blogging 101 – Ossibell

Old Ollie

Old Ollie would wander around town, but she always seemed to be going somewhere. She wore a long skirt and a heavy cardigan, always colors of the ground, varied but earthy all the same. She wore a little hat. Not a fancy one or even recognizable as a style, more like a few flattened pancakes on her head.

Her hair was just to her shoulders, blunt cut and strung with grey, a bit wild.

She walked with a rolling limp, as though she was walking along inside a dingy, she was bent and twisted a bit so maybe that’s why.

She talked to herself, muttering along as she walked. She never talked to me, but I would follow her if she was going in my general direction. Even when she looked at me, she looked through me and past me.

She would glare at the monster kids who threw stones at her. The same rotten kids who threw them at me. That’s why I followed her. I never saw her do anything more than hold up her arms to shield her face. I beat those kids when they picked on my brother, and I beat them if they went to hurt Ollie. They were just nasty little sissies, so I never got hurt too much.

The reason I followed Ollie (and probably why everyone said she was crazy) was the way she recycled her chewing gum. She would walk and chew and mutter along, then she would take it out of her mouth and stick it on the bottom of her shoe, walk awhile without it, then get it and chew on it again. I wondered why she didn’t drop dead. My mother hated dirt and germs, gagging when men spat on the ground. Making us wash our hands when we touched things she deemed unclean. Yet here was Ollie, collecting all of that, and putting it inside herself. So, seeing Ollie always made me happy, because she was winning and all the germs my mother was crazed about were losing.

water

The water showed me what life was.

There is water that you see, and the water you feel. The feeling kind is underneath, hidden, strong, and impossible to fight against. If you fight against it, it will kill you with no conscience at all. Not even noticing it did. You’re nothing more than a leaf or stick along for the ride. I went for a ride a few times, but it decided it didn’t really want me.

People are like that too.

What you see on the surface is nothing like the depths flowing through them below. Some can hold you warm and close like a warm lagoon between the rocks. Others can dash you to pieces, throwing you against the boulders and banks, while others can pull you so far down, that you will never surface again.

Families are like that too.

Maybe, there are some like the lagoon, that exist in a constant state of calm and peace, but I don’t know of them.

I think most are just like the real water. Water that is turbulent at times, still at other times, occasionally brutal, deceptive on the surface, but nevertheless, carries you from your beginning until your end.

–Ossibell

little soldiers

My father would usually work again after dinner, late into the evening, after he got the big machine he used to make his instruments. It stood like a small car in one half of the basement, which was more like a first floor, because the house was built into the steep hillside. The other half was a room we played in and a place where he had his wine fermenting. I loved the smell of grape must, the sweet-sour foam, bubbling away in the cabinet.

When he came upstairs, I would come out to the kitchen, where he was eating his supper. He smelled like sweat and metal. His face stubbly by now. and his clothes grimy with dust and perspiration.

Usually, he ate kolbasz. He made it himself because we had no Hungarian sausage maker or butcher in this town. he ate it with fresh bread and a glass of red wine, he had made from the grapes that he grew on the first hillside terrace above the house.

It was my favorite snack. I would sit on his lap, and with the knife in one hand, and kolbasz in the other, he would cut the knife toward his thumb, then put the cut piece, along with the knife onto a little piece of bread, or he ate it from the knife still in his hand. He put the tiny bread and kolbasz pieces together and formed them in a line on the white and grey Formica top. He called them “katona falat” Little soldiers. He said a rhyme that went with the lining up of the pieces, he might have sang it if he had a good singing voice, but he didn’t.

dog attack

Before the river house, we lived in a house that was on a small street between the river house and the big church on the hill. Although wasn’t a hill as much as a big mound. It rose above all the streets that encircled it. It was the big green island in the middle of town. Parades used to end there and begin there. The foot-paths were wide with little walls on the sides holding back lush bushes, trees, and lawn.

It was mostly shady there and flowers were everywhere. We would walk around, and through the grounds on the way to town sometimes. Later when we moved to the hillside house, I would sometimes walk through the cathedral grounds on the way home or rarely, to school, only if I saw Ollie. Then I would follow her in case some mean boys would taunt and throw stones at her.

