My 54th Birthday this past Feb. 27th turned out to be much better than I had ever wished. I have to admit four years ago when I entered the fifth decade of my life that after the initial thrill of turning the Big 5-0 that if struck me that I had made it to the half century point in my life. Questions posed themselves in my mind as to what that meant to be a woman in her 50s. Then came a time of troubles—health challenges. Commands that my body easily obeyed at 25 seemed to take a hellava lot longer now. Suddenly I had a new “boyfriend” named Arthur Itis. He woke me up in the morning. Followed me around all day long and keep me company at night. In fact he was more attentive than guy I’d ever known. Creaking joints Snapped, Crackled and Popped more than a bowl of Rice Krispies. I qualified for the titled of middle-aged Transformer. However by communicating with Transformers I’ve found ways to lessen the effects of that ill-mannered fellow Arthur and one day I hope to banish him completely from my life in favor a lover who inflicts less physical pain.
A few days after my Birthday I learned that my former company The Reader’s Digest is undergoing a Chapter 11 Reorganization. I received a letter in the mail to this effect which indicated phone numbers to call for more information. I learned will be able to collect my Reader’s Digest pension next year when I turn 55. Also I will be able get my annuity from United Way of New York City. Suddenly getting older is looking better and better each day. Now I’m counting down to February 27, 2014!!
Let’s face it money is a tool that gives us access to more options. Retirement. Once something way off in the distant future is a short five or six years away for me now. Pensions, annuities, retirement, together all mean freedom to pursue my passions, goals, and my deepest heartfelt desires with the means and time to do so. Doing my Happy Dance! Perhaps depending on the amount of money I receive I will be able to stop working full-time and just take a part-time job. More time to engage with my writing, my art, and my photography. More choices. Life rapidly expands to 55 flavors, way more than Baskin-Robbins without the stomach upset!! LOL!! A new confidence has arisen within my soul. Hell yeah!! It’s time for another Tattoo maybe an additional piercing to celebrate this great Victory!!
Fifty-Five is the magic number for pensions, annuities and senior housing. I’m not sure if you knew this but you can apply for Senior Housing in New York City at age 55. I plan on doing this next year. Now all my dreams are doable. I see light at the end of the tunnel. Next year I could actually travel on my vacation instead of staying home. Hallelujah!!
Another blessing in disguise is kind of silly but I’ll share it anyway. I’ve finally gone one entire year without having a menstrual cycle which means I’m now officially in Menopause. No more periods. No babies. No need to use birth control, of course I stopped using birth control years ago, but if I do meet a nice gentleman I no longer have to worry about becoming pregnant! Yeah!! Hip! Hip!! Hooray!! Naturally until I meet the right man I’ll continue to be celibate. Another good thing about being a woman in her 50s is that I’m no longer controlled by my libido or my hormones. I’ve become more selective and celibacy is an option that I will continue to embrace while still finding joy with my physical body and my enhanced sexuality as an older woman.
Financially Free, sexually free with time to engage in meaningful activities and relationships. Being in my 50s does not mean less than but more than ever. An elevation to a higher level of living. A greater share in life’s blessings.
The Younger Women are my Sisters and my Daughters. The barriers of race, religion, ethnicity, all fall before the face of Love. The Veil has been lifted and we all Rise as one. Daughters and Sisters My Purpose is to uplift you. Truly My Heart belongs and stands with the Sisters of Zion. The daughters of Tamar shall be desolate no longer. A Mother over Israel has come to Redeem them back to the fold. Under Her Wings she shall find peace and rest for her weary soul. For I hear the Great Archangel Gabrielle blowing her trumpet calling forth the exiled women summoning them back to Eden.
because more are the children of the desolate woman
than of her who has a husband,”
says the Lord.
2 “Enlarge the place of your tent,
stretch your tent curtains wide,
do not hold back;
lengthen your cords,
strengthen your stakes.
3 For you will spread out to the right and to the left;
your descendants will dispossess nations
and settle in their desolate cities.
Deborah – A Judge over Israel
Judges 4:4-5
New King James Version (NKJV)
4 Now Deborah, a prophetess, the wife of Lapidoth, was judging Israel at that time.5 And she would sit under the palm tree of Deborah between Ramah and Bethel in the mountains of Ephraim. And the children of Israel came up to her for judgment.
Judges 5:7
New King James Version (NKJV)
7 Village life ceased, it ceased in Israel,
Until I, Deborah, arose,
Arose a mother in Israel.
Listen to my voice. Listen to the sound of my voice.
