Private Writings: Chapter #44 — Secrets and Signs

private writings to a psychoanalyst (c) Jk 2013

Private Writings: Chapter #44 — Secrets and Signs

Written by Jennifer Kiley
Illustrated by j. kiley
Introduction & Chapter #1
Published on March 19th 2013
Published Early Tuesday AM
Posted 21st January 2014




Crypticistic Synopsis:

private writings to dr. annie haskell,
psychoanalyst extraordinaire,
storytelling using letters, dreams, thoughts, poems, images,
music, art, scripts, psychotherapy, psychoanalysis,
inspirations, reflective comments, inner/outer workings
mind, soul, body, emotions, bipolar, mentally creative, interesting,
brain misfiring; abuse, crashes, near drownings,
hallucinations, heightened sexuality, time warps,
finding answers, unsolved mysteries, infatuations,
imagination, fantasy, discover self, soul, eternal serenity, bliss

see you down the rabbit hole.
namaste! madison taylor

Private Writings: Chapter #44 — Secrets and Signs

Tuesday 15th July 2008

Dear Annie,

I want to talk about my feelings for you. It never seems convenient for me to be open with you. What I feel, is something I don’t understand. No one ever taught me what love is. Love has been mixed up inside my head. It makes me feel I am bad for feeling love.

The truth. I was abused growing up. My family’s incest was sexual, sadistic and emotional abuse. Their white painted mansion was the playground for their sinder girl. Don’t know respect. She needs to learn she is nothing. A place I was the center of the abuse. That’s what I called home. I didn’t think of it that way. Not a place of love and nurturing for me. Every horrible experience I felt as a child happened in that place of horror. It wasn’t safe anywhere inside that house. Taking walks in the woods was dangerous. Our grounds were extensive. Someone seemed always to be watching me. Eventually they always found me. And I would be alone and vulnerable.

My father used me to get his friends to do him favors. I was their reward. They just took me away. One man, I remember someone calling him something official. Held a government position, and he was a child molester and rapist. That was dangerous. One of the times I was alone with him. He had started touching me. His hand felt like needles were piercing my skin. I wanted him to stop. My hand pushed his away. We even spoke out loud. “Please don’t touch me or I will tell.” A thought I had tried before without the threat of telling. Telling made it more dangerous. This brought on convincing threats of, “I’ll kill your family if you say a word.” His words were not a lie. He showed me by trying to kill me in that very moment. He stopped himself before he went to far but his eyes told me, he would kill them, and probably me too. No, he would definitely have me killed.

What could I do. Keep silent. No one ever talked about it. It felt like I was alone. No one else. It wasn’t happening to anyone else. They would feel I was worthless and contaminated. No one would care about me. No one does now. I will just leave everyone out of this. I am too embarrassed to say a word. Too ashamed.

I am living surrounded by abusers or the abused? Yes, I had another sibling who did not escape. He is locked up and catatonic now. The only time he is not catatonic is when all he can do is scream my name out that he wants to kill me. I am his betrayer. No idea why he thinks I betrayed him. All my life I have tried to protect him. It was all a secret. One day he blurted out, our oldest brother fucked him when he was little. I was fragile when he told me this. It made me freak out.

I turned to a female friend I had a crush on. She tried to help. But she had depressing news, to me it was. Why in that moment? Her boyfriend proposed to her. They were going to get married right away. It meant her moving away. I was struck by the deepest depression. She did move away after the wedding. Gone. I lost her. She was my first friend. She was the first person I told about the abuse. Not the whole nightmare. Just I had been abused. No one can handle the while thing. I can’t even handle it. Overload.

My friend was gone. I had no more focus. She kept me alive by being my friend. I loved her. She was the only person I could love. I thought she loved me enough to want to stay in my life. But she didn’t. My depression made me believe everything was over. I was despondent. I lost all reason to live. There was no one left to love. It was when I thought about my bottle of pills.

I sat on the edge of my bed. Taking the open bottle of pills, I poured out the content, a handful at a time. The darkness was pulling me deeper inside of it. The music was playing softly. Soon I would be asleep forever. Would my friend miss me if I were dead. The letter I wrote to her was about love. In the letter I wrote to my mother, I told her she finally got what she wanted. Me. Dead.

My head felt heavy as I lay down at the foot of my bed. All the pills were gone. Sleep felt like it was pulling me in. My mind was filled with the friend I loved. We were only teenagers. Who ends their life so early? Life was destroying me. Being alive without her was unthinkable, to painful, impossible. It was almost over. I was nearing the end of pain.

As you can see I am writing to you now. It was difficult but somehow I stopped the process from concluding. No one helped me back from that edge. I saved myself alone. No one ever knew. Just one more secret. My suicide attempt gave me the courage to seek out professional help. It was right after that night. I live with the thoughts of suicide too frequently. It runs through my mind and my life like a shadow of temptation. More the thinking about it then the doing now.

Lets change this up and take it to a totally different place. Back to my feelings about love. I know you know what love is. You make me feel it whenever I am around you. The words you say to me. I feel your love. No one has ever been as kind to me as you. What is important is I don’t know what I would do without you if you ever disappeared. It would crush me inside. I would want to die.

I see the words I use and wonder whether I can trust you not to be afraid of my feelings of love. If I told you I love you, would it make you want to run away? I fear the worse.

If you really knew what goes on inside of me, it’s the sound of confusion. Being bipolar for a long time has messed with my life. Awhile ago, I had a therapist and psychiatrist diagnose me with DID. It was a fucked up diagnosis I lived with for years. She even wanted me to name my alters and describe their characteristics. It was a curious perspective from which to think about myself. I really did split apart with the diagnosis. Was it thinking I had DID that caused the transformation? Or did I always have alters and worked through the phases and went through integration. I am not at all sure.

Sybill, the film with Sally Fields and Joanne Woodward, made me want her doctor. Being held and believed. To feel her arms around me and her eyes comforting me. This leads me to the truth. Truth is important to me. I don’t lie. There’s no sense to it. Simply put, I want you, Annie. To be like her doctor. If I could return to being a little girl again, with you. You could be the person who cared for me. It would feel more perfect then I could expect. It would make the world right for me. Is it possible for you to love me?

I better stop now. There is much more but I will save it for the next letter. Right now I am worried what I have already asked you in this letter. Is it going to make you feel angry or uncomfortable, or is it going to make you go away? Will you go away? Please don’t. I’m feeling a strong urge not to show you this letter. Maybe if I express myself in a poem and paint what I feel instead. It is more abstract. It may make more sense. Being understood is an obsession.

“Time for time and traveling with circuses must end. It is time to soar through the time barrier into all moments in the Universe.”

So, until I see you, I end with my favorite quote from the film Brief Sacrifice.

“Time can be folded and joined with all elements in all places as the one ultimate moment when time is all at once. In this place everything happens on a continual loop following into a continuum of time forever into infinity. In the “Silver Box,” there is contained the ability to draw time into itself and create the perfect infinite moment.”

I end this letter in “the moment between seconds.”

Loving You Fondly,



© madison taylor 2008

Bejin - Artist David Agenjo

Bejin – Artist David Agenjo

Somewhere In Time – John Barry

Bouquet of Roses and other Flowers - Artist Henri Fantin Latour

Bouquet of Roses and other Flowers – Artist Henri Fantin Latour

rain in garden gif

Shattered Love
By Madison Taylor
8th July 2008
Narrative Haiku

Shattered love breaks hearts
Are bleeding out on the ground
Why do I not cry?

Feelings have been crushed
Inside pain reflects harming
Take your hands off me

Skin feels bruises swell
Carving time on flesh burning
Memories remain

Giving birth no love
Start with hate never caring
Nurture not given

Meet an attraction
Is it love or sexual
Healing the inside

Touching with lightness
Need a gentle hand soothing
Trust is taming wild

One stroke of the hand
Is enough to begin love
Learning soft teaching

© madison taylor 2008

Illuminating Shadows - Artist Jk McCormack (c) JkM 2008

Illuminating Shadows – Artist Jk McCormack (c) JkM 2007

“A Dream
The beginning always starts out
With a dream.
It is all a dream
In our own nightmares”
— Madison Taylor

Le Chateau de Rocher

Le Chateau de Rocher

play is not just play meryl streep“Pretending is not just play. Pretending is imagined possibility” — Meryl Streep

Medicalmarijuana red cross marijuana leaf black bgMedical Marijuana

Editor’s Corner 101.32 — Swarms of Fears and Monsters

shawn mackenzie's editor's corner day monday
Editor’s Corner 101.32
Swarms of Fears and Monsters
Originally Posted by Shawn MacKenzie
On MacKenzie’s Dragonsnest 15th October 2013

View Past Issues at MacKenzie’s Dragonsnest Archive

Reposted on ‘the secret keeper
Monday 30th December 2013

Swarms of Fears and Monsters

Fear tastes like a rusty knife and do not let her into your house.
…John Cheever

Scribe smallHalloween lurks in the shadows and the Great Pumpkin is prepping for his rounds. When better to wander through the mare’s nest of monstrous fears that haunt us writers at every stroke of the pen.

There are so many hindrances – both mystical and mundane – to our process, yet a handful rise to the surface like apples waiting to be bobbed. They tangle together, crossing my mind in no particular order, so I offer them, simply, as the spirit moves.

Fear - Luckywolf 13

Fear – Luckywolf 13

Anideophobia – the fear of being bereft of ideas. What if the well has run dry and there is no rain in sight? This hits me every Monday as I ponder where to go with the week’s Editor’s Corner. Today, for example, I was all set to discuss writers’ groups, but then I discovered I’d done that already. Panic! What to do? Of course, elementally, every story has already been told; that’s just a given. And often with such blinding brilliance that there seems little point in even trying anew. Life, death, love, loss – what else is there? But if we think about it, it’s not the “what,” it’s the “how.” After all, Shakespeare had nary an original plot to his name, relying on Boccaccio and Plutarch, recent history and ancient legend. Thankfully, that didn’t stop him.

no ideas

If you fear you’ve run out of ideas, go for a walk or sit in a café (or look at the calendar); be around other people, watch and listen to them. Glean a passing interaction or a snippet of conversation (eavesdropping has its place in a writer’s life). Then remember that you have your own voice – your own “how” to telling. From such kernels all sorts of tales can grow, and you will be never run out of ideas.

Fear Vacansopapurosophobia – fear of the blank page. There it is, all crisp and clean, just staring at us, laughing, taunting us to fill it with scintillating prose. For how can we hope to match the existential power of the pristine page? Each word changes the void, shapes it to our will, but are they worthy? And if they’re not, can we go back or have we destroyed the unsullied surface beyond repair? Round and round we go, until the very thought of starting feels as profane as pissing on virgin snow. Best put it off for another day, right?


No, no, no. No! It is the emptiness which terrifies. Break the silence of the page! Forge ahead – put anything down, even nonsense – and the monster is sent packing.

