Blood & Rhetoric

So back to business: I need to diversify my (writing) portfolio! Badly. So I’ve decided to contact a number of NGO’s, charities, and not-for-profits to offer my particular services.

I’ve found a ton of links on Volunteer Match that need “Virtual Volunteers,” and many require writers for web content, newsletters, press releases, articles etc.

It’s working for free, and it’s probably taking on more responsibilities then I reasonably have time for right now, but seeing as how I’ve been wanting to volunteer for ages, and I really do need a more varied portfolio, it’s also killing two birds with one stone.

Should be interesting.

I’ve read some advice out there that states you should aim for including as much as possible in your portfolio, including pieces of work that aren’t your best. That sounds completely messed up to me. I have no desire to show potential clients crap, nor do I think that dozens of articles are necessary, but I do need to show them the full range of my capabilities and talents.

I’m actually really looking forward to this; although, there is a part of me that feels guilty for volunteering only to satisfy my own needs and goals.

So early (early!) this morning, Jimmy (that’s the cat) walks into the bedroom, jumps up on the bed, and starts purring like mad and nudging my hand for some heavy petting action.

What the hell?

We thought this cat was a goner. We’ve been force-feeding syringes of disgusting vet-approved food down his throat and three kinds of medicine for over a week. He’s barely been able to move, and puddles of his vomit have greeted us on every staircase landing — he chooses the carpet to throw up it seems, the hardwood would just be, y’know, too easy for us to clean up — and now this?

My boyfriend and I had been having serious discussions about putting him down just the previous night, and this morning, we just stared at each other in shock.

So he’s going to pull through it seems, which is a relief. And with this post, I officially join the ranks of writers posting about their cats. Except Jimmy belongs to my boyfriend. And I will not punctuate this post with a LOLCat image. I swear!

I was sick.

And currently am bringing a kitty back from the brink of death.

Hopefully.

Some pretty messed up shit was done to the mentally ill and “unstable” way back when. Lobotomies is a perfect example of that. I came accross this book MY LOBOTOMY  by Howard Dully who, at the age of 12, was one of the youngest people to ever get the procedure.  That was in 1960.

Lobotomies freak me out.

NOTE: This was originally written for a 2YN course, but it fits perfectly with a scene for Blood Baptism. I like it so I’m posting it, and this is the last I’m going to talk about that project, lest I jinx it.

Peace.

The truth of what one says lies in what one does.

Someone said that to me once, but for my soul’s sake I hope that statement is just another of the idealistic nothings thrown about by ascetics or the men in power who behave one way publicly and another privately. Though I did believe it once when I first became a priest. When I was a young man. That was long ago.

I do not hate the poor souls we escort across miles of country to their cruel fates; the executioner does not hate those he executes, it’s simply duty. Once a year we make this pilgrimage through the towns and cities, through the endless country. The guards will eventually shackle those we lead, perhaps when we reach the first settlement, but out here in the vast plains there is no need. There is nowhere for them to go. Each one of them is marching towards their inevitable death. Each one will submit to fate’s hand in the same manner, their lives extinguished at last in the great fires at Lyphos. They are criminals we are told. I do not question that verdict.

I watch them now; watch the rage play across their features, burning them hallow.

The rage will always come first and burn the brightest as they plot revenge, plot escape. Rage will always consume itself, quenched by its own ardor as it turns to despair when the hunger gnaws at their bellies, when the sun blisters their parched lips and they feel the futility of their situations.

Desperation will come last of all, and last the longest, and is hardest to watch, especially on the younger ones.

My eyes are drawn again to the twin sisters who walk slightly apart from the crowd. Pretty. The dark one is anyways, with her hand on her pale sister’s arm in a vice grip. Not classically beautiful, no, but there’s a sensuality to her features that would make the highbred, delicate ladies in the cities seem like withered roses in comparison. Shame about the other one, her unnatural skin already is beginning to blister in the high sun. She looks as if her dusky sister has drained all her life and colour. That one will not survive the long journey, weak as she is.

The dark one has that rage in her eyes and I wonder how long it will be before it breaks in her.

When the first crowd of villagers taunts her? When the first guard clamps his hand over her mouth and drags her into his tent? When she’s forced to abandon her dying sister?

The young ones always hold out the longest.

Jaded as I’ve become, something akin to pity stirs in me for these two wretched creatures. Their bodies have barely begun to ripen into womanhood. What grave offense had they committed that would merit this, the highest of punishments?

Suddenly I wish I could go to her and tell her the rage will only exhaust her weakened body. Tell her the defiance only makes the guards crueler. Tell her to submit to them when they take her tonight. Tell her it will be easier if she does.

As if aware of my scrutiny, the dark one looks at me. Her eyes don’t ask for anything, beg for anything, betray any real emotion. I realize then she has known all along I was there, watching her, and now she finally meets my gaze with a piercing look of her own. Hooded eyes, an aristocratic face. Her true age betrayed by a girlish body, though still a child to her ancient race.

She looks at me as if to demand I leave her be to whatever imagined privacy she has left. Leave her to her misery, to her futile anger and pain.

And with a jolt of recognition I suddenly realize it is not rage burning in her, but something else.

Something that will hurt her all the worse when she’s finally forced to abandon it.