Sad, Sad Days

Karen Winrich Obituary

I received some unexpected bad news this week...my sister-in-law, Karen, died rather suddenly on Wed. Morning.  She was 44.

I see my brother, now transformed into a single parent of 5 beautiful children.

I see Mitchel, too young at 3 to fully understand that Mommy is not just sleeping, that she is being taken away from him, to become a spiritual presence only, and not a physical one.

I see Caroline, who did not want to attend the funeral, because she didn't want to go through with it.

I see Katie, the oldest girl, standing next to her father at the receiving line, standing there in shoes too big for her feet.  I find this very ironic... it almost seems as if she's physically trying to fill her mother's shoes by wearing a pair that are too big for her.  She is strong, our Katie, refusing to break down in the light of this tragedy.

I see Matt, the oldest boy, watching over his younger siblings.

And finally, I see Lauren...the middle daughter.  My impressions of Lauren are the strongest.  I see her at the visitation on Friday night, kneeling by the coffin, standing attendance on her mother's lifeless body.  Never straying far from it.  I see her arrange her mothers hands, to hold a flower specially picked by her small hands.  I see the grief, and feel it radiate off her in waves, yet there is a small, sad smile on her face as she acts the valiant little hostess.

At the funeral, I see Lauren again, delicate, the same bittersweet smile on her face as she sits again near the head of the coffin and greets each mourner as they pass by to offer final respects to Kari.

This family has just had its foundation ripped out from under it....but I feel they will be OK.  With a mother like Karen, they are off to a good start, even without her physical presence.

The photography continues.

Been very busy with life lately...but have managed to spend some time behind a camera.  My favorite new subjects?  The band, of course.  They've a few new weblinks for all of us:

Statobahn on ReverbNation

and

Statobahn.com

The boys have been busy, busy, busy...and once they shoved a camera in my hands, they've kept me busy, busy, busy too, with the photography of their creative efforts.  The real work for me is after the photo shoot is over...well, OK, it's more fun than work, because I get to take all these wonderful images and play with them.

Here are some of my favorites:

Well, OK, this one isn't of the band, it's the latest in the series of illustrations based on lyrics from Statobahn.  This one is for "Beautiful Ruin."  I've been after a good moon shot for a long time, and, while this one isn't perfect, it is acceptable enough, given the foreground of empty branches.  My poor little camera just can't get enough detail on the moon itself to make a truly noteworthy moon shot.  More later, once I can invest in good digital gear and PhotoShop.

Now for some band pics:

Of all the shots I've taken, this one is my favorite - and I'm not sure why.  There's the reflection in the drum kit, the framing of the piece, the simplicity.  Once I converted this one to a B&W shot, it amped up the punch significantly.

Just look at the movement on this one - the fingers are translucent, as I shot them while Randy was playing his bass.  The string is also captured in mid-vibration.

And here are the boys - from top left:  Pete Torres, Randy Rock, Tony Dietzler, and Dave Hucke.  This is one of several covers I've put together for them to promote their new single.  This one is my favorite, but probably won't be the one chosen, as the boys have the final say (it is THEIR band, after all, I just like to take pictures of 'em).

That's enough for now, I think....

Exploring the World through Photos again

While these photos don't have song lyrics attached to them, I think this batch is profound enough to share with you.

This first one is yet another night shot of the river walkway.  This is the other side of the walkway...not my usual haunt which is down by the fountain and the falls, but it's a beautiful shot.  I love my river walkway...at night, during the day, in rain, snow, and full flood.

And now we go back to my favorite side of the walkway - the falls.  This trio of fountains is IN the river, above the falls, and they light them up at night (obviously).  It's one of the views I have from my apartment windows, although this shot was taken right on site.

This shot was taken last year (that being 2009) at the House on the Rock.  They've got a lot of these huge urns scattered all about the property.  This one was taken from the parking lot.  I love the Eastern feel to the piece, the little dragon clinging to the side.  The oriental influences in the entire place are amazing.  If you've never been to House on the Rock, I highly suggest it - and also suggest a good pair of walking shoes, as the compound takes several hours to walk through.

