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CEPT - friend having neurological problems - CROSSPOST! [29 Feb 2008|08:18am]

[ mood | hopeful ]

My friend Tomo is having neurological problems. He's falling down, confused etc. Docs don't know what's going on. His primary is about to send him to Yet Another Neurologist, this one one that doesn't just throw meds at the problem. ::sigh:: Good thoughts, prayers, energy etc. would be appreciated. His wife is finding work relaxing. It's someplace to be where she can get away for a bit. Tomo's health has been bad for some time (think YEARS!). Migraines that they haven't been able to do anything about that have been so bad that he had to quit his job at TEMA which he adored. They've both been extremely frustrated. Just knowing what's going on would help them.

2 comments|post comment

crosspost Purple Stuff [21 Apr 2007|09:19am]

[ mood | bouncy ]

very shiny... lots and lots of purple. Just in case you know someone who likes purple.


4 comments|post comment

Happy (a day late) Anniversary... [05 Sep 2006|12:47pm]

[ mood | thoughtful ]

but I am most definitely (at least here) not a dollar short. I think the anniversary observance of belles_place was missed because of 1)the holiday (USA - Labor Day), and 2)the various goings on in the rest of the world.

First I'd like to post a salute to Steve Irwin. He died too soon, too young, but he left a legacy to all the creatures of this world with his passion and love of nature.

Second, I would like to offer a CEPT to The United States of America which is being held hostage to a tyrant who makes Hitler look like a Girl Scout. I do apologize if I offend anyone with my opinion, but that is exactly how I view the situation.

Third, I hope that when the world emerges from the coming Dark Ages, that they will be able to decipher these electronic doodlings and make humanity better that it has been.

Sorry, I didn't mean to get morose, but I really hope my 'gloom and doom' outlook does not come to pass.

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[03 May 2006|10:52pm]

Usually hiding in her tumble-down house, recluse Nanny bangs in through the door, cane and wooden leg marking contrapuntal time to her labored breathing. The spring ground fog has followed her in and clings to her moth-eaten squirrel coat. She doesn't notice nor care.

"Belle, give me a White Russian, please. And could you warm the milk?" Belle nods, grins, and reaches for the sticky sweet coffee liqueur.

Nanny grunts as she sits on a bar stool, then smacks her wooden leg to make it bend properly at the knee. The hinge complains, asking meekly for a squirt of oil. She reaches into the dark recesses of her furry coat and pulls out a can of WD-40, squirting first into her pretend knee and then a dab behind each ear.

"There, that's better. Oh, could I have some milk for me cat?" Nanny pulls a small sleeping kitten out of another pocket and places it before her on the bar. The poor tiger-stripped baby sneezes, then scampers back toward the familiar fur and snuggles in, purring.

"What's the cat's name, Nanny?" Belle places a napkin on the bar, then sets down an old-fashioned glass with the brownish milky drink. She turns, finds a clean ashtray, and pours the remaining warmed milk into the tray for the cat.

"No name yet. She'll tell me when she's ready." Nanny sips at her drink and gently pets the drousy kitten, waiting for the warmth to sneak through her veins. "Where is everyone tonight?"

Belle says nothing, just wipes the bar which is already shining.

"Everyone's gone to the moon, Nanny."
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2/14/06.. A man for all fictons passes... [17 Feb 2006|12:29am]

A Narn, a Vulcan and a Romulan walk into the place... he bellies up to the bar and, after asking if the spoo is fresh, says, "I'm not all here now- one of us is no more. But I'll be remembered, really we will..."

And ambling off to the chalkline, one of him sings
"I'm thinking of thinking of calling her right
after my afternoon nap.
I'm thinking of thinking of sending her flowers,
right after Bonnie gets back.
So many fishies left in the sea,
so many fishies - but no-one for me...
I'm thinking of thinking of hooking a love,
soon after supper is done."

Andreas Katsulas, 1947-2006
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"In the Midnight Hour" [19 Jan 2006|09:54pm]

Goodnight and farewell to Wilson Pickett,1941 - 2006.

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[25 Oct 2005|08:22pm]

It's a cold and rainy night, and Belle blows into the place on the rough fingertips of a nor'easter, her cloak dampened with diamond raindrops and her face wet with mist.

She goes behind the bar, and pulls out the bottle of Irish Mist, it's golden clarity shining like amber under the dim lights. She pours herself a shot, downs it, shuddering, and then pours another one to be sipped in a more genteel but no less purposeful way.

