Fort Tipii


Fort Tipii

Tepee-Hut
Tepee-Hut

I couldn’t build a proper tree house.  Too high up and anyway I’m afraid of heights, so instead I built this little fort of sorts as a place to gather my thoughts after a hectic day.  Made my best efforts with whatever materials the forest floor offered up as building materials.  There were enough twigs and branches to construct more ground level tree houses or make my current enclosure larger but I chose to save some for kindling for warmth against the chill night air and the rest I kept stacked as a type of cord-wood in a womb like nook Mother Nature had carved into a tree that had been struck by lightening. Eventually I decided to construct another Tipii twig abode to store my few belongings I had gradually began to sneak away from The Family Residence.

These Tree/Tepee/Tipii/Twig aka T3 structures became my holy sanctuaries and safe havens I return to again and again to re-connect with Mother Earth and nature. Too small to stand upright clicking my heels together three times was not an option so I was forced to remain seated. With some degree of discomfort I could lay down in a fetal position while I imagined myself re-entering an alternate womb to be reborn into better circumstances. Mine were a tepee shelters without the buffalo skin covering all exposed bones and framework.

Tipii Stick Hut
Tipii-Hut

Sometimes I’d hug my knees and rhythmically rock back and forth while repeating what I thought were calming mantras, occasionally wishing that the earth would open up and swallow me whole transporting me some place free from pain, misery and cruelty. Like a shaman I chanted using my homemade rituals attempting to silence the drumbeat of voices incessantly chattering inside my head versus the declarations of the Family.  They created a dissonance tear in the time frame continuum of my thoughts.

You see our house, The Family Home if you could call it that is a ramshackle structure; a hodgepodge mixture of stone, wood and stucco additions and afterthoughts as different parts of the building were constructed at different times upon the whims the directors and caretakers.

I was forced to share this mishmash cottage with twelve other inmates, bordered on this expanse of woods providing me a refuge from leaky roofs, busted walls, peeling wallpaper, lukewarm baths, moldy musty scented showers, not to mention all the yelling, screaming, arguments, fights, thefts of food and personal belongings and constant disagreements of a house too small to accommodate the number of people residing within its creaky ramparts.  The Family nicknamed it the Hotel California. You know the place where you check in but never check out. The nails across chalkboard voices of The Family were constant knife thrusts to my brain making daily life a constant battle that did not end even has the diurnal gave up residence to the nocturnal for they all snored, wheezed and gasped through the night abyss.  The utter desolation of the place crept into your bones and took root nourished by hopelessness.

The Family’s house sits on an oddly place piece of land, our house gives way to forest which in turn after several miles gives way to craggy, rocky shores of a steep cliff, where if one sits perfectly still you can hear the violent waves crashing against rough jagged rock formations that looked as though they were designed by the devil himself. It is said that in olden times there used to be many shipwrecks where sailors were either impaled on the razor sharp Stalagmites. Sometimes you can even hear the shrieks, moans, cries and groans of the unfortunate wretches mixed in with the howling winds. The few who weren’t dashed to pieces by the razor sharp jagged rock formations tried to climb up to safety but were thwarted by the steep incline.

Forest Hiding Place
Forest Hiding Place

So I periodically retreated to my exoskeleton asylums as a sentry medium between earth and sky. I can never turn my mind off completely but within my secret hiding place the voices were kept to a low roar and bid to change direction and pace.

The last straw that broke the camels back came when my moronic addled brained cell-mate Pearl kept throwing her nasty, dirty towels, underwear and flip-flops over to my side of the room. When I returned from the canteen or our common dining area there were moldy wet towels plastered to the floor like throw rugs that accosted the dividing line between our two living areas.  Pearl was known as the filthiest female in our wing tossing food and drink to and fro fully expecting that a squad of personal maids and sweepers were following in her wake. One night after I returned from my many woodland sojourns I decided that I had, had enough and soaked all her grimy towels in gasoline and lighter fluid obtained from an unlocked supply closet near the motor pool.  Pearl had a tendency to drink like sailor on shore leave and sleep just as soundly so she never had an inkling as I piled the towels around her bed, built a kindling fort for good measure and added effect, led a fuse from a doorway to an open window, climbed out and lit said fuse.

