Whats’s Stolen was Golden Stolen What appears to be golden Golden leaves Some believe fall from trees There’s no law in their world Their virtues were perhaps hurled When they received crime That damaged their minds Where are the boundries we seek To stop those who steal from the meek Is this just an idea Or is it a concept that should be made clear Where are the holes in our walls Where are we not standing tall ? Where have we thrown parts of us away ? Where do we feel dismay ? Sometimes our empathy creeps Drives us to feel desperately weak Grief showcases our loss Parts of us covered in frost Somestimes it pays to look through diamond eyes To see though those who sugarcoat lies To feel deep deep within And find laughter in what appears to be grim Writen by Zoe LL
You stand in the middle of a salt desert. Barren land, with a pinkish and bluish hue. It’s crunchy underfoot as you walk through the salt, towards what appears to be a mirage.
As you stare at the hypnotic landscape a structure begins to appear ahead of you. As you get closer you realise it’s a huge wheel. A fairground wheel. You speed up a little, intrigued by it, even though you are not a lover of these kinds of wheels. More for kids you think, but you are wandering alone and there’s nothing else to do here.
You walk up to the kiosk and a man pushes a golden ticket towards you.
“How much is it” ? you ask
“No charge for you” he mutters under his breath and points to a man standing by the little door that opens to the gondolas.
It’s my lucky day you think,
It’s red inside and looks not unlike the seats in an American diner. Kind of retro cool, you think to yourself. You get in, sit down and he pulls the door shut. As you look up to say thanks you notice that it’s not a man, but a monkey.
He looks at you with some scorn, as if he’s appraising you somehow, but still says nothing. Before you have time to reflect on this phenomenon the wheel starts turning with such force, that you are flung on to the floor.
You struggle to pick yourself up again as the wheel keeps turning, the momentum picking up speed. There’s a guttural growl that comes deep within the earth, which you feel in your whole body. You begin to panic. Anxiety rising within you.
The wheel is picking up speed, you are still lying on the floor and the apocolytic grones from the earth are getting more frequent. You hear a huge crack, which sounds like the wheel will split in two, and then it strikes, lightening.
You almost feel relieved. It’s a storm you think. As you are about to start picking yourself up, the rain starts. Huge torrents of it, lashing down on you.
Your gondola is covered, but it’s coming from every direction, so there is no reprieve. You are so scared you don’t even know what to do. You don’t think you barely breathed in the last few minutes. Holding on for dear life.
A voice speaks to you, you open your eyes, but through the rain you can’t see much. He looks like a bull. With huge horns and a beautiful shaggy red coat.
“What on earth are you doing down there? he asks
“I’m shielding myself from the storm”, you say shakily.
“Why don’t you just sit on the seat as everyone else does? It’s so much more comfortable, than lying in a pool of water?”
“I’m protecting myself from the storm”, you tell him. It seems quite rational from your perspective anyway.
Well if you look down, you’ll see Typhon, the crocodile and he’s really enjoying laughing at you, with your funny ways. This is one of his favorite games. Playing around with the guests and testing them out.
Keep lying on the floor and he’ll be happy to unleash more storms upon you. If you stay there even longer, and keep up the panic, you might get treated to an earth quake or a volcano.
“Is that something that might interest you”? he says
“Of course, not you say to him”, under your breath
“Well then, get up off the floor and sit in your seat. Panic never ever helps. And breathe. Breathing stops the panic.”
You look down to see if you can alert the monkey or the kiosk man to stop the ride, but they are not there. You start to feel panic again, and then a flash of lighting shoots across the sky, and a huge crack of thunder rubbles, which unnerves your stomach.
“Inside and outside” a voice says. You turn back around and there’s a man sat there with the head of a stork.
“Inside and outside” he says again.
“What does that even mean” ? you say exasperated
“Have you not noticed yet? What you feel on the inside happens on the outside. So the more you react, the worse it gets.”
“When you calm, the storm ceases to scare you and it calms. When you get sacred the storm gods get excited and they rev up the action. Did my friend the bull not tell you that already? “
“You must pay more attention if you are ever to get off this wheel. Some people get trapped on here their entire life, going around and around, victim to the crocodile god typhons joking’s.”
“They just don’t understand the lessons of calm, so they stay here, around and around, from storm to storm, earthquake to earthquake, volcano to volcano. It never ends. The day they find peace is in death.”
