And words are all I have to take your heart away.”

Remember that song? It was my anthem when I was studying English Literature in college. I marvel at the skill of the greats like Shakespeare, Byron, Frost, T.S. Eliot, and Hemmingway, to name a few, who chose their words with such precision that the images they created never die.

Over the holidays, I spent time in Morro Bay, California, playing on a special beach for dogs and their owners. It was a warm day with a gentle breeze blowing off the water when I participated in a, “Dog-Social,” where humans threw sticks and balls into the surf for dogs to fetch. There were no fights, no fears, just happy, wet dogs and smiling people for miles up and down a sandy beach. My daughter threw a stick for Monty and Bagel, our two yellow Labs, while Ziggy Rottweiler and I walked along the shore, admiring the vast Pacific Ocean. (Ziggy doesn’t chase sticks; he reserves his great strength and preternatural talents for sniffing out bad guys.)

Watching the waves roll onto the shore, and thinking about the mess that politicians and banksters have made of our world, a verse from Lord Byron’s, “The Ocean,” ran through my mind:

                                       “Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean, roll!

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;

Man marks the earth with ruin; his control

Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain,

The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain,

A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own,

When for a moment, like a drop of rain,

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,

Without a grave, unknelled, unconfined, and unknown.”

Politicians and Presidential hopefuls would do well to remember that losers in the War of Words, which is now being fought on an ocean of information in 30 TV second spots, newspaper stories, and Internet blogs, will simply sink into the depths, “like a drop of rain.”

In my opinion, the Republican debates have been more like reality TV shows of “Gotcha,” moments that are scripted entirely for the talking heads to dissect, and babble on about incessantly, all under the guise of getting to know the candidates. It appears that the candidates have forgotten that David Axelrod, President Obama’s, “Wordsmith-in-charge,” is an expert at taking people’s hearts away with key words. Remember all those voters who fell in love with “Hope and Change?” I have no doubt that Axelrod is watching the debates with glee, scribbling down the answers, analyzing every response with an eye toward using the candidates’ own words to pit the eventual Republican nominee against Obama.

Meanwhile, one of the top stories of recent weeks is being gleefully ignored by both the debate organizers and the candidates. Scott J. Paltrow of Reuters wrote a superb article explaining the lack of Federal prosecution of banksters who falsified documents in foreclosure cases after selling thousands, if not millions, of faulty home loans to investors world-wide. He writes that the Attorney General, Eric Holder, and Lanny Breuer, head of the Justice Department’s criminal division, came from the law firm of Covington and Burling, where they were partners when the firm represented Bank of America, Wells Fargo, JP Morgan chase and Citi-group. Covington and Burling’s website is said to list 22 former Justice Department employees—a very well-oiled revolving door.

The article goes on to say that Covington also represented Freddie Mac, one of the nation’s largest mortgage holders, during enforcement investigations by financial regulators. (Why would Freddie Mac, a quasi-government agency, need lawyers to represent them against Federal regulators?) The firm also represented Mortgage Electronic Registration Systems, (MERS) a company under fire in the courts for claiming to own a majority of mortgages in the US, (60 million as of 2010) and which has filed allegedly false documents in foreclosures across the country. Paltrow says that John O’Brien Jr., Registrar of Deeds for Salem, Massachusetts, sent 31,897 fraudulent foreclosure-related documents to Attorney General Holder. Nobody’s been indicted yet. 

 The story quotes Raymond Brescia, a visiting professor from Yale Law School, “I think it’s difficult to find a fraud of this size on the U.S. court system in U.S. history.”

Add to that, Presidential candidate Newt Gringrich’s employment history of working for Freddie Mac’s chief lobbyist; and we’ve got another fine mess wherein I fear the political back scratchers are trying to baffle us with bull shit yet again. Somebody’s got to sit down with a few of the boys from the $multi-billion-dollar financial lobby and find out what they’re laughing about…if not just their growing bank accounts. Maybe, just maybe, the lobbyists are telling the banksters to save their ill-gotten $billions for the day when an honest lawyer in the Justice Department goes after them for fraud and theft.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Ziggy is lying on his back in the sun, and I’m getting my voice back after some moron unleashed a cold virus on me, probably when I went to WallyWorld for dog food last week. Three fingers of tequila, two Advil, a nap and I’ll get back to writing the stories that Charles Sutton, ghost, tells me. Please go to: http://susannahmorganbooks.com/16-2

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Smoke in the murky light made it difficult to see the stage. As the drummer and the bass player walked onto the stage and took their seats, the babble stopped. The overhead lights went out. One spotlight lit the piano. Ellington walked on stage, smiled and sat down. As his fingers stroked the keyboard, his music seduced the crowd through the smoke. I drank a beer, not knowing how special it was to be sitting so close to a jazz legend. I was  very young and uncomfortable because the bass player was leering down at me, running his tongue across his big lips. I looked away, wishing I was back at my gay friend Eric’s house, lying on his rug, listening to the record. It became just another room.

Afterward, we went to the Park Plaza hotel for a party with the Duke. That room was a large suite overlooking the city. People were talking, smoking and drinking. I was standing by the window, wondering when I could leave. I didn’t know anyone, didn’t have anything to say. Some of the men stared at me. I felt like a minnow in a shark tank. Room Service brought sandwiches, cocktail sausages, coffee and sodas. I was too nervous to eat.

Kenny and his girlfriends, he always had two or three with him, went away when I was in the bathroom. Someone said he had gone to buy more booze. I sat on the couch. More people left while I waited for Kenny to come back. I went back to the bathroom and washed my face. When I came out, there was nobody there but the Duke.