Exploring: Music and Photography II

Alright - I've completed one more for you...the song from this one is called 'The Bounce,' which can be heard on Statobahn's page.

Although the rendering on the myspace page is EXTREMELY rough (they've since replaced this singer) the song, itself, the lyric and the general composition, is good. (I get to cheat...I've got a different version that I get to listen to, that is much more palatable than the myspace page one :D)  The lyric speaks of how we, as humans, are destroying our environment at a phenomenal pace.

Once again - here's the full-size version:  The Bounce

And here's the picture...

Exploring: Music and Photography

For the last couple of months, I've discovered a new hobby - photography.  Found that I've got a modicum of an eye for it.  Now, paired with inspiration from my boyfriend's music, I find myself going after shots I can envision from the lyrics of his songs.

Always giving credit and links where credit is due and links are available - the band is Statobahn, and here's a link to their myspace page, where you can hear Elegy, but not the other 2 songs.  For that - I'll need to get permission from Dave to add the music here....and I gotta figure out HOW to put the music here, too :(

Statobahn

Inspiration is wonderful - especially when it's springing from such a lovely association.

You can view a full-sized picture of this one here: Dawn Photo

This was the first - the song that inspired this photo is called "Dawn."  It's a beautiful piece, full of feeling and multi-layered in it's complexity.  The inspiration for this one struck particularly hard, and forced me to be up BEFORE sunrise so I could get down to the river walkway and capture the shot.  I took many pics that morning, but this is the only one that amounted to anything.

Now, the next one is a bit darker - but the song that inspired it IS a dark one, too - the title of this song is called "Elegy," and of the three pieces of music I'm quoting here, the only one you can listen to on Statobahn's page.

You can view the full-sized version here:  Elegy Photo

I'm not sure if I'm too happy with this one yet - I'm using a photo editor that I found online, and it's a bit limited in what it can do.  I'm convinced there IS a PhotoShop purchase in the works, as I find I'm very stimulated with adjusting my photos and adding things to them, but lack the editing tools of 'Shop to really let myself 'go.'  So - if this one gets re-done in the future, I'll certainly post it out.

For the last one (for now :D) I had a lot of fun with this pic.  It was, again, taken at night on the river walkway (hey, it's right outside my doorstep, so it's convenient, and there's a ton of interesting architectural details to use).  The song from this one is a piece called "What's my Name?"  This piece of music is simply stunning - there is almost a tribal feel to the music, the lyrics are powerful.  The first time I listened to this song, I couldn't believe it - in my journal, I wrote "It's potent - it's powerful - it's a spirit-quest distilled into song."

Anyway - once again, the full-sized version is here:  What's My Name?

When I went into the editor, I blurred the edges of the piece first - that lent a certain amount of surrealism to the picture - then I 'twirled' the lamp-post - it looks like a stylized question-mark now - which is PERFECT for the song lyric, and the song in general, because the entire piece is composed almost entirely of questions.

Enjoy my photographic endeavor. 

Ugliness

This won't be a pretty post.  Nothing fun, or fine, or perky or happy.  I'm riding a strange and melancholy low today.

Part of it is my fountain.  The Fox River is in flood stage, and they've shut off the fountain.  The water left in the pool is stagnant.  There is no joy to the fountain right now, the plaza is in pain, and the river is raging, angry, with tidepools and heavy, swirling waters below the dam head.  Sure, the spectacle of the river in flood mode is incredible, but I'm looking at it with different eyes, different senses, and all I can feel is the pain of the plaza and the rage of the river.  It's put me distinctly off-balance.

As I'm tied deeply to water, the temporary loss of my nexus point is felt keenly, sharply, like a knife in my stomach.  There are alternate points, but nothing is as strong or so potently focused in all 4 key elements as my fountain.

My alternates do include a secondary fountain on a different part of the river walkway, but it's not as strong, not as potent.  Its not circular, for starters, but a curved rectangular shape.  The energy in that fountain can, and does, bleed away at the straight edges.  I can't hear the running water of the falls, for a second point, which is a potent blending of water and air.  I can't feel the occasional spray as the wind picks up water droplets and flings them at me.