The frilly house was white with a white fence, and a little black mailbox attached to the fence outside. It was a sweet and dainty temporary house, like the others, offered up to help us, the poor refugees, out for a little while. It was right up close to the houses on each side of it. I think many memories of this house were shoved out of my brain by the big Alsatian shepherd dog who lived next door. Every time he saw me, he jumped against the fence, barking, and growling. He scared me so much, that I was in a constant state of terror. One day he got out. My mother was pushing my brother in the pram when he jumped on me. She let the pram go. All I remember is the screaming, she screaming, me screaming, the dog growling, all teeth and spit, and then the pram rolling away with my brother in it.

Pick up at orphanage

Many months later, it felt like years to me, we, as in three, went to pick him up. My father was clean and pressed. My mother was glamorous from her long rest away at the convalescent spa. Her done-up black hair with perfect waves, her long red fingernails, ( which I’d only seen in magazines or the poster in the window for fire and ice.) High heels with a navy dress with a matching short jacket. I’d never seen her so fancy.

Finally, they opened the gates to let him out. He ran to us screaming, “My Ossi!, my Ossi! and he jumped at me and held on to me for a long, long time. So my world was coming back to where it was before, to the familiar.

I was glad to be home, but I was even happier to back to the bush, to the wild vacant land next to our house. I was glad to be back to what I knew, the places where I could go to hide and make-believe. I had missed my secret places, my tree huts, my bush houses, my little house under the outside stairs, which I’d decorated and made cozy with rags and junk I found. It was my very own house. I had many places, and I was rich in my town of homes. The old apricot was the Tarzan tree, it was bent all the way over so it was easy to live in and swing from the rope that dangled from the middle. The hillside was so steep, I could climb the trunk, then walk over the middle, like a gang-plank, and jump off the top and only be a little further up the slope. The pear tree was bent over too, but the other way, which made an extraordinary pirate ship, the leaves and upper branches hiding the decks below. Further down closer to the street, stood the apple tree, it had a cozy little seat sling, the branches made it that way. I could sit there and see the street. I was hidden. Occasionally, I would throw rotten apples at someone who deserved it.

She never let go of the fact he ran to me first. Just another unfortunate incident for her to go crackers over.

–Ossibell

Do you need water by chance?

My heart was full and my mind was amazed at what had just taken place. Was this for real? Is this how easy it is? It must be because it just happened. I laughed the rest of the way home, glad I had unloaded the heavy bottles. Who would have thought? Or “who would have thunk?” as my kids said.

I went to the grocery store, as usual. It was a beautiful store. Dominicks in Chicagoland. It had everything, like a Jewel, Publix, Albertsons, and the like.

I did my usual shopping, browsing the produce, taking my time, thinking about what I’m going to make. Then I picked up three gallons of water, like I did in the past when I made formula for the babies, (they were so allergic, and my production didn’t cut it). I felt nothing out of the ordinary during my entire shopping session, until I got to the car and loaded everything into the trunk. Then it hit me. I don’t need water for formula anymore. What was I thinking?

By now I was ready to go home and the thought of going to the returns was just drudgery x 100, so I just thought: “Ok, I just wasted $5 on water, so what, I’ve done worse” and headed home.

Turning into our neighborhood, (left turn lane off a busy highway) I see a car with the hood lifted up. Usually, I don’t stop because I have no clue about auto mechanics. Today, I call out the window. “Do you need water?” He replied, My radiator something or another, so I asked “would water fix it? He said YES, so I pulled over and handed him the bottles.

“I guess these are for you…”

“Can I pay you? “

“Nope”

So I laughed and felt rich and full all the way home.

Soul, Higher Self, Transcendent Being, Spirit Guide.

Whatever the name, I believe it’s the angel on your shoulder, the voice that whispers what’s right and true. You know it’s right or true because your heart feels warm and safe, maybe a little fluttery. The message is for your own good in the end, even if there are a few obstacles in the way. That’s not to imply that you must always follow or heed that guidance, you can choose not to, you’ll still eventually get there, but it will be more painful.

I always called it the “oversoul”, don’t know why, I just have. Maybe because it is above me and all around me, hovering over me. I have my own terms and labels for other things too. How does my oversoul speak to me? Usually through dreams symbolically. Usually in thoughts, like you would hear if you talked to yourself, but it’s not you talking, and of course in pictures or just an intense feeling, that becomes so strong, that you must listen.

