As writers and artists we have unique opportunities to change the world.
Check out my article in Night Owl Reviews about the win-win opportunities of social activism.
As writers and artists we have unique opportunities to change the world.
Check out my article in Night Owl Reviews about the win-win opportunities of social activism.
I am teaching English online to kids and adults in China. This is proving to be an enlightening experience and my students are delightful. I love nothing more than finding out about a new culture and meeting new people. Funny how the differences remind us how much we are the same.
Lately, we have discussed the air pollution in China, as some of my students have been kept home from school because of it. Another one of my adult students works in waste management in Beijing and described the challenges of dealing with this problem.
Being able to communicate one-on-one with people in another country, one where the United States seems to have increasingly hostile relations, brings a deeper level of understanding. Now, I read that Americans’ feelings of good will towards Russians has dropped by 30%. It’s important to remember that we, the people of any nation, are all the same. Nothing has changed from day to the next, from one year to the next, from one administration to the next, in who we are. We all want to live a peaceful life, have a roof over our heads and take care of our families. It is the governments, the media, the corporations, the special interest groups with their own agendas, that create these widening gulfs of misunderstanding and manipulate emotions and play on fears.
Now we have new buzzwords, within the United States, polarizing groups of people, more and more. We lump people together inside a prison of words, and think we have the right to keep them there. Then, the other side fires back with its own prison of words. And before we know it, the words are so deeply embedded on our consciousness, we don’t even remember how they got there or why. The story gets repeated and embellished, always from one point of view. The other side retaliates. The words become violence, somehow justified because we no longer look at our opponents as people just like us. They are something dangerous and worthy of extermination–or at least worth of being taught a serious lesson.
Such as those “fly-over” states, spoken of with such disdain. It seems that highly educated pundits now find it okay to openly label country folk stupid. How stupid is that? Surely one of the most basic rules you learn in college when doing research is not to make sweeping generalized statements about an entire group of people? Mind you, the country folk do the same. despising the city folk for their privilege and education.
Amazing… the word stupid was banned in my family. One of the best things my parents taught me was to be very careful about using a word like that, because using it could well prove my own stupidity. Be sure of your facts. Don’t generalize. Calling people who are somehow different from you stupid (or any other negative term) only shows your own ignorance. And fear.
In fact, the whole flinging of nasty comments across borders is just plain, well… stupid. And that means it could well grow into something dangerous. For everyone.
Book of Angels, volume two in the NIGHT ANGELS CHRONICLES, opens with Sera’s Turning. In order for her to survive, she is given the blood of the five Night Angels and she becomes one with them and sees their terrible pasts. This gives Sera her first real understanding of who they are.
Blanca is the NIGHT ANGEL who Sera feels hates her and wants her dead. In Key of Mystery, Sera thought that Blanca must be Peter’s girlfriend, but she finds out this isn’t so. Their relationship goes back hundreds of years. Sera still doesn’t find out what happened all those years ago, that will have to wait for another book. But this is what she does now know:
Here is an excerpt from the time when Sera, Peter and Blanca are about to embark on their journey to St. Catherine’s Monastery in the Sinai Desert. Blanca doesn’t want to take Sera and an argument ensues, during which Sera discovers some important things about Blanca’s character and the bond between the Night Angels:
Blanca groaned impatiently. “Why must we take her?”
“Be quiet,” said Peter with a growl.
I was desperate to stall for time. I didn’t care if it made Blanca angry. “What I want to know it, am I going to have to listen to you two fight the whole time? Because it’s fucking boring. How do you even keep it going for hundreds of years?”
Peter pretended surprise. “Fight? Us? Perhaps on occasion, like everyone, but never on a mission.”
“We’re on a mission and you’re fighting.” I raised my eyebrows. “Hello?”
“Shut up,” said Blanca, adjusting her sword on her back.
“Whatever,” I said.
“Whatever,” Blanca mimicked. And under her breath, she said, “Ignorant Oak Haven bimbo.”
I had literally taken off into the air to attack Blanca, but Peter grabbed me and slammed me back onto the ground.
Blanca folded her arms, chin raised triumphantly. “See that?” She walked right up to me, while Peter restrained me. “Let’s get one thing straight, baby. I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. I don’t want you here.”
“That’s three things.,” I said through gritted teeth.
One corner of Blanca’s mouth turned up slightly. And then she laughed. Peter let me go, and I glared at him. I didn’t know which one of them made me angrier.
“An irritating little thing, isn’t she?” said Blanca.
Peter grinned. “Yes, she is.”