The Kindling delivered me from The Family’s vocalizations. I tried to warn them before. I tried to silence the voices through escape, but it was not working so I had to try another plan. The crackles and pops of my campfire seem to be in sync with the screams and cries for rescue from the patients locked inside their rooms but eventually those voices will die out also, and then sleep.  Blessed sleep.

Love,

Cassandra Verity

My Secret Hiding Place


My Secret Hiding Place

The Hiding Place
The Hiding Place

I couldn’t build a tree house.  Too high up and anyway I’m afraid of heights, so instead I built this little fort of sorts as a place to gather my thoughts after a hectic day.  Made my best efforts with whatever materials the forest floor offered up as building materials.  There were enough twigs and branches to construct more ground level tree houses or make my current enclosure larger but I chose to save some for kindling for warmth against the chill night air and the rest I kept stacked as a type of cord-wood not too far away.

It has become my sanctuary and safe haven I return to again and again to re-connect with Mother Earth and nature. Too small to stand upright clicking my heels together three times was not an option so I was forced to remain seated. With some degree of discomfort I could lay down in a fetal position while I imagined myself re-entering an alternate womb to be reborn into better circumstances. Mine was a tepee without the buffalo skin covering all bones and framework.

Sometimes I’d hug my knees and rhythmically rock back and forth while repeating what I thought were calming mantras, occasionally wishing that the earth would open up and swallow me whole transporting me some place free from pain, misery and cruelty. Like a shaman I chanted using my homemade rituals attempting to silence the drumbeat of squatter voices incessantly chattering inside my head versus the declarations of the Family.  They created a dissonance within the time frame continuum of my thoughts.

You see our house, if you could call that ramshackle structure; a hodgepodge mixture of stone, wood and stucco addendum and afterthoughts as different parts of the building were constructed at different times upon the whims the directors and caretakers.

I was forced to share this mishmash cottage with twelve other inmates, bordered on this expanse of woods providing me a refuge from leaky roofs, busted walls, peeling wallpaper, lukewarm baths, moldy musty scented showers, not to mention all the yelling, screaming, arguments, fights and constant disagreements of a house too small to accommodate the number of people residing within its creaky ramparts.  The Family nicknamed it the Hotel California. You know the place where you check in but never check out. The nails across chalkboard voices of The Family were constant knife thrusts to my brain making daily life a constant battle that did not end even has the diurnal gave up residence to the nocturnal for they all snored, wheezed and gasped through the night abyss. The Family’s house sits on an oddly place piece of land, our house gives way to forest which in turn after several miles gives way to craggy, rocky shores of a steep cliff, where if one sits perfectly still you can hear the violent waves crashing against rough jagged rock formations that looked as though they were designed by the devil himself. It is said that in olden times there used to be many shipwrecks where sailors were either impaled on the razor sharp Stalagmites. Sometimes you can even hear the shrieks, moans, cries and groans of the unfortunate wretches mixed in with the howling winds.

So I periodically retreated to my exoskeleton asylum as a sentry medium between earth and sky. I can never turn my mind off completely but within my secret hiding place the voices were kept to a low roar and bid to change direction and pace.

The Kindling delivered me from The Family’s vocalizations. I tried to warn them before. I tried to silence the voices through escape, but it was not working so I had to try another plan. The crackles and pops of my campfire seem to be in sync with the screams and cries for rescue from the patients locked inside their rooms but eventually those voices will die out also, and then sleep.  Blessed sleep.  As I drifted off I thought I heard sounds creeping up on me.  Maybe it could be…. Naw.  How would those deviant mutations get all the way out here.

While pyrotechnics roared and exploded beyond the glen my dream state thoughts went to Calista and Cassandra those Kudzu Chia matronly tumbleweeds who wreck havoc and chaos wherever they spore and spawn and their equally troublesome and problematic one-legged Siamese twin cousins Morton and Milton.

