Luxor East & West

 

Luxor Nile
Sailing on the Nile at sunset

 

The sights, sounds and colors of this intimate city of Luxor, built on the east bank of the Nile. Why go over there, except to the supermarket to buy the things you need, or maybe to see some museums, okay, of course, you should see the museums, the people on the west bank say. These people have been born beneath the golden mountain where rests the kings and queens of ancient Egypt. I am living on the west bank for two months amongst interconnecting villages built on canals, interspersed with wheat fields and banana groves. I awaken to the cacophony of birds, braying donkeys and children’s laughter, call of the muezzin–and loudspeakers of people selling wares who drive by all day, various farm machines, motorcycles–everyone rides a motorcycle…but mostly birds.

 

Luxor view Valley of the Kings
View from the terrace of Irie BnB, where I’m staying

I’m sorry to say I can’t recommend where I stayed, at Irie BnB, Al Bairat, West Bank. It’s a beautiful building and great location, however the woman who managed the place was a nightmare and most unprofessional. I paid two months in advance and when her behavior became so erratic and aggressive, I had no alternative but to leave. She promised to refund me for my second month but never did. I have nothing against smoking pot, however this woman smokes it constantly, even had many pot plants growing in full view on the terrace, a public space where tourists are invited to sit. This made me very uncomfortable, considering it’s illegal to grow pot in Egypt. The washing machine is on the terrace and guests are invited to use it–except when she decided I shouldn’t use it anymore. She threw my laundry on the ground and when I asked where I should hang them to dry, she responded that I should find a rope and string them up in my room. When I asked if this was how she treated all her paying guests, she laughed, used some foul language I won’t repeat and told me if I didn’t get out of the apartment immediately, she would throw my clothes out on the street. Needless to say, I left, and to this day she has not reimbursed me for my money. I’ve never had an experience like this anywhere in the world in my travels. It verged on scary and could be termed most bizarre.. She started out nice, although somewhat brusque, but it seemed once she got the money, she just didn’t care anymore how she acted. Her behavior was unethical. to say the least. I didn’t report her because I happened to fall in love in love with her brother-in-law, the man who owns the building that she and her husband manage and we got married. (He husband is very nice and seems to find himself in an awkward position). Perhaps that was her problem, she didn’t want me marrying her brother-in-law. At any rate, it’s impossible to know what goes through someone’s mind when they are so bitter and angry and I can only imagine it has more to do with her own problems within herself than anything else. Case in point, the next person who came to stay lasted about three days before she packed up her bags and left. I don’t think anyone has stayed there since.

So my advice would be stay somewhere else! There are many, many wonderful places to stay on the West Bank. After my initial fiasco, I stayed for ten days on the sandal, Amira Sudan, the most romantic of sail boats. It is where my husband and I got married. I am now moving to Luxor permanently, it has captured my heart–in more ways than one!

 

Rules of the Fighting Game excerpt from A DANGEROUS WOMAN

by Karen Hunt

“Guys Beat Up Girls, Girls Beat Up Girls, But Girls Never Beat Up Guys.”

I am sharing this chapter, which delves into my friendships with Sister Janet Harris and Casey Cohen. There are those who did their best to sweep what happened under the mat and me along with it. One day I will, indeed, be gone (and that day is certainly looming on the horizon), but the truth remains. I wrote down many of my thoughts and conversations at the time, so I am able to be accurate. For example, during Silvia’s trial, I took forty-five pages of notes.

A Short Overview: The dying wish of private investigator Casey Cohen that I unlock the mystery behind a series of fantastical letters sent to death row inmate, Maureen McDermott, leads me on a journey from a Los Angeles juvenile hall, to death row, to Istanbul and beyond. Along the way, I discover how the powerful justify abusing those beneath them and the hard choices an ordinary woman must make to resist their control and stand up for her personal freedom.   

A nun had introduced me to Casey Cohen, a highly respected private investigator who specialized in the death penalty phase. Sister Janet Harris was the Catholic Chaplain at Central Juvenile Hall and had been a friend of Casey’s for many years. A petit, strong-minded woman, she favored long dark skirts and crisp white blouses, sensible shoes and colorful shawls thrown over her shoulders. Her white hair was styled in a boyish cut, spiky on top. She wore wide-rimmed glasses behind which small, intelligent eyes viewed the world with a shrewdness that belied her round face and benign expression. Sometime later, Casey gave me a photo of her as a young woman in her nun’s habit, smiling and beautiful, young and hopeful, you could see it in her face, along with the mischievous good fun.

Becoming a nun did not mean seclusion for Janet, she was too strong a personality for that. But it did mean safety through submission to the most powerful male in the universe. That submission gave her the justification to further her good intentions, which were, of course, the intentions of God. In turn, those intentions, as with all religious zealots, justified ambitions that were shrouded in an outward show of humility and passionate words that she fervently believed with all her heart.

“I’m going to have someone call you,” she told me one day, perhaps a year or so after I had first started the writing program in the hall. She was accompanying me as I walked through gates and between walls, heading to the farthest end of the facility, where the girls were housed in one large room called Omega Unit. There were usually around forty girls in the unit and I taught a small group of them.

In 1995 I had gone into Central Juvenile Hall, met with the school principal, Dr. Arthur McCoy, and convinced him to let me try a creative writing class. I have a feeling he was too nice to say no to my enthusiasm. Not knowing quite what to do with me, he had sent me to see Ms. Neely, the teacher in the girls’ school. She had allowed me to teach some sessions in her class. I’d been entranced by the girls, surprised at their honesty and willingness to tell their stories. I had thought about it long and hard for a couple of months after that and had returned to meet with Sister Janet. We had met in the chapel, where she had listened to my vision of starting a writing program. Along with Dr. McCoy, she had offered to help me.

In those first few weeks, with the input of probation staff, I had established a small group of girls that I taught once a week.

“They’re the ones who are here the longest because they’re fighting for their fitness,” explained Ms. Pincham, the tall, powerfully built and abrasive head of staff in the girls unit.

“Fitness?” I inquired, having no idea what that meant.

She did not hide her disdain. “Karen, you better study up. Facing life sentences. We call them High Risk Offenders—HRO’s. They’re the most stressed, here the longest, so maybe you can do something with them.”

She said do something with them with a great deal of skepticism.

Twice a week I made the drive from the idyllic hills of Calabasas and into the heart of East Los Angeles. Central JH was situated just off Mission Blvd, next to USC Medical Center. Much of the original buildings had been destroyed by earthquake and they were still making repairs. In order the get in, I had to knock long and loud on a dirty orange door, with a small window cut out at eye-level. Eventually a guard’s face would appear, scrutinizing me through the window before letting me in. I was never searched, just waved through with my bags of writing supplies and food for the girls. Once I even brought them cappuccinos from Starbucks and fried chicken from Gelson’s, causing my husband Walter to roar, “You’re spending my money on those criminals?”

I kept right on doing it, which was the reason stated on the court papers for our divorce: Karen has chosen to use her free time doing charity work.

It had been while sitting confined in juvenile hall at a cold steel table with those angry and resentful girls, who in the beginning were forced by staff to be in my group and didn’t necessarily want to be there, that I had started to take a hard look at my own life. I had wondered with some trepidation how we would ever relate to one another. But amazingly, it hadn’t taken long before we developed a strong bond and looked forward to our time together. Barriers fell away and we discovered how similar we were beneath the surface–both with me and among themselves. Where they should have been enemies on the streets, they became friends at the writing table.

When the girls found out that I actually boxed and kick-boxed and fought with sticks and knives in the Filipino combat style called Eskrima, they were impressed.

“Damn, you do that? Like, for real. You get hit by guys?” they all wanted to know.

“Excuse me,” I objected. “I prefer to do the hitting.”

They were speechless, as if it was impossible to comprehend such a scenario.

Finally, one of them asked, “So you gonna teach us?” and they all got very excited by that.

I laughed at the unexpected question. “I don’t think I’m allowed to in here. Anyway, I bet you all know how to fight better than me.”

There were seven of them seated around the table. Brittany had helped her uncle to kidnap a girl at gunpoint; Erika had shot someone on a dare; Ipress had participated in an armed robbery with her homeboys; Elizabeth and her boyfriend had stolen a car, run over a police officer and led police on a wild chase almost to the Mexican border; Maria had been left with the gun while her homeboys ran away after a shooting in the park; Silvia and Leonor were accomplices in a robbery and murder on the beach.

Silvia was the girl whose words came to haunt me the most. Little did I know in those first days that we would form a strong bond and twenty-five miraculous years later we would still be friends.

All of the girls were experts in giving and receiving violence, the abuse having started in early childhood and progressing beyond. There were certain rules to their fighting games. Girls beat up girls. Guys beat up guys. Guys beat up girls.

Girls never beat up guys.

“A girl tries that and she gets killed, straight up,” declared Ipress.