“That’s terrible “, you say sadly.
“Yes,” he says.” But you are on the wheel like them and you have been for some time, from what I can see. You must have asked for help, which is how you ended up on this wheel. The wheel of illumination.”
“Wow, the wheel of illumination”, you say. “Sounds exciting.”
“Well it can be, if you listen and learn and understand how it works. It’s not very complicated, but it takes great commitment and understanding. In truth the lessons are very basic, but to really understand them you must practise them.”
“This is not something that you can learn from a book and repeat back to me off by heart. That’s not real learning or real understanding. It will take great courage and mastery.”
“But first you must tell me, why you are on the wheel, and then I will tell you the secret.”
“I don’t know,” you say. “I really don’t”
“Well, there must be a reason for all this panic and worry. What is it that you think will happen when this panic starts?”
“I think I will die “you tell him. “I worry that something terrible will happen and then I will die.”
“You will die, that is for sure. All humans die.”. he says matter of factly
“There is really nothing unusual about it. Everyone does it, so that makes no sense. Why would you really worry about death so much? What in particular about it worries you?”
You think for a moment, and then you say that you are really scared of getting old, of aging, of being an old person and not having done anything of note with your life.
“Well that makes zero sense to me”, says the stork man. “You tell me you are scared of dying and then you don’t want to get old, and then here you are dying a slow death of boredom, because you are too scared to do anything in case you die.”
“So, you are willing yourself old, by virtue of your anxiety, and you are not going out and living life and getting in a panic, every time there’s a storm, which you are causing might I add.”
“Very strange behaviour really”, he mutters.
“Focus on your inside and your outside will take care of itself. It’s no good obsessing over this old business, of getting old and looking old and all the things that you humans associate with getting old if your inside is a pit of anxious snakes and rats.”
“There is a whole world within you waiting to be created. From the inside out.”
“The secret my friend is courage. Find the courage in the storm, find the calm & silence in the storm and find the power within you to pass through the storm and the storm will pass, just like it always does.”
“You get it”, he says? It’s pretty simple really. Simples. In theory of course. Practice, is another matter entirely.
“Yes”, you say. I think so.” Hoping you are done, and that is it now, and you can get off to stable ground.
“Great he says. So, thank you for asking to come here. We always love visitors on the wheel of illumination.” Hopefully, I’ll see you when it’s time for your judgment for the next level. We always hope for sooner, rather than later or never of course.
Without skipping a beat, he continues. “Your test will start now and it goes on for one hour. If you can ride the wheel of illumination as it passes through the eye of the storm, then you can get off in your new reality. The reality level will depend on how you weather the storm so to speak.”
If you end up in the trough of disillusionment, or at the base of the gondola in a panic in mundane terms, like we found you, then we need to send you back to the underworld where you came from. As you are not ready yet.
Time starts now……..
Additional notes: As soon as I started to write this there was an incredible storm that happened at exactly the same time. The whole time I was writing this. Huge cracks of lightning, thunder, and lashing rain. After I’d finished and put the laptop down, the storm ceased and it became sunny again. Coincidence? Or were the gods really listening?
Art: Zoe Langman
I received an email and then a call almost immediately on a Friday night at about 10 pm while I was still on sabbatical in Bali. I have taken a year off to relax, and recover from burnout in a world that I really wasn’t fitting into anymore.
It has been 7 months since I had said goodbye to my last client and I was starting to wonder what I would do next. I had been experimenting with a lot of new skills, creative pursuits and ways of working, but nothing that I could really live off.
Then I got the call, late Friday night as a recruiter had seen my profile and had asked me if I would be able to come in and consult for this startup that had grown massively but was really struggling with finding their feet.
It was an online payment solution that was going up against Paypal and they had done incredibly well in the beginning, but now sales were flat, management was panicking and the investors were getting incredibly twitchy.
I arrived in LA, late afternoon on Friday night, 3 months later and by the time I’d checked out and grabbed an Uber to the place I was staying, it was already 10 pm.
I did not worry too much though as I thought I have the weekend to rest and then on Monday I can start work fresh.
I pulled up at a large, extremely modern villa, with beautiful tropical trees. It was really impressive. I had not really looked at the address that they had sent me, relying that Uber would just take me there. I checked the address with the driver, he said it was correct.
