Monthly Archives: December 2013

Chapter 3 The CharMan Chronicles copyright 2011 by Lisa Noble

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Chapter 3 
Major Browning’s Penchant for Horror

By car, Hobo Jungle was easy to get to; drive up 101, turn in just south of the Rincon on the other side of the VenturaRiver.  They arrived before 7:30 and the morning fog draped itself lightly over everything in sight.  Here and there, misty spider webs reminded Frankie of macabre lace handkerchiefs.  In the deserted parking lot the three campers hefted on their back packs.

Elsa had also brought a large picnic basket full of homemade goodies; she loved to have lots of food handy.  Nick grabbed one of the handles of the basket to help his wife and the two hiked ahead like a pair of star crossed lovers.  Frankie brought up the rear lost in thought and lost in the lonely misty feel of this place.  They hiked along a trail of flattened sedge grass, past windblown cypress trees and thick strands of wild fennel.  It was so quiet; it seemed that they were the only people there.

Camp was set up in less than an hour.  Frankie watched her mom and dad.  Most people her age didn’t seem to like their parents; Frankie cherished the rare time the three of them had together.  Nick and Elsa seemed so happy and relaxed, who would think that her dad was going to be deployed for over a year in Vietnam to set up a medical facility in Saigon; to Frankie it seemed like forever.  But at this moment the day was slow and mysterious and full of potential.  “Live in the moment,” Elsa was so fond of saying.  Frankie allowed the lonely beauty of this isolated beach to wash over her as she heard the distant call of a seagull.

She hiked down to the shore for an initial survey, it was fantastically wild!  On her way she discovered a huge old cedar tree; gnarled yet straight.  A slight shimmer caught her eye:  a dry, brittle cocoon fluttering and empty on a lower branch.  With great care, Frankie collected it and noted it in her field journal.  On the beach the low tide revealed a number of strange specimens which had washed up on the beach; for one, a small dog-shark, its dead green eyes staring nowhere.  She stayed clear of a huge but very dead man-of-war jellyfish.  She was bare footed and had seen on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom that jelly fish can sting even after they were dead.  “No lethal toxin for me,” thought Frankie.

Off in the distance, she detected a wailing sound!  Frankie stopped in her tracks and listened; there it was again, could it be the Char Man specter Rose had told them about?  The sound drew closer, now she recognized what it was:  a train whistle.  Peering around through the fog she saw the vague shape of a rickety train bridge.  She gasped as a train appeared as if out of nowhere and raced across the trestle.  That bridge seemed so narrow.  She shuddered to imagine if a person tried to cross a bridge like that knowing a train could overtake them at any moment.  She heard a final wailing cry of the train whistle; the fog had a strange effect on distant sounds.  Looking out into the misty obscurity in the direction of the ocean she felt like she could be anywhere on earth at that moment. 

As the day went on, the fog lifted, the sky was high and clear and now the AnacapaIslands were visible.  Every detail stood out even the little arch on the north end of the island.  Frankie tried to imagine what it would be like if the tide pulled back further and further right up to the islands; oh what specimens she could find and study!  She met up with her parents strolling on the beach.

“Look how beautiful those islands are,” said Elsa.  “Nature is art,” she added simply.

Elsa had put together a substantial lunch of corned beef hash with sour kraut and homemade potato salad; but after a few hours of beach combing and good salt air  everyone’s appetite had returned.  The shadows grew long as a sunset blush formed on the horizon.

“I was going to catch some fish for dinner, but the red tide signs posted on the beach changed my mind,” said Nick as he got a blazing camp fire going.  Frankie scanned the picnic area for sturdy sticks and having found three to her liking hunkered down on a large driftwood snag to whittle the ends into sharp spears while waiting for the fire to be just right.

Instead of perch, smelt and clams they roasted ears of corn on the fire.  Elsa cut thick dark slabs of homemade onion bread, covered them with slices of smoked Gouda then set them near the fire to melt the cheese.  Frankie sprinkled the camp-toast with tiny sprigs of the wild fennel she had gathered that day.  And of course there were plenty of delicious leftovers from lunch.  Elsa passed around steaming hot mugs of spiced cider; it was a homey meal to remember.  For dessert, Frankie handed out her sharpened sticks along with a bag of marshmallows.  For the Browning family, building the perfect “S’mores” was serious business!  Each person skewered their marshmallows just so and arranged their precious piece of Hershey bar on a graham cracker to be ready to go.

