Threat to Democracy

   "It seems to me .."
   I recognized Julia's voice, Julia, my mind's frequent visitor or what a reputable doctor might call my hallucinatory friend. As if I were ill.
   But I know, and Julia knows I am not sick, just as we both know she is real. As real as you or I.
   'Something always seems to you,' I thought but did not say.
   "Testy are you?" I knew as she spoke that I was as much in her mind as she was in mine. How could that be? Was I really...? Did we both have hallucinations?
   "It seems to me.." Julia would never entertain retiring because I asked. So I did not ask. What would any reasonably informed, intellectually curious person expect. Julia had if, nothing else, staying power.
   Don't laugh. Don't question. True Julia did die a long time ago and at a relatively young age. But not without leaving her mark. Who of my circle, or that matter yours and anyone else you know, has ever been at the very center of a political movement that changed the very nature of government?
   Bit I digress.
   "It seems to me," Julia's voice rang. "that the predicament of your country is dire." I could not restrain my cackling giggle. "And that cynical cackle says what?"
   "That you are long dead and cannot know of my country."
   "Oh but can't I? Are you so naive you don't see that -- What is that trite cookie statement you use?  What goes around comes around."
   "That's how the cookie crumbles, I think you mean. It seems stupid in this case and has no relevance to what we're talking about.
   "Let us forget the cute quips," she said. "and get to the subject. I repeat your government is in dire straights. Just look at the mess brewing in Washington." I scowled and waved a dismissive hand. "And in case you think I do not know what I speak of, let me allay your doubt. Your political parties-- Republicans and Democrats you call them-- are at such loggerheads that compromise is about as likely as... I know nothing, absolutely nothing that seems less likely at the moment. That happened to us you know. And what did it do for us? War and war and more war. Then a whole new form of government. An Empire was born. Any notion of representational government -- if in fact any remained then-- shrank into a 'toady man assemble'."
   "I am well aware of the dangers of our stalemated government," I said. "But I hardly compare us to 1st century BC/AD Rome. War ran rampart in Rome for 20 years before you became an Empire. Are you suggesting war here and a downfall of our government?"
   "Jewellee, my dear naive Jewellee," she said with a tenderness in her usually curt voice. "You surely don't mean what you're saying. There is war, and there is war. War that destroys with swords and blood-- war with gradual bloodless destruction of what my father called rabble. Your patricians are destroying your rabble -- slowly and bloodlessly.  But it is war as surely as if they wielded  swords. I think you and your kind ought to be more aware. I will now go and let you ponder Or at least I hope you ponder."
   She was gone.

 
 

    Rome's royal Julia as usual took great pleasure in holding court. The Celtic queen, Cartimandua, chose not to join us. But Tanaquil, never lacking in confidence in her own being listened patiently, if not raptly, to Julia. When at last Julia was done with her performance (for you could call it nothing less), Tanaquil spoke. "I don't take pleasure in thinking about or discussing old age. What is the point? The old already know what is to be known. The young find it boresome. But I note that getting old myself I recall watching people I loved grow old."
   "What have I spawned? Julia's eyes widened; her nostrils flared. Every inch of her body showed disdain. "I was not the one who started this 'getting old' business."
   "Perhaps not," Tanaquil's half smile reminiscent of the stereotype of an Etruscan lingered. "But you took your turn. Now I shall take mine. Would you deny me?"
   "Ye Gods no", Julia said "Pray continue."
   "I begin my story when my grandsons were ready for proper schooling in Etruscan Discipline. I made it my task to check out schooling in Tarquinia for the boys. On the pretext of visiting my aging parents lest they die without seeing my success, I went to Tarquinia. The city was as I remembered. The wide Cardo running its length north and south was traversed by equally wide streets. Covered drain culverts ran along the sides of the streets carrying away sewage from the houses. The shop was still there-- the shop where I paid far too much for a scarf when my mother sent me there with the hope that shopping would relieve my ache for the unacceptable  Greek boy.
   My re-union with my parents, Urnilla and Metius, was stiff and unrewarding. Time had taken a great toll on their eyesight, hearing  and memory of a daughter they had not seen for so many years. Had the reunion with my parents been my only reason for returning to Tarquinia I might have left with swollen eyes and deflated spirit. But I had come, not to seek a reunion with my aged parents but  instruction for my grandsons.
   I stood before Tarquitius's door, not sure if was still his door, not even sure he was yet alive. A torrent of memories flooded my mind. The times he had tolerated me only because of his affection to my father. The times he had tried to save me from the mistakes of my petulant nature. The efforts he had made to prevent me from making the mistake of marrying a Greek who would never be accepted by  upper class Etruscans. He had been right about the refusal of society to accept my Lucumo, but he was wrong that I had made a mistake. Just as I hesitatingly reached to knock the door swung open. I gasped at the bent frail old man squinting at me. "Tarquitius?" I asked haltingly.
   His toothless smile softened the hardness of his leathery wrinkled face. "Can it be? Can it really be? Or do these poor tired eyes and my feeble wits fail me?"
   "It is I, Tarquitius. It is I, Tanaquil. Come to pester you again."
   His bony fingers tightened around my arm. "You seek yet more signs? And again you need my expertise? I have heard of your successes. To what new heights have you now  set your sights?"
    I met his warm smile with loving eyes. As a child I had considered him one in a string of adults who would thwart my desires. As an adult I looked on him as a loving protector. "I come, not as a child seeking to side step the rules, but as a grandmother wishing to guide my grandchildren.." His eyes twinkled. "Yes I am a grandmother. And I come about my grandsons. They are in need of instruction. The kind the cannot receive in Rome. The kind they get only here. You will find them intelligent, polite, astute and dedicated. I assure you they will meet your expectations."
   Tarquitius sighed heavily. "I rarely take on students myself anymore. As must be obvious I neither see well not have much stamina. But there are several priests who do''
                                                   *                  *                    *
    Tanaquil tilted her head to one side and stared into space. Three people whom I had loved had become old-- old enough to remind me as I left that none of us will escape old age." Julia impatient as always with anyone who spoke at length, although she could cold court for endless time said. "Unless we are relieved of the process by an early death."
    Tanaquil's eyes met mine. Before either of us could conger up an appropriate comment Julia said, "What is the point?"
     Both Tanaquil and I burst into laughter. "There may ne no point at all", I said.
    "Or there may," Tanaquil added.
    "Ye Gods, how did we get onto old age? Nothing could be more depressing. Please the next time we meet let us pursue some topic with more -- with more anything that we have had the last  three times."