He looked at me and asked me if I wanted a drink. I said no, thank you. He smiled. He sat down at the piano and began to play. “You don’t mind if I practice a little?” he asked. I sat back down on the couch and tried to smile.

He played jazz like I’d never heard it before. Then he played Chopin and Mozart. I watched rain falling past the windows and got lost in the music. I wasn’t drunk and I hadn’t smoked any of the pot that was offered. I was flown out of that room by an old man at his piano who conjured a universe of melody and peace. The walls couldn’t hold us.

When he was done, he quietly got up from the piano bench and said he would call me a cab. I thanked him and he helped me put on my coat. He smiled, kissed me on the cheek and said, “Tell Kenny thanks, but I have grand-kids older than you.”

It wasn’t until later, riding home in the cab, that I realized Kenny had set me up as the girl for the Duke to sleep with that night. I didn’t care; I was lost in the magic of that moment when the walls in a room gave way to creative genius, in a life-changing realization that I could imagine my way out of any room.

I didn’t see Kenny again until years later, after Duke Ellington died. He was walking down Yonge Street with a girl on his arm. In the sunlight, he looked old and tired; she looked like his grand-daughter. We chatted about nothing for a moment and then I walked on, wondering if the girl was as trusting and naïve as I had been. I never did get the Bohemian thing down.

Please go to http://susannahmorganbooks.com/16-2  The Novels.

Contact me: sorcererandme@gmail.com

copyright: Susannah Morgan 2010-2012. Edited from the Feb/10 blog

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When you’re tired and dreading the obligatory trip to the grocery store, they turn it into an adventure. Red peppers, new can openers or dog dishes become works of art. Check-out girls are your new best friends. Life gets better with special people around. You find yourself noticing trees and kids and signs. Colors get brighter, music has more melody, the 6 o’clock news isn’t so bad. A sunset is suddenly the glorious celebration of a wonderful day.

When they leave, it’s like the air went with them. You find yourself trying to mimic their happiness. How do they do it? Is it a question of creating one’s own universe to the exclusion of all else? Is it a state of being. Is it merely a decision to be happy and Voila! happiness prevails?

Does your heart stop breaking when you lose someone you love if you’re one of those people? Do evil and ugliness cease to exist? How can they care so deeply about so much and so many? Are they angels on a mission to show us the endless possibilities for good?

They bring out the absolute best in everyone they meet. They love in spite of all the reasons they should not. They inspire when inspiration is dead. They decorate our lives with a mirror image of all that we can be. They are magical beings hidden within the cloak of human bodies.

I want to be special too, but my Irish temper gets in the way. I don’t like banal conversation. I definitely don’t like coffee clutches or office gossip. I’ve never been a woman’s woman, shopping for hours for clothes I don’t need. I’m impatient and can be bold to the point of insult.

Wanna-be’s make my teeth hurt. Political commentators make me want to throw pudding at the TV. I want to slap men who follow their penises around. Pretty women who marry fat old men for the money and then complain incessantly, make me want to puke. Screaming kids have me conjuing images of putting their whole family in a cage. People who promise to do things and then don’t, make me feel like I’m in a bad movie.

I have to work hard at forgiveness. I yell at assholes with all the windows rolled up in the car. I eat way too much chocolate, and I still love Juan Valdez, the Columbian coffee bean guy. I could go on but you get the point; I’m just not that special.

Perhaps I’m doomed to trudge along this, apparently never-ending, path to enlightenment indefinitely; but then, perhaps I’ll try a little harder to be special in this brand new year of 2012. I’m open for suggestions on the how of it.

In the meantime, when my ghost, Charles Sutton, isn’t speaking his stories right into my mind as I write them; I’ll keeping prattling on about stuff, just for the hell of it. (Adapted from the July/11 post)

My Novels:

THE SORCERER’S CONFESSION 99c

http://amazon.com/dp/B0052MT2W8

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/62266

THE SORCERER’S PROMISE 99c

http://amazon.com/dp/B0058JKS14

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/69745

 For 99c, you can enter the world of Charles Sutton; sexy ghost, who has been and can be anything he wants, can harm or heal at his sole discretion, and travel anywhere on the planet in a heartbeat. While battling demons from his past, the dark soul that is Sutton reaches for the light.

(c) Susannah Morgan Surgeoner 2011-2012.

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The haunting melody of “Taps,” has been playing off and on in my mind since my good friend, Mr. Sims, passed away. He was the stalwart Captain of the garrison in our humble little fiefdom, a sympathetic listener, the brave champion of lesser souls, and indisputably the most handsome German shepherd in the history of the breed.

His magnificent achievements are legendary within the confines of our boarders. Contrary to the disposition of most four-leggeds, he loved and protected the cats around our place. Tales of Mr. Sims will most certainly be told around our dinner table for years to come. He is most famous for his ability to understand, “human speak,” and translate it into action. “The Night of the Rabid Dogs,” stands out in my memories of his bravery.

By day, I’m a hardworking Realtor. By night, after a nap, I am a writer working on my 3rd novel. I usually finish pounding at my keyboard by 2:00 AM, when Monty, Sims and I go for a walk along our quiet country road under the huge Nevada sky.

Monty Piethon is a chubby yellow Lab with a gentle soul and an outrageous sense of humor. Although he is utterly neurotic on the subject of food, being that he was the runt of a littler of eight who had to fight for his supper from birth, when well fed, his antics bring smiles to everyone he meets. On our walks, Monty and I play ball down the road while Mr. Sims fades into the night on coyote search and destroy missions. Truthfully, Sims never caught a coyote but he reveled in the chase.