The door opened and a guy stood there in his late 20s. “Zoe”, he said, “come in and let me show you your room. We spoke on the phone 2 weeks ago.”
This was odd I thought. I don’t know him and he’s offering me to stay in his house. This seems odd.
Anyway, I got out, got my stuff as I did not feel like I had any other choice and followed him in.
The house seemed pretty calm, and I saw no one else there. He showed me to my room. White and grey. A very bland, boring yet elegant room. After the riot of color in Bali, this made me feel quite down.
The vibrant colors in Bali were so uplifting to me. I was already thinking, what have I done!
I unpacked my stuff, and now I just needed to freshen up and get into bed and sleep. The flight had been super long and I was jetlagged, but I had to try to get some rest.
I had no en-suite and the guy had not shown me where the bathroom was, so I had to go find it.
I opened the door and looked out. I was on a small corridor and the end opened up to what looked like a glass balcony, probably overlooking the rest of the property. Again all white, even the carpets. Only dotted with dainty elegant green palm trees now and then.
I tried the first, second and third doors, all locked. The third opened and suddenly I was in a maze of bodies. It was so steamy, but what I could make out were that there were about 20 people in there all completely naked and they appeared to be having a party. My eyes adjusted to the steam and I began to make out female forms, dancing, drinking champagne and laughing ridiculously. They were all young, possibly early 20s and very beautiful and of Southeast Asian descent. I saw the guy who opened the door to me.
Something in my head just said LEAVE. So I turned around and opened the door and left. I must have only been in there 30 seconds, but I had got the lay of the land pretty fast. I had spotted the guy that had opened the door to me, but I don’t think he had seen me.
I walked back to my room slowly. Thinking about what I had just seen. I just felt really sad. Not again I thought. Why does it always have to be like this?
A couple of hours later, a knock on the door and someone shouting my name woke me up.
I got up dazed, grabbed a robe, and opened the door. It was that same guy, luckily clothed. I was wondering what he was going to say about earlier if anything.
He said “Zoe, we have a meeting in one hour in the office to go through the plans for the next month. Numbers are down and we need you to step in right away”.
I said, “it’s 2 am on a Friday night.”
“Yes”, he said. “But we are in crisis mode and the investors have called a meeting. All senior staff will be there, so please get dressed and be downstairs in 45 mins and a car will drive us to the office. It really is only a few minutes around the corner.
“Okay”, I heard come out of my mouth.
We drove a couple of minutes to the office in silence. He did not mention what had happened in the bathroom in his house and neither did I.
We pulled up to a large wooden villa-style office, not dissimilar to the house I was staying in, just that the entrance and the front of it was wood not white. Must be the same architect I thought. They both look incredibly expensive places to live and work, considering they are in trouble.
“Classic” I heard myself mutter under my breath.
I sat in a white, nondescript boardroom. It was 3 am. There was 8 of us. One other woman, who was taking notes and the rest were guys. My “naked bathroom friend”, a few of his other “naked mates” I had spotted in there with him and then the older investors I deduced.
The oldest guy started talking about how concerned he was about the situation and that it was a disaster, that things were obviously going badly wrong and that there was a lot of pressure on him to deliver the numbers.
He droned on and on and I just started tuning out. It was 3 am and the more he talked and instilled panic and fear, the worse I started to feel. Something in my mind, just said Zone out. So I did.
He stopped talking. Then the naked bathroom guys did a great job of saying nothing in a lot of fancy words as an explanation as to why their company was failing.
They must have been educated privately in very expensive schools I thought. They have this slippery detached manner and way of sliding blame off themselves that I had seen before so many times. It’s very darkly elegant; in its own way, but deeply manipulative.
One of the investors looked at me and asked me if I had any comments so far.
I had a million things in my head that I wanted to say. I had only been the presence of them all for less than a few hours and it was blindingly obvious where the root of the issues was, but I decided that might not be the best idea at 3 am.
The meeting wrapped up at 5 am. A lot of droning, threats and blame shifting. No conclusions. I zoned in and out, part jet lagged, part trying to protect my energy from these vapid monsters.
What had I done, I kept thinking…
The door knocked hard, I woke up with a start. I had no idea what day it was. Someone was calling my name again. I felt dizzy, not in my body and huge anxiety.
