Monthly Archives: June 2013

She Had Three Babies

The woman known as Jewel, or Jaden’s wife, gave birth to three babies. Two were fat sleek boys who could walk within days. The third people often forgot about because the babe was a scrawny girl, a wild howling thing that disappeared inside cubicles and cylindricals unknown to even her mother. The wild child loved geometry and the way it allowed for three dimensions. Flat spaces were much more difficult to crawl inside, or this is what she claimed when search parties discovered her. Friends and family tried to protect Jewel from the wild girl, and this was difficult, as the child held a fascination for her complacent mother, but only when her mother wasn’t looking for her.

“I have three babies,” Jewel often whispered, over and over, while lounging on her sofa.

“You have two,” Jaden corrected her because even he forgot about the geometry of the living room, how it created rectangulars and polyhedra. “If you have a third, where is she?”

Jaden thought he was so smart, but most males did, especially those who believed themselves to be born teachers, full of all manner of things they had to inform her of. Her sons were the same as their father. Good God were those fat, sleek boys full of themselves and things to know.

“She’s in my hat,” Jewel said. But Jewel’s sarcasm blew right over the top of her husband’s head.

“Why don’t you wave a magic wand over it?”

Jaden’s sarcasm didn’t wash over Jewel’s head. She knew when he mocked her, when they all mocked her.

“She doesn’t want to go to school, so she hides.”

“Maybe she would come out if you were a better mother.”

“I’m perfect. I’m everything she wants. It’s you she doesn’t want. She hates you and school and all the teachers at the school.”

“Hire a governess to teach her at home, then.”

“I won’t fall for that, Jaden. You can’t fool me. She’ll go to the family school.”

Jaden didn’t threaten to have her locked up as he usually did. Why did they all have to lie to her about her daughter? Why did they have to protect her from the best part of her life? If only Jewel could drag herself from the couch, lower her limp white legs to the Turkish carpet and step lightly, her anklets jangling. She couldn’t go anywhere without anybody within hearing distance knowing about it. For years, she’d thought about finding a pair of clippers and cutting through the jangling things, but she had yet to find the motivation. Instead, she imagined herself dancing on the carpet as she had done more than five years ago when her parents had sent her to seduce wealthy Jaden who lived on the hill above town. In her fantasy, her thin white feet lightly touched down, and her delicate ankles made music, just as they had done for Jaden. Jaden had found her enchanting, carrying her off to his chamber that night.

Less than a year later, the three babies arrived–the two fat boys, and their scrawny sister with her red face and cloud of angel white hair. Jewel was virtually a child, herself, and carrying three babies had nearly killed her. She’d never been the same, had turned into this complacent wretch, never knowing where her daughter was.

She had three babies. And where was the scrawny girl?

“Where are you, my third child?” Jewel called out.

She sighed. There were too many hiding places, too many crawl spaces. The little clown was her favorite, yet she drove her to distraction. She thought of dancing. She closed her eyes with a cool cloth dripping down the sides of her face. She removed the cloth and poured wine into a glass from a silly crystal decanter. The decanter didn’t change the nature of the wine, which was like currants and blackberries and cinnamon and all kinds of heaven. With a deep breath, she held the fragrance inside her nose and mouth. Then she drank it down in a few gulps.

“My scrawny child, don’t play the clown with me! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

From some distant place, Jewel heard a howling, giggling echo. Was the child outside? She took down another measured portion of wine, which slipped like a warm spirit down her throat and into her stomach. It wasn’t like a warm spirit, but was one.

“Put your feet down,” it told her. “Your child’s in the cylinder of the well. She’ll never be able to climb out if you don’t help her.”

The spirit strong in her belly, she set one foot, then another to the carpet. If she stepped very carefully, her bells would barely toll her plight. So she minced her steps. She minced toward the balcony door, through the breezeway, around the lattices, to the courtyard. From deep within the well, she heard the giggling echo.

“You won’t find me!” the little voice howled.

“I’ve already found you, my little girl,” Jewel said as she leaned over the opening and looked down.

Darkness confronted her. She picked up a pebble and threw it in and heard it splash down deep below.

“That’s not nice,” the little girl shouted. “Don’t throw stones at me.”

“Why don’t you come out of there, and I won’t throw anything at you any longer?”

“No, Mama! You have to come get me.”

