Manuela Cardiga's Blog, page 17
September 12, 2016
If we wished in truth to expunge certain ills from our so...
If we wished in truth to expunge certain ills from our society we would be more effective in targeting the people who make the unpalatable or criminal activities commercially viable and completely irresistible in the poverty-stricken Third World.
So if we wished to eradicate things like child-prostitution, human or animal trafficking, or the raising of drug crops we need to remove the wealthy end-consumers AND give the poor of the world alternative ways of earning a living.
Until then, it really is no use ranting and raging against the poachers, the pimps or the opium farmers as "inhuman monsters deserving death" - and how many of the ranters have ever REALLY felt true and desperate hunger? Not going without a meal or delaying the satisfaction of a craving for calories for a few hours - but cramping hunger that feels like your body is consuming itself, and seeing that same feverish agony in your children's faces?
Go after the rich consumers, rant and rage at the hidden monsters in the First World, why don't you? You would be astounded to find how many are friends, neighbours or people you look up to as successful, wealthy, reputable and admirable...
MC
So if we wished to eradicate things like child-prostitution, human or animal trafficking, or the raising of drug crops we need to remove the wealthy end-consumers AND give the poor of the world alternative ways of earning a living.
Until then, it really is no use ranting and raging against the poachers, the pimps or the opium farmers as "inhuman monsters deserving death" - and how many of the ranters have ever REALLY felt true and desperate hunger? Not going without a meal or delaying the satisfaction of a craving for calories for a few hours - but cramping hunger that feels like your body is consuming itself, and seeing that same feverish agony in your children's faces?
Go after the rich consumers, rant and rage at the hidden monsters in the First World, why don't you? You would be astounded to find how many are friends, neighbours or people you look up to as successful, wealthy, reputable and admirable...
MC
I we wished in truth to expunge certain ills from our soc...
I we wished in truth to expunge certain ills from our society we would be more effective in targeting the people who make the unpalatable or criminal activities commercially viable and completely irresistible in the poverty-stricken Third World.
So if we wished to eradicate things like child-prostitution, human or animal trafficking, or the raising of drug crops we need to remove the wealthy end consumers AND give the poor of the world alternative ways of earning a living.
Until then, it really is no use ranting and raging against the poachers, the pimps or the opium farmers as "inhuman monsters deserving death" - and how many of the ranters have ever REALLY felt true and desperate hunger? Not going without a meal . or delaying the satisfaction of a craving for calories for a few hours - but cramping hunger that feels like your body is consuming itself, and seeing that same feverish agony in your children's faces?
Go after the rich consumers, rant and rage at the hidden monsters in the first world, why don't you? You would be astounded to find how many are friends, neighbours or people you look up to as successful, wealthy, reputable and admirable...
MC
So if we wished to eradicate things like child-prostitution, human or animal trafficking, or the raising of drug crops we need to remove the wealthy end consumers AND give the poor of the world alternative ways of earning a living.
Until then, it really is no use ranting and raging against the poachers, the pimps or the opium farmers as "inhuman monsters deserving death" - and how many of the ranters have ever REALLY felt true and desperate hunger? Not going without a meal . or delaying the satisfaction of a craving for calories for a few hours - but cramping hunger that feels like your body is consuming itself, and seeing that same feverish agony in your children's faces?
Go after the rich consumers, rant and rage at the hidden monsters in the first world, why don't you? You would be astounded to find how many are friends, neighbours or people you look up to as successful, wealthy, reputable and admirable...
MC
September 11, 2016
September 10, 2016
September 8, 2016
Gospel of the Goddess Book I (vii): So did my Goddess yield her Holy Rage and step aside from the Path of War and Strife for the embrace of a simple man, and a gentle life as his wife.
She sits opposite her father. It is twilight. She raises a tea-cup to her lips. It is tiny, fragile. Strange golden dragons cavort and writhe under her fingers, every scale proud. In the cup the tea is red-gold, aromatic, scented steam rises in the cold room.
