Films…Scripts…and not giving up

If I had it to do all over again…
I've been thinking about that concept recently as I realize there are still dreams unfulfilled and challenges I have yet to meet. Looking back to my twenties and thinking about  my secret aspirations from that time,  I realize I dreamed of becoming involved with cinema. I already knew I looked through a camera lens and "saw" a world quite different than what others were seeing. The stumbling block for me was the enormity of it all - I mean, how would a young, and extremely shy and insecure, woman in the 70's become a cinematographer, or perhaps even a director?

Six hours from Hollywood but it may as well have been six hundred…


Anyway, French and Italian cinema (of that time)  beckoned me. That seemed truly impossible.

So that was then. Decades later, during a wet summer in Ireland, I discovered scriptwriting. Here was a world that allowed me to connect my words with my images. Yes!  I explored the Irish film world. Yes! Were my dreams about to be realized after all those many years?

Now here I am back in California and again "Six hours from Hollywood…" I am no longer shy and certainly not insecure but I am much older with responsibilities that have clipped my wings. I have two completed feature-length scripts I would love to sell - love to see them come to life.

Clipped wings are only for the mundane world. Dreams and challenges are of the world I create for myself. Can I sell a script via a website? via Twitter? via Tumblr?  Perhaps and why the hell not?

So I present to the world one of my scripts on its own website.  I dream of one day seeing it come to life.

Sigils, Semiotics and Symbols

You can hear the hiss of the snake in these words - sigils…semiotics...symbols. The words hold power, an alchemical power that unites the mundane to the magical. Worlds colliding. Veiling lifting. Mists dissolving.

This world that I inhabit takes great pleasure in weighing me down. Since childhood I have felt the shackles that bind me here. Why struggle?

Then, the realization that, even more than my words, my images (imaging/imagining) brought me the hidden powers necessary to connect beyond. To go deeper. To break the shackles.

My art becomes my portal to travel there…

My art becomes the portal to envision… differently… the shimmering instant when the mundane merges with the other…














And the other is Mystery - cloaked…hidden... and then,  revealed.

All images © Denise Sallee 2014

The City

Peter and I wrote this novella (or, perhaps it is a short story?) late in 2001. Peter died in 2008 but here I have an example of what defined our relationship - we were, and perhaps still are, creative partners. 

I would love anyone's idea on how best to describe this book. Does it fit into a genre? There are so many terms today for so many types of writing. Me, I just like to write, so thank you for helping me on the others bits!

Here is an excerpt from The City.

Desire drew the men along the City’s streets. The great moon, now higher in the sky, stood witness to promises of pleasure and of moments of escape where the blood tides flowed thickly in the streets. They passed through the Third Avenue underpass, across the now-unused train tracks, and into a realm that hid its secrets behind barred windows and half-broken neon lights. They left the crowds behind when they entered this part of the City, as the loneliness of the unfulfilled now haunted their every step. The secrets of sensation beckoned them forward and they walked in silence, beyond the pale and into the grime-slicked abyss. Whores, pimps, junkies, and bouncers inhaled together as if from one half-burned cigarette. Exhaling, their smoke rose and clouded the glow of a streetlamp The Man and his Friend shared a joint together, stiffening their courage and loosening their inhibitions. For tonight’s journey, though they frequently discussed such a venture, was now a reality.

Loud music, the raised voices of drunken men, and the sound of breaking glass greeted them as they turned around the first corner. Here stood a bar with no name; a half-hidden place for those still hedging their bets and for others intent only in the disillusion of the moment. A gigantic electric sign, that had once proclaimed the glories of the industrial age, stood atop a squared-off six story building in which the bar was situated. This mighty sign which once could have been seen for miles, is now as dark as the heart’s of those who walked on the sidewalks below - a monster who in death had sworn revenge on the humanity that had both given it birth and condemned it to death. It was not a sad creature but a malevolent one.

Indeed the whole neighborhood seemed malevolent – not merely the half-human souls who had found refuge here but the buildings themselves, structures which one could hardly imagine ever saw a pleasant morning or a summer afternoon’s shower. It was as though the architects of these buildings, sober men working in brightly lit offices, with warm cheerful homes to retreat into at the evening, had deliberately set about to create nightmarish, fun house reflections of the hopeful world in which they lived. But the Man thought, “No, the architects could not do this deliberately. They have simply impressed their emptiness upon blueprint paper and this forest of shadows is what emerged.”

