Cyberia - The City of Ladies

I rose from the water and dressed slowly. I wondered what to do next. I am alone, in the woods, without food. But not without wits. And with a manifestation of the goddess in the guise of an enchanted doll. Which, I suppose, is really a symbol of my own strength and cleverness.

I started walking, choosing to follow the sun.

At the end of the day I came to a crossroads. There, the White Knight of Baba Yaga, waited, his horse pawing the ground impatiently, snorting and huffing. The knight remained seated calmly. I could feel his gaze from behind his visor. My face grew warm with a blush.

At the crossroads was also my little wagon, pulled by Jenny. I met her deep eyes, she nodded her head, “Yes, you may choose” said her gesture.

My eyes lingered on the romantic hero on his horse. Part of me thrilled to go with the White Knight. I could feel myself being pulled up behind him in the saddle, clasping my arms around his armor, listening to his heart beat through the metal, reverberating with the pounding hooves. Where would he take me? What adventure would that choice bring? Would my dreams come true?

I laughed gently inside myself. I had chosen the knight before, as a young woman, a young bride, believing love would bring me my hearts desire. In a way, it had. But I am older now, and my heart’s desire, my dreams are no longer tied to love, to marriage, or family. I do not know what they are; I only know what they are not.

Confident I waked to my Jenny. I stroked her long forehead, and nuzzled into her neck. I clambered up on the seats and flicked the reins. Behind me I heard the thunder of hooves, fading quickly in the direction of the sun, my road went south.

Around the bend, waiting for me, was Lucia and a handsome man holding her hand, Michael, the grandson of Lavengro, Chieftain of the Gypsies.

Jenny halted, turned her head to watch me leap from the driver’s bench and fly to Lucia. She gave a soft bray, a donkey laugh.

I held Lucia tightly, cried, laughed, and kissed her head and cheeks and hands. Dear friend, dearest friend, sister, daughter, Light and guide. Such joy! Nothing down the road not taken could surpass this.

Michael I knew little of, meeting him briefly during my stay at his Grandfather’s camp. Clearly he is beloved to Lucia, and therefore, beloved by me. Together we climbed aboard my wagon and continued south.

I did not note where we were going. I was too excited to ask or even to care! At evening we camped by a spring. I gathered sticks with Lucia and helped her prepare bannock for our dinner. We cooked them on the rocks by the fire and ate them with windfall apples and pears we gathered along the way.

The evening was crisp. It was delight to be wrapped in a shawl, toes toasted by the fire, a cup of tea warming my hands. Michael played his guitar. The music of his strumming, the crickets, and the night birds created a symphony of peace. Soon Lucia and I were helping each other stumble sleepily to the wagon. We curled under the blankets and slept deeply.

Lucia and I made more bannock and tea to break fast. Michael was fishing, so we curried Jenny, braiding her mane with ribbons and bells. When Michael returned we fried the fish, broke camp, and were on our way again.

Lucia and I spun wool while Michael drove. He sang as he guided our Jenny. Before too long I was singing along, at least the choruses. Such passed fair weathered autumn days.

Other days were windy and cold. Those days we walked alongside the wagon huddled in our cloaks to stay warm. On raining days we rigged a tarp off the side of the wagon nearest the little porcelain stove. Here our Jenny stood in relative comfort, her ribbons and bells bedraggled. But better than her contemporaries on the moors, as Michael pointed out.

The wildest days we spent inside, cramped and cozy, the little wagon home. I cherished these rainy days as much as the fair. It was then I caught up in this journal on all the happenings of the past months. I am grateful to Mnemosyne for helping me remember everything with such clarity.

Time passes so quickly to the rhythm and melody of gypsy travel. By noon, ten days from the crossroads, we arrived at the gates of a great city.

“Welcome to Cyberia, the City of
Ladies,” sang Michael.

“I have never heard of this place,” I responded, more than a little in awe of the beautiful and formidable gates.

“Not surprising. Very few know of it. Fewer still can find it. And fewer still stay.”

Comfortable enough to tease I asked Michael if he had stayed in the City of
Ladies.

“Of course! Men are welcome here, if they are gentlemen. Women are not welcome if they are not ladies.”

“What makes a lady? What makes a gentleman?”