I’m tight with my oversoul. I listen. I’ve learned to trust and heed the promptings.
I’ve seen the divine hand at work in the instances I’ve lent myself over, and been humbled by the beauty and simplicity in the order of things when I’ve seen beyond the “curtain”. And there are many times I’ve been surprised and occasionally, I’ve laughed out loud. The soul has a fabulous sense of humor. But then again, life can be such a practical joke, yes?

You might wonder how I came to be this way. Am I a “New Age” kook? No. Delusional? No. In truth, I grew up in trauma, which helped open channels of thought and feeling. I grew up in a country and culture where I was an alien, so I had to “tune in” to relate and understand. I couldn’t speak the language so I relied on body language, expressions, and primarily, what we call “gut”.
Add to that spiritual sandwich, my mother was intuitive, so I grew up in an omnipotent household, but it was not used for kindness, but rather manipulation.
She later used her “gift” professionally for money. This brings me to the close of this little piece, and my gift to you, which is: Listen to your own “oversoul”. It’s always there, it’s always true, it’s always the best for you. Don’t betray yourself. You’re bigger and more powerful than you can imagine.

I will be sharing stories, illustrations, true-life events which I’ve experienced, and some lessons I’ve learned over the years. I’ve intensely studied all religions, masters, and books, trying to find the truth and the common ground. I am at peace and have found it now I think. I’m ready to share what I’ve learned.

My following posts will be about these experiences and stories. This is an intro of sorts for you to decide if you’d like to tune in.

–Ossibellavita

Open gate

We are not heathens, just from another country, not knowing english yet. We are the town curiosity, the zoo that people visit, to see how we live, what food we eat, how we talk. Some visit regularly, especially the church ladies. They come to give us printed papers, single fold with Jesus stories and other biblical messages. I’m sure their hope is that, not only will they help us learn english, but they will gently nudge us onto the path to salvation as well. My parents were of Presbyterian and Catholic persuasion, so they needn’t have bothered. We knew what church was. We even went to a white Presbyterian one, just up the street.

Sometimes they brought many of the same story, a stack of cheap paper printed with one ink, usually blue or green. Never red. Brownish, gray paper, ugly to look at and uglier to touch. The kind of paper children learn to write on, with thick solid lines and dotted ones in between. The only time I really liked this paper, was when we tore it up and glued the pieces onto a balloon that soon became a pig. I was very proud of my pink and green pigs. They were supposed to be piggy banks to save money, the trouble was, you had to cut them into pieces to get the coins back out. Just another stupid idea in my opinion.

They usually stayed for a chat and tea. A long chat and tea usually. I think they were trying to teach my mother to read those ugly things. I would rather learn from picture and comic books, much easier and prettier.

I saw him crawling, why was he outside? I was all the way down by the river playing with stones in the water. He was moving towards the bridge, crawling towards the bridge. The gate was open! the ladies didn’t close it behind them, they must have left the front door open too. I yell at him to stop, but he’s little, he doesn’t understand me. I run to him as fast as I can, he’s already on the bridge, my heart is aching and my head is hurting. The bridge has no sides, only ropes grownups can hold onto. I crawl towards him and latch my hands onto his slippery little feet. He is wriggling to get away. I hold tighter. I can’t see his head any longer, the only things I see are his feet and my arms, we are crossways, the wrong way, dangling above the river, he on one side, me on the other. I hold onto his feet as tightly as I can, and scream…and scream…and scream…and scream…

I wake up in my bed. I must still be alive. I run into the other room, he is sleeping in his cot. Was it real? Did I just have another nightmare? But of course it happened, because she has a new story to tell about “How I almost lost BOTH my children, even though the gypsy said only one will die” and a long, drawn out, description of her valiant rescue of both her children, pulling them up from the brink of certain death, and carrying them with superhuman strength to safety.

I wonder if he remembers? I wonder if he remembers the rocks below, the water flowing underneath him.

I have a reminder of that day. I know it happened because my voice was torn from me that day. I think my screams floated down the river and the eels feasted on them, they feasted on every single one, until they were bursting full. That’s why they wriggle, even after they’re dead, they wriggle because my trapped screams are trying to leave them and come back to me.

–Ossibell

Drop at Orphanage

When we got broken, when our family got broken apart, I was sent away to the neighbors on Nile street. They lived across for the river house and over a little bit. Next to the man who had all the precious things in his house, that were borrowed when the Queen visited, knives and forks and things. They were friends of ours, so they weren’t strangers. I knew them, but they were so different from us. Their lives were chaotic in a romping kind of way. The parents were gone most of the time, so the older twin girls fed us.