She slips around the bar again, to the patron's side, and regards herself in the long mirror behind the bar, grinning at how the bottle on the bar has dubbed her both patron and bartender in one swell foop...

She remembers, on this night, why she opened this place.

No prying.

No judgement.

No poking one's nose where it doesn't belong, and yet an arm, a hand, an ear when one needs to either lend or receive it.

No filters, no friends lists, no cliques.

A place to speak and not be shouted down, by anyone. A place to listen, because there is no desire to do otherwise.

Shared joy, and shared pain. And no "you shoulds".

No shame. Ever.

She looks off on the far wall, and sees the portrait of Mike, his expression half glowering and half brokenhearted, and her eyes fill with tears as she regards it.

She raises her glass to the Irishman, and says, "Time to come home, Mike. Time to start again..."

She throws her snifter into the fireplace, and listens to the satisfying crunch of broken glass.

She picks up the bottle and tucks it under her arm, drawing her shawl around her, hurrying to the door...

Hoping like hell it isn't too late....
7 comments|post comment

Illegal Immigrants Given Custody of Border Ranch in Lawsuit? [20 Aug 2005|11:38am]

[ mood | angry ]

I don't care what you believe about illegals coming into this country, but this is so wrong!

BTW, please feel free to link and pass on. We need to get the information out there.

7 comments|post comment

's Punday Nite!! [15 Aug 2005|04:18pm]

the bald guy walks into the Place, tipping his hat to Belle...

"Ever tell you about my pal Farmer Brown?? Too bad- I'm tellin' you again...

Farmer Brown was in the fertilized egg business. He had several hundred young layers (hens), called pullets and eight or ten roosters, whose job was to fertilize the eggs.

Brown kept records and any rooster that didn't perform went into the soup pot and was replaced.

That took an awful lot of his time so he bought a set of tiny bells and attached them to his roosters. Each bell had a different tone so John could tell from a distance, which rooster was performing. Now he could sit on the porch and fill out an efficiency report simply by listening to the bells.

Now the farmer's favorite rooster was old Butch, a very fine specimen he was, too. But on this particular morning he noticed old Butch's bell hadn't rung at all! Brown went to investigate. The other roosters were chasing pullets, bells-a-ringing. The pullets, hearing the roosters coming, would run for cover.

But to Farmer Brown's amazement, Butch had his bell in his beak, so it couldn't ring. He'd sneak up on a pullet, do his job and walk on to the next one.

Brown was so proud of Butch, he entered him in the county fair and Butch became an overnight sensation among the judges.

The result...

wait for it...

The judges not only awarded Butch the "No Bell Piece Prize" but they also awarded him the "Pulletsurprise" as well.

Clearly Butch was a politician in the making.. Who else but a politician could figure out how to win two of the most highly coveted awards on our planet by being the best at sneaking up on the populace and screwing them when they weren't paying attention?

Your honor, the offense rests...
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Creaky Old Cat - final update [09 Aug 2005|10:49am]

[ mood | crying ]

Cut for SadnessCollapse )

Cross-posted to ladyqkat and note_to_cat

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Creaky Old Cat [07 Aug 2005|11:39pm]

[ mood | sad ]

Cut for sadnessCollapse )

Crossposted to ladyqkat & note_to_cat

4 comments|post comment

James Doohan, R.I.P. [20 Jul 2005|08:34pm]

[ mood | morose ]

James Doohan, the burly chief engineer of the Starship Enterprise in the original "Star Trek" TV series and motion pictures who responded to the command "Beam me up, Scotty," died early Wednesday at the age of 85.

Doohan died at 5:30 a.m. at his Redmond, Wash., home with his wife of 28 years, Wende, at his side, Los Angeles agent and longtime friend Steve Stevens said. The cause of death was pneumonia and Alzheimer's disease, he said.

.. I first hear "Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me".. then him congratulating a very dusty bottle of very old Scotch on helping him drink the alien du jour under the table, "we did it, you and me.." and promptly passes out.

Few know what an expert in dialects/accents the wily Canuck was... I think he was trapped as Scotty more than Nimoy as Spock; your mileage may vary, of course.

I met Doohan in my last assignment for the Niagara Gazette before schlepping out West to The Evergreen State College; OMSI had a nationwide exhibit tour of Trek, it opened in Buffalo with Doohan. Even with a drink in each mitt, he was ever a pro and a gent.