One starless night, just as I’d managed a stupendously long pitch of our florescent green tennis ball and Monty was dashing down the road to fetch it; a pack of a dozen dogs rushed toward us from the end of the block, screeching like the hounds of hell. Monty stopped in his tracks and wagged his tail furiously, thinking no doubt, that he was about to meet new friends. Monty thinks the whole world was designed as his personal playground.

The pack approached, growling and barking. I ran up to Monty’s side, yelling at them to go home. Four of them turned on me with snapping teeth. The only weapon I had was a large flashlight. I whistled for Sims.

Within seconds, out of the inky black night, like he’d been conjured out of the air, Mr. Sims simply appeared. One hundred and seventeen pounds of black and tan growling rage stood between Monty, me, and the snarling pack. Fangs barred, hair on end, ears back, like an apparition of roaring testosterone and bulging muscle, Mr. Sims dared them all to make his day.

The pack stopped dead and then turned tail and ran. Monty, finally catching onto the fact that he and I had been in danger, began to mimic Mr. Sims by yelping away at the retreating dogs. Mr. Sims looked over at Monty with a big sigh, before turning to me with his one of his peculiar smiles. It was as if he’d said, “This boy just won’t hunt.”

I sat down, right there in the middle of that deserted road, put my arms around him and hugged him until he’d had enough. Mr. Sims wasn’t much for hugging, being the macho man that he was, he preferred having his head stroked, but once in a while he would submit to my feminine need for close contact.

The three of us turned homeward, Mr. Sims on guard at my side, Monty sniffing ahead with his usual carefree abandon. I learned later that the pack of dogs had been terrorizing the neighborhood off and on for a month, but that was our only encounter. I suppose Animal Control officers have long since rounded them up.

The question of life after death is explored in every religion. Some have decreed that Fur People, as I see my companions from the animal world, have no souls. I disagree wholeheartedly with that notion. During our time together, a multitude of emotions played across the face of Mr. Sims; joy, exuberance, worry, concern, adoration, and a very few times when he done something silly, like knock over a potted plant with his massive feet, shame.

He always knew my emotional state. He would gently place his head on my knees when I wept and stare up at me with sympathetic amber eyes; or joyfully dance around the house with me when I was happy. He was a better friend with a bigger heart than most humans I’ve known. I like to think of Mr. Sims roaming the desert along side the ghosts of Indian warriors who ride their ponies through the pre-dawn mist. Or, just maybe, Charles Sutton, the ghost whose stories I write, has adopted Mr. Sims and the two of them are having glorious adventures together.

Fare thee well my friend.

Please go up to the bottom left of the picture above and click on “Novels.”

contact me: sorcererandme@gmail.com

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Charles Sutton is the epitome of the perfect man. He’s the ghost whose stories I’ve been writing while I munch chocolate and drink wine. Some nights his words flow right into my mind. That particular night, we’re exploring sex, love and war. I try not to look over at the chair, and keep typing away at my keyboard. If he becomes solid, I’ll probably have a heart attack.

On sex, he says, “The act itself is desired for the sensation, much better than a good meal, but when it’s done; it’s gone.”

I ask, “What about love?”

He replies, “Well, that’s a horse of an entirely superior breed. Love is a flowing thing, an energy that resolves a myriad of mortal concerns. Like a spray cleaner, it simply dissolves negatives when used correctly. Most humans think of love as a feeling they have in the heart area. Not so. If people were to study that feeling, intend it to flow outward toward others, they would experience love as an energy flow. It is the universal solvent.”

“Then why do we have wars?” I wonder.

He laughs, “Because mortals have been carefully schooled over a millennia to oppose, rather than resolve, differing points of view.”

I think about the demons in his stories with whom he’s done battle, the humans that he’s destroyed and the fact that he’s said that he can harm or heal at his sole discretion.

“Yes,” he replies to my thoughts,  “Shakespeare had a point:

‘Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing, end them.’” 

“So, you’re saying that love doesn’t really conquer all?” I ask.

“No, I’m saying that humans, as a species, have not yet realized that there is no need for war; that love as an energy flow, could and would dissolve all harmful intent. It’s a question of evolution. For example, if you’re standing in the street when a hulking thug comes at you with an axe, and you’ve not learned to use love to dissolve his false intent; you’ll either have to run, or kill.”

“How exactly does one develop this ability?” I ask, and chance at look at him. He smiles at me and leans forward, almost touching me. I take a deep breath.

He replies, “That would depend on a person’s outlook. If you think you are your body and not merely occupying it for a limited time, the concept of managing energy flows may be unattainable until after death. If, on the other hand, you know that mind and body are all created by energy, that we live in a sea of energy, the task is not so difficult. Why not go back to the first book, my confession, the part where Mao Kee taught me how to be anything I want. Do those exercises with the rock, the tree and the flower.”

He vanished.

I opened my eyes.

For more Sutton, please go to the top of the page, bottom left corner of the picture, and click on  “The Novels.”

contact me: sorcererandme@gmail.com

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I can smell my home made chicken soup simmering in the kitchen. I know; it’s the long hot summer in the desert, but the nights are coming with a bit of a chill now, and soup is quick and easy fuel for writing.

Charles Sutton, the ghost in my novels, seems to whisper thoughts straight into my mind. My fingers barely keep up. In the light of morning, I may trade parts of this strange reality for something less weird, but maybe I won’t.