Old Is Not So Bad

      Julia gave me little time before she insinuated herself into my every thought. "You have had your time for what you call your little project. I must say I am not that impressed. You seem to think that because one is not old one does not see and appreciate old. Let me share something with you about old"
   "You are telling just me, or are Cartimandua and Tanaquil invited?" I could not imagine she did not want Tanaquil and Cartimandua. They have always been a part of our meetings.
   "of course they can listen. I must do it story form just as you did. First person accounts of what one has done can get so boresome."

   Thus began Julia's long winded story.

   A heated argument with her father had left her unhinged. As so often she had done she went to see Maecenas. A long time friend/foe/ally of her father, the Emperor, Maecenas understood both Julia and her father better than anyone. She arrived at Maecenas' lavish house on the Esquiline Hill. She had not sent word of her coming. Such was their relationship. A slave ushered her into the small library. The room was cluttered with excessive furniture and memorabilia collected over the years. A bust of Bathyllus stood on the large desk in direct sight of the chair obviously from its wear and disarrayed cushions was used often. The wall paintings were political and military scenes. She was inspecting his collections when he entered. She was taken aback. His color was so grey it was nearly blue. His skin stretched over his bones seemingly devoid of flesh. Despite her efforts to control her reaction she gasped.
   "Pretty sight, am I not? I have little time left." As he took her had in his his smile was reminiscent of other days. He lowered his head and kissed her hand. "Don't be alarmed. I'm not as uncomfortable as you. I don't have to look at me."
   She tried to laugh but could not. He sat in the large heavily pillowed chair. "Sit, my dear. I have ordered wine. And don't wince. I saw that you should not get --sweet gunk I believe you once called it."
   Julia managed a laugh. "Oh Maecenas, I have missed you."
   "And I you. How long has it been since I rescued you from your father's wrath after our all night therapy session? I don't get out much anymore. The comfort of this place offers help for my infernal restlessness. But I do not, as you might think, sit here stolidly awaiting death which is near now."
   Julia grimaced. "Now let's not start that. I know all about your astrologer. I also know that are wrong as often as they are right. How do you fill your time?"
   "With my books and friends. Horace is ever faithful. He comes when he can be coaxed off his Sabine farm. And dear Bathyllus has been a rock." He sighed heavily as a slave entered with a flagon of wine and two cups. Waving the slave away Maecenas filled two cups and handed one to Julia. Taking the other for himself he sipped cautiously. "The gods preserve us, how can you like this vinegar? How do I occupy myself. Besides seeing friends, I read and go to the theater. And I have been working on my poetry. I shall never be as erudite as Horace not as witty as young Ovid. But I have fun." From a cedar box on the table next to his chair he took a sheet of parchment. "Here. You can see I do not sit morbidly waiting for my death. Here read this." He leaned back abd with a grimace sipped his wine. A sudden cough sent wine dribbling down his cheek. Julia looked at him with concern as he swabbed his chin. "Don't mind this. Just read. Read it aloud. I should like to hear it.

   She read
Make me feeble of hand
Ma me feeble of foot and leg
Saddle me with a hump back
Knock out my loosened teeth
Life, as long it clings, is good
If I should sit, prop me up on my crutch

  Her eyes met his. His smile had a touch of impiousness. "So Julia, you can see I am at peace with my fate. I owe much to Horace who urges me to live each day as it comes with no faith in what tomorrow holds. If you're here to comfort a dying man, I assure you there is no need".
   
                                                      *                  *                      *

   Julia's  story was over. She addressed us --Carti, Tanaquil and me. Especially me.  "I suggest  we stop this wallowing in our own problems and take a page out of Maecenas' book. Let us live  today and  let tomorrow take care of itself. And Jewellee, your Carlie is doing all right. She has been propped up." 

