happy halloween, my freaks.

Horseman rides
Without a head
Pumpkin placed
In facial stead

Seeds for brains
Candle for eyes
On this dark night
His ghost will rise

Sword in hand
Out for blood
The streets will run
With crimson flood

Don’t be caught
In the lane tonight
Or you might suffer
More than a fright

Keep your head
And wits about
Stay inside
While the Horseman’s out

halloween

 

Advertisements

Punkin

Horseman rides
Without a head
Pumpkin placed
In facial stead

Seeds for brains
Candle for eyes
On this dark night
His ghost will rise

Sword in hand
Out for blood
The streets will run
With crimson flood

Don’t be caught
In the lane tonight
Or you might suffer
More than a fright

Keep your head
And wits about
Stay inside
While the Horseman’s out

halloween


An early Halloween story. It’s October. It’s allowed.

Halloween

I know it’s over 2 months away, but I found this old picture from film photography class.

halloween.JPG

And I just love it. Love the contrast and blurry flower urn background.

Here’s a spooky collage for all you costume-wearing, scary-loving weirdos!

halloween collage.jpg


Here’s a weird dream to boot.

I have a recurring dream–(no, not the “I’m in a store and I’m naked and I need clothes, but I don’t have any money” dream)

The house I’m living in is sinking. The foundation is giving way. Everything is all crooked. I’m usually in the kitchen.

The key to fixing the problem, which is usually a floor that is so slanted you cannot stand or walk, is to find a secret room that is desperately in need of repair. (No, I get it. Believe me.)

We tear down the secret room and find out we have all this extra space. (No, really. I get it.)

Don’t think you have to be a therapist to figure this one out. The secret room is in my brain and if I just tear down all the junky old stuff? I can make room for new relationships and new materials and new, safe, secure building blocks for a solid life.

It’s not a nightmare, just gives me this really uneasy feeling, unsettled, anxious, like I have to fix the problem immediately. Having a house where the foundation is crumbling leaves me feeling very nervous, worried.

But I’m tired of living with everything off kilter. :/


Plus. Here’s a ghost story. Spooky! Footsteps on the Stairs

What are you wearing for Halloween?? Got any juicy ghost stories you want to share on my blog? I’ll host your ghost post on my site!

The Carousel

For my daughter. She just started high school and it’s a bit overwhelming. She’s doing great, but it’s a little scary.

The picture above is her at the KC Zoo, having fun on the carousel. She was 6. Shot with a Nikon, 35 mm, manual. It was a fun day.


Hold on tight, dear.
Don’t let go.
The carousel twirls faster
The more you know.

Life goes by
In a furious blur.
But it’s oh-so thrilling,
Full of adventure.

Up and down.
Always turning.
Moving forward.
Always learning.

You might get sick.
You might lose your head.
You might just love it.
Turn the world around instead.

Don’t be scared, Darling.
You have to be strong.
You’re not alone.
Mom’s here all along.

So throw your hair back
And laugh at the ride.
Have fun on the carousel.
Don’t leave it untried.


Proud of you, Honey. You’re so special. One of a kind. Brilliant, beautiful and bound for glory! Don’t settle for less, always challenge yourself. Don’t worry about what people wear, say or think. You belong to God. Your value comes from him.

And always ask for help! We’re here for you. Your teachers, counselors and parents. It’s normal to feel anxious, everybody does!! 🙂

Schpider!

spiderDon’t look, Dad!
It’s a terrible sight!
If you can’t see him,
It’ll save you a fright.

I’ll protect you.
Don’t worry now.
I can tame spiders.
Mom taught me how.


Lilli and Dad at the Kemper Museum of Contemporary Art in 2009. She was 6. We were being goofy and I thought this would be a funny picture for my black and white film photography class.

knee-deep

This is not the surface of Mars. But I wish it was. A sci-fi Bradbury story and not my life.


Scared and Scarred
I am 6. Tender. Overly sensitive. Idealistic. In the living room watching TV (listening to my parents scream).
My father is chasing my mother from the bedroom to the living room. She sits on the sofa by the window. He grabs her leg and drags her from the cushion. Her pants rip and she awkwardly falls to the floor, pinned between the sofa and coffee table.
My brother jumps up and tangles himself with my father. My brother is 17 and a full-grown male. He might be one inch taller than my father. He weighs less, but not by much and has anger and youth on his side. They wrestle and fall into a window. The glass breaks and the fighting continues. They push each other away and stand panting and snarling, waiting for each other to make a move.
My brother walks out of the house into the yard and my father follows. They exchange violent words and my father threatens to stab my brother. He holds his hand in his pocket, standing at a distance from my brother, claiming to have a knife.
I will cut your gizzards out.
One of the many delusional things my father utters. It makes little sense. He is embarrassingly profane and foaming at the mouth. He taunts my brother to attack again. I can’t remember how it’s resolved.
Sometime later, I crawl up on the sofa to look at the broken window and wonder why our afternoon was disturbed. I cut my knee with a shard of broken glass hidden in the cushion. I still have the scar today. It looks like a soggy piece of puffed rice
cereal landed on my knee and stuck.

The cut was deep. Huge beads of blood. The emotional hurt was even deeper.