Jewel looked back at the house. She thought of Jaden, who was, no doubt, in his office conducting dictation and business–a flat, two-dimensional world of meaningless figures on paper. She imagined dancing for him, his carrying her into his chamber. She always did what she was told. She jumped to her parents’ commands, to Jaden’s. Why shouldn’t she also obey the little girl, who giggled and called to her Come get me; come get me!

And so she jumped, and when she splashed down, her weightless figure sounded as a pebble would, a plink, and then she descended into the cool ripples of water to meet her scrawny child with her damp white cloud of hair.


I’m Throwing In the Wet Towel of Absurdity

Caged orangutan being creative.

Caged orangutan being creative.

It used to be that I wrote absurdist posts in order to cope with my frustrations. My Planet Sardon posts are prime examples of diverting frustrations. But I can’t compete with reality. Today, I read news articles online; I read; I flipped through the latest issue of Scientific American. And I realized I’d been defeated before I ever began. Everything I read cried out with absurdity. Are we at a crossroads in human history, in which we have officially entered an alternate dimension?

The articles I read on Wired included one on how we should fix health care with design elements. My Sardonians would never have thought of that! That would never have crossed my mind or theirs–that one could fix a broken system by giving it new and beautiful design elements. My mind is reeling. I’m simply not creative enough, I guess. Perhaps this is owing to my refusal to spend quality time meditating, as I learned from this article on Enlightenment Engineering. I used to be under the impression that the most creative inventors in history worked hard and rarely slept and, then, under this mental duress, fell dizzily into half sleep, which is a special mental space–not unlike meditation–that creates eureka moments. However, my understanding was that this special mental space sprang from sudden silence after the mental duress, and not from the mental relaxation itself–a kind of mental trickery. According to this new fad, wherein Google employees meditate to cope with their emotional spaces, deep thinking and breathing are the inspirators of how to do what they do, such as spy on Americans, more creatively. Where have I gone wrong in my thinking? No wonder I struggle with creativity! Rather than an inventor, I’ve instead become a melancholic caged monkey, which I learned all about from these sad photos of captive animal melancholy.

I’m a caged animal, looking out at the world and feeling melancholy because I view myself as an observer. But, as it turns out, I was the one being observed all along. It is rather a disconcerting moment to be living in. Cage-boxing isn’t all it was cracked up to be. When I throw my towel down, everybody just laughs at the good sport. A tiny thread of hope crept back in my poor brain when I learned from Wiki, the source of all information, that caged orangutans are known for being creative, and not just melancholic. As demonstrated in the image above, the orangutan has ingeniously discovered that a plastic tub can be used as a stylish hat. Go orangutan! And this without the slightest hint of either mental exertion OR deep, introspective meditation.

**As I promised on my facebook page, the first person who writes me a really absurd comment on this post will win a free copy of my book (either epub or mobi). Why am I doing this? I’m running off of no sleep and have mountains of tedious work to plow through. I need goofiness. And you might be the person for the job.


A New Evolutionary Protocol*

“At the same time, employers will regard supportive husbands the same way they used to look at stay-at-home wives: as crucial domestic backup, a welcome guarantee that female employees will be able to work with as much dedication as men traditionally have. The more backup that employees see women getting on the home front, the more willing bosses will be to invest in the careers of their female stars. Women’s earnings will rise. And rise. It will never stop until . . .

Women marry down, and raise their husbands up.

And that, too, will happen.”

Thus ends the first chapter and begins Liza Mundy’s strange bubbling ideology in The Richer Sex: How the new majority of female breadwinners is transforming sex, love, and family.

As I read through this book, I’m assailed by commonsense thoughts of the economic situation our society finds itself in, and I’ll write more on that later when I review the work. Meanwhile, I can’t help waiting impatiently for the moment when the evolution of humankind forces a flip-flop on men and women. Clearly, this is bound to happen. With men working at home and supporting their bread-winning wives, the nature of the world will require that women grow muscular chests under their mammaries. The women will, then, muscularly pop out offspring and vigorously hand them over to the new men, who will appear as squirming grub worms owing to the lack of necessity for them to perform hard labor or breed offspring in their missing wombs. But, then–and here, I’m getting a little breathless with anticipation–the weak men, tired of being crushed underfoot by their powerful wives, will rise up in resistance against the matriarchal system. They will fight back against the oppression that has squashed them for centuries. It will be a difficult battle at first because of their trained weakness, but they will eventually become stronger grub worms. They will take advantage of the infrastructure and system the women have created, and they will use it against them until they–the men–are back on top of the heap, when, naturally, the women will begin to shrink back, until centuries later they will begin their own resistance…

On the other hand, all this flip-flopping seems highly inefficient.