GETTING OLD

   Julia, the impulsive spoiled daughter of the Emperor Augustus, has a way of annoying me until I give in to her demands on my time. I told her when she insisted on pushing herself into my consciousness that I had other things to do. "But you have kept me away for so long. How many things can you have?"
   "I am working on n essay or story or something, and I need time."
   "Tell you what, Jewellee, take a few days and get done with it. We have things to attend to. We're not getting any younger."
   "And just what in Hades do you know about getting old? How old were you when you died? Now me. I am old."
   She agreed to give me a few days to deal with whatever I had to deal with, but she did not do it with grace.  It's a bitch getting old. "The Golden Years", to my way of thinking, occur long before seventy. And the asininity of 'Come grow old along with me; the best is yet to be.' This was surely written by some young person and it assaults the sensibilities of the'old'.  Addressing this topic is my project shared below..
                                            
                                                     *                   *                     *

   “Focus!  Focus! You can remember if you just focus,” the pert young woman standing at the foot of the bed said. “Carlie, you can remember if you just focus.”

   The audacity! How dare she call me Carlie? My kin, of whom there were few and my friends of whom there are even fewer could call me Carlie.  But not some ‘just out of diapers’ chubby child.

   Unfair, deranged, out of touch you think?

   Bull shit, I say.

   As to remembering.  Oh I do remember. I remember. Maybe not always accurately, for time and subsequent events keep gnawing at the edges of memories.  But I remember!

   Not where I am, not why I am here. But I do remember.

   This girl was chubby—an extra twenty five pounds I guessed—but to be fair she was not just ‘out of diapers’.  Somewhere in her twenties. “Now Carlie,” she oozed sincerity. “try to think.”

   “I am Carlie to few people. You are not among  the few.”

   She scurried to secure a small notebook from the pocket of her tie dyed tunic. “Mrs. Campelo.”

   “Ms, if you please.”

   “Ms Campelo, can you remember why you’re here?”

   “Remember why I’m here? I don’t even know where I am.  At this point why seems relatively unimportant, don’t you think?”

   Her downturned lips, her stifled sigh, her rolling eyes assaulted my senses. “Tell me , dear,’ I stressed the ‘dear’. “exactly where am I? When I know that we’ll investigate the ‘why’.”

   “In hospital emergency.  Dr. Thompson is attending you.”

   “And  who is Dr. Thompson?”  
   “Your Doctor, Carlie.” She drew in her breath, held it, and breathed out with what approached spitting. “Your Doctor, Ms Campelo.”

   “And just why am I here?”

   “That’s what I need you to remember.”

   Focus! Focus! I can remember if I focus. I can remember if I have a hint. “ Exactly who is Dr. Thompson?”

                                         *                          *                           *

  Growing old is a misrepresented process—either bemoaned or glorified. Too few of us see it for what it is.  Like an August day in southeastern Virginia.  Morning arrives cool and fuzzy. Events of the morning, met with eagerness and determination, slow down for the ‘same ole lunch’ and the ‘same ole self- imposed quiet time’.  Farther south, among old and young and those with much more humanity, it’s called ‘siesta’.  Afternoons, taken on with less resolve, yield to the day’s mounting heat and humidity. Darkness restores the cool; sleep refreshes body and spirit weary of the day’s struggles. Morning arrives cool and fuzzy.

                                                 *                           *                 *

    I study the face of my inquisitor whose patience is clearly struggling to remain intact. Was I ever that young? My attention to the sharply defined edges of her lipstick was interrupted. A new inquisitor was there.  ROSELEA her name tag said. I wanted to protest for she had none of the features of either a Rose or a Lea. Fifty if a day, round at the middle.   Lips thankfully unpainted, avoiding jagged edges which elicit pity from the empathetic, scorn from those of us who daily face this assault to our media imposed identity.

   “Ms Campelo,” she said stressing the Ms. “You are fine. We can find nothing wrong.”

   “We who?”

    “Oh, I am sorry. I am Roselea Thompson.”

   “Dr. Thompson,” I said remembering hearing the name from my baby-faced nurse.

   Her smile oozed tolerance. “Nurse Practitioner.  As I said, you seem fine. You did take a nasty fall. Nothing seems broken, I’m happy to report. But you were unconscious for some time. We’d like to keep you here overnight to evaluate.”

   “Evaluate what?”

   “Any possible problems our tests couldn’t reveal.”           

                                                            *                    *                *                                             

     Overnight can be a life time, when you have nothing to do but think about ----.  Focus, focus I told myself as my thoughts flittered from the day I kissed Marvin Goss out behind the barn, then my first job in Charlie’s Bean Barn, the fluttering of my heart on my wedding day, the Saturday dinner parties never over before midnight, sometimes nearer dawn.

   Focus! Focus! I rang the call bell. “Can I help you?”

   “What day is this?”

   “I beg your pardon.”

   “What is so hard about that? What day is this?”

   “Tuesday.”

   “Tuesday the what?”

   “The fifteenth. What can I do for you?

                                   *             *             *            *

Tuesday the 15^th.  I have a lunch date. Every mid month Tuesday since ‘forever ago’ my group had met for lunch.  My group.  If I were fifteen or thirty or maybe even fifty, they might be called my gang. At seventy-five ‘my group’ seemed more fitting.  We went back a long way, long before Tuesday lunches. Late night meetings gave way to early night meetings.  Then after retirements freed up our days, except for the medical appointments, which at our ages are  common occurrences, came the Tuesday lunches. This Tuesday, it seemed, was shot.

