Author: Joseph Carrabis

Once again, we are blessed

Turkeys…can you ever get enough of them?

This video is from a little over two months back. Just getting to it now.

It is late April as I write this. Turkeys haven’t been around for a bit.

We suspect they’re on their eggs. The nights have been uncharacteristically cool the past few weeks.

We’re expecting late Winter, early Spring temperatures next week.

All of which translates into abundance for predators.

The hens will stay on their eggs to protect them and become prey to coyote, wolf, bear, and wildcat. If they fly off, their eggs are eaten. When they stay, unless the predator isn’t very hungry or the size difference isn’t great enough, they’ll be prey and then the eggs will be eaten.

It is the way of The Wild.

Some say Nature is a cruel mother. Perhaps, by human standards.

Not by those who live in The Wild, who understand its ways.

Our ancestors demonstrated recognizable burial rituals up to 450,000 years ago, basically before we were humans.

Was that the point in time when Nature became a cruel mother?

And is she only cruel when we remember someone’s passing?

The rest of the time, our ancestors – and us to a degree – focused on their own survival, in the moment. Remembering those who’d passed could only be done in moments of rest, of peace, of comfort.

Our ancestors had precious few of those.

At some point burial rituals transformed from making sure those who’d passed would do well wherever they went to hoping we’ll do well when our time comes.

Punishment and Reward became the focus.

Our rituals became ones of control; if I do this, I’ll get that.

Pity.

We created deities to ameliorate our fear of the unknown, all the while refusing to explore the unknown.

Except some did.

Originally, spiritual, eventually, scientific. And both spiritual and scientific serve the same purpose: to provide answers.

Meanwhile, the turkeys sit on their eggs, waiting for them to hatch.

Nature. Patience. Waitful. Watchful.

Enjoy.

 

What’s your social networking philosophy, Joseph?

Well…umm…hmm…

Not sure I have one. But now you’ve made me think of it, here goes…

My response is based on a number of factors and mainly on human psychology and neuroscience.

The most open, accepting, gracious people on the planet hold something in reserve when meeting strangers. It’s natural. It’s in our neural wiring. We don’t know if the person we meet is friend or foe so we favor foe until we’re sure of friend. The neural wiring of this goes back through evolution to a time before humans were humans.
Continue reading “What’s your social networking philosophy, Joseph?”

Why It Works for Me – Terry Melia’s “Tales from the Greenhills”

This is the third in a series I’m doing wherein I discuss why a particular piece of writing works for me, aka, this author’s work taught me something about writing, encouraged me to be a better writer, engaged me, captivated me, educated me, et cetera.

As I’ve written elsewhere, it’s one thing to know something is good, it’s a better thing (in my opinion) to know why it’s good and then be able to copy what’s good about it, to learn from it so you can be as good and (hopefully) better.

This time out, Terry Melia’s “Tales from the Greenhills”.

 

 

Inheritors Chapter 13 – Seth Van Gelder, 211 Cavalos Era

Read Inheritors Chapter 12 – Resa ValJean, XXX Cavalos Era

Creator and above level members can download a PDF of this chapter to read offline

Inheritors Chapter 13 – Seth Van Gelder, 211 Cavalos Era

 
The Raemond woman removed her hood, cape, and started on her gloves. Seth opened his mouth to speak and she held a finger to her lips.

He stood there, fists clenched at his sides, nostrils flaring, his breaths shallow, his body quivering. His eyelids narrowed to focus on her.

Remember father’s lessons. What had my bubbing, ginicomtwigging fou of a father said? Oh, yes: They’re out there to get you.

Well, whoever they are, wherever I am, they are not going to get me!

Seth kept his eyes on the Raemond woman and peripherally scanned his surroundings. Nothing made sense.

All those years studying the Sacred Geometries — the pyramids, the temples, the mausoleums of ancient churches and mosques — remember their lessons, Seth Van Gelder.

Remember: Always design in a way out.

And those geometries are everywhere. He only had to find them.

Determine what is different to isolate what is similar.

Different: This is not Father’s house, nor my room.

Different: Great pah-ing sounds overhead, They pulse through the air like heartbeats of the land. Felt more than heard.

Different: Orange clouds fill the sky. And a sickening smell of pumpkin-sweet. The smell strengthens with each pah.

And warm. Much warmer than Londontown, although not unpleasantly so.

No sounds of father’s house.

Seth took his eyes from the Raemond woman for a moment and turned his head, glancing around him.

Addie’s once loved and now cruel face nowhere to be found.

Everything I knew, gone.

No! There will always be similarities. Men will always need something to walk on, even if it’s the back of others. Men will always need air to breath even if it made rancid with the smell of pumpkin-sweet. Think bigger, think smaller, until you find what’s the same in the midst of what’s different.

He stood on an elevated platform of some kind. Would there be a noose about his neck in a moment? The light which transported him faded as another light swelled around him.

The light. What brings it? There are no lamps, no torches. But men must still need light. If not a light I know then something like it.

But here there is light. And warmth. Whatever men are here are more like me than not.

His nostrils flared again. The pumpkin-sweet air sickened him. He would not breathe it in. He held his breath.

His eyes came back to the Raemond woman.

Is this Raemond a messenger finally dispatched by Sharon’s prayers, and I’m taken home?

She turned away. Behind her a waist high stand with pelts of blue light rose from the platform on which they stood. She reached out and held onto it while his eyes adjusted to the growing light, then motioned for him to turn around.

A similar stand rose up behind him. He reached for it.

The Raemond woman stood beside him. Her hand grabbed his and he gasped, constricted by a blanket of pain, a thousand nails penetrating his skin, unable to move. The breath he held he couldn’t release. It soured in his lungs. She let go and pulled her gloves off.

He used the pain to focus his thoughts. If this be a gallows then where are the hangmen and noose?

Men and women in billowing white robes stood around the platform. One of them waved. The light began to fade. The pain lessened. He could move again.

Raemond smiled and stood before him, speaking in a totally foreign tongue.

He pushed past her.

She grabbed him by the arms, one in each of her hands, and kept her own arms by her side to hold her gloves, cape, and hood close beside her.

He had to get away, away from that damned pumpkin-sweet, away to air he could breath.

She smiled and again said something he couldn’t understand.

He shook his head, pulling his arms free of her.

She drove her knee into his kingmaker and kit.

He fell to his knees, arms locked over his belly, gasping for air, bowing before her.

He stopped gasping, stopped moving, and raised his head slowly to memorize her face. Never did she bow or crip or crim to him, yet so quickly did she take him away from one hell to this other and make him bow to her.

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Sarah and Gladstone Fear Him

Our pup, Boo, is a terror.

Don’t believe me?

Ask some of the Old Ones who visit us. I previously wrote regarding Boo’s dislike of opossum. No idea why he dislikes such wonderful creatures. Certainly nothing we’ve done.

Most recently Boo had issues with another mated pair of Coyote, Sarah and Gladstone.

To us, welcome guests.

To Boo…? Perhaps they mark over his territory and he gets tired to remarking and remarking and remarking.

Don’t you tire of repeating yourself? Once, sure, twice, make sure you say it clearly, but three times and more means they don’t care or aren’t paying attention.

A quote along these lines comes from James Bond’s creator, Ian Fleming; Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action.

Personally, I don’t think Boo can count.

But he’s proved me wrong before.