“We get even in other ways,” said Maria. “Like, I know a girl bleached all her boyfriend’s clothes. She tried to poison him, too, ‘cept it didn’t work. See, that’s smarter. Girls are smarter than guys. We gotta be, cuz we can’t beat them up. So we gotta use our brains.” She tapped her curly head.

Brittany, who spoke little and always seriously, said, “I stay outta that shit. Do my own missions. I don’t get into it with men. Don’t let them have no control over me.”

I didn’t see the point of reminding her that she was here because she had obeyed the bidding of her uncle. Hopefully, she would someday come to that obvious realization on her own.

“So then, how does a girl protect herself and get respect on the streets?” I asked.

Silvia answered. “You can’t by yourself. You gotta belong to a man.” She looked at me sharply. “But it’s like that in your world, too, right? I mean, you gotta get hooked up, gotta get married or you’re just a Nobody.”

“Not exactly, not these days. It used to be like that,” I said. I spoke the right words; the words that were supposed to make sense in a modern world, but deep inside I knew Silvia was right.

She snorted, “Uh huh?” as if I hadn’t fooled her a bit.

“The best a girl can do is get jumped into a gang, just like the guys do,” said Maria. “They beat you up and if you take it like a man, then you get respect.”

Leonor’s pale face twisted with painful memories. “Yea, I did that. I got jumped into the Playboys, got so fucked over, my face swollen, I couldn’t open my eyes. My lip was cut, my nose broke. Still, it got me no respect. Not like the guys get. And you know what? They beat me up hard. They’re not that hard on each other.”

Maria nodded solemnly and then all the other girls did, as if Leonor had just stated one of the unchangeable laws of the universe.

Leonor was so small and delicate. The thought of her willingly being beaten up by a gang of men was too horrific. And to think she had done it to gain respect.

Maria explained further, “Yeah, well, supposedly, if you get jumped in it means you’re down, a player for real. And some girls do get respect but that’s cuz they dress and act like guys. If you’re a girl straight up, you get used for, whatever. Like, if the gangsters want you to carry a gun, sell drugs, sell your body, you do it. They pass you around like a piece of gum and just chew on you til there’s no flavor left and then they spit you out.”

“Damn, girl, don’t be depressing me like that,” chided Elizabeth. She turned to me eagerly. “So, you gonna teach us how to box? I mean, I’d lose weight, right?”

“Yeah, come on,” they all pleaded.

“You’d have to do sit-ups and push-ups,” I said. “You’d sweat a lot. It’s hard work.”

Elizabeth’s face fell. “Oh God, no.”

Maria threw up her hands in disgust. “You see, heina, that’s what I’m talking about. You get all into it and then when you find out you gotta actually do something, you give up.”
Before Elizabeth could respond, Maria continued, “I just wanna know how to beat up my enemies. Isn’t there something quick you can show us?”

“You have a lot of enemies?” I asked her.

She squinted as if I were stupid. “Hell, yeah.”

“I already killed all mine,” said Erika, her voice disconcertingly soft and devoid of emotion.

The other girls shuffled uncomfortably, none of them meeting Erika’s dead stare. Erika was the youngest of the bunch, just fifteen, and received a lot of attention because of her youth and good looks. She had committed her murder at age thirteen. I knew she hid terrible pain but she never revealed it in the writing group. Erika ended up in prison for over twenty years. To be sent to adult prison at such a tender age is a crime in itself.

Tragically, when it came time for her to finally be released not too long ago, she committed suicide. Freedom was something she had only ever dreamed of and the reality of actually having it was too terrifying to face.

“Everybody’s my enemy,” said Brittany. “I don’t got no friends, just enemies.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Oh, and aren’t you a sad story?”

“I never won a fight in my life,” said Silvia. “But I sure would like to pay some people back.”

I asked, “When you think about revenge, who do you wish you could get even with?”

All of them said either fathers or boyfriends.

Silvia reflected for a moment and then added, “Maybe I don’t want no revenge. I don’t really hate nobody. My boyfriend, sometimes I feel like I hate him. He hurt me so much. Like one time I was waiting for him outside my house and he didn’t come so finally around midnight I went to bed. Then my friend Marisol came and said he was there so I went outside in my bathrobe and slippers. I ran out the gate and followed him but he was real drunk and kept pushing me. I begged him not to walk away but he got tired of my crying and begging so he turned around and punched me in the mouth and I started bleeding. I ran inside my house after that, crying. There was a lotta guys outside and they seen my boyfriend hit me but they didn’t do nothing.”

“Why not?” I asked.

Silvia shrugged as if it wasn’t a big deal. “It was my problem not theirs so why should they care?”

The next time I was in the gym, Silvia’s answer rang in my head. Getting beaten up was her problem. How many women from all walks of life, all over the world, all down through history and until the present time had been told it’s your problem; it’s your fault. Be a better wife, a better girlfriend, a better daughter. Obey.

When I’d returned from London to Los Angeles with Katya, I had started training in martial arts. Simple expressions of inner strength, like letting out a loud kia at the moment of impact, had been difficult at first; but only at first. I had quickly taken to the discipline, training studiously at least four times a week as well as running every morning, continuing the habit I had formed back in London. Within three years I had achieved my black belt in Tang Soo Do. I was awarded my 2nd Degree black belt when I was married to Walter. And then, realizing that I knew very little about practical fighting, I started to train in Eskrima and then boxing and kick boxing. I even trained for a time in Okinawan weapons and the short sword. I loved all of it.

I like the quiet of the gym in the early morning, knowing that before long the room will be filled with bodies moving just like mine, pounding air and earth to the beat of ear-splitting rap music. When I walk in, the gym is clean and the smell of last night’s sweat is a faint memory. The owner, a small slim man with quick, nervous movements, is obsessive about cleanliness and can be seen at all hours pushing the vacuum cleaner or wiping the mirrors and bags with disinfectant, while admonishing everyone to stop sweating on his stuff, a crazy thing to say since that’s what the gym is all about; pushing to the limit of endurance—and that means sweating.

I wrap my hands with long pieces of cotton cloth, like bandages, to protect my wrists and knuckles. All fighters have their own way of wrapping their hands, like a signature. I jump rope or run in place to warm up, do sit-ups and push-ups. When my trainer arrives, we don’t talk much, just get right into it. Three minute rounds in the ring remind me to keep my hands up, never flinch or take my eyes off my opponent, tuck my chin, stay light on my feet, and, for God’s sake, keep moving, never get stuck in a corner, always make sure there is a way out, bob and weave, fake, anticipate, take control.

In the ring a person’s character is quickly revealed. You find out if you are easily flustered and distracted or made angry; or if you can command yourself under pressure, completely focus your energy and master your anger and fear. I face various opponents, each with his or her particular fighting styles, but in the end, winning or losing has nothing to do with them and everything to do with my own, inner battles. What I like best about the ring is that, unlike day to day life, it is clear and absolute. I never wonder if I’ve done right or wrong, failed or succeeded. I don’t have to wait days or years or a lifetime to figure out if I’ve achieved my goals. I know immediately. Either I do a technique correctly or incorrectly. Either I win or I lose. It’s obvious when I’ve given my best and when I haven’t and the reasons why. And each time I overcome my fears by stepping into the ring, I grow stronger mentally and physically because it is a process by which, simply by keeping at it and not giving up, I improve, even on the days when I am a little sick or unenthusiastic. Sometimes, just showing up and surviving the training is the biggest achievement of all.

Yet, there I was, tough, strong, determined—and knowing exactly how the girls in my writing group felt as abused victims. After each session, I took their writing home and it kept me awake at night, forcing me to accept the fact that I was still an abused woman, even though I thought I’d gotten out of it. It was depressing to acknowledge that I had merely exchanged one controlling man for another. Those girls gave me strength to finish my journey towards freedom. I was hooked on them, no doubt about it. I knew I had to keep listening to their stories, even if it meant my husband, Walter, heir to the Leimert real estate fortune, divorcing me.

Walter hated me teaching those girls and when I told him I wanted to sit in on Silvia’s trial he almost had a seizure. I was determined to do it anyway. The first morning I dressed in a suit for court and he watched in disgust as I descended the stairs.

“This obsession’s taking over your life and ruining our marriage,” he said. “Look at you, pretending that you have a job, dressed up like that. You’re not earning a penny. It’s embarrassing, Karen. And what about the kids? You’re abandoning them.”

“Why do you say that?” I hated having to justify my actions when there was no need. But at least in this marriage I wasn’t afraid to look my husband in the eye and express my opinion. At least I had progressed that far. “Katya’s in school. I’m taking Harry to preschool now. Max will be with Estella. I’m only at the trial in the mornings and I’ll pick Harry up on my way back. Everything is fine.”

“It isn’t. I pay for a housekeeper so you can play at this shit?”

Maybe it was the suit that made me particularly authoritative that morning. I walked right up to him and stared down.

