Category Archives: fairy tale

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Indiana Jones is a terrible archeologist

Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny: a 2023 action/adventure film, the last gasp of the Raiders of the Lost Ark series. At least, I hope so.

I saw this with my daughter. I think it is awful, though if you want to see people blown up and killed, well, ok. SPOILERS.

Harrison Ford plays an awful person. A horrible archeologist, since he destroys tombs with no regard for history. A thief. A killer. A bad father, a bad friend, a bad God-father, a terrible husband. He goes to friends for help and barely notices when they are killed, though he is happy to point out to his God-daughter that SHE is not compassionate either.

It’s all justified by saving the world from the Dial of Destiny, only this time we don’t see this supposedly world changing item filed in a warehouse. It’s left sitting on a bedside table at the end. Yeah, maybe in the next movie one of the kids will play with it.

Indiana Jones is so awful that he wants to get away from himself, by staying in the time displacement. The Dial of Destiny is mathematical so it is not magic. Really. Science. Thank goodness it’s not a mathematical anti-aging device so Indy would live on.

They make him younger in the earlier scenes, ok, that’s sort of cool from a technical perspective. Just wait until everyone has that technology for Facebook and dating sites. Running atop the speeding train? Yeah, my suspension of disbelief already done failed, sorry. Tons of people killed in the first ten minutes, but since they are Nazis, we ought to be good with that. Except I am not. And he and his friend walk off with half of the precious potentially world changing power object? Which makes the friend crazy and so Indy ends up with it. Filed on a shelf at a college. Indy can’t keep a promise to a friend, either.

What about the romance? Give me a break. Ick, frankly. So he has to have the perfect female who turns a blind eye to all his destruction and killing and theft and very very bad archeology? Because “he is saving the world”? Ok, maybe she has dementia by now so she’s down with it. The perfect female for this scumbag: I think that search is really the about the anima. The search for the perfect partner is within, and we project that on a person who has some aspects of that internal perfection. That is falling in love. Really loving someone is withdrawing the projection and loving them anyhow. Indy’s movies represent much of our cultural disrespect and scorn for women. He has an undeveloped anima who is a sexy figure who will let him do anything he wants. And welcome him home. First thing I would do is destroy the “mathematical” dial, give him a good kick and leave. My work is done, out of here.

My ending for the movie would have Indy and his God-daughter hauled off to jail and fight in court for the next decade over who killed the people at the university, and all the things that he’s stolen and destroyed catch up with him. Mirror the ending of Raiders by having him carted into a gigantic jail with thousands of cells, to disappear forever. His wife finishes the divorce and she absconds with the young thief. The young thief decides that court and jail really don’t look like much fun and straightens up. Now, that’s a satisfying ending!

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For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: movie.

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More fours

I am at Lake Matinenda, enjoying time alone. I think, well, I should really go spend time with my family, so I get up and go to the cabin. There is no one around, just the remains of breakfast. I eat and then lie on a bunk and read. Again I think, I could spend time with family. I will do the dishes, too. I hope I can do something enjoyable with my family.

I go in the other room and my sister is there, flanked by my cousins, X and Y. My sister raises her eyes to me and I know that I have walked into drama. X and Y are looking at me, as if I am to blame or need to do something. “I guess I had better fill you in,” says my sister. I wish I was not in the room. “Our friend, Ella, got pregnant and had a baby.”

So what? I think. “Who?”

“You remember Ella! She can’t take care of it. You need to take the baby while she is getting well.”

“Ella.” I say. I vaguely remember an Ella. There is a black puppy wandering around the room. Why the hell would anyone add a puppy to this? We are at the lake in Ontario and it’s a monumental pain to try to take an animal across the border.

“The puppy too,” says my sister. My cousins are looking at me expectantly.

I am calm, but I think, no. This is not my baby, I barely remember Ella, and I do not want a puppy. I don’t say anything, just wear my most calm face. My sister cannot read me any more because I now have boundaries. That still feels weird.

Later I am holding the puppy. The others have fallen asleep. I get up to return to my tent. I pat the puppy and let it go in the cabin as I leave. I think it will wake them, but it is not my puppy. I hope they can sleep some.

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This is another dream of fours. If the people are all parts of me, what do they represent?

My sister represents drama. She draws people in to help her with drama. I have been drawn in but I don’t want to anymore. I will not take the baby or the puppy.