In reviewing the first of my two books for the sake of continuity, wherein Sutton struggled with intermittent bouts of insanity, I came across this:

“Floating on the waves in the sunlight, I heard the haunting strains of a piano flowing from the open windows of a little white building on the shore. It was Palermo, Sicily. I followed the music and entered a large, white room to see a young man playing a grand piano in time to a recording.

The only furniture was a crude wooden table, a chair and the piano. There were windows on three sides, all open to the sight and smell of the sea. One brilliant mandarin red rose stood majestically in a crystal goblet on the piano. The pianist was playing with his eyes closed, completely absorbed in Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto Number 2.

I leaned against a wall, captured by that music. Rachmaninoff portrayed my life in his notes. I wept.

His concerto described the blackest pits of despair and the quiet solace of sunshine above the clouds. It galloped on horseback with exuberant young men through forests of  the tallest pines, whispered the bewitching pangs of first love, and cried out the visceral pain of love lost. It twittered with the seductive curiosity of innocence and moaned the tired desperation of old age, until finally, it played my madness in all its suffocating defeat. Then, gently and with great tenderness, it brought me back to the purest clarity of my true self. Rachmaninof  saved my soul that summer day in Palermo.” Charles Sutton, ghost, THE SORCERER’S CONFESSION.

When I’m stymied or mentally clogged with the seemingly endless barrage of useless information that is daily life, I listen to the classics, let my imagination loose and float away for a while. When I’m driving, I like country music because I don’t have to think about it. I love rock and roll, Bob Dylan, Pink Floyd, U2, Blue October, and the list goes on when I’m cleaning the house, partying, or wanting a lift.

And finally, there’s the beautiful silence of the early morning hours when even a thought is too loud. The birds are asleep and the only movement comes from the dogs and me, trudging along our little country road under the big stary sky of Southern Nevada.

Shit! The soup is burning…

1st book in the series:  THE  SORCERER’S CONFESSION: 99c   http://www.smashwords.com/view/books/62266

Download to all E-readers, computers and Kindle.

2nd book in the series: THE SORCERER’S PROMISE: 99c http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/69745

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I guess the message was washed out in the rain last week while he’s been housebound. Mr. Sims has not been up to snuff. He’s getting medication in lean ground beef twice a day. A few more days and we’ll be running down the road again; me feeling small, but tremendously alive under our big Southern sky, and Sims on his search and destroy mission to eradicate coyotes. He hasn’t killed one yet. They seem to have sixth sense that tells them exactly when we go out and they disappear.

Weird things happen in the Nevada desert in the early morning hours. If you’re the least bit sensitive, intuitive or even flat-out psychic, you can feel the energy of past Indian warriors riding bare-back around the place. I’ve had nights when I’ve heard drums in the breeze and seen vanishing horses gallop through the mist. But then, what do you expect from a gal who writes stories as told to her by a ghost?

The UFO set  camps out in the desert to watch for spaceships on clear nights. Maybe they see things. The rare crunchy granola type  tries to get past the almighty security at the Nevada Test Site, where Area 51 is located, in hopes of finding aliens. An acquaintance told me last week that there’s a growing number of paranormal experiences being had in the area. God knows how they tabulate weird and wonderful over delusional; I didn’t ask.  

However, I do know a woman who has some kind of vortex on her land. There’s a strange force coming up through the floor in one of her buildings. I felt it coursing through me like an energy hose. No “Eureka,” moment or healing miracle occurred when I stood there, just a strong force that threatened to lift me off the ground. Perhaps I’m beyond help.

While I’m sure a scientist could explain the phenomenon, I wrote it up and put it in one of my Psychic Research files. Some day I’ll dig it out as a wonderful premise for a scene in a novel.

Until recently, I’d been spending my nights sipping a good French Bordeaux and nibbling dark chocolate, with Mr. Sims at my feet, and a cat beside the keyboard, while fleshing out a brand new character for a detective series. And then, my old friend, Charles Sutton, ghost, appeared.

After writing  THE SORCERER’S CONFESSION and THE SORCERER’S PROMISE, wherein Sutton is the marvelously talented, and sexy ghost of the sorcerer we love to forgive, I felt that I needed a break. Writing from the viewpoint of a ghost can be a mind-bending experience; not to mention the amount of research involved.

At the risk of having you discover that I’m more than a little crazy, I heard his cultured English voice speaking right into my mind. It seems that Sutton has decided to be my psychic detective. The idea’s still rattling around in my head while I learn police procedure from the head of detectives at the Sheriff’s Office. My real life detective loves the idea of a ghost like Sutton assisting him. He’s reading the novels now.

There are many writers who develop characters and find themselves unable to let go. When one writes in the first person, as I do, you can’t help becoming the character. Actors have similar difficulties. Getting out of a character that you love is challenging, to say the least. Doesn’t look like I’m going to make it out for at least one more novel.

Currently, there a couple of Hollywood people looking to make a film of my 2 novels. I’ll let you know if anything comes of it…

Following in the footsteps of some very successful writers, I’m selling my novels as EBooks for 99c. You can get both books on Kindle or as below:

THE SORCERER’S CONFESSION at 99c: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/62266.

THE SORCERER’S PROMISE at 99c: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/69745 

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When the hole

Left by your leaving

Shows itself again.

No longer deep black,

It has a filmy opalescence,

 Flickering like candlelight

Through a crystal glass

Just beyond

My tightly fitted shroud of grief.

 A doorway to another world

Opens briefly

To a Fairie gathering,

Beside a lantern lighted lake

Amidst perfumed flowers

 And ancient knaggy trees,

Filled with joyful laughter

Under your beloved

Full and happy moon.