Personally, I thank the computer for helping me over this fear. Light and pixels you can wipe away with a keystroke are less intimidating than actual physical paper marked with physical ink. (It also appeals to the Scot in me who frets over pennies and waste.)

Atelophophobia – fear of imperfection. What if our words are not the right words, or if, among a hundred diamonds, we let slip a simple chunk of coal. It could happen – it does happen. Always. On a certain level, we all strive for perfection, to write that flawless piece of prose or poetry. A lofty goal, perhaps, but totally unrealistic. Even brilliant ideas and well-honed craft all backed by a battalion of editors and proofreaders, there simply is no such thing as the perfect story. You make yourself crazy trying to achieve the impossible.


According to legend, the great artists of antiquity would put a deliberate flaw in each of their creations, lest they invoke the jealousy of the Gods. It might not be noticeable to the casual eye, but it’s there nonetheless. (Arachne forgot this bit of wisdom and it got her into a real web of trouble!) So don’t let the idea of perfection paralyze. A little coal does not necessarily spoil the luster of our gems; it can, make them dazzle the more brightly.

Atychiphobia/Epitychiphobia – the twin fears of success and failure. What if I can’t do it, what if I can? Beginning, middle, end, these fears raise their grisly heads at will along our writer’s progress, and just when we’ve conquered them for one book, they rise up again like necromantic hordes for the next. They stop us from starting, from finishing, from sending our literary children out into the world.


Worrying we’re not good enough – that one’s easy. While anyone can write, getting published is another matter entirely. The competition is fierce, rejects outweighing acceptances thousands to one. True, for better and worse, e-books and self-publishing open up new avenues and encouragements. But what happens if we put our e-book out there and no one buys it – or, worse yet, no one reads it even when we give it away? Such potential scenarios feed our fears of rejection. As thick skinned as we think ourselves, failure or the prospect of failure, can be devastating. It becomes particularly thorny as the rejection letters from agents and publishers start to pile up. We tinker and rewrite and send our MS out again – and again – and again. But, if we’re not careful, zombie fears can keep coming back until we toss our work into a draw and take that correspondence course in accounting we were holding in reserve.



Fight through. Write, heed critiques, write better, persevere. And remember that the rules of publishing are often not directly related to the quality of writing. If you doubt this, just meander through your local bookstore for an afternoon. Publishing is a business, and timing, trends, and luck, have a lot to do with catching a publisher’s eye.

As for epitychiphobia, or the fear of success, this is trickier. It afflicts some of us, but not all, speaking to the individual states of our individual egos. True, laboring in isolation for years writing the next “Satanic Verses” or “Interview with a Vampire,” only to have fame, fortune, even opprobrium come one’s way, can give the most extroverted narcissist pause. Then of course, there is the follow up, which, if not as good will only show what an absolute fraud one is! A nasty cycle.

Fear of success -Stephanie McMillan

Fear of success -Stephanie McMillan

For most of us, I say go for it. Be bold and brave and embrace whatever good fortune lands in your lap. It is a rare gift not to be shunned.

As ghouls and goblins roam the world and fears become manifest, remember that the ones that stop us writing are “what ifs” at best. “What if” is a pedant’s sport that distracts and mires us in inertia with its Medusa stare. This Halloween, don’t let the “what ifs” win.

We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?
…Christina Rossetti


Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen.
Don’t be afraid.

… Frederick Buechner

Private Writings: Chapter #37 — Raindrops Falling from My Eyes

private writings to a psychoanalyst (c) Jk 2013

Private Writings: Chapter #37 — Raindrops Falling from My Eyes
Written by Jennifer Kiley
Illustrated by j. kiley
Introduction & Chapter #1
Published on March 19th 2013
Published Early Tuesday AM
Posted 3rd December 2013


Crypticistic Synopsis:

private writings to dr. annie haskell, psychoanalyst extraordinaire,
my choice in form of storytelling is using letters with dreams, thoughts, poems, images,
music, art, describing my scripts, recent one ‘brief sacrifice,’ film is waiting for release,
psychotherapy, psychoanalysis, inspirations, reflective comments, the inner & outer workings
of the mind, soul, body, emotions, and bipolar—prefer mentally creative, or interesting,
or a brain misfiring; in the mix are abuse, crashes, near drownings, illegal drugs presently,
hallucinations, hypersexuality, time warps, finding answers to unsolved mysteries, infatuations,
imagination, fantasy, the never ending need to discover my self, my soul, my eternal serenity, my bliss
see you down the rabbit hole.
namaste! madison taylor

paris amazing lightning striking eiffel towerParis – Amazing Lightning Striking Eiffel Tower

paris view from notre dame at night eiffel towerParis – View from Notre Dame at Night of Eiffel Tower

paris Fontaine des mers reflection Place de la ConcordeParis Fontaine des mers Reflection Place de la Concorde

Private Writings: Chapter #37 — Raindrops Falling from My Eyes

Tuesday 27th May 2008

Dear Annie,

It was a warm Spring night in Paris. A slight mist in the air, weaving through a light rain, was touching the naked flesh our clothes hadn’t covered. We walked over the golden, glistening bridge, lit by the antique lamp posts, which crossed over the Seine. Lovers & romance come to life out of dreams & faery tales on this particular kind of night. The setting was that of pure perfection.

Scottie held my hand so gently in hers, as our arms touched while we walked. We weren’t alone on the bridge or in that night, but everyone else had escaped into their own fantasies, playing out in their own dreams.

My dream was to be with Scottie. Close. Moments alone. Celebrating our last night in Paris, the city created for decadence but, also, for love, true love. I love her. I confess. In the first moments, looking through my eyes into hers, my soul recognized her. She was the person for whom I had been waiting.

Who came before, were lessons of life. Crushing blows. Smashing hearts. Painful endurance. Touches of love. All passing through time, heading in different directions & for a few moments, they crossed into my time & stayed a short while. Just as suddenly as they were before me, oh, so quickly, they disappeared. Their time pulled away & vanished from mine.

A few people do stay. They are meant to be part of our travels. Hold them dear & let the rest be on their way. We all have things to do & lives to lead.

I want to separate those few people & shine the light on only one tonight. The lover of my life. My guardian angel on Earth, we protect one another. Yes, we have those we are close to, our special friends, they are precious to us. But tonight, I want to write about Scottie. My life comes into focus with her in my life. The crazy world in which we are surrounded, is only possible to survive with our true love. My demons fear her. She frightens them away. Her love & tenderness stop time in her presence. Hours may pass without our awareness. Too short is time then, it feels stolen away.

Let us return to the bridge taking us gliding on a cloud over the Seine. The rain touching our heads, floating down, making our eyes fill with tears & fall from our lashes. Happiness is within our hearts & the drops are are filled with our love & inner laughter.

Feeling Scottie stop & turn to face me, I repeat the same motion & our eyes fill the space between us. Her hands find their way to my face & hold my head softly. I look deeply into her eyes as they look down at my lips, saying “I love you.” Her lips touch my cheek as she starts kissing me. I am hypnotized. The feeling of heat flushes over my face. Her mouth finds my lips & the sensation of her lips touching mine are that of the light touch of a fluttering butterfly bearly landing on the petals of a budding rose.

I am breathless & floating on the mist as the power of her kiss sinks inside of me. Her lips softly melt into mine. One sensation of depth inside of me growing. I wrap my arms around Scottie’s body, feeling her warmth entering through my skin. I feel naked with her nakedness falling through my skin entering my body, becoming one person. We are above Paris. Floating over the city. All the beauty being absorbed in one infinite moment between the seconds.

When I returned to consciousness, Scottie & I are lying together naked, under the covers of the Coco Chanel bed in our Suite at the Ritz of Paris. Levitation, mysticism & magical whimsey carried us intertwined in our lovers embrace to our place of privacy. Making love without boundaries. No sensations stopped in mid-air. A continual motion of love making the way it originated with free flow & stream of consciousness responses through spontaneity & freedom of creation to make love with a fullness of intensity. No darkness. No interfering nightmares. No interruptions from the past flashing forward or flashbacks setting limits or slamming doors. Just pure sexual freedom. Sensations like molten lava, spilling forth & over the top, pouring down, smoothing the edges, heating up the liquids, while rolling with the golden waves of the sea at dawn.

Are you blushing Annie? I tried to be poetic as much as possible. Feeling so innermost touched by sensations I thought had been stolen. Ones I thought I would never have the chance to feel. Being in Paris. Spending time with Scottie in the late nights. Meeting Jonathan & having a great time with him. Being able to talk honestly & openly in the same place. And Paris is beyond anything one can imagine. It is a dream inside a dream.

Now that we are on the plane flying home, I miss it but I want to be home with Scottie there. See our wonderful babies, Toker, Mikey & Patrick. I want to sleep all together in the same bed all night & all day until we stop missing each other. And just to be in our own home.

I want to see you, too, Annie. I missed you. Yes, I know we talked & could see each other on our laptops. But I couldn’t feel our hugs. I need one of your hugs so badly. They nurture me. You nurture me. I miss hearing your voice while sitting near you.

I didn’t get much writing done except my letters to you. I miss James & Carter, my “Brief Encounter” gang. I love my characters in that screenplay. It will be on the screen really soon. I hadn’t thought of this before, but would you like to come to the premiere? Your whole clan would be invited. It would be fun. Just think about it. I will make sure Celia gets good seats for you. You could all come to the party at our home, Chateau de Rocher, afterwards. I told you Scottie gives great parties. You’d meet some very fun & famous actors. You never know who. Think about it. No pressure. Just let me know.

Now for my closing line from “Brief Sacrifice.”

“Time can be folded and joined with all elements in all places as the one ultimate moment when time is all at once. In this place everything happens on a continual loop following into a continuum of time forever into infinity. In the “Silver Box,” there is contained the ability to draw time into itself and create the perfect infinite moment.”

“The moment between seconds.”

For you, I will end this letter in “the moment between seconds.”