I have managed to restore a modicum of balance today - swimming at the pool and then connecting with simple humanity helped...but I still feel the loss of my nexus.

Empathy

Now this is a tender subject.  Empathy.  Before you start dredging up images of Diana Troi on ST:TNG (oops, my geek roots are showing again...), this is not a piece on the Hollywood or Fiction special-effects and bad acting on the subject of Empathy... this is, at least in my mind....real.

Is empathy, the ability of a person to feel the emotional state of another, real?  I believe it is.  I think we all have this ability to greater or lesser degrees.  I can't think of one single person who doesn't feel their heart twist at a sappy love story or a piece of beautifully written and performed music.  These things are, to a lesser degree, touches of empathy.  They are feeling what the performer is putting into the piece, what the writer tried to invoke when crafting the piece.  It's an appreciation of creativity.. and very much a touch of empathy - to have a feeling invoked in you by another... it's hardwired into our brain circuitry.

So everyone, to this slight degree, has empathy.  Not quite so scary when you put it in commonly used applications and everyday settings, is it?

Now, I'm going to explore a bit further, move into the stronger empathic gifts.  Just as some people are gifted with strength, with charisma, with creativity, there are people among us who have this special sense of empathy in adverse proportion to the strength found within the general population.  Now, whether they've worked to develop it, or its a natural gift is up for debate and speculation, but these people DO exist.  Most simply don't announce it, as, well, let's face it, there's ridicule and the racial memory of which hunts to keep such blatant announcements in check.

Nobody wants to be thought of as unnatural or different - that's another thing that's hardwired into the human brain.

My personal gift (or curse, as I've called it both) of empathy is stronger than most.  (Did ya hear that...I'm coming out of the empathic closet)  It's primarily tied into my writing..and is mainly projective in nature, but does go into receptive as well.... I'll explain.

Part of the reason I write (aside from the obvious one...that I like it) has always been a way to clean the cluttered pathways of my mind.  As I'm cleaning, I'm also imprinting my emotional state into the work... projecting it through the written word.  Some of my best pieces were created when I was in a state of turbulent emotional upheaval.

Because I'm so in tune with the written word, I can, and do, actively read others in what they've written, as well...reading below the 'surface' of the words, so to speak, even when the person doing the writing isn't (or can't) actively project themselves into the work.  There's a texture and an underlayment to all words that I can always pick up on.  The written word speaks very powerfully both through me and to me - yet another reason why I'm a hobby writer, and why I'm so very comfortable with online communications, as well.

Other forms of communication - spoken, sung, artistically created sculptures or paintings or drawings...those I'm not so good at, although I do have crystalline moments of clarity when the originator is actively projecting themselves onto the work.

It is difficult to hit the 'post' button at this point - the bare words simply don't have the punch, the fire, the fervor I'm used to seeing in my written works, proof positive of my hesitation to well and truly come 'out.'  That hesitation, I'm sure, will be felt in the words I'm writing here.

Aaaaaaand........*gritting teeth*  post.

Dreams and Magic

The night was hot, the air thick, still, and muggy with moisture, the kind of night most people close up their houses against the thick air, and hide in a bubble of air conditioned comfort.  The room, unfortunately, was not lucky enough to have that luxury.  The ancient, decrepit curtains hung limp and still in the window frames, daring the non-existent breeze to finish their transference from cloth to dust.  The breeze did not appear inclined to acquiesce.

Age and neglect had its claws deep in the room, almost daring the normal world to condemn it.   The ancient carpet bore witness to parties long past, flaunting countless patches of crusty, unidentifiable, blue-black, once-upon-a-time food stains.  Sprinkled liberally amongst the stains were unmistakable circular black burns, testament that those parties of long ago didn’t have enough ashtrays to go around, and that the participants of those parties didn’t have a care in the world about getting their cleaning deposit back.  Equally prevalent were bare patches where multitudes of feet had eroded the carpeting to the floorboards underneath.  The original color of this sad, time-tortured textile had been winnowed away by dirt and feet to the color of ashes.