They kept knocking.
“Zoe we leave in one hour, breakfast is downstairs, There is a town hall meeting with all staff in the office. ”
I looked at my phone. It was 1 pm on Saturday. I felt sick. Do these people have no respect for weekends? How is this working round the clock helping anyone?
I thought things might have changed since I had left the world a year ago. Certainly, all the news indicated that start-ups and investors were getting their act together and were not being quite so ridiculous with their hustle culture, but it seems these guys did not get the memo!
The town hall was messy. There were no chairs. Just big white screens with guys standing in front of videos and whiteboards in their huge pavilion that was at the back of the office. It was gigantic. How did they even have so much space you thought and so artfully lit somehow. So much glamour. The architecture, the lighting, the light wood, and brushed metal and the tasteful art on the walls. The whole thing was like being in a Nordic hotel, albeit in LA.
But somehow or another it was not calming. It was certainly beautiful, but it really felt like some upmarket mental hospital. Where the design was supposed to distract us, from the turbulent mess that was happening within.
There are too many masks and too much pretense here I thought. I felt deeply uncomfortable.
A woman I had not seen before pressed a piece of paper into my hand. It was written in English, German and Spanish. All the questions were different, it was not translated. Lucky I can speak all those I thought.
We were supposed to walk around and listen to men speaking at each station and then make notes to hand in, based on the questions. I can’t remember what they were now, but I remember having to watch a TV commercial, that was selling their payment product and thinking it was really impactful, but not in a good way.It was about a surgeon saving someone’s life in an emergency room. All very dramatic and it pretty graphic. Blood and organs showing and a handsome doctor saving the day.
I really could not understand who on earth thought this was a good idea, as the link up with the brand was beyond tenuous. But someone had obviously thought about it and decided a handsome hero surgeon saving the day was something that their customers would tap into.
This whole thing is a massive mess I thought. This is not consulting work they need, to save their numbers. There is something so dark, manipulative and cultish in here, that until they save their souls, nothing I do will work.
Everything about it felt so deeply ugly and full of pretense. All I kept thinking, was. Why did I do this to myself?
And then I woke up.
Art: Photo taken on Las Canteras Beach, Gran Canaria – Artist Unknown
This story was actually a dream that I had a couple of weeks ago. I woke up and wrote it all down immediately. It felt very real. So much so that I had a feeling of terror as I woke up, that this was, in fact, my real life, and something that had actually happened.
Perhaps it was a premonition or a warning. Who knows, but I shall certainly be careful of any phone calls, that offer this kind of consulting work.
The Haunting of the Moth I’m haunting you Hidden keeper of the light You cannot run I have the power of flight I’ll catch you before you know it Expose your skills & fear blocking Keep moving and I’ll keep chasing That fear that resides within you The one that bubbles up at night That’s your past talking Pulling me out of plain sight You can’t escape the Mothman I see in the dark but am guided by the light I’ll haunt you and hunt you down forever Until you expose your secret untold light written by Zoe LL
How to work with this Poem: The Haunting of the Mothman
There are many ways to work with poems. You can read it over and over again and see what comes up. You can read it and then meditate on the core message and see what comes up for you in silence or you can read it before you go to bed and see what comes up in your dreams. Below are a list of questions and action points to help you work with the poem to dive a little deeper.
- Can you consider what you might be keeping a secret from yourself and the people around you?
- What gifts have you been born with or developed, that we may be too afraid to show in the culture, environment, or situation that we are living and working in?
- What comes easily to you, that others may be jealous of ?
- Are you brave enough to share your gift?
- Are you brave enough to share your gift in the comments below?
- Are you brave enough to take an action to show your gift to the world?
You stare up at the huge expanse in front of you. It’s so so massive you think. You wonder if you will watch this view for your whole lifetime. It belongs to just one man. How can he possibly have this huge house for himself, and why the big walls? You don’t understand, but then you are just a duckling, so you have been told and you don’t know very much at all yet.
You look at your home, it’s a beautiful lake, with lots of fresh water filled with all your friends. There’s the fish you talk to every day, the frogs, the lilies, the dragonflies and of course your parents and their friends. As long as you don’t do anything wrong, your life is rather fun you think. But what you haven’t quite worked out yet, is what is wrong and what is right as most of the time you don’t know.
