Journal Entry 16 April 2011: Dissociation

Persephone and Cerberus by on @DeviantArt

Hi. I’m Persephone, Elizabeth’s favourite archetype. She relates to my experience of kidnap by Hades into the Underworld with her own kidnap to Nigeria, which she describes as Hell on earth. She is of course referring to the poor and oppressed Africa, not the fat cat elite Africa that is its own sort of Elysium. 

Elizabeth has had an opportunity to witness some of the poorest living conditions in the world, rampant superstition and the bitter, desperate competition that abject poverty breeds. Sensitive soul that she is the experience has had a traumatic impact on her. The transformation of Kore the Maiden into Persephone the Queen of the Underworld is a metaphor for the journey from naive maiden to powerful woman. 

Stories were how Elizabeth survived years of physical and emotional abuse and later on life in a medieval jungle community. She also identifies my mother Demeter’s grief with her mothers grief. Sadly a reunion never happened for Elizabeth and her mother. When Elizabeth finally returned to Moscow after 35 years she really did feel like she had come up from Hades for a breathe of spring air. My story helped her understand her experience. 


Elizabeth started getting increasingly gothic after her mothers death. She explored gothic art and imagery, earth religions and witchcraft. At one point she was a rock star, then she was a priestess, a happy go lucky maiden, a ballsy career woman. When she was in her early 30’s Elizabeth, who has always been a voracious reader, started to explore theoretical feminism. The philosopher in Elizabeth enjoys learning through stories, folk lore and the spiritual.


Elizabeth has more fun with a pantheon of imperfect gods and goddesses than one authoritarian god. When she read feminist writers relating feminism through the lens of Greek, African and Inca mythology she did the same and concluded that I was also Ezenwanyi in Igbo mythology, and Africa was Hades. Many of her fathers people believe that Elizabeth is the queen and the goddess Ezenwanyi and on the now rare occasions when she returns to her fathers little village in the Igbo heartland they treat her like one. 

Local lore doesn’t say where Ezenwanyi comes from but she is a fair complexioned, beautiful woman with the attitude of a diva. Amiable and generous when happy, she can be vindictive and vicious when unhappy. She was described as a mermaid, half fish and half human and she dwelt in the deepest parts of the rivers where the current was strongest. In the mid 20th century in remote little Igbo villages and towns people still left offerings of sweets, cake, fanta and candy for Ezenwanyi along the forrest paths to the river. 


I have been summoned to give testimony of Elizabeth. She wants to be like me when she grows up, to be a woman of substance, of power and of authority accepting her fate as queen of Hades. Hades isn’t a very nice place. It reminds me of the ghettoes and favelas of big Gotham like cities around the world. The dark under belly of the cities, hidden from view like the dark side of the moon. 

She thinks because I am a goddess and a queen that my life must have the virtue of Elizabeth I of England, Catherine the Great of Russia. Or even Elizabeth II. Queens that took their role way too seriously if  you ask me. Hades is hot. You do not want to exert yourself. And seriously, what disaster could possibly happen in Hades anyway. The disaster has happened.

She’s not going to like reading this (Elizabeth hates it when her characters take on a life of their own) but I’m not like those queens. I’m different. I’ve changed. I’m not Kore anymore. And I’ve gotten over my separation from my mother. I’ve accepted my marriage to Hades and spending the rest of life here. She should too. 

Elizabeth is not like that though. She’s a stubborn little fighter. Nothing is impossible to her, a notion that has caused her more than her fair share of frustration. For Elizabeth its only impossible if its not being paid any attention. She is beginning to grudgingly accept that she is only human and not Super Woman. Not even I am Super Woman. And I am a goddess. 


Even as she writes this her nature rises to the challenge ready to say “ I AM Super Woman!” We both chuckle. Elizabeth was a fire cracker when she was younger. We’re both pleasantly surprised she made it this far. She lived like a rock star and really believed she was going to crash and burn before 40. Now she is actually planning to stick around till 70. She’s still a little bit of rock and roll but she is also a little bit of country now. 