            The walls actively rebelled against the pitted, stained, and faded wallpaper by shedding it as a snake discards a too small skin.  Whole sheets had fallen away to crouch on the carpeting, leaving gaping holes of age-yellowed wallboard interspersed with lines of wallpaper paste.

            A tiny table in the corner leaned drunkenly against the wall, threatening complete collapse if forced to hold anything on its chipped surface.  A single, sun-faded green-plastic lawn chair cowered next to the table, trying to appear valiant despite missing half its back.  A ramshackle dresser cowered on the opposite wall of the table, missing its drawers and leaning alarmingly on the three legs it had left.  A moth-eaten, faded blue and green striped mattress lay, corpse-like, in the center of the floor.       

            A single, empty, light socket swung from the ceiling on a frayed cord.  Dimples and water-stains in the surface of the ceiling bore witness to several leaks in the roof.

Kitchen?  Bathroom?  Even the most rudimentary of indoor plumbing?   Not a chance.

            The little one room cabin had been deserted for years, forgotten by its owners, and ignored by its distant neighbors. 

For the sole occupant, it was perfect.

            She lay on the mattress, shivering uncontrollably despite the heat in the room.  Neither awake nor truly asleep, her eyes were rolled back into her head so far only the whites showed.  She thrashed violently on the bare mattress, moaning and muttering in some strange language.  Now and then her arms stretched out, hands grasping some invisible object in front of her or drawing weird patterns in the air.  Her naked, uncovered body was skeletal, ribs and hips protruding from the sunken flesh.  Her skin was linen-white, the blue of her veins clear beneath the surface, her hair the pristine white of new-fallen snow.  A few drops of blood glistened, the shock red sharp against the washed-out pink of her lip.  She had bitten herself in her gyrations. 

            She thrashed, she snarled, she moaned.  She pawed the air relentlessly, and with a final, primal scream, she propelled herself from the mattress on the floor.

            Breathing heavily, she ran her hands through the white mane of her hair, blinking brilliant blue eyes furiously and shaking her head as she paced around the room.  She wiped the blood off her lips, and sighed deeply. 

It was the same dream.  It was always the same dream.

She shook her head again, wrapped her arms around her thin shoulders.  “It’s not enough,” she said in a soft, musical voice, to the disheveled room. “Where are you?  I know what you’ll do, but I can’t find you!” 

She framed something in her hands.  “Tease me all you will, damn you,” she snarled at the invisible object of her ire, “But I will find you!” 

She paced a few moments more, muttering in a strange, foreign tongue, continuing to shake and clutch at her head.  She railed at the water-stained ceiling, at the pitiful remains of furniture, at the sadly abused carpeting, cursing invisible objects for a few moments more, finally coming to a decision.  With a curt nod of her head, she didn’t walk so much as flowed across the floor, and stepped out into the hot, muggy night.

            As difficult as it is to believe, the exterior of the cabin was in worse shape then the sadly-abused interior.  Moonlight, being this magical substance that makes things seem more lovely, didn’t have a chance... the little cabin looked more decrepit in the nighttime then it did during the day.  A thick layer of dust, cobwebs and bug-corpses had replaced the glass in the windows, the roof sagged under the weight of several small trees growing on its surface, and the gutters had long ago leapt from the roof to lay in the waist-high grass, rusting in pieces.  Thick vines had long since declared the time-worn siding optimum trellis material, and in the ensuing years had completely engulfed the tiny structure in leaf, vine, and berry.  

She forced her way through the high grass, her destination a small stream at the extreme rear of the property.  Effortless, she transitioned between mauling the grasses to gliding soundlessly into the clear water.  She scooped handfuls of sand, rubbing them into her hair and her skin, scraping away the dirt and sweat of the night terrors which visited her, rinsing them away as she washed the sand from her porcelain skin. 

But that skin was not flawless.  Five marks marred the pure pearl perfection, strange whorls of patterned scar tissue at breastbone, right and left wrist, base of the throat, and the outside of the left ankle.  The shadows they threw writhed out of time with her breathing and her ministrations.  Satisfyingly clean again, she sat on the soft sand of the streambed, cross-legged right over left, and assumed a traditional meditation pose. 