Rules change, and you struggle to learn. Although you are told that you should just know. Life does seem hard like that when you think about all the things you need to remember so you don’t get a wing slap. Wing slaps hurt. Lucky your parents can’t scream much as swans are supposed to be silent, so you are told. Seen and not heard, so you don’t alert the man to your presence. That’s what they always keep reminding you.
“Quick”, your mum shouts. “He’s coming, come behind my wings. You can’t let him see you or he might turn you into one of his Swan Pedalos”.
Here she goes again you think, she’s obsessed with those swan pedalos. Why would he turn me into one, I am a small brown bird. I look nothing like my parents. Who would want a small brown bird lake machine to play on?
Your father pushes you up onto the bank gently with the tip of his wing. ”
Get in amongst the reeds and he won’t see you”. He whispers to you, almost silently.
Your mother is twittering under her breath about the sacrifices she’s made with protecting you against the evil man. Round and round she talks like the parrot that drops in occasionally and keeps repeating itself.
You don’t understand why she keeps talking about sacrifice when she’s just there motionless, but perhaps it’s something you don’t understand, so you stay silent. That is one of the lessons you have been taught over and over, ducklings should be seen and not heard.
The big man is actually coming this time you see. He’s lumbering down the path, like a Humpty Dumpty, with big bottles in his hands and lots of women who are showing off their human bodies. He’s making a lot of noise. You sink into the reeds, glad that you have a hiding place. You wish hard that your parents are okay. You don’t want them to be turned into those machines of the water, forever looking like your parents, but not alive anymore.
Your Dad starts telling you a calming story. He’s very clever your Dad, he just does it through his mind, and then it arrives in yours. It’s a very clever trick; you love it when he does it. That’s how he told you about the Humpty Dumpty story. He’s starting with once upon a time. This is your favorite story beginning. How exciting.
Once upon a time, there was a king who lived in a huge castle. It one of the biggest castles that had ever been created, built out of his own magical fantasy mind. He loved animals and so had animals of every type inside and outside the fairy castle.
He was known as a mad king, as he did many things that were not acceptable to the more noblemen of the kingdom, but as he was the king he could do what he liked. He spent all the kingdoms money on his huge castle and there were many many parties, with women, wine and song. He did not just have one wife, which was the custom in the kingdoms, but many and he would pick and choose as he fancied.
This is why he was called the mad king, as he did exactly whatever he wanted and so everyone called him mad, as it was outside the realms of what was considered rightly for a king. Instead of helping the people in the kingdom, he stole all their money in taxes and kept adding to his castle and his collection of art and animals.
He also possessed the power of illusion, which is how he managed to manipulate all his people to give him their everything. He showed no mercy. If he so decided he would transmute all living things to what he desired the most.
In his house, it’s rumored his bath is made from a rhino, his coffee table from a crocodile, and he has giraffes as lampstands. If anyone of anything looks at him too peculiar he shapeshifts them in an instant and we never know if they will come back.
This is a very fun story you think, but you wonder if it’s true. You suddenly remember your mum and her fear of being turned into a swan pedalo as amusement for the king.
You ask your Dad through your mind what to do about this, as you are happy being a duckling, even if you are very ugly. Your Dad called you beautiful from the first day you are born, so even if everyone else on the lake thinks you are ugly at least your Dad thinks you are beautiful.
“Grace,” he tells you. “Be Graceful”. You don’t understand. You shoot him a look which you hope he sees through the reeds.
“Look at the silly drunk king and listen to his words. He’s thrashing all over the place, uncontrolled, screaming and shouting and being lecherous to the women. He says that it’s only banter, banter implies just fun my beautiful duckling, but it is not. It is ill behavior. All that man does is not grace, it is the pure opposite. If you are to understand grace, you can look to what grace is not.”
“Grace is a strength you find within, inner strength and belief in yourself. It’s that powerful energy you get when you glide on the water when you move through the water with ease.”
“And most importantly, when you are kind to all the other beings in the lake. You may not be a swan yet, but your inner grace and elegance will help all the other beings to follow their own graceful path. In the not too distant future you will leave us and find your own family, so it’s key you learn to live through your own energy and not the misspent and mistaken rules of others.”
