Witches!!!!!!! Let's get serious about hysteria.

Let's get serious about witches and hysteria for Halloween!

I am reading Stacy Schiff's book "The Witches" about the Salem witch trials and hangings in Massachusetts in 1692. Remember, the enlightenment in science and "knowledge" had already  begun by that date. Newton "discovered" gravity in 1687. Kepler and Galileo had come and gone. Yet 14 women, five men, and two dogs were executed for witchcraft, mainly on spectral  evidence (the hysterical ravings of a group of teen-aged girls.)

I'm not going to comment here about whether the Salem "witch hunt" targeted women mostly because women were under-valued in Puritan society. We know they were. I want to explore the hysteria that led to the hanging and jailing of dozens of men, women, and children in the American colonies. It's not as if there wasn't plenty to keep the Puritans busy. Native tribes and the French raided New England villages, wiping out whole towns. Farming, spinning, cutting firewood to keep out the cold, etc. kept people busy. But somehow, children as young as eight were jailed, and women as old as 71 were hanged (an awful death as Schiff describes it) often for being nothing more than accused or perhaps, cantankerous. 

What scares me is how little we have changed. Television shows that rely on "junk science" get more and more popular. Some so-called ghost hunter cast in eerie light claims "I feel a presence" and the public eats it up. I am not even suggesting there's not such a thing as ghosts, ESP, or "vibes..." I question the belief in such things just because someone we admire (celebrities often) say so.

And I mean to question hysteria even in our ideas about politics and religion. I question both sides on these issues. In our upcoming U.S. election, each party preaches Armageddon if their candidate fails. A series of checks and balances make this unlikely. Some of us believe this religion or that nationality is bent on destroying the world. I take issue with those who prejudice the issue with generalities as well as those who chose to remain blind to certain facts. Yes, there are problems in the world, and some of them are based on religion and nationality. Hysteria has no place in our world view.

Well, nonetheless, we will continue to hang our witches despite our best intentions. Our 300 years of knowledge and learning has gotten us only a more lethal manner of execution. We hold up in nightclubs, shooting our fellow man because they are white, black, gay, straight, or clad in the wrong color hoodie. 

When will we get it right?

SPRING!

March 27^th, 2016

Grace DeWolf

It is Easter Sunday, and I sit in a chair in my backyard, relaxing. All about me, the world is in motion. Wisps of cotton clouds glide past only to dissipate in the sky, as if they have succumbed to the spirit of Spring. It's breezy. The insects in the air dance, or flutter, or streak as I stare up the hill. Looking to the west, I can only see one roof-line and the top of the water tank near the Easter cross. This is my slice of California on this day.

Grace DeWolf

Every creature that flies catches the sun and gleams white. Even the crows, as they dip a wing, seem white. The birds sing. The crows caw.

My pear and apple tree blossom. The forget-me-nots have a profusion of light blue flowers. The lithadora too. The pineapple sage shows bright, pinkish red flowers. Up the hill the trees sway and the sun dapples the leaves or needles. A half-mile down the road, the deer may be lying in the tall grass, their ears twinkling above the greenery.

This is a day of the rebirth of the Son of Man for Christians. Despite this, I sense the reawakening of God. It is hard to take on any grief this day. 
The world is too alive to feel disappointment or depression.

Spring is just this—a rebirth of hope.

 season, turn, turn, turn.

And a time to every purpose under heaven.
A time to be born, a time to die.
A time to plant, a time to reap.
A time to kill, a time to heal.
A time to laugh, a time to weep.

Again I don't want to make this about religion, but Ecclesiastes is apt here. If you seek a less religious take on Spring, remember Turn! Turn! Turn! by the Byrds, their folk-rock rendition Ecclesiastes.

To everything, turn, turn, turn.
There is a season, turn, turn, turn.
And a time to every purpose under heaven.
A time to build up, a time to break down.
A time to dance, a time to mourn.
A time to cast away stones.
A time to gather stones together.

Grace DeWolf

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There is poem about Spring that I love. It is by ee cummings.

[in Just-]

in Just-

spring          when the world is mud-

luscious the little

lame balloonman

whistles          far          and wee

Cathy DeWolf

and eddieandbill come

running from marbles and

piracies and it's

spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer

old balloonman whistles

far          and             wee

and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's

spring

and

         the

                  goat-footed

balloonMan          whistles

far

and

wee

I'm quite sure I can't improve on this. So I will end, with this: It's Spring. A time of rebirth. The world is in the midst of reawakening. Join in.

FC.

Photo Grace DeWolf

Happy Holidays! A Winter Wonderland.

Snow is beautiful too!

All Winter Wonderland Photos by Grace DeWolf.