*In my new evolutionary protocol, Jill will have evolved to the point where she can spell protocol, but by that time, the language will have evolved and the spelling changed. Damn Webster and all other dictionary writers who muck about in evolution!


Academics Anonymous: control the moles, or they will control you

Last week, I lost all motivation to produce. I fell into a kind of mental stupor, desiring nothing more than a void space in which I could be deprived at the sensory level. Granted, I had just completed yet another homeschool year, and so exhaustion was natural. Also, I was feeling low over my sister’s unexpected heart surgery–unexpected because she’s young, healthy, and physically fit (although I was feeling low simply because I love my sister). But there was another problem mixed in that was wreaking havoc on my mental state. The week before, I had thrown myself into writing a book with a conceit that had been running through my mind for some time. Yes, that was the crux of my personal–rather than external–issues.

I had, on a subconscious level, locked myself back into the “need to write/study/research in order to survive” mentality that I’ve been oppressing myself with for nearly all my life. Somehow, I had forgotten that I’d freed myself of those bonds–that I really didn’t need to retie them around my own wrists. Becoming aware of this was a good first step. It allowed me to loosen my restraints again. Some of my readers, if they’re self-aware intellectuals, will understand what I’m talking about. For those people, I’m sure I could create a twelve-step program or something similar that helps people who are addicted to intellectual projects first recognize that they have a problem in the first place. It could be called AA or Academics Anonymous, but would probably not remain very anonymous after all their close family members and friends received phone calls, in which effusive apologies and begging of forgiveness ensued. Having looked up the twelve-step program on Wiki, I’m guessing the phone call falls at step eight, though I can’t be sure. I’ve never been in a program; my experience lies only in receiving these types of calls.

I’ve, personally, worked my way through the first seven steps: I admitted I was powerless over intellectual projects–that my life had become unmanageable. I came to believe that a power greater than myself could restore me to sanity. I made a decision to turn my will and my life over to the care of God as I understood Him. I made a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself. I admitted to God, to myself, and to another human being the exact nature of my wrongs (I’m doing this step now). I’m entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character. I humbly ask Him to remove my shortcomings (copied from here). You think I’m trying to be amusing. I’m not. Okay, maybe I’m being a little lighthearted, but who’s to say an addiction to alcohol is more damaging to self and others than an addiction to intellectual projects, if an addiction to intellectual projects equally operates as a means of self-protection?

Thankfully, the phone call won’t be necessary because I found another way–or should I say I was blessed with another way through my Higher Power? My birthday was on Sunday. Yes, that’s a blessing, but not the one I mean. Generally, we have family parties with my parents and maybe some of my children’s friends. My parents were out of town, so I invited two of my new Tech friends over for grilled quail. It was one of those freeing, happy evenings. Intellectuals who avoid people don’t always realize how freeing it is to hang around creative people–physically, not on the internet, with food, beer, and wine. The conversation and ideas filled that deep well in my soul that longs for creativity. It reminded me that, at one time, I had enthusiastically changed the course of my staid existence and determined to become a mechanical engineer–to shift my mental focus toward creating tangible things that will, hopefully, bring about tangible income.

For those who understand what I’m talking about, my takeaway for you is this: hang out with creative people and banter over ideas every once in a while and forget for a few blessed moments that you haven’t completed that scholarly dissertation on the psychological development of moles yet. You don’t have to give up your study of moles. But you must learn to take a break from them. Control the moles, or they will control you.


Just some quick information…

I’ve added a Facebook author page that you’ll find here: Jill Domschot author. Go ahead and like my page. I won’t mind. Also, starting tomorrow, both the Kindle version and hard copy of Anna and the Dragon will be on sale. They will be $2.99 and $9.99 respectively. Yes, I’m already aware that Amazon knocked my $10.99 price to $9 something or other, so I’m reasonably certain they’ll knock down the $9.99 price, too. That will just be a waiting game.