“What would make you happy, Walter? If I stayed home and never went anywhere? Or, my other alternative, as you say, is to get a ‘real’ job, but only of your choice and under your conditions. You keep talking to me about being a teacher, or sometimes out of the blue you say I should be an animator for Disney.”

“Exactly,” he interrupted, as if it all made perfect sense.

“Well, you know what? I don’t want to do either of those things! They don’t interest me and I’ve never studied for them. Being a teacher makes no sense. Why would I earn maybe $25,000 a year if I’m lucky and leave the kids all day every day? I’m trying to build something where I can earn a living once the boys get in school full time—like we agreed before we got married—while mainly working from home. Have a little faith. I can do better than what you expect from me.”

I was surprised I’d managed such a mouthful with only one interruption. But I was wrong if I thought he was going to support my decision. He came back full force. “You think you’re better than other people? You think you’re better than me? I have a regular job, what makes you think you shouldn’t, too? I’m not letting you get away with avoiding responsibilities, running around town going to murder’s trials and teaching losers in jail for free. You’re acting like a teacher without doing the work to learn to be one. Why not do it the way you’re supposed to, like everyone else?”

“What do you mean, like everyone else?” I cried. “How dare you think you have the right to discount who I am, to disrespect everything I’ve done in my life to get where I am now. How would you like it if I did that to you? If I had the power to force you to change the course of your life, give up everything you’d worked hard at so you could fit into a mold of what I thought you should be?” I tried to calm down. At least he was listening.

“Look, I’m not saying I’m better than anyone, why do you fixate on that?” I pointed at myself. “This is who you married, and you seemed fine with it then. In fact, why aren’t you proud of me—I don’t get it! I love working with these kids and I want to expand the program. We get results and people are taking notice. It’s amazing to see their minds opening up, starting to believe in themselves. It’s miraculous! Why don’t you come down sometime and see for yourself? I’ve invited you and you never do. Walter, listen to me!” I cried, as he gave a fake yawn and rolled his eyes. How could I get through to him? “Did it ever occur to you that I might actually be doing something important?”

“Important?” His voice dripped disdain, as if I couldn’t have made a more absurd remark. “You’re so full of yourself it’s embarrassing. Sometimes I just listen to you yap-yap-yap, unable to believe you’re actually saying what you do. Okay, I’ll give you this: someone should help those delinquents but someone with the proper credentials, not you. The bottom line is you need to work for your keep. If you don’t want to be a teacher, fine, I never said you have to. Get a job at something else. Like Starbucks.”

I couldn’t help my horrified expression and he nodded with smug satisfaction, as if he’d caught me in a well-sprung trap. “Oh—don’t tell me you’re ashamed to work at a decent job. But of course, you’re too good for that aren’t you, and downright lazy! Welcome to the real world. If you don’t start contributing something around here, you’ll be out on the street.”

“Out? Start contributing?” I fumed. “I signed the premarital agreement. I bore two children, gladly. Now, you want to take away my freedom of choice for the rest of my life. You want me to stop doing everything that fulfills me as a person—stop going to juvenile hall, stop doing my children’s books—.”

“You don’t earn enough money at those books to make the amount of time you spend working on them profitable.”

I threw up my hands in defeat. “Why am I talking to you? Oh, and don’t forget I’m supposed to stop my martial arts training, even though you spend every weekend at the LA Country Club playing golf, at no small expense.” Inside, I hated myself for going down this road of tit for tat. Why did I always do that? There was no winning, just wasted energy.

“You don’t work, Karen, remember? Get a job and you can have the luxury of hobbies.”

I started down the back hall to Estella’s room, where Harry was sitting with her and watching morning cartoons. I threw over my shoulder, “I wish you would have informed me of all this before we got married. I never would have done it.” Not that I really thought this was true. I knew in my heart that once again I had fooled myself into thinking it would all be okay. I had repeated the same mistake of my first marriage, telling myself lies and thinking if I believed enough I could turn them into a secure and stable life after the insane one in London, with a man who I thought was “normal,” whatever that meant. I could not have read the situation in a more muddled fashion.

“We can arrange that.” He yelled, grabbing at my arm. That was one thing I no longer allowed—physical aggression. I shook free, whirling around to confront him yet again.

“You listen to me, Walter! I have a right to make these kinds of choices about what to do with my future. I would understand your complaints if I was running around Rodeo Drive buying out the boutiques, or if I was having an affair, or was addicted to drugs or neglecting the kids, but I’m not doing any of those things. I’m trying to build a creative writing program for incarcerated youth. What’s so wrong about that?”

I stood tense and visibly shaking, feeling the sweat under my armpits, as if I had already lived through an entire day of stressful situations when it was still only 7:30 am.

“Little Miss Self Righteous. Did you ever think that I might be concerned for you, that you’re making a fool of yourself? What do you know about teaching these kids? Nothing!”

“Oh, so now, it’s all because of your concern for me? Please! Have some faith in my abilities for once! Look, I’m going to this trial because I want to address the issues that concern you. They also concern me. After I’ve observed an entire trial, which will probably take no more than two weeks out of my life, if I still feel that I can help these kids and believe in what I’m doing with them, then I’m going to put my whole heart into making a success of it. You might not believe in it the way I do, you might not value what I’m doing, or think I have the ability to make it succeed. But I do—so support me, encourage me, give me a chance! Please, please try to understand its importance to me. I’ve showed you the writing of the kids. I’ve shared the experiences I’ve had with you. I’ve wanted to include you and asked you to come down to special events at juvenile hall. You’ve refused. I can’t do anything more. If you don’t like it, you’re just going to have to put up with it.”

I couldn’t have made a more incendiary remark. He turned livid. “You’re nobody! You’ll be sorry you ever crossed me.”

Where had I heard that before? But now, instead of standing passively, I turned to continue down the hall. He grabbed at me again and tried to strong arm me into staying where I was. I looked straight at him, unafraid. “Let go of me.”

Like Sasha, his eyes were blue. But Walter’s were a flat, calculating blue, whereas Sasha’s had been filled with uncontrollable anger. “Do you have a lawyer?” he asked.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“No.”

“You better get one.”

“And you do?”

He puffed up like a peacock. “I have a list of lawyers as long as my arm. When I need one, I call one up.”

The door to Estella’s room opened and Harry came out, jumping into my arms.
Walter threw a last jab. “Fine, go play at your pretend job, but I’m warning you—“

By this point, I was fed up with obeying husbands. There was no way I wasn’t going to attend that trial.

Ironically, Walter lost all control over me and over his fortune that he obsessively thought might be stolen from him, through early onset of Alzheimer’s, or at least that’s what I’ve been told. Unknown to me at the time, this started to display itself not long after he divorced me and the beginning of his second marriage. Although, I suppose his increasing paranoia during our marriage could also be attributed to the illness. For years now, Walter is now without power even over his own mind. He resides in an upscale, lockdown facility.

All actions are connected. If I hadn’t met those girls I wouldn’t have met Sister Janet. If I hadn’t met her, I wouldn’t have met Casey. I had my problems with Janet and she certainly had her problems with me but I like to think that at least in the beginning she wanted to do something good when she introduced us to each other.

“His name is Casey Cohen. The two of you should be friends.” Her voice was soft and breathy, always sounding as if she could never quite get enough air.

And so one morning, the phone rang.

“Karen?” I can still hear the hesitant, hopeful lilt of Casey’s voice calling my name through the phone line, from wherever he was, probably in his home, a place I would never go.

From there, the conversation took off and we covered everything from philosophical and historical questions, books we loved, places we’d visited around the world, our pasts, our present situations, his most interesting cases, all of it tumbled out, our connection intense and immediate. At last he began to cough.

“I must have a cold,” he apologized. He excused himself, but not before we had set up a time to meet in person.

That meeting never happened. Instead, Janet telephoned.

“Casey’s in the hospital,” she said.

Hearing those words, I realized how desperate was my need to see him, as if instinctively I had known that fate would try to keep us apart and it was imperative that I meet him right now, this instant, before it was too late. I couldn’t bear the possibility that our interaction might only be that one exchange through a phone line.

“What happened?” I could only imagine that perhaps he’d had an accident.

Janet sighed. “I think he wouldn’t mind you knowing. He has cancer. Lung cancer. He asked me to apologize.”

“How sick is he?” I spoke fearfully.

“Very. It’s not from smoking. He always wants people to know that. He left home as a teenager and joined the Navy and thinks the cancer came from being posted near a nuclear testing site in the South Pacific. Sometimes he has problems with his breathing and he has to go to the Veteran’s hospital so they can clear out his lungs. He’s still quite strong. I’m sure you’ll be meeting soon.”

And so we did a couple of weeks later. That first meeting was at one of his favorite restaurants, El Cholo, in downtown Los Angeles and just a couple miles from Central Juvenile Hall.