Blanca turned back to me. “Peter and I might have our problems. But we trust each other. And we have each other’s back. We have fought together for hundreds of years. When we’re on a mission, we put our differences aside. I’m willing to do the same with you. Think you can reciprocate?”
I just stared at her, saying nothing. I hated her so much.
Peter reached toward me. I flinched, but he put his hand on my arm gently and I calmed down. “Maybe you don’t like Blanca’s rough ways, but she’s telling you something important. When you’re in battle, there’s no one better than Blanca to have at your side. Do you understand?”
“No, I don’t!” I jerked away from him resentfully. “Why should I? This is all crazy! But still, I’m trying. And what do I get for it? I get made fun of, insulted. By everybody! You treat me like dirt, Blanca, and I’m supposed to take it?”
“Pretty much, yes,” she said. “You’re the runt of the litter. You have to pay your dues.”
“Okay,” said Peter. “Can we do this? Can we all agree to put our differences behind us while on this dangerous mission?” We nodded. “Great. Now, humans would call what we are doing teleportation. As I said, we call it the Passage. You are a denizen, Sera. This means you know yourself on a molecular level. You will easily navigate the Passage.”
I sighed. “If you say so. I’m ready, let’s get this over with.”
The next thing I knew, I had leapt into the air with the two of them, 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.
Painting by Theodor Aman
A BEAUTIFUL WORLD…AND A VIOLENT, FEARFUL HUMAN RACE
Here I am in this little Pueblo in Costa Rica, overlooking Lake Arenal. Book of Angels was just released, volume two in the Night Angels Chronicles, and I’m doing publicity. I have jumped into the infinity pool. Like Sera in the River Styx.
The cries of the suffering rise to heaven and I’m doing publicity.
Even as a child, I heard those cries. At night, I used to run to my dad’s study and plead with him to tell me why there was so much suffering in the world. But he could never give me a satisfying answer.
THE WORLD HASN’T GONE MAD, HUMANS HAVE ALWAYS BEEN MAD
The world isn’t mad. The world is just fine. Humans are mad and we always have been. Why is anyone surprised by what is happening in the world right now? Look at history! Look at the history of the human race FOREVER. It has been one act of madness after another.
The majority of people in the world! They suffer horribly and constantly, with little relief. If one child is blown up by a bomb; if one child is raped; if one child is told mercilessly, over and over for their entire childhood by a disturbed adult who also suffered horribly as a child, that they are worthless…that is one child too many and it can never be corrected.
We can’t make it better. There is no justice, only compensation.
BUT HOW ABOUT ALL THE INSPIRING STORIES OF SELFLESS ACTS OF COURAGE?
We love to hear inspiring stories of acts of courage. The problem is, in order for an act of courage to occur, something terrible needs to have happened. first We exalt people who perform courageous acts in war. But this is what I want to know: Why does a war have to happen, why does hell have to open on earth for us to start acting courageous? Why does someone have to be drowning so that someone else can save them?
Why does it have to be this way? Is it some kind of perverse spiritual law? Good and Evil, yin and yang must be balanced?
Action and reaction.
Something bad happens, therefor something good happens.
Lazarus died. Jesus took compassion and brought him back to life. How wonderful. But Lazarus died again, didn’t he? In fact, he had to go through the experience twice. Did he suffer again the second time? What was his second death like in comparison to the first?
I am most interested in how Lazarus felt about dying again. Was his fear of death worse or had it taken his fear away?
Because that’s what this is all about. The fear of death. The fear of the unknown.
FEAR OF THE APOCALYPSE
Christians talk about the apocalypse. It was a big topic in our family and in our church, one that struck hear into my heart. The elders claimed to be authorities on the apocalypse. Elaborate charts were made, based on in-depth studies of Revelations. The conclusions they reached came right from the mouth of God.
I have news for you. For the majority of people down through history, and for most people right now, they experience the apocalypse in their everyday lives.
Imagine telling someone in Dachau, “hey, no worries, the apocalypse hasn’t happened yet!”
Oh yes, it happened. It happened for the people in concentration camps; it happened in the trenches of WWI; it happened for those killed by Stalin.
It is happening in Syria, in Turkey, in Nigeria, in Lebanon.
For every police officer and every black man killed in the United States; for every child that is shot up in a school…they and their families have experienced the apocalypse.
It’s happening right now as I write. In Munich, shooters killing in a McDonald’s, and they say it’s happening in other locations in the city. If they turn out to be Terrorists, they are not afraid of death. I would like to learn more about this attitude towards death. Because, we are all going to die. They obviously have a different outlook towards what that means.
I’m trying to make sense of it. But really, how can I?
