the shore; climbing the mountain. None of these would mean the same to me as they did.

Even if the Swiss girl were present, and had a new song. The new me – the new she – the new us, would be swamped by our old ghosts, making comparisons no two humans could defeat.

I think the ghosts are such, she could right now walk up beside me – yes, even singing her lively song – and remain unnoticed.

The Ghosts Tread Heavy In This Time Of Pandemic

o-ghosts-facebook

There are a lot more ghosts

Now

Than there were before.

The earth,

And the heavens (of course),

Heavy

With ghosts.

Weighted down with

The new/old arrivals.

There are ghosts behind the ghosts.

There are legions of the dead,

Lined up to peer

Over my shoulder.

They breathe with satisfaction,

Upon the hand

That writes the word

Ghosts.

The millions of departed,

Disturb the air enough,

To stir the hair,

On my moving wrist.

They keep a place in line,

Patiently waiting,

For me to join them.

[Image] https://s-i.huffpost.com/gen/1315880/images/o-GHOSTS-facebook.jpg

Kafka Stands On Both Sides Of The Mirror

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{Image of Kafka by Kafka}

In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the lost (or destroyed) diary entries of Franz Kafka. He recorded many of his dreams. So I give his some, too..

**************

04 March 1917

I dreamed I was a prophet. The prophet Amshel, which is my Jewish name.

And, I could talk to God.

And I was looking at myself in the mirror.

And I was looking back at me. I mean, Franz was in the mirror, looking back at me – the me of Amshel – who was looking in the mirror. Except, I was as much me looking out, as I was me looking in.

The wall behind the prophet was painted red, while the one behind Franz was of brown wood. They both could raise their fists at each other, and sometimes did. In unison, of course. That was the law.

“Certainly, you may speak to God,” said Franz. “What is there in that? Everyone speaks to God – in sentences, in actions, with their lives. No one is more talked-to in the Universe than God. But what a prophet needs, is to have God speak back.”

And then God spoke, from somewhere behind the mirror, but He did not speak to Amshel. He spoke to Franz.

“You are on the wrong side,” said God.

“Speak to me,” said Amshel.

“Wrong side of what?” asked Franz.

“Of the mirror,” answered God.

“Don’t speak to him,” shouted Amshel. “He is from the world of vipers.” And Amshel raised his fist, but Franz had to hold up his fist in turn.

“I am not the prophet you seek,” said Franz, and pointed his finger at the mirror. “There is your prophet.” And Amshel was also pointing toward the glass.

“Not him – you don’t want him.” He then turned his hand toward himself. “I’m the one you want.”

But Franz was just as vehement, as his thumb arched toward his own chest. “Not me.” For emphasis, he placed his hand over his heart. “In this, God, you have erred.”

And his words echoed those of Amshel, who also had his hand upon his heart. “In this, God, you have erred.”

And the two faces stared at one another, their fingers clutching at the garments they wore.

But God was silent.

Another Ghost And Another Ghost House For A Haunting

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I am again knee-deep (or is that grave deep) in ghosts. This time it is for my new novel, There Was A Time, Oh Pilgrim, When The Stones Were not So Smooth

To keep in the mood (though, in truth, I can barely get out of it) I’ll re-post this ghost house segment.This house was at least standing, while the one Alison Alexandra is visiting is barely a hole in the ground.

However, Alison Alexandra is not going to get away as easily.

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From: He Lives In The City/He Drives To The Country

  It had been a house of dreams, it was now a house of ghosts.

   Ghosts tranquil and benign peered through the dusty upper windows, stood in wait behind the boarded doors. The dreams of long ago, which had tumbled down the stairs, and frolicked through the rooms, were now memories in the minds of ghosts.     

   The ghosts were themselves memories, destined to further fade with each new birth. But there would be no births in this house, as it slid inexorably toward decay. The lackluster brown shingles would be more smudged, the remaining panes of old glass would break, the floors would warp and collapse, the unkept roof would succumb to the years of harsh weather. 

     Even the `No Trespass’ sign was barely legible. Then where would the ghosts go?

     Blaine left his car and walked toward the house. 

     If he had eyes to see, who would be there to greet him?  Would children’s dreams, fair-haired and boisterous, burst through the front door and surround him in games of tag and laughter?  Would he get caught by their enthusiasm (would he become a child himself), and race behind the trees, burrow into the hay, hide between the bins of potato and turnip, intent not to be `it’. 

     Or would he meet the ghosts, quiet and tentative at the top of the steps, moving slowly with their uncertain smiles. Would they greet him with a wave, invite him into their warm-smelling kitchens, offer him fresh tea, and squares right out of the pan?  Would he sit in the stream of fall sunlight flowing across the well-oiled floor, and talk about childhood?

     Blaine walked part way up the drive before he stopped.

     He knew what lay beyond the boarded windows, and the sagging door upon its rusty hinges. Wallpaper would be water-stained, and curling off the plaster walls. There would be lumps of refuse in the corners of the rooms, with one inevitable rusty bedframe lying on its side. There would be gaps in the ceiling, where beams of sunlight shimmered through motes of dust. There would be holes in the baseboards, where earnest rodents made comfortable homes.

     There would be musty smells offering a hint of long-ago meals, and something gone bad in the pantry. There would be one upper window (at the back) which still had a tattered lace  curtain, half obscuring what had once been totally private. At night he would hear bats.

     It was not this house he had come to see, of course. Of course, not this derelict house, which he knew could never be restored, and which was so beyond help even death slept while visiting. 

[image]  http://www.parl.ns.ca/maryellenspook/gallery2/farm1.jpg

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