“A hangout for lawyers and judges, but don’t let that put you off,” he joked.

He was tall, slim and slightly stooped, led forward by a sharp nose and jaw, wearing a t-shirt, blue jeans and white tennis shoes—his signature outfit. His hair and beard were white; his large brown eyes those of a soulful poet, his hypnotic gaze irresistible to those he interviewed, even the most hardened criminal found himself opening up to Casey. He made them feel as if he was a father confessor absolving them of sin, just as his real name suggested: Kaddish, a prayer for the dying. He was his name. He certainly hypnotized me. Meeting him confirmed what I had already felt through the phone line, that we had an intense connection, as if we had known each other all of our lives, or even in some previous existence. That is not to say that I necessarily believe in reincarnation, but that is how it felt. During the ensuing three years, neither of us visited the other’s home nor did we meet each other’s spouses. Our relationship existed within neutral spaces: in juvenile hall at the writing table where Casey enjoyed talking with the kids; in the courtroom if I was following the case of one of my students; in the law offices of his friend, “attorney to the Stars,” Charlie English.

When Casey wasn’t working for criminal attorneys such as Leslie Abramson on some of the most notorious murder trials in the country, he worked for Charlie, helping him with the likes of Tommy Lee when he got in trouble for allegedly abusing Pamela Andersen, or Robert Downey Jr. when he was picked up for drug or alcohol related charges—these were the old days before he turned his life around. Casey’s job was fascinating and sometimes dangerous, inhabited by a host of characters more colorful than any movie, with him the most colorful of all.

For almost a year he didn’t look ill. It would have been easy to imagine that everything would be all right, that the unpleasant reality would miraculously go away—except that it wouldn’t.

He was frank about his illness, explaining at that first meeting, “I didn’t like to mention it in our first phone conversation—didn’t want to scare you off, at least not immediately, I probably still will—but the fact is, I don’t expect to live very long, so let’s make the best of it, shall we?”

I didn’t know how to answer and when I hesitated, he laughed, as he always would thereafter, with an edge of melancholy and never with abandon, as if too much happiness led to pain. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m just letting you know. I have this thing about the illusion of time.” He added with obvious sarcasm, “Don’t ask me why.”

When the doctor first told Casey he had lung cancer he decided not to go the route of chemotherapy, wishing to continue living as natural a life as possible and to die as natural a death. Upon leaving his doctor’s office, he went home and put his affairs in order, burned most of his files, stopped taking on cases and moved to Thailand, thinking he would stay there until he died.

“At first it was fine,” he explained, savoring his enchilada with molle sauce. I’d never tried it before and he insisted that I do. It was delicious. “I’m not a religious man, I’m an atheist. But I do believe in living a good life and being a spiritual person. If that’s a contradiction, well, I can’t help it. I’m attracted to the Buddhist philosophy. So I went there to live simply, on a beach, without the noise and distractions of the modern world. And I waited.” He shrugged sheepishly. “The problem is I didn’t die. And I guess I got bored. And with the heat and humidity, breathing was difficult. And then, I had to face the reality that there were now Pizza Huts and McDonald’s everywhere. I felt ridiculous sitting doing nothing so I thought I might as well go back to where I’d be closer to medical care. Not a very romantic tale, I know. I should have walked into the sea and disappeared or something but I’m not that brave.”

By the time we met, he’d been aware that he was dying for a few years already and ominous signs were beginning to appear; the worsening cough, the debilitating and overwhelming exhaustion. But he never complained. He made a joke of it, like how he talked about his spiritual journey to Thailand, which I could tell had really been a profound experience.

“Death is what happens. I just wish it wasn’t happening to me—everybody else, yes, but not me.” No matter how he brushed over it with light words, he couldn’t hide the hollowness in his eyes. He didn’t want to die. Who does?

“You make me want to live a little longer, Karen. Your life is interesting and I’m curious to see how it goes.” This, he told me a few months after our first meeting and on many occasions thereafter. He took on the Jeremy Stromeyer case because he felt I had given him the strength to carry on. “I wouldn’t have done it otherwise, not if I hadn’t met you,” he said and I wondered if that was a good or a bad thing.

In the beginning, I had joked that when I walked through Central Juvenile Hall with Casey on one side and Janet on the other and me sandwiched in-between that I felt perfectly balanced—the nun on one side and the atheist on the other. I was happy there in the middle. These were my real friends, unlike any I had ever known. Together, I believed we were a force that could change the world, I was that enthusiastic. But gradually, another view overcame the idealistic one; that I stood between two opposing forces, one for good and one for evil. That might seem extreme but that’s how it began to feel. Casey tried to prepare me for what might happen when he was gone, but even he could not have anticipated how bad it would get.

During the trial of my student Silvia, we had been walking like that, the nun and the atheist on either side of me, heading towards the girls’ class where I was scheduled to teach, Janet giving my arm a light squeeze and smiling sweetly, always ready to insert a needle of doubt or spite, something subtle to cause division without the recipients ever really knowing where it had come from—or if they had imagined it all and should feel ashamed for their distrusting thoughts.

She was saying, “Karen attracts drama, don’t you hon? I dragged her into Gil Garcetti’s office the other day.” This she said with an added dose of mischief.

Casey groaned. “Why do you pander to politicians? They’ll never give you anything.”

“That’s because you don’t believe in miracles,” she chided while patting my arm. “There are a few things that Casey and I disagree on.”

“Your brazen opportunism, perhaps? But you’re so good at playing dumb after you do something outrageous that everybody forgives you. Your actions are perceived as innocent blunders but we know otherwise.” Casey winked at me.

She did her little self-depreciating shrug coupled with soft laughter, just that perfect hint of mischief in her eyes to top it off. I came to know that look very well.

I wasn’t going to say how I felt about the Garcetti incident but it had left me with a bad taste. Even today, it’s hard for me to talk about things I don’t agree with in a way that might be perceived as “complaining.” The culture I’d been raised in of women suffering in silence while never complaining in public had been so powerful.

Janet and I had been at the courthouse sitting in on Silvia’s trial. Janet had called it a “rite of passage” for me.

It was clearly established during the trial that although Silvia had been at the scene of the crime, she had not participated in the murder and had, in fact, refused to be a part of whatever her boyfriend was planning. It was never proven that she knew that a murder was going to be committed. Still, she faced the sentence of life without parole, along with the other defendants.

Evaluated as having a below average IQ and told by educational experts that she would never graduate high school, Silvia had proved them wrong by graduating with all “A’s” and being chosen as valedictorian of her graduating class. During the three years that I taught Silvia at Central Juvenile Hall, also helped along by her teacher and the principal who both believed tenaciously in her abilities to succeed, I saw her transformed from angry and withdrawn to animated and articulate, writing with a perception well beyond her years, her words cutting into my heart. Mostly, she wrote about how and why she had allowed herself to fall into abusive relationships and what she could do to better herself.

That night, why can’t I forget that night? I wasn’t supposed to be there. Me and Claudia, we were supposed to go see some other guys but then Jerry showed up and I was afraid to leave. Oh, if only I’d left before he got there!

I’m trying to let go. I dunno what to say to him or myself. I loved him once, maybe I still do. I’m so confused. He was my teacher and I was the student and I was a good student so I learned.

I wish I stayed in school. I went to junior high after we moved from Bell Gardens but then, when I was supposed to go to high school, I didn’t go the first two weeks cuz I was scared cuz it was in a neighborhood I didn’t like. But then my dad found out and he made me go so I went. But then the ladies in the office they didn’t like the way I looked cuz of my tattoos that I did and my blond hair, so they gave me some forms and said I had to go home and fill them out and then come back. I took the forms home and I filled them out and then I came back, but they said I did it wrong. So then, they gave me some more and told me I had to go away again and bring them back. I said can’t I stay and fill them out here but they said no. When I was going home some enemies came and attacked me and beat me up. The school was in their neighborhood and I came from a different one, so I was in danger. After that, I just gave up and didn’t go back and nothing my dad did or said could make me.

Now I go to school and I like it again, just like when I was little. I wanna graduate. I wanna be somebody in this world. I could be somebody. I could be a teacher for real, or a nurse, or a psychologist. If I get my GED, I’m gonna study psychology. Ms. Neely says I can, and the principal, he says I can. So if they say it then I say it, too. Cuz they should know.

But there’s hope these days. Those women who be independent, who earn money for themselves, women who play sports. They can do stuff just as good as men. Like Serena Williams. I seen her on TV. I bet men are just scared of her. So there’s hope. The day’ll come when women won’t be put down like that.

Maybe I’m gonna get my tattoos removed. All of them, even the ones Jerry put there.

Maybe then I’ll get his poison out of me. I just pray to God I have the strength.