Across from her is the cold man, wiping fastidiously at the lips nestled under his mustache. There is only the soft click of the spoons, the porcelain and the clock ticking in tune. They do not speak. They never speak.
A knock. "Come!" he cries - and John enters. He looks flustered.
"Sir, the Stable Master would speak with you." Her father frowns perplexed and annoyed.
"I don't discuss Stable matters at my table. Tell O'Neill that." John nods and departs. Her father picks at a small comfit, and raises his head at a new knock.
"Yes?"
It is John again, scarlet faced. "Sir, I'm sorry Sir, but..."
"Well? What is it?"
"Mr. O'Neill said he does not discuss private matters at the Stable."
Her father throws down his napkin, "The cheek of the man! Send him in! "
Her father rises, takes a cigar from his box, rolls it between his fingers, lights it. Never does he look at her, not once.
"The cheek!" He cries again, and looks at the wall, to the left of her shoulder, never ever raising his eyes to her face.
A third knock, and John ushers in Seamus. Seamus O'Neil, in a worsted suit.
"Sir," He nods at her father, he looks at her, right in the eyes, "My Lady."
"Well, O'Neill? What is it? Something wrong with Termagant’s Child? Are the stables on fire?"
"No, Sir. I wished to speak to you on a personal matter."
"Speak."
"Sir, I have been in your employ for sixteen years now, you have my measure as a man. I am a respectable man, Sir, and a hard worker. I am an honest man."
"What is this about?"
"Sir, I am not a poor man. I am not rich, of course, but I own my own land, free and clear; I am beholden to none."
"Are you wanting a raise? Is this what you are on about, O'Neil?"
"Sir, I am not as young as I might wish, forty-two, Sir." Seamus suddenly grins, "But I have all my own teeth, my bit of land, with a house - modest, but mine- and a small stable with some likely foals. What I mean to say...I am here Sir, as an honorable man, asking you for your daughter’s hand."
Hilary hears a gasp, realizes it is her own, breaking the deadly silence. Her father is speechless by the fire, the cigar forgotten between his fingers. Seamus O'Neil stands dead still. There is no fear in him. He is as unperturbed as she has so often seen him, with a raging horse under his hands. He is, as always, himself.
Her father draws in a great whoosh of breath. "Get out. Now. You are insane, or drunk. I will disregard this. Get out."
"No, Sir. I won't. Not without an "aye" or "nay" from you.
"You dare? My daughter? I will not dignify your insolence with an answer!"
"Sir, I love her Ladyship. The love of a good man is no dishonor."
"Your presumption is! You are fired! And refused, should you still have any doubts about that."
Hilary rises, steps into the fight.
"It is not for you to refuse, Father. I am twenty-and-eight. I am of age." She turns to Seamus, "Mr. O'Neill, I accept."
A wash of scarlet swells her father’s face. "Slut!" he screams, and the chords of his neck strain at his shirt collar. "You refuse good men, and fornicate with Irish scum?"
Seamus steps closer to him, to the fire. "You'll not speak to her Ladyship so in my presence Sir, father or no. There has been no fornicating. I am a true man, Sir. But aye. I am Irish scum. As was your good Lady's Gram. As for you Sir...Are you not as Irish-born as I am?"
"Out! Both of you! And as for you, Hilary, not a penny of my money will you see, not one!"
"I have no need of your money, Father, I have my own, from my Mother. And as Mr. O'Neill has assured you, he is not destitute. You need not concern yourself on my account."
"Concern! You have ruined me! Ruined! I will be a laughing-stock. My daughter fornicating with stable-hands!"
Hilary walking to the door, pauses there and turns back with that grace so at odds with her bulk.
"Why, Father...You can always tell them that was a taste I acquired honestly, from your blood. From what I understand, you too rather enjoy fucking stable-boys."
from GODDESS OF WAR
Manuela Cardiga
Across from her is the cold man, wiping fastidiously at the lips nestled under his mustache. There is only the soft click of the spoons, the porcelain and the clock ticking in tune. They do not speak. They never speak.