People get so familiar on the outside when you get to know them. Their dressing habits, personality, their conversations. But get inside their homes and it’s like getting inside their minds and their bodies and sometimes their souls. Both houses looking similar on the outside, yet so drastically different on the interior. Then, next to the collector was the little grocery on the corner owned by the Dutch couple. They were so nice to us. She had long grey hair and it was plaited and wound around her ears with a perfect parting at the top of her head.

My brother was sent to an orphanage. There was only one in our town. It was across the street from the hospital. there were a couple of the flat merry-go-rounds in the side yard. I liked those little ones, it was easy to get a rolling start for yourself and just sit in the middle and spin. When I visited my brother, I would let him have the inside. It was lonely and strange to be seperated from him. I couldn’t watch over him nor protect him. But they had many eyes in the orphanage watching the children, so he stayed alive there.

—Ossibell

Gypsy

Someday I’ll tell you how I lost my voice, but I’m thinking, not today.

I always knew he had a soft hold on the world from the minute he was born. So I watched over him better than anyone else. Even better than our mother, who loved to tell trash like “A gypsy told me I’d have two children, and one of them will die.” I was sick of hearing that. Who needs to tell people shit like that? For one thing, why say such things! For another, the more you say things, the bigger and harder they become, and the more difficult they are to bring back under control. Anyway, while she was talking shit about gypsy curses, I was watching over him. I was his guardian, his playmate, his best friend, his protector. It was because of him I lost my voice, but I’ll tell you about that another time.

How can you tell if someone has a delicate hold on the world? I don’t know, its a feeling, like they’re floating, like they’re not quite on the ground. Like their body is not dense and thick like other people. I can see through them sometimes. Other people can’t. Some people say sickly and broken people are not long for this earth. But it’s not like that. I’ve seen sick and broken people chained to this place with concrete on top of that!

It was his fault I lost my voice, well, I really shouldn’t say that. Sorry. He wasn’t connected to this place, and that wasn’t my fault either. It was just written that way. Trying to keep him here, was like trying to catch fast flying bugs, or running after someone who is much bigger and faster than you. He stayed longer than I thought he could. His going leaves a hole in me so deep, if I filled it with ink, I couldn’t write enough words in a million lifetimes to use it all up.

—Ossibell

Group

I don’t have many friends. This fact hurt for a long time. I wanted so badly to find the bunch where I could be a banana. Nothing fit right, but now I’m ok with it. Now I know it’s probably for the best. Now I know that being part of a group might have changed me into something else. The group speak. I might have become lost in the group.

Now I’m content. Not happy, content.

Once in a while, I’m overwhelmed with a type of joy I don’t think many people experience. It’s a type of euphoria. Today I felt that. It feels like becoming a transparent crystal sparkling thing, that becomes part of every crystalline sparkling thing. It’s not jumping up and down joy. It’s not laughing till you cry joy (that’s a story for another time)

It is a deep stillness, where all noise, clatter and static fall away. It’s like being alone in a field after a lighting storm, where the air is still clean and charged with a bit of electricity. It’s a feeling that everything is perfectly in tune and every piece is where it should be.

So, I don’t mind being alone (even if there are lots of people around) I realize now I can’t make people like me, Hell! most of the time they don’t even notice me! It pisses me off that sumbitch wasp saw me though, and chased me and stung me. I really don’t much care for that group!

—Ossibell

Invisibility

The strangest part of being invisible is that you are able to see things that are brewing in the invisible unformed space. They’re not non-existent, they’re just not fully formed, like a pregnancy, the child is there but hasn’t manifested into the world yet.

In the invisible space, you can see it is a boy or girl, it has blue eyes and red hair. You can see it will be bitten by the neighbor’s dog, get sick and die.

So here’s the worst part:
No matter what you say to the parents of the baby,
“Please move away for the sake of the baby!”.
“Please do things to protect the baby from that dog!”.

No-one listens! They might see and hear you, but they believe you’re a little crazy.
When “the thing” happens, you cry even more than they do, you feel the pain, then you feel their pain and then the pile it all on me pain of being unable to change things.
That’s the worst part of invisibility.

—Ossibell