It was after reading the writings of the girls, especially Silvia’s, that I started to gather the strength to write the truths of my own life. This piece by Silvia has always torn me apart. I think most girls know exactly how this feels:

To Be a Girl

To be born a girl, I see it as a punishment. As a little girl, they’d dress me up in a nice, beautiful dress and show me off. As I started to grow older it was, let’s do her hair, show her how to talk and dress her up in a tank top and some short shorts. Now she’s ready to go out.

All you have to do is ask him for a cigarette, smile, thank him and walk away. As a girl, you could walk into any club you want without showing in I.D. You could get away without paying for your meal. That’s what I learned. But then it wasn’t fun anymore. Sure, as a girl I liked the attention but now I was getting attention from the wrong people. Now my uncle looked at me like a piece of meat. His friends would whisper and say, let’s take her out, you know what she wants, just look at her, they all want the Same thing.

I was no longer considered a cute little girl. It was my fault that guy did that to me. I shouldn’t have dressed like that. It was my fault he hit me. I should have said, yes, you could do whatever you want to me because I’m a girl and it’s a man’s world. I should have been at home cleaning and cooking like all girls should. But I didn’t want to be like girls should be. I can’t never change the fact that I was born a girl, so the one time I decided to act stronger than a girl should, I stood up for what I believe and told him no. but still, as a girl, I got punished. I got punished for saying “no” to a man and I’ll continue being punished for the rest of my life.

As a girl, I feel I will always be punished.

I trained single-mindedly in the fighting arts so that I could know what it was like, as a woman, to stand without fear.

Euphorically, to this day, I unwrap my hands at the end of each sparring session. Later, perhaps I will find evidence of the fight—a bruise or a cut on my arm, sometimes a black eye. It doesn’t matter. They are the wounds of a warrior and I wear them proudly, knowing my opponent wears them too. At the end of our bout, we bow to one another with respect. In the London flat, I was terrified of the mirror, not wanting to see my hunted eyes, the bruised and swollen skin. In those days, I bowed to hide my shame.

Who was I back then? It appalls me to think that I stood there and took such abuse. No one would dare to treat me like that now, I would not allow it. Now, I see my former husbands as insignificant insects that I can flick away with one minimal, swift movement. I have no fear, only disdain for such cowards.

At home, still married to Walter, I always opened the folder where I kept the girls’ writing, looking first for what Silvia had to say, wanting to hear her voice, contemplating how it applied to me:

Me, Jerry and Marisol were outside a friend’s house when my friend was talking and Jerry got mad and was telling her to shut up but she was so dingy, she just kept on talking. So he took a knife and Marisol was sitting on the sidewalk and he threw the knife at her and she screamed so he kept throwing the knife at her. Then he saw me standing by the tree and he threw the knife at me and I got scared but I didn’t say nothing.

There was this lady who sells corn passing by and she asked me what my boyfriend was doing and I told her he was playing. She looked at me like I was crazy. But everyone thought I was. So she was just another person thinking I was crazy to be playing with a man who plays with knives.

Common sense should tell a girl to stay away from a man who uses her as a dartboard. Still, incredible as it may seem, it can happen to anyone if the circumstances are right.

It’s easy when you’re on the outside looking in to say that a girl is crazy, that she should just get out. But when you’re the one in the middle of the maze you can’t imagine the possibility of escape. Once, on the streets of London, Sasha kicked me repeatedly like I was a mangy dog and a man passing by reached out in distress, offering to help me. My husband turned on him in a mad fury and the man retreated. I stood in terror, shaking my head and mouthing no, no at the man, praying that he would just go away. It never occurred to me to go with him. The only result I could imagine from his misplaced kindness was for me to suffer even worse abuse when I got home—because I would go home wouldn’t I? I always ended up in my prison.

If I ever tried to argue with either of my husbands, they would say “Don’t fight me.” The message was clear—you have no right. You are a woman and I am a man. I have power and you do not. That is the way of this world. Don’t upset the balance. But even in those dark London days I wondered, why? Why can’t a woman, or anyone who is oppressed for that matter, stand up the way the powerful do? Don’t the oppressed have just as much right to be tough and strong, to speak freely without fear? Yes, they have the right, they just don’t have a way to be heard—and if they do happen to be heard, they must quickly be suppressed or discredited so that no one actually listens.

The girls in my writing sessions never stopped wanting fighting lessons and I never stopped wishing I could teach them.

“Every girl should be able to do that,” they would say wistfully.

I remember Elizabeth slamming the table with a fist and saying to me, “Damn, woman, you’re dangerous—a Dangerous Woman.”

I always hugged each of them good-bye; those condemned young women whose tough facades had been stripped away at the writing table, revealing fearful little girls who passively did what they were told because they never knew they could do otherwise. I understood exactly how they felt.

And now, with Silvia’s trial, I saw how there was little that could be done to change the fate of a passive girl who had never learned how to stand up for herself against abuse because no one had taught her and now it was too late.

I’d been given chance after chance to learn my lesson and I was still trying. It took years, perhaps a lifetime to break free of that stultifying mindset. I had thought that Janet was helping me in that process but little by little I was beginning to wonder. And the trip to Garcetti’s office had really made me uncomfortable.

Janet came to Silvia’s trial sometimes and sat with me. One of those days, we got in the elevator and she pushed the up button when we should have been going back down and out of the building.

“I heard that the illustrious District Attorney is in his office right now.”

I resisted. “So?”

She pouted. “Karen, seize the opportunity. I want to give him a hard time, some serious Catholic guilt. Make him change these terrible laws.”

“I need to get home to my kids.”

“We’ll be fast, I promise,” she assured me.

I sighed and followed after her.

Garcetti was in his office and surprisingly for such a busy man, invited us in, making the standard joke, “No one stands in Sr. Janet’s way,” to which she responded with humble contrition, coupled with a subtle gleam of triumph and a depreciating, “Oh, really now.”
Garcetti was a strikingly handsome man, tall and lean, his white hair in stark contrast to his dark eyes and eyebrows, and with the self-assurance that authority figures wear like a magic cloak. Purposefully, he folded back into his chair and motioned with a regal hand for us to sit as well, offering me an inviting smile along with an inquiring look directed at Janet.

“Oh, this is Karen,” she said brightly. “I picked her up in the hallway.”

Garcetti’s gaze lingered appreciatively, a slow burn up and down my body. “If I saw her in the hallway I’d pick her up, too.”

Janet put a hand to her mouth in mock embarrassment, tittering behind it. Unable to think of a witty come back, I said nothing. The idea that I should think I was somehow lacking because I didn’t have a witty comeback is revolting to me now. It was a continual battle inside of me, feeling such treatment was wrong, no matter how subtle the supposed compliment, while not knowing how to combat it without appearing “unlikeable,” another no-no for a woman.

I was glad when the focus shifted away from me. I listened as they bantered back and forth, realizing I’d been brought along as eye-candy, an experience that I came to expect with Janet. Fortunately, we didn’t stay much longer than ten minutes. Garcetti looked pointedly at his watch and the courtesy meeting was over almost before it had started. I waited until we had left his office and we were on the street walking to my car before daring to voice my objections.

“That felt really awkward to me. I’m not comfortable drawing attention to my sexuality in a meeting. It’s unprofessional. And well, it just seems off somehow, coming from you.”

She pooh-poohed my reaction. “Oh, Karen, stop. These politicians, you know how they are. And you’re nice looking. Why not use it? I don’t expect you to talk much because you don’t have the years of experience that I have.”

I bristled. “How far would you suggest I go in ‘using it’ while you do all the talking?”

We were standing by my car now, me on one side and her on the other, about to get in. The sun reflected off her glasses and I could see nothing behind them, just a frosted white, as if she had no eyes at all. She spoke across the top of the hood, using the same bright voice she’d used with Garcetti. “Let’s not be hypocritical, hon. You’ve taken it pretty far already, haven’t you?”

It was a surgical slice. I had had made confession to her about a lot of things and she had consoled me. She spoke in such a soothing manner, even when she was saying the most degrading things, that it felt like she was trying to do me some good, teach me an important life lesson. I had made mistakes, I had done things I shouldn’t. I couldn’t deny that what she was saying was the harsh truth.

But then I would stop myself from those thoughts. Didn’t I automatically think in such a compliant fashion because of my history of submitting to punishment from my father and then later with abuse from my husbands? Sometimes, it was hard to tell if I was thinking things for the right or the wrong reasons. Every thought I had was influenced by my previous thoughts and experiences. Anyway, it was impossible to have a “right” or a “wrong” thought. They were just my thoughts and I had to untangle them as best I could.

The paradox made me extremely uneasy and I wanted to leave Janet right there and then; get in my car and drive away. Of course I didn’t. I couldn’t leave a nun stranded in a parking lot.

Back on the freeway with her sitting primly next to me, I imagined how she would have told the story, if I had: And then she just left me there! I can’t understand what’s happened to Karen. I’m terribly concerned. She’s been behaving so strangely lately, her words accompanied by a sad, drawn out sigh and an uncomprehending shake of her head.