Love Fondly,

© madison taylor 2008

paris louvre statue closeup QUESTION WHO ARE THEYParis – Louvre Statue Closeup of Cupid & Psyche

Somewhere In Time – John Barry

paris springtime eiffel tower CUT OFF WORDS BOTTOM

rain in garden gif

By Madison Taylor
27th May 2008

Images reflections
Out of dreams sight
Symbols imagined
Death’s awakening
Slipping away
Into time backwards
Moving ahead
Melting mountains
Running away

Wanted to harm the flesh
Take away feelings
Never know what was lost
Once taken never returned
Difference changes
Sensations empty
Where heart would be

Love follows journey
Begin new
Remember nothing
Far away inside a nightmare
Held in time’s past

Other dimensions
Taken dark away
Now it burns
Within a volcano
Absorbed by fire
Poured in lava
Out to sea

What does the sea swallow?
Shadow memories
Darkness created
Happened in the mist
Imagined pain
Devoured by the deep

Nothing ever goes there
Except creatures
Eating demons from dreams

Life is respun
Feelings restored
Numbness be gone
Let Go
Let senses start again

© madison taylor 2008

Seeing Out of the Dark by J. McCormack (c)McCormack 2007 [created 11.26.07 by J. McCormack - a pseudonym for Madison Taylor]

Rising Out of the Darkness by Jk McCormack ©J.McCormack 2007 [created 11.26.07 by Jk  McCormack - a pseudonym for Madison Taylor]

Warm Winds [Theme for Madison & Scottie]

“A Dream
The beginning always starts out
With a dream.
It is all a dream
In our own nightmares”
— Madison Taylor

paris louvre at sunset pyramid w reflectionParis – Louvre at Sunset Pyramid Reflection in Water

paris louvre palace at night water in foregroundParis – Louvre Palace at Night Reflection in Water

paris louvre pyramid at night goldenLouvre Pyramid at Night Golden Reflection – Paris

paris Louvre reflectionLouvre Reflection – Paris

paris Versailles - Marie Antoinette's FarmMarie Antoinette’s Farm – Paris Versailles

jonathan stephens imaginary framedJonathan Stephens is Madison Taylor’s friend in Paris, France

actresses-with-long-hair-hairstyle frenchHunter Marx [ 7 years ago in 2001 year Hunter & Madison met]

play is not just play meryl streep

Songs of Innocence and Experience “The Tyger”

Songs of Innocence and Experience “The Tyger”
Written William Blake
Post Created by Jk the secret keeper
Illustrated by j. kiley
Post Created Friday 23rd August 2013
Posted On Saturday 24th August 2013

David-White painting of tiger touch abstract give to diana work onPainting of a Tiger Face — Artist David White

Songs of Innocence and Experience
William Blake

“The Tyger”

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

Tiger Face  Artist Alex Fitch

Tiger Face — Artist Alex Fitch

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spears
And water’d heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?


Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Tiger in a Tropical Storm  Artist Rousseau   968x775

Tiger in a Tropical Storm — Artist Rousseau

The Tyger by William Blake — Adagio with Strings Op 11a — Created by Jennifer Kiley

A brief analysis I thought I would add after writing the following to my niece about the William Blake poem ‘The Tyger.’ “It’s the poem by William Blake ‘The Tyger’…It has great paintings of tigers and an innocent photo of a sleeping lamb. When you read the poem it will make sense. But briefly, whoever created the tyger, came up with the concept, what was going on, to create such a creature filled with fire, so fierce and majestic but feared. Then you turn around and think, was it the same thinker who created the Lamb, such an innocent and delicate creature. Something the Tyger would think nothing about taking the life from her beautiful, soft, sweet being.

An interesting concept to create such a tendency of evil versus something conceived with such uncompromising good. I am not saying the Tyger is evil but the violence contained in his nature and the peacefulness of the Lamb. Remember, she is the one always sacrificed. Something intensely profound to think about and feel. There is something profoundly unbalanced in the nature of these two creatures. The sacrificial Lamb, so sweet, yet always the one destroyed by all Powers Great and Evil. Is the Tyger the Power of the Great? What is the Power reverting to Evil and destroys the Beautiful and Innocent? Is the only answer: ‘Because Power Can?’”  Written by Jennifer Kiley

Sometimes You Just Feel Invisible

a divider for post no. 5 love fav new one thinner

Sometimes You Just Feel Invisible
Written by Jennifer Kiley
Illustrations of Family Companion Animals
Photographs by Shawn MacKenzie
Post Created Wednesday 17th July 2013
Posted On Saturday 20th July 2013
X-Treme Haiku Saturday

Schroeder-the Jekyll & Hyde of Cats-kisses & snuggles switching instantaneously to bites & growls. And then there's Saki-our Amazon Parrot-my protector-she bites me when she thinks I am in danger. OUCH!!! One of her satisfactions is when she imitates Snoopy on his Sopwith Camel dive-bombing The Red Baron-in this instance replace TRB with Shawn-cannot get near me when Saki is sitting on my shoulder or near me in anyway. A true love/hate relationship with Shawn who gives her peanut treats whenever Saki asks. Now look at the love between S & S. It is a labour of love. In this photograph, Saki has only just started to fly over to us. Her life before us was trauma filled & neglect. Loved Shawn first but switched over to me. Now we are symbiotic & copacetic & share everything-Food & Love & Snuggles & I get a Heroic Protector who sleeps/sits on me when I write or doing anything at all. A Love Note for My Two Favorite Cuddlers.  1280x960

Schroeder-the Jekyll & Hyde of Cats-kisses & snuggles switching instantaneously to bites & growls. And then there’s Saki-our Amazon Parrot-my protector-she bites me when she thinks I am in danger. OUCH!!! One of her satisfactions is when she imitates Snoopy on his Sopwith Camel dive-bombing The Red Baron-in this instance replace TRB with Shawn-cannot get near me when Saki is sitting on my shoulder or near me in anyway. A true love/hate relationship with Shawn-who gives her peanut treats whenever Saki asks. Now look at the love between S & S. It is a labour of love. In this photograph-Saki has only just started to fly over to us. Her life before us was trauma filled & neglect. Loved Shawn first but switched over to me. Now we are symbiotic & copacetic. We share everything-Food-Love & Snuggles. I get an Heroic Protector who sleeps/eats/sits/snuggles/dances on me when I write or do anything. A Love Note for My Two Favorite Cuddlers. Kisses-Jk [One of Their Two Mums] ps. I am not Invisible to them. They need me as I need them & want me in their lives.

Sometimes You Just Feel Invisible
By Jennifer Kiley
17th July 2013

Sometimes you just feel
Invisible no sight no
Depth of shape no dimensions

Vision forward moves
Past forgotten locked in lost
Memories committed done

Frozen locked in time
Tripping tricking psyche deep
Confusion delusions thoughts

Trapping murderers
Vanquish shadows’ reflection
Innocence stolen destroyed

Perversion alive
Evil plans continue then
New images prevailing

Subconscious nightmares
Dreams retold when awakened
Bulldozers crashing breaking

Home protects safe place
Breathe panic out with symptoms
Expand light growing healing

© Jk 2013

Lakme-Delibes: Flower Duet — Joan Sutherland
Combining Art With Love
— Music Video — All Digital Art Created by Jennifer Kiley

a divider for post no. 5 love fav new one thinner

Private Writings: Chapter #13 — Miss Seeing You-Difficult

private writings to a psychoanalyst (c) Jk 2013
Private Writings: Chapter #13 — Miss Seeing You-Difficult
Written by Jennifer Kiley
Illustrated by j. kiley
First Published March 19th 2013
Published Early Tuesday AM
Posted 11th June 2013


Private Writings: Chapter #13: Miss Seeing You-Difficult

Tuesday  December 25th, 2007
Christmas Day

Dear Annie,

Not seeing you today was so painfully difficult. I realize it is Christmas day and you are with your family and I am, of course, with mine. Our furry kitties, Patrick, Toker and Little Sparky and our feathery Amazon Parrot, V Woolf. At present, we are all spread out together in the family room. Scottie is looking for a great book to read for the holiday week. She likes to choose a special book every year. She starts it out and when her voice begins to crack, it becomes my turn. I love this part. When I was in school, I prided myself on being able to read without a mistake or tripping over a word for the greatest length of anyone in my class. It was a feat that I still hold the record to. It’s a good habit to have if you ever have to do a book reading. Which as you may know, I do fairly often. More locally, then in the past, when I use to travel all over the states and sometimes even over in Europe, particularly in England.

I know this is suppose to be a joyful time of the year. Scottie and I have a good time together. We have a special Christmas Eve dinner, which was delicious last night, and there are always leftovers. We started the Christmas Eve feast our first Christmas together, before we were actually together. But that story is for another time. Something has been running through my mind, which I cannot talk about in therapy, private or group, but I need to get it out of my system. It has to do with crying. All the films we watch at Christmas should make me tear up or cry, especially at the end of Alastair Sims’s Scrooge, A Christmas Carol. His is the all time best film on Dicken’s story. I’ve watched it every year since I was a child. That is what I want to talk about. When I was a child, I remember I would swallow my tears in the lump that formed in my throat. I was too afraid to cry or for anyone to see the tears in my eyes. I better explain why. It is not a pleasant story.

I don’t cry. It is something I cannot do. Only when something so traumatic happens can I cry and then I can’t seem to stop. Everything sets me off. But only in private can I show my tears. I shut down completely around everyone, even Scottie, and during a sad film where crying is completely acceptable behavior. As I said, Tiny Tim always gives me a lump in my throat. It is my body trying to protect me by holding back the tears. It’s probably because I really want to scream. There is so much rage pent up inside of me. I want to let go of it but I’m afraid.

It’s shame. I am ashamed of my tears. There is a really good reason. When I was really young I use to cry all the time. It really drove my mother insane. My brothers would tease me and call me a cry baby. I hate that term. It made me cry even more. My mother use to tell my brothers to leave me alone. She left me alone to. But then suddenly, I must have reached a certain age when my mother didn’t find it acceptable any longer for me to cry. She flipped out and became some dark creature and mean as Hell. It started. She turned into a Demon. When ever she found me alone, she turned on me, like some cornered animal and started to beat me, all the while screaming at me. I became terrified and of course I would start to cry. This made her even more angry. Her seeing the tears in my eyes and falling down my cheeks enraged her. That’s when I discovered that tears were dangerous. They ignited a full blown rage in my mother. That was when I started thinking of her as evil and in therapy I came up with the name for her of The Shadow Mother. That’s what I called her in my mind. I cannot use the other word alone. It disturbs me.

My tears from that point on caused me to be physically, emotionally, psychologically, sexually and spiritually abused in the most vicious ways imaginable. The depth of abuse crossed the lines of any kind of abuse in ones childhood. The Shadow Mother wasn’t my only abuser but the things she did to me were so harsh. One would not expect a mother to do these things to their young child. Now that I am older and understand more I can describe what she did to me. She was into bondage and dominance mixed in with sadomasochism. In her beatings there were not any safe words to make it stop. That’s when I felt it brought the abuse into a questionably sexual realm with The Shadow Mother. The word No and Stop in her mind meant to keep abusing. Crying only doubled and tripled the intensity of the beatings. She started out by striking me through my clothing at first but as the frequency of the abuse increased eventually she would not get enough satisfaction with striking cloth, she wanted to beat my body on my flesh where she could see the effect of her brutality. She wanted to see the bruises and the tears in my skin. She used various weapons. Usually what ever was near at hand but she had a favorite switch taken from the branches of a tree from our yard that she liked the most.

Silence and no movement were the only things when combined that worked to stop her. I needed to be dead or show the appearance of someone dead for the abuse to stop. Maybe not technically but physically without sound or motion. That was the first part. When that was over there was one more phase to the abuse. It wasn’t over until I, the child and one abused, went to her closed bedroom door and groveled at the door with The Shadow Mother inside. She was always dead silent. I was always on my knees pleading with her to forgive me. I had to ask my abuser to forgive me. I’d ask her multiple times to forgive me. I was trained well into being submissive but even with all the pleading there was no forgiveness. Not ever. The door never opened. There was never a sound made from inside those walls behind that damned door. I was left there till oblivion escorted me away. Memory blanked from that point on. Rewind tape and repeat performance at a future but unknown time. Just her performance was the only thing that was repeated over and over again in all its brutality and my submission and pleas for forgiveness were echoed in those halls and bedrooms.