My heart is closed for business
Yes, that place you used to dump your pain
The chalice you thought, was an ever empty vessel
Is not accepting any more of your emotional poison
You abused my soft kind heart
Beat it, judged it and criticized it until it could take no more
Now it’s blocked off
And it’s taking a stand
Closed, locked, guarded and shielded
Like a knight in a suit of black mirrors
What you hate in me is only the reflection of yourself
And it’s being thrown right back at you
My heart is not your toxic dumping ground
It’s not the church for you to confess your sins
Transmute your own pain for yourself now
My heart is closed for business
Art: Zoe Langman
This was supposed to be purple, but it ended up being a tone that looks not unlike human skin for me in the center. As I painted it, it brought up a lot of powerful and painful memories. I kept getting the word chalice coming through and empty vessel and closed for business and then the rest came through after I meditated on it.
I don’t like the image and the poem is not beautiful either, but it’s a pretty accurate description of what empathic people and highly sensitive people suffer from what I have read and what I know personally. People love to dump their problems on us, and at some point, we can’t take any more.
Most of the time, they don’t even know they are doing it, and then they wonder why we get sick, ill and depressed. I’ve been attacked many times for saying I can’t take anymore and there is no understanding.
I’ve felt often like I’ve been beaten up and left for dead, with prolonged exposure to certain people. It really is the feeling I get when the cup is overflowing with other peoples poison. I feel like I’ve been poisoned myself.
And this is why I am in Bali now, to remove the toxic overflow that came in from all angles and to learn to protect myself from the bad seeds. Those that just can’t stop throwing out their toxic poison.
Unless you are deeply sensitive and empathic, this is very difficult to understand, but this is how it is.
There is another story on this topic called The Demons and their Malevolent Seeds of Judgement.
She’s calling me in
Beckoning me with her enchanting light
Shimmering, pulsating, morphing & moving
There’s a warmth within her
The warmth of being held
It moves its shimmers through me
Engulfing me in her lovely light
There’s no fear within her
No manipulation in her mesmerizations
It’s pure she whispers to me
As pure as pure as light
Art: Zoe Langman
This is the third of the meditations on color and the poem that flows through me afterward. I can’t tell you what a beautiful feeling it is to meditate on yellow. It really was as described in the poem. A warm light. I actually spilled tears of happiness, as it truly felt like I was being held with love and care. A truly amazing feeling.
Wounds cut so deep
An open gash
An open heart
An open pain
Is this the coming together of self?
The truth that is birthing through the red tunnel of pain?
Maybe the delivery should be aborted?
It’s not going smoothly
It’s red alert the doctor says
There is no cure for your wound
It can’t even be sewn up
Give it the breath of fresh air he says
Allow the blood to flow
There’s nothing more we can do for you now
It’s going to hurt, so hang on
Ride the waves, let the screams out
There is no point holding them down
The faster it flows, the higher the screams
The quicker the truth to come out
Let the river of blood flow
Let the stream of words out
Right now it’s evacuation time
Right now it’s evacuation time
Art: Zoe Langman
I painted this today, as part of an experiment of color series. I meditated on it, and then a poem came out. Yesterdays was The Blue Triangle of Hope, which was a beautiful feeling.
Today’s red was deeply disturbing to me. As I meditated on the Artwork, it became an open wound, and I physically felt like I was in so much pain I wanted to throw it up. It did come up finally with a lot of tears, grief, and emotion.
It was incredible the amount of energy I felt from the color, and then what it turned into. Tomorrow I might do yellow. I feel that maybe more joyful.
#I write the poems within 5 minutes, in one flow. They are also not edited, they are raw. This is also part of a longer-term experiment for me, where I showcase creations that have not been perfected to death. They are what they are and I am trying not to attach the labels good and bad to them.
James is trying as hard as he possibly can to get the keys to fit in the corona typewriter he’s building up. Every time he tries to fit the keys in the way his Dad showed him, they just won’t fit. The QUERTY keys are all knocking together too tightly and somehow nothing looks quite right, but he can’t put his finger on what it is.
He’s now frustrated, undeniably angry and really fed up. It’s only been a week since his Dad pulled him out of school to do an apprenticeship at his factory. As he was “rubbish at school” and wasting his time there”, so his Dad had announced to the headteacher. And to everyone’s surprise, James was just allowed to leave, at 13. But now he can’t even do this basic job properly.