I suppressed a sigh myself and listened in silence as she conversed about the program, about the kids in the classes, about how it was growing and becoming recognized. And after a few moments, I found myself pushing the awkward incident away. Surely I had misunderstood her. By the time we reached her bungalow in South Pasadena, she was once again the person that I loved, the nun who cared so deeply and who wanted to see what we could accomplish together. Because, after all, I had to have someone in my life who really cared about me didn’t I? And that someone was surely Sister Janet.

Janet and Casey, both street smart, both with the ability to extract confessions, both my dearest friends. And now, here we were, walking together, me between the two of them: Janet and Casey. It felt so right. And then again, it didn’t. Because I knew, or at least I was beginning to know, that I wasn’t as perfectly balanced as I had once thought. It was like the Bible verse I had memorized as a kid; the one that had been pounded into me along with all the others, convincing me that I should be a good Christian girl who meekly obeys those above her. “Now we see through a glass darkly, but then we shall see face to face.” I was looking through the darkness. I had spent my life in darkness. When would I finally reach the light, and not only reach it, because I’d had glimpses along the way, but actually choose to stay there?

As a servant of God and married to Jesus, Janet deferred to men. But women, that was another story. Women should defer to her. There was a clear order of power. She had power over the women around her, and that was as it should be. In her eyes, I was supposed to comply. When I didn’t, I had to be punished into submission. Which was why she turned me into a criminal later, which, in turn, started the feeding frenzy. Because in her mind, that’s what she honestly believed I was: the usurper who stole everything from her, including her darkest secret.

Like the girls had told me, there are rules to the fighting game: guys be up girls, girls beat up girls, but girls never beat up guys. And those rules extended all the way up to the throne of God.

Where Janet should have had dominance over me, as she believed was her God-given right as a nun who was doing God’s will, I refused. Instead, I turned increasingly toward Casey for friendship, the one man in my life who encouraged instead of suppressed me. Janet lost control and she never forgave me for that.

 

My Infinity

In a few weeks I will be taking off for two months in Egypt. It’s time to start up the blogging again in preparation….

 

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My parents in 1967

I was last in Egypt at age ten. I can imagine much has changed since then. Of course, the monuments of Luxor, where I will be staying, will not have changed. I look forward to walking among the queens and kings and breathing in their spirits, as well as the slaves who suffered in order for those in power to gain immortality. This is the dilemma that drives me, the juxtaposition of yin and yang. Is it evil and good, or is that just how we have tried to explain it? Perhaps it is really something else that we don’t understand.

Luxor is my next stop in gaining inspiration to write Throne of Desire, book 5 in the NIGHT ANGELS CHRONICLES series. Writing six books is a lesson in endurance. It is also  a spiritually uplifting experience. I found that while writing Land of Talismans, book 4, the characters truly took over the story. They are leading me on their own mysterious journey. I am learning much as I travel along.

 

Writing this series has taken me from Los Angeles to Istanbul, Turkey; the Sahara Desert, Morocco; Martha’s Vineyard; Lausanne, Switzerland; Sucre, Bolivia; Lake Arenal, Costa Rica; and now Luxor, Egypt.  My characters represent many cultures and ethnicities, the stories are steeped in history. The themes of free will (does such a thing exist?), spirituality vs materialism, the corruption of power; the sedation of the masses, well…let’s just say it’s all in there. What would you, as an ordinary human being, do if you had the opportunity to become a god?

And what, really, does that mean–to be a god? What does it mean to be human? What is life and what is death?

 

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Good vs Evil…who can say for sure?

We don’t know the answers to these questions, no matter how much we fool ourselves into thinking we do.  To know these answers means to have the knowledge and power of what many call God…or the universe… or whatever words one wishes to use. As finite beings in an infinite universe (a concept impossible to comprehend) we theorize, speculate, believe we know, kill each other over theological technicalities, but the fact is, we are tiny ants climbing up onto blades of grass, thinking we have scaled the highest mountain when we haven’t even made it out of the backyard.

That said, it’s a lot of fun speculating and I am putting it all into NIGHT ANGELS CHRONICLES.  We’ve each been allotted a certain amount of energy to put back into the universe. So, this is how I use mine. Telling stories, creating my own little worlds. And along the way, traveling where my spirit takes me to absorb all I can of the wonders of the world I live in.

What a life! We should make our lives worth living–to ourselves, which is why I have such a hard time writing in this blog. It’s all in NIGHT ANGELS CHRONICLES, it’s all in my other writings. I want people to read what I write. I want to share my little worlds and hope that others will get lost in them, too. It’s a way to find connection in the void of infinity.

Life shouldn’t just happen to us. We should give our all to creating our best adventure.

This is my best effort. And I’m loving every minute of it.

 

Book of Angels Released Today!

Book of Angels $4.99 @Evernight Teen

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All Sera ever wanted to do was to solve the mystery of her dad’s death and find out if the Night Angel, Peter, really loved her. Now, there are bigger issues at stake. After being saved from death by the Night Angels, Sera returns to Oak Haven to find her brother, Salem, has been saved by her nemesis, the sinister Los Angeles mayor-to-be, Fabian Gore. Sera and Salem meet again, in their hometown, as powerful denizens. And as enemies. Someone is channeling power to the Queen, imprisoned in St. Catherine’s Monastery. If she escapes, the Ancient Ones will rise up from their sarcophagi beneath churches throughout the word and wreak vengeance on denizens and humans alike.

To thwart the Queen, Sera has no choice but to form an uneasy alliance with Gore. Meanwhile, Sera’s power and her connection to the Key of Mystery is growing. Only she can open the Book of Angels. But whoever does that will become something that Sera never wants to be: the Seventh Angel. How can Sera solve her own problems when everyone else wants her to solve their problems as well?

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Book of Angels in an Editor’s Pick.

Excerpt:

The next thing I knew, I had leaped into the air, my mind on St. Catherine’s Monastery, and I found myself hurtling through the Passage, horribly aware of every atom in my body and the indomitable forces of the universe that were trying to pull me apart.

As if it were a part of my very being, I held myself together, “remembered myself,” and traveled through the Passage.

Within seconds I was floating down from the sky, surrounded by the immense, desolate beauty of what looked like a moonscape. Except that the moon shone brighter and bigger than I had ever seen. Behind me, sand stretched, wave upon wave of it, with not a hint of grass or trees, while in front rose a sheer cliff, taller than a skyscraper. The monastery seemed to grow out of the rock, so closely was it pressed against the cliff.

“All looks peaceful,” observed Peter.

“Maybe too peaceful,” said Blanca.

Together, we jumped over the fortress walls, landing in the empty courtyard. We entered the sixth century basilica. We walked from the vestibule into the ornate nave and down the aisle, toward the sanctuary. I gazed in awe at the ancient artifacts and the icons shining with gold.  Hundreds of lamps hung from the ceiling like glittering galaxies, bathing the vast room in an eerie light. Out of the shadows the figure of the Abbot appeared, wearing a long gray robe and a cylindrical, flat-topped hat. His long black hair was tied in a knot at the nape of his head, a frizzy beard spreading out from his face ling tangled wire. His large, hooked nose resembled a bird’s beak and his dark eyes burned uncannily from deep sockets.

He greeted us with a humble bow and wordlessly led us through a dark and narrow arched doorway, and into a small circular, windowless chamber, padding silently on bare feet. The chamber was empty except for one plain wooden table. On the table sat the black lacquered Life Box, looking just as insignificant as the Object Holder had when I had first seen it and fought over it with Salem. This box, though, was about twice the size of the one that had held the key. And whereas the Object Holder had a gold lock and a tiny gold key to open it, the Life Box had no key and no visible way to open it.

On either side of the table stood two impressive Bedouin warriors. Each had one hand resting on a curved scimitar and the other hold the hilt of a knife, tucked into a belt. Their faces were lined and weather-beaten and expressionless, as if carved from the rocks of the mountain. The desert surrounding the monastery was home to many Bedouin. They were devout Muslims with a long history of guarding the monastery. They had made a vow to guard the Life Box with their lives.

The Abbot motioned for the Bedouin to stand at ease.

Bowing low to us, the guards said in unison, “Assalamu Alaikum.” It meant, “peace be upon you.”

Along with Peter and Blanca, I responded, “Alaikum Assalamu.” This meant, “upon you be peace.”

Like everything else in my crazy life these days, I had no idea how I knew to say that, but I did.

The Abbot didn’t speak, just gestured for us to gather around the box.

“He has taken a vow of silence and hasn’t spoken in thirty years,” said Peter.

My attention was drawn to the box. I realized it vibrated and hummed in an almost undetectable manner. Only when I remained completely still and stared fixedly did I notice it.

“This is does without stopping, and just today it gained in force,” said one of the Bedouin.

Sure enough, as we watched, the box jumped slightly, shuddered, and jumped again before falling back into its continual vibration. It hummed a little louder now.