A knock. "Come!" he cries - and John enters. He looks flustered.
"Sir, the Stable Master would speak with you." Her father frowns perplexed and annoyed.
"I don't discuss Stable matters at my table. Tell O'Neill that." John nods and departs. Her father picks at a small comfit, and raises his head at a new knock.
"Yes?"
It is John again, scarlet faced. "Sir, I'm sorry Sir, but..."
"Well? What is it?"
"Mr. O'Neill said he does not discuss private matters at the Stable."
Her father throws down his napkin, "The cheek of the man! Send him in! "
Her father rises, takes a cigar from his box, rolls it between his fingers, lights it. Never does he look at her, not once.
"The cheek!" He cries again, and looks at the wall, to the left of her shoulder, never ever raising his eyes to her face.
A third knock, and John ushers in Seamus. Seamus O'Neil, in a worsted suit.
"Sir," He nods at her father, he looks at her, right in the eyes, "My Lady."
"Well, O'Neill? What is it? Something wrong with Termagant’s Child? Are the stables on fire?"
"No, Sir. I wished to speak to you on a personal matter."
"Speak."
"Sir, I have been in your employ for sixteen years now, you have my measure as a man. I am a respectable man, Sir, and a hard worker. I am an honest man."
"What is this about?"
"Sir, I am not a poor man. I am not rich, of course, but I own my own land, free and clear; I am beholden to none."
"Are you wanting a raise? Is this what you are on about, O'Neil?"
"Sir, I am not as young as I might wish, forty-two, Sir." Seamus suddenly grins, "But I have all my own teeth, my bit of land, with a house - modest, but mine- and a small stable with some likely foals. What I mean to say...I am here Sir, as an honorable man, asking you for your daughter’s hand."
Hilary hears a gasp, realizes it is her own, breaking the deadly silence. Her father is speechless by the fire, the cigar forgotten between his fingers. Seamus O'Neil stands dead still. There is no fear in him. He is as unperturbed as she has so often seen him, with a raging horse under his hands. He is, as always, himself.
Her father draws in a great whoosh of breath. "Get out. Now. You are insane, or drunk. I will disregard this. Get out."
"No, Sir. I won't. Not without an "aye" or "nay" from you.
"You dare? My daughter? I will not dignify your insolence with an answer!"
"Sir, I love her Ladyship. The love of a good man is no dishonor."
"Your presumption is! You are fired! And refused, should you still have any doubts about that."
Hilary rises, steps into the fight.
"It is not for you to refuse, Father. I am twenty-and-eight. I am of age." She turns to Seamus, "Mr. O'Neill, I accept."
A wash of scarlet swells her father’s face. "Slut!" he screams, and the chords of his neck strain at his shirt collar. "You refuse good men, and fornicate with Irish scum?"
Seamus steps closer to him, to the fire. "You'll not speak to her Ladyship so in my presence Sir, father or no. There has been no fornicating. I am a true man, Sir. But aye. I am Irish scum. As was your good Lady's Gram. As for you Sir...Are you not as Irish-born as I am?"
"Out! Both of you! And as for you, Hilary, not a penny of my money will you see, not one!"
"I have no need of your money, Father, I have my own, from my Mother. And as Mr. O'Neill has assured you, he is not destitute. You need not concern yourself on my account."
"Concern! You have ruined me! Ruined! I will be a laughing-stock. My daughter fornicating with stable-hands!"
Hilary walking to the door, pauses there and turns back with that grace so at odds with her bulk.
"Why, Father...You can always tell them that was a taste I acquired honestly, from your blood. From what I understand, you too rather enjoy fucking stable-boys."
from GODDESS OF WAR
Manuela Cardiga
September 7, 2016
Excerpt from "GODDESS OF WAR"
Gospel of the Goddess
Book I (i)
In the beginning was the Word and the Word was War.I am the first Disciple, the Dark One, the Follower in the Shadows, and I heard the Holy Words of the Goddess from Her very lips; from Her Dreams I drank the Gospel, the Revelation and the Prophecy.