The moon shoved aside a passing cloud, and kissed her white skin with its radiance.  Unlike its dismal performance with the cabin, the moonlight made her seem to glow, a naked figure carved of pure pearl, there in the crystalline stream on a hot and muggy night.  The wind decided to make an appearance and play with her long hair, and she sat, shining in the stream, a white statue, until the moon tired of the game and passed the baton of time to its partner, the sun.

            She allowed a small smile to lift the corners of her mouth as the dawn’s early light broke in the east, nodded her head, and struggled through the weeds to her little tumbledown hiding place.  She seemed drained, her head lolling to one side, her arms flopping uselessly, but the expression on her face was triumphant.  “Southwest,” she muttered to the weeds, “I have a direction.”

            The following night the cabin slept alone, abandoned once more.

A Meditation

Tonight I spent some more time down on my fountain, feeling the sun on my face, the spray from the fountain and waterfalls kissing my skin, the wind stroking my hair with sure fingers.  It's become one of my favorite places in this city - the perfect blend of all 4 elements and, I am beginning to believe, a node.

For the first time in a long time, I ran a dialog for meditation in my head.  Normally, I don't need an ongoing stream of instruction running through my head, it's a distraction.  But, tonight, I contemplated bringing someone else along for an opening introduction to how I meditate - something I've done before with varying degrees of success - and, as such, needed to craft a walkthrough.

I was impressed - running this dialog through my mind while I followed my own internal instructions, was very relaxing.  I didn't get the introspection I usually get on my normal meditation, but this touched me in another way.

I'll share:

Sit, relaxed, in a quiet place.  Compose your body in a comfortable position, either sitting with legs crossed or leaning against a comfortable piece of furniture.  If you feel undue pressure anywhere, adjust until you are certain you can maintain this position for 10ish minutes.  

Close your eyes to shut out distractions of objects in your place.

(at this point, the presenter of this meditation, who is speaking the words aloud, would put fingers to temples, and rub in a light, circular motion)

Feel my fingers on your temples.  Feel the muscles in your temples start to relax under this gentle pressure.  Imagine this pressure spreading out from your temples, a wave of relaxation spreading from this nexus point throughout your being.  

Feel the wave of relaxation reaching out, spreading along your scalp and face.  Feel the muscles loosen in your face.  Let your eyes roll backwards as the skin and muscles in your face relax completely.  Let the muscles in your face soften in response to the wave of relaxation spreading from my fingertips.

Let the wave continue down, washing against your neck.  Let the tension drift away in the wake of the wave.

It continues - spreading over your shoulders.  Relaxation washes through your shoulders as the wave continues to spread its healing throughout you.

Down further, flowing down arms, hands, fingers.  Everything relaxed, everything calm, everything peaceful. 

Spreading now, into your upper back and chest.  Feel the wave relaxing shoulder blades, feel the steady beat of your heart in your chest.  Slow, steady, pumping the blood through your body, washing it in calm and peace.

Lower now, the wave touches, relaxes abdomen and lower back....feel those muscles join the others in quiet, peace, bliss.

Legs, thighs.  Everything relaxing, quiet, content.

Lower, the wave reaches, touching shins, heels, feet, toes.  Everything deeply relaxed now, your body is completely engulfed by the wave of quiet content.

Feel the oxygen flowing into your lungs.  Feel the clean air, pure and sweet, washing through your blood.  On the exhale, feel all the stress and tension flow out of your body.  

In, cleansing air filling, purifying.

Out, tension, stress, tension leaving. 

Imagine stepping out of this body now, to look down on yourself from above, your peaceful and relaxed self, so quiet, so calm, so in tune with yourself.  You can see, from your vantage point, the exhalations of stress and tension continue to flow out of you with each breath.  You can see, from your vantage, each inhalation of pure sweet air entering your body, to energize, cleanse, and strengthen.

