Category: Other Musings

Nikita
February 14, 1995 – January 27, 2012
Isabella
June 21, 1997 – December 25, 2012

I had a dream of you dear Nikita. Isabella, your friend of many years, had been sick when you enter my night. They told me in November that she had cancer. After you passed in January of 2012, I wondered if Isabella felt sadness like I had. Grief that leaves you flat. I wondered if Isabella knew that you had departed. I contemplated when her time was coming. I feared it would be soon – Isabella was getting up there in her age. I feared she had a broken heart as I did when you left us Nikita. Since your passing, I hadn’t felt any signs of your presence around the house, though wished I would. I hadn’t dreamt of you though I have been looking.

In the beginning of December, at last you visited me. I had stopped looking.

In this dream world, I was sitting on the F train in New York City in the orange bucket seats. It had rolled out of the West 4th Street station heading toward the Broadway and Houston stop. I had no sense where we had come from or why we had gone out together. We were going home to Brooklyn. The F train struck all my senses as real and not the dusty clippings from memory. There was no sound. No screeching of the rails as it turned to the left or talk of the people around us or the doors clattering along the line. The train car felt real to me as the impression of riding this line for 10 years is stamped permanently within my vision. You sat in my lap. I did not have a carrier for you, and though I feared you would get away, it was not on your mind to leave.

The train was above ground instead of below. This is the reality of the dream world where the alteration from our experiences in our waking life momentarily confuses us. It is when we accept that that our dreams are a reflection of the other lives within us that we have no reason to be afraid. Lives we have lived or lives that are still yet to be. Through the window, I witnessed the melding cacophony of buildings, trees, sidewalk, and people. It blurred in so that I was unable to discern details. Images become elementary shapes and lines. I could not look at them. It was as if this world outside the window did not belong to me. You, though Nikita, were familiar with this place. The details were clear to you. Your focus was undeterred. Your interaction with this ‘other’ was within your domain, a life I have not yet come to know.

You meowed and sang on your own volition. You behaved not how I wanted you to or how I would imagine you to, but as you are. It was as though my subconscious was not conjuring or puppeteering this dream state. It was then I realized that this dream was yours. Not mine. I was a passenger momentarily within your sphere fortunate to now understand the significance of your coming.

I could feel your hair. Warm Grey. Smooth and full. You talked – your meows varying from shallow and soft like a kitten to long guttural ones. The intonation and lilts in your speak were expressive and they moved me. Your eyes widen, the jade green in them intensifying when you saw something or someone that you knew. The angelic white under your chin felt like cream when I rubbed my fingers there. You were plush, full and restored as I have hoped you would be.

Our closeness had not faded. It was as if we had not spent nearly a year apart. Like we never lost the pieces of each other. Love had not dissipated as I fear in my waking life. You never left. We were as close as we had been, and this deeply stung my heart. You were still my kitty. We still belonged to each other. Peace quenched the corners of my being in a way I have not felt before. It was sublime.

I wanted to press you in and to take you with me. Before we reached our last stop to go home together, we unexpectedly got off the train. You did not want to. I frantically searched for a carrier or a box, so that I would not lose you. It was in this panic that you disappeared. The dream world stopped and the waking life began. I sat up in bed. Heaviness was on my legs like you had just been sitting there. I got out of bed expecting to see you. What lingered were the edges of you, the euphoria of your visit. I know you had been there. It was real.

My every day is ordinary – I go to work, stop at the grocery store to buy dinner, pay the bills. Only, this day after you visited, I felt affected in an extraordinary way. I petted Isabella that morning while readying myself for work, made her breakfast, and told her I loved her as I do every day. I worried about her constantly. She was always quick to purr when I rubbed her neck, her ears, and the sides of her face. Isabella seemed content that morning. I put aside my sadness and my horror about the inevitable. I wanted to enjoy her and not remind her how sick she was. This was a promise we had both agreed upon. Isabella was always responsive to my voice – the assurance, the calm, and hope – it was my duty to instill in her an evenness of our last days together. It was my wish that Isabella knew that she was loved and would know this forever.