It seemed as though the cigarette smoke that perpetually hung in the air had gradually grown denser; a fog, or something like a fog, emanating from the street lamps themselves. Perhaps it was just the eerie yellowish color of the sodium vapor bulbs, a lack of contrast, a trick of the light. Or, perhaps it really was that phantoms rose from the sewer gratings, seeped around the edges of the manhole covers, and thus, though it was bright, it was almost impossible to see clearly. Perhaps the fog had drawn together and was now wedging itself between the Man and his Friend and the doorway of the bar that yawned in front of them. Or, had it opened, not because it was sleepy but because it was hungry? In either case, the closer they came to the door the more difficult it was for them to walk. Phantoms foul or phantoms fair, mercy and mystery, the repentant souls of thieves, murderers, and worse. An ancient neon sign, half of which had long ago burned out, caught the Friend’s attention. What remained of the sign glowed red, two horizontal parenthesis, that had once proudly highlighted the name of a beer not brewed in thirty years. Oddly enough, it now resembled a pair of female lips, blowing them a kiss through the grimy window; or a sideways vulva, inviting them to a cheap screw in an even cheaper hotel. It was easy to become confused in a place like this, to take blood for shadows and longing for love. Solid objects grew liquid under the influence of the confounding fog, shifting shape at will. A man might pass through a wall in such a fog, a woman might ooze under a door like a puddle of spilled paint. The closer one looked the quicker the texture of reality became blank, an imprint being lifted off before their hazy mind could comprehend what it really was. Here there were no illusions. In the world from which the two men came illusion persisted through the collective denial of those who beheld it. But denial was futile here. “What omen brought me here?” thought the Man, a moment before he penetrated the invisible surface of the looking glass that masqueraded as a door. The Friend, one step behind, felt something brush his face – a cobweb, or the wash of the mirror’s surface momentarily snapping back before it yielded again to him. They could almost hear the crystalline gate shut behind them.

Daughters of Time - excerpt

"Autumn Riders" copyright 2004 by  Emily Balivet

This novel, based loosely upon three of my ancestors, is available on Kindle for $4.95.

 I've included an early chapter - hope you enjoy!


Happy New Year - may it be rich with the blessings of the Earth.

Chapter Three

Spain 1268

The thin gold torc around her neck caught the morning light as she adjusted the heavy cloak about her shoulders. Despite the sun’s warmth, the mountain air was cold and reminded Sanza that the seasons were changing and winter would soon be on the mountaintop. The climate of Navarra was not intense and Sanza easily welcomed the coldness of winter. This winter in particular, the coldness of the world outside would echo the coldness that lived in her heart. Even now, having achieved this much, she felt no lightening from within. Perhaps that would come later. Perhaps now it was just too soon and her expectations too grand. She wanted to be here on the mountain top—alone for the ceremony. And really, what choice did she have? If her father knew what she had done she would be cast from his home forever. She found herself caught once again in the middle of the struggles that had ripped her family apart. She loved and honored her father and she wished with all her heart she could be the good daughter he expected her to be; but greater than that love and honor was the darkly deep bond that held her to her mother—even now, even in death.

“Maman!” So soon the great longing for her mother had begun and she did not yet understand how the longing would stay with her and that it would grow and shape her life for eternity. Today she climbed the mountain in order to release her mother’s spirit and return her to the elements from which she was born. Her hand grasped the small silver box that lay nestled in the pocket of her cloak. She knew what must be done but she held back for another moment, keeping the contact that had guided her through all of her sixteen years. And her mother’s voice came to her over the wind reminding her that what she was about to do was the way of their path and the way of their ancestors.

“Keep to the true ways, daughter, though your path be walked in darkness. Keep to yourself and to the silence and honor that which I have taught you, and teach your daughter so she may teach her daughter. In this, Sanza, lies our greatest strength for I have seen such horror and death ahead in the time that is soon coming. The old ways must be kept alive though the world seeks to destroy us all…”

Her mother, Acibella, drew Sanza close when she spoke these words and the great terror that she had envisioned moved from the mother to the daughter until Sanza dropped to her knees and covered her face with the soft blue silk of her mother’s gown. And she understood that the secrecy and the lies that Acibella uneasily embraced so that they could live their truth in the outside world would become her shield of armor in the years ahead.

Acibella Salazar

Honored wife

of Arnaldo Paunfiloun

May Her Soul Rest With God

Roncesvalles, Navarra, 1268

Was it only last night at twilight she met with her mother’s two trusted friends in the mausoleum at the Chapel of the Holy Spirit in Roncesvalles? Yes, and together they had removed her mother’s shrouded body from her tomb and carried her to the mountaintop. This had been Sanza’s promise to her mother as she lay dying in her small home in the forest. She would go along with her father’s wishes and her mother would receive the Christian burial expected by the family and the people of Pamplona where her father’s house marked him as a respected member of that community. Yes, but then later, later in the darkness of night she would free her mother and return her to her true home in the mountains. And now there was nothing left but the ashes and the wind and the release of Acibella’s spirit so it might journey through the night and find again a home.