We both know that

I can’t walk through just yet.

The tears still come

Unannounced, unwanted,

Stains on the happy times.

But then, I hear your laughter

In the breeze

And for just a moment,

Just a blink in time,

I see you smiling

From beyond

My humanness.

copyright 2010 Susannah Morgan 

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The tunnels and the dirty rooms

Where the blood on the sheets has dried,

In stained tribute to a child’s pain,

 Sold, to eat for one more day;

 Where the not quite dead are slowly dying,

As sickness drains them dry,

Where screams are lost in the fury of the wind,

And souls are bound in a bottomless void.

He tells them, “Come with me.

I will show you how to make a world

Where you reign King Supreme.

Where you’ll be safe from all the stalkers

And the perverts with their whips and chains.”

And so, the children eat and drink,

 And swim and laugh, and fight,

And tell their tales in paint,

And video and words.

While we outsiders read and watch

And can not understand,

He sits beside the few that die,

And pays the doctors for the pills 

That keep the rest of them alive.

 copyright 2010, 2011, Susannah Morgan

for Tim Barrus who has saved more kids then anyone knows.

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What about today? What about tomorrow? No answer. Asshole.

While waiting for her to wake up after the surgery, I day dreamed a new reality, a brighter, bigger stage for her to live on.  The pain would be a minor player. The horror, subdued in violet and pink-painted sets, would have no voice.

 The actors would ask the questions: Do I have a body or does it have me? When I die is that it; pitch black forever, no thought, no feeling, no sight, no sound, the end of me? Would an eternity asleep be a relief, or would I get bored? What beliefs do I allow into my reality? Do I include poetry, Picasso, pornography, sex, junk food, Bourbon, a cat, a dog? Who judges me at the end? Is it a court of high appeal run by super angels waiting in the wings? Is there a mighty Creator of all things,  hovering under the  lights, who understands everything? Or, is there a piece of God in every one of us and we live forever?

And then Sam would come center stage, smile her perfect smile, and give the answers. The applause would be deafening.

She woke up, looked at me and said, “It’s not time to die yet.”

Written for Samantha and Tristan who showed us that joy can rise above pain. They’re both gone now but are forever a part of the lives they touched.  Tim Barrus and I sat in different chairs continents apart, he beside Tristan, me beside Sam, holding fast to those brief moments of joy. 

copyright: (c)  2010-2011 Susannah Morgan

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Or finishing the yards of paperwork

On the table by the door,

But I’m missing you today.

True, a little less than last year,

But still, I hold the tears at bay

Inside the empty space that once held fear,

And urgent hope that you’d get well.

Most of all, I want you here.

I want more talks at dinner or beside the fire,

More hugs, more kisses,

More laughter, more jokes at who was higher;  

You with your medical pot,

And me with my French wine,

Arguing over what it was, what it was not.

And then, outside my mind beyond my walls,

I see you dancing in the wind,

Showing me how the dead are not the ones who fall,

That we are forever, you and I,

Always laughing, always free,

I hear your whisper in my mind, “ It’s impossible to really die.”

copyright (c) Susannah Morgan March 14, 2010, 2011. 

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It’s been a strange couple of weeks. Osama bin Laden’s protegee, now called The Underwear Bomber, gets caught on Christmas day trying to blow up a plane with explosives in his shorts. President Obama is MIA for 72 hours, letting his staffers who are handling the incident make him look like an idiot, before he gets his butt on TV and comments. Pelosi and Reid are locked in a room designing a health care Bill that will affect all of us, refusing to go public, even though other elected officials, Democrats and Republican alike, are getting ready to break down the door. It’s been so cold in parts of the country that Al Gore is being ridiculed by both environmentalists and conservatives. Brit  Hume, usually a low key newsman, goes rabid and tells Tiger Woods on national television to convert from Buddhism to Christianity to get saved.

On the home front, I find that  two of the top selling real estate agents in my office are now promoting a multi-level marketing plan of green products because they’re worried they won’t be able to retire this century. I discovered that my boss isn’t paying the company phone and internet bills on time and the guy that fixes the copy machine won’t come back.

Not to mention that I adopted a little dog who’s decided that she owns everything chewable in the house, or that the horse went walk-about the other day to visit a mare a mile away, and my 110 pound German Shepherd almost got through the fence to eat the guy next door.

Having said all that, I feel like a spoiled brat when I read about my new friend in China daring to post on facebook even though it could land her in jail, or how a writer friend has to wash everything in his house with beach over and over because he’s taken in boys with Aids who haven’t got any immunity to flu or colds.

As the saying goes, life is what you make it. I don’t think I’m making mine very well right now. My outside doesn’t match my inside, as above is not as below. Whatever Zen I had going is gone.

I have this  little sign. It says, ”I can handle 38 assholes a month. DO NOT be the 39th!” Bowing to my potential for spiritual enlightenment, I withhold my temper until I get to 39 each month. Well, due to Christmas and New Years, I only had about 20 assholes in my life last month and I haven’t got more than 4 this month so far. There’s nobody to yell at except myself.

Do you ever getting that feeling that something’s about to give? Knowing that things I write have about as much influence as a mouse fart in a hurricane, I’m writing this for myself. I feel better now. If you’re reading, I commend your bravery.

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I went into the office today, Sunday, thinking to get some letters written and emails answered. One of my associates was there with her husband.

The husband is a chubby, 5o something retired accountant with too much money and a talent for turning rapier wit and gay repartee into a boorish mess. What can I expect from a guy who refuses to read books but only listens to them on audio? There’s something queer about that. I gave up trying to have a conversation with him about a year ago.