“Experts” analyze the “facts” and draw conclusions, even though they are just as disturbed as everyone else and just as influenced by their personal agendas. How quickly they are called upon and they gather around like vultures, feeding off the carcasses, because this their chance to make a splash in our media-driven society. Who wouldn’t want to rise above the masses, to make their life have a little more meaning by becoming the new pundit. Put a new spin on an old thought, so that people go, wow, this must be true. Get yourself on the hottest late night talk show and expound.
It’s the Hunger Games.
It’s the Roman Colosseum.
It’s American Football.
It’s the Nightly News.
Has anyone seen the movie, The Year of Living Dangerously? I watched those shadow puppets, mesmerized. It powerfully illustrates how blind we are, how we only understand the world through a “glass darkly.”
What then must we do?
Life is suffering.
This modern-day obsession that we were born to be happy is a joke. What is that based on? Where is the proof? Show me. To believe this is an insult to every person who has grown up in pain and suffereing. It is an insult to every person who has grown up oppressed. I don’t think there are any children who when asked what they want to be when they grow up responds with: I want to be a murderer; I want to be a drug addict; I want to live in a ghetto and fear for my life; I want to be raped and tortured to death…. Every child wants the same things: a safe home; a family that loves them; food on the table; maybe even a story read to them at night. But most never know what any of that means.
I’m sorry, is that depressing?
TRAVELING INTO MOMENTS OF HAPPINESS
I don’t find it depressing. I find it to be liberating. It allows me to be honest. It means I’m not trying to fool myself out of desperation, or justify my elitist and separatists ideology.
If I can sit for a moment in peace.
If I can watch a sunset without distraction.
If I can find stillness in the storm.
That moment is everything. It lives forever when I let it be.
But the moment I start to think of that moment…it is gone. Another moment has taken its place. And then another. I can never capture a moment in time. I can only look back on it. But looking back is also another moment in my life.
MARTIAL ARTS TRAINING
I learned this in marital arts. I train to stay focused. To discipline my body and mind and to uplift my spirit. I train to feel, in each moment, that I am connected to the energy of the universe. It is my way of being. Everyone can find their own way.
I travel for the same reason. To connect with life. I am free of possessions. I live simply and without constraints. In this, I have been fortunate. Most people don’t have such an opportunity.
MOMENTS PASS LIKE CLOUDS IN THE SKY
Each moment of pain or pleasure, joy or sadness, comes and then it is gone. They cannot be brought back. If I experience one moment of peace and joy, I am fortunate. I am blessed.
Trump? Clinton? Do you really think anyone can reach that pinnacle of power without selling their souls to the highest bidder?
Imagine if we all shrugged and turned our backs on power. Imagine if everyone found beauty in small things.
When we pursue that path to the top, we are either destroyed by the journey or we slowly but surely compromise every bit of integrity we’ve ever had.
Of course, we tell ourselves that we haven’t. Humans are very good at telling ourselves stories and believing them with desperation.
At the end of the day. all the wealth and power won’t mean anything. We come into this world naked and we go out the same.
THE SECRETS TO THE ORIGINS OF LIFE
It is a mystery that I explore in the Night Angels Chronicles.
What if we could discover the Secrets to the Origins of Life? What if, by opening a book, we could gain the knowledge of God? What if we could answer the questions to the basic mysteries of life that, with all our supposed advancement, we are no closer to answering?
How Did We Get Here?
What Happens When We Die?
What IS Life??????
We see through a glass darkly, but then we shall see face to face.
Should humans, in our present state, know the answers to these questions?
How dangerous would that be?
But perhaps, knowing the answers, we would then rise to the highest level of consciousness. So, what is keeping this knowledge from us and why?
Isn’t this lack of knowledge and our obsession with knowing the root of all our fears?
What saves me in these troubled times?
Nothing, absolutely nothing, except my accpetance that I don’t have the answers.
Right now, I am going to sit on my balcony and watch the sunset. And let it be…..
I want to thank Christine for hosting me. This is my first experience writing a post in an exchange with another author and it was fun! Here is my post about how my traveling experiences inspired Book of Angels and the NIGHT ANGELS CHRONICLES, with photos and everything! The photo featured here is the seventh century Swiss castle I lived in as a child.
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?
Book of Angels in an Editor’s Pick.
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.
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?
“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.
I have been busy lately! I have been in Sucre, Bolivia since April 7th and will be here until June 7th. What an amazing experience. This is a gem of a tiny city, all painted white. The sky is piercingly blue. The contrast is breath-taking. I was told that long ago a plague came to the city and they started painting the buildings white, I am not sure why, perhaps to indicate which house had the plague or which house didn’t. The habit stayed and eventually, all the buildings were painted white. And so they still are, today, making this city unique and memorable.