See, as well, how the balance is maintained in your body.  Air in through the lungs.  The fire of intellect and creativity in your mind burning brightly through the skin of your face and your closed, relaxed eyes.  Water is your blood, streaming, touching, bringing life to every cell in your body.  And Earth, represented by the strong bones which are the bedrock, the strength, the very framework of your body.  Each element acting in concert with its fellows to craft the unique individual that is you.

Breathe in, cleansing air.

Breathe out, stress and tension flow from you.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

I'm going to bring you back to awareness now....slowly, gently you fit yourself back in your body - easing gently back into yourself...fitting your consciousness back into your cleansed, stress-free self.

You can feel your toes..warm, comfortable, completely relaxed. 

The awareness spreads upwards, touching heels, calves, knees. Everything still clean and relaxed.

Upwards, you can feel your thighs.

Curving around the bend now, your awareness takes in your abdomen and lower back....everything still calm, centered, balanced within you.....relaxed, yet aware, awake.

Higher still, feeling your heart beating in your chest, your lungs drawing in the clean air, and exhaling the tension.  Exhaling the stress.  Letting it all out with each exhalation.

You can feel your shoulders.  Awareness flares down your arms, into your fingers.  You flex your fingers as they awaken.

Higher still, sprading awareness up your neck, into your face.  You can feel my fingers once again stroking your temples with gentle, sure strokes as your awareness and the fire of awakening complete themselves.

Open your eyes....good morning.  

And that is how one starts meditation.  Try it sometime with a friend.

Crash and Boom

It was a dark and stormy night......


Well, it was!  Last night, I had a thunderstorm roll through JUST as I was lying down for sleep....and it was a spectacular show!

What is it about a lightning storm late at night?  Once you've turned out the lights, and left the blinds and windows open?   Seeing the flash, the spectacular shapes the lightning can twist into as it makes its way to the ground.  It's static.  It's a slice of time, distilled.  And following the light show is a sonic boom of epic proportions.  Add in the staccato of the rain pounding on the windows, buildings, ground...... it's nature's hard rock show.

It's the only time that I can think of where nature makes absolutely straight lines and sharp corners.  Any other time, such precision and fussiness is the purvey of man, as nature likes things more rounded and graceful.

I love thunderstorms. The light show, the thunder, the water elements playing heavily with the world.... they all speak to me on a deep, unconscious level.  I'm drawn in...I can feel it.

Perhaps, someday, I'll complete the communion and dance in the storm, speak back to it with body movement and sinuous grace...and I might learn something new for the experience by bringing the unconscious message forward into awareness.

ME – 101 – In Person Conversations

Ooooooo - Shame on me....I went back and looked - this series needs this final piece.  Soooooo..... without further ado, Me, Live, and In Person. ***imaginary fanfare***



Gee...how do I describe myself in person via the written word, without coming off sounding like a pompous ass?  Guess you'll just have to meet me to see, eh?

I tell people (and have them confirm) that it's my personality that comes through in an in-person meeting, which is what I've said before.  I have a mixture of dry, sarcastic wit, a fine-tuned sense of humor, and a hearty intellect that make me very flexible in person.  Whether the conversation goes to humor, seriousness, speculation, the ethereal - I'm there, confident and secure in holding down my end.

For anything else....ya just gots to meet me :D

Spirituality

I'm a very spiritual person.  Not to be confused with a Religious one, however.  The differences between the two are a vast chasm that many cannot see.  Now, occasionally, you will find one who is BOTH spiritual and religious, but the combination is rare.


The differences are crystal clear to my mind's eye.  Spirituality can be discussed amongst differing schools of thought without hostility or anger.  Religion almost NEVER can be.


One of the last conversations with my ex engendered the question from him:  "What exactly do you believe?"  It was a question that, if asked a decade prior to this, might have saved our marriage, but, true to our form back then, we simply didn't bring up stuff that would cause fissions through our relationship.  Maintaining the status quo was far more important than being honest with each other.


Wow.  That was harsh.  But accurate.  Yet another lesson learned in the process of journaling....and a mistake I won't make in future associations.  


Soooo - the question....what exactly DO I believe?  I couldn't tell him then, and I'm having a hard time putting it into words even now, with an additional 9 months of review behind me and that particular question.  It's complex.  Spirituality should be complex, though.  A person's faith should be a conglomeration of the sum of their life's experiences - because that which we call Divine touches each individual in unique ways.  


