Username:

Password:

Fargot Password? / Help

Tag: women's issues

0

A Woman on the Wildside - Sex and the Cemetery in Argentina

"The place was tranquil, in a disturbing way, beautiful in a gothic manner of opulent splendor, a facade for darker stories - a ghost town in the literal sense."

NOTE:  A Woman on the Wildside is a series of blogs currently being written by Anastasia Blackwell, chronicling her experience as a single woman traveling in Argentina, with the purpose of publishing the complete series.

"I imagined a late night tryst beneath a full moon, bare skin against cold stone, alive in the shadows of death, a delicious shock of electricity riding spine to heart, and the drive to create new life”.  

     I strode down bustling Avenida Alvear, past the Cathedral with  open door confessionals and prayer stalls lined with candles.  The sweet smells that wafted from the bakeries and candy shops filled my senses with delight, and. I ached to stop and try the fine leather boots and jackets in the windows of upscale boutiques, but I was running late.

     Tamerlane Rivera appeared as I made my way past Our Lady of Pilar Church to the entrance of the Recoleta Cemetery, its stone façade in stark contrast to the swirl of white clouds floating, adrift in a sea of blue. He wore a black cashmere coat over a white collared shirt open at the neck, and dark wash jeans.  His embrace was firm and confident, affording a kiss to my cheek that left a trace of musk and spice.

     At the finale of the demonstration at the Tribunal he had offered an invitation to show me the sights of Buenos Aires. I had agreed, despite numerous warnings that a single woman must be cautious when traveling in Argentina. I did not regret the decision, as his beguiling good looks had the same affect in the harsh light of day as the romantic warm hue of moonlight..

     “I grew up in the barrio of Recoleta, on the street that houses many of the embassies.  Most of the wealth in Argentina is held by the people who live within the district.”

     He guided me past a vendor cooking glazed walnuts, through neo classical gates and Doric columns into one the most famous cemeteries in the world. Inside the walled gates was a city of extravagant mausoleums that housed the remains of wealthy, famous, and infamous Argentinean citizens.   

     “Most locals born to the neighborhood are baptized in the church, educated, build careers, get married, raise children, retire, and move to the exclusive city of the dead, when they pass on.  It is expensive real estate and there are no simple stones, the kind used to mark the remains of common people.”

     “No Exit,” I remarked.

     “I’m sorry?”

     “Your description reminded me of an existential Jean Paul Sartre play.”

     “He is one of my favorite philosophers,” he said.

     “Mine too,” I said, in half earnest, distracted, by the vast array of artistry used to render the essence of a human life.

     The place was tranquil, in a disturbing way, beautiful in a gothic manner of opulent splendor, a façade for darker stories - a ghost town in the literal sense.   

     The elaborate marble mausoleums were decorated with statues in a wide range of architectural styles, tightly attached, like miniature houses, decorated with sophistocated sculptures, art, and photographs. 

     A strong French influence was apparent, but pyrmids, Egyptian motifs and Masonry symbols added an eclectic flair. Laid out like city blocks, the main walkways lined with trees led to narrow streets meandering for what seemed like miles.  There were thousands of homes, and many offered clear views inside doors and windows, of elaborate, wood caskets adorned with precious metals.

     The most touching was the crypt of a young woman who had mistakenly been buried alive, and then died of fright when she awakened. She had been reburied behind glass, in case she reawakened a second time.

     “Eva Peron is buried further down this walkway,” he said, and led me along a narrow path to an elegant crypt lined with flowers and notes from her fans.”      “She would have been forgotten beneath a slab in the country had she not used her beauty and eloquence to reform the country. “

     “I read she was embalmed by her husband.” I said..

     “Yes, and was stolen by thieves after he died.  She was held as the property of his widow for a period of time.”

     "A woman’s worst nightmare,” I said..

     “Beauty and power exact a price,” he remarked, with a warm smile.

     Evita rose from poverty to become an international icon for her rhetoric, personal style, and tireless work on behalf of women and the poor.  A victim of uterine cancer, she lost her life to what created life and defined her as a woman. 

     “Is her husband, Juan, buried beside her?” I asked.