Complex PTSD is real. This memory was written in present tense to show how real memories can seem. You can relive some trauma at the slightest trigger: smell (cigarette smoke), action (washing hands), word (gizzards), threat (humiliation), similar circumstance (injustice). Reliving some nightmare from the past isn’t easy. In fact, it’s soul crushing. Mind melting. Scariest thing a person ever has to do–walk into the past like a darkened, grimy hallway of a forgotten house of pain. With no skills, lights or way to defend yourself. Anyone with C-PTSD does not want to be permanently haunted with ghosts. But the mind can’t erase severe hurt. It tries, but those imprints have power. Evict those ghosts with the Holy Spirit and this link: Self-Help Strategies for PTSD Visit this site as well: AnxietyBC

And get help. Talk to someone. Anyone.
This weekend I realized–I am serving my past, not my professed master Jesus. I am serving horrible memories and failing as a wife. I don’t want this. My past is not something to cling to in the storm. Jesus is.

Footsteps on the Stairs

Sorry! Sick yesterday. 😦 My foot was haunted with gout. lol And just general malaise. So, on with the campfire incantations.


These are real-life ghost stories or what I thought were ghosts. Usually there was/is an explanation for whatever occurred, but sometimes, just sometimes, I could only guess at the reason my heart was racing and goosebumps were rising. I don’t really believe in ghosts. But I also don’t not believe in ghosts. I’m a skeptic. But I would love to see, hear or record a ghost.

I have been fascinated by TV programs about ghosts from a young age. Murder mysteries, Scooby-Doo, Murder She Wrote, Sherlock Holmes, Ripley’s Believe It or Not, Unsolved Mysteries, TAPS, Celebrity Ghost Stories. Anything. I watched The Exorcist and couldn’t sleep for 3 days. If I think about that movie at night, I don’t sleep for hours. That sh!t is scary. It could happen. LOL

The following story is a bit more serious than last time. Hold onto your popcorn tub.


In high school, I met a really great friend, A. She was my best friend. Sometimes, she was my only friend. A was shy, eager to please, and downright terrified. Of everyone. A was quick to laugh, but she was nervous and skittish. Like a dog that had been beaten. We had abuse in common, though we never talked about it at length.

She was the truest person I’ve known as a girlfriend. The most honest, the most loyal. She was devoted and encouraging. A thought I was hilarious and fascinating. Most people did not share her adoration. I felt like a magical being around A. She rarely criticized me, if ever, and she lavished me with friendship, praise and comfort.

But her house was a f***ing mess. Sorry, A. But she would say the same.

The house was old. I can’t say how old, but probably from the early 20th century. It was 1 1/2 stories, but full of tales. The funny, little house had a tall, wooden fence not five feet from the exterior walls. It was prison-like with the planks that close. (Prisons are usually built by their occupants, in one way or another.) But they lived in town, on the busy main thoroughfare, and it provided privacy on their small lot.

A’s family (Mom, Dad and A) lived only on the first floor of the home. The door to the stairs was always blocked by clutter of some kind. VHS movie tapes, magazines, newspapers, clothes, shoes, trash. So I thought it was just the condition of their house, not an attempt to cordon off the entire upper floor.

I had visited A’s house many times, but never stayed over. One night, it was extremely late, I was extremely tired and A offered the couch in the small room by the front door. Again, the house was tiny. So the stairs were just behind the couch room. Only separated by a wall. The couch? Where I laid down to sleep? Was backed against the shared wall of the stairs.

Right before I laid my very tired head down on a throw pillow and covered my very tired body with a scratchy-thin blanket, A thought it wise to warn me:
“I just wanted you to know. Sometimes, and this will sound weird, you can hear footsteps on the second floor. Sorry.”

GAH!

“Huh??!” is all I could manage.

She explained that some nights, she could hear footsteps above. Heavy steps that sounded like boots thudding across the floor. She had a very serious look, so I knew she wasn’t winding me up. She was dead serious and sort-of embarrassed. I was wide awake.

“So…what is it??”

A offered more. She said that it was definitely person-like, not an animal, and the weird thing (weirder thing), the floor on the second level was rotting. No one could possibly walk from one side of the house to the other because they would fall through the deteriorating floorboards.

That’s. Specific. She told me that I could leave if I didn’t want to stay.

I felt bad for her, I was tired and I half-way didn’t believe this bizarre bedtime story. Plus, she had made it clear, “It doesn’t happen every night.” She just wanted to warn me in case it did. So, I stayed. I asked her to linger with me a bit longer, to laugh off the strangeness of her caution.

She was exhausted and begged off to bed. I was exhausted as well, but still uneasy. So I played Super Mario Brothers until my eyes screamed shut. I left an end table lamp burning, but I always did that. I hated the complete black. If I was going to be attacked, I wanted to see it coming. Mostly though, if I heard a noise, I wanted to identify it immediately.

A few hours later, still dark outside, I heard a loud thump above my head. I was instantly awake. I stopped breathing and listened. I heard footsteps coming across the floor upstairs.

NO! Crap!

Heavy boots. Not cowboy skiffle-shufflers, but heavy, leather, chunky-soled motorcycle boots. Or work boots. Donned by a heavy-set human. Coming closer until they were directly above me. Then they started down the stairs!

NO! Crap!

The stairs that were less than 2 feet away from my face! Behind the wall!

GAH!

I listened to the steps until they stopped exactly by my ear. And we waited. Me and the ghost. For something to happen. I didn’t do a thing. I laid on the couch, breathing from time to time, eyes at attention, until dawn. No more sound.

After everyone stirred, I went to look at the door that led to the upstairs. Cluttered as usual. No one had been on the second floor.

GAH!

I never stayed at A’s house again. Even when she offered.


According to A, the man who used to own the house committed suicide years earlier at another location. Did he still like this house? Is he trapped? Is it residual?

I don’t know what it was. If someone told me this story I would think they’re full of…sprite. LOL If it wasn’t a ghost, then what was it???

True, every bit.

PS. Don’t go in that house.