X is an academic and seems to be channeling the absent minded professor. We are trying to sell a piece of land and after a year he tells me he doesn’t know how. He has a PhD. I say, “Didn’t you buy your house?” I wonder if his wife does all the non-PhD related work. Ugh.

Y is a grade school teacher and loves tea and roses and flowers. Sweet sweet sweet on the outside. But this history is of triangulation and believing my sister’s stories about me without ever checking. The dark side.

I leave the cabin to go to my tent. I will not join this drama, not try to talk sense into my sister, not engage with my silly role-playing cousins. And at the same time, I am letting go of the part of myself that likes the drama, that tries to rescue, that is the mix of sweet and dark, that chooses to not know. The cousins and my sister are all aspects of myself, that I am gently letting go. Quietly.

This is a healing dream.

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Dreams have layers of meaning.

I am still thinking about the puppy.

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Tendrils

He likes to be the smartest. She doesn’t care and anyhow, people don’t like smart women mostly. Men show it off. Women mask it. She can only partially mask with her professional degree.

He’s pleased to walk on the beach with her. She is withdrawn, down. He can feel that. He does not ask why, ever. She slides neatly into the space his wife’s dementia left. His wife who was also depressed. He does whatever he wants, he’s not available, he won’t be trapped. Control.

She is withdrawn, down. She has a difficult task in a year that might kill her. Closing the clinic and working elsewhere. Maybe she only gets pneumonia when a loved one dies. Or maybe COVID-19 will kill her. There, the range is from make a lot of money to dying. It is hard to explain and people don’t believe her.

Tendrils from her time in the ocean brush him. Then they are longer and lit in the sun. They wrap around him, very slowly. The first after a year. Where the tendrils touch, he has scales.

Neither sees. They are too busy laughing. They are small children, wordplay, in the woods, on the beaches, talking, singing.

She thinks her mermaid self is separate, her dream self. She is safest in the ocean. Her microbiota, gut bacteria, are all from the ocean. Symbiotic. He has land bacteria, at least, he starts with them. They change the longer they are together. He says, β€œI can read your mind!” But he can’t read emotions, since his are locked away. They bang on the dungeon doors howling but his heart is locked there too. His head can’t hear, can’t feel. Only when the small child is out playing.

He is slowly turning green. Now he has a few small leafy tendrils too.

She goes in the sea, the ocean, the unconscious, daily. Unworried, free, happy, healed.

The year goes by. The clinic closes, she has a job.

β€œWhy are you afraid?” He says.

β€œI am afraid I’ll get sick,” she says.

He has tendrils running all over from her. Half his skin has designs, stripes and patterns. The earliest ones have thickened and spread, rooted wherever they touch him, scales edging the roots. She is fully scaled, with the tendrils from fins and tail and hair. She smells of the sea.

She goes to work and is sick after two months. Very very sick with all it entails.

“You didn’t tell me about this!” he says.

“Why would I?” she says. “No one believes me.”

“I am watching and I don’t believe it.” He hates that her mind is unmasked. “I can follow you and it makes sense but you jump topics so fast!”

She shrugs. “Well.”

He tries to cut ties. Once. Twice. He can’t see the tendrils, so how can he cut them? But now she looks from the ocean and sees. The third time he tries, she grabs a shell and slices through the tendrils and dives deep. He could come in the sea. But he will have to choose.

He chooses not to. He thinks she is calling him from the sea. Every day he drinks a little more, smokes a little more, trying to drown the call.

But it isn’t her. The tendrils are his, now. The dungeon is flooded and the monsters and the small child swim in an ocean, fully scaled. They call him daily, to open the door, to let them out, to join them.

To join them in the sea.

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For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: symbiotic.

Sea of love.

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Toothsome Devil

I am Elwha.

I am a toothsome devil, young, muscular, handsome. I am sixteen pounds of muscle, a tiger cat, ISO of wonderful lady. DON’T get confused by my sister in the photograph. She likes to lean on me sometimes, especially when Mother is gone. Mother has been home, thank goodness. She goes out in the nasty car, but comes back by nighttime. It has been hot this week. She slept in the basement bed one night. My sister and I were a bit worried, it was different and confusing, but she apparently doesn’t have our heat tolerance. We loll in the upstairs when we want the heat.