I am sorry that I am telling you this now but Christmas is about family and I have no family. I left them all behind when I became brave enough and my first therapist managed to convince me I needed to leave that place of unbalanced confusion, madness and inequity. There are no blood family I want anything to do with except a niece and her family. We are close and keep in touch but I have never met her. My agoraphobia has prevented us getting together. Her family want to meet Scottie and me. It’s just I have a terrible time being around people. I relate to them from a distance, through cyberspace. With the few exceptions. Physical contact is not something I am very good at except with my animals and Scottie. I do group and private therapy but do not relate well in my private sessions. As far as group goes, I can handle the people in group as long as it’s in a therapy room. Now, it seems to be developing into something impossible and uncomfortable to handle. If you weren’t there Annie, I wouldn’t return. Your entering my life when you did has saved me. I hope in the near future you will come to my rescue even further. You becoming my psychoanalyst is my Christmas wish and those wishes always should be answered.

Merry Christmas Annie. And thank you for entering my life when you did. It means more to me than I am able to express to you in person at the moment. Oh, by the way, Scottie finally settled on her choice of books to read over the holidays. It’s Evelyn Waugh’s “Brideshead Revisited.” We loved the series and have watched it several times. I seem to recall that the opening line of the series was spoken by Charles Rider, played by the actor Jeremy Irons (one had no idea of who he was at the time in the states) saying off camera, “I knew Sebastian by sight long before I met him. That was unavoidable for, from his first week, he was the most conspicuous man of his year by reason of his beauty, which was arresting, and his eccentricities of behaviour, which seemed to know no bounds… I was struck less by his looks than by the fact that he was carrying a large teddy-bear”.” It should be fun hearing Sebastian talk about his teddy bear Aloysius, “If it could only be like this always – always summer, always alone, the fruit always ripe and Aloysius in a good temper…” Love both of these lines but I wish the second one could be true most of the time. I, also, love all the adventures Sebastian had with Charles at Cambridge together. Then there is Sebastian’s family, the mother was almost impossible to take to heart and overly pompous in her religiosity and the same of brother Bridie, what a bore.

It was easy to love Sebastian’s sisters Cordelia and Julia, and spending time at Brideshead, the Flyte homestead, that was mostly marvelous in the beginning. And Sebastian’s father was a free spirit, who was accepting and had found love away from England in Italy, away from his wife and the mother of his children. When all starts going wrong, that I don’t like. Sebastian is my favorite and I don’t like that Waugh gives him such a bad turn. It should still be exciting to have Scottie reading to us as I rest my head in her lap and stretch out the rest of my body on the sofa with a throw over me, our cats Patrick, Toker and Sparky curled up on top of the sofa with us, and a fire roaring in the fireplace. Quite the romantic and cozy scene. Add to that some Schubert or Rachmaninoff playing in the background or Michael Hoppe and the sweetness of the spiritually uplifting flute and the peaceful serenity the music induces inside one’s soul.

I’d say thanks for listening. In a way you are, at least in my head. Annie, that does help me make it through, believing that you are there for me. Maybe after this letter you might not want to deal with someone who has been so damaged. It isn’t easy to be around that shit I wrote about. It’s in my psyche and I hate having to remember. I don’t often. My defense mechanisms are like iron vaults. They lock up the darkness as best they can but there is always the sneakiness of memories. They don’t like being trapped in any containment. They have no idea they are so destructive to me. All they want is their freedom. Being creative helps to release them in a way that I have more control over them but one doesn’t have control over one’s nightmares unfortunately. They sneak out through all those symbols in the unconscious, thank you Carl Jung, that collective unconscious that manifests its self by bringing back the dead to haunt me, so that I will be forced to remember, even if it is in code. Eventually, the code is broken and the symbols are understood. They must be. It is the only way to work things out and be rid of their hold on me. Out, out damned nightmares. I may joke but I want my dignity back and my honour and innocence.

Annie, this is what you would have to look forward to if you decide to accept the challenge to be my analyst. I so hope you will. Please don’t turn away from me now. I can feel my insecurities are already starting to grow. There is nobody I am able to turn to who will help me. I’ve tried so many therapists and analysts. I need help. There isn’t much time. My strength is weakening. I feel suicidal so often. Holding back the dam from breaking just won’t work much longer. With all my heart, I am asking you sincerely to please help me.

Sorry for such intensity. I am not able to help myself. It is part of who I am. All I want to say now in finishing this letter is to wish you a great holiday vacation. I hope it’s wonderful spending time with your family. I look forward to seeing you after the first of the year. It will be hard to make it through that long. I will work on being creative. My new screenplay needs working on for Scottie to begin setting up her method of attack. She’s beginning casting after the New Year. The casting department at the studio have lined up actors for auditions after the holidays. So I am under pressure to have something decent for them to read in their try-outs. Plus I want to work are some of my computer art. That should capture my full attention.

I look forward to seeing you the second Tuesday of the New Year. Bye for now. Next week is New Year’s Day. I hope I haven’t totally freaked you out as much as I have myself. “Like madness is the glory of this life.” — Shakespeare-The Timon of Athens

Quite Fondly,

ATTENTION ANNIE: At this moment I am not trying to be a coward, but I feel if I hold back now or never send this to you, I am freeing myself up to write whatever without censorship. On some future date, if trust grows, I will release my letters to you. What I write in honesty, I will keep confidential. On my honour, no others shall see these pages.

Annie Haskell --- Madison Tayler's Psychoanalyst's Office

Madison Tayler’s Fantasy of Annie Haskell’s Office as a Psychoanalyst.

Somewhere In Time – John Barry

rain in garden gif

No Healing But Time
By Madison Taylor
Dec. 23th, 2007

No healing but time.
Even that is a projected hallucination.
Feeling a hold on what is real.
Moments creep in and change things up.
Waiting for time to pass so the pain will stop.
Losing control.
Not able to control the intensity
hurting the flesh
corrupting the instrument of the mind
controls the dam from overflowing.
Tear everything apart
to stop the insanity of waiting
from circling the brain.
The madness takes over
rips it all apart so it becomes bearable.
Eventually, the torture subsides
is replaced with a more acceptable level.
The waiting feels less maddening
the feelings brought down
to a more manageable level.
But the waiting still exists.
The pain remains.
The intensity is spread out
to a bearable diversion of acceptance.
There still exists time between the madness
and the satisfaction
the pain will be subdued
to a reasonable state bearable
to only the divinely mad.
Losing control sometimes
is the only acceptable answer
to certain situations.
Healing needs to be done
only in a way that allows
for all possibilities of acceptance.

© madison taylor 2007

candle flame flickering gif

Queen — Who Wants To Live ForeverChapter #13


le chateau de rocher by j. kiley (c) jennifer kiley 2013   824x552

Le Chateau de Rocher is the home of Madison and Scottie & their three cats Mikey, Toker & Patrick

family gathering place and hangout

madison's study/library  640x480

Madison’s study/library

scottie's study library

Scottie’s study library

front foyer and staircase  812x612

Front foyer and staircase


“I like to see people reunited, maybe that’s a silly thing, but what can I say, I like to see people run to each other, I like the kissing and the crying, I like the impatience, the stories that the mouth can’t tell fast enough, the ears that aren’t big enough, the eyes that can’t take in all of the change, I like the hugging, the bringing together, the end of missing someone.” ― Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

“I had my chance.’ He said it, retiring from a lifetime of wanting. ‘I had my chance, and sometimes in life, there are no second chances. You look at what you have, not what you miss, and you move forward.” ― Jamie Ford, Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet

“All I can think about is what she must be doing, and how I wish she were still here.” ― Pittacus Lore, I Am Number Four

“Tamani smiled softly and lifted a hand to her face, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and letting his thumb rest on her cheek. ‘Trust me, it’s no picnic missing you. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.” ― Aprilynne Pike, Spells

“He tried to tell me week after week to accept things as they were and move on with my life. But if there was one man who had put his life on hold to wait for something or someone, it was him.” ― Cecelia Ahern, A Place Called Here

“Didn’t I say I’d always be your same stars? If you get to missing me, just look up.” ― Anne Rivers Siddons, Fault Lines

“Usually time alters and affects everything, but when someone you love dies time cannot change that, no amount of time will ever change that, so time stops having any meaning.” ― Rosamund Lupton, Sister

“I won’t let you have it. I won’t give you this moment. I won’t let you fill up this valuable organ…I own it. I won’t do it. I can’t think, I won’t think about it.” ― Coco J. Ginger

“…there remained a strange formality between them, and her pleasure in his presence felt too much like missing him had felt during the last week.” ― Robin McKinley, Pegasus

play is not just play meryl streep

New Path Forming

colours multi psychedelic divider for posts new

New Path Forming
Written by Jennifer Kiley
Illustrated by j. kiley
Post Created June 3rd 2013
Posted June 6th 2013

colours multi psychedelic divider for posts new

ABBA — I Have A Dream

colours multi psychedelic divider for posts new

4p island in center of path and sunset

colours multi psychedelic divider for posts new

New Path Forming
Written by Jennifer Kiley
June 3rd 2013

Look out at the beauty
What turn to take
The one most familiar
Following it to the end
Where it permanently stops at death
What is ahead for all

Finding new growth
With the river as it draws the water visiting its bed
The strength pulling
Wanting to be followed
Curiosity where it will lead
The mind leads the adventure
Investigating ideas as presented
Places new to the vision

Not exactly physically traveling
The mind opens to worlds containing newness
Gathering further understanding
New knowledge, insight, and depth of meaning
Meaning on life, love and death
Flowing with the current of the river
Listening to the wind
A breeze caressing the face
Gusting bursts of wind
Knocking into the body with force
Bones chilled by its frozen intensity
Probing a path unknown inside the body

Thoughts and feelings contained within
Not physically moving
Need to maintain safety
In an environment familiar
Beauty surrounding it
Filled with love
A home surrounded by nature
Lakes, streams, and woods
Enough to satisfy any soul
Reach out touching living being
Feelings and thoughts are alive
Love finding a path
Needs and wants willingly given
Seeking truth, honesty, and learning
Enjoyment containing laughter and tears
Excitement and joy

Time might awaken the darkness
Release the children
Who are locked within
They ran to hide when little
Remaining there today
Needing magic to escape

The path back into life
The adventure out of a Dickens’s novel
An adventure in further growth
New beginnings in discovering trust
Opening the heart and soul
Taking chances to live and love
Joining the outside world
Where once the door was slammed shut

