CarmenJimersonCross
Bio
proper name? CarmenJimersonCross-Safieddine SHARING LIFE LIVED, things seen, lessons learned, and spreading peace where I can.
Read, like, and subscribe! Maybe toss a dollar tip into my "hat." Thanks! Carmen (still telling stories!)
Stories (113)
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COLLISION OF TIME
THEY TELL US WE LIVE IN ONE EARTH, in one world but as time has always traveled around this one world, so have transactions in life. They tell us that while the sun dances on the faces of half the planet, the moon intrigues the other half on a twenty-four-hour schedule... unwavering. We never get more than twenty-four hours in one day's time wherever we are, and neither has anyone else... in the forever of history. The timeline of mankind on this planet, though measured by various calendars devised to chronicle time, relays the same time as measured by the hands on the face of a clock.
By CarmenJimersonCross4 years ago in The Swamp
WORKERS COMP
State workers' compensation provides medical expenses, lost wages, and rehabilitation costs to employees who are injured or become ill “in the course and scope” of their job. It also pays death benefits to families of employees who are killed on the job.
By CarmenJimersonCross4 years ago in The Swamp
STUDY IN ART
NOW AND THEN WE NEED A CHALLENGE to become a better version of ourselves than what we are or have bended toward. Whether it be photography, writing, painting, building something or simply "that next course higher up the ladder. In 2005 The Artist's Magazine ran a motivational promotion suggesting interested parties review a host of artwork by old masters. The "Old Masters" would be those literally predominating the world of art by definition back in the 18th century. One of my favorite was THE OLD GUITARIST by Picasso. The deed was to emulate the artist's work to a point that no explanation need be given to understand the image created. As the Old Master presented his work, so should the one being so motivated. For me, it was this self portrait.
By CarmenJimersonCross4 years ago in Photography
RATioNAL ATTIRE
HAREM PANT IDEAL? What's up with that? While on outings, I sit in many public spaces watching passers by and literally pensively await pants dropping below the knees of any or all the hip waddlers drifting by. I say "hip waddlers" for lack of a better word or description for the guys... usually males, strut waddling as they attempt to keep the waistline of their pants at their hips. The waistline is designed to be worn AT THE WAIST, and as such creates a loose fit that slips down from the rounder portion... the buttocks, of the wearer's profile. Drop pants worn by those with more girth in and above the waistline have an increased chance of losing their trousers as there is nothing to catch the pant waist... no natural indentation along the body length. A belt is meant to cinch a garment at the waist as an item of decor of simply one of necessity. Walking is encumbered for anyone... male or female, large or small, with pants hopefully cinched around their buttocks or thighs; and then there is the attempt at making a dash for whatever would them standing on a corner. Word has it that the style simulates fashion found in prison. Where are the stripes or that flashy catchy orange... or are they changed out for general public interest and to increase sales opportunity? They don't want to look like prison, but they embrace the style? A runner up on that style should be the harem pant... designed to drop low at the crotch for that demure man or woman not aiming at flashing their goods on the street. They fit at the waistline and can be presented in any red carpet walk at any level of attire from formal... sequined chiffon or lace, or cashmere knit. Men's suit fabric complete with suit jacket or Hollywood Awards night garb or a minimal cotton knit yoga class outfit, harem pants fit your lifestyle and have been STYLE since the 1700's. Picture the scene:
By CarmenJimersonCross4 years ago in Styled
Old Enough
Old Enough, now, to talk about it. (copyright 2015) ============ the interview: LIFE OF THE ESTRANGED SHE WAS RETURNED NOW TO THE HOME... the one her husband furnished... heated and stocked with food brought in by him. Returned to what is left of a marriage; what remains of their relationship - on his terms. Otherwise homeless, she "cow tows" to fit within his created kingdom, a single story three bedroom ranch house he rents from a friend at his old job. This allows a safer place than the streets. She thought about those other people now, who are not so lucky and who live under a bridge like the girl Sudie. Sudie grew up with her down south and had somehow wandered back into her grown-up life. This grown-up life which had now gone sour and resulted in homelessness for both of them. Sudie, 55 years old with no husband or children lives under the bridge on King Street. Sudie has five years before she can claim her husband's pension. Her children, one five years dead and the other strung out on the cocaine that her grandson sells locally because he wants to be a "HIGH ROLLER." Sudie who would work as the highly paid secretary that she used to be, can't because of her condition. Sudie had a nervous breakdown when husband John died from a bullet wound... made by a gun that her daughter was holding. Her daughter who needed the money to get a fix. Money that John had in his pocket and would not give up. Sudie had no easy way out. Those other people probably don't either.