Love,

Cassandra

Jephthah’s Daughters


Jephthah’s Daughters.(Click here to read more)

Shall we regard our girl children as Jephthah’s Daughters?  How long will we continue to perpetuate the adage, “Women love their sons, but raise the daughters.”  Every child deserves the opportunity to succeed in life but success comes through accepting responsibility and learning to be accountable.  Any child male or female who constantly lashes out at authority figures in a bid to always be “right” is a child bound for prison or the graveyard.  Stop making girls the sacrificial lambs!!

Ladies, let’s love our girl children and stop putting them on the altar in order to save a son who does not wanted to be saved and does not think he needs help or worse some no account man who should not even be a part of our households to begin with. Let us not return to ancient times when girls and women were thought of as little more than chattel or commodities to be bought and sold. (See below for more details on ancient economies)

Girl Sacrifice

“One of the unusual things about the Bible is that it preserves some bits of this larger context. … It would seem that the economy of the Hebrew kingdoms, by the time of the prophets, was already beginning to develop the same kind of debt crises that had long been common in Mesopotamia: espe­cially in years of bad harvests, the poor became indebted to rich neigh­bors or to wealthy moneylenders in the towns, they would begin to lose title to their fields and to become tenants on what had been their own land, and their sons and daughters would be removed to serve as servants in their creditors’ households, or even sold abroad as slaves.

“[This is what the biblical book of Nehemiah is referring to in the passage,] ‘Some of our daughters are brought unto bondage already: neither is it in our power to redeem them.’ One can only imagine what those words meant, emotionally, to a father in a patriarchal society in which a man’s ability to protect the honor of his family was everything. Yet this is what money meant to the ma­jority of people for most of human history: the terrifying prospect of one’s sons and daughters being carried off to the homes of repulsive strangers to clean their pots and provide the occasional sexual services, to be subject to every conceivable form of violence and abuse, pos­sibly for years, conceivably forever, as their parents waited, helpless, avoiding eye contact with their neighbors, who knew exactly what was happening to those they were supposed to have been able to protect. … http://www.delanceyplace.com/view_archives.php?2009

Donations to this Ministry for the Housing Fund can be made in U.S. Funds via money order or bank checks made payable to Rochdale Village Inc. 169-65 137th Avenue, Jamaica, NY 11434, Account No. 083-11G-16924 or directly to deborah.palmer280@gmail.com via Paypal.  Thank you and God Bless.

Hypocrisy among OWS?


On the surface OWS started off well then got completely out of hand. The 1st amendment does allow free speech, freedom to assemble and to protest but not to just live in a public or private park and create chaos for the surrounding neighborhood.

Some of my co-workers are participating in the OWS movement and I’m sure they have good intentions but they are being misled. Despite OWS attempts to stop the gropers, rapists, thieves and other nutcases it was getting out of hand.  It became so dangerous for the women occupiers that a special tent for only women had to be set up along with patrols to protect the women.

There is an attempt to compare OWS to the Civil Rights movement. As we all well know there is no comparison. Dr. King may not have every last detail of the protests and sit-ins planned out perfectly but at least MLK & even the Black Panthers had an organized game plan which they followed.The marches and sit-ins all had a purpose and a goal.

Also I can’t help but think that OWS and the Tea Party are two sides of the same coin. The Tea Party has “Oreo” Herman Cain as their token black face and OWS has almost no people of color in its ranks or among their so-called organizers.

When white people find themselves in a jam all of a sudden they “need” us to jump on their bandwagon. Suddenly we are all Americans. WTF!! Then once the economy rights itself and the status quo returns and whiteys can once again get jobs then they’ll kick Black folks to the curb just as they’ve done time and time again. Black people are convenient in times of war or other national crisis then after things cool down then it’s back down the economic ladder.

Some of those same liberal white people who claim to be beating drums and marching for us all will curse me to my face and call me a nigger bitch once I put on that uniform. Even so-called alternative communities reveal what they really think of me by what comes out of their mouths. For example I used to go to the white tattoo artists for my tattoos but I finally got sick of them saying my skin was too dark for color. Too dark by whose standards. Funny my money wasn’t too green. Now I only go to the Black, Hispanic & Asian tattoo artists in my community. They don’t make those racist statements.