Contact me, babes. I am in my prime and want to meet the lady cats.

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For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: toothsome.

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The color of fame

I never thought I would be famous. I never thought I’d be a zombie either, but a famous zombie? In demand for murals?

When the zombie illness first hit, hundreds of years ago, we were hunted nearly to extinction. The discrimination was terrible and we were killed in heartless horrific ways. We hid and never ever spoke to humans. We often starved. And the movies that depicted us! We were never saying “Brains!” We were saying “Pains!” And get over the idea that we want to bite you! We don’t. It just hurts so much when we are hidden in the deserts and can’t get food, that we bite in despair. After all, our neurological fine motor skills only work when we are fed. Not with brains but with color! Color, crayons, paints, pencils, glorious and exquisite color.

Doesn’t this pain you too?

Browns and greys and tans and muds. The blue sky helps a little and the yellow of the sign, but any zombie suffers horrifically in this sort of environment. Parts of us start falling off! You think we are rotting, but you humans are wrong so often. You think you know everything.

But we finally managed to communicate! Someone threw their paint cans at us, a graffiti artist, and we were off. He was a mere amateur with color. No one can color like a zombie! The humans are jealous and beg us to teach them. A few have even begged to become zombies, so that they can see color the way we do. No way. We aren’t stupid enough to do that. You’ll just have to keep paying us to paint the beauty that feeds us and that you long for now too!

I am so proud of my art and proud that we zombies have been freed and at last are welcomed by humans.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: colorful.

The previous zombie story is here.

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Daily Evil: W is for Wild

Is wildness evil? What sort of wildness? The forest and waves and wilderness are not things we think of as evil, but some wildness in humans seems very evil. Some is silliness, some is substances, and some is truly violence and cruelty and terror and evil.

This is another of Helen Burling Ottaway’s fantasy etchings, titled The Hunt, number 6 of 30, 1986. A merman with a trident and dogfish, with a variety of tails. The etching is 6.75 by 8, the paper 11 by 15. I like the lines of movement, of waves, from the escaping shark.

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Bear with me

Merle is in his tiny cabin. The cabin far away in the woods. He is holding his guitar. When he realizes where he is, he puts down the guitar, carefully.

He hears crashing outside right away.

He looks. Bear. It rises onto it’s back feet. It is a sow, with cubs! Three!

No, thinks Merle, two cubs. And: “Kurt!” he yells, “Run!”

Kurt just looks at him and turns back to the cubs. The sow is looming outside. This is wrong, why isn’t she attacking Kurt? Kurt is pushing and wrestling the cubs, who are large.

The sow knocks on the cabin wall. “Merle?” says the sow.

Merle doesn’t say a word. This is all wrong.

“Merle?” says the sow bear. She is talking in bear noises but it’s also words in his head. “Well,” says the sow, “you said you could read my mind.”

Merle does not answer. He shakes his head. “Kurt.” he whispers.

The sow bangs on the wall again with a great paw. “You said you’d always be my friend. I miss hiking with you. The rest of it, forget it. Phone, texting, the other stuff. Let’s just hike.”

Merle remains still.

The sow drops to all fours and then sits, her front paws on her back paws. The forest is greening at the tips of the conifers. The grass is electric green from the rain. Kurt and the cubs roll around. Kurt looks ok, really.

“I gave it 50/50 from the start,” says the sow. It’s a meditative growl, if that can be imagined. “I thought you could choose. It was a lie that you could read my mind. You read what you wanted to read. I let you. I thought you’d either keep your promise or break it. I thought you could choose, but maybe I am wrong. Maybe that’s the thing about trying to control other people: if you realize that they are not controlled, you never speak to them again.” The bear rocks forward and back a little. She does not look cute. She looks lethal and smells like bear.

Her mouth opens wide and tongue lolls. “After all, I think people can change and you think they can’t. If you change, then I am right.” She coughs. Merle realizes that it’s laughter.

One of the cubs barrels into her, rolling. She swats it away. Kurt is right behind the cub, but she catches him. She sets him aside, standing up.

“Up to you,” says the bear. She turns towards the woods to the north. Kurt gives a wave and he and the cubs scramble after her.

Merle struggles out of the dream like a diver coming up from the deepest possible dive. “Kurt,” he says, “you said you’d come back and tell me the truth.” He shudders and gets up.