By CarmenJimersonCross4 years ago in Humans
SANCTUARY
Manitowac............ The hills approached from all sides charging, shifting here and there but charging none the less. I veered left and then right, right and then left along the snake's image before me. Who would have known that six inches of asphalt poured for the countless miles of fertile moraine could pull a little Chevy Tracker so?
By CarmenJimersonCross4 years ago in Humans
HELLO
"Just take the surface boards down ma'am, we will get there and finish the rest and not bill you for the demolition portion of the kitchen reface." That was the last time the contractor said anything. We try and do the right thing but seem to reap only the push me back resolve for our efforts. The "ANGIES LIST" had referred to three of the better selections for kitchen rehab after breaking down from running into office after office of local home repair persons. My wallet was as full of dollars as my mind was filled with hopes for the outcome and possibilities from any one of the three "magicians" laid at my feet. This was a 1911 Jacobean original and I was striving to make it "beautiful." Beautiful or at least doable. the dining room had been repaired for the hole in the ceiling where an inspector had fallen thru the weak boards in the second-floor bathroom. The boards had been made weak by constant toilet flooding and overly worn flooring around the commode. That rot removed and repaired brought attention to refinishing the room beneath it. The floors had already been stripped of three layers of old carpet, the window air conditioning unit removed and the gaping hole it left in the dining room replaced with a large new picture window. I had eagerly stripped the plaster and lathe wall down in the kitchen on the opposite wall from the dining room just because the contractor... best in town, was "coming on Monday." When I called to remind the office secretary and confirm that I actually had the dates right, I was told they were gone out of town to New Orleans and Texas. The Hurricane Lee effects and call to volunteer had every contractor from carpentry to plumbing and electrical out on a special mission of putting the damage back into liveable conditions. My wall was good testimony that the devastation that could tear out bricks and mortar... plaster and stick walls was and could have far reaches... further than the assessment team would ever know. Our family reunion was slated to occur, at my house, within months. I was a realtor, not a carpenter or... WHAT ELSE COULD POSSIBLY HAPPEN?! I consoled myself by knowing that most of an excess of one hundred people would not and could not stand to be late leaving for home from the reunion. None would show up that did not get an invitation. The kitchen wall was gutted, and past all formal greetings the secretary's "hello" was the last thing on my mind. I hang up the phone thinking, "How could my day get any worse." I dialed the Lumber Liquidator's office line to ask the floor resurfacer what day he was to install new floorboards. The men in that office were bumbling as well. Barely past the first "hello" the respondent laid the phone aside to search the store. They could not locate the man hired by their store to do installations. The parquet floors he was to replace in the den were taken up by us as agreed, but he would not be coming out to start the job. He'd left his carpet hammer laying in the middle of the floor, gone out to get a measuring tape and not come back in. His truck left our front drive and that was the last heard of him. To make matters that much more alarming, the painting contractor that I'd nabbed on a Sunday outing to get ice cream for mom and the guys, could not finish his estimate during the tabletop meeting held in my back yard later that day. I was intent upon getting as much work done... as most people do... it was the hired help that the question had to be asserted to; WHAT WERE THEY DOING to make my or anyone's day work?