Leda & Radu
Leda began her hair color ritual in the usual way. She carefully laid out the tools of her trade on the bathroom sink and the top of the commode. Being a small bathroom there was not much space but Leda made do within her sanctuary. Hair color, towels, mirror, comb, gloves, check. Now Leda was ready. Using a wide tooth comb she divided her thick unruly curls into sections applying even amounts of color first to her roots then all the way through to the ends. Pulling the comb through her mane Leda envisioned Radu’s well groomed hands entangling themselves within the kinks and knaps of mother Africa all the while gently massaging her scalp and kissing the nape of her neck. Leda massaged the remaining color through her tangled tresses then set the timer for 25 minutes walking the short distance to her bedroom to meditate while the process worked its magic.
During the 25 minutes of meditation Leda visualized her lover Radu sitting next to her on the bed speaking softly and gently in his Eastern European accent all the while kissing her brows, the bridge of her nose and finally her lips. She could feel the bristle of his closely manicured beard against her face all the while falling into a deep blend of olive skin intermingled from Slavic, Romanian, Turkish and Macedonian blood lines. From his lips issued the voices of ancient Kings worshipping the Queens of Africa, Sheba and Candace.
He sometimes stopped to look deeply into her eyes mentally willing the both of them to become one flesh.
Suddenly the buzz of the timer interrupted her reverie and off she went to turn on the shower preparing to rinse out the excess color treatment. As Leda stepped under the powerful flow of the water Radu’s spirit stepped in with her and they were transported to the thunder of Caribbean waterfalls, enveloped in thunder of the cascading streams. Radu’s hands were like the streams of water entering into every sensitive place of her temple. She could feel his lips and hands as they worked their way down from her neck, breasts to that soft mound of flesh above her pubic area where he loved to rest his head after a night of lovemaking. Water and color ran down over all the nooks and crannies of her curves.
Ring, ring, ring, the sound of the phone brought Leda out of her fantasy and quickly toweled off and managed to answer before the machine kicked in.
“Ello Layda. I just arrived at JFK. Taking a taxi to your place. See you in a few minutes.”
Leda rejoiced. Her fantasy was about to become real. Her Lover was almost home. Her thoughts wandered to a romantic tryst in the hot tub at their friends chalet.
“Oh, why have your people forced on me the name of Pauline Johnson? Was not my Indian name good enough? Do you think you help us by bidding us forget our blood? By teaching us to cast off all memory of our high ideals and our glorious past? I am an Indian. My pen and my life I devote to the memory of my own people. Forget that I was Pauline Johnson, but remember always that I was Tekahionwake, the Mohawk that humbly aspired to be the saga singer of her people, the bard of the noblest folk the world has ever seen, the sad historian of her own heroic race.”
Nobody knows my name or the real me except Jesus and him alone. Some ancestors unwillingly pulled from the breast of Mother Africa the others walked the “Trail of Tears”. Both had forced upon them the indoctrination of Euro-centric Christianity to the detriment of each noble culture.
A few months ago I traced my maternal ancestry back to Mozambique. When I made that discovery something in my spirit clicked and I knew that one day I had to return to the birthplace of my Great, great, great, great, great Grandmother, her birth name lost to time and eternity. Other ancestors born in this great land have yet to be revealed. Many times I wonder, “What was my African and/or Native American name.” The names of Finney, Halstead, Gordon, Palmer were all given by some distant slave-owner. Who were they and who were they 500 years ago?
Like Tekahionwake I live my dichotomy every day even in my spiritual life wondering about the respective faiths of my African and Native American ancestors. Thinking about how their own unique worship was torn asunder only to be replaced by a Euro-centric “Christian” god who relegated them to a lesser status, below that of their European captors.
Children of an accursed Ham? (Genesis 9:20–27) I think not for the descendents of the great Realm of Ethiopia have risen again to the rightful place in the Diaspora.
Matthew 12:42
New King James Version (NKJV)
42 The queen of the South will rise up in the judgment with this generation and condemn it, for she came from the ends of the earth to hear the wisdom of Solomon; and indeed a greater than Solomon is here.
The cries of my people would not be extinguished. The voices of my Native American ancestors called to me for redemption. Through an experiment called Carlisle Indian Industrial School History, really internment in re-culturalization concentration camps Richard Henry Pratt sought to erase the cultural identity of Kiowa, Cheyenne, Arapaho and other tribes through forcing children into complete immersion in Eurocentric culture and identity, effectively erasing their own. Take away a person’s language and belief systems, telling them that how God created them was wrong and had to be fixed only serves to create indwelling images of self-hatred within those lost children. If eradicating my indigenous and African American culture, traditions, ethnicity and exchanging them for dominant white culture will I be closer to God? Will Jesus accept me in this new form?