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*Danger Room Post* [23 Jun 2005|01:12am]

This might not be something done here before, but this is what I need right now.

Fertility Issues, Depression and Ranting... lots of rantingCollapse )

"I'm sorry."
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sadly quiet [24 May 2005|10:54pm]

The bald guy wanders into The Place, looking more'n a bit morose... "The silence outside is deafening." Noting the mildly puzzling looks he's getting, he continues... "In one lousy week, four wonderful voice actors have left us; hopefully for comfier gigs:
Frank Gorshin, so much more than the Riddler, a consumate impressionist and singer; Henry Corden, Fred Flintstone's second voice, but with a career that spanned radio thru the present; Howard Morris, from Sid Caesar to Andy Griffith to Hanna-Barbera to Mel Brooks; Thurl Ravenscroft, Tony the Tiger, balladeer of the Grinch and a fair piece of Disneyland... giants all..."

He ambles up to the chalk line and, downing his Maker's Mark flings his glass and an old microphone... "For making my ears smile!"

and in case I've been remiss, thanks Belle- nice joint ya got here... appreciate it muchly.
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Crossposted to ladyqkat [28 Apr 2005|11:32am]

[ mood | pissed off ]

Okay, I just did something I usually don't do. I wrote my Congresscritters in response to this, whichI linked through from this.

Letter to CongresscrittersCollapse )

Please feel free to use this as a template to send to your own congresscritters.

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CEPT: Jennifer's knees - crossposted [07 Apr 2005|07:44am]

[ mood | concerned ]

Kat wanders by, "This morning I'm taking Jennifer to the pediatric orthopedist to see why her knees are hurting. Good wishes, prayers, energy etc would be appreciated. We found out my knees were crooked when I was 18... it wasn't until my second knee surgery when I was 27 when we found out that I had a congential defect with my ligaments on the wrong side of the kneecaps that turned out to be bilateral. I'm hoping that's not the case with Jennifer but both her kneecaps are crooked. She'll be 12 on August 10th."

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[02 Apr 2005|04:04pm]

Belle walks into the bar, for the second time this week, with a heavy heart. This time, she carries nothing in her hands except a single white rose, a silver crucifix, and a purple candle.

She sets the candle down on the bar, and lights it, placing the rose and the crucifix artfully around it. No altar here--she would not disrespect the man in that way. But she feels she can offer a light to ease his passage, and a rememberance of who he was, to so many people.

She opens a bottle of wine, pours a glass, and sits to remember, and to speak to the light of the candle, knowing her words will be carried through the veil, from here to there, because they will travel on love--and this was a man, she is convinced, who could always hear love...

"You know, Karol, you are not my first pope. I have seen two others--Pope Paul and Pope John Paul I. Pope Paul was the Pope of my childhood--a thin-faced and dignified man, and one who was rather iconic and remote. John Paul I was with us so short a time that I'm afraid his face is lost to me altogether...

"But I was living around Washington when you came here to visit in 1979, and I recall what I thought, what I felt, when I first saw you."

She grins. "Shoes of the Fisherman."

She takes a sip and smiles more broadly. "I remember thinking that you were a different kind of Pope than what I was used to. With your strong, energetic physique swaddled in pure white robes, usually seen flying out behind you as you ran around, I was not used to seeing such electicity from the Vatican. With your pugilistic face, usually wreathed with a knowing smile, I recall thinking that this was going to be a very different kind of papacy than what I was used to."

She squints at the flame comically, and it flickers in response. "I remember thinking that you were a whole new ball game."

She sits back in her chair. "And you were, Karol. You very much were. Because for all the things you stood for--all the things I disagreed with--I remember thinking, all along, that you were someone who I fundamentally admired.

"I admired the fact that you were willing, in your youth, to commit rebellion against your government in order to follow your faith, risking imprisonment and even death. I admired the fact that you were supremely interested in young people--that you believed that faith was as much the bastion of the young as it was of the little old ladies at the prayer rail. I admired your sense of humor--hearing the story that was told of you that, on observing the loveliness of one morning during your first visit to Poland, that you predicted a beautiful day, and with a wink reminded all those in attendance that it would be INDEED a beautiful day because you were, of course, infallible...."

She shakes her head laughing. "A Pope who can make fun of the concept of his own infallibility is a Pope I can love, witch that I am." She looks back into the candle. "Because I believe, as you did, in the wisdom of laughter."