I want Elizabeth to accept me for who I am; an indulged, spoilt, party loving diva  who likes to go out among her subjects, The Dead, and spread love where she can. Some of our subjects cannot receive comfort and their cries for solace echo in our ears and in the dark chambers of our heart. The music, the parties, the laughter mute their cries but they are always there, in the background, the White Noise of Hades. Like a ray of sunshine I grace them with my warmth and beauty till I can go back to Olympus, to replenish and renew my self again at my mothers bosom.

Persephone & Hades by CharllieArts @DeviantArt

I would like to say to Elizabeth now that I have the chance – go ahead and be yourself, be confident and do not be afraid. You can be whoever you want to be and you can be yourself. You don’t need me anymore but you honour me by summoning me  to testify for you here and for introducing me to this assembly. 


Q: Is it possible to improve the quality of life in Hades?

A: They are only dead men and women in Hades (there are no children here). My husbands job is jail keeper, everyone here is in forced labour. Nobody ever leaves here except me and Hades and once in a while we give a get out of jail free card. Even though my husband and I come and go we have to come back quick quick. Just like Elizabeth can leave Africa when ever she wants and never come back but she choses to come back. She calls it the last bastion of true liberty in the world. Under-regulated markets,  pure laissez-faire capitalism, growing consumerism, endemic tax evasion, poor gun control, habitual corruption, pervasive nepotism, rabid opportunism, deadly competition  and lots of wide open spaces. (Does that not sound like Hades?) 

In Africa paupers become kings as quickly as kings become paupers. Elizabeth the social entrepreneur cannot ignore the opportunities. And after living more than 3 decades in Africa the plethora of rules and regulations in London, Moscow and New York make Elizabeth feel like she’s in a straight jacket. Besides, there are just as many risks living in the northern hemisphere as there are in the global south. At least in Hades the weather is always warm, about as close to paradise as you can get.

I spend my time and money on my appearance – my subjects like glamour, pomp and circumstance. It distracts them from their daily misery. Most nights will find me wining, dining and dancing with my playmates. And the days see me hearing petitions from my subjects. All I can offer are cool drops of solace. I cannot forgive sins. The only people that have ever received a get out of jail free card weren’t supposed to be here in the first place. I can give wealth to my subjects but I cannot give them life, health or children. There are no children in Hades. When people insist that I give them fruit of the womb I can only give  them Dead spirits, mysterious, mischievous and impish spawn.

There is no sunshine in Hades. No growth and no growing. Endless stagnation, no aspiration and eternal screams from the tormented. We have ruthless court intrigues. In Olympus if you’re banished from court you could retire to the comfort of your country estate. In Hades banishment from court means a sad, harsh, dog eat dog existence in Tantalus. The courtiers, not having the solace of death to look forward to (you know, because they’re dead already) fight viciously for a position in the royal court.  It is hard to live surrounded daily by suffering and pain. It is a trauma to the soul. It is brutal to live surrounded by the Dead, tragic desperate souls that have no hope. 

My husband is often away so I do not see him as often as I would like to. The flow of souls into Hades is unending. He is constantly opening up new territory and mining new gold fields. He takes his job seriously. He is not a womaniser like Zeus. (I do not know how Hera puts up with Father.) Hades is a bit sombre and he needs to be firm to run Hades. He has to manage countless souls – the good,  the bad and the ugly. He can’t afford to be complacent. He comes to me for light and for love. I am the only life and love in Hades. I am what gives Death Hope. God’s own queen that dwells beside the cool pool of water. 

Who else could have given me words to speak to the nations, if not Elizabeth – defender of the underdog, rescuer of the dysfunctional and the wounded, the voice of the maligned and misunderstood. The elders and me love her because she always remembers us and tells our stories. 

Characterization – Dr. Amataobinnaya



He came back from abroad to much jubilation and celebration, if the villagers noticed that he came back with only his briefcase they chose to ignore it. Maybe he told them that his things were yet to arrive, maybe he told them that they got lost on the high seas. He never told him the problems he had with the American government or that he never finished his doctorate degree due to the disruption. They still affectionately called him ‘Doc’.