As I gaze in the mirror as many Native Americans did 150 years ago neither my face nor my features as God made them can be erased. The efforts on the part of European conquerors failed. Nor were the colonizers able to erase the connection to the Great Spirit as he was known long before the white man touched our shores.
White man you tell me that only your version of Jesus can save my soul and deliver me from sin. And just what is my sin? Being born with a brown face, high cheek bones, full lips, long flowing Jet Black hair or locs that rise to kiss the sun. Does my sin lie in the dances my people perform to honor my ancestors and Mother Earth who gives us all sustenance? Am I or my ways at fault because we revere Nature as opposed to destroying the land, fouling the waters, polluting the environment in a never ending obsession to conquer, convert and control? Now who is the savage? Who is the so-called heathen?
Oh European who comes bearing the sign of the cross who is this God of yours that lifts up your customs and traditions but disparages mine? He is not the Jesus depicted in your Old Master paintings from Italy, Spain, France or the Flemish Masters. No, more than likely he was a swarthy man with kinky dark woolly hair, skin darkened by constant exposure to the sun. Jesus was someone whose looks paralleled the populations most of the indigenous tribes of Africa, North and South America.
Revelation 1:14-15
New King James Version (NKJV)
14 His head and hair were white like wool, as white as snow, and His eyes like a flame of fire; 15 His feet were like fine brass, as if refined in a furnace, and His voice as the sound of many waters;
We Sisters and Brothers from what you named the “Third World” now know that Jesus came for us just as we are. God accepts us in all the richness with which he created us. We Black and Brown followers have redefined and returned Christianity to its original intent and meaning.
No longer do we walk the “Trail of Tears” or the Via Dolorosa. Now we stand together arm in arm marching onward to Zion that beautiful city of God taking our place among those who have been redeemed.
Many female legs responding to my erotica stories on Leda Huguette. The leggs in the forefront wish to befriend me. Along with the set of legs on both sides of yellow sister are going to develop wings on their feet and shoulders whereby I can climb up and fly away. We would all lay and caress for hours until a moan escaped and we’d have an excuse to clothe ourselves once more.
Rainbow Leggs
However before such fleet footed appendages appear at their ankles and upon their shoulder blades I tell them there is more way more in underground New York City that they must see. After plying with some of the most perfect Raki ever drunk in Turkey or the rest of Eastern Europe it doesn’t take much convincing on my part that the Troll Market was a must see in terms of underworld tourist sites.
Lilith meet us in Ankara through the bustling city streets and into the building where she and Dagmar labored insensibly through the day. In Ankara officials were often willing to over look necessary paperwork and allowed other documents not as urgently need to be stamped and passed through the never ending red tape.
Dagmar and me around her rather crowded but well organized laboratory. The results of all her experiments were catalogued and contained within glass jars abodes. Encased in one small silicate abode was a petite ballerina, her silk tutu just a bit longer than normal but still short enough that one could see the hair extending over her tiny delicate hooves. She performed an elegant pirouette to Pachelbel’s “Canon in D Major”. Each hoof nail was painted a bright pastel pink further enhancing her feminine qualities which could have been overshadowed by her animal lower half.
The Proposal
Stepping from the filthy foul smelling streets we were ushered into exotic elaborately decorated quarters decorated with expensive Persian rugs, medieval tapestries, silk draperies hung upon windowless walls, tables adorned with Tiffany lamps. A subtle scent of incense permeated the airways. The decorations seemed incongruous yet harmonized together in an irregular yet pleasing manner. Palatial taste a bit ostentatious like a Renaissance bordello. The furnishings were highly articulated and faceted Baroque/Rococo objects, many with deep gouges and gashes suggesting transparency and interior penetration. This room and much of the house as well as the street urchins who passed through seemed to us an Orientalist fantasy. At the far end of the living room hung a painting of a Minotaur raping a woman, this predilection of things to come.
Within this underworld in the Gumrok district known to westerners as the Expatriate district we met our sardonic intermediary in sex slave trade, the mirthless dwarf called,
Apep Angra Mainyu aka “The Snake”. Angra had the face of Peter Lorre and the heft and bulk of a miniaturized Sidney Greenstreet. Apep Angra was scurrilous and scrofulous. His rough skin was spotted with scabies and his body emitted a sepulchral odor.