By this time it had grown pitch dark.  Frankie stared into the fire as she roasted her marshmallow.

“You know,” said Nick as he too stared and roasted, “I’ve heard of Char Man.”

Frankie shivered with delicious anticipation.  She loved the way her dad told ghost stories.  Perhaps because her birthday was on October 31st, ghost stories and macabre images had always been very special to Frankie.  Nick had a penchant for horror stories and so came up with a new one for each birthday.

“My corporal, J.B., at Port Hueneme always talks about him.”

“Oh-Oh,” said Elsa, “here he goes with the spooky stuff!” She laughed and gently elbowed him.

Dad winked at his wife then continued:  “according to the locals, this Char Man is truly hideous to behold…”

“Worse than the Headless Horseman?”  said Elsa. 

Sleepy Hollow was Frankie’s favorite; it was the first of many tales of terror her Dad had told her over the years.

“Much, much worse,” Nick said without missing a beat.

Elsa glanced at Frankie with a knowing look but her daughter was already deep in thought, gazing into the campfire, ready to listen and absorb and lose herself in a story.

“He walks alone,” said Nick, “on lonely beach and deserted road; a tattered, matted, scarred, shell of a man.”

Elsa chimed in again, “How do we know that this Char Man isn’t some poor homeless person?”

“Good question,” said Dad.  “You see, this Char Man is never seen in public or near groups.”

“Like groups of three, right Dad?”  Frankie asked without looking up from the campfire.

“Possibly, but be that as it may, the same phantom-like image of a terribly burned man has been reported in all the lonely places and wild places in this area for over one hundred years.”  Nick paused from his story.  The sound of the waves in the distance and the complete darkness that crept right up to the campfire created a feeling of isolation.  What would it be like to live in a place like this all the time with no one else to talk to?  Nick shifted his weight stretched a little and picked up his monologue.  “Wandering alone, searching, searching, howling a mournful cry into the night… ah, hmm, Frances, watch it there!” Nick broke off from his story and pointed to Frankie. 

Frankie was staring blankly into the fire; her marshmallow had gone past golden brown and has now burst into flames:  oozing black molten fire.  One moment the perfectly roasted solution to S’more construction and the next moment, a wasted mass of charcoal bubbles hissing with blue fire:  Fire! Bombs! Danger! PAIN!  FLESH, NO FLESH!  Something from far away was calling to Frankie a faraway forgotten memory…it was pulling her back in time… then, something she knew, something safe…

“Frances, honey, it’s OK, we can get you a new one,” Elsa spoke gently as she helped Frankie remove the candy torch from the fire.  She blew it out with one puff, pitched the burnt mess into the fire and added a new marshmallow to Frankie’s roasting stick. 

“Good as new,” she said as she handed her daughter the stick.  She then turned to her husband, her blue eyes flashing.  “You scared her, Nick, time to stop!”

Nick chuckled, “my girl’s not afraid of ghosts!” But there was a look of concern in his eyes as he spoke.

Frankie rubbed her eyes and scratched her head.  She had a dull headache and a cramping feeling low in her belly.  She felt strangely irritated and depressed.

“I’m not afraid of Dad’s stories, Elsa.”  She smiled weakly at her mother; the vision of fire was now passing. 

“Well, I am,” said Elsa as she walked over to the picnic table to get her guitar.  She carried it over to her driftwood stump, sat down and began strumming.  After a few minutes she was playing something by Donovan.  It seemed to Frankie that the old windblown cypress trees leaned in closer to listen too.  Frankie’s new marshmallow was now roasted to a perfect golden brown, she sandwiched it on to her Hershey Bar and graham cracker and squished it down.  Nick sang with Elsa; Frankie listened contentedly as she munched on her treat.  The sweet flavor had an instant mood lifting effect on her.  Eating cleared her head and she was able to relax again.

“Wear your love like Heaven,” her parents sang in perfect harmony with each other.

“Yes,” thought Frankie, “they wear it on their sleeves”

“La-la la-la-la Heaven!”

Frankie sighed.  They had the whole weekend together; she wished it could last forever.