They were happy to see him; he had been gone for fourteen years. They remembered the young man that had fought for the rights of the women and the underdogs of the village. They remembered the young man that had resisted colonial rule and the white man’s cultural dominance, who had joined the youth resistance and gone into the big forest for initiation into the cult of warriors. He had been a fearless and audacious young man.

He was no longer the boy that did the domestic work in his elder brother’s household in the city. He was no longer the motherless child that had to look on with envy and hunger as other children ate dinner in their mother’s hut each night while he made do with the leftovers they tossed at him. He was no longer the deprived youth that didn’t get his first brand new school uniform till the age of 15.

He had persisted in school when most of his older brothers and sisters had dropped out; he was smart and quickly learnt the letters of the white man and how to read their books. He wasn’t a conscientious student, he would frequently disagree and fight with his teachers and the headmaster and disappear from school for weeks but he managed to complete his qualifying exams and get a university scholarship abroad.

He came back determined to change the village where he had grown up and he refused to live in the city where he quickly got a job with the civil service, preferring to commute every day. He styled himself as a socialist revolutionary, wore safari suits and drove a Volkswagen Beetle. He remained with the civil service the rest of his working life. He boasted that he never took a kobo from the people’s patrimony managed by the government he worked for.

That did not endear him to his work colleagues or even to the village people he claimed to live his life for. At work he was regularly side lined when juicy appointments and opportunities for graft were available because everyone knew that he would not make ‘returns’ and he would  be scornful of those that did.  At home his kinsmen felt cheated that he did not bring back the national cake to share with them and spurned him at village meetings to which he reacted with rage.

He was always quarrelling with his kinsmen, they didn’t like him very much because he looked down on them as illiterates and was always trying to tell them what to do and how. He didn’t like them because they wouldn’t listen to him even though he was a very well read, well-travelled man that could confidently debate politics, economics and philosophy with just about anyone even though his doctorate had been interrupted.

He was a man with a lot of rage in him. It was a mystery where all the rage came from. Some said he inherited it from his grandfather who had been famous for his rages and could make lighting and thunder strike any person he was angry with. His grandfather had been a great wizard and magician and very rich and important in their little village in the jungles of west Africa. Doc didn’t need thunder and lightning, he used his fists and his words instead and he never forgot a slight, he could nurse a grudge for years.

After work he would have a late lunch prepared for him by one of his sister in laws (he lived in his late father’s old compound) and then ride off on his white horse bicycle to visit one of his girlfriend’s where he would stay late into the night. He didn’t marry for a long time and he preferred older women, divorcees and widows that doted on him and were grateful for his attention, demanding little from him in return.

When eventually he did get married he terrorized his wife and children. He expected them to agree with everything he said just like he expected it of the villagers and when they didn’t he was cruel and remorseless in his retribution. He died sick sad and alone in a fetid stinking hole, a bitter old man surrounded by shattered dreams but even in death he stubbornly refused to admit any remorse or gratitude.


Narcissus by Caravaggio 1590
Narcissus by Caravaggio 1590

Character Development – Catherine Part 2

“What’s going on there! Step away from her if you please!”

The four young men, startled to hear a gruff male voice behind them, turned away from Catherine sprawled out on the grass. They saw a well-built man dressed in grooms livery  and holding a horse whip standing a few yards away. For a minute they were unsure what to do. They figured they could have taken him out and denied whatever report he may make to the lord of the manor but his size and the cold flinty look in his eyes dissuaded them.  Catherine sprang up and ran towards him. She knew him well; he was one of her father’s groomsmen. How he had managed to materialize here at this moment she did not pause to wonder, she was too grateful to see him.

“It’s alright miss” He soothed her as she fell sobbing against him, he didn’t take his eyes off the four young men that stared at him for one minute.

“Galahad!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Galahad!” he shouted even louder.  A horse cantered into view on the wide path and stopped next to him. He helped Catherine up into the saddle before getting up himself  behind her, he never once took his eyes off the four young men, alert and ready for any trouble. He turned the horse in the direction of Middleton Manor and rode off with Catherine who continued sobbing in his arms. The young men stood speechless and thwarted watching him ride off.