I came here to write and that’s what I’ve been doing. I’ve been working on Cave of Secrets, the third book in the Night Angels Chronicles series. This place has truly inspired my writing. I have become obsessed with the churches. The heavy austerity, the gold on the alters, the light pouring down from high windows. I can never fully reconcile the contrast between the beauty of these monuments, built to display the power of God, with the poverty of the people upon whose bent backs these monuments were built. It is the same around the world, religion is used by the powerful as a form of control, through fear, of the masses. Yet, you also see how these awe-inspiring buildings bring comfort to those who enter them to pray. A young woman, an old man, I have seen so many people sitting in silence, staring up at a carving of a saint, and you know they have a heavy heart about something and have faith that there is an answer and that these lifeless images hold that answer.
I am here long enough to get a real feel for these churches and how religion is so integrated into every aspect of life. The churches dominate the city, they are the landmarks you look for when you are walking. If the door is open and you go inside, there is always something happening, musicians practicing for a performance, ladies placing flowers in front of statues, children laughing and playing, preparing for something, who knows what. The schools all seem to be associated with the churches and I have been told that children are brought here from the outlying villages. Since there are so many churches at the center of Sucre, children are everywhere. You hear them playing, practicing in bands, and at lunch break and at the end of the day, they spill out onto the streets in hordes, from the tiniest tots to college age. I really have never seen the center of a city so filled with children.
As a visitor, you cannot escape the overwhelming spirit and presence of the churches. Mostly, the doors are closed and locked, as are the gates in front of the churches. If you are a tourist, you can pay to visit certain ones of the convents or the churches, during visiting hours. At San Filipe Neri, my favorite church, you can climb up to the roof and enjoy a view of the city and the mountains. If you go at sunset the beauty is astounding.
Remembering back to my time in the Sahara Desert, in Morocco, during the month of December, 2015, it would be hard to find two more contrasting places than Sucre and village Tissardmine. In the desert, I was finishing up Book of Angels, while in Sucre, I am finishing up Cave of Secrets. I signed the contract for Book of Angels while in Sucre. Both places inspired my writing but in such different ways–going from the stark desert, endless, undulating waves of sand and rock, to the up and down streets of Sucre and the ornate colonial buildings. Here, the altitude takes a bit of getting used to, as it is over 8000 feet. In the Sahara Desert, the wind and flies, the freezing nights and often hot days, the heavy shadows and blinding light, everything spoke of extremes. In Sucre, the extremes are in the altitude, the brilliance of the white against the blue sky, the heavy dominance of colonialism, almost as if old spirits still haunt the streets at night.
At least a few times a week I face the challenge of walking up the steep cobbled path to reach La Recoleta, a big plaza with, yes, another church and convent, established by a Franciscan order in around 1601. There is a garden café up here and I like to sit outside and enjoy the warm sun. Relaxation takes over, after hours of sitting at a computer, writing. In fact, I think I will go up there after I finish this! From there, you can look down on the sparkling jewel of a city, with the Andes Mountains a purple shadow in the distance.
Although I have been here for five weeks already, I still huff and puff my way up that hill, never getting enough oxygen. Once I reach the top, the feeling of accomplishment makes it all worthwhile. Fortunately, it isn’t a long climb, but the last block is extremely steep. Again, the plaza is often filled with children playing soccer, if they are on break from the school attached to the church. This church has a beautifully serene monastery with a one thousand year-old cedar tree. The tree stands outside the convent wall, somewhat forlorn and forgotten, looking down on the city below. I was shown it by a young girl who guided me through the various parts of the convent open to the public, all the while, listening to some television show on her phone. It was an odd juxtaposition of the past and the present.
I am looking forward to being here on May 25th, Independence Day, which happened in 1809. I was wondering why early every morning I was awakened by bands playing the type of music you associate with military functions and political events. Well, they are practicing for Independence Day. Although, every day seems to be an excuse for some kind of celebration. The main square, aptly named Plaza 25 de Mayo, is always alive with music and parades.
I still have four more weeks here and it is going by way too fast. This is my first visit to South America and I would definitely like to return. I knew nothing of Bolivia or Sucre when I came. At the place I am staying, Casa Verde, I have encountered only two Americans. Which is one of the reasons for its appeal, I wanted to completely escape from everything that was familiar to me. And I am happy I made this choice. It is a renewing experience.
I am thankful to have had the opportunity to come to this magical place. Of course, every place that I visited has been magical. I can’t wait to see where I will end up next.
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.
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.
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.