   Unless! I rang the call bell.   “Can I help you?”

   “ Can I get out of here before noon?”

   “I can’t see how. The paper work alone takes a while, and we can’t start it until your doctor releases you.”

   A while! And how long was a while?

   I sat up with minimum effort.  A few steps from my bed was a sink, next to the door into a bathroom. Above the mirror over the sink was a placard.  DON’T RISK A FALL. GIVE US A CALL.

   I pressed the call button. “Can I help you?”

   “I need to pee.”

   “You have a bathroom just steps from your bed.”

   “And a sign that says Don’t go without calling for help.”

   “Someone will be right with you.”

   Lucky for me I did not really have to pee for no one came. Not by the time I stood in my own clothing outside the emergency ward door awaiting the cab I had called.  Again lucky for me.  I had not forgotten to bring my cell phone. Else how could I get a cab?  In my whole life the times I had hailed a cab I could count on one hand. And to be fair most were with my husband. Once in Athens when we were going to the airport. Once in Tunis for the same reason. Once in Paris to go to the Rodin museum. Once in Florence to get back to my hotel after a tiring day of sightseeing. Once in San Francisco.

   Buses, trains, my own car, usually with my husband driving, was my way. “Where to?” the driver asked.

  ‘Focus, focus,’ I told myself. ’Where are you going?’

  “Is this Tuesday the 15^th?”

   “Yes ma’am. Where to?”

   Focus, focus. It’s Jeff and Nancy’s time for lunch. “1080 Cedar Drive,” I said. “I have a luncheon date.”

   He took his time, fumbling with the meter setting, studying the map on his GPS screen, talking on his radio about “some possible problem” with an address. “Exactly what do I do?”

     A terse response sputtered from the radio. “Address checks out. Take her to that address.”

   A buxom young woman took my arm as I stepped out of the cab. “Carlie, where have you been? We’ve been worried sick about you. The hospital called and said you left without being released.  What have—“

   I did not have time for her foolish questions. “Who all is coming today?”

   “Come now, Carlie.  Let’s get you back to your room. You should have waited to make sure you were all right.”

   “I’m here for the Tuesday luncheon. Jeff and Nancy are expecting me.”

   “Come along, Carlie.” And then to the driver to whom she handed two bills, “Thank you,.”

   Focus, focus. This was the right day wasn’t it?  Or had I gotten my dates mixed up?

    The double doors to the RIVERSIDE ALTZIMERS CARE CENTER opened. Carlie  was escorted in again. 

The Heart within us

   "Coriolanus? Are you mad?" I startled at the volume and tone of Julia's voice.  One would never call her --what's the correct word?-- shy and retiring. But now she acted as if she reigned over the world. "Ye Gods, who knows about Coriolanus? Or more to the point who cares?"
   "You would be surprised, " I said and hesitated before adding, "Your highness."
   Not noticing or more likely just ignoring the implied insult of my "your highness", she said in a more controlled voice. "Granted your -- how shall I put this? Granted you have some ingrained notion that characters like Coriolanus are despicable.  What can I say?"
   "What can you say? Great."
   "You do not know.  You cannot know how things were." She sighed heavily.
   I did not wait for her to continue. "Oh I think I know exactly things were.. Not so different from how things are in my own time, in my own country." She scowled. I scowled back. "You were royalty. Rich beyond my comprehension and at times aware of it. Let me share a tale with you."
   Her eyes narrowed, the corners of her mouth flared out. I spread my lips in a smile I hoped was as condescending as I intended. I took pleasure in the notion that I, as a mere Latin teacher of the 20th Century, was able to cow the daughter of the 1st century world leader, Augustus.
   "Let me set the stage for you," I said. "It was 22 BC. Agrippa had fled Rome in a snit because he was jealous of your young husband,Marcellus. Marcellus, the nephew and designated heir of Augustus was called into duty. From sun up to sun down Marcellus  was pressed into 'Empire Business'. You addicted to pleasure--" Julia waved her hand with what could have been violent if she were more than a figment of my imagination and if anyone had been within her reach. "And don't go denying it," I said. "You resented not having Marcellus as your whims dictated. How terrible-- no picnics in the garden at noon, no wine parties in the middle of the afternoon, no sex whenever the mood struck you. Your leisure led to one thing--Augustus's, and more to the point, Livas's insistence that you help with the weaving. This was the scene you agreed to spend the afternoon with Marcella-- Marcellus' sister and wife of the run-away Agrippa.
   "Are you ready for this tale?"
   Not waiting for her consent I began.