His Dad is going to be mad again, and will spend all of dinner, making snide comments under his breath about James’s incompetence and say things like “why couldn’t he have inherited my head for business”. “Why do I have to have a son that has no talents”. James is already seeing this play out in his mind’s eye and feeling sad to the core.
He almost jumps out of his skin, when his Dad claps him on the back hard and bellows, “son, what are you doing, daydreaming again? “
“I’m not”, James stammers
“I’m thinking of how to fix this corona, it just won’t work for me”.
“Here we go again”, says James Dad mockingly “Let me have a look”.
James’ Dad pushes him along the workbench and sits down in front of the typewriter himself. He is the owner of the leading Typewriter factories in the UK and knows all there is to know about typewriters. In his factory, they create 7 different kinds of typewriter. This Corona is by far one of the most elegant of their range.
“Well, I never. I have never seen anything like it”, says James Dad
“In all my years of working with Corona, they have never sent over a misshapen base. It looks almost like it has been made by hand and not machine”
“Let me check if there is a serial number on it” he mutters under his breath”.
He lifts it up to look at the underside. “Just as I thought”, he said. This has no serial number. It must be some kind of a fake.” James Dad says very perplexedly.
James is suddenly feeling very relieved. It’s not his fault after all.
“So what shall I do with it?”, Asks James
“Do you think I could take it home and use it?” He slides in, quietly. Secretly praying that his Dad says yes.
He’s always wanted a typewriter, ever since he was young, but his Dad has always said no on account of his “lack of interest in school” was his favorite way of saying no. Then he always followed it up with;
“What do you want a typewriter for if you don’t like writing and you can’t even spell. Makes no sense to me. Will be just something else for your mother to dust. No”.
James really really wanted to write stories, as long as he could remember. His head was jam-packed full of them, but on account of his poor writing and terrible spelling, he just kept them in his head.
If I had this typewriter, he thought, I could type them all out and maybe I could be a writer one day.
“Son, are you dreaming again?
“I have no idea why I am saying this”, James dad continued, “but yes, take it home. You’ve asked so many times now, so I guess it’s important for you.”
“We leave in one hour. I have to have a call with the bank now. So be out front. And tell no one of the Corona typewriter. What you saw, what I said or that you have taken it home. I don’t know how this happened, but I want to monitor the situation.”
James really had no clue what his dad was talking about, all he knew, was that the corona red was finally his. The most beautiful typewriter in the world.
He could barely contain his excitement.
James could not eat his dinner fast enough. Even though it was pork chops, which he really detested. Normally it took him an hour to eat it while moving it around the plate. But today he wolfed it down, so he could be excused to play with his new beloved treasure.
The bright red of it was so enchanting he thought. Somehow he knew that it was a powerful tool of creation. He could see his books in front of him already. He already had names for some of them and the stories in his head.
James and the Giant Peach, James and the rambunctious butterfly, James and the slippery Lizard…….
He would take them to Mr. Wordsworths bookshop on the corner of Tate and Lyle Street once he’s typed them up. He was imagining them in the window. Then my parents, won’t think I’m rubbish at everything if my books are in Wordsworths.
He sat at his desk in front of the Corona. She really deserves a name he thought. I feel like she has a personality of her own. I’m going to call her Lily. Like Lily of the Valley.
He put the paper in, lined it up, ready to type and paused. Mmm, this is a momentous moment, he thought. What should I type first?
He pondered, then decided. James and the Giant Peach is my favorite story I created so I’m going to start with that one. Best get my dictionary too and then it’s action time.
He started pressing the keys, slowly. He had to make sure he made no mistakes; as if he did he could not erase them. This was actually a lot of pressure to be under for his first book so he thought. It’s a big responsibility for a 13-year-old.
He managed to type two sentences. He did not think he had made a mistake, but he did not really know. Now he was already exhausted and falling asleep. Probably I’m just too excited so he thought. But he could barely keep his eyes open.
James woke and remembered immediately that he had Lily, his beautiful corona typewriter. He could not remember the last time he had felt such joy.
He looked at the clock, it was only 5.30am and his Dad did not leave for work until 8 am, so he had heaps of time to type on Lily.