When they rode up to her father’s stable’s the grooms man set Catherine down gently. He didn’t ask her what had happened or how come she was alone in the woods with four men. He just let her cry against his shoulder for a long time while he held her with all the gentleness he would have for his own daughter. He had known about her notes and poems to the lad had frequently found them and read them before returning them to their hiding place.

He had also investigated who the young man was and found out that he was the son of the Keymer man that had been killed many years ago during a hazing by Ditchling and Westmeston boys. He had instinctively known that no good would come of the dalliance but had kept his tongue. He had five daughters of his own and knew that once they thought themselves in love, words of caution and wisdom had little effect. But he had kept an eye out for the young mistress.

Once or twice when the young lovers had thought themselves alone in the barn he had stepped on and snapped a twig or rustled around outside to alert them that they were not alone or safe from discovery before anything more than a kiss could happen. He had brought the mistress to the Plumpton place ball with the horse and buggy but when he was instructed to pick her leave her and pick her up later he had gone home and rode back on his horse to keep a discreet eye out for her.

He had seen her walk out into the gardens and from there to the woods and he had seen the young men follow her lover shortly thereafter. He had armed himself with the only thing he could find, a horse whip, said a prayer and gone in on foot after her.  He hadn’t expected to find her so vulnerable and for a moment or two he had doubted that he could take her away safely, still he wasn’t about to leave her there.

Eventually Catherine stopped crying and the groom snuck her into the manor through the kitchen so her mother and father would not see her tear stained face and her grass stained clothes and ask questions. If the cook and house keeper noticed they didn’t say anything. Catherine went up to her room and stayed there the rest of the day, crying and praying. At dinner time when her mother came to enquire why she hadn’t come down for dinner Catherine pretended to be ill. She certainly looked it, her skin pale and her eyes swollen from all the weeping.

The next day was Sunday and the whole family went to church. Catherine couldn’t excuse herself from church but she refused breakfast and wore a drab dress and bowed her head down low throughout the day. She couldn’t look the groomsman in the face as he walked with them to church and she couldn’t smile or look her parents. She had shamed them with her behaviour she knew.

She knew that well brought up young women did not contrive to be alone with young male suitors. That was enough of a scandal but to have been corned by four men in the woods was beyond excuse, nothing she could possibly say could redeem her honour. If word got out about what happened her reputation would be completely ruined.  Her mother wouldn’t be invited for tea with the fashionable dowagers. Her father would have to bear the disgrace among his peers.

She blamed herself for her attack. She blamed her lust for making her succumb to the attentions of a beautiful but wicked man. She felt evil, tainted, trapped and sinful.  Listening to the vicar’s eloquent sermon that beautiful Sunday morning she realized that the only way to freedom from lustful and carnal desires was through service to Christ and so she resolved to redeem her soul by giving her life to Christ.

If anyone noticed that the young gay thing she had been, had suddenly became a devout Christian going to morning mass and shunning the seasons parties and social events in the county they didn’t say anything to her. She became withdrawn, quite, thoughtful and melancholy. Her mother commented about it to a neighbour who came round for tea once and her father questioned her mother why she did not go out any more. Otherwise they said nothing and watched their daughter anxiously.

They had expected her attract a good suitor and marry well but she had refused to see any of the young men that came calling for her. Her sudden withdrawal from the social scene further reduced the number of suitors that she met but they could not argue with her sudden religious devotion. When she announced at the end of the summer that she wanted to teach at the local school house they expressed some reservations but loved her too much to forbid her or insist that she marry a suitable husband instead.

Her piety was great indeed and she came to have the aspect of a ghost floating around the house in her drab dresses clutching a prayer book or a school book.  At the end of the school year she went to Lewes for a teacher’s course and she met Mr Cutsell, a student at the local theological institute.  He wasn’t exciting to look at but he had a calm soothing manner, kind eyes and called respectfully on her at the boarding house where she stayed. He was a vicar’s son and not of her class but she looked forward to his company.

