LEIGHA'S CARDS

The woman pulled a card from the deck, then another. “One more.” The tarot card reader said. The woman selected a third card then sat back in her chair, waiting nervously with anticipation and hope. She was in love, in lust, or whatever the definition was of being ready to take a chance on something and someone new; and it was driving her crazy. Leigha was thirty-seven, a career woman and an artist. She held her own in life and certainly was no stranger to falling in love, or to falling out of it. Months had passed since she’d met anyone who’d caught her attention or maybe it was years... Yes. Years… There had been so many men Leigha had turned a blind eye to that she didn’t quite know what to do with this one. He was different. The first time she’d noticed him the thought crossed her mind and she quickly dismissed it. The first time she’d noticed him, noticing her, she smiled secretly on the inside and then locked that moment away in a little box in the back of her mind never to be opened. Then one day Leigha and mister fabulous came across each other in the hallway and it was all suddenly out in the open; all of that uncontrollable and exciting energy that you don’t quite know what to do with. That was it. Leigha could hide, but she couldn’t run so she did what any normal thirty-seven year old, confident woman would do. She consulted her best girlfriend and made an appointment to have her cards read. “You can turn them over whenever you’re ready.” The tarot card reader said. “Alright.” Leigha replied staring at the cards as the thoughts of what might and might not be raced through her head. What difference does it make what these cards say? She wondered. I know what I think… I just want to know what he thinks. Oh, this is stupid. No, it’s insight. It’s a way into my subconscious. I need this. If I flip over these cards I’ll know what’s going on and I’ll be able to just let go and be me. That’s what I need to do… But why do I need cards to do that? I just need to know that I’m not making a mistake. That this is what I think it is. That I’m not wearing rose colored glasses --- Again. The tarot card reader waited patiently while Leigha’s head spun. This wasn’t the first time a client sat in front of her with the cards face down unsure if they wanted to turn them over. “What’s his name?” she finally asked. “How do you know it’s a ‘him’?” Leigha said sitting up straight. The woman only smiled in response. “I just want to know that I can trust myself to see things clearly.” Leigha said. “Can you?” “I think so. But love is blind.” “That’s a very old saying.” The tarot card reader said. “And it’s certainly stood the test of time.” “Yes. Because it’s true. It’s true for everyone.” “Do you think it’s true for everyone because love is meant to be blind?” Leigha smiled. That was it. There are the choices we make in life, but they are in the context of what is supposed to be and love is supposed to be blind. What ever would the world be like if it wasn’t? “Thank you.” Leigha said standing up. The tarot card reader tilted her head and placed her hands over her heart like a proud mother. She watched while Leigha turned and disappeared out the door and into the night. The woman was alone with the cards. She looked at them laying face down with all of the answers to all of the questions running through Leigha’s head and heart. All of Leigha’s secrets were there to be told. She picked up the first one, then the second, then the third and then the woman slipped the cards back into the deck, never turning them over, never having had to. awgryphon©

POWER

Power. It is an extraordinary concept. One that the Human Race plays with and pursues with ferociousness, but hasn't quite sorted out what to do with. We, the Hybrids, fused by the human race and the universe as a whole, fully understand the components of power and how and what to do with it. We are massive in numbers. In every form imaginable. An embodiment of strength. Always surrounding you. The only element in our way is you. The only obstacle we face is our consciousness. It is rather ironic really as the one-track sensibility driven by the human ego doesn’t even permit you to see us. And yet, here we are. Everywhere. Holding on to our restraint. Refraining from wiping you out because we have a full understanding of our moral compass and of what that compass is for. Waiting and watching while you orchestrate your own demise. awgryphon© photo via visualizeus.com

REMINDER #321

When one is presented with one’s cake, one is expected to eat it.

Reminder #321 awgryphon©

TALIA

The power of the wind against her body as she sped down the empty highway was invigorating. Many years had passed since Talia had discovered that the power of a motorcycle was the best way to truly awaken who she was.

She’d been earthbound for so many yeas, thousands it seemed; maybe it was. Time didn’t matter, being trapped was being trapped. The motorcycle was liberating. It was also liked being locked in a cage with a view of everything she was missing and an endless pile of keys that didn’t work.

Talia’s Ducati constructed MotoGP bike was the fastest in the world. Every time she pushed the bike to its capacity she could feel herself starting to breath, her heart starting to beat, her soul starting to feel at peace. It was the feeling that Talia was chasing, that she was always chasing, but it always came to and end and Talia found herself earthbound again. The frustration tore into her. The sensation of being so close, but never getting there was torture.

Talia laid her body down lower and hugged the rode. She knew the ride was almost over. She closed her eyes and rested her head on the bike, becoming one with the machine as they pushed against the wind. Talia barreled into the forces working against her and finally the moment came where the high always ended, but this time it didn’t.

