Princesses Gigi and Julieanne ~An Eperee~


Dear, sweet


Pampered princess,

Disgruntled widow,

Lots of time on her hands.

Takes great delight in teaching

My daughter, pampered princess two,

Womanly wiles that, when utilized,

Trap me between both Princess’s demands.

Explaining an “Epperee.”

I thought after posting my eperee, “See Casket?  See Kay Run?,” I should explain what an eperee is.

When was this written?  2007?  Hugh is the one who introduced it to the old Writing Group in the McAllen Public Library.

I found it to be so much fun to craft.  But even more so because when one thinks of Hugh, one thinks of nudists colonies and Hugh riding naked on a camel in the Sahara!

I still have the “nudists” calendar he gave me.


An epperee is crafted like this:

The first line=one syllable, adding one syllable/line until you reach the tenth line for a total of ten syllables.

I’ll submit another one to you as an example, and then you try it.

Submit it here and I’ll give you a grade. (joke)



See Casket? See Kay Run? An Epperee



See Kay run?

Don’t fence me in,

Don’t seal the gasket.

Let my atoms go free!

Somewhere over the rainbow

An Organizing Principle

Puts into play my recreation.

Still I’d like someone to dance on my grave.



Never dies.

So when I die

My atoms will fly

(Unburdened by baggage)

Around in Arcadia,

Memory in abstentia,

Wherever the O.P. tells them to,

Mini me’s will dance around earth anew.

Dream Within a Dream ~Edgar Allen Poe ~

Dear Sister,
My story gets told on every corner, every back alley, in the board room, the court room and on the cat walk run way.
All my love to you,

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow —

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand —

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep — while I weep!

O God! Can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

Sleep well.

And Hrodpreht is gone in the twinkle of an eye.

My dear Katherine, the golden grains of sand in this hour glass have run their course, and Hrodpreht can no longer abide this aquarium, he has been my humble servant, my little showman. And so I ask you to hold on to his feeling and release him back into the gone wild hall of mirrors of this world drenched in the age of Aquarius.

Sand castles can and will be rebuilt and that’s our play on the tormented shore. As Carlos Castaneda quoted Don Juan, “Knowledge comes floating like specks of gold dust, the same dust that covers the wings of moths. So, for a warrior, knowledge is like taking a shower, or being rained on by specks of dark gold dust.”

And if I got some in your eye, then be glad, because you are not alone, those are my tears as well. And pour them out upon your paper and dance in the vesica piscis of a world unfurled.

All my love to you!

I Prayed for a Fight with the Devil, Once

Tender Nino in Alberto with tiny whatshernameThis young girl was not possessed, but she did have evil spirits attacking her.  Alberto seemed to be successful at bringing her comfort and relief.  It didn’t hurt that her father, who loved her a great deal, was there, too.


(excerpted from The WASP and El Curandero)

“I prayed for a fight with the devil, once,” I tell Alberto with as much humility as I can muster.

“Oh?  Why?”

“At the time I felt courageous and strong. Morally superior. Self-righteous.”

“I understand that.”  Alberto sets the repaired cross on the arm of his white, homemade, wooden throne. It’s obvious he doesn’t think that praying for a fight with the devil is so unusual. “And what happened?” he asks.

“Nothing. Well…” I hesitate because I’m embarrassed. “I was surprised the other women at the altar rail seemed horrified. I thought they would cheer for my heroism. And Father Bob asked God to grant me humility. Then he signed the cross on my forehead with his thumb like he was hitting a bull’s eye.”

As we walk back toward the house, I weigh the odds of Alberto understanding Jungian concepts about The Shadow. I decide it is worth a shot because it’s important information when defending my thesis, theoretically.

“I study Jung, Alberto. Jung was a psychoanalyst from Zurich who says that evil is not really evil, but those contents of the psyche which have to erupt, unbidden, into consciousness, because of too much pressure built up under psychological repressions. Jung symbolizes the repressions as “The Shadow.”  In real life, the repressed feelings can come out distorted in the form of a neurosis, maybe even a psychosis. Ideally, if you can channel your emotions appropriately into the light of day, you can become fully human. Otherwise you might end up acting like a demon.”  I listen carefully for Alberto’s response.

“Who is this Jung?  What spirit does he channel?” he asks with what is apparently first time, lively interest. “He sounds very smart. Is he still alive?”

“No. He died in the 1960s. But I guess you could say he helped his patients channel their own spirits.”

Alberto stops under a mesquite tree and looks at me with inquisitive, long-lashed brown eyes.  “You know, I think I could channel Jung’s spirit.  What was his first name?  Do you have any books with pictures of Jung?”

It would be a momentous occasion to see Alberto channel Carl Gustav Jung’s spirit.  So I agree to bring him some books with pictures of Jung, just to see what he can do with it. Alberto continues walking and talking, with me behind him, trying to keep a straight face.

“Emotions are one thing, but The Devil is another.”  Alberto swivels to put a hand on my back to catch me up with him.  “Some ailments, like desesperación and angusto, can be healed with psychology—I do it all the time—but not demon possession.  The Devil and his army of demons are real, whether you believe in him or not.  He’s not a myth like Santa Claus.  I know.  I have fought the demons in person.  Several times.  I’m known as the Exorcist of Edinburg!  Me, Alberto!”  Alberto sticks out his chest.


Now tell me:  who do you think has the most Integrity?

Fr. Bob for dousing my hubris?

Alberto for exorcising demons?

Me, for pushing Jung on the Exorcist?

It depends on the situation.  Alberto probably has more integrity in the consultorio than at my kitchen table.  I probably have more integrity in church with Fr. Bob than in Espinazo with the el viejos.  Because we usually know ourselves best in our own world. The more integrity we have, the less surprises.

But, bottom line:  the one who knows himself the best is the one searching and integrating fragments of himself along the way, broadening his functional integrity with the ultimate result he is comfortable in any situation.

You understand, this all happens above the rim?  Tools are called for.