   One warm sunny sfternoon to avoid her weaving assignment Julia went with Marcella to visit Arelia Lepida, an ill planned visit as it turned out. Arelia had invited them to share the experiences of her trip to Syria with her government official husband. Her sharing amounted to flaunting the jewels and silk she purchased. About Arelia's behavior Julia and Marcella agreed, and without any need for consultation they were on their way home sooner than planned. Julia insisted the slaves accompanying them walk enough behind them that no one would know they were chaperoned. "Don't be an idiot," Marcella said. "whether they're with us or not, everybody knows who we are and that we're guarded."
   "Don't be so big headed. I bet there are a lot of people who would walk right past us and  never know who we are-- if we just blended into the crowd." Julia's attempt to motion the slaves away met with little success as they dropped back only a few steps.  "Watch this," Julia said and began to hum.
   Marcella pulled up her headdress. When people gawked and pointed, she called them boorish. Julia found the attention intoxicating. "You know, Marcella, this is fun. I feel so free-- so me."
   Despite Marcella's objections Julia waved to the crowd and stopped to chat with some, who according to Marcella, did not know their place. Incensed when a young woman in a tattered tunic threw herself at Julia's feet, Marcella rushed ahead and watched from a safe distance.
   At first Julia felt revulsion, then sympathy as she looked down on at the piteable creature, not much older than she. She was so worn, so tired, so old. Julia put her hand under the woman's elbow and lifted her to her feet. Her sallow face with its sunken eyes had a hauntingly sad expression. Julia had never been this close to anyone so wretched. She felt the need to comfort the woman, to assure her there was a way out of this quagmire, but the woman drew in her breath and stepped back. They kept their distance, each staring, neither speaking.
    "I am so glad," Julia thought, "I was born into my family. Ye gods, what must it be like?' She felt a pang of shame. Her problems looming so big this morning now seemed a mere trifle. She was so pre-occupied with her dislike of weaving, when this young woman would welcome it, not for a few hours a day, but for twelve or fourteen, just for survival. The woman visibly embarrassed fled. Julia looked down the street after her. Then distracted by children playing in the run off of the fountain she ceased to think about it.
                                  *               *               *              *              *
   Julia's ebullient nature seemed fractured.  The empathy I might have felt for her vanished when she said, "And just why are you sharing this with me? Do you think this little story makes me like Coriolanus? Shove it. How can you, a mere peasant, begin to understand?"

'History Equally Applied' Means What?

History equally applied! Julia, on out last encounter, charged me to equally apply history.  And what, pray tell, does 'History Equally Applied' mean? For days, for weeks I chased that. No answer was ferreted from anything I could summon up.
Then from nowhere (which is lubricrous) or from somewhere (which is ambiguous) came the mist covered memory of a Book Club I had once been a member of. A sophisticated reading list, a demanding outline, gave way rapidly to our mundane concerns. Month after month we tried to peel away ego-preserving chatter, apply what educators label 'critical thinking'. Mostly we failed to step outside our narrow time and space.

And now I was urged to 'apply history equally'. Without time travel, which is not available, only in the musings of a creative or mad mind, the only interaction with Julia or Carti or Tanaquil comes through reading, to anyone.  How do I admit their appearances to me? Unless I confess to being mad or at least very creative.

 And what do I read?

History! And what is history? Filtered accounts of events, colored sketches of people, shaping of both to meet the needs of reader or reader or both. How often have we heard- it is the winners who write history. Therein lies my problem.

I am, so Julia (THE EMPEROR'S DAUGHTER) has appointed me 'determiner of woman's place in history'. Does she know what she is asking? I recalled a lecture of one of my Ancient Rome History professors. It involved a story from 490BC, long after Tanaquil, long before Julia or Carti.

To set the stage-- The Roman populace had picketed, rioted and negotiated with the ruling oligarchy until the Tribunate (people's representatives) was established.

Enter the historical scene a young patrician soldier who led an attack against a long standing and persistent foe of Rome, the Volcian city of Corioli. The young patrician, Gaius Marcius, decidedly defeated the Corioli and was renamed on his return to Rome "Coriolanus".

The next year when famine struck Rome, Coriolanus, puffed up by his status, suggested to the patricians, examining every means to hold on to power against the common folk, that they withhold imported grain from the common folk until they agreed to give up their ridiculous claim to a tribunate.

The Tribunes, intoxicated with their newly acquired power, won. They invoked the provision of the Tribunate Ruling which gave Tribunes the right to confront anyone who caused harm to the state. Coriolanus was exiled.

Coriolanus joined the Volcians-- (what choices did he have?). As a leader of a Volcian army he fought aganist the Rman troops he had once led. His final attack against his former country is a story which makes Roman History Sing.

With a superior army he marched toward Rome intent on righting the slights to his person. He arrived at the very gates of Rome. Refusing pleas from government officials and priests to spare Rome, he was met by his mother, leading a contingent of woman matrons.  His mother stood resolutely before her son and said, "Before you take Rome, my son, you must march though  me."

Coriolanus cried out, "Mother, you have saved Rome, but you have surely destroyed your son." He withdrew. Rome was saved; Coriolanus was executed by the Volcians as a traitor.

HISTORY or MYTH?

With information like that I ask again-- What, pray tell, does history equally applied mean? The sharing of questionable, exaggerated, filtered accounts of events and people?

Staying on Task if I Knew the Task

          'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings;
          Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.'
          Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
          of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
          the lone and level sands stretch far away.
                                                             Shelley

   Old as man's emergence, sure as man's existence is Ozymandias and Ozymandias and Ozymandias.