The Real Transylvania

Thanks to our regular contributor Emila Frinculeasa


Transylvania, the medieval jewel of Romania with its majestic castles, imposing towers, remarkable citadels and distinguished churches as well as idyllic cobblestone streets and colourful, Old-Saxon homes, its glorious Carpathian Mountains – the very birthplace of Count Dracula's myth, still leaves plenty of room for exquisite Gothic tales and mysterious, larger-than-life figures.


Transylvania’s tumultuous history, beginning with the Roman province of “Dacia Traiana”, with unrighteous decisions ruled against its fate by outsiders, the bitter religious conflicts born inside its multiethnic communities and numerous blood shedding events such as public executions, tragic betrayals and barbarous assassinations, all these made an anonymous Saxon writer state that "only 
God's mercy" saved this region and its people from annihilation.

However, despite its share of tragedy and discord, the Romanian province fueling the most controversial historical debates, Transylvania remains the cradle of hope for civilization, tolerance and peace.

Emila Frinculeasa

From "Dracula" by Bram Stoker

I soon lost sight and recollection of ghostly fears in the beauty of the scene as we drove along, although had I known the language, or rather languages, which my fellow-passengers were speaking, I might not have been able to throw them off so easily. Before us lay a green sloping land full of forests and woods, with here and there steep hills, crowned with clumps of trees or with farmhouses, the blank gable end to the road. There was everywhere a bewildering mass of fruit

blossom--apple, plum, pear, cherry. And as we drove by I could see the green grass under the trees spangled with the fallen petals. In and out amongst these green hills of what they call here the "Mittel Land" ran the road, losing itself as it swept round the grassy curve, or was shut out by the straggling ends of pine woods, which here and there ran down the hillsides like tongues of flame. The road was rugged, but still we seemed to fly over it with a feverish haste. I could not understand then what the haste meant, but the driver was evidently bent on losing no time in reaching Borgo Prund. I was told that this road is in summertime excellent, but that it had not yet been put in order after the winter snows. In this respect it is different from the general run of roads in the Carpathians, for it is an old tradition that they are not to be kept in too good order. Of old the Hospadars would not repair them, lest the Turk should think that they were preparing to bring in foreign troops, and so hasten the war

which was always really at loading point.

Beyond the green swelling hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty slopes of forest up to the lofty steeps of the Carpathians themselves. Right and left of us they towered, with the afternoon sun falling full upon them and bringing out all the glorious colours of this beautiful range, deep blue and purple in the shadows of the peaks, green and brown where grass and rock mingled, and an endless perspective of jagged rock and pointed crags, till these were themselves lost in the distance, where the snowy peaks rose grandly. Here and there seemed mighty rifts in the mountains, through which, as the sun began to sink, we saw now and again the white gleam of falling water. One of my companions touched my arm as we swept round the base of a hill and opened up the lofty, snow-covered peak of a mountain, which seemed, as we wound on our serpentine way, to be right before us.

"Look! Isten szek!"--"God's seat!"--and he crossed himself reverently.

Dog Eats Man or Woman

So, you and your spouse are lying helpless, dying perhaps, or already dead due to bad mushrooms, or human-specific carbon monoxide poisoning (does that exist, no?) or whatever else. Perhaps, an zombie infection has come upon your dog or dogs, (cats too?) and human meat is the only thing they crave. Whatever the situation is, your dogs either have no regular food (good God, install a doggy door!) and you and your spouse or significant other are dinner for them. Who do they eat first? You or your spouse. Which one? The one who feeds them gets eaten last, or do they picture you as a source of nutrition?

Hey, this is just in fun. It is meant to titillate and draw comment. Please, do not complain. This is how my mind works. You can join in without Catwolf (such a monniker) thinking you are bat-shit crazy. So, let us know.

ALL LIT UP FOR CHRISTMAS

Christmas Dues

by Emilia Frinculeasa

http://therealvirtuality.blogspot.ro/

A ghostly thought

climbs up

the snow-capped rooftop

of a nearby building

leaving behind an empty corner

of my absent mind

for an obligatory, back-in-time journey.

Inside, my spine shivers,

my temples burn with silent fever,

my palms face the fiery fireplace

in a defensive gesture

which allows my eyes

to follow and emulate

the dancing flames

reflected on the white ceiling.

Surrounded

by lighting and tinsel I am,

in your sudden embrace,

I fell, confronted with my own longings

holding my breath still,

hearing sweet names whispered in my ear.

You see, I never feel ready

for such a harvest of bliss! Standing

between the fire and the fir-tree

I get almost knocked off my feet.