I told others that day about your visit. There is no money in the world that could buy the peace you gave. Yet, I had not understood yet why you had come. I could not understand why at this time, and I wondered if and when you would come again. I did not know, as you did, that Isabella was soon to pass on.

Miraculously, the next night, you and I visited again. Only this time it felt as though you were in my dream, rather than me being in yours. You intentfully kept your distance from me. I did not understand. You and I were on the F line. The train had just pulled away from the Bergen Street stop in Brooklyn, one stop before we reach home. You were in the front or the first car, sitting as you used to when you were in the in-between just before sleep. Your arms curled beneath you, your head tilted to the side, your eyes sliding sleepy, and the sly line of your mouth told me that you were at rest.

You did not respond to me though you were aware that I was near. You were perched atop a pile of layered embroidered cloths. Some of them had beads on them. I was 5 or 6 cars behind you. I was furiously trying to get to you by running through them. Only, the doors between them were locked. I had to wait for the train to stop at the next station when all the main entry doors would draw open. I would run out on to the platform knowing that I had only a few seconds to run to next train car before the entry doors closed and the train would speed out of the station.

Anxiously, I was waiting my chance to dart from car to car so that I could reach you. Anxiety. Fear. I was afraid of being left behind on the platform, and and that train would take off. I would lose you forever. I could not let this happen. I awoke. I never caught up to you, but I was still on the train. As I had done the morning before, I readied myself for work, petted and cuddled Isabella and made her breakfast. I went throughout my day worried about my Isabella. The dream left me disturbed and unsure.

On December 25th, 2 weeks after you visited me those two nights, Isabella passed away. She was straining to breathe and her heart could not take the weight of the cancer upon it. The only gift I could give her on Christmas was to hold her as she passed from one life to the next. Her pain had to come to an end. In that strangely intimate moment as she passed in to death, I recognized the instant she departed. I tried to be brave for her. I told her between the tears I loved her. Over and over, ‘I love you Isabella’. I assured her that in her last moment of this life though she would lose sight of me you would be once again her companion. The agony in losing her was no different than when I lost you Nikita. I still grieve for you, and now I endure the pain of losing the both of you.

On the 27th, I took Isabella to her cremation. I held her one more time. I pet her in those spots that she loved the most – the scruff of her neck and the insides of her ears. I felt the tickle of her whiskers on my skin. She lie there like a sleeping angel. Nothing in how she looked reminded me of suffering. I talked to her and cried heavy. Isabella’s hair was feather soft. Shiny. So soft. The stark white socks of her feet were clean and the pads were cotton like baby skin. The kiln had already been fired up. I witnessed the cleansing release of her. It was the finality of the fire that told me that her spirit was no longer trapped by the earthly torment of a body. She is with you indeed.

I drove from Isabella’s commemoration in silence. I arrived home – prepared a lunch to take to work with me. I wondered if it was a good idea to go. I slogged down the steps of my apartment, sloshed on some crusted snow, and started the car. I pulled out of the parking spot and drove down the road. Though you had visited me, time slowed down the days ahead of Isabella’s passing. I had not thought of those dreams in my waking life. On my drive, I suddenly understood them. I pulled the car over and remembered.

Like an angel of peace, you came to remind me of your gift. And that you had not stopped giving it. Love. You did not want me to forget it. Ever. You reminded me that I too can give this gift. In the advent of Isabella’s passing, you came to assuage the bleakness, to relieve, to heal, and to calm. Trust. You demanded this as there is good reason to do so. These things, the life breathe of our humanity, can not be contained to earthly confinements. We shall not ask this of one another. There is no price. It simply just is.

This is the first dream.

As much as I want to run to you, hold you, and never be apart from you, you warned me it is not yet my time. I still have life and lives to live. Crevices within the soul that are still yet undiscovered. I can not go where you are at. I am not ready to go home with you. It is not my time. Don’t be afraid or sad. When my time comes, it will be no hard search to find you. You will be there. You are already with me. As is Isabella. Don’t look too hard. Trust.