She smiles. "I admired your interest in the world, and your willingness to stand toe to toe with oppression. I admired your readiness to express your opinion on those things which you believed were wrong--including your chastising my own president on his involvement in a stupid and useless war...

She sighs. "And Karol, I admired your accessibility. No longer wrapped in the elite atmosphere of the Vatican, you were our most well travelled Pope--the one who desired to be out in the world, with your sleeves rolled up, hugging babies and blessing children and comforting those who were grieving and holding those who bent tearfully under the sheer weight of awe in meeting you...and that touch told them, I'm sure, that you were no cloistered icon, but a living, breathing man, who knew what human beings felt, and had no higher desire than to end suffering."

"Karol, you and I didn't agree on much. But I admired you--for your prayerfulness, for your interest in the world, and for your humble acceptance of the duties with which you were charged. I admired you--because you were a WORKING Pope.... And faith without works is nothing."

She winks. "That is the point where you and I can agree perfectly."

She touches the crucifix, and the rose, tenderly.

"Thank you, Karol, for the good you did, for the joy you expressed, for your loving defiance, your awareness of your world, and for your ultimate belief in what is right."

With that, Belle drains her glass, and sends it tumbling into the fireplace, and feels a smile glowing at her back, a droll old man amused and pleased at the tribute of a heathen.
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[31 Mar 2005|07:20pm]

Belle walks into the bar, a soft wrap clutched tightly around her in the cool, early spring chill, a bunch of lilac flowers tucked under one arm and a duffle slung over her shoulder. The sun is going down, and she can hear the wind chimes in the oak tree through the window, left cracked a bit earlier in the day to let the warm afternoon breeze in. The sky is tossed with heavy, gathering cloud, and there is a storm coming in...

She closes the door behind her, leaves her wrap on the bar, and takes the bag to a space by the fireplace. She sets it on the floor, opens it, and from its depths takes out three candles, a silken cloth, a bottle, two chalices, a soda bread and her blade.

She moves a chair closer, and spreads the silk on the floor before it.

With measured steps, she cuts a circle with her blade, a look of concentration on her face, her eyes burning and her brow furrowed. She blows a kiss to each of the four winds, pondering the nymph, the salamander, the undine and the gnome, and how she needs all of them, and the gifts they bring.

She sits on the floor, opposite the chair, and places her gifts on the cloth, the blade by the bread, the bottle opened and ready by the cups, the candles, two white and one pink, set in a triangle around the centerpiece of flowers, heavily fragrant with their cool, sweet smell. She reaches into her pocket and murmuring a bit, lights the candles, smelling sweetly of their consecration--the two white first, and then the pink, her candle, last.

In the firelight, she closes her eyes, and her tears begin to flow.

"Mother...?" she calls softly. "Mother?"

At once, the chair opposite her is occupied by a woman dressed in black cloak and shift. Belle looks up into Her face, and sees Her hair, the glowing color of moonlight, and Her eyes, blue as midnight, and the comforting, delicate wrinkles of the skin, still firm with life, still warm and ruddy. Her hands are folded gently in Her lap, adorned with silver and moonstone, and they are sturdy and strong, laced with vein and sinew, and yet...

Folded in that way, they give the appearance of calm, perfect gentleness.

The voice is low and steady, inviting and intimidating all at once. "Yes, child. I'm here."

By now Belle's tears are streaming, and she looks almost pleadingly into her Mother's face.

"Mother, I'm heartsick, and hurt. I feel broken and weak. I feel tired and despairing...."

The Woman listens, and when Belle's sobs are quieted, She speaks. "It's the woman, isn't it? The woman who crossed over today."

Belle nods wordlessly, unable to speak, so choked she is with sadness and anger, her mind whirling with pictures of that face...that face...

"Child," The Woman says quietly, "hush, child, and dry your tears, because I have something to show you..."

From the folds of her cloak, soft as shadow, she brings forth a huge crystal, spotlessly clear and full of rainbows. It is a giant chunk of a thing, covered with mirrored facets, windows to other worlds...

And as Belle watches, the crystal fills with smoky phantoms, and she is taken back into her own existence...but not one of this time or place...Collapse )

Hours later, Belle finds herself awakening on the floor of the bar, the sun coming up through the window, the candles burned to their quicks and the purple silk scattered with crumbs.

She stands, and stretches herself awake, and goes to put on the coffee and the muffins, preparing for another day in which she will find herself feeding her patrons...

Feeding them.

Because this is what she longs to do, and what she has, through the grace of her Good Mother, been allowed to do....
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