As I watched in fascination, I slowly became aware that the key around my neck was growing heavier and beginning to burn.

The box vibrated more violently and hummed louder. As it did, it rose into the air and hovered about two feet above the table. The vibrating and humming grew so loud, I thought the box might split apart.

The key was searing my skin and I yelled in pain. I tried to tear it off but it was stuck to my chest and my hand burned when I touched it. I felt the Queen’s presence, reaching out to me. It was pure evil and I felt attracted to it. I wanted to bow down and worship the Queen, give her the key. I became brutally aware of her perfections and my own failings. I loved the Queen! I despised and hated myself! Horrible thoughts rose in my mind, the impulse to do horrible things.

Blood was pouring from my eyes. Tears or something worse, I didn’t know.

“Take me away!” I cried out to the others. “She’s grabbing at me. Take me away. Please!”

The Bedouin had drawn their swords and whipped out their daggers, but there was nothing they could do except stand there, at the ready. Blanca and Peter had drawn their swords, too. They’d placed themselves as a shield between me and the box. The Abbot ran in front of us all and pushed Blanca and Peter back.

He turned to face the box, as if bracing himself against a great wind, and raised his hands to heaven to pray.

Peter and Blanca were then able to pull me out of the chamber. I don’t think I could have moved before the Abbot faced the box. As soon as we were back in the nave, I collapsed onto the ground, gasping great gulps of air, thankful to find the heat of the key subsiding. With a great cry, I tried to take it off, but it was stuck. Completely stuck now. To my skin.

“Fuck this key! Why am I cursed with it?”

My entire body was bathed in read sweat. I looked down at myself in horror. What had I become? What nightmare had I entered? I pushed back my hair and swallowed, my throat dry and constricted. I breathed in and out deeply.

“She’s getting stronger all the time. She’ll get out. Maybe soon. And I was going to help her!” I shuddered.

“But you didn’t,” said Peter.

“At least now we are sure she is still inside,” said Blanca.

“She won’t stay there.” I could see my fate as I had already seen it in my Turning, and it was clearer than ever. One day I would face the Queen.

And I would fail! How could I not when she was so easily able to deceive and confuse me?

One of the Bedouin exited the chamber. “The Abbot wants you to know he is now sure someone is channeling power to the Queen, but he cannot see who.”

“It’s just not possible,” said Blanca.

The Bedouin bowed respectfully. “I only tell you what the Abbot believes.”

“Thank you,” said Peter.

He bowed again and returned to the nave.

“He’s right,” I said, as we walked out of the sanctuary and into the vestibule. “She and her sons will kill me and take the key.”

“Coward!” Blanca kicked the church door open with her foot. “We might as well be protecting a pile of trash. If it weren’t for the key around your neck, I’d kill you myself.”

For the first time, Blanca’s words didn’t bother me. “You can call me what you want, I don’t care. But you better listen because she will escape and we won’t be able to stop her. We need to figure out what to do instead of arguing all the time.”

“Well said,” said Peter. “Let’s get back to the castle and tell the others.”

We were outside of the basilica now and we stood for a moment, surveying the courtyard, the full moon casting eerie shadows across the ground. I looked more carefully and saw that some of the shadows moved like living things.

“What’s that?” I asked.

Peter and Blanca looked up at the sky and I did the same. A gathering storm of wispy black tendrils snaked across the sky, mirroring the moving shadows on the ground.

“What the hell…” I said.

“Wind demons,” said Blanca.

I looked at Peter inquiringly. “Seventy-two demons were captured by King Solomon and then released by mistake. Up there you see maybe twenty of them.”

The Abbot and the Bedouin had joined us in the courtyard.

“We have never seen them here before,” said one of the Bedouin.

“And so many,” said Peter. He sighed. “I hate wind demons.”

The Abbot was motioning us to follow him. We hurried across the courtyard, which was now filled with a howling wind, the shadows of the wind demons slithering back and forth across the stones like snakes. A group of monks appeared, running in the opposite direction, heading for the church.

“They will pray,” yelled one of the Bedouin above the din.

This was not making me any happier. I had just escaped the clutches of the Queen and now I had to contend with wind demons? Was there no end to the problems I had to face in one day?

The Abbot led us into the Fatimid Mosque that stood across from the church. Standing on its own, opposite the gigantic bell tower was the minaret and we entered and climbed swiftly up the stairs. It was from this highest point that the muezzin sang across the desert, calling the followers of Islam to prayer, five times a day. We climbed out onto the little platform that ran around the top of the minaret, and from here, I felt the full force of the gale. The shadows screamed and I could see cavernous, greedy mouths appear and disappear as they whipped around the tower, creating a whirlpool of darkness. Only when I looked straight up could I see clear sky and stars. But that opening was growing narrower by the minute. All around was completely empty of light, as if the very sky itself had been sucked into a giant black hole of whirling mouths and tails, into which we, too, would be sucked if we tried to fly upwards.

Peter and Blanca unsheathed their swords and I did the same.

Peter pointed with his sword. “We must fly straight up. They don’t dare come to c close to the minaret.”

The Abbot nodded, making motions that we should hurry.

“Put your sword away,” Peter said.

I began to object, then obeyed. This didn’t seem like the time to argue.

He gripped my arm. “Listen carefully. Jump onto my back. Once we’ve achieved the Passage we’ll be safe. Until then, you must hold your breath–don’t breathe, understand? If you do, the shadows will enter and steal your soul.

I nodded, terrified.

I jumped onto his back and held on tightly.

The Abbot raised his arms, while the Bedouin brandished their swords at the swirling darkness. It seemed to abate a bit, and Peter and Blanca seized that moment to leap into the air. I breathed in deeply and held onto my breath.

All was chaos in the tunnel through the shadows, the terrible wind trying to push us back. down, a screaming noise, like a thousand pigs being gutted. Flying straight upwards, the two Night Angels fought the demons with their swords, slicing into the tendrils that tried to encircle them.

I was sure we had almost made it when I felt an icy tendril touch my leg. I almost opened my mouth to scream. As it was, I let go of Peter with one arm and tried to reach down to bat at the tendril. I felt myself slipping halfway down his back and scrambled to pull myself back up again.

I was falling!

The snaky thing had my ankle now. I tried to kick with my foot to shake it off, while struggling to get a better hold on Peter. I was growing weaker. I had to take a breath. My chest was exploding.

And then, the Passage was achieved and we were through. I pushed away from Peter with relief, feeling the now familiar force of my molecules trying to split apart and me holding them together as we rocketed through space and time, landing within seconds in the little garden of the castle.

 

 

 

 

 

Do Artists have a Responsibility to Society?

view from my balcony

Inspiring view from my balcony, Lake Arenal, Costa Rica.

It is my opinion, as an artist, that we do not have a responsibility to society. We are not answerable to anyone other than ourselves.

As artists our struggle is to be true to our own voices, not some else’s. An artist shouldn’t feel a burden or obligation to set an example for the entire world. They shouldn’t feel that they have to reflect the beliefs or opinions of a certain segment of society. Pressure should not be put on an artist to “set a good example.” Or to change people’s political or moral views.

The first books I created were beautiful and sweet children’s books. The Rumpoles & The Barleys series, which I wrote and illustrated, will always be favorites of mine. I am blessed to know they have been a positive force in the lives of children around the world. On the other hand, I always knew I had so much more to say and I fought for years to be able to say it. With my creative nonfiction works and the publication of the NIGHT ANGELS CHRONCILES, I feel I am finally an artist who is true to myself.

Artists create from a deep place inside. It takes courage to go to that place and to let it out. Sometimes this can be horrifying. Sometimes it can be beautiful. Sometimes it can be painful. Sometimes it can be sweet and innocent. Playful. Brutal. Violent. X-rated.

My art (and I mean my paintings and drawings and writing) is mostly fantastical worlds of escape. This is because I find the real world to be horrifying on so many levels. I don’t have answers to the world’s problems. Well, actually, the world doesn’t need answers, it is humanity that needs a makeover. I don’t think we have even come close to figuring out those answers. Or perhaps we are afraid of them…or…I just don’t know. Due to my personality, my life experiences, my spirit, I am compelled to create art that uplifts and brings a ray of light to the darkness. That said, my art can be quite dark in its reflection of my own experiences and the suffering that I see around me.

As a woman artist, once I was married and had children, I was told over and over in many different ways, all of them painful, that I should put aside my compulsion to create, for the sake of my family. That my art should no longer be important. I had a husband and children now. They should be my focus. Of course, they were my focus. But I did not understand why being a good wife and mother and being an artist wasn’t possible. I couldn’t give up creating on paper. I couldn’t give up my imagination or the stories inside of me. Not any more than I could give up breathing. This was a difficult time for me as an artist and as a woman. And it went on for many years.