Trust not given freely
Caused too much pain
Relearning all of life
A new path is beginning to form
Time is opening the entrance wider
Awareness becoming clearer
Love, trust and courage
Is like climbing to the top of the world

© jennifer kiley 2013

colours multi psychedelic divider for posts new

Sheryl Crow — A Change Will Do You Good

colours multi psychedelic divider for posts new

“The beginning of love is the will to let those we love be perfectly themselves, the resolution not to twist them to fit our own image. If in loving them we do not love what they are, but only their potential likeness to ourselves, then we do not love them: we only love the reflection of ourselves we find in them” ― Thomas Merton, No Man Is an Island

“Have enough courage to trust love one more time and always one more time.” ― Maya Angelou

“You see, you closed your eyes. That was the difference. Sometimes you cannot believe what you see, you have to believe what you feel. And if you are ever going to have other people trust you, you must feel that you can trust them, too–even when you’re in the dark. Even when you’re falling.” ― Mitch Albom, Tuesdays With Morrie

colours multi psychedelic divider for posts new

Green Day — Time of Your Life

colours multi psychedelic divider for posts new

Private Writings: Chapter #8 — Visions of a Future

private writings to a psychoanalyst (c) Jk 2013
Private Writings: Chapter #8 — Visions of a Future
Written by Jennifer Kiley
Illustrated by j. kiley
First Posting 03.19.13
Posted Weekly Early Tuesday Morning
Chapter #8 Posted 7th May 2013


Letters of Import: Visions of a Future — Chapter #8

Tuesday, November 20th, 2007

Dear Annie

It was your first solo flight today Annie. That was the most excellent group. The best group I have ever attended. My bias is being put aside and my words are honest and direct. You brightened up that group session. Everyone spoke without having to be coaxed out of any shells. No one was hiding. The quiet ones who regularly sit there and Mr. Xxx has to be the one who says what they can’t say. Not that he really makes one want to open up or gives them a chance too. You made everyone feel your enthusiasm, even though the subject was a rough one. Talking about not wanting to be touched or barely being able to let your spouses or mates try to kiss you. Forget about sex or making love; you really brought out the toughest subject.

I know you didn’t open the session with that in mind. Lisa wanted to talk about her partner. Being a lesbian myself, it is hard to believe that being sexually abused by men when you are a child would effect so strongly an intimate relationship with another woman. You would think that would be safe. In my case, I had such mixed signals. My mother was a sadist. My grandmother, the gentlest woman I have ever known. Everything about her was soft and tender. I never felt anything threatening about her. She was pure love and generosity with me. There were no doubts with her. She loved me up until she died and even then she visited me all the time from the other side. Many dreams we would sit together with her sitting in a chair on her home’s porch and my head resting on her lap. She would always just stroke my hair. She was so tender and I felt so bonded with her. It was like she never died, I got to visit with her more often after she died than when she was alive.

I wanted her to live forever. It never entered my mind she would die. She told me that it would happen. I didn’t believe her. I told her No! That would never happen. I wanted her to always be with me. But I was so wrong. She did die. It was only a short time after that conversation. She was gone.

Her dying wasn’t my first contact with death. A five year old boy drowned. He lived across the street from our family. He was so sweet. Everyone in our neighborhood loved him. He was a little angel, so sweet and innocent. The other child with him, when it happened, left him alone, dead or drowning in the water, while he ran home and didn’t tell anyone what had happened. The search was awful. Everyone was frantic. The whole neighborhood that loved him went out on the search. It brought down a great sadness over everyone after he was found.

Nothing could be done. It was too long. Could the other boy have saved him if he ran for help? No one could answer that question. It did eventually come out about what happened. The whole truth, they were in a place that was dangerous even for adults. The little boy tried to balance as he walked across a narrow crossing and fell into the deep water new the waterfalls. Neither boy knew how to swim. The other boy didn’t want to get into trouble. Children were forbidden to go this place by the pond. When asked if he had seen this boy that drowned, he lied and told everyone No when asked.

Somehow his conscience ate at him enough to break his silence. He told the truth after hours had passed. But it was way to late. It was over. The little five year old boy was way past drowning. Shock and blaming the boy who was alive followed him around for a longtime. That boy wasn’t trusted by the people of our neighborhood. Most people were very judgmental of his entire family. They were crude and socially unacceptable and most of all they never went to church. Ours was a God fearing group except them and one other family that everyone thought were Communists. It was all rather ridiculous. It was so devastating to the boys family, especially his mother. I felt bad for them. I wasn’t that old myself and I loved the little boy who drowned. He was like a little angel. It was all very sad.

My grandmother dying, though, was a different kind of devastation. She was my protector and the only person I could communicate with. We created a special alphabet. It was secret. We could write and no one could read what we sent to the other. She was my only physical contact that was good touch. Everyone else abused me, either sexually or through physical beatings. Which was worst? Both, they overlapped in their sexual abusive nature. Subliminally, it could all be traced back to sexual submission. Whippings. Beatings. Rapes. Forced touches. Kidnapping. Bondage. Child pornography. None of these were by any choice that I made. It was all against my will.

I was a sex slave and exposed to all kinds of physical and sexual brutality, including the denial of nourishment. The greatest pain was being denied the right to express any emotions or sounds. In particular, I was beaten harder if I uttered any sound. The worst sound, that I could make and that received the worst of the punishment, was to cry. I was forbidden to cry. Crying brought out the worst wrath of the Shadow Mother. She would whip me or hit me with all sorts of objects until I would stop crying. I was filled with tears. I needed to cry. It was part of my nature to cry. I cried all the time. But she hated it. She was determined to drive it out of me. She worked on this mission for many years until she found success. My grandmother’s death was her day of success. That was the day I was told not to cry for the last time. As I wad holding my grandfather’s hand, after having just returned from looking into the coffin at what was once the warm body of my loving grandmother. I kissed her cold forehead. She wasn’t there.

My grandfather’s hands were warm. We needed contact but my uncle was a mean bastard. He helped my mother to kill her. He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it like a clamp and told me not to cry and added that I was upsetting my grandfather. My grandfather was crying with me. But I listened to him. He was just echoing the rant I’d heard from his sister, the Shadow Mother, throughout my bruised childhood. I stopped crying and I did not cry after that moment ever, with this one exception, unless someone I loved deeply died suddenly. Then I would lose control. But if I just want to cry I cannot do it. The tears are trapped. What will release them naturally, I just don’t know. I’ve tried for year. Doing therapy since I was 19 years old has not been able to breakdown that barrier. Would you, Annie, like to have a go at it. Do you think you can find the secret passage inside of me where the barrier has the door closed, locked and barricaded?

The gentleness in your voice carries an echo of a hypnotic ability. I feel that you could coax someone who is so closed off from her feelings, like I am. I need someone sensitive but emotionally strong and gentle to draw out the one who holds onto the tears so tightly. I really want you to be the one who breaks through my barriers. I know they are built very strong and they are extremely thick. Behind the wall, it is dark and scary. We want to be released from where the Shadow Mother has us locked up. She holds the key. So, only someone who can perform magical and mystical feats will be able to break through and cause the blockade to crumble down and set me free. I need magic. White magic with a great deal of power.

A great many curses of the Black Arts have been cast on me. Their demons keep me closely guarded. Trust me, when I tell you that it is not madness talking. This is all quite real. The demons haunt me almost constantly. They torture me with lies. They try their damnedest to confuse my mind so that I will doubt my reality. At times, I know that what I perceive as real is false. I know when they are trying to trick me but I can’t stop it from effecting me. They take over my mind. I fight it so I still have a glimpse of the truth. It takes so much strength to not feel madness trying to take over.

I must rest. How I will be able to trust you with all of this information and hope you do not think we are certifiably mad, stark raving loony. We are not crazy. We couldn’t be more sane. But right now we need sleep. We’ll write more again soon.

You did a fantastic job being a great psychotherapist today. I can see the future and I see you helping me. I feel you are the one I need right now. You are perfect you may be a novice but you have a strong connection to the soul. Your spirit has a great power. That is one of the things we need as a weapon. That is all for right now. I must rest.


Ps. The force is strong in you. That is good until next week.

Somewhere In Time – John Barry

candle flame flickering gif

Le Chateau de Rocher

le chateau de rocher by j. kiley (c) jennifer kiley 2013   824x552

Le Chateau de Rocher is the home of Madison and Scottie & their three cats Mikey Toker & Patrick

QUOTATIONS from: Private Writings

“A Dream

The beginning always starts out with a dream.
It is all a dream
And we are all players
In our own nightmares”
— Madison Taylor

“For that fine madness still he did retain,
Which rightly should possess a poet’s brain.”
~Michael Drayton~

“Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?”
Christopher Marlowe for “Hero and Leander”

“A therapeutic relationship is often more psycho-emotionally intimate than a marriage, or a romantic attachment. I know things about my patients that they would never dream of revealing to their spouses or families. Why is that? One word — trust. If you do not have a connection with a therapist, you cannot trust them. If you do not have trust, you will not expose yourself, and if you do not expose your innermost being, what good is the therapy?” — unknown but ask any great therapist

“Men have called me mad, but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence…whether much that is glorious–whether all that is profound–does not spring from disease of thought…” — Edgar Allan Poe


“If I paint a wild horse, you might not see the horse… but surely you will see the wildness!” ― Pablo Picasso

“The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.” ― Albert Einstein

“Writing is…. being able to take something whole and fiercely alive that exists inside you in some unknowable combination of thought, feeling, physicality, and spirit, and to then store it like a genie in tense, tiny black symbols on a calm white page. If the wrong reader comes across the words, they will remain just words. But for the right readers, your vision blooms off the page and is absorbed into their minds like smoke, where it will re-form, whole and alive, fully adapted to its new environment.” ― Mary Gaitskill

play is not just play meryl streep

Private Writings: Chapter #7 — We Chose Life

private writings to a psychoanalyst (c) Jk 2013Private Writings: Chapter #7 — We Chose Life
Written by Jennifer Kiley
Illustrated by j. kiley
First Posting 03.19.13
Posted Weekly Early Tuesday Morning
Chapter #7 Posted 30th April 2013


Private Writings:  Chapter #7 — We Chose Life

Tuesday, November 13th, 2007

Dear Annie

I must bring this to your immediate attention. Last week, when I wrote to you in our usual letter, I included a poem. It was a raw and painful poem to write. I would really like to discuss some of it with you in this letter. I hope you don’t mind. It has been making me feel rather vulnerable, even though I haven’t sent you the letter yet. Someday, any day, might be when I do get brave enough and really write these letters with the direct expectation of mailing them to you or handing them to you in person. The second way would make me feel more assured that you received the letters personally and no one else touched them or might accidentally open them. I don’t think anyone at the counseling center would ever do something like that intentionally. But these are very private letters meant for your eyes only. Just thinking about discussing the poem I wrote is making me feel rather anxious. In fact, I feel like I am starting to have a panic attack. Let me take a Klonopin before we continue. After that I will post the poem and the paragraph that followed it. I want to discuss that along with the poem. I’ll be right back.