They talked about faith, discussed the books they read and what they might do in the future after school. Catherine had read The Life of David Brainerd and it had set her mind on the condition of the heathen people’s around the world. George himself was drawn to missionary work after reading Dr. Buchanan’s Star in the East.   They spoke of their common desire to give their lives away to Christ. They married the day before her 21st birthday and set sail for their first missionary assignment in West Africa the very next day.

Character Development – Mrs. Catherine Lois Cutsell nee Warren (1864-1924)


She was the daughter of the Honourable Algernon William Warren of Middleton Manor in Westmeston, near Ditchling in Sussex and his wife Cecil and the wife of the Reverent George Cutsell. She was a special kind of woman. She was the kind of woman that leaves kith and kin and everything familiar to go far away to preach to the heathen of the world. She gave up everything in her desire to redeem her soul for Christ.

Once upon a time she had been a carefree rather superficial young woman that loved garden parties and dancing. The suitors were many for she was a pretty lass, her hair a inky black, her skin a milky white, her eyes a verdant green and her lips a rosy red. Her gay laugh and the twinkle in her eye gave her the animation of a pretty puppet.

Then one day she fell in love. She was from Ditchling and he was from Keymer, the neighbouring village.  We can’t help who we fall in love with, right? They met one day at the East Sussex Annual Cricket Tournament held at Streat Place. He was tall, blond and had the chiselled good looks that come from centuries of pedigree and good breeding.  He looked at her with his penetrating blue gaze across the cricket green and her heart melted.

They met several times after that while riding along the many public bridle ways but she was always accompanied as was appropriate for a young woman of her class. Once or twice they even managed to slip away together and meet  in the abandoned barn behind her home Middleton Manor where he would take her in his arms and bring bright spots of colour to her cheeks with the ardour of his kisses.

When she was alone she constantly thought of him, she counted off the days till she would see him again, she wrote him silly little love notes and poems that she left for him in a hollow tree  along Wapple Way in the Sedlow Wood and there she would anxiously search for his replies. She wrote breathlessly of her desire and passion, he replied extolling her beauty.

He could not call on her at Middleton Manor. Her father was the lord of Westmeston  but Ditchling and Keymer had a feud that had been going on for decades maybe even centuries and  the lord of Middleton Manor had supported his closest neighbour.  No one could remember what the feud was about any more but that didn’t stop them from remembering the feud.

Boys and girls from Ditchling did not fall in love and if they did the boy was sure to get a hazing from the other village and a dunking in the local pond. It was even rumoured that a boy had died of a heart attack once while being held under the frigid waters during a particularly cold February. So Catherine dared not let her love for him be known but prayed with all the fervour and innocence of youth that they would find a way to be together.

In the late summer Catherine attended an afternoon ball at Plumpton Place. He was there with the young men from Keymer and other surrounding villages. The boys stood on one side of the ball room of the old manor and the girls on the other. He huddled with three other young men. By their dress she could tell that they were not from the villages but probably from Brighton or maybe even London.

Her love and his friends huddled together, whispering among themselves and occasionally looking in her direction. She smiled demurely behind her fan and dropped her gaze every time her eyes met his. Her dance card was full but she could not be seen to dance with him. The young men from her village would be watching.  While they attended the same social events in neutral villages the segregation was total.

After a while Catherine slipped into the garden pretending she needed some fresh air, she hoped  he would notice and follow her. She walked out the French windows, through the formal gardens and through the orchard looking back discreetly to see if he was coming. She saw him at the French doors looking for her and when he waved to someone inside before following her.

He caught up with her at the little wooden bridge that crossed the lake just beyond the orchard into the wood beyond. Her heart beat swiftly as she took his arm and they walked along the path that ran through the little wood. She looked up into his eyes with a wide smile and joy in her face. He kissed her softly on the lips.

They hadn’t gone very far when she heard a twig snap not far behind them, startled she looked back. The three young men he had been with in the ballroom were walking toward them.  Modestly she tried to retrieve her arm from his but he held her firm. She looked up into his face and was puzzled to see it hard, the smile gone, and the eyes suddenly cold.

She looked back at the approaching company, they wore broad leering smiles.