In a circle of rosemary branches Sanza stood with the silver box held up toward the evening sky. A fire of oak branches and dried herbs sent sweet-smelling smoke down into the valley. Now was the time—the twilight time when the two worlds came together for a brief moment and the powers of the elements hovered nearby waiting for her to call them into her circle. She stood facing the west where the sky was still tinged with the rose of the setting sun and in the secret language of the old ways— as taught to her by her mother who was taught by her mother and so on and so on —Sanza called out to the elementals and showed them her love and her honor. And in the old words and by their old names she bid them to attend her in the circle. In a sudden gust of the wind—in the quickening of the flames—in the trembling of the earth beneath her feet—in the pale mist that shrouded the circle the elementals made known their presence. Sanza held up the silver box and slowly opened the lid. The wind on the mountain top quieted for a brief moment and in that moment the ash lifted from the box and danced as a spiral in front of Sanza.

“I return to the river and the river returns me to the sea—mother of All! The endless beginning and eternal end. I am home.”

She felt more than heard her mother’s voice circling the mountain top. From a silk pouch tied to her belt Sanza withdrew a handful of shimmering powder and a clear smooth crystal. She circled the fire singing softly an ancient chant her mother had taught her many years ago. The words mingled together—some in her native Basque and others in the tongue of the people who had left the land so long ago. It was the language the trees spoke and the language of the earth caves. When her song was done Sanza knelt by the fire and dropped the powder and the crystal onto the burning oak wood. Violet blue flames shot up toward the darkening sky and the wind rushed down across the valley and called out to the river whose waters surged and washed over its banks. Sanza knelt before the fire, her cloak spread around her and her dark hair loose about her shoulders. And in the crystal Sanza envisioned all that was her mother’s spirit and the beauty and the wisdom of that spirit reached deeply into her heart and touched the sadness of her great mourning .

Later, wrapped in her cloak, Sanza slept in the circle by the still burning fire. And despite the mountain’s winter chill she felt the warmth that was her mother’s presence and with this warmth she felt the strength and wonder that she knew was the presence of her Lady—Dona—Donia—the pure essence of all that was and would ever be. And in her dreaming She came to Sanza and bid her no more to mourn for her mother but to change the mourning into something alive and powerful—something by which Sanza could honor her Lady and in this she would honor all life. Through the dreaming She spoke to Sanza her words—the words of the deep caves and the running rivers.

“Be here with me now, child—for I will be with you as I have with your mother through all the steps that will be your life. From the waters of the Great Mother you were born and it was I that brought you forth—it was I who was midwife to your mother and to her mother and to her mother…as I will be to your daughter and all of her daughters. In this we are one and we serve each other. Stay true only to this and I will stay true to you.”

And the breeze stirred Sanza’s dark hair where she lay on her cloak by the fire and her breathing quickened as she dreamed the words of her Lady in the night.

“My ways are not the easy ways of this world, daughter, and of this you have much to learn. We choose each other and in the choosing is the contract that will not be broken. No marriage here on earth can be so binding for I bind you, daughter of the earth, to my world — a world that is all above you and all below you. With me you have no boundaries—no weights to hobble your feet to the earth. You will see. You will grow, you will learn and you will seek with me by your side. Always and in All Ways.”

And like a lover’s kiss at dawn Sanza drew in the touch and scent and feel of her Lady and rose up from her dreaming refreshed and renewed. The day, like a wondrous journey, lay before her and though she knew not what waited on the road ahead she was strangely and eagerly excited.

A Pool of Quiet Water

Photograph © Denise Sallee 2013

Make for myself a pool of quiet water,

Wombed in by rocks whose granite strength

Holds back the turbulence of the tides.

Quiet waters of seclusion,

Not of isolation that lacks

The interplay of the small pool with the vast ocean,

But of separation and reunion.

In such quiet waters of seclusion,

Shelter me for a time

From the turbulence of my own tides.

Immersed, I know it is my own breath,

The rhythm of my life,

That allows me to float freely on the surface.

Quiet waters of seclusion,

Where in safety and trust

Of my own being,

I swim in stillness.

Make for myself a pool of quiet water

In which I descend for sanctity

And release the past and yield to the future.

In silence shall I slip naked

Into the clear, the renewing,

Waters of my own afterbirth.

Dark and mute is my pool,

She invites me inside,

She seduces me to her depths

Where reality is the truth

That my heart remains beating,

My heart remains strong.

And I glide all fin-like

Through the shadows,

The rocks my castle walls – 

Impenetrable.

I have made for myself a pool of quiet water.

My soul is secure.

Denise  Sallee – All Rights Reserved 1995