Here I am, back really quickly. It will only take about 15 minutes for the med to take effect. Well, here goes, this is the poem once again appearing in one of my letters I am writing to only you. If I ever give these letters to you, I must have your word that you will never ever show these to anyone else. No one must know what I am telling you. These have to be our secret. If you only knew how I feel inside.

How do I really feel about you Annie? Right now, I have no idea. Too afraid to go inside to find out what I truly feel. The whole of the world confounds me. It just makes me feel depressed. It just feels that I can’t hold onto the people I love. They just tend to die. It’s not like they’re even old. When you die in your twenties, I would call that dying “Forever Young.” Too many die FY. You’re not going to do that, are you Annie?

What do you think of my poem? If you read it now, how would you decipher it? I’ll play both of us. You go first, or should I? Let me pull out the first three lines. The writer, the lover, the thinker: isn’t something missing? Whose feeling anything? The lover is just sexual. You can do that without any feelings at all. The writer is mental but could be emotional with the words they are expressing. But I don’t think so. It’s cerebral. The thinker, existential separation anxiety filled with analytical theorizing until infinity gets exhausted.

Someone is missing. Someone who connects in a soulful way with people or animals. Who is that? Lets think about it. Send out feelings to find out who they are? You think a spiritualist. I thought I was one of those people. I believe in the spirit, the soul, the astral body, the separation from the physical. The soul is just carrying the weight of the body while its heart beats and air fills its lungs and the grey matter still is able to function to make the physical tissues of the body perform.

I was thinking tonight about Heaven Annie. As I made it up the stairs to bed and my cat always raced up the stairs before me. We play that game every night. I make believe I’m going to beat him tonight. It’s always the challenge. There’s no way in Hell that I can ever beat him. But he loves the game. You want to know his name? He goes by many. He has such a magnificent personality. We call him Sparky because he sparks like fireworks. It’s not his official name. That one is proper. We named him Higgins after the character in the great Broadway play Pygmalion. He responds to anything but Higgins and he rather prefers being called Sparky.

What the Hell are we talking about? Is it about making it through with some enjoyment and to try to forget about all the nightmares? Or are we suppose to face the nightmares? The soul tells me that we have to or we won’t make it. I have too many. How about you? What are your bad dreams? What tried to fuck you up? Any bad people in your dreams? You seem pretty together but anyone can put a mask on. Why do you suppose we all try to hide from everyone? We are all human. Our feelings fall somewhere into the human category. Are we afraid people will think we are crazy or too weird?

Back to the poem, the next three lines are pretty explosive. Feeling the fool for not hearing, the silence for not screaming and feelings trying to blow the whole thing wide open but being stopped somehow. What stopped me? You probably would like to know that. A good reason, how about one of the abusers threatened to kill me right at the moment I told him if he didn’t stop I would go to the police. Wrong thing to say to a nasty, mean pedophile. He tried to kill me but he stopped at just making me feel he was going to crush my head into stones like Stonehenge. He pulled back but not until he told me he would not only kill me but my whole family. Those other people who also abused me. For some reason I felt I needed to protect them. I didn’t care if he killed me. My life was ruined. They all in combination destroyed who I am. They crushed my life. I am dead. My spirit has been stolen from me. It’s like in Peter Pan, they stole my shadow, my reflection. I don’t have one any longer. I am invisible. That’s why no one can see me. Why I never get noticed except when someone wants to hurt me or make me feel more pain so that I really do want to be invisible. I just wanted to die.

The only reason I stayed alive was I loved my grandmother. The funny thing about it all, my grandma, she had an accident shortly after this and went into the hospital. She never went home again. I saw her once at the hospital. I climbed into her hospital bed with her. Under the oxygen tent, we hugged. I held her so close. Her arms used her strength, as much as she could and held me close. Then it was time to go. I gave a bunch of kisses to say goodbye to her. I didn’t know I would never see her alive again.

She died in protest. They wanted her to become one of the forgotten. She wasn’t going to let them do that to her. She told them that it was something she would never do, going to a nursing home. She stopped her breathing and her heart from beating. She left me behind. I stopped living when she stopped, too.

“The feelings trying to explode…Where was the awareness?” I was clueless on what or who to, if anyone, to talk to. I never talked to anyone back then. Words were not my companion when spoken out loud. Not something I even knew how to do. Didn’t know how. Had no practice. What would have been the right words to say anyway? I didn’t know them to say or to even write down on paper. I am only learning now how to connect my words with feeling.

“We say ‘Welcome to the surface.’ It should have been Welcome to the circus. “Now what needs to be done?” We need to find someone new that we can really talk to. Someone who will listen and really hear what we are saying. Not judge us. Try to understand. And not constantly criticize us and try to put us down. Diminish who we are. That’s been done all our life except in college. For some reason I mattered when I was in college. I felt important and wanted. The same happened when I was part of the Women’s Center when I lived in Connecticut. It’s not so much I want to feel important. I just want to feel like I matter. Everyone I think needs to feel important in some way.

“Releasing the energy ensnared for decades amongst twisted webs…” I have been so blocked. My thoughts and feelings didn’t have an outlet. And I didn’t know how to say the words. I was made my own prisoner eventually, out of fear. Demons possessed me with fear. All the demons from all the years of abuse and made to feel like I was nothing, a nobody that had no worth or purpose.

“The voice is seeking freedom but holding onto multiple secrets.” We have a central voice but we also have multiple voices. With all the alters, we have to listen to all their voices and all the needs they tell us that they have. It’s hard to keep track or remember. It is really confusing inside our head sometimes. But we were working with a woman therapist who had her moments of quality therapy but she had her problems. I have an obsessive alter who was in love with her and obsessed with her. Let’s call it quite dependent. We were attached. We needed her. She was the first therapist that figured out what was going on inside our head. She figured out the DID. I have to admit when she told us we has other personalities, it really freaked us out. Kind of went into shock and some heavy denial. No way could that be possible. She said the psychiatrist agreed with her after he tested me.

That was the big secret. We thought realizing we were Gay was enough of a shock but being MPD was more difficult. Coming out of that closet was worst. It took us a while before we could tell Scottie and we had been together for a long time at that point. Almost 15 years. When I found the courage to tell her, her reaction was: “Oh, I already knew.” I asked her why she didn’t tell me. “Because you needed to figure that out yourself.” Of course, she was right. It wasn’t easy. Like I usually do, I bought or borrowed every book I could find on the subject of MPD. I learned it all. Enough to get a degree.

There is so much more to discuss in this poem. I packed it with a great deal of exposure of my past. I need a break. I may try to answer more of the points in this letter or carry it over to the next letter.

It’s a list of some of the confusion that smashed into our life. It started when we were really little and didn’t stop. The abuse continued when we were adults. No was the word that meant nothing to anyone who wanted something from us. Our body betrayed us. We couldn’t stop anyone from forcing us. Some didn’t even realize they were forcing us but they were. If we shut down inside we became frozen. We couldn’t stop what was happening. This started when we were little and continued into our adult relationships. It was all on some degree of force. We weren’t there in our bodies. We left or went deep inside or floated on the ceiling until it was over.

It wasn’t consensual. It was a form of rape and abuse. We wanted love but not sex. We didn’t want to be sexually aroused because it would always end with us disappearing and our bodies would shut down. It was like turning the keys off in a car. The engine would stop running and so would we. Eventually we created an outside person, a human robot, who faked our life like a computer. She would accumulate data. And learned the expected behavior and that would be hos she would perform. We were safe inside while she was out there living a fake life as a fake person. A puppet represented us. She hid in plain sight. No one would find us with the puppet self having a controlled pattern of behavior, always asking questions to improve her performance do she wouldn’t be detected.

Our hiding place was discovered by this woman therapist. She saw through the facade. She was tricky and scary to us. She got to close. We started to care too much. She opened up the rawness in us. She made us need people. Specifically, she made us need her too desperately. We felt so close to her. But more like the fox in Le Petite Prince by Antoine de St. Exupery. She tamed part of our wildness. She made us want to be loved by her. Being loved and wanting to love in return puts such a control on you. I began to develop an overwhelming need for her. It was driving me mad. Everything started falling apart. My life felt out of control.

Our hiding place was revealed. There was no place to go except into madness and wanting to commit suicide. Suicide has always been a part of our life. It is a part of our breathing. It is always an alternative to the divine madness. We can escape that way any time we chose. But it is not an answer we can choose. Not with all that we are responsible for. Our life needs us to be in it. Everything has changed. We are learning to begin to live. We have found a purpose. It is delicate and sometimes difficult to balance but we are giving our new life all that we are able to give it. We know and are learning what we are able to do. We are able to write. We are able to be creative. Our artistic nature is starting to blossom. We are letting it be free. It likes that. It feels like are trusted to let the muse guide us. She always seems to be when we need her. We don’t push it. We let it be a natural flow. We like, no we love where we are now. It does have its difficulties with the mentally creative activities that bombard our brain. But we work hard on that more with our doc then with Mr. Xxx. He is about as helpful as a dead skeleton. His sense of warmth and communication I’d to tell stories that do not at all relate to what I am feeling or going through. He doesn’t help me at all except to give me reasons to escape my life. He lets me run away. I know I have my weaknesses but I need to find my life before I die or I kill myself because I can’t live with the confusion any longer or the depressions or rage.

I want to say that I am here and I want to stay alive. We want to be here. We choose life.

We fought through them trying to destroy us. They didn’t succeed. We are still alive. No matter how many battles. No matter how many nights we have to fight to make it alive til morning gets here. Therapy, knowing my psychoanalyst is there is so reassuring. It means at least one person is out there in our Universe that knows we are alive. That we exist. Being alive is a higher grade than just existing. The artist that lives inside of us makes it all matter. Otherwise, nothing else matters. If I didn’t have my art, my animals, the women I love and the men who are decent that I love. A good home and family who I love and who love me. The special people who know who they are. They are part of what make this life I live matter. But that involves some major time tripping. I am having visions of a future in my life, but I must be patient and wait for that time to happen. It is a good sign that I make it to that future. Others do not.

Here in 2007 I have you Annie. I am focusing on that. Your presence is beginning to mean something more to me than I even understand at this moment. We will see where that takes us.

Until next time.


ATTENTION ANNIE: At this moment I am not trying to be a coward, but I feel if I hold back now or never send this to you, I am freeing myself up to write whatever without censorship. On some future date, if trust grows, I will release my letters to you. What I write in honesty, I will keep confidential. On my honour, no others shall see these pages.
Madison Taylor.

Annie Haskell --- Madison Tayler's Psychoanalyst's Office

Madison Tayler’s Fantasy of Annie Haskell’s Office as a Psychoanalyst.