By CarmenJimersonCross4 years ago in Humans
THE GAY BAR
They called to invite the long overdrawn mentality that was their friend and co-worker out. Out of the densely lit townhouse. Out of the melancholy bass tune afforded by Millie Jackson. Out of the caustic environment performed by her teenage pubescent daughter. She had buried herself beneath the decision to get a divorce. The husband had been running the streets now, playing the field, noticeably... since months after marriage... hanging out with local clip artists who ran the alleys with armloads of fur coats half dragging behind them in the dirt. He had come in from his insurance debit route with infestations that "came off the couch" and the deep-seated bruises on his neck that he never knew were there. He ran from her insatiable sex throngs as though she were the enemy. He swore he would not be her "sex buddy." They had been married now for seven years. Seven years that now found him living between the street and his mother's small apartment for his decision made two years prior. He claimed not to have known about her sex drive. Not to have known prior to putting the ring on her finger, that she was what some considered to be a nymph. He had deserted her for the excuse of her "determination to work" and her decision to take a third job with the military. The National Guard would allow extra money and family togetherness. There was even an option to bring her family to the training area while she endured Basic and Individual training. She would not be allowed to live off base, but her two children and husband could be near her. He chose to run the streets, unemployed and a recent would-be father of her miscarried child. He had not stayed long enough to hear the announcement of her pregnancy, or the further news of it being lodged within her fallopian tube. When the tube ruptured, he was no place to be found. Instead, her cousins and a co-worker took turns calling EMTs and taking her to emergency at the hospital and to her original physician. The physician who had worked diligently with the husband and his patient to help them have this child. Dr. Ahmari had performed routine and news-breaking procedures for fertility. None had worked in the early years due to low sperm count. Now it had become an issue of her own conception ability. They had not been able to have a child together for the entire time. In the prior marriage, there was no problem with impregnating her. She had two beautiful and healthy children ...boy and girl.
By CarmenJimersonCross4 years ago in Families
NES
(excerpt) The gold and silver amulet on the cover glistened as she picked the book up. It resembled the thing given her by Jimycahn somewhere in the recess of her memory. "This is always good to fall back on." The Never Ending Story was her favorite childhood story and that her father's. It had balanced the distance of sunset to midnight for many outside of her own family and it was never the same story twice. At every age and to every mind, it was a different tale. Mr. Koreander had warned her father of reading the story as a young boy just as she had been warned by her own grandfather, Bernie, and her father Bastian. There were always the warnings and there was always the best adventure tucked deep inside the book. "This is just what I need." She took it over to the opposite side of her bed, away from the door but just before the window to the side yard. She took the book of her youth and the treat from the secret place and lay down on the alpaca rug to read.
By CarmenJimersonCross4 years ago in Fiction
TRIPPIN ABOUT HISTORY
The following is a story short about a presumptuous individual who, because of his prior education and "middle class" status / views about race of persons taking his college course, projects them upon his students to resolve what presents opposing views on life and the opportunities it presents. It is difficult to judge someone we do not know, it causes us to go....
By CarmenJimersonCross4 years ago in Humans
Intrinsic Knowledge
They had reached a mutual agreement. An agreement that would alter both their lives for the rest of their lives. A functional family business carried generation to generation is the dream of many American families... families not much unlike theirs. For a parent to have a son or daughter follow in his or her footsteps is a century old tradition representative of familial pride. Surely, the bond struck here in the auspicious sterility of her kitchen would be no less than those of earlier entrepreneurial families. always eager to please their every whim, to meet their approval by any means necessary. Now, her recently regained father, the missing link in her life had come to her unsought... self motivated... self-determined asking her to come into business with him. This, in her opinion, was the highest honor a child could receive. The opportunity of being ally...cohort in an already successful business operated by one's parent. She intuitively gathered all information readily accessible to her in this elated state. Questions of intent and predetermined matters of business flew rampantly through her mind.
By CarmenJimersonCross4 years ago in Fiction