Michael flashed a grin. “That is the question. What is the answer?”

Wendy Bird

Gypsies dance because:

In spite of its worries,
In spite of its fears,
In spite of its sorrows,
In spite of its tears,
In spite of its heartaches,
In spite of its woes -
Life is just beautiful,
So dance on your toes.

The image is from the touring New Zealand Gypsy Fair website.

Welcome, travellers, to the Gypsy Camp!

Lavengro, the Gypsy Chief (who looks a bit like Johnny Depp) and his merry band of gypsies from all over the world are putting on a big party in your honour. There will be dancing around the campfire, singing, good food and drink, but most of all, you tales, songs and art. We at the Gypsy Camp love to share your creativity, so gather round the campfire, grab a baked potato from the ashes (careful, they’re hot!) and a glass of cider from the barrel and share your songs and stories with us.
The Gypsies have also purloined a pair of barn doors (as is their wont) and laid them on the ground for a dance floor, so kick up those heels! Lavengro will want to dance with all the ladies but he particularly adores Heather and Le Enbchanteur, so you may have to get in line.

Welcome, travellers, to the Gypsy Camp!

Lavengro, the Gypsy Chief (who looks a bit like Johnny Depp) and his merry band of gypsies from all over the world are putting on a big party in your honour. There will be dancing around the campfire, singing, good food and drink, but most of all, you tales, songs and art. We at the Gypsy Camp love to share your creativity, so gather round the campfire, grab a baked potato from the ashes (careful, they’re hot!) and a glass of cider from the barrel and share your songs and stories with us.
The Gypsies have also purloined a pair of barn doors (as is their wont) and laid them on the ground for a dance floor, so kick up those heels! Lavengro will want to dance with all the ladies but he particularly adores Heather and Le Enbchanteur, so you may have to get in line.

Soul Food’s Alluvial Mine, with its allusions to digging, is certainly a creative trigger for me. Ever since I read an account of Howard Carter’s discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb when I was a young girl, I have been a dedicated armchair archeologist.

Across the street in a modest townhouse lived a family with three sons. The middle son was the one who would bully me at school. I didn’t, beyond the bullying, know any of them well at all. All I even knew about them was that they had a television, which on rare occasions, my parents and I had been invited to watch. Usually when something of earth shattering importance had happened somewhere in the world and there was extended news. News such as throwing a satellite into orbit or a man, monkey or dog into space.

These homes were newer than our apartments and had central heating. Very few homes those day had anything other than a cooking stove from which ambient heat was derived. Looking back I would assume that these families had a higher standing economically as most of the housing was company owned for the express befit of keeping their employees happy. Each house had a small tree and a little yard in front and back.

I had no reason to think about them at all. Until one day their lives became important to me and all the other people in the neighbourhood. I had been fast asleep all night happy in knowing that I would not have to wake up early in the morning because, after all it was a Saturday. My parents were far to happy having a couple of hours extra themselves to wake me up. It was not hey who woke me the next morning. It was still quite dark out, a cold day in the late autumn. The apartment was still cold. Apparently my father, who would normally be first up to start the coals burning, had not yet started up the coal stove.

I had been awakened by a lot of noise outside on the street. There was the howling siren of ambulances. Police were at the house on the other side of the street. My parents stood silently by he window. I knew something was wrong. If something pleasant was happening outside they would have noticed me and happily pointed out whatever might be of interest. Instead they stood like statues by the window. There was something were alarming about that. So much so I could hardly bring myself to ask what all the fuss was. So I didn’t ask. Instead I quietly walked up to the big picture window in the living room. Carefully, as not to destroy what might be a solemn moment for my parent, I tiptoed to the edge and looked.

Suddenly my presence was noticed. My mother immediately stood beside me. She said nothing, but knelt beside me and held my hand. That wasn’t something I was used to. Mams wasn’t given to moments of mushy physical demonstrations of affection. My father was still standing exactly where he was. I could not escape the feeling that whatever was going on out there had my parents quite upset.

I knew a little something about ambulances. I knew they came to get sick people and took them to the hospital. I knew the police came to catch bad guys and to help lost children find their way. The only time I had ever seen and ambulance and police in the same place was when we passed an automobile accident on the road to den Hague. Obviously here it had to do with quite something else.