     “Her family would not let Peron lie beside her since he remarried after her death.  The crypt next door is for sale for $500,000.  Money buys position.”

     “It’s heartbreaking that she lies here alone, a spectacle to tourists, with a plot ‘for lease’ next to her, when her passion and commitment to her husband and her country were unconditional.”

     “Legacy is all that matters.”

     We passed the statue of a warrior on horseback. ”This famous general was revered for his slaughter of the local natives. A monument to genocide,” he said.

     Tamerlane paused before a broken-down crypt, with glass shattered and laced cobwebs. The dusty coffins inside could be clearly seen and a top was slightly ajar, which made the scene even more macabre.

      A high pitched cry came from inside the crypt and the wrought iron door began to open. I gasped and I jumped back, nearly into Tamerlane’s arms.

     “It’s a feline not a ghost,” he reassured me, while barely stifling his amusement.  “Cats are brought here to live when their masters are laid to rest. They keep the rodents at bay.”

     A tabby cat stepped outside and sauntered leisurely down the street to the next abandoned home.

      When a citizen dies their surviving family members are required to pay the caretakers to keep up the property.  If their relatives fall into hard times or lose interest in their old relatives, the deceased are left to the ravages of nature.”

     “Foreclosure in the cemetery,” I replied.

     A dark shadow passed overhead and the sultry scent of the aquatic permeated the air.  A shroud of black clouds threatened to flood the streets of the departed.

      Tamerlane turned to me with a mysterious smile.  His gaze lowered to my lips, my heart began to race, and for a brief moment I was lost to fantasy.  I imagined a late night tryst beneath a full moon, bare skin against cold stone, alive in the shadows of death, a delicious shock of electricity riding spine to heart, and the drive to create new life”.

     “There is no escaping Capitalism if you choose to lie with him,” he remarked, and looked deeper into my eyes as though to capture the image of forbidden love I had conjured.

     “Who owns your soul?” I asked, in a shallow voice. 

     “My soul is not for the taking,” he replied.

     “Does that mean it’s not been given?”

     “It means it has not been bought.”

     The heavy clouds began to give way to a torrential downfall.

     “Come, let’s find shelter,” he said, and took my arm to lead me outside the walls of the city of the dead.

Recoleta Cemetery

 

Recoleta Cemetary
0

A Woman on the Wildside - A Taste of Freedom in Argentina

Author Anastasia Blackwell joins protesters in front of Tribunal in Buenos Aires, Argentina.

" I to be rocked to the soul by a passion I couldn't control, an obsessive,  unquenchable desire that burned through the night, blazed shadows against the stars,  and brought new meaning to a world gone stale.  Purpose."

Please Note:  "A Woman on the Wild side" is a blog written by Anastasia Blackwell chronicling her journey in Argentina, featuring a mysterious young man named Tamerlane Rivera.  The series will be published upon completion.

A Rebel is Born

America 1776 - a new constitution affords "men" their God given divine right to life, liberty and the pursuit of  happiness.

America 2013 - "The divine right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness  will never hold up in court,"  a prominent attorney told me.  "Courts are created for attorneys to make  a living and justice is for those who can pay for it."

"An injustice to one citizen is a blow to us all," I protested.

He nodded with a patronizing mile.

     'Art is a powerful means of expressing social, political and emotional discontent, and rebellion is often best clothed in subtext.  But sometimes you have to speak your mind, and not give a damn about the consequences', I wrote in my journal.

To that end, I took action.

In a serendipitous moment, alone on the Buenos Aires streets while visiting my son studying abroad in Argentina,  I came upon a political demonstration.  The passion and vigor of the congregated masses transformed the air with the thrill of  possibility.  The  throng  took me deep into their folds and moved me, like the undertow of a current,  to face an imposing judicial building.  Beneath the colorful flags of the demonstrators and the brightly lit Tribunal voices elevated by loud speakers exposed truths, both esoteric and unspeakable.

They cried out against a government that had lost touch with the needs and desires of its citizens. They spoke of  inflation, political corruption, unjust courts,  and greedy banks, and even darker, of  torture, underground justice, and stolen and murdered children.  It was a triumphant showdown of man against institution, beneath an enraptured sky.