There I was, immersed in an important reply to a client when the husband, obviously bored waiting for his wife, toddles over to me and says, “You’re looking old today. Don’t wrinkle your forhead like that.”

I know women who would have thrown something at him! I’ ve also met women who would stand up and deck the guy. I told him to go away. He stood there for a moment while I ignored him and kept on bashing away at my keyboard and then he waddled off.

I was feeling a little guilty for being rude until I remembered the office Christams party. He’d come up to me and said, ”I bet you were gorgeous when you were younger.” I replied, ”Thanks a LOT.” He said, “Oh, you’re not so bad now.” 

Tonight, thinking about the incident, I remember that he’d had heart trouble and 4 stints put in his artieries several months back. I’ve had a bit of personal experience with men and their heart problems. One I know completely changed personalities after a triple bypass and still is not the same man I knew for decades. He became angry and insulting, prone to rants about everything, when before the surgery he was kind and understanding.

My father had a pretty blond girlfriend who was vivacious, always up for an adventure, and looked twenty years younger than her age. I saw her a year after she had a heart attack. She’d become snotty, rude and very wrinkled. My father was in the hosptial dying at the time. He finally told her not to visit anymore. He told me, “I can’t handle insults with the injury.”

I guess the point I’m making here is that I must remind myself to be more understanding. Human beings are a complex species. One never really knows the source of an insult. The husband of my associate may have lost some brain power before the surgeons re-opened his arteries. Perhaps his close call with death made him bitter. Perhaps he became impotent and I’m not the only woman he needs to denegrate.

But then, maybe he’s always been an asshole and she married him for his money. There’s just no telling what changes people or what experiences form their outlook on life. I wish I could read minds.

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We see our elected officials repeating a history that didn’t work. We gripe and complain and maybe write them a letter. Nothing happens; they carry on regardless.

It’s like throwing spaghetti against the wall to see if it’s done. If it sticks; it’s done…an old crazy idea that actually works. I tell my daughters, when I’m trying to give advice they didn’t ask for, that I’m just doing my Mommy Job, throwing spaghetti against their wall. Maybe it sticks, maybe not.

It’s advice without consent.

Sunday phone calls to my mother used to be a ritual. She rarely offered advice. I got to hear about her life for the past week and always felt sorry that she had so little to amuse herself, so little excitement. Mom always seemed to be floating past most of the dire episodes in the lives of our family members, making vague comments, and noticing very little along the way.

I believe that  many of us are born on planet earth, live our lives out of forgotten purposes, and are never truly awake in the present moment. There’s a scene in the film, “Joe and the Volcano,” where Lloyd Bridges tells Tom Hanks that most people are not awake, that  they’re sleep-walking through life, and therefore it’s easy to run circles around them.

When Mom was dying of cancer, I stayed with her for her final 6 weeks. Every night she’d wake up about 3:00 AM for another morphine shot.

I slept in the same bed with her, my hand in hers, so that when she couldn’t handle the pain she’d squeeze my hand, wake me, and I would inject her medicine into a port in her chest. An experienced RN trained me to do this.

We treated Mom’s early morning wake up calls like a reason to have a tea party. I made the tea, sat on the floor by her bed and we talked. One such morning, this sweet little lady who had never discussed anything remotely resembling  philosophy, blew my mind. She said that she felt like a character in a novel, a prisoner waiting to be executed, who’d made mistakes that could not be remedied.

She and I talked about the possibility of reincarnation and that she might have another life in the offing.

She told me that if she got a chance at a new life, she’d be sure to be awake, to live each day to the fullest and have no regrets. It was her way of telling me that there does come a time when it’s too late to change anything.

Years later, I discovered that I’d been half asleep, lost in the illusion of living, like the star of my own soap opera who had missed the point of the whole thing.

I thought about Mom this morning. Grinding coffee beans, and still partially immersed in the fog of sleep, I imagined her smiling at me.

My kids are busy living their lives. My Ex is rattling around in the old house, building walls and tearing out the bathroom. I’m alone in my own little  house with an assortment of fur people; two dogs, 2 cats and a horse, enjoying the solitude, taking stock of my past decade.

I’m currently not having any great epiphanies or ”Eureka!” moments, just happily looking into to a universe of possibilties. 

For the umpteenth time, I resolve not to proffer advice to anyone who doesn’t ask for it. Instead, I decide to seek advice from those who know more than I do.  There must be multitudes!

(c) copyright Susannah Morgan 2010, 2011.

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Probably the most successful PR campaign of our time was David Axelrod’s campaign to get Barrack Obama elected to the United States Presidency. Apparently, the Chicago political machine decided it wanted the White House. A candidate was chosen. He had to look good, be able to talk and be appealing to masses of young voters. Enter Barrack Obama, a green Senator with only a short time in public office, with virtually no business experience, but who had charm, wit and a law degree.

It was brilliant. Rock bands were hired to perform free concerts. In Germany, one of Europe’s top names performed a free concert just before Obama spoke. Thousands turned out for the concert and then listened to what the man had to say. In the US, Springsteen tickets run $100s. He was free for Obama. The country was ripe for change after President  Bush’s fiasco with the missing weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.  That snafu set the stage for a Democratic Party takeover.

David Axelrod has been plotting campaigns for Democrat politicians since 1985. His offices in Chicago held a second private company called ASK Public Strategies that specializes in campaigns to  bend public opinion for the good of corporations. Axelrod is famous for a technique called “Astroturfing,” wherein front groups are formed to do protests or rallies in favor of whatever the PR firm wants. The client pays.