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was Woe.Even Gods are born, for such is the Fate of all speaking things. The Goddess was born as her father's only child: An odd, embarrassing, and peculiar child; but his heir, none the less. They named Her Hilary, a name of honour in the family. The name She would bear in Her human life, the name destined for a beloved daughter, a once much desired and longed for daughter. (ii)
Hilary had been born in a welter of dark blood, a presage to her future. She had been born on the exhalation of her Mother’s dying breath - a tragedy that was common, prosaic and fitting; for childbirth is ever women’s battlefield, and yet none gather from it honour or recognition of valour.
She was born to the wretched screams of her father's pain, her mother having fallen into the stuporous silence of the death-sleep.
Her blueish infant flesh was laved by indifferent hands; she was warmed and declared likely to live and handed to a woman whose only qualification for nurture was the copious outpouring of her breasts.
Of sensibility or tenderness of feeling for the new-born she held this woman laid no claim. She proffered her nipple to the eager mouth with a wince of distaste, and a turning away of her face. The avidity of the child's noisy suckling in that chamber of death disgusted her; the starfish clutch of the minute hands on her flesh repulsed her. She found the child's pallid translucid skin, the virulent red of the fuzz covering the pulsing skull repellent. This was a changeling, surely: Born in blood, destined for pain.
Thus was Hilary welcomed into the world, and this was the loving embrace into human society that Fate and circumstance reserved for her.
Deprived of love - the natural and necessary aliment for every soul - none the less, Hilary thrived. Healthy and stubborn as a weed she grew at an unprecedented rate, and in an era when children died with monotonous and distressing regularity for the slightest of complaints, she was hardy and husky. Strength of limb and lungs assured her of all the necessities that can be guaranteed by ferocity and vociferous complaint.
She grew, she walked and sooner than expected - she spoke.
As the only female in a household of men, Hilary was treated at times as a male, at others with a clumsy confusing deference to her female condition so at odds with her physicality and her personality as to verge on cruelest mockery.
At the age of four she was aggressive, unlovely and unloving. At four she had been aware she was a killer, had cringed in her bed while a drunken man with her father's face screamed at her, screamed and cried, tears and snot combined to soak into his mustache.
“She died, my love died...And what did I get for it? What did I get? You killed her, you little monster! Why didn't you die? Why didn't you die?” He had nearly fallen, clutched at one of the bedposts, stood swaying, and staring down at her. Then he cried out, “Helen!” he bent over, vomited at the feet of her bed, fell. Hilary had inched down to see him sprawled there, his white shirt soiled and crumpled. “Helen...Helen...I am so sorry...Helen...”
Yes, she had been a killer. The next day she had gone down through the kitchen, to where the cook's tabby nursed her kittens, and taken one. She took the kitten out to the broad back lawn, down to the pond, and held it under the water until it drowned. It didn't take long, and it wasn't hard.
She had sat and sucked at one of the long scratches on her hand inflicted by the tabby, and watched the little striped thing float away.
She was a killer, she had killed her mother, she had killed her father's heart, now she had killed a tabby's kit. And it felt alright. It felt peaceful, sitting by the water watching death, and being alive.
from "GODDESS OF WAR"
Manuela Cardiga
August 31, 2016
THE FOX IN THE GARDENCrash of lightShatter nightPausing p...
THE FOX IN THE GARDEN
Crash of light
Shatter night
Pausing paw
Quiver nose decides
Slanting glance
Flounce disdain
Tail of flame derides
MC
Crash of light
Shatter night
Pausing paw
Quiver nose decides
Slanting glance
Flounce disdain
Tail of flame derides
MC
August 30, 2016
ONE WING
dark-swift
flock of swallows
razoring towards the dawn
shattered angel ascending yearning ecstasybefore light-fall
MC
flock of swallows
razoring towards the dawn
shattered angel ascending yearning ecstasybefore light-fall
MC