He jumped out of bed and sit in front of her. Immediately he saw that she had a typed full page of writing in her. How on earth did that get in there he though? How odd. And it was addressed to Mrs. Hubbard. The only Mrs. Hubbard he knew was from the dairy.
He pulled it out and started to read it.
Dear Mrs. Irene Hubbard,
The first day we met behind your parent’s diary was like a dream for me. I saw your long red hair flowing, that had escaped your hat and I just knew that I wanted to kiss you.
I am so happy that we have been married so long and have created three beautiful children. I know I am a moody man sometimes of few words, but I just don’t really know how to express myself well.
Just be sure, that every time I glimpse you I feel proud that you are my wife and I often think back to that day we met with such joy.
You made me such a happy man,
P.s Please don’t talk to me about this letter, you would only embarrass me.
Gosh thought James, that’s a very personal letter. What on earth is it doing in my typewriter? Could his Dad have put it there as a Joke? No he thought, dad is hardly a joker.
Makes no sense at all. How can a letter such as that just fall out of the sky and into my typewriter?
He wondered if he should just take it to Mrs. Hubbard himself, but then she would ask him how he got it, and his Dad had said he could not tell anyone about the typewriter. It was all so very complicated….
And yet very exciting he thought. Where could he leave the letter, where she would find it? He could post it, but then he would need a stamp, and they cost money he did not have.
Ahh, the town bench under the oak tree, where the ladies chatter and old Mr. Dawson always reads his morning paper. If I get there before him and leave it where he normally sits, he will see it and hopefully give it to Mrs. Hubbard.
I’d best get an envelope and run it out now before everyone else wakes up and asks me where I am going.
“Hello Mr. Dawson, how can I help you?” Says Mrs. Hubbard looking decidedly glum.
I found this letter on the park bench just as I got there this morning, and as you are the only Mrs. Hubbard in town, I thought it must be for you. I thought I’d drop it off and buy a pint of milk at the same time.
“Who do you think it’s from Mrs. Hubbard?” Mr. Dawson, inquired, not even trying to hide his curiosity.
“Well, it’s sealed Mr. Dawson, so I guess it’s a private matter. Please do take a bottle of milk on the house for your trouble” she said, as she pushed him out of the door.
Jame, of course, was watching all this, from afar, so intrigued was he by the letter from Lily his typewriter and how the scenes were playing out. He felt like a real-life detective. He was so excited to see what Mrs. Dawson would do.
She was a “terribly moody women”, so his mother said. “She has a face like a smacked cows arse”. His mum said some terribly strange things sometimes. But he had to agree, she was not a pleasant looking woman.
Mrs. Dawson opened the letter up slowly and pulled it out of the envelope. She read it intently and then burst into tears. She cried and cried and cried, and James stood there in his secret hiding place behind the red post box stunned. What had he done? He had made her cry. Oh noo.
And he thought the letter was so beautiful too. He really understood nothing at all in life. He could not even deliver a letter, without making someone upset.
He wondered what to do. He turned to look at her again, and he realized that her face was now beaming. A bright light smiling and lighting up the dairy. Wow, he thought. She really is happy. That really was a happy letter then.
He felt joy ripple through him. Finally, he had done something right and made someone happy.
I knew that typewriter was magic so he thought. I am going to have a lot more fun with Lily. I can’t wait to get started on my stories again.
Art: Zoe Langman
James and the Giant Peach is actually written by one of my favorite authors Roald Dahl.
She meditates within the dark triangle
Blackness surrounding her
She wants the light, yet she sees only black
Black with, just maybe a hint of blue
Tomorrow she hopes it will get lighter
A blue sky will seep in
An entrancing daring teal
A blue with power
Blue skies are all she’s hoping for
Blue skies at dawn and blue skies at night
She knows she will get there
It’s on its way
Belief she thinks, it’s probably the potion
Art & poem – Zoe Langman
More Info on The Blue Triangle of Hope Artwork
Embedded within the Blue Triangle are meaningful sacred words for me. I pulled them from a writing exercise I did on my higher self and wrote them down before I painted over them. I don’t feel like I deleted them, I feel I brought them to life with the Blue Triangle.
This concept came to me through the story that I channeled, The Malevolent Seeds of Judgement, where an abused woman, creates paintings and embeds words of courage within them to help her to fight back against her abusive and narcissistic partner and the evils of the world.