    "BORN IN THE IMAGE OF GOD, WITH DOMINION OVER NATURE" is chiseled in stone above the door of SONS OF CHRIST CHURCH  in Pinkerton.

   Fully intent on the Pinkerton story fermenting at the back of consciousness, I was convinced this was to be the most clever notion I had ever had. And in my own mind, clever notions were not few for me.

   I sat pencil in hand, blank paper on my desk, words elbowing to be set down.  The four of us knew exactly where this story was going.

   "Pinkerton," I wrote, "is not reached without effort. It sits well off an interstate highway, so far from ordinary travel that one came to Pinkerton only if one felt compelled to come to Pinkerton ."

   I had just crossed the T in Pinkerton when the distinctive presence of Julia peered over my shoulder and slowed my hand. "Just what in Hades are you trying to do?" Julia, dead for over 2000 years, daughter of the most important man in the first century Mediterranean world-- Julia, victim and victor of her fate, held my hand and mind.
   "I'm past trying. I am writing." With closed eyes and clinched hands, I willed her away. Julia is not easily willed away.  Without my consent or input she summoned Carti and Tanaquil. While the three perched at the edges of my mind, I shook my head and said aloud -- to no one, for no one was really there. "Get out. Get out before people start to think I am nuts."
   Grins from all three.
   "Did you not hear? I don't want to be insane.  Ican't be insane. I will not be nuts."
   Julia's hand rested on my shoulder. "And why does knowing us make you nuts?" Her eyes shifted to Tanaquil. "Do you feel insane because you talk to me? Or to Carti? Or to Jewellee?"
   "Not on Tinea's life."
   "See, Jewellee, you are not nuts. You're special. You're in touch with your past, your distant past to be sure. Think about what we are doing-- think about it. We're trying to talk to our futures, and that is a whole other pot of eels. Let's let that pass. What we have been remiss in is that you have not dipped into your more recent past. You haven't seen or talked about that quaint ancestor of yours. What was her name? Marybelle or was it Maybelle?
Shall we summon her?"
   In unison Cartimandua and Tanaquil said, "Oh yes, let's."
   And there she was. Marybelle."
   "I am so glad you came," Julia said in a tone oozing sincerity and charm. "The last time you seemed less than delighted to be with us." Marybelle blushed. Julia continued, "Not that I blame you. I imagine you find us not exactly to your liking--"
   Marybelle interrupted, "Crass, pushy and self assured."
   Julia's laugh was more a cackle than a laugh. "Ye gods, I admire your grit. You do know who we are? That is all but Jewellee."
   In your current form-- mostly a figment of Jewellee's imagination as I would be if I chose to be a part of this madhouse activity. You are all three more myth than fact.  Only Jewellee and I can pass the fact test." She ignored their attempts to interrupt her. "And to be honest it's iffy for her. To be sure you were once real.  But now you're so overlayed and encrusted with mutable layers of biased and misinformed history who knows the real you?"
   Julia's eyes flashed; her lips widened into a smirky grin. "And you? Jewellee, I grant you, has not  lived long enough, or to be more accurate has not been dead long enough to allow for what you so inelegantly call encrustation of biased history. But you, dear lady, have. Shall we explore the women of your age. They were, I have no doubt, no different from me, or Tanaquil or Carti." Turning to me, aghast at her aggressiveness she continued, "Jewellee, since our little Maybelle or Marybelle or whatever her name is not sharing with us,  you singularily are capable of informing us of the women of her time."
   "But she knows better that I."
   "True, but to be fair to us all we need history's bias equally applied. You may report when we next meet. Get at it. We'll leave you to your task.You have your work cut out for you.'
   And they were all gone.