As we all looked down, a stretcher carried by two ambulance attendants came out of the house. My mother was biting her lip and her eyes looked like she might cry. So I held her hand a little tighter and looked at her. She remained quiet. My father let out a spontaneous “oh”. Something he was not usually given to doing either. There was someone on the stretcher, all covered up. Completely covered, even the face was covered. I assumed it was because it was a cold day. Faces get cold too.

Then came the second stretcher and now I was getting a strong feeling that this was more than a sick person going to the hospital. I could not stay quiet any longer, I just had to know what all this was about. “Mams,” I asked, “what is going on over there”. I was feeling quite anxcious as I asked, frightened actually.

“Well,” started Mams, stroking my hair and biting her lip, “there was an accident, the gas was left on and everyone died.”

Well, that was to the point. I had some notion of what Mams was saying. I knew, for instance that gas could explode. It was not long after the night the nearby refinery blew up. Obviously here there was no explosion, the house looked fine. So I blurted”but the house isn’t blown up!” this was a cue for my dad, who loved explaining things, anything, and he could go on about almost anything for much longer than most of us had the stamina to listen. In this case no one minded he explain it. Mams was obviously deeply affected by all that was going on, Dad never failed to be absolutely calm (unless there was a drop of blood to be seen, then he would faint dead away).

“When the gas is left on and there is a lot of it in the air it is poison for people to breathe, and since they were sleeping they just never woke up.”

As if it would all change just because I asked the question “All of them?”

“Yes, all of them”

For about another hour we all stood by the window as the other stretchers came out of the house. Eventually as the sun was starting to warm us through the window, the police locked the door to the house, and the small crowd gathered on the street started home. It was comforting to see my father start up the coals in the stove in the kitchen. I didn’t see the benefit of having gas if it was just going to kill you. That was the day I stopped complaining about being cold first thing in the morning I had warm clothes and fat knitted socks to wear.

I was very sad because children should never die, but at least these children would go to he next life with their parents, they would not be alone. For weeks it as talked about. The teacher at school tried to explain how gas was dangerous, but my father had explained it much better. The women in line at the stores poke tearfully and at time weeping.

In time it was spoken of rarely. It made an impact. For the rest of your life I would dislike the us of gas, and appreciate just how easily one mistake can have fatal consequences, a lesson best learned early.

Here’s a gorgeous piece of art by Lilla Le Vine at Art-e-zine. She shows you how to make a Gypsy Purse and there are some lovely Gypsy maiden images you can download as well.

Gail

Here’s a gorgeous piece of art by Lilla Le Vine at Art-e-zine. She shows you how to make a Gypsy Purse and there are some lovely Gypsy maiden images you can download as well.

Gail

Here’s a little game that’s fun to play round the campfire.

Who Am I?
Am I `whatsisname’s wife’? ( a chamringly oblique reference I once heard to myself)
Am I Laurence’s mum - or Moni’s, Lana’s, Mags’, Luci’s, Chris’s or Kat’s?
Am I the byline on my stories? (Reporter, poet, demented scribbler?)
Am I Grandma Kav? (I must confess, I like this one best)

But actually even that is not who I really am…

I am the wind over the tree tops
The rush of waves on the shore
I am the stars filling the night sky
The trickle of waters over rocks
The song of the bird in the morning
The list of the ship as it turns toward home
I am the gold of autumn leaves
A swathe of bluebells in the spring
I am the laughter of children
The thunder of hooves
The crunch of crisp windfall apples
I am COLOURS
Many many colours, soft, bright, pastel, bold, check, plain, striped, plaid, dotted, rainbow
I am all that that and it is all of me
And that is who I am.

Now - who are you?

SOULMATES

Other worlds in deep of space
Orbit other suns in silent motion;
On another shore I touched your face
And stood with you beside another ocean.

We are old friends, somewhere
Beaneath a distant star that moved
In stately arcs through alien sky,
We met before and even then we loved.

You were mine before this earth was born,
Twin souls handfast in ancient rite.
Our children walked into the first primeval dawn,
Our children will see the last exploding night.

On other worlds, in other times, we met…
And then we loved, and never will forget.