The speeches of men and women of all ages and ethnicities echoed through the night, as tears were shed  and a torrent of human emotions swelled up and filled our hearts.  Light flooded from the windows of the stoic building, held strong by its columns,  unmoving, defiant, secure in its weight and position, as the police closed in.

We stood before the Goliath building, a glorious sea of humanity,  together in our purpose to fight for our God given rights  - the promise of Democracy.

A man positioned himself next to me - tall, powerfully built, dressed in a pea coat and jeans, with golden skin and lush dark hair spilling to his collar, topped by a black fedora displaying a gold crescent pin.  He bestowed warm brown eyes and a smile, his teeth glimmering white beneath the bloated moon.  His Spanish baritone resonated like a caress.

"You are an American?" he asked.

"How did you know?"

"We cannot allow government institutions  rule us through fear,"   he stated simply.

The night had grown cold with the passing clouds, and I folded my arms and drew my coat tight, while  searching his intense eyes.  Lost there, I saw something of myself reflected back, a part of me I had not known existed until that moment - and something profound began to awaken.  Flags waved the image of revolutionary Che Guevara and patriotic music stirred the citizens to near riot.

"I am a single mother.  How can I stand up against a powerful male patriarchal system?  The American constitution was meant to be democratic, but it was forged by founding fathers, not mothers."

“Your founding fathers fought a similar battle, only as the bastard children of a strict and unyielding father across the Atlantic. You can accept their remedy or choose your own.  There are many ways to revolt and many ways to achieve your goals once you set them,” he said, with a charming smile.

"Are you a revolutionary?"

"A transformationalist."

"I'm not familiar with the ideology."

"My name is Tamerlane Rivera.  Welcome to my country," he said, and he offered his hand.

The crowd roared, canons fired, and a zealous, chaotic energy infused the square that was intoxicating, exhilarating.  Yet, it wasn't enough - I wanted more.

I wanted to be rocked to the soul by a passion I couldn't control, taken to the furthest edge of mind and body,  by an obsessive, unquenchable desire that burned through the night, blazed shadows against the stars and brought new meaning to a world gone stale.  Purpose.

journey shifted in the moment, my perception of reality altered, like awakening to a winter morning with  a freshly fallen blanket of snow, pristine, untouched, ready for the weight of the first footsteps to bring life  a hidden landscape ready for the taste of something new.

Challenging the Tribunal

Anastasia Blackwell

9-16-2013

 

 

0

The Heroine's Journey Means Freedom At Any Cost

Recently, I met a woman who asked me what my novel was about. I explained it was the tale of a woman who had become disfigured after childbirth, and made a vow at a shrine, Truth for Beauty - a promise to fulfill her manifest destiny in return for an unmarked face.  Her beauty is restored, but as she begins to seek a  rightful path her "perfect" life falls apart. The woman's marriage ends in a devastating divorce, and her life, she has known it, is destroyed. The novel explores her transformation as she is lured into the Montreal underground, educated by the mystics and gypsies, and through self discovery begins a dramatic transformation.

"Why should I care about a spoiled woman who gives up a perfect life, destroys a marriage, and uproots her children to seek her own selfish destiny? she replied with vehemence.

"But", I explained, "she made a vow at St. Joseph's Shrine, Truth for Beauty - a promise to seek her truthful destiny in return for unparalyzed face."

The woman shook her head and looked disgusted, as though I was one of the tawdry, spoiled women the media parades out, like witches deserving a good sacrifice at the stake. Of couse, I realized she was from a country with a strong caste system and different values than my own. Yet, I knew her thoughts were shared by many, if not most women in the world  To walk away from wealth and power and the oppression it carries is hard for many woman to understand, or find any degree of empathy.

In the prelude of the novel my protagonist Alexandra describes how her husband removes her long white coat and smoothes the wrinkles from her dress, a sign of control over her image. When she leaves him he uses his wealth to destroy her finacially and take their children. She eventually becomes an outcast, with no possibility of creating a new life in the old system. She has no choice but to seek the destiny she promised at the shrine, and take the heroine's journey. There is no selfishness in her motives, rather a sacred quest to be true to herself, and by doing so help to illuminate others.