Blue Fire Science

The next day Elsa found out that Nick was going to take Frankie snipe hunting and she refused to allow it.  She had been taken on a “wild snipe hunt” once and once was enough!  Nobody argued with Elsa when she had her “Dutch” on!  After dinner that night, they banked the campfire, lit candle lanterns and made their way to the lonely, wild beach.  The moon was nearly full (full moon on Wednesday Frankie reminded herself) and lit up the shore.  As they walked on the water’s edge, Frankie playfully kicked the wet sand.  To her amazement, a sparkling trail of electric blue light followed her foot!

“Elsa, Dad, look at this!” as she ran and dragged her foot in the sand creating an incandescent blue arch.  Elsa and Nick laughed and danced and kicked up the sand tossing specks of light into the air.  Frankie looked out into the waves; as they broke and a little blue light scurried ahead of the wave!  Where ever the waves hit the shore a mysterious little light sparkled and flashed.  Plankton, red tide, Frankie had heard these terms in biology class:  the science of phosphorus tide.  But to see this phenomenon with her own eyes astonished her.  She picked up a flat stone and skipped it on a calm spot on the water; five skips, five splashes of blue light.  This was why Frankie loved science, because when you saw it in person, it was more; when you saw it with your own eyes–it was magic!

F.B.  FIELD JOURNAL Aug 4 1967

Hobo Jungle Specimen Inventory

 

Low Tide:  8:45 A.M. Saturday

14 pieces beach glass:  various colors (3 Noxzema blue!)

1 Lg.  vertebra- possibly pinneped

Old Railroad spike:  note oxidized patina

Small brown univalves

Multi-armed starfish

1 single shoe- Note:  not collected*

1 empty cocoon- Note:  possibly Monarch butterfly

1 dead dog-shark:  Note:  not collected

*where’s the other shoe?  

 

*Bee Widget* collaborative design effort by Lisa Noble and Kree Arvanitas  

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The CharMan Chronicles: Chapter 2 The Vagabond Inn copyright 2011 by Lisa Noble

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The Vagabond Inn

It was a family tradition to go out for a big breakfast before starting out on a camping trip.  Major Nick Browning pulled the VW Bug into the parking lot of a cozy looking restaurant and helped his family out of the car.  The wonderful smell of early morning pancakes and coffee greeted them as they walked into the Vagabond Inn.  Frankie had her thick frizzy black hair in a single thick braid topped by a black watch cap.  She wore her favorite plaid car coat, patched jeans and high top converse.  Her dad and Elsa were dressed for the outdoors yet Elsa, as usual, looked very pretty with her long blond braid draped over one shoulder and a touch of frosted barely pink lipstick.

They were greeted by an energetic young woman wearing round John Lennon style glasses.  She had three glasses of water in one hand and three menus in the other.  As she led the way to their booth Frankie thought that the girl’s ponytail had a life of its own.

“OK folks, who wants coffee,” she said as she seated them in a comfortable booth.  Elsa and Dad both nodded.

“What about you, Kiddo,” she was eyeing Frankie curiously, “java, juice, Pepsi?” 

“Coffee and tomato juice please,” said Frankie.  The young waitress smiled at the word “please,” not being much older than Frankie.  She made a clicking sound, winked, then bounded away for their drinks, her honey colored ponytail swinging wildly behind her.  Frankie took a peek at the girl’s foot wear as she departed:  white bobby socks and Keds, “no help there,” she thought.  Looking around Frankie noticed that the other waitress was wearing support hose and thick soled nurse’s shoes.  “Doesn’t matter, no one will look at me anyway,” she thought as she listened to the radio playing Sunshine Superman by Donovan.  Elsa loved Donovan.  They studied their menus as the waitress came back with the drinks perfectly balanced on a tiny tray; she expertly distributed the mugs and glasses and then climbed into the booth next to Frankie; her elbows propped on the table, order pad poised and ready.  She licked the end of her pencil:

“OK, what’s it going to be?”  Did she just raise one eyebrow?

“I’d like country-fried steak and eggs over easy, Miss,” said Nick.  Frankie could see by the name tag she was wearing that her name was “Rose.” 

Check!” said Rose, “OK, Mom?”  Elsa smiled broadly.

“Eggs benedict, please,” Elsa said in a thick Dutch accent.

“This is great, you guys are so polite!” Rose then turned to Frankie.  “Ok, Kiddo?”

“Strawberry pancakes and bacon please.”

“Ew!” said Rose peering at Frankie over her glasses, “look, Kiddo, do yourself a favor, try the apple waffles and aausage instead, trust me!”  She winked when Frankie nodded and bolted for the kitchen leaving in her wake the scent of Wind Song perfume and Juicy Fruit gum.