At various times, I have been told by the men in my life, that they needed to guide me. That I wasn’t a real artist, I was just pretending. That I needed to stop because the amount of time I spent doing my art didn’t make sense monetarily. Once, a drawing that I had worked on at night when my family slept, was thrown in the fire the next morning because it was “worthless.” My nose was broken as a punishment when I painted a picture that did not measure up to my husband’s standard. My writing was ridiculous and why would anyone ever want to read it? I should give up. I was a bad wife and mother because my focus wasn’t completely on them. Anyway, I was far too shy and I had no ability to “sell myself.” On and on. Even when I was finally a free woman and I was seeing someone “in the business,” he told me I should leave it all to him. I didn’t have the experience or the personality to know what was best or how to present anything.

My children are grown now and I am without “entanglements.” I am traveling and writing. I embrace all my life experiences. It comes out in my work. It is coming out right now as I write this! I have remained true to my love of fantasy and now I can indulge it. Fantasy is what got me through the darkness. I love creating that darkness in my writing. And then filtering in those moments of light. I know how it feels. I lived through it. How tragic it would be if I had given up. To think that if I had listened to those voices I would never have written Key of Mystery or Book of Angels, or gone on this NIGHT ANGELS CHRONCILES journey.

We all live through darkness. We are all artists trying to express ourselves. Art is so powerful. It can uplift us. It can spiral us further down. A song or a poem can inspire kindness to a neighbor. Or it can lead to murder and suicide. It can incite riots. It can spark a revolution. It can bring reconciliation. I can’t judge any of that. I don’t understand enough about the forces and motivations behind it all, on a spiritual level.

For so much of my life I was bombarded with angry, resentful voices of society, telling me what I should do with my art. If I had listened to all those voices and let them guide me, I would have lost my balance and fallen too far into the darkness. With my spirit, with the way I see the world, how would I have faced each day?

How can I breathe if I can’t tell a story?

 

 

Interview about MY WORLD PROJECT

The Missing Slate, Interview with My World Project Founder Karen Hunt

For me, this is a way of life. It isn’t a “cause,” it isn’t a “movement.” I can’t put some spin on it. There aren’t any buzz words. It is how I choose to live, and I really can’t help it. It is so much a part of who I am.”

Honored to have this interview, by Constance A. Dunn, published in The Missing Slate, an international arts and literary magazine. The interview tells about My World Project and the backstory leading up to it. Here is a brief excerpt from the backstory…

“I went on a personal quest…I met a woman named Alma Woods, who was responsible for single-handedly getting the Watts Library built. And to illustrate the politics, they didn’t want to name the library after her, they wanted to name it after some big-wig politician and there was a huge outcry and they had no choice but to buckle under public pressure and name the library after her. She was a simple lady, lived in a simple house in Watts and I would go and visit her and “sit at her feet,” as it were, she was a real guru, she taught me so much! She would take me around her neighborhood and I saw Watts through her eyes. If there were kids loitering outside the liquor store she would reprimand them and they would hang their heads in guilt and listen to her. She was respected. She was fearless. I grew to love her. She encouraged me to follow my heart and not be afraid of where it led me. It was after that that I went into Central Juvenile Hall and talked to the principal, Dr. Arthur McCoy, an older version of the nutty professor and the most amazing human being, and he let me start teaching there, along with the amazing teacher in the girls’ school, Cheryl Neely.

Like a beautiful, magical web, one person has led to another in my life. Not big celebrities, or what you would call “movers and shakers,” but the salt of the earth people. The ones who really have the power because they don’t care about it. They are the ones who truly balance the good against the evil. The ones we never hear about. I know I use the word amazing a lot, but really, there is no better word for all these people.

SALAM for the Children of the World

Rasaq Malik Gbolahan, a Nigerian Poet, has honored me by writing two poems for the children of the world and the MY WORLD PROJECT. Please listen to the words and visit the Facebook page and maybe together we can find a way to bring this project to more children around the world.

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SALAM (I)

Salam, they say
whenever a bomb blazes in the sky,
in the streets, in the eyes of a girl
who sleeps in a room filled with the screams
of her mother, filled with terror moving like
wind. Salam, they say whenever houses
become morgues for those who search
for the corpses of their relatives, those
who count the number of corpses left
unclaimed, unburied, opened like a
bud to the sun. Salam, they say whenever
grief gnashes their hearts, whenever fear
dims their eyes, whenever bullets sculpt
holes in the portraits hanging on desolate
walls, whenever they assemble to mourn
those who rot in the dark, those whose
countries become dust. Salam, they say
whenever a woman cradles the corpse
of her only son, whenever blood splatters
on the face of a boy in Nigeria, Iraq, in Paris
in Burundi, in Yemen, in Bangladesh.
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SALAM (II)

Every day they search for light
in the remains of their countries.
in the bodies wrapped with rags
disposed like waste, ferried to where
their relatives ask how and why a body
becomes an object, a mere name, another
synonym for trash, a symbol of how war
litters the earth with wrecks. Every day
they walk the streets to where a boy carries
a placard that bears the names of his parents,
his elder sisters–raped, battered, left to bleed
to death. Every day the world fades into the darkness
that war births, in the turbulence of missiles, in the
sound of a bullet that leads them to where blood clots
dust, to where silence tunes their ears to the cries
of people dying in far away countries. Every day
they remember their dead beloveds, their families
at refugee camps, people buried beneath stones,
covered with leaves. Every day they say, Salam.

 

HOW MY TRAVELS AND WORK WITH YOUTH AROUND THE WORLD INSPIRES NIGHT ANGELS CHRONICLES

FANTASY LITERATURE Expanded Universe article

Inspired by my current travels to Sucre, Bolivia, where I am writing for two months

Writing is never just about sitting down in front of a computer and obsessing about characters and stories. For me, writing is powerfully connected to my life experiences. And some of the most influential experiences I’ve had have been the result of traveling to incredible destinations and having amazing adventures as a result. This led to me founding the MY WORLD PROJECT, connecting youth in remote areas around the world through art and writing. Knowing the power of words to create change, I want to give youth a chance to speak out beyond the borders of their villages and towns and connect with other youth, who might have different cultures and faiths, but who share common goals and concerns.

Please check out the MY WORLD PROJECT Facebook page. https://www.facebook.com/myworldproject

TRAVELING THE HARD ROAD

I just received a phone call.

“Governor Brown signed her release!”

My heart soared. It was Silvia’s sister, Veronica, telling me that after twenty years in prison, Silvia was going to be set free.

I met Silvia in 1996, at Central Juvenile Hall, where she was awaiting her trial for a murder committed by her older, abusive boyfriend. She was accused of being an accomplice. She was sixteen years old. Along with seven other girls, Silvia was in my creative writing group. Twice a week I taught them at a steel table in a big room called Omega Unit. The room was filled with forty girls sitting on bunk beds, or walking around, laughing and talking. Baywatch was usually blasting from the television. It was chaos.

But somehow, we blocked it all out and let loose our imaginations. That steel table was like a little boat sailing us away to beautiful shores. There was magic at that table.

Silvia had a powerful voice and her words haunted me when I returned home at night and typed up the girls’ prose and poetry. Through Silvia’s writing, exploring how she became involved in abusive relationships, I was able to face the truth of my own life. It was the beginning of a hard road.

There are many roads, either easy or hard, and myriad reasons why we travel them. Silvia and I parted ways when she was twenty. She went from being chosen prom queen at the first-ever prom at Central, to serving a twenty-five years to life sentence at Chowchilla Women’s Prison. It seemed that the years would never pass. That the road she had been propelled onto would be endless and filled only with despair. There was no reason to believe that she would ever get out.

But the spirit can be incredibly strong. It can overcome the greatest obstacles and lift us from the darkest prison into the heavens. Times change. Climates can turn from icy cold to warm and caressing.

In one single moment, hearing those words, “Governor Brown signed her release,” all the sweat and the agony, all the tears and depression, all the climbing of the mountains, all the enduring of the dangerous quicksand, the stormy darkness, the feeling of losing one’s way–it all fell by the wayside.

For myself, the doubt and the pain that I have experienced over the years, well, I now know it was worth it.

At the end of that hard road, there is another beginning.

KEY OF MYSTERY Released Today

NIGHT ANGELS CHRONICLES by KH Mezek

Key of Mystery on Amazon

Be careful who you love. It just might kill you.”

When Sera’s father is killed in a horrific accident, all he leaves behind is a mysterious key. Sera places the key on a chain around her neck and vows to avenge her father. Strange characters arrive in town, including the otherworldly Night Angels, who claim to be sent for her protection.

Sera falls hard for one of them–exotic, arrogant Peter. But what if his promise of love is only a ruse to gain access to the key? As Sera’s connection to the key grows, so do her supernatural powers. Guided by clues let by her father, Sera searches for the hidden chamber beneath the city, hoping to save what lies within before the sinister mayor and his deadly followers drown humanity in a bloodbath.

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