Prejudice is universal, it seems

    I was not inclined to share my rendition of The Big Green Frog story (see previous blog) with Carti and Tanaquil. I felt it was poorly written and juvenile.  But Julia, forge ahead Julia, gave me no choice. "It's not that I'll abandon you if you don't," she said we all drained the wine from our glasses at the same time. "It's that I shall never leave you. Night and day I'll be at the edges of your consciousness, hour after hour, with never any respite." She held out her arms, lowered her head and hugged herself. "So share," she said in what I can only surmise was her 'seduce whomever was listening' voice.
    I shared. I shared the story I considered juvenile at best, hackneyed at worst. For some time no one responded. No shrugs, no laughter, no head shaking-- nothing. "See," I said, "it's the  pits."
    "And what in Hades does "it's the pits" mean?" Julia's voice had an edge I prefer not to describe.
    Tanaquil held out a hand, the hand of a Queen seeking silence and attention. "Jewellee is right". After an uncomfortable silence she continued, "and she's wrong. She's wrong in that it's bad. I daresay much worse is published everyday. But she's right when she says we don't need reports of frogs, big ones, green ones, small ones or brown ones. We need to  report on real people, people like her, like Carti and Julia, like me. Like anyone who has felt the sting of unwarranted prejudice.
   "I remember so well two times I had to cope with irrational, unjustified and painful prejudice.  I remember it as if it were yesterday. Tarquinius and I --" She paused, closed her eyes, and shook her head. What has been labeled the illusive inscrutable smile appeared. Finally she said, "Tarquinius was not always Tarquinius. He took that name when we came from Tarquinia to Rome. But that is a story of its own.  More of that later. After we settled in Rome which was nothing-- pardon me Julia-- nothing more than a mud hut village. We worked hard to fit in, to serve our new country. And we had glorious success, mostly because of Tarquinius' talent and wealth, and some would say his ruthless ambition. If he was ruthless, it was Rome who profited most.  He became King Ancus' closest adviser and the legal guardian of the King's children in case the king died.
   "I felt fully accepted when I was befriended by Ancus' wife, Amata. But I was soon to discover I was not as accepted as I thought."
    "Ye Gods, Tanaquil," Julia said. "If you have a story that speaks to the Big Green Frog idea, get on with it, or as my father, Augustus, always said, 'As quick as boiIed asparagus' I'm out of here. All of us came after you and we do know the sequence of events."
    "I knew," Tanaquil said, ignoring Julia's rants, "I had been accepted when I was invited to participate in the Mater Matuta celebration."
    Julia interrupted, "Spare us the vivid description of the celebration. Suffice it to say it was a day of abandonment and unabashed freedom."
   Tanaquil's inscrutable smile reappeared as she stared Julia down. "The abandonment, as you call it, was offset by what followed the feast of too much food and too much wine. Tongues loosened by too much wine flapped. And I overheard the cream of Roman female aristocracy in serious conversation. 'Poor Ancus', Amata said to Collina, wife of the elder and priggish Claudius. Don't ask me to explain Claudius just now.'
    Julia scowled and Tanaquil smiled. "Amata continued, 'You know how Ancus is. He gets an idea in his head and Jupiter himself could not dislodge it. He's decided his time is nearly up. To hear him tell it he has one foot in the Styx already and will cross it any day now.'
   "I watched as Collina leaned in toward the Queen. I inched myself forward to hear. 'You do know, don't you, that everybody-- well nearly everybody -- knows he's made a will naming the Tarquinian guardian of the boys?'  Then Collina lowered her voice to a near whisper. 'Most people hope Ancus will leave long for your Tatius to be old enough to succeed him. But if he doesn't, I can't imagine what havoc will be wrought. A Tarquinian. Can you just imagine?'
   "I strained to hear. 'I've heard that', Amata said, 'but I choose not to pay attention to idle gossip.' Collina snorted. 'I should pay attention if I were you. The feeling is more than just idle thinking. It's worrisome to a lot of people. You know there are those who think Lucius Tarquinius does all the things he does for the city for one reason and one reason only. He has an eye on the kingship.'
   "Collina did not notice me to her back. She continued, 'or buying the kingship is more like it. An Etruscan. Can you imagine the nerve. Take my word for it- we need to stop this alien.' She snorted again. "An Etruscan! How low can we sink?'
   "So Ladies ," Tanaquil said, "we don't need frogs of any sort to show the presence of narrow minded prejudice. We just share what we know first hand."

    

Lesson in bad writing

    I have always known that of all my imaginary ladies, Julia was the Force to be dealt with. Her father, though the Emperor of Rome, could not easily restrain her. Certainly I could not. It was I who had first summoned her, but she had decided she could now summon me.

    With no warning she was there-- at the top of my consciousness. "You have it your power to finally after years too many to recount to promote the cause of women," she said as she stood before me.
    "And what in Hades do you suggest I do?" As much as I love her, and I do, I had no time this day to indulge her presence. It was not that I was so busy, but I was at a low point. Her need for company took a back seat to my preoccupations. Which were --- which I leave behind now. For they would be of little importance to her and of no importance to you who read this.
    Julia was not to be dismissed easily. As clearly as I saw the maple tree outside my dining room window, I saw Julia, with her tightly braided hair, her stylish stola, beckoning to me. I closed my eyes, breathed deeply and said aloud, "You are not real. You are a figment of my imagination. You come at my invitation. And only at my invitation. Go.  Go."
    "Go? I do not come and go at the command of anyone, except maybe my father. But,"  she shrugged, "who says no the Emperor?" She fell silent.
    The harder I tried to will her away the more persistent she was. Finally I said, "You would have me do exactly what?"
    "Speak for me, for Tanaquil and Cartimandua. For all women.  Even Ismene-- and it irks me no end to say that for I find her not to my liking."
    My patience, already stretched thin, neared the snapping point. "And say what, and to whom,am I going to tell things, may I ask?"
    Julia laughed as only she could, loudly, lustily and lengthily. Then she smiled demurely, as she no doubt did when her father chastized her. "Share our last little encounter with our fantasies. Surely you remember-- or I should think you did for you sat writing frantically as the rest of us did the really hard work. Tell you what, Jewellee, I will bug off and keep my distance if you edit that story so we can share it with the world. Deal?"
    To get her out of my head I agfreed. "Deal."

    So I share.

    We set about -- Julia, Carti, Tanaquil and I to construct a tale about  "What It's Like Being a Woman", a tale devoid of time restraints, a tale that would appeal to all people of all times in all places. Or so we told ourselves. And that turned out to be not as easy as it sounds. In fact I am not at all sure it is worth publishing-- at least not just yet.  But I said I would. This is our story.

