Alien Tea Shoppe

stock photo They go by many general names; Persian Rugs, Oriental Carpets, Tapis de Orient, S ajada, Prayer Rugs, Saff.  This of course doesn't even cover the various types of rugs and their names; Caucasian are rugs from the Caucasus region,  Anatolian are rugs from Turkey,  Ghali are large rectangular rugs from Persia, Makatlik are long narrow rugs, Turbehlik is a grave carpet, or that Turkoman are rugs from Turkistan.  Or styles such as Tabriz, Sarouk, Shiraz, Kelim, Bukhara. One thing they all are, however are handmade works of art in a utilitarian form.  Oriental rugs come found Iran (once known as Persia), Turkey, Russia, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Armenia, Azerbaijan, Daghestan, Turkmenistan, Nepal, China, India, Romania; also from Albania, Hungary, Egypt, Greece, and Morocco, though to a lesser extent.  What they never are, are machine made.  It may have an oriental design, but if it's machine made, then it is not real. Works of art in ...

Earlier in the week, there was a scavenger hunt, turned deadly, in my home town.  New pledges of the  Delta Mu Chapter of Pi Kappa Alpha Fraternity at the University of Southern Mississippi were sent off on a scavenger hunt.  One of the requirements was to take a photo of a flamingo.  But being nineteen, male, and probably drunk, they decided that stealing a flamingo would be more fun instead. Chilean Flamingo at local zoo; photo from local news Long story short; they broke into the zoo around one am, they abducted the female flamingo, and attacked the male flamingo when he came to the rescue of his mate.  They then proceeded to torture the female flamingo and then dump her injured, but still alive body, on my street.  The police were called, they returned the female flamingo, but her injuries were so terrible that she had to be put down.  Later that day the male flamingo died from his injuries sustained in the 'battle'. The guy who actually att...

My California Mom, 1970s Even though this post is about California to an extent, we first have to begin in Mississippi.  The capital of Jackson and surrounding area's, as well as the small town of Canton.  In 1995, the film adaptation of John Grisham's novel, A Time To Kill, was being filmed.  I was only fourteen, so my story does not start here, although this is the beginning. My sisters then boyfriend, a Jackson native, was a locations scout for the film.  So she went a long with him to help and ended up being an extra in the film.  She was just out of college, so had plenty of time to drive up there and stay; to be a part of all of the filming.  While my sister encountered all of the major players they were not really on speaking terms.  Three people from that film, however, would have a hand in her life. The first was Octavia Spencer.  Now, she's a big deal, but then she was just a beginning actress with a small bit role in A Time T...

It is getting dark again Dusk shuffle across the fields The evening trees moan  (as if they knew) At night I always dream  (of you) At that point,   Åkerfeldt launches into a 30 second lamenting scream.  The likes of which makes your heart rattle inside it's cage.  The type of scream that makes you remember what loss feels like; of which that leaves your heart achingly sorrowful. I used to really be into the Swedish progressive death metal band, Opeth.  The 20 minute Black Rose Immortal, was never a favourite of mine... except for those lines and his final, heart wrenching scream.   I hadn't listened to this song in a very long time, but recently some memories came to mind which made me have another listen.  Particularly pertaining to The Man with the Brother Tattoo.  A drizzly, stormy day; mid week.  I, maneuvering us through the city in our red rocket; coordinates programmed in; we arrived safely at all of our destinations. ...

Time marches slowly onward.  Time speeds up, slows down, speeds up... again. I've come to this point in my life.  I was picked up one day, flung around, like being stuck in a hurricane, going to & fro; round & round in a circle.  Ever circling downward.  Like some sort of Kamikaze pilot spiraling out of control, yet all the while, in control. Instead of slamming into the ground, however, I was shoved forward, crammed into this tiny hole.  I was suffocating there for awhile.  A long while indeed.  "Just let go.  Let it go."  I realized I was carrying so many unwanted things; I dropped them, as bid and no more suffocation, no more being stuck; waiting; no more dying in that hole. No, now I am dead.  I am in a tunnel of mortar and damp.  Feeling around for the exit.  The tunnel behind me is riddled with the shackles I have taken off.  Shed.  I am free of all of that.  Every now and then there are signa...