I'd have an easier time writing my memoirs than to try to 'list out' my personal belief systems...


But, for the highlights, I'll try.  I do have to say, though, that I'm not a 'list' person for matters of faith and spirituality.  It's really the only time that words fail me - there aren't words for the bulk of this...only concepts and feelings.


I believe in the ideal of recycling.  That a soul/spirit/essence of a person must go through multiple lives to attain true awakening.


I believe that the mistakes of our past lives are manifest as learning-lessons in the present.


I believe that we are given far more clues to the nature of the universe than we are aware of.


I believe that there are people out there who are gifted with paranormal abilities, in ranging strengths...and the strength of that gift grows with the age of the essence.


I believe that everything happens for a reason.


I believe that the Fates are active, and many ignore them - which is a REALLY bad idea.


I believe in the touch of the muse, and that she will touch you when you have reached the right point to accept her gift.


I believe in BALANCE in all things.


I believe that the elements are key to that balance, that fire, water, earth, and air exist in all of us, and balancing that will result in satori.


I believe that each element manifests itself in varying degrees in an individual.


I believe that learning to quiet your mind to listen - REALLY LISTEN - to nature is far more important that learning rote prayers or rituals.


I believe I'll have a drink (just checking to see if you're listening :D)


I believe that the rote religions, however, do have their place in this world for those who are not as far along in their spiritual development....but the role of the church has been skewed by the human need to control and dominate their fellow man.


__________________________________________________
You will note, that not anywhere in my beliefs is there a sense or a description of beginning.  This is where Religion and Spirituality differ the most.  Religion is concerned with creation, an origin story, an answer to the eternal question of: "why are we here?"


Truth be told, it doesn't matter.  We are.  Right here, and right now.  We are.  We exist. We live, we breathe, we make waves through the ether.  It's the journey we're on that's important, NOT the road already traveled, not the destination.  It's the journey that's fundamental.

Reminiscences

A long time ago...in a galaxy far, far away - no, that isn't right....

As far back as the early 80's, I considered myself a writer...now, those first, opening offerings I liken to an infant taking their first steps...wobbly, unsure, stumbling and occasionally falling flat on backsides....and nothing I have access to currently (so even if I was so inclined to share, I just can't...you understand :D).

In the mid-to-late 80's, I was an adult.....legally and technically, but still had a lot of growing to do.  I was alone in every sense of the word.  I had just moved out of the house and into a Government program called Job Corps... different city, different state, and all by myself, thrown into a program geared for inner-city youth with little to no opportunities for growth or advancement.  I was 18, had come from a smallish town with a bare handful of minorities, and full of piss-n-vinegar, sure of myself and not needing anyone but myself (you remember how you were at 18?).

It was an awakening on a titanic scale, to be sure....to be tossed into this population of underprivileged not-quite-adult and not-children-anymore kids.  I found myself a minority.  I consider this to be my first awakening to the larger world around me.

But even back then, writing was my special way to deal with the thoughts and emotions of the day.  Back then, my creativity manifested itself primarily as poetry....it took a musical twist simply as a lark.

I did write two songs for/within Job Corps....as well as various poetry.  Here's some of what I do remember:
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Suicide

Late last night
I sat and cried
I wish I could have died
There's no more hope
for me its the rope
tonight I'm trying suicide.

(missing material - there were an additional 2 stanzas in the middle that I can't dredge up at this time)

The chair's legs slip
from under me
now is all tranquility
a hoarse scream rips
from my bloated lips
now, at long last, I am free.
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Without You
This is one of the 2 songs written, what you have here is only the chorus line, which repeated throughout the song.  There is a LOT of missing material in this one...hopefully in the weeks to come, as I continue to work on balancing the older, more mature me, I can safely revisit the angst-ridden teen I was and pull more of the words to this one. I would really like to recreate this song in its entirety....wish me luck.

Without you
The sun no longer shines on me
Without you
I cry in my pillow, and all the tears
remind....... me of you

I thought our love was meant to be
Oh why was I too blind to see
Life...............Without you.