     The pond was not large as ponds go. The frogs who inhabited it were not different from frogs in other ponds. Some were big; others were small. Some were green; others were brown or gray. When and where the notion that big green frogs were superior to all other frogs, no frog knew. No frog ever asked.  It had always been so in this pond and it would ever be so.  That was the way things were.
    Big green frogs were the biggest, no doubt about that.  But they were not necessarily the loudest or the most voracious insect eaters. Nor were they all the highest jumpers. Granted because of their size most could jump higher than many brown frogs, although there were some big brown frogs who jumped higher. And more food was needed for the bigger bodies, although there were small brown frogs who seemed to consume more. Without question a large soundbox emitted a louder sound. But there were small frogs, brown frogs whose performances matched those of big green frogs. That was the status.
     It was important to big green frogs to maintain their superiority-- not just the really superior ones, but all big green ones. Now big green frogs were no more evil the other frogs they consider their inferiors. They did not plot or connive to maintain their dominance. They did not have to. They were superior. It had always been so; it would always be so.
    I began to laugh.  My low point seemed to have passed. Did we really write this? I know many people who believe such products done by committee are mere trash. No wonder. This was done by our little committee and it was trash. I would write no more until I talked with them.

    Then there was Julia, pushing to the forefront of my mind. She was not happy. "So you think it's drivel?"
    "Not exactly drivel, perhaps, but bad."
    "Nearly drivel then? Trash I believe you are thinking."
    "Julia, I know where we were trying to go with this. I remember how long we mulled over it before starting the exact writing. But I ask you--? Wouldn't we do much better to write your account of the evening when your depression at being separated from your children led you to get drunk. Remember sharing this, remember what you said. It was a party of young people your age. The women huddled together, talking about husbands and children. You unable to deal with your longing for your children, which your father had moved into his house, wandered from the women to the men, whose company you preferred under any circumstance, but especially this night. It was not long before you had had more wine than you needed. You spilled it down the front of you and over your new silk stola. Napkins offered to wipe it off you waved away. "I'm quite all right," you said, or that is what you reported to us. "Lucky for me Tiberius isn't here. He already thinks I am a drunken wench. He seems not to notice how fond he is of drink. But that doesn't matter. According to Tiberius men can do things women should never do. Things they should never think of doing. Now I ask you why are you men so insecure that you have to keep us in our place? Tiberius says I should stay in my place. Now I ask you what is my place? And just who decides what it is?"
    Julia glared at me. She had no intention of  answering me. "I know where we were trying to go with our frog story," I said, "but, Julia, I think we need to use more stories about us-- all of us. We all have stories to share, stories which could tell the world how ---. Surely someone will hear. But if we can't make that work we need to go back to the beginning-- try a new, a different way."
    "And when? Have we no guts? God I wish I was born an Amazon. They knew. But Us? We seem to have waited since the beginning of time. If we wait until we have the perfect story, another thousand or two will have gone by and we're in the same place we have always been." She was gone. But I knew she would be back. I knew she would have Cartimandua and Tanaquil on her side.

(To read the rest of Julia's remarkable life check out e-book from Amazon Kindle  THE EMPEROR'S DAUGHTER)

Julia tells me to get a grip

     With my life turned so askew by the serious illness of a long time, completely loved husband, I had no desire to meet my group. Precious as they were-- Julia, whose father ruled the mighty Roman empire for so long and whose death caused the whole known world to shake and throw Julia's life into devastating disarray. Cartimandua who reigned as Queen in Brigantia, England into which Imperial Rome was laying her imperial clutches. Tanaquil, wife and co-ruler of the Roman Republic at the beginning of the expansion which would make both Julia's and Cartimandua's existence important.
     My ladies pressed me. When can we meet? We have so much to consider. And now there were the interlopers, Ismene, so proud of her Spartan lifestyle, and Marybelle, less secure in her Colonial American heritage, but nevertheless proud.
     And I? Coping with the inevitability of life alone after fifty plus years with a man who ---. After so many years sharing the same bathroom, eating breakfast together, working crossword puzzles with a second cup of coffee, staying up late Saturday night playing Scrabble, I feel like one half of a unit. A unit now threatened.
     When half ceases to be, what is left? Just the other half? Or is there more?
     Julia whose indomitable spirit bends to no one or to no event, (See THE EMPEROR'S DAUGHTER available on Amazon Kindle) refused to leave me to my self pity. "You are you!"
     And what did  "You are you." mean? I struggled to push Julia from my consciousness, but as I said she is indomitable. What a lovely word is indomitable. From Julia's own native tongue, Latin, it means untameable. She did not, would not leave; nor did she allow the others to stay away. The three, she, Carti and Tanaquil hovered around the corners of my mind. Julia's invitation to Ismene was refused (not graciously I might add) because Ismene considered Julia's preference for things Athenian to things Spartan an insult. Likewise Marybelle declined because she was more Spartan than Athenian despite the addiction of so many important colonists on American shores to Athenian ideals.
     Carti and Tanaquil suffering none of the baggage of me or Ismene or Marybelle agreed with Julia. I conceded and gave my word I would come prepared for serious conversation at a future time --not just now. Just now I needed to wallow in what Julia not so graciously called "my own self pity".
     "Within reason," Julia insisted, "else we shall haunt you every waking and sleeping moment."
     "Soon", I promised.  "Soon" I promise.