From the Desk of Madame Zuchini

Welcome To My Home

Madame Zuchini here, and Welcome to my Home. Page that is. You will find many intellectual, philosophical,and  existential essays to life here, as well as prophecies spanning time honored cliches, platitudes and the ever popular just plain old too much information.  Madame’s intent  in endeavoring to enlighten and brighten your empty collection of hours, comes from the love in my  heart, the wisdom that comes from a  myriad of lifetimes, and a certain amount of martini’s to take the edge off  of so  much responsibility. (It isn’t easy listening to voices  of the spirit world while trying to take a bath, or to sense the bold and terrible predictions of the future while watching Dancing With the Stars.  Of course, Madame  knows who the winners will be, but votes anyway).

As a young girl I used to stand barefoot on the wet summer grass in the evening, while my Mother watered the summer sidewalk with a hose. She believed, I believe, that it let the sun that had soaked into the sidewalk during the heat of the day to escape; rise up, as it were, like wraiths being summoned up from hell. (see Cliche’s above).  This perhaps doesn’t make sense to you, but the smell of the wet cement and the moist grass became a living thing to me. An insubstantial odor that grew into sentience; so palpable that it often  sits with me as I drink a few margarita’s on my own summer lawn, and helps to drown out the odor of the neighbor’s ubiquitous cabbage soup. Oh the monotony of those days. I could hardly stand them. In any case, I find the memory often puts me to sleep.   So you see, my beloved ones, we can find comfort and chaotic dullness in even the same memory. The same moment. The same shift in time.

It was shortly thereafter that Madame ran away to join the circus, (a legendary time. A lifetime in it’s own right)), and there found the answer to the tickling, annoying sensation I would get when my “senses” or “future memories” or “disembodied voices” began to call. Madame learned she was a psychic and not a psycho. Oh,what a time it was, me and Mongo and the boys all tasting the fruit of the vine, while I gave in to their begging for my prophecies and insight.

Listen and hear dear ones, for despite the comfort  and  the agony of routine; of joyous yet mundane memories, Madame had to follow her own destiny, even if it did include the cacophony of mostly boring dead people speaking into my ear, along with the occasional crackpot, ( which accounts for the few times that Madame gets it wrong.). In time Madame learned to tune out the dull spirits and found her Muse. Although Madame’s Muse comes to her in whatever form Madame finds most convenient, she has endowed me with gifts beyond measure, as many powers of prediliction as there are fish in the sea. (See platitudes, above). And so this is what Madame wishes to share with you. Madame hopes you have enjoyed her Welcome post and feel free to read, read, read, and don’t forget to leave a comment.

Now where is the boy with my martini? Madame  out.

To Leave a comment just click on From the desk of above the title of any page, then click on comments and write away. Just remember Madame is adept with hexes too.