“What a weird girl,” thought Frankie.  No one her age had ever been that friendly to her before.  Rose quickly returned with the food, dashed off for ketchup which she then plunked down on the table and climbed back into the booth beside Frankie while they were eating.

“Hey you guys, was I right?  Isn’t it good?  Didn’t I tell you?”  Everyone’s mouth was full so they just nodded.  “Are you guys going camping?”  Rose asked as she studied their attire.

“Ja,” said Elsa, “we heard of a place called Hobo Jungle, you know about it, it’s good, ja?” 

“Oh yeah, it’s great, neato-keano, only,” Rose looked around theatrically and lowered her voice; “watch out for Char Man!”

Frankie, suddenly excited, swallowed quickly and chimed in:

“Char Man,” Frankie said, “who’s that?

Rose raised both eyebrows this time.  “You guys aren’t from around here, are you?”

“We’re new,” said Nick, “I’m Nick, and my wife Elsa…”

“I’m Rose, where are you from, Elsa?”  Rose asked politely.

“I’m from the Netherlands, dear,” Elsa replied.

“Parlez-vous Français?” 

“Oui, mon ami!”

The two chatted together in French for a moment then Nick, laughing softly, continued with the introductions.

“My daughter Frances here starts her sophomore year at VenturaHigh School this fall”

“You can call me Frankie,” Frankie said as she felt her ears grow warm.  She didn’t like people her own age to call her Frances; and she never told people what the “H” of her middle name was.  She didn’t need her weird foreign names to set her apart even more than she was.

Rose flashed her class ring.  “Groovy!  Hi, Frankie,” she said, “I’ll be a junior this fall.  If you take drama, we might have a class together.  More coffee you guys?”

“Tell me more about this Char Man!” Frankie blurted out before Rose could run off for the coffee pot.  As a self-proclaimed solitary being, Frankie didn’t often get a chance to interview people for ghost stories.

“Well,” Rose said in slow exaggerated way, “I don’t want to scare you, Kiddo.”

As a reply, Frankie pulled her Field Journal and a pencil out of her pocket and stared defiantly at Rose.

“OK, OK!” Rose said as she glanced around, her other customers seemed settled in to her satisfaction.

“Char Man was once a real person who lived around here just below Ojai.  He was burned in a terrible fire long ago.  Now, he roams all the lonely places; Hobo Jungle,” she gestured out the back window, the ocean barely visible through the morning mist, “all the way up Ventura Avenue to FosterPark and beyond to CampComfort–so they say.”

Frankie taking notes as quickly as Rose spoke, glanced up from her Field Journal. 

“Have you ever seen him?”  she asked.

“Those who have seen him are never seen again.  If you call his name out loud three times he’ll come and take you away forever!” She ended with a flourish of her hands.  “Well, that last part is bogus if you ask me, but there was this kid I used to tutor in ASL, you know, Ameslan or American Sign Language?  Anyway this last spring he disappeared!  Of course everyone around here thinks Char Man got him, poor kid.”

The Vagabond Inn was now beginning to get its morning rush.  Rose slapped the bill on the table.  “I’ll get you guys another cup of coffee for the road!” Then she dashed off to juggle the rest of her customers.

Elsa and Dad were chuckling quietly as the three of them walked to their car, what an exciting breakfast!  Just as they were about to drive away Rose came bolting out after them.

“Hey Frankie,” she shouted as she ran up to the car, “a bunch of us kids are going to meet at the South Jetty to go grunion hunting on the full moon, that’s uh, next Wednesday, you should go!”

“Me?  Well, um, I…”

“She’d love to go,” said Elsa who always wanted Frankie to get out with people her own age.  Frankie’s ears felt hot, her ears always turned red when she had to socialize.  Rose didn’t seem to notice.

“Cool, can you meet me here at eight?  I’ll drive.”

“Yes, I mean yeah, neat, see you on Wednesday.”

As they drove away to the north entrance of Hobo Jungle near the Rincon, Frankie sat in the back seat of the car and finished up her field journal entry:

Supplemental:  Entity- Char Man (colloquial specter)

August 12, 1967 7:15AM

 

Note:  Library- Local maps i.e. parks and recreation

Define “Grunion” significance of full moon? 