That is the 2nd dream.

We have not yet again shared our dreams. I do not know if we will again. You tell me to not look so hard. Love just is.

Jessica Osenbruegge

Ghost Story Magazine

“The Sand Creek Massacre”
An interview with Donald Vasicek, award winning Film Director

From all of the staff here at Ghost Story Magazine we would like to congratulate you on the success of your award winning film documentary, The Sand Creek Massacre. We also want to thank you for taking the time to answer a few questions for all the readers of Ghost Story Magazine.

Thank you. It is thoughtful and meaningful to me that you want to interview me. I am very appreciative of this opportunity to share with your readers.

1.) Can you please give us an overview of this film project and describe what you were trying to achieve as the director and film creator?

On November 29, 1864, 700 Colorado 1st & 3rd Regiment troops slaughtered over 160 Cheyenne and Arapaho men, women and children under protection of the United States flag and a white cloth of truce. This event became known as the Sand Creek Massacre.

The Sand Creek Massacre Documentary Film Project consists of eight parts. They are:

1. Trailer (completed) (http://michaelc.nextmp.net/wordpress/video.html)
2. Documentary Short Film (http://michaelc.nextmp.net/wordpress/DVD-VHS.htm)
3. Educational Video (in production)
4. Full-length documentary film (will go into production when money is raised)
5. Book (will be written when money is raised)
6. Interactive Media (will be created when money is raised)
7. Curriculum/Lesson Plans (being written)
8. Study Guide (being written)

The goal of the Sand Creek Massacre Documentary Film Project is to create a teaching mechanism to help others, particularly young people, on how to solve problems non-violently and to learn about the Cheyenne and Arapaho people to help combat racism.

2.) What are some of the awards this film has been nominated for or has won to date?

Named Best Film of 2004 by the Philip S. Miller Library’s Bull Theater Film Project

2005 Winner – Best Documentary Short The Indie Gathering Film Festival

2005 Semi-Finalist – Best Documentary Moondance International Film Festival

2005 Winner – The American Indian Film Festival

2005 Finalist – Haydenfilms Film Festival

2006 Archived into Heard Museum

2007 Archive into Billy Baguley Museum

2008 Winner – Golden Drover Award – Best Native American Film Trail Dance Film Festival

2011 Catalogued into Smithsonian Institute Libraries
2011 Catalogued into 42 American Tribal Libraries
2011 Catalogued into University of California at Berkley

3.) What inspired you to make a documentary about such a controversial subject in the dark annals of American history?

The overt attention given to Territorial Governor John Evans and Colonel John M. Chivington regarding their involvement regarding the Sand Creek Massacre got my interest. Not to say Governor Evans did not do well for his fellowman, Evanston, Illinois is named after him for his educational and medical (he was a medical doctor) accomplishments and contributions in Illinois, Evans, Colorado, Evans Avenue in Denver, and Mount Evans in Colorado (was originally-named Mount Rosalie) are named after him, and he played an integral role in establishing railroads in Colorado (some call him the first 19th century real estate developer) after many decisions he made as Governor of the Colorado Territory that helped lead to causing the Sand Creek Massacre, left me with questions about why he has the notoriety he has, when so many Cheyenne and Arapaho people butchered at Sand Creek are indistinct, unknown, and unrecognized. Colonel John M. Chivington was a Methodist minister. He was anti-slavery and for statehood, but yet he was driven to be responsible for the brutal murders and mutilations at Sand Creek. I simply felt that we need to learn about the Cheyenne and Arapaho people, that we need to learn that the Cheyenne and Arapaho people are the fabric of American history, of who we are as Americans, and that they should be recognized for it without being blinded by racism.

4.) The Sand Creek Massacre site is said to be very haunted and physically draining location because of the extreme human emotions that have occurred there both before and after the massacre. Did you or anyone else you worked with on this project ever experience anything paranormal or unexplainable during the filming or editing of this documentary?

