Monday, March 14, 2016

Keith Emerson - reflections in progress

I'm still in shock.

I keep searching for information and commentary from people who knew him well, and what they say isn't pretty.

Ultimately, this incredibly gifted man ended up being a victim of that beast so many of us struggle with.


Apparently, he had fought it for a long, long time, and was perhaps more sensitive to criticism than anyone knew.

Until it was too late.

This one really hurts. I pray for the repose of his soul.

Tuesday, February 2, 2016

Are You A Kindle Reader?

This just in!

If you enjoy reading e-books on a Kindle, author Jehan St. Marc has a deal for you!

New, lower price on Kindle editions of "O Fortuna" and "Grievous Unto Us."

Only $4.99 per title! Follow the links to purchase.

Like Leaves, We Touch, Book 1: O Fortuna

Like Leaves, We Touch, Book 2: Grievous Unto Us

Sunday, January 31, 2016

Book Giveaway from author Jehan st. Marc!

This just in from my old friend, Jehan St. Marc!


"I am giving away one paperback copy of 'Like Leaves, We Touch, Book 1: O Fortuna.'

"Sadly, I goofed on my greeting message and cannot go back to edit it. Next time I'll know better, and will not repeat the mistake!

"To clarify:

"You DO NOT have to make a purchase in order to enter. Just follow the link below and enter for a chance to win if you wish.

"One winner will be randomly chosen from the first 25 entries.

"Good luck, and happy reading!"

O Fortuna Giveaway

Thursday, January 28, 2016


Lovecraft fans will adore this one!

Good Lord! Don't read this late at night, alone in the dark, unless you want to sleep with the lights on for the next ten years!

A community under attack by - what? No one knows, but it moves methodically, and one family at the heart of the story knows they are next. Piece by piece, they assemble the puzzle, but will it be too late?

The descriptions are terrifying. I couldn't put it down. You won't be able to, either. Read it!


Memoir of a Death Angel

Here is a fascinating read for all you spiritual/spooky-minded folks. Check it out!

Anagnost delves into Greek Orthodoxy and mysticism with such depth. The story is vivid and exciting, and paints pictures and action like scenes from a film in the reader's head. One can really see/hear situations as they unfold. There is such a beautiful poignancy to Persephone's relationship with Yiayia Friday. Persephone's visits with the priests are so evocative, and in particular, I was delighted by Brother Bartholomew, whose sole function is to curse things that go wrong. He is quite inventive, and so extreme as to be humorous at times.

This really is a book like no other, and one I will re-read over the years. I expect I will uncover new treasures each time.

Memoir of a Death Angel, by Aphrodite Anagnost

Sunday, January 4, 2015


These are strange times. So many times in the past, I have felt that my mother was near the end. This has dragged on from the moment a little over 31 years ago, when my father died. Now we really ARE near the end. She is in hospice, and has already lived longer than they expected. When I signed the papers admitting her to the hospice program on Christmas Eve, she had not eaten or taken any drink in couple of days, had dropped to 84 lbs, and the hospice nurse told me she could not go on more than a week like that.

It has been more than a week. Ma has been eating a few bites here and there, and taking the occasional sip of ginger ale, but this is not enough to sustain a person, and she has lost a bit more weight. I have been visiting briefly, almost daily, and each day she looks more and more waxy, as if an undertaker has already been working on her. She is usually asleep when I arrive, and only wakes when my husband calls to her.

When I call her name, she continues to sleep.

She admitted on Christmas Day, cheerfully and with a little chuckle, that she does not know who we are. Surprisingly, this does not bother me. If she is cheerful and chuckling and not knowing me, I would prefer that to angry and bitter, judgmental and critical, as she was before this dementia stole away her memories and personality. She was never an easy person, even before Dad died, and I carry a lot of scars from the cruel things she has said and done to me over the years. I work at not placing blame, and try to figure out just why she was as busted as she was, even though I know that's a pointless exercise. We will never know, and does that really matter in the end?

There is only this failing body with the face of my mother, and the mind of a child. As the chaplain suggested, maybe this is the pure soul that was my mother before life buried it.

So, I answer her, no matter how many times she repeats the same questions. I point to the pictures of my children and tell her who they are, though two minutes later she will have forgotten, and will ask me again. I bring my cat in to visit, because somewhere in the back of her mind, she does remember that she always loved cats, and when she asks me if the cat is mine, and where we found him, and remarks that he is a "big one" five times in fifteen minutes, I answer as if it's the first time I've ever heard any of those questions/remarks.

It's hard to remember, now, that she could be as awful as she was, back when she was still in her "right" mind.

But can one say she ever was in her right mind? Depression is a monster. Unmanaged, or improperly managed, the person who suffers from it will try to drag everyone down with him/her. A child who in complete innocence trusts its parent falls quickly. Some have the ability to fight. Some don't. I was one of those who didn't, and here I am, almost fifty-three years old, still having a hard time believing that I really am any good at anything, though my list of accomplishments tells me (and others) that this is far from the truth.

All I see in my own blindness is that I work in a factory. I could have been better than that. I could have reached for the stars, only...

Ma didn't believe I had the right or the talent to do so, and neither did Dad. And like a trusting child, I believed them, and I lowered all my expectations, and here I am now, trying to raise the bar and reach higher, and accept that I do not, in fact, suck in every possible respect. I am not second best.

And then  there is the little voice inside that pipes up with, "Oh, yeah? Who do you think you are? Think you're pretty smart, don't you? Just wait, you'll find out."

With God's help, someday I may manage to kill that little voice for once and for all.

In the meantime, I watch and wait, and this song haunts me.

"Through the door a harvest feast is lit by candle light at the bottom of a staircase that spirals out of sight."

And I think about that room, and that feast, and that Ma is drawing closer to the foot of that staircase, and the long journey upward.

Thursday, September 11, 2014

A poem

Celestial Haven
So many years  hence, I recall
My first shy ventures
Up these endless stairs
And the echoes of our footsteps
As we climbed.
“Does he live in the sky?” I wondered,
Breathing hard, unable to speak,
While he ascended so easily.

In time, it became familiar:
A safe haven above the noise of the city
And the clatter of my life.
Grandfather clocks solemnly ticking,
Candlelight, and fine brew
Served by a generous hand,
And once, on a magical winter’s night,
The Lark Ascending:
Sweet perfection of Vaughan Williams
On the stereo at midnight.
Such were the finest of times with my friend.

As I sit in this space by day,
Bare walls before me,
Empty rooms and book shelves,
And the stamp of his presence being carried away,
Piece by piece, and box by box,
I remember those nights,
And deep in my heart, I long for just one more.

He may be going from this place,
But he, himself, still lives and breathes
And looks to the future.
All will be well with my friend in time:
“the ever-rolling stream, bears all its sons away.”

But nothing can strip the memories
Of those sacred nights from me:
Not the candles, nor the music,
Nor the drink, nor the talk,
Nor the image of my beloved friend,
A precious diamond glittering
In his setting of finest gold.

C.P. Warner

11 September 2014