 

Personal note:  I feel odd, I don’t want Dad to ship out next week, but I’m glad we get to go camping together before he leaves.  I got invited somewhere, what should I wear?  (As if it matters?)

 

Note:  consult recent copy of “Seventeen Magazine” which Elsa always tries to get me to read.

 

Final Note:  Those were the best waffles I ever had.

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Chapter 1 The CharMan Chronicles copyright 2011 by Lisa Noble

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Chapter i):
Phoenix Rising–The Changing Time

Her old bones jammed painfully against the rickety cart that hauled her slowly through the village.  It was impossible for her to brace herself; her hands were tied with coarse cutting rope.  Yet she remained standing and held her head high.  The outsiders had declared her a witch, and yes, if healing her neighbors with herbs and fire and spells was witch craft, then she was indeed guilty.  But so great was her fear, she could hear her own heart beating; she could feel the blood surging through her veins. 

A small fire burned greedily, awaiting her arrival.  The old woman gazed at it with fascination, she took in every moment:  she wanted to live with every fiber of her being, live on her own terms as she had done these many decades.  But as the cart moved closer to the center of the village, life as she knew it was no longer an option; the pain and torture of the witch burning was upon her.  She was too old to run, to fight or struggle:  but her mind, her spirit and her deep Earth magic, these things were hers and nothing could touch that.  And yet she was about to die at the hands of the outsiders.  She was to be burned alive in front of all the men and women she had cared for, all the children she brought into the world, and all her magic could not dull the terror she saw in their eyes, the terror screaming through her entire body.  People wept, they called out her name, the cart creaked and the fire crackled but all she could hear was the steady beat of her will to live surging through her veins.

Rough hands of the outsiders dragged her to the dead stark tree that was to be her pyre.  She was tied with her arms pinned down to prevent her from casting one final spell; how little they knew of her true power?  In her last moments of existence, she chose her final act. 

Eyes closed, she went deep into her inner temple, and there she found the eternal flame, burning steady and bright.  All fear vanished:  all that existed was the flame, it was everything she had ever loved and she poured every ounce of her remaining life-force into it.  “I am Eilid, I am a daughter of the Earth,” she thought, “I own myself and my destiny.”  Looking out onto the living world one last time, to the shock of all, she smiled and in that smile was pure love and absolute forgiveness.  She held the gaze of a little girl in the crowd, a little girl with red hair.  The child knew what to do, she turned and as she ran she turned into a dove.  Triumphant, the old woman called out in a clear strong voice for all to hear:  “The fire draws you and the light of it will show you the way!” She watched as a white dove disappeared into the ancient oak grove.

Of her own free will she ejected her living spirit out of her body.  Her shell of a body simultaneously burst into flames like a phoenix rising above the known world.  In her last moment, in her own way, Eilid had chosen life.

Note to Self:

Frankie landed hard back into her body and she woke with a jolt, gasping for breath.  It was all she could do not to scream.  She sat bolt upright in her bed, panting as sweat poured down her face and drenched her t-shirt.  Instinctively she crossed her arms over her chest.  “Control,” she whispered to herself, “correlate data.”  Her body shuddered, yet as she felt her own arms and shoulders intact, she relaxed slightly.  “What’s happening to me, Madame?”  she whispered to the little grey cat sitting on a pile of books waiting to be packed.  Frankie’s chest heaved a little bit longer behind the security of her crossed arms.  She was changing, her body was changing, all at once it seems, but there was something else pulling her forward; like the moon pulling the tide out to sea.

The little grey cat gazed at her human, serenely purring as she winked slowly the way cats do.  It seemed to Frankie that Madame Curie, named after Frankie’s favorite woman scientist, knew exactly what had just happened, that she had been in the dream with her. 

Frankie thought, “Note to self: reference dream physiology at the new library in Ventura–the Library, the only stable and reliable environment in the Universe.  Science, yes science will explain everything.”  Madame Curie jumped onto the bed and climbed onto Frankie’s lap.  Although not quite dawn, the desert air was already hot as the Santa Ana Winds blew in through the bedroom window.  Through the comfort of her crossed arms, Frankie felt her body changing.  Through the hot desert breeze, Frankie felt her entire existence changing.  Staccato crickets and the coo of mourning doves summoned in the twilight beginnings of a new day. 