Our forefathers did the same thing, as do all revolutionaries, yet their causes are not generally deemed "selfish". So, why then is a woman to be distained when she seeks the same kind of freedom from oppression and desire for illumination?

We must believe in freedom at any cost if we are to live in the land of the free.  How can we live free is we are slaves to a man or a lifestyle, chained by money and greed. Each woman must ask the same question of herself, whether rich or poor. The blood  men shed as they fight for their freedom is also shed by woman, but invisible to the eye.

Would you chose TRUTH or BEAUTY? If you answered the former you will find beauty. If you answered the latter, there will be no truth, and your beauty will fade as your destiny is lost to time.

The pain passes, but the beauty remains.
~♥~ Pierre-Auguste Renoir
Thank You Immortal Angel -
0

Mature Heroines in Romance Literature

THE HOUSE ON BLACK LAKE HAS BEEN ADAPTED TO SCREENPLAY. GO TO HOME PAGE TO VIEW PROVOCATIVE CINEMATIC TRAILER

During my travels in promoting The House on Black Lake I have spoken to many women frustrated that most romance novel authors cut off heroine age at around 36, an age when most women have only begun to fully mature into their innate beauty and strength. Yet a good number of these authors are well into their 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s, and even older.

When I set out to write The House on Black Lake I could not imagine featuring a woman who was not fully mature in my book. All of the women featured in my novel are over forty, and there is an extremely seductive character well into her sixties. In the course of the trilogy that constitutes the entirety of the story of heroine, Alexandra Brighton’s journey, she and the women in her sphere will age with incredible beauty, dignity, strength, and romantic passion.

I do not promote a social structure that demeans women in their prime because they pursue what nature deems their best course, including mating with a young, healthy male. I say no, and so does my heroine.  Alexandra is desired by all of the conflicted males in the tale, and torn between the seductiveness of the younger male and the depth of her intellectual , sexual, and emotional equal, Ramey Sandeley. The elder patriarchal elite, represented by Roger Sandeley, find her both a treasure and threat, as she carries the ultimate power.

 We learn in the prelude to Alexandra’s story that she was a beautiful young woman taught to accept the role society had laid out for her. When she suffers a disfiguring affliction after child birth, she makes a vow at St. Andre’s Shrine, “Truth for Beauty” – a promise to follow her divine destiny in return of an unblemished face. As she attempts to follow her chosen path she finds herself demeaned and diminished by society. And when she leaves her powerful, wealthy, controlling husband, the court strips her of her children and financial security. Ultimately, she is left broke and alone. The journey into the underground of Black Lake is her only hope of salvation.

 The greatest fear of most mature men is abandonment and failure, and that is why mature women are stripped of their power when they choose to compete with, leave an older man, or cast eyes at younger men.  What is more inconsionable is that women strip themselves of their own and other women’s power by buying into stereotypes and myths, competing with other women, and accepting that beauty and money alone have value. And yet, it is the patriarchal elite who have the most to lose, for they squelch their only hope of a soulmate to nurture them at home and unite to govern the world with humanity and grace.

The House on Black Lake is a woman’s journey through the underground of society, subsequent transformation, and empowerment. The men and women who do not live by society’s rules, the gypsies, witches, and mystics, are Alexandra’s tutors in redefining what constitutes power and beauty.

Strange female creatures are being created in operating rooms all over the world as women accept a twisted notion of what allures, while the guile and determination that defines charm is further buried. Many mature women give up altogether  and live through their daughters. The opposite should be the norm, as young girls must learn from the vibrant females of our world, and not the opposite. They shall earn their place when they have passed through the trials of financial struggle, work, motherhood, sorrow, loss, and as well as travel, adventure, and passionate love.

 I yearn for the guidance of the goddesses of the past, and strive to become one worthy of following. I say it’s time for revolution, a revolution of mature heroines storming into modern society, a new breed to lead the younger generations.

Writers need to know what their followers desires. Contact them on their websites if you seek to learn more about powerful females and their adventures.

