Monthly Archives: July 2013

Katherine Carlaysle, putting on Gypsy Boots

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This little girl has grown.

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This is how I see her.

All too soon (for me) she is leaving the nest and flying away.  My daughter is chasing a grand adventure all the way to California. It’s going to be odd, not having her just a few minutes away. I’m so very proud of her spirit.

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I’m very thankful. I pray I served her well. Daddy loves you.

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Cell Fish

“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” ~ Henry David Thoreau

ImageSeptember, 1973: I was at the carnival with my family. We spent a long evening walking around, riding the rides, watching the shows … listening to the sideshow barkers sell their script. It was quite a learning experience for a young. impressionable Hannibal.

One of the games on the midway had goldfish as prizes. There was a large table, with a shelf curving up from it and on the shelf were dozens (seemed like hundreds to my young eyes) of little bowls with a single goldfish swimming in each. With the colored flashing lights of the midway surrounding, the entire tableau sparkled like bright gems spilling out of a treasure chest. This image stayed with me long after the calliope music faded and the sawdust was swept away.

I asked my Mom if, at the end of the day, the fish were all put back together in one tank so they could talk to each other. Mom said, “I don’t know, but I don’t think fish get lonely, anyway. They don’t know much more than their little apartments, and they are perfectly fine there.”

She called them ‘Apartments’, but to me they looked more like cells – and the occupants didn’t even know they were prisoners. They swam obliviously in their neon-lit water, never reacting to the chaotic world going on around their little glass cages.

And aren’t we just the same? The most obvious things are the hardest to see and talk about. We color the world through the prism of our own selfish point of view.

The Fish Doesn’t Know It’s Swimming

If you try to explain to the fish that it lives in water, it would say “What is water?” It is surrounded by water, so it’s impossible to experience. They can’t see it until they are outside of it. This is how culture works on us. This is how we are so very easily manipulated. We know only our little cells, and we rarely (if ever) contemplate what is outside of them. We are prisoners of our own view.

I’m not going to offer moral advice, because I don’t have any kind of authority to do so. Besides, this isn’t about morality or religion. All I want to do is to become a little more conscious of the reality around me. The beauty of life. I want to know I’m swimming and be grateful for the water.

I long to truly stand in your shoes and understand how you see the world. Maybe then we can both be free and at peace.

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Joy?

This career I’ve taken on is frustrating, grueling and at times completely unrewarding. I often wonder why I’m doing it. The answer always comes immediately: My joy is here. There’s something very addictive about living your dream.

Tonight I had the honor to once again entertain and refresh some of the most amazing people I know. I’m talking about you, Laura. I know you are reading this. The opportunity to do what I do for such a brave soul as yourself and you your INCREDIBLE family is what feeds my addiction.

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Take away the awards. Take away the fame. Say goodbye to the Magic Castle and all the goals I set for myself. I can take it. As long as I can serve you, I’m wealthy.

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A Disturbing Dream

Warning: I’m not kidding. This dream shook me very badly. Still trying to decipher a meaning, and the description may be graphically violent. Typing this up while the images are fresh. You may want to wait for a funnier story.

I’m in a barn with my Father (who has been gone from my life for quite some time). He’s teaching me … mechanical things and ‘mancraft’. things like swinging a scythe, hammering a spike with a sledgehammer. There’s a snow-white long haired dog, like a big Samoyed, running in and out of the barn, frolicking. Across the road from the barn are my current next door neighbors, trimming some bushes with long knives and spears.

The dog comes running into the barn with a small head wound, and her blood is deep purple. My Father curses the neighbors and heals the dog’s head. We go back to working and talking about my children.

The dog comes bounding back in with a larger wound in her head – this time with a large pair of pruning shears sticking out. My Father removes the shears, heals the dog and taks the shears back across the street to the neighbors. He asks them to knock it off. We go back to eating lunch and he begins to sharpen an axe, then practices splitting wood.

My dog comes in again, and this time her head is practically cloven through. My Father sighs regretfully and says he can no longer help her, but he can put her out of her misery. He asks me to comfort her and turn her head away so he can use the axe.

I cradle her face in my hands as Dad rares back and … I wake up.

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Filed under Blither Blather, Public Diary