The closet paranormal experience I had at Sand Creek was the first time I visited there. I was given a tour by a local rancher who had lived there for 38 years. When we drove through the cottonwoods and across Sand Creek (mostly a bog-like stream), I saw a huge male deer with a beautiful rack staring at us in the trees. We got out of the rancher’s truck at top of Dawson’s Bend where the memorial slab set there in 1950 still resides, like a sentinel overlooking the ill-fated Cheyenne and Arapaho village below.

The rancher said that this is where Lt. Silas Soule stood with his men and a 12-pound mountain canon (there were four 12-pound mountain canons at Sand Creek, this was the only time in Colorado history that canons were used in what some people call a battle, others, like myself, refer to Sand Creek as a massacre) looking out over the 500 Cheyenne and Arapaho lodges. He refused to “unlimber” his canon, the rancher said. The rancher pointed to his right, Chivington led some of the men from down there while Lt. Wilson attacked from the east up there. The rancher turned around and we faced south, southwest. He pointed and said that’s where the troops came from. To some Indian boys watching the ponies at the time, the line of troops looked like buffalo to them. He turned to the southeast and pointed, down there close to where his house was (it was about a mile or so away) is where the troops unloaded all of their equipment in preparation to make the attack.

I looked at each location. I studied each location. At that moment, I saw Colonel John M. Chivington, on a dark-colored horse, with his saber drawn, thrashing down this butte into Sand Creek leading a charge right into the heart of the Cheyenne and Arapaho village. I saw his flaming eyes, orbs of hatred and terror. It was at that point, I felt coldness penetrate my body. I shivered, I rubbed the back of my neck. It was rigid. I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to look anymore. I could hear gunshots, the thud of rifle butts colliding with human heads, sabers slashing through the air, people screaming, and I could smell globs gun powder.

Inside, my mind was racing, I wanted to do something. I wanted to help the people who were being killed. I felt guilty. I felt sad. I felt sorrow. I felt weak and horrified. I was afraid to open my eyes. Suddenly, I heard, “Don, Don…” The words echoed and hammered at me like an intrusion, something that was trying to mask the terror and horror that was being unveiled before me. Finally, I felt a hand on my shoulder. My eyes popped open. I almost ducked from what I thought was a rifle butt coming straight at my head.

I blinked. It was Pati Decesaro, a professional photographer, who had driven with me to Sand Creek that day, to take photos. She stroked my face. She said, “It’s all right, Don. I know how you feel.” I looked deeply into her eyes. The pain and sadness in them pointed me in the direction of her. I looked at the rancher. He was looking down at the ground, studying it like it was an archaeological find, but really, I saw the sadness there.

As the rancher drove us back to our car, he crossed Sand Creek again. I saw the buck deer again. Based on what I had learned on the butte overlooking Dawson’s Bend earlier, I knew the location where the buck deer was now reclining. It was the exact trail that Chivington had from where he had led to the charge. Another chill, this time. The rancher commented that it was unusual to see deer there. Pati said, “He’s the appointed guardian for the Indian people. That is why he is there. He wants to make sure they aren’t attacked again.”

Cheyenne Chief Laird Cometsevah, Chief of the Council of 44 Cheyenne Chiefs, which include former Colorado United States Senator Ben Nighthorse Campbell, and a descendant of Sand Creek (his great grandfather survived Sand Creek, survived Washita, was arrested at Palo Duro, and imprisoned in Florida for three years as a criminal if you can imagine that) told me that the first time he came to Sand Creek in 1978, 114 years after the Sand Creek Massacre, he heard women screaming and children crying. He said he lit his pipe, sat down, and began praying. He said he knew that he had come to the right place.