Scene from trailer/novel where sexy young artist Andre Labat (Tosh Yanez) seduces heroine, Alexandra Brighton, (Anastasia Blackwell)  a mother of two and well into 40's. He is one of three successful and powerful men who vie for her attention.

Another character, Luna Sandeley, is in her 60's with a wealthy husband, a younger lover, and the adoration of many others

0

Grovel Scene From "The House on Black Lake"

Readers have requested I offer  page number and a taste of grovel scene in "The House on Black Lake". The scene is near end of book, on page 226. It shouldn't be read by those who prefer to not know what's coming - go straight to Amazon link.

Excerpt from Chapter 29 - "The Struggle Before Dawn":

           “Will you remain still if I move off you,” I hear Ramey ask me. My eyelids flicker open to view him slide off and move to the edge of the blanket, where he lowers his head to his knees and covers his face with his hands. Woozy and light-headed, I lie still and wait for the dizziness to pass. A strange choking sound issues from him, and I open my eyes to a sight I would never have thought possible, not in a thousand lifetimes.

             Ramey Sandeley is crying.

          “Did you bring me to the lake to kill me?” I ask him in a hoarse whisper.

          “I’m sorry if I frightened or hurt you. Please forgive me; forgive me for everything. I never meant to harm you. I only wanted to stop you from leaving me", he says, and lifts his head to look at me through streams of tears.  “The first time I saw you was the first time I felt myself come alive. Your eyes pierced through mine like fucking razor blades and I saw in you all the wonders of the universe. I felt I’d found my mate, someone I could share all the crazy fantasies, ideas, and dreams. And in the darkness, every night, I wished you close to me, to stave off the monstrous evils that dogged me. It was you, only you . . .” 

          He wipes his tears with the back of his hand, takes a deep breath, and pushes himself up from the ground. His face contorts as he appears to struggle against an insurmountable force.   “Sacrifice means nothing unless you are willing to give up something you can’t live without. I brought you here for a purpose. But things have changed . . .”

0

Sarah Palin's Parlor

One can only imagine the entrance to Sarah Palin's Parlor. Likely it is homey, filled with the smell of freshly cook jam, and the stuffed and mounted relics of her gamesmanship - perhaps like the picture featured below.

The photograph was taken in the parlor of the Chateau Tivoli in San Francisco while shooting film trailer for scene in “The House on Black Lake”.  In novel protagonist Alexandra Brighton is ushered into the stately summer home of Ruth and Ramey Sandeley and is aghast to see the lineup of exotic animal head trophies and artifacts decorating the elegant room. Ruth tells Alexandra that her husband believes when you look into a powerful animal’s eyes and take its life you are bound forever. Of course, this is not a good omen for Alexandra.

 Most hunters keep a souvenir of victims when they kill for sport, and not for survival. Yet, rarely do women lust for blood. “A woman gives life, and God, the father, takes it”, Ramey informs Alexandra. In the course of her journey she is betrayed by women with a thirst for second hand power and ultimately led into a patriarchal trap. Sarah Palin's hunting partner is not her mother, sister, or girl friend - it is her father. In her videotaped journey she finds a pioneer soul sister squatting in the depths of the Antarctic, who sews her own  flesh wounds and professes to love blood and guts in the manner in which other woman covet jewels. She is not a not bold feminist in a frontier land, but rather a conservative leader in a modern world. She does not shoot for sustenance, but rather for the glory of the kill, and the camera that records the killings seeps a taste of the barbaric into mainstream experience. A female who gives and takes life for sport is clearly an anomaly, in all of nature. Dominance cannot succeed without its hand maidens, and there are rewards for those who are willing to play the game. What the protagonist in the story does not realize is that she is the trophy. In the course mankind's recorded history the display of a sacrificed victim has always been a symbol of power and domination.

 Perhaps it is time for Sarah to clean her parlor of the relics of domination and fill it with trophies of empowerment. When she puts down the rifle and embraces mother earth, all creatures will feel more secure. A female role model that embodies the unique powers of the feminine, while igniting the loftier attributes of the male, carries the hope of a remarkable new world order.