Angra’s manciple Alva Ahriman was the bodily opposite of his master. Ahriman was six feet tall of bulging muscles, narrow waist and sculpted buttocks. His lack of moral fiber and somewhat limited intellectual faculties innate in most normal human personalities could be easily perceived in his cranial structure and his overall physiognomy. The shock of wild reddish brown hair closely cut on the sides of the head, the high sloping forehead, prominent brow ridges, receding nostrils and thin lips, these features put one in mind of a simian head attached to the body of Atlas. Alva’s nature embodied the seven deadly sins from head to foot.
Passing Through the RED
Despite stunted academic capabilities that could be called into question, Alva had been well trained by Angra and daily attempted to enhance what little he had been granted through unholy experimentation by careful observation of Angra’s hidden lifestyle and techniques. Alva’s bedchambers which were divided into three sections one being the actual room where he slept on an ornate Italian Renaissance canopy bed replete with seraphim, cherubim, and putti on the ceiling looking down seemingly blessing the lewd acts committed in that bed.
However outside of Angra, my wife and myself and the poor unfortunate girls who had the bad fortune to see this mockery of sex and religion, Alva barred even the household servants from entering that portion of his rooms. In fact he took responsibility for cleaning his quarters and putting outside the door soiled bed sheets and remnants of any meals partaken within. Upon entrance it at first resembled an Italian studiolo. Scholarly books that he never read, save those dealing with what he felt was the “new science of photography” lined the bookshelves along the walls. There was a collection of opera records beside the Victrola, which he played incessantly even during he was engaged in some vile sexual act with any of the young girls that came to the bawdy house. In fact during those escapades the music became louder more than likely to mask his grunts and groans plus those of his victims.
Angra seeing how fascinated Alva was with photography gifted him with camera and outfitted the third segment of Alva’s rooms with a photography studio and darkroom. Alva was creative in the sense that he stole items from the main bordello in order to outfit his photo studio into period pieces where he photographed the girls before he had sex with them. After developing the pictures he would catalogue each prize in a book complete with a name he gave her in addition to her measurements and any outstanding physical features. The girls were pretty much always naked save for sparse clothing items that Alva felt made superior her breasts, buttocks or genital area. Alva often requested and received more than one girl from the bordello and had them pleasure each other in the pictures while he shot them in various poses.
Fringes
Another one of Alva’s prized possessions in addition to his camera was his stereopticon or “magic lantern” in which his bevy of beauties were preserved for eternity on slides which at first Alva just arranged randomly but over time he began to place the slides in logical order to create pornographic narratives. The stereopticon was for his personal pleasure but even that proved not enough and eventually Alva convinced Angra to give him rudimentary film equipment that he rigged up next to his bed to document his demented exploits with the accursed young women.
Often while Alva was arranging the photos in his scrapbook or creating slides from them for the stereopticon he would play his favorite three operas from Richard Wagner; The Valkyrie,Tristan und Isolde and Parsifal. Later these same three operas would be piped into the castle during Alva’s unholy alliances with Leonara and later, much later the blessed houri Evie.
In time while exploring the lower portions of the house we found a sealed entry way through which we could hear the sounds of a type of market. We decided to get a guy name Psycho Kinesis to open that door, the door that would reveal an alternate universe we had been searching for so long.
Zombie Sushi
At first Big Red wants to try his door opening method which is smashing the door in by brute force. Red tries and it doesn’t work only leaving him with a very sore cut up fist. Next one in our group Captain Nebulizer where he just released the latest in technology. Smoke ascended out of his uniform but in a structured manner only waiting to here the orders emanating from his lips. The ether obeyed — a series of locks were undone and a large doorway swung open to a scene that I only remembered from the bar scene in Star Wars but much more grungy.
The Troll Market opens out from Ankara into it current location under the Brooklyn Bridge. It is revealed to be a veritable bacchanalia of mythological, fantasy, and supernatural creatures from all over the world, mainly attracting dragons. The Troll market is the living proof of extraterrestrial/human evolution. On the other end of it is a Dive bar where human evolution coupled with Abstract Expression gave birth to foreverlazy.com
In the back of the club Mr. Magoo lead the way being followed by the others.Patsy Cline, Barry White, Luther Vandross, Aailyah, Missy Elliot, The LeVerts, Mary J. Blige, Sammy Davis Jr. all got together to sing Beautiful Freaks — http://www.jango.com/stations/28
Confind Man
When the Valentines Day party got into the groove along came Iceberg Slim, RalphEllison,
But I’m a beautiful freak with a heart shaped butt that Eiko can’t stop caressing, touching and hugging. Eiko swears she going to immortalize by my ass in stone and call it the Great BaDonkadonk. My BaDonkadonk would be a national treasure wining awards and accolades worldwide from fitness gurus and the most prefect ass ever.
Espiritu en Fuego/A Fiery Spirit 