Somewhere In Time – John Barry

rain in garden gif

Soul’s Awakening
By Madison Taylor
Written 11.11.07

Give your soul an awakening
Listen quietly through the inspiring music
Enter the encouraging words
The ideas arise from their varied meanings
What is most on your mind
What is churning up your insides
Needing to be talked about
Preferably released from your mind
Where trapped are the feelings
That the thoughts are made of in the silence

Love is an all-consuming obsession
Filling the spaces in between
Every break of thought
To throw off the concentration
So many who feel love from inside their heart
They died or disappeared
Called away from their lives abruptly
You could say they had a calling
A calling not dealing with fairness
Or consideration for the pain
Created from their loss
Investing in vulnerability

Rips out the heart
Tears it like dogs with a pile
Of meaningless thrown away leftovers
The heart has been a left over piece of flesh
Good for a treat
For a hungry mouth
But for love an empty plate

Starving the hungry for tenderness and love
Wanting to be held in a warm hug
Being caressed with a slow gentleness
Giving time to be caught up to the touch
Of a lover who wants to feel safe and secure
Willing to wait until you’re where the love making is
To be part of what is happening

Slowing down when the touching starts moving too fast
Needing a caress slow making you feel
They realize you are there
And want to be there
Part of making the love work
You want to be part of it
Participating in all the feelings of touch
Reaching all the plateaus
Together with your partner

Knowing your partner is with you
Wants to be with you
While you arrive at the high together
Coming down together slowly after
Feeling the rippling through your bodies together
Melting bodies drifting into relaxation
Followed by the wonders of secure arms
Drifting off together into the dream of sleep
Contented that a wish has found a way at last
To be realized.

© madison taylor 2007

candle flame flickering gif

labyrinth of a wandering wonderland

The labyrinth called “Wandering Wonderland.” It is where Madison, Scottie and their cats, Patrick, Mikey and Toker love to escape to

madison's woods of imagination where she takes long walks to reflect

Madison’s “woods of imagination” where she takes long walks to reflect. It starts just past the labyrinth

QUOTATIONS from: Private Writings

“A Dream

The beginning always starts out with a dream.
It is all a dream
In our own nightmares”
— Madison Taylor

“For that fine madness still he did retain,
Which rightly should possess a poet’s brain.”
~Michael Drayton~

“Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?”
Christopher Marlowe for “Hero and Leander”

“A therapeutic relationship is often more psycho-emotionally intimate than a marriage, or a romantic attachment. I know things about my patients that they would never dream of revealing to their spouses or families. Why is that? One word — trust. If you do not have a connection with a therapist, you cannot trust them. If you do not have trust, you will not expose yourself, and if you do not expose your innermost being, what good is the therapy?” — unknown but ask any great therapist

“Men have called me mad, but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence…whether much that is glorious–whether all that is profound–does not spring from disease of thought…” — Edgar Allan Poe


“There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life, and beyond which life cannot rise. And such is the paradox of living, this ecstasy comes when one is most alive, and it comes as a complete forgetfulness that one is alive. This ecstasy, this forgetfulness of living, comes to the artist, caught up and out of himself in a sheet of flame…” — Jack London

“There are two kinds of people. One kind…they congealed into their final selves…you can expect no more surprises from them…the other kind keep moving, changing… They are fluid. They keep moving forward and making new trysts with life, and the motion of it keeps them young. In my opinion, they are the only people who are still alive…” ― Gail Godwin

play is not just play meryl streep

“Here’s Looking At You Kid”

“Here’s Looking At You Kid.”
Film: Casablanca
Starring Humphrey Bogart & Ingrid Bergman
Playing Roles of Rick Blaine & Ilsa Lund
Created by jk the secret keeper
Posted 04.28.13

silver divider between paragraphs

Casablanca: Rick Blaine & Ilsa Lund "Here's Looking At You Kid."  1024x768

Casablanca: Rick Blaine & Ilsa Lund “Here’s Looking At You Kid.”

silver divider between paragraphs

Rick: Last night we said a great many things. You said I was to do the thinking for both of us. Well, I’ve done a lot of it since then, and it all adds up to one thing: you’re getting on that plane with Victor where you belong.

Ilsa: But, Richard, no, I… I…

Rick: Now, you’ve got to listen to me! You have any idea what you’d have to look forward to if you stayed here? Nine chances out of ten, we’d both wind up in a concentration camp. Isn’t that true, Louie?

Captain Renault: I’m afraid Major Strasser would insist.

Ilsa: You’re saying this only to make me go.

Rick: I’m saying it because it’s true. Inside of us, we both know you belong with Victor. You’re part of his work, the thing that keeps him going. If that plane leaves the ground and you’re not with him, you’ll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life.

Ilsa: But what about us?

Rick: We’ll always have Paris. We didn’t have, we, we lost it until you came to Casablanca. We got it back last night.

Ilsa: When I said I would never leave you.

Rick: And you never will. But I’ve got a job to do, too. Where I’m going, you can’t follow. What I’ve got to do, you can’t be any part of. Ilsa, I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you’ll understand that.

[Ilsa lowers her head and begins to cry]

Rick: Now, now…

[Rick gently places his hand under her chin and raises it so their eyes meet]

Rick: Here’s looking at you kid.

silver divider between paragraphs

casablanca 1947 680x1915

casablanca 1947

silver divider between paragraphs

casablanca: rick blaine & ilsa lund in paris cafe 680x540

casablanca: rick blaine & ilsa lund in paris cafe 680×540

silver divider between paragraphs

casablanca: rick hanging out with sam 1600x1155

casablanca: rick hanging out with sam

silver divider between paragraphs

casablanca: ilsa role played by ingrid berman 680x491

casablanca: ilsa role played by ingrid berman

silver divider between paragraphs


“Here’s looking at you kid.”

There are so many memorable lines and scenes in the film “Casablanca.”
Casablanca (1942) Directed by Michael Curtiz: Starring Humphrey Bogart as Rick Blaine; Ingrid Bergman as Ilsa Lund; Peter Lorre as Ugarte; Claude Raines as Louie (Head of Police/Rick’s Friend); Paul Henreid as Victor Laszlo; Sydney Greenstreet as Ferrari, proprietor of the night club The Blue Parrot.

Just one of the fifty films a studio would make each year back in the day. Casablanca was just one of those films thrown into that collection. Who knew it would spring forth and become the success that it is. Today, it is considered one of the top romantic films of all time.

Won for Best Picture 1942 Oscar. One of the most universally admired films ever made. On most lists of the greatest films of all times. Even people who don’t like old films or black and white films love Casablanca. Roger Ebert said he doesn’t think he’s heard of any negative reviews of this film ever. All the characters are all good except the Nazis. Vichy are the French who collaborate with the Nazis.

Rick’s Cafe Americain in Casablanca in French Morocco, where everyone went for entertainment or to hang out for a drink or to go to the back room where there is gambling going on. Here, in Casablanca, some may obtain exit visas but others may wait and wait and wait. At the beginning of the film, you find out that some couriers were killed in the desert and robbed of exit visas. Officials wanting to see a man’s papers, causes the man to freak out, his papers are not in order, so he runs and is shot and killed because he didn’t halt when ordered to. Life is meaningless.

When Louie, the head of the police, is asked by Major Strasser, what is being done about the murder of the couriers, his answer is: “We’ve rounded up the usual suspects.” No one likes Nazis and the head of the Nazis in this movie doesn’t make them any more popular and maybe makes them even less popular. The Marseillaise is the present day French National Anthem. Remember that when you watch Casablanca.

Ugarte shows up and talks to Rick. Wants to have a drink with Rick but as a rule he doesn’t drink with any of the guests of his night club. Ugarte likes to brag to Rick. He just is looking for Rick’s approval but knows that Rick despises him but he is the only person that Ugarte trusts. Rick does finally seem impressed with him. You’ll have to watch the movie to find out why.

Ferrari wants Rick’s place. He is always trying to buy it. It’s the best place in town. Sasha hangs out there and is sort of Rick’s girl friend and is a bit of an alcoholic. It’s understandable she wants to drink the times are during the 2nd World War and it is making everyone edgy and the French are being ruled by the Germans.

Louie and Rick get involved in a conversation and Louie asks why Rick came to such a God Forsaken place like Casablanca. Rick’s a smart ass and says: “It’s for the water.” But, of course, it is a desert. Rick’s is permitted to stay open because he just doesn’t want to get involved. But he has in his hands something that a lot of people are looking for but no one has any idea what that is. Louie tells Rick there is a famous patriot of the war headed for Casablanca. A member of the Gestapo, Major Strasser, is expected at the club. He is a thoroughly disagreeable Nazis but then what Nazi isn’t. That I may say often.

A major happening occurs at Rick’s but he reassures everyone to settle down and get back into enjoying themselves. Rick actually sits down with the Nazis. The Nazis make mention about invading New York. Rick warns them about staying away from certain sections of New York. They may not be safe. They start in talking about Victor Lazslo being on his way. Rick assuring them that he doesn’t plan on getting involved.

Victor Laszlo and Ilsa Lund eventually show up as expected and walk through the cafe and take a seat in the night club. Expect that many will be approaching Victor fairly often because of his importance and how nervous they make the Nazis. Ilsa starts asking about the piano player and who owns the Night Club. Louie tells her it is a man named Rick. Major Strasser is introduced and acts like the ass that he is. Starts applying his power over Laszlo.

It is evident that Ilsa and Victor are close but at this time we know nothing of their relationship other then they are traveling together. Victor leaves her at table to meet a man at the bar and finds out about Ugarte.

Ilsa wants to speak to the piano player. His name is Sam and she asks him to play some of the old songs. There is a sadness between Sam regarding Rick. She wants him to play a the song “As Time Goes By.” Sam sings the song for her. Out comes Rick telling Sam he’s not suppose to play that song. Rick sees Ilsa sitting at her table. The last time Rick saw Ilsa was in Paris when the Germans marched in to take over the city. He was unnerved seeing her again. He was so not himself that he actually had a drink with all at the table breaking his precedent of not drinking with guests of the night club The Americain.

Later back in his rooms, Rick has a bottle, and tells Sam he is not planning on going to bed. He thinks Ilsa is going to show up. Sam isn’t going to leave his boss alone. He starts getting maudlin. “Of all the gin joints in all the world, she walks into mine.” He wants Sam to play “As Time Goes By.” Sam doesn’t want to open the wounds.

Flashback: Paris with Rick and Ilsa driving around in a convertible. then down by the Seine. In the hotel drinking champagne. “Who are you really and what were you before and what did you think?” Ricks asks. Ilsa’s response: “We said no questions.” All the best lines in these scenes. So many to write down and remember. She reveals an answer without the question. Watch the movie to find out what she told Rick.

Outside, newspapers are being passed around. The Germans are coming I believe are the headlines and what they are saying in French over the microphones. There is a lot of action going on out in the streets.

The most famous line is spoken by Rick toasting champagne with Sam and Ilsa: “Here’s looking at you kid.” Everything is falling apart. “Where were you ten years ago?” Rick said he was looking for a job. For some reason there is a price on Rick’s head but no one knows why. It’s time for everyone to leave Paris. Their suppose to meet at the train station from where they will be leaving. Ilsa loves him so much and the war, she hates that in just the opposite emotion. She thinks that they will be taken apart. “Kiss me as if it is the last time.”