I took the photographs in June 2017.

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Daily Evil: K is for Katherine

K for Katherine. The picture is one of my grandmothers, Katherine White Burling. My mother drew this from a photograph with conte crayon. I am named after this grandmother. This is a big drawing, more than life size, 18 by 24. I photographed it through glass, avoiding most reflections. My grandmother is wearing a cameo. We have a photograph of her grandmother wearing it as well. I do not know exactly when Helen Burling Ottaway drew this, early to mid 1990s, I think. The story is fiction but my grandmother could be quite wicked, so she inspired this. After all, Katherine means “purity”.

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Don’t get the Willies

“Caitlyn.” says grandmother. “You are 13 now.”

Caitlyn sighs internally. Another lecture about becoming an adult? This is the unpredictable grandmother, sharp as a knife. She will never behave like the book grandmothers. Though some of her friends say that their grandmothers don’t behave either.

“Where is your phone?” says grandmother.

“I left it in my coat.” says Caitlyn.

“I think you should take off your shades, too,” says grandmother gently. “Tea?”

Caitlyn reluctantly removes her internet connected sunglasses. Pale pink, but this grandmother isn’t fooled. Was it her eye motions that gave her away?

“Yes, please,” says Caitlyn politely. Her grandmother has an elegant tea service out and heats water by boiling it. Completely archaic. Maybe this is about net overuse.

“Are you observing males or females or both?” says grandmother.

Rats, thinks Caitlyn. Sex after all. She prims her mouth.

“I want to talk to you about the willies.” says grandmother.

“Being scared?” says Caitlyn. Good, not about sex.

“There is another meaning.” says grandmother pleasantly. “You will encounter certain men when you are old enough to date. I encourage you to study the boys for now, but you are more mature than they are. That is less true with the girls.”

“Hmmm,” says Caitlyn. She is studying her teacup, eyes down.

“Certain men will try very hard to control you. They will make promises that are silly and statements that are lies.”

“Ok,” says Caitlyn. Next comes the embarrassing part.

“You will recognize them in part because there are places they will not go and people they will not speak to. They are very very rigid.”

“Uh-huh.”

“As they get older, their territory will shrink further and further. They become more and more isolated. You do not want involvement with one of these, for two reasons. One is that they will try to isolate you.”

Caitlyn smirks. As if.

“The other: well, you know the story of Pinocchio?”

Caitlyn blinks. “Uh, yes.”

“In the story it is the doll’s nose that grows. In people the nose can grow, but it is really other parts that shrink.” says grandmother. “So it is important not to get the willies.”

“Yes, ma’am,” says Caitlyn. And they both sip their tea.

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Qia and the monsters

Qia is three. She is scared.

“Don’t be scared or go to your room.”

Qia wants help. She is scared of the monster, FEAR, the giant monster, but her father won’t listen. She sniffles and tries, but she can’t stop crying. She goes to her room, because her father has turned his back. Her mother is drawing. They are busy. They don’t like it when she is scared.

FEAR is enormous and pushes into the room with her. She cries harder in her room with the door closed. No one can hear her now except FEAR. FEAR is large and has horrible drippy teeth and too many arms and keeps swatting at her. Qia gives up and lets FEAR swat her. She sits on the bed with her knees up and puts her head on her arms.

FEAR rages around her room.

After a while Qia is tired of crying. She lifts her head off her arms.

FEAR is smaller. Still bigger than her father, bigger than her mother, but just standing and looking at her. FEAR looks tired too.

Qia pats the bed beside her. FEAR hesitates and looks scared. Qia waits. FEAR shuffles over and sits beside her on the bed.

The room is very quiet. Qia finds a scrap of tissue and blows her nose. She looks sideways at FEAR.

FEAR’s head is down and FEAR seems to be crying. Qia reaches out and takes FEAR’s paw. One of the paws. There are a lot.

FEAR holds her hand tightly and then leans against her. Qia wiggles over a bit more to give FEAR room. FEAR sighs and then snuggles down onto the bed, massive drippy toothy head in Qia’s lap.

Qia strokes FEAR’s fur. It is very soft and dark purple.

FEAR is the first monster that Qia makes friends with. There are many more.

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I was thinking about this story even before the Ragtag Daily Prompt: bugbear.