A National Park Service person who has been helpful to the Cheyenne and Arapaho people and to me regarding the Sand Creek Massacre Documentary Film Project was driving me through the site one October afternoon. I was doing some taping (to note, I’ve been the Sand Creek Massacre Site at least ten times, maybe more, but I always have same feeling, “tread carefully, tread with respect, tread with gratitude, take each step as though you were walking on ice that was about to break any second) It was quiet, peaceful and calm. However, each time I have been at the site, I have always experienced a foreboding feeling. I feel chilled. I feel that I should not step on the ground (bodies of many of the Cheyenne and Arapaho people who were murdered there were left to rot on the bare ground). I look at the Tamarisk, the Canadian thistle, the blue sage, the cottonwood trees there, and I believe, that they were nourished and grew to the sizes they are because of the dead Cheyenne and Arapaho people there. I don’t want to step on the plants because of this reason. I asked the Park Service woman if she ever had any paranormal experiences there. She said no, “…but I never come out here at night.” I asked her why. She said, “I’m not sure.”

Today, I am somewhat fearful of visiting Washita (George Armstrong Custer and the United States Seventh Calvary attacked the Cheyenne people at the Washita River. Cheyenne Chief Black Kettle, who had survived Sand Creek along with his wife, who was shot nine times at Sand Creek, were killed), and the Little Big Horn in Montana. I’ve driven by both places, within a mile and a half from the highway, but I’ve drive by them each time. I have a fear of having similar experiences that I had at Sand Creek the first time I visited there, and a similar experience I had at Ground Zero in New York two weeks after 9/11. I sat on curb there. I smelled burning flesh. I heard screams. I craned my head up, up, and up and saw human beings coming down at me out of the sky. I saw the terror, the disbelief in their eyes. I tasted the rancid air. I felt the pain, the horror, the terror. I wanted to help the victims of 9/11. I want to help the victims at Sand Creek, at Washita, at Little Big Horn, but I cannot. They are gone and I am here.

When I stood up from the curb at Ground Zero, I noticed white ash covered the buildings, the parking lots, the cars, everything, even the curb on which I had been sitting. I saw the imprint of my butt on the curb. I looked at my butt. It had white ash on it. I brushed it off onto a piece of paper. I took a vitamin bottle out of my pocket, dumped out the vitamins, and poured the white ash into the vitamin bottle. When I looked up, I noticed a couple staring at me. Then, I went home to Centennial and buried the vitamin bottle in the back yard under a cherry tree.

5.) How can our readers catch a glimpse of this powerful documentary?

The documentary short is being periodically aired on DCTV Denver Community Television, Channels 58 and 59

A copy can be purchased at http://michaelc.nextmp.net/wordpress/DVD-VHS.htm or BuyIndies.com.

We understand you are seeking donations to assist the American Indian Genocide Museum, and to help you finish the educational version of the film for use in the Colorado and Texas public school systems. How can we help contribute to this good cause?

You can send a check to:

Steve Melendez
President
American Indian Genocide Museum

Cheryl Melendez
Executive Director
American Indian Genocide Museum

11013 FUGUA PMB #178
Houston, TX 77089-210
713-928-2440
www.aigenom.com
indmuseum@yahoo.com

You can also go to PayPal and send a donation to indmuseum@yahoo.com .

Be sure and note that your donation is for the Sand Creek Massacre Documentary Film Project.

6.) What are the next steps for both you and your film company?

Global Horizon Entertainment, Inc. has seven film and television projects in development. We are raising money to produce these projects. One of the first projects that we will put into production when money is raised is “Haunted World.” We shot a screener with your founder and editor, Kevin Sampron that television distributors found compelling. They want us to develop the screener into a television pilot with 13 episodes. Once that is accomplished, we are hopeful of getting distribution for it.

We want to thank you again Don for sharing all your thoughts, insights, and comments with the readers of Ghost Story Magazine. We look forward to talking with you again in the future.

Thank you very much for interviewing me. It was my pleasure. Keep up your good work and good luck with your launch!

The Staff
Ghost Story Magazine

You can find out more information about Don Vasicek and his creative film projects at the following two websites:

www.ghentertainment.com
www.donvasicek.com