If  there is a fight to eliminate dogs from city parks and Axelrod’s firm is in charge, be sure there will be a, “Citizens Against Barking Dogs,” group formed to protest loudly on the steps of City Hall. ACORN was ready made for the Obama campaign. They had thousands of employees and volunteers across the country. The unions joined onto the PR wave. Front Groups abounded across the country for Obama. (Note: After his stint in the Whitehouse, Mr. Axelrod is back in the private sector designing the 2012 Obama campaign.)

Axelrod had media connections going back decades that were outside the  political arena.  The message formulated by Axelrod et al was “Change and Hope.” “Yes we can,” became a battle cry across the nation. It was  like Woodstock on steroids. Yes we can What? never came up. The Republicans were campaigning in the tired old 1990′s style and had no traction against Axelrod’s PR machine. Maybe they’ve learned their lesson.

So, here’s the formula:

1. Define your goal.

2. Do thorough surveys of public opinion on the subject. Get their “button words,”

3. Concoct your message to push those buttons.

4. Select a candidate or spokesperson to deliver your message.

5. Enlist every press and media contact possible to support your campaign. 

Now comes the interesting part, how to manipulate the press and media for coverage. A good press release needs 4 things  1.) A controversy, 2.) Big names, 3.) money, and 4.) it must put someone in the spotlight who is being attacked. (Note: not really necessary, but sex will send it viral.) Politics is a ripe field for all items.

6. Once you have the media on your side, give the public what it wants and that’s usually something for nothing. Free rock concerts did the job in Axelrod’s campaign.

There’s a pretty strong caveat in the PR world; Don’t tell lies; tell an acceptable truth. Lies are mine fields, sooner or later one of them will blow up. In this case, ACORN was a mine waiting to go off and it did.

Now, and only in my opinion, Axelrod’s PR machine for President Obama is showing wear and tear. He apparently keeps throwing his ex-client, now President, back to campaign rhetoric when what the country wants is the appearance of an adult running things. The stimulus hasn’t worked, maybe it still will, Bills are getting passed that aren’t being read and hundreds of $billions of taxpayer money has gone down the drain in bail-outs. Jobs are still being lost and the economy is not rebounding.

Like that old commercial, “Where’s the Beef?” people are now asking, “Where’s the Change?” The carefully constructed talking points that are emailed every morning to supporters across the country are no longer carrying the day. That goes for both Republicans and Democrats. It seems to be politics as usual in Washington–all about what’s going on in the Beltway, not about what’s happening in our world.

The next time you read an article, try and look behind the words for the agenda it represents. What is the author trying to get you to believe? For myself, I don’t care what your politics are. I do care that you know when someone is trying to bend your mind.

 (c) copyright Susannah Morgan Dec 3, 2009, 2011.

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An hour later, she heard a crashing sound through the open kitchen window situated just above her best red rose bush. She smiled and continued her pruning, putting long stemmed blooms into the wicker basket at her feet. She filled the basket and carted the refuse to the compost heap at the far end of the garden before she returned to her kitchen. Old Joe was lying on the floor, mouth agape, his skin a pale blue. Ethel kicked him a few times to make sure he’d actually died before she called the police.

Joe’s demise  was ruled a natural death by the coroner.  The family doctor signed the death certificate, noting the long history of allergies, heart trouble and the fact of Joe being a smoker. Ethel wept copious tears at the funeral and looked suitably depressed at the reception afterward. A few weeks later,  she was found “recuperating from her great loss,” on a beach in Bermuda, thanks to Joe’s insurance policy.

A few months earlier, Ethel had gone into the Smoke Shop on the corner to buy Joe his weekly carton where she’d overheard a conversation about the label FSC on cigarettes. She listened as the talkers discussed the new government mandate to make Fire Safe Cigarettes and how the tobacco manufacturers were putting a plastic compound called ethylene vinyl acetate into cigarette papers to make them go out when not being smoked. At home that evening, while Joe was watching Dancing with the Stars, Ethel googled ethylene vinyl acetate and found that it caused breathing problems. It was afterall, plastic being burned and inhaled by smokers. 

Joe had allergies to latex gloves and a myriad of other things. It had become a full time care-giver job looking after him since he’d stopped working for medical reasons. He always said that if he was going out, he would go out doing what he wanted. He wanted to smoke a pack a day and she wanted him gone, so she kept buying his FSC cigarettes with the plastic in the papers, waiting for the day she’d be free.

My Take:

If you smoke, look on your cigarette package, usually  just above the bar code. If you see the label, FSC, you are smoking cigarettes with plastic in the papers.

Thanks to a 3 year campaign by a Front group called The Coalition for Fire Safe Cigarettes, organized under the National  Fire Protection Association, we now have laws that mandate  fire retardants be put into cigarette papers. The statistics that provoked this insanity are 900 deaths a year from people who died from fires caused by smoking. Nobody  bothered to find out how many of those 900 smokers who caused fires were drunk or under the influence of drugs.

According to Arkema Canada Inc., a manufacturer of  adhesives that uses ethylene vinyl acetate in their process, their handlers of the chemical should, “wash before eating, drinking, using tobacco products or washrooms. Handlers should use safety goggles and impervious gloves and wear a self-contained breathing apparatus. 