‘So this is the country lass. How are you lass? Come give us a kiss then’ one of them said to her as he reached them and grabbed her by the elbow. She made to resist and protest to him but he pushed her towards his friends

‘Won’t you give my friends a kiss? Aren’t they good enough for you to kiss? Go on now, be a good girl.’

She stumbled backward with the shock of his words.


‘Give them a kiss like the ones you’ve been so generous to give me now’ he said cruelly.

‘She writes the nauseating little poems ‘ he said to his friends scornfully.

She stared at him aghast. Her hand did not seem to be her own as it connected with his cheek in a resounding slap that seemed to echo in the wood. She picked up her skirts to flee but one of the other young men grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back, she fell to the grass.

Thoughts raced through her mind, what was happening? How had her gentle blue eyed lover become this cold monster that stared down his nose at her and lifted not a finger to help her or protect her honor from his three foppish friends?  Was this the same man she had written sweet words of love for? Was this the man that she had imagined spending the rest of her life with?

2 A.M. Photo – Creative Writing Challenge

I felt myself pulled back from the edge of sleep just as I was sinking into its sweet oblivion. The phone was making that persistent beeping that told me I had a message. I groaned and wondered how come I forgot to turn it off before going to bed like I usually do.  Another night of insomnia loomed ahead, I never could get back to sleep once I was interrupted at that crucial moment.

I opened my eyes, the LED light of the phone cast strange shadows on the walls of the room. I reached for the offending instrument and looked at the time; 2 a.m. Who the hell was sending me a message at 2 a.m. in the morning?  ‘Message from Gina’, I sighed, Gina the travelling gourmet and my goof friend was almost seven time zones away right now. I wondered if everything was alright and opened the message. It was a photograph her about to cut into an amazing chocolate cake !

Trust Gina to send me a picture of a chocolate cake in the middle of the night from thousands of miles away.  It wasn’t her birthday it wasn’t her anniversary it wasn’t her wedding, Gina was a foodie and she had obviously found or baked a chocolate cake that she was so impressed with that she had to share it with me regardless of the time. Okay so I’m a foodie too and always on the look out for a perfect recipe myself.

As usual the Instagram picture looked so perfect. The colour of the cake was a dark velvety brown, the strawberries that decorated it looked a rich ruby red and the stalks a deep emerald green.  The inside of the cake looked so moist and the chocolate frosting looked so creamy and rich. I forget to be upset as my mouth started to water.  There was no question of going back to bed now.  I had food on my mind, a dark chocolate cake.  I imagined it laced with brandy.

I got up, pottered into the kitchen and made myself a mug of think sweet cocoa.  Maybe that would help me fall asleep again.  As I sipped it I closed my eyes and imagined I was tucking into that sinfully wicked chocolate cake in the photograph.


Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast!

I can fly! I jump off the edge of the roof outside my bedroom window and land in the pile of hay below!  There in the field beyond is a Unicorn I roll out of the hay jump to my feet and dash across the court yard towards it.  The Unicorn looks up slowly as I run up to it and gets down on one knee to let me climb up his back.  I hold tight to his mane as he shakes his head, paws the ground and takes off. I can fly!

As we flew over the tree tops the birdies flew up with us to say good morning. Together we were quite a formation! The birdies chirped and the bees came out too and joined us and together we flew high over the treetops and the  cows and the sheep and the people that were just waking up and kissing the day good morning. They looked up and saw us and their mouths turned into perfect o’s. I waved and we flew on and away.

You see every morning before breakfast the unicorn, the birdies, the bees and I all flew together to the very edge of the forest where the little old lady lived in her hut made of shortbread walls and a sugar crisp roof. She was a kind little old lady and she made perfect bird seed cakes and planted perfect flowers in her perfect garden. The birds ate the perfect bird seed cakes and the bees ate the perfect flowers and the Unicorn munched on the perfect grass that grew in  her perfect garden.

Meanwhile the little old lady and I ate perfect pancakes covered with sweet purple maple syrup, fluffy pink whipped cream and candy blueberries and drank sweet tea. Of course by the time I got home on Mother would be cross with me because I was so full up that I didn’t have even a little bit of room left for her lovely breakfast of bacon, eggs and hash browns.  Till today I still can’t eat before noon time!