It’s raining at the train station. With three minutes until last train leaves. No Ilsa but Sam and Rick are waiting. There is a note from the Hotel. Fade Out Paris Train Station as you watch the rain wash the ink off of the note in Rick’s hand.

Fade In: Rick’s Rooms enter Ilsa. She wants to talk to him, to tell him a story. It’s about a girl who meets a man, a very courageous man. She looked up to him. She thought it was love. Who did she leave him for? Laszlo or others in between?

Victor and Ilsa meet Strasser at Police station. Strasser guarantees Laszlo will never receive an exit visa. His only way to leave is to be a traitor to his people. Do you really think he is the type of man to be a traitor. Nazis have no sense of integrity so they do not understand an enigma like Victor Laszlo. An important person to their leaving has been reported to be dead.

Rick visits The Blue Parrot and talks with Ferrari, who wants the letters of transit. He tells Rick he thinks he knows where the letters are. Rick purposely left his club so the police would have a chance to ransack it. Louie’s men were impressively destructive at Rick’s Place in order to win points with Major Strasser. Louie blows with the wind. He is with the Vichy. The Vichy being the French who go along and reluctantly support the French. The French who are loyal to their own country feel betrayed by the Vichy.

A young woman comes to Rick to plead for some help. She will have to sleep with Louie if her husband doesn’t win enough money so they can afford a visa. If they use only the money they have there would be nothing left. Louise fully expects her to have sex with him if the money isn’t won. Louie sees that the young woman and Rick are being obvious about conspiring. They are all in the backroom where the gambling goes on. Louie is an odd duck. Louie accuses Rick of being a rank sentimentalist.

Victor has a visit with Rick. The Underground tell Victor all sorts of very impressive things about activities that Rick was involved in during the war.

In Rick’s Cafe, the Nazis are singing about the Fatherland. It is so despicable to the French in the club that they have a singing competition. Guess who wins. Strasser is not very satisfied. He tells Louie to find an excuse to close Rick’s. He tells Rick the reason is because he is shocked that gambling is going on in his club.

Strasser just keeps getting creepier. Threatens Ilsa.

Later Ilsa and Victor speak about the letters of transit and what Rick said about asking his wife why he won’t give up the letters.

Ilsa goes to Rick’s rooms and tries to get letters from him. She wants to tell him what really happened in Paris. The feelings between them, have they been buried or are they gone? The truth comes out. She had no hope that Victor was alive when she was in Paris with Rick.

Victor and Rick talk. They are not that far apart in what they believe.

Louie and Rick talk about letters. Louie doesn’t like Strasser.

Approaching the final few scenes of the film. Cafe Americain is still closed by order of the Prefect of Police. Ferrari has taken over the Cafe. Louie thinks he is at Cafe to arrest Laszlo but Rick surprises him and makes him call the airport to tell them that there is to be no trouble about two letters of transit. Everything is building up to the excitement of what is all going to culminate in some of the biggest surprises yet in the film.

Best closing scenes in any movie and best closing lines. Memorable til the final line.

For the rest of the film and to fill in all the spaces that I have left out, you will need to find a copy of this film on DVD or streaming from online or whatever source you are able to find to watch the whole thing and to see how it ends. It is a thoroughly amazing film to watch. It seems the perfect film in detail, dialogue, scenes, settings, storyline, acting and durability. It has all the perfect elements and the best acting. Filled with sentiment and sacrifice. I first saw this film when I was in my 20s. It was such a surprise that I did not see it when I was a kid. It is understandable for older children and a fascinating film for all adults.

The following videos do have SPOILERS so watch them if you have seen the film already or if you don’t mind seeing scenes before seeing the film. I am sure a great many of you have watched this film. But if you haven’t, it should be on everyone’s’ film list as a must see. The sheer acting alone and the love story and the screenplay is brilliant. The cast is to die for. Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman play the leads. They are two of the finest actors of all times. Worthy of anyone’s time to find out how great they are in Casablanca. No one had any idea what a remarkable film this was going to turn out to be. The special benefit if this film is you get to hate the Nazis and you get to curse them out without impunity. It has the most classic lines of almost any film ever made. Enjoy the videos and seriously consider locating this film if you haven’t seen it and find it so you can watch it again. “Here’s Looking At You Kid.” jk the SK

Tribute To Casablanca
Filled With Spoilers

Casablanca La Marseillaise

All About the Film “Casablanca”

The relationship between Rick and Ilsa was filled with Desire. I am going to write a poem about Desire in my new form of Haiku. I refer to it as X-treme Haiku. I use an altered form of Haiku with the onji (lines) in the 5 – 7 – 7. I do as few or as many verses as I feel will tell the story that I am writing. Sometimes the story will more often be a touch abstract and other times it may be a philosophical exploration, or a story that may have the appearance of something that may b close in resemblance to a fable. With X-treme Haiku I want to allow myself the freedom to write about what I want but to also include restriction which will encourage restraint on my part so that I will write more concisely with the use of fewer words that will contain an understanding and a discipline toward accuracy. I have been using this style of X-treme Haiku for a short while now and find it makes me more disciplined. It involves research and a greater understanding of the words I use. Being precise about definitions of the language I am using. There is a cleanness to the design. The other rules are for myself and they include the use of words. I do not or try not to repeat a word within the same verse or if possible within the same poem unless absolutely necessary. I like mystery in my poems so I do have the tendency to be a touch cryptic and/or abstract. I like analyzing what it is I am writing about. I am honest about whatever it is I have chosen to write about. I believe in going into the depths of what I mean in what I write. Truth is essential. Directness is essential. Abstraction is often essential. I believe in creating a puzzle that must be deciphered. I do not often hand out the simplicity of a matter. A specific reason for that is when I am writing I am also trying to interpret and examine in depth what subject is I am writing on and usually for the purpose of trying to understand what is within or what it is about that I am writing. Now to the poem.

x-treme haiku: "desire" by j. kiley © jennifer kiley 2013  823x6441

x-treme haiku: “desire” by j. kiley © jennifer kiley 2013

silver divider between paragraphs

Play It, Sam — As Time Goes By

silver divider between paragraphs



“The whole of life is just like watching a film. Only it’s as though you always get in ten minutes after the big picture has started, and no-one will tell you the plot, so you have to work it out all yourself from the clues.” ― Terry Pratchett, Moving Pictures

“It starts so young, and I’m angry about that. The garbage we’re taught. About love, about what’s “romantic.” Look at so many of the so-called romantic figures in books and movies. Do we ever stop and think how many of them would cause serious and drastic unhappiness after The End? Why are sick and dangerous personality types so often shown a passionate and tragic and something to be longed for when those are the very ones you should run for your life from? Think about it. Heathcliff. Romeo. Don Juan. Jay Gatsby. Rochester. Mr. Darcy. From the rigid control freak in The Sound of Music to all the bad boys some woman goes running to the airport to catch in the last minute of every romantic comedy. She should let him leave. Your time is so valuable, and look at these guys–depressive and moody and violent and immature and self-centered. And what about the big daddy of them all, Prince Charming? What was his secret life? We dont know anything about him, other then he looks good and comes to the rescue.” ― Deb Caletti, The Secret Life of Prince Charming

“Only the gentle are ever really strong.” ― James Dean

“Certain things leave you in your life and certain things stay with you. And that’s why we’re all interested in movies- those ones that make you feel, you still think about. Because it gave you such an emotional response, it’s actually part of your emotional make-up, in a way.” ― Tim Burton, Burton on Burton

“Ezekiel 25:17. “The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of the darkness. For he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know I am the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon you.” I been sayin’ that shit for years. And if you ever heard it, it meant your ass. I never really questioned what it meant. I thought it was just a cold-blooded thing to say to a motherfucker before you popped a cap in his ass. But I saw some shit this mornin’ made me think twice. Now I’m thinkin’: it could mean you’re the evil man. And I’m the righteous man. And Mr. .45 here, he’s the shepherd protecting my righteous ass in the valley of darkness. Or it could be you’re the righteous man and I’m the shepherd and it’s the world that’s evil and selfish. I’d like that. But that shit ain’t the truth. The truth is you’re the weak. And I’m the tyranny of evil men. But I’m tryin, Ringo. I’m tryin’ real hard to be the shepherd. — he became the shepherd instead of the vengeance.” ― Quentin Tarantino

“A good movie can take you out of your dull funk and the hopelessness that so often goes with slipping into a theatre; a good movie can make you feel alive again, in contact, not just lost in another city. Good movies make you care, make you believe in possibilities again. If somewhere in the Hollywood-entertainment world someone has managed to break through with something that speaks to you, then it isn’t all corruption. The movie doesn’t have to be great; it can be stupid and empty and you can still have the joy of a good performance, or the joy in just a good line. An actor’s scowl, a small subversive gesture, a dirty remark that someone tosses off with a mock-innocent face, and the world makes a little bit of sense. Sitting there alone or painfully alone because those with you do not react as you do, you know there must be others perhaps in this very theatre or in this city, surely in other theatres in other cities, now, in the past or future, who react as you do. And because movies are the most total and encompassing art form we have, these reactions can seem the most personal and, maybe the most important, imaginable. The romance of movies is not just in those stories and those people on the screen but in the adolescent dream of meeting others who feel as you do about what you’ve seen. You do meet them, of course, and you know each other at once because you talk less about good movies than about what you love in bad movies.” ― Pauline Kael, For Keeps: 30 Years at the Movies

“Books and movies, they are not mere entertainment. They sustain me and help me cope with my real life.” ― Arlaina Tibensky


“Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for.” ― Epicurus

“Things are sweeter when they’re lost. I know–because once I wanted something and got it. It was the only thing I ever wanted badly, Dot, and when I got it it turned to dust in my hand.” ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned

“There are two tragedies in life. One is to lose your heart’s desire. The other is to gain it.” ― George Bernard Shaw, Man and Superman

“She leaned forward and caught at his hand, pressing it between her own. The touch was like white fire through his veins. He could not feel her skin only the cloth of her gloves, and yet it did not matter. You kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire. He had wondered once why love was always phrased in terms of burning. The conflagration in his own veins, now, gave the answer.” ― Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Princess

“Desiring another person is perhaps the most risky endeavor of all. As soon as you want somebody—really want him—it is as though you have taken a surgical needle and sutured your happiness to the skin of that person, so that any separation will now cause a lacerating injury.” ― Elizabeth Gilbert, Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace with Marriage

“I desire to be with you. I miss you. I feel lonely when I can’t see you. I am obsessed with you, fascinated by you, infatuated with you. I hunger for your taste, your smell, the feel of your soul touching mine.” ― Jack Llawayllynn, Indulgence

“Profound desire, true desire is the desire to be close to someone.” ― Paulo Coelho, Eleven Minutes
silver divider between paragraphs