There is an expression in the Black community that when white America sneezes Black America catches a cold. Well white America sneezed as soon as Bush became President and since then we’ve have bronchitis and pneumonia.  Where the fuck was OWS then? Oh no, it’s only when white people feel threaten that there is a so-called uprising or movement. Was OWS blind to what has been going on in urban America for the last ten or twenty years? Well I guess they fucking have.

Unemployment has been well over the national average for Black America. A random guess would be unemployment is upwards of 30% to 40%. Southeast Queens where I live has the highest foreclosure rates in the United States. The Public schools in the inner city have been failing students of color for years. But that did not fit into the OWS or white liberal equation until now. How convenient. Well I refuse to buy into this nonsense. When my so-called peers can’t give me respect in the good times don’t expect me to go along for the ride because I’m just handy to have around. We need an all inclusive grassroots movement with identifiable goals, focus, purpose & strategies.

One cynical, jaded, outspoken loud Defiant Black Woman

Occupy Wall Street — Go Home!!


Occupy Wall Street – Go Home

Occupiers you’ve overstayed your welcome. A once noble cause has become a farce. Guys & Gals since you have so much time on your hands Occupy a soup kitchen, food pantry, homeless shelter, help disabled/homeless veterans, donate your clothing and foodstuffs to the truly poor. Stand for something real instead of pissing off the working class, the true hardworking 99%!  Occupying the subway last Thursday stopping the working class and middle class from getting home just pissed off the people you are supposed to represent.  If you can’t do anything of real value just go home and occupy a job. Being squatters at Zuccotti Park, annoying the people who live and work in the neighborhood is not a progressive or productive way to initiate change.

By the way your movement is very well funded. Obviously this was a well planned, well thought out move to capture the anger and support of millions of unemployed and displaced Americans. At first I was taken in by what seemed to be a genuine “People’s Movement”.  Occupy Wall Street seemed to hearken back to the protests and demonstrations of the 1960s which resulted in Civil rights for Blacks, women and gays. Laws changed and for a while life did improve for disenfranchised minority groups. Anarchy and chaos makes for good news headlines but it does nothing to change the lives of those who really need sustainable long term positive change in their lives.

Then as I continued to read and observe the OWS movement I realized that it was mostly composed of well to do, well fed white college students. Maybe not actually the 1% but most likely the sons and daughters of the 1%. More than likely when you graduate you will take your places within corporate America easily absorbed into companies that your parents either work for or perhaps even own. The real 99% don’t have access to the opportunities available to you. The authentic 99% actually have to go to those wage slave jobs just to keep body and soul together. We don’t have the option to live in a park, rent free with all our needs supplied for two months straight just to have the title of the proletariat. Suddenly what on the surface seemed like a rag tag bunch of individuals had daily access to healthy free food, clothing, sleeping bags, tents, health care, etc….  If you are truly for the poor, working poor, working class, then why don’t you go into the high poverty areas of New York City and donate all your supplies. Obviously you don’t need them and if you do, there seems to be an endless supply from your nameless, faceless backers. OWS your actions no longer match your words. Go home and occupy your campus then occupy a job like the rest of us.  Or if you really want a challenge “Occupy the Hood.”  That’s right go see how well you can occupy in some of New York poorest, most crime ridden, drug infested neighborhoods.  Bet you won’t last too long there!

OWS, where is the Thanksgiving dinner for folks living in homeless shelters and on the streets of New York? Do you plan to donate the food or invite some of the disenfranchised 99%? Will you be purchasing a toy for a homeless, orphan, or foster child this holiday season? What dates, days and times will you volunteer at your local animal shelter? Seems like a good idea since you I see you got your dogs occupying also. Occupy Paw Street?! What’s that all about? Did the dog have a choice in whether or not she/he wanted to join you in occupying?

This is disgusting and truly shows the hypocrisy of the movement. This Chef should be preparing meals for the many homeless families who will have nothing to eat this Thanksgiving. People protesting while on their iPhones, iPads, Laptops, all the while wearing expensive clothing don’t need a free meal. The poor and working class do. Practice what you preach. Walk the walk not just talk the talk.
http://www.nydailynews.com/new-york/occupy-wall-st-thanksgiving-york-chef-planning-massive-feast-protesters-article-1.980095