Thousands of smokers are now complaining of soar throats, coughs, lumps, digestive problems and eye problems. Don’t bother telling me about all the other chemicals in cigarettes. Go live in Mexico City where the air gives you the same contaminants as 3 packs a day…tell me why everybody there isn’t dead.

copyright: SusannahMorgan 2009

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That Cap and Trade Bill enforces energy conservation through EPA retrofitting mandates on pretty much every building in the country. If you want to sell your house, you’ll have to have a label that says it meets EPA standards. But don’t worry, be happy; thousands of folks will be hired and trained as energy experts to come out to your homes and investigate whether or not your doggy doors leak heat or cold air. It’s the Green Jobs army! They’ll probably be putting big black Xs on doors of non-compliant houses.

I can see it now. I’m in jail, no make-up, wearing orange–I look like I have leprosy in orange; a big tattooed biker gal comes up to me and hisses,” Whatchoo  info?”

Tightening my sphincter, I reply, “No health care.” 

She glares at me  for a moment before returning to her homies who are bigger with more tattoos. That’s when it hits me that the warden has not segregated murderers and child molesters from us no-health-care criminals. I go back to my laptop, which the powers that be have mercifully let me keep, and beg my kids to send peanut butter cookies. That’s about the height of my visualization process because I’ve lost my house trying to pay my legal bills. I couldn’t have sold it anyway because the EPA mandated retrofit cost too much and I wasn’t poor enough at the time to qualify for the government subsidy. My fur people, 2 dogs and 2 cats are in foster care with friends and neighbors.

Meanwhile, I’ll be getting 3 squares a day and a free room while you’ll be looking for a job–any job. Small businesses provide up to 60% of the jobs in this country. New payroll taxes, mandated energy retrofits, and new rules to provide health care to employees will sink thousands of business. “Trailer for sale or rent. Rooms to let 50 cents.”

For God’s sake all you 1 and 2 line posters out there, say something to your elected officials!

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So here I am about to turn 12 again. My astrological sign, Scorpio, puts me right in the middle of a widely misunderstood group. According to astrologists, we’re either Machiavellian or too good to be true,  psychic or manipulating, flying like eagles or turkeys on the ground. I do know that we’re loyal to a fault and warriors at heart. On the warrior point, I’m in excellent company with, “Old Blood and Guts,” General George Patton.

The 250 year old ghost/sorcerer that I’m spending my nights writing about is pleased about the association with Patton because the General believed in past lives. On the too good to be true side, I’m a glass-half-full-gal when my solid Irish temper doesn’t get in the way. But what the hell fellow Scorpios, we’re human and emotions are what we have, right?

In researching my first novel I had days when I felt tremendously inadequate as a human being. I was an abject failure at reaching that lofty perch sought by so many slogging away on their personal path to enlightenment—Serenity. Apparently, the enlightened are not allowed anger. But then as a friend and real healer told me, you can’t heal if you’re on the same emotional level as the sick and dying. I guess that lets me out as a budding healer until I erase anger or grief as a response to anything.

The folks that I’ve  met in search of enlightenment in India and in the West are very serious about their quest. Gurus espounding everything from 5 hours a day in a sauna to de-tox to 5 hours daily meditation to connect with your higher self are all over the place. Past life regression to rid oneself  of old wounds is a fact in many circles. It’ all about the way you envision your life, say some. No, it must be the affirmations you’re using that are wrong, say others. I will make sure you’re on the road to heaven, say some church leaders. What ever happened to, “Carpe Diem,” for God’s sake?

We’ve only got today. Yesterday’s a memory and tomorrow’s not here yet.  I’m in my rubber room, writing this to you, whoever you are, thinking that I’m missing some excellent weather outside. My daughter’s horse in my back yard is calling to his friends across the road and I’ve got an excellent  bottle of wine ready for opening. On my birthday I intend to count my blessings…it’s a long list…and put some concealer on my face to hide the wrinkles that argue my idea of  being twelve. My motto: It’s all a matter of mind over matter; no mind, it doesn’t matter. I’ll keep on believing what I want. Check out susannahmorganbooks.com for my novel.

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As the weather turns colder on my little patch of desert land and the flies die out for the year, I’m turning my attention to other bugs. Take those people who think four letter words are a crime against God and Country when they’re really only a vague insult to the English Language. Do you know anyone, anyone at all who doesn’t swear sometimes? Do the profanity censors at google really think we’re going to not read Rolling Stone because a writer said, ”fuck?”  I got an email last week from a friend who forwarded me an  article on the banking industry from Rolling Stone. It was announced with great fanfare by google telling me that there was profanity in the email. So, I’m supposed to shut my eyes and punch delete? 

My Grandmother once told me that knowing when to say the word and get away with it was a mark of true breeding. I kid you not. She was 89 years old at the time, one of the last Great Ladies, with bloodlines going back centuries, who went to school with major department store owners and skied with Tolstoi. Her father, a drunken Irishman, married her mother for money and then used it to try and corner the grain market while his wife and daughters were on the obligatory 2 year world tour. Some of the money made it down a couple of generations but I was born with silver spoon in my mouth that somebody pawned.

It’s my understanding that the word has been around since the 16th century Holland where it was falsely attributed to Latin to prevent the higherarchy of the Catholic Church from penalizing those who used it.  Keep in mind that 500 years ago, the Catholic Church pretty much controlled Europe and one could be flogged or jailed for having sex outside of marriage. Over time, the word has been used to vent frustration, anger, disagreement or for just plain fun. In Hollywood circles, it’s a punctuation mark. It’s one of the first words a kid learns not to say in front of parents.

So, to all the illiterate pantywaists out there who want to return us to the 16th century, put political correctness above facts, who re-write dictionaries and re-define words to their own standards, it’s my party and I’ll swear if I want to!

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