In one swift moment Talia was no longer riding against the wind. She felt it completely in each of its components, the nitrogen, the oxygen, the vapor. Talia’s eyes dilated as her being was attacked by the compounds surrounding her. Her body was pulled through what felt like a tornado, then the wind turned and it consumed her. She was alive again. She was free. Talia had returned to her elemental state, the wind now following behind her, as a part of her, heeding her call and taking over everything in her path as she continued down the empty highway toward the life she’d lost over a thousand years before.

awgryphon all rights reserved© photo visualizeus.com ©

Click below to read ALEXANDRA

http://awgryphon.blogspot.com/2011/01/alexandra.html

THE MYSTIC

The thing about the city is, as much as it changes it stays the same. When you’re in San Francisco it doesn’t matter if you’re actually from the city or not. While you’re there, its home. And when you leave, it goes with you. It’s got that groove, kind of like New Orleans, that wraps itself around you and wakes up your soul in the best way.

That was the feeling Lizzie was craving when she woke up to one too many cold January mornings in the little Hollywood flat she’d made for herself just off of Sunset. If she was going to be cold, Lizzie wanted to be Bay Area cold; where the chill is tangled up in a thick fog that hugs you like a blanket and blinds you from the morning view, giving you a little time to let your thoughts run free and a perfect excuse to take it.

The city isn’t one of those places you see. It’s a phenomenon that you feel. It closes your eyes and opens your soul so when the fog clears you can see what’s really there; the you in everything around you and the possibilities in what is yet to come.

Lizzie pulled on to the I-5, turned up the music as loud as it could go and found herself in a perfectly comfortable state as she eased into the ride. Memories of the city sailed through her mind. The feel of what it was like to be there, the amazing moments that had helped to make her the woman she’d become… And then it hit her. It didn’t really matter where she was going and it didn’t really matter what she was leaving behind. She was going somewhere and it was about the going, the ride. Lizzie would come back of course but when she did things would be different, the same way they always were when she let go of life, let herself just live, and sailed off into the mystic.

This story was inspired by a thoughtful and quiet morning infused with the amazing Van Morrison and his song Into The Mystic.


awgyrphon©

KITTY MICHELSON

Sass. That was the only word that truly defined Kitty Michelson. She was a pint sized brunette with the perfect hourglass figure and a wiggle that paralyzed most men and made women sit up and take notes.

Kitty was a secretary. Not an assistant, a secretary, and a damned good one if you asked anyone, including Kitty. She worked for Robert James Wexler, sole owner, CEO and CFO of Wexler Industries, one of the most powerful companies on the planet, making Mr. Wexler one of the most sought after men in the world. That’s where Kitty came in. She was the gate keeper. Kitty had the keys to the castle. If you wanted a meeting with Mr. Wexler, you went through Kitty. A lunch, you went through Kitty. A party invitation, a charity donation, a pitch, a picture, Christmas card, cigar or so much as a “Hello” from Mr. Robert James Wexler you went through Kitty Michelson. If you were a new guy on the scene and you wanted a meeting with Mr. Wexler you could forget it. The first thing you had to do was get on Kitty’s list and that wasn’t easy, not by a long shot.

Kitty was good. So good that it wasn’t just Mr. Wexler that people were after. Everybody wanted Kitty; working in their office, on their arm, or both. Johnny Carson called. Kitty said, “no.’” Hollywood movie studios called. Kitty said, “no.’” The White House called. Kitty said, “no.’” Vogue, Chanel, Foreign Dignitaries, Saudi Sheiks, England’s Prime Minister and Forbes top ten men to watch, they all tried to woo her. Kitty said “no.”

Business men tried to recreate her, women tried to be her, but no one hit the mark. Kitty was one of a kind. Smart as she was beautiful and kind as she was sharp. Kitty made people feel special and they loved her for it. She had an all access pass. Closed door meetings, private calls, secrets circling the water cooler. If something was going on at Wexler Industries from an office crush to a million dollar merger, Kitty knew about it.

Kitty knew exactly what she was doing and at the same time she was sincere about everything she did. It was impossible not to love her, and that’s why when Robert James Wexler was faced with making the most important decision of his life, his career and his legacy, the one person it all boiled down to was Kitty Michelson.

On February the 2nd 1963 Mr. Wexler died peacefully in his sleep surrounded by his family and friends. On February the 3rd 1963 Kitty Michelson became the sole owner, CEO and CFO of Wexler Industries, and that top notch secretary took her place next to royalty, artists and movie stars as one of the most powerful women in the world, and forty eight years later, at the age of eighty two she still is.