She had many things to do today to prepare for her last day in the desert.  She could hear quiet prattling noises downstairs:  “I fell in to a burning ring of fire…” Dad was playing his Johnny Cash album and singing along to it; the house was already awake.  Gazing in the mirror, she composed her face into a look of sleepy calm; put on a clean, dry t-shirt, then went downstairs to join her parents for coffee.  With Madame Curie at her heels; the ghosts of her dreams momentarily slipped back into the shadows of midnight.

 

The Mirage

The hiker followed the dry river bed along the bottom of the storm wash.  She paused for a moment to gaze at the horizon which disappeared into a kaleidoscope of hot, wavy air.  “Good day for a mirage,” Frankie said to Madame Curie as she came to a stop near a broken sumac tree.  She began to empty the contents of her heavy backpack:  rocks, plant matter, an assortment of bones and a small cobalt bottle.

“After I am gone, no one will remember who these bones belonged to,” she thought as she arranged her treasures into a macabre sort of desert offering.  She stood up and studied her composition.

The beige bandana she wore over her black frizzy hair was damp with sweat; she wore old army fatigues and a faded brown t-shirt, even her buff colored hiking boots blended into the surrounding.  She was the color of the desert, she was invisible and she imagined that even the turkey buzzard circling overhead didn’t notice her.

“My best friends are bones and the ghosts that haunt them,” she sighed, “and today I leave them all behind.”  Her clothes and lanky build gave her a boyish appearance, she told herself she didn’t care; she couldn’t and wouldn’t fit in here or any of the many places she had lived in all her young life.  So, she chose to be totally invisible.  No one will miss her; no one will even know that she was here.  And yet even in this solitary mood she pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket and re-read what she had written:

The Bottle Village Lady

Outside the hot poofy dirt burns through my zories

The bottle village lady beckons me inside where it is cool

Sunlight filters through walls made of 7-up colored light

Through the years she rummaged,

collected and with a dab of cement

Turned the valley’s garbage into a sanctuary

of cool soda-pop colored sunlight

At the edge of the Simi Valley desert

the old lady who builds a village

One cast of bottle at a time,

Builds her own life like a wondrous work in progress

 

July 1967 to Grandma Prisby-

Goodbye,

Frankie.

The boyish, colorless desert creature rolled up the poem, carefully worked it into the delicate little blue bottle and placed it in the center of her plant and bone arrangement.  She knew that only one person would notice and understand what this was.  Girl and cat turned and walked away, disappearing into the mirage.  No one in the Simi Valley would remember quiet, androgynous Frankie who collected specimens in the wash; no one but an old woman, the only friend of an invisible girl.

 

 

FIELD JOURNAL ENTRY

F.  Browning July 29th 1967

Final Desert Specimen Inventory

 

Keep and Pack: 

Fulgurite fragment

Owl Pellet-contents presumed vole

Snake skin (shed) and rattle

Jaw bone fragment:  coyote?

 

Return to Storm Wash:

Misc.  decomposed plant matter

Sprig of eucalyptus w/pods

Small deceased bat-

 

Note:  refrain from storing specimens in sealed glass jars!

*Elsa said I could keep 10% of my rock collection.  She says that if I leave the surplus in the wash, that other people who aren’t moving can collect them.  Mother is always right, no one can argue with Dutch logic!

Frankie paused as she sat at her writing desk and then continued to finish her journal entry.  Madame Curie sat like the all-knowing sphinx watching her human closely.

Comment:  Para-Normal Biology

The ghosts of Simi Valley were denizens of bone and dust and whispers; stories told in broad daylight while hiking through Oak Park or hunting fossils in the storm wash at the end of the street.  I’ve collected desert legends in this journal like a pocket full of show and tell to share with anyone who had the nerve to hear.  I’ve searched out ghosts on the trails of dust devils but I can’t quite find what I’m looking for, or what’s looking for me?  Will I find it in our new home Ventura, the land of mist and orchards?  What is to be found on the illusive Anacapa Islands:  the moving islands that seem to float on the horizon?  I feel the pull of something unseen, something compelling, pulling me forward as well.

Personal Note:

I don’t know what to expect from High School.  Elsa says it will be a new beginning for me.  She keeps buying me Seventeen Magazine so I’ll know what to wear:  i.e.  tights or knee socks etc.  One of my class mates here once indicated to me that my favorite color was plaid; that doesn’t make sense!  None of the girls I know here make sense.  All I know is that I dream about fire and when I wake up, I know something is out there!Image