You and your thousand ways 

to make up for the snows' coldness,

so that we can peacefully sit 

for minutes on end

on the quiet warmth of a mistletoe branch

- speechless in winter -

feeling in rhymes or in blank verse

our matching stockings,

forgotten by ageing traditions,

resting their soft emptiness together

like a recently-opened present.

Years ago, one could almost count

the plastered indifference

of my chest around Christmas,

hear it out,

while rocking the bountiful bells

or wiping the old memory drops

rolling down an immaculate angel 

or some festive ornament figures.

I used to run out of carols and greetings

so often, back in the day, 

collected yet so dismissive,

a little girl grown into a strong woman

willing and able to stay for the winter

until  being taken for granted

and having her debts paid.

A RELUCTANT WRITER ON REVENANTS

I requested that my Romanian friend Emilia write a poem about the mountains where she grew up in Romania. While I'm a vampire "writer" and fan, I knew she had no interest in the subject of the undead. Being a good sport, Emilia took on the task,

 but neither of us knew what to expect. Well, may I suggest that she has tapped into some marvelous place inside her, that channels her Carpathians, and the Count himself. Our thanks to her for this wonderful work. She has another poem on the same subject on her website.   
http://therealvirtuality.blogspot.ro/




Two Poems by Emilia Frinculeasa

Vlad Castle by E. Frinculeasa

Transylvanian Ballad


in the midst of night,
at the quiet bottom
of the lonesome mountain,
dropped from the wings
of the gentle breeze,
a barn owl’s hoot
stabs the thick darkness
right through its heart
the way a sharp lightening
hits the frozen ground
in the late of autumn.
unheard infant’s shrieks,
all numbed and forgotten,
haunt the whereabouts
of the missing hound
lured by scents of blood
from the greenwood sight
vanished like a cloud
when the storm is done
no trace to be found
never found alive
later than his wanderings.
from a safe distance,
the moon-howling echoes
give a piercing notice
of the new life’s courses
secretly bestowing
the surmised return
of the sleepless hunter
with a deadly  thirst
from his awful curses.  
in front of his temples
seduced by his flare
the two rowing columns
of young, silent pines
lean down, one-by-one
in a pitch-black courtesy
with the pristine heath
following behind.
the long pebble trail,
overgrown and cold,
covered in his scent
and the pine needles
urge my hasty steps
to the same old place
of no real escape
and decrepit home
to the savage folks
who had their own souls
forever estranged.
what is more, once more,
he’ll refuse to grow old
and from time to time,
dry cries will be born inside 
his Carpathian castle,
summoned by the flesh,

induced by flash floods.
hereby, at his doorstep,
his long-denied burning,
all his broken trust,
wicked games of lust,
caged inside this fortress,
the pretend death coffin,
whose transparent vault
both quenches and chains
my loyal persistence
with the fatal promise
of eternal love,
are fully accepted.
any day or night now,
free from the past drought,
with the worst  of both
tempted by desire,
in this sinful dungeon
a cold, ivory sharpness
much older than fire,
will enable fate
to redeem the best
of our damned romance,
and its preordained,
much too vain existence
up the mountain top.


-------------------------------

Inducement

 “I shall drink from thy holly springs”

Voluptuous immortals

Go and behold them, in the dark forest,

Moon-bathing their marble skin,

Pagan maidens, dancing in circles,

Burning the grass, the leaves,

The ground under the soles of their feet

Their fair hair blowing with the night wind.

O, virgin fairies, who haunt  away my sleep,

Come, grant a count his ultimate wish!

So soon, your burning silhouettes shall cross

These rocky slopes to quench my thirst.

Your eyes by my eyes have been cursed,

They are my candles now- ready to spread

Their undying, whispering oaths around.

My kiss is able to cleave the deep darkness

into thin slices of silence and painless tears,

Transylvania

Your spirit is about  to split the murmur of living

into legible birthmarks and heart poetry.

Have no fear, the thirsty moors and arid marshes

Won't reclaim the dead’s autumnal wake

They too absorb your youth and faith,

and drown your prayers in their swamps,

but turn your earthly nightmares into hope

so that, tomorrow, a crimson ritual of love

shall be performed inside our timeless souls.

Claudia-Emilia Frinculeasa was born on October 8^th, 1977, in a small mountain town located in the south-eastern part of Romania. She graduated from the Faculty of Letters and Science of the University of Ploiesti in 1999. As a student, she wrote several articles and interviews for the university magazine, “Coloane”, where she had her poetic debut printed in 1998.
A teacher of English at “Radu Vladescu” Theoretical High School for 16 years, she lives in Nehoiu town, 117 km away from Bran Castle, the literary residence of Count Dracula, inspired by Vlad the Impaler,  a ruler of modern-day Transylvania in the 1400s.
She likes expressing herself in English and reading poetry.