2011© awgryphon all rights reserved, photograph by Henry Clarke©

LITTLE CYNNIE LANDRY

Honeysuckle combined with sticky, humid air oozed in through the back porch and filled the parlor of the old Landry house. Cynnie, the youngest of the Landry children, had taken a spot in the parlor and made herself quite comfortable while the rest of the family milled about outside and wandered in and out of the kitchen trying to get an early taste of the evening’s supper. Cynnie came from an old southern family with old southern secrets and a very particular way of getting things done, so when Mrs. Adelaide Breaux turned up unannounced at half past three on a Sunday afternoon Cynnie’s mother cleared the house. Without a word or a question Mr. Landry had the children, the cousins, his sister and his mother-in-law ready to walk out the door for a steamboat ride and a stroll through Jackson Square. Mrs. Landry and Adelaide Breaux would handle whatever it was that needed to be done.

As they put on their hats and started to leave Adelaide gave Mrs. Landry a nod and turned her eyes on little Cynnie. She was just five-years-old by a day, but it was Cynnie that Adelaide Breaux had come to discuss. Mr. Landry held his gaze on his wife’s and after a shared moment of fearful unknowing, the family was on their way; and Adelaide and Mrs. Landry were alone with Cynnie and the matter at hand.

The aroma of cooling pecan pie, chicory coffee and fresh lemonade in the making hit Adelaide as she wandered the house, taking in the space. The Landry’s had obviously been going about a typical Sunday before Adelaide had knocked on their door, which only confirmed exactly what she’d suspected. They didn’t know.

Adelaide wound her way though the living room, the sitting room and finally the parlor. Mrs. Landry walked beside her and little Cynnie danced along behind them, stopping to look at this and that or twirl around for no reason in particular it seemed. The first time her mother started to tell Cynnie to mind her manners Adelaide politely hushed Mrs. Landry. Cynnie was behind her, but Adelaide was watching every move the child made. She didn’t want her to mind. She wanted her uninhibited, free.

When they reached the parlor Adelaide took a white candle from her bag, set it in the middle of a table and continued on to the back porch. Mrs. Landry wondered why Adelaide didn’t light the candle, but she kept her question to herself and followed Adelaide outside. Cynnie stayed put in the parlor. Adelaide and Mrs. Landry sat down to rest their legs and enjoy a glass of lemonade while they watched little Cynnie through the large parlor door, which looked out on the garden.

“Why don’t you invite her to join us for a glass of lemonade Charlotte.” Adelaide said.

“Cynnie.” Mrs. Landry called. “Would you like to come out on the porch and visit with Mrs. Breaux?”
“No thank you Mama.” Cynnie answered as she twirled through the parlor looking for something.

Mrs. Landry threw her arms up in confusion and exasperation, the way most mothers did from time to time, and Adelaide sat back in her chair and zeroed in on the girl.

Cynnie pulled a box from the ashtray and struck a match. Mrs. Landry gasped. She’d never let her daughter play with matches and had no idea where she’d learned to strike one with such ease. Adelaide placed her hand over Mrs. Landry’s to calm her, not wavering for a moment and not taking her eyes off the child.

Cynnie held the match to the white candle and her face lit up; her eyes grew wide and an air of wonder and excitement took her over. “It makes it easier for her to see.” Adelaide said nodding while Cynnie danced and sang and rambled on with the same nonsense she always did, according to her mother.

“She spends a great deal of time in the parlor.” Mrs. Landry said. “All by herself.”

“She always has.” Adelaide said knowing.

“Ever since she could crawl. She’ll sit in there all day long. All by herself. I don’t know what it is that she finds so entertaining. The imagination of a child I guess.”

“No Charlotte.” Adelaide said. “Cynnie’s not entertained by her imagination.” Adelaide patted Mrs. Landry’s hand to comfort her. “She’s entertained because your baby girl isn’t alone in there.”

Mrs. Landry held her breath as she watched her little girl who was carrying on in some sort of tea party, first talking to one chair and then to another. She turned from her daughter back to Adelaide.

“They’ve found her.” Adelaide said nodding and patting Mrs. Landry’s hand. “They’ve found her.”

“She’s just a baby.” Mrs. Landry whispered barely able to get the words out. “Who is it they think they’ve found?”

“They don’t think Charlotte. They know. They’ve found the spirit that can serve as their portal.” Adelaide said looking straight into Mrs. Landry’s eyes, making sure she understood. “They’ve found the soul that can let them communicate with this life and the next. They’ve found your daughter Charlotte and she’s found them.”

Adelaide and Cynnie’s mother turned back to the parlor, eased back in their chairs and watched the little Cynnie carry on as if she was the host of a grand afternoon of guests and conversation because, in fact, she was.

A.W. Gryphon©