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Friendship

This one is complete.

Friendship starts

in loving hearts

sometimes it falls 

breaks into parts

A true friend will be there

to pick up the pieces

they'll be there

whenever you need them

For true friendship 

doesn't need a cause

Because

there are no laws

to true friendship.

Resilience - A Better Day by Statobahn

Links are now up....listen here to A Better Day.

I received a wonderful gift this weekend....the gift of music.  Someone introduced me to a local Milwaukee band, and it was a pleasure to listen to a few of their songs.   One song in particular, touched me deeply.

The title of the song is called A Better Day.  Now, why does this piece strike such a mellow chord within me?

Part of it is the music, of course.  There are elements of new age, elements of hard 80's rock, and a hints of eastern flavor to the instrumental workings.

Part of it is the lead singer.  He's got a good voice....this is written within his range, and he sings this piece with feeling.  It's not easy to translate feelings through another media (I should know...I've pieces that move people to tears, and others that simply move them to boredom), but in this song, he did it.

The largest part of my attraction to this particular song is the story it tells.  It's poignant.  It speaks of loss, of change, of how painful the living process can be.  But it also speaks of resilience in the face of that change, of the refusal to give up, to continue to struggle and fight to LIVE.

The story is arranged in a way that makes sense.

Reminiscence -  the good times of the past, and the pain of their losses.

A touch of anger to the inexorable hand of progress....

And finally, the passion and dedication to rebuild, and to protect that rebuilt life.

I do hope that I'm given the OK to post that particular song here, as I think once you listen to it, you will agree.

Music Soothes the Savage Beast

I was relaxing last night, playing Dance, Dance, Revolution (ok - I did mention I'm a geek, right??), and it hit me....What a wonderful gift is music.  

And not just the lyrics sung along to the instruments, but the music, itself.  Waves of harmony, resonating through the air, to vibrate them three tiny bones in the ear.  It's a delicate system, such a small collusion of things, to bring sound to the brain.  What a marvel.  

Add a voice, wavering in, above, below, and in time with the instrumental accompaniment, and you can achieve distilled joy, bliss, anger, sorrow, or any emotion in between.

Granted, not all music is good music.  There is some commercially produced crap out there that was simply written, played, and recorded with only the mechanics of money in mind, and you can always tell which fall into this category.

But the music written with feeling - THAT comes through loud and clear, and I revel in it.

Prison of the Mind

Now, keep in mind that this is an old work - about a decade or so ago.... but I find this super-short story just as moving today as I did when I wrote it.... Enjoy.

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I pound against the rainbow hued glass walls of my prison beyond the point of pain, slamming my fists against the unyielding surface until even my arms grow numb. I scream and beg and plead for mercy until I am too hoarse to send even a whisper up the funnel shaped ceiling. A torrent of tears flood from my eyes as I curl up on the bowl shaped floor. I cry myself to sleep, exhausted both physically and mentally.

I awake oddly refreshed, and suppress the wave of insanity that demands I continue the cycle, pounding, screaming and crying until I am no longer me, but some shapeless mass of cringing emotions and nerves ready to be shaped by the malevolent presence that would free me.

No. Not free me. Freedom is now beyond my grasp, forever lost to me. Unless. . . .

I MUST ESCAPE!!!

I throw myself bodily against my prison wall, beginning the cycle anew. My mind splinters into fragments of feelings. Rage, pain, terror, panic all compete with my rational being for the ultimate control. Control. What a tremendous joke. I have no control left. That, too, was stolen from me by my captor.

I feel my hands. The pain gains control of the shattered fragments of my mind. I focus on nothing but the red hue of my pain. It is a living thing, sucking my soul, this pain. A dry croak rips from my throat, demanding attention. Water. I must have water.

I stop pounding for a second, feeling this sensation of having a dry throat. This feeling, too, seems to be a living thing, capturing my attention. Without pause, there is a glass in my hand. I can feel the moisture of condensation on the outside of the glass; it feels cool and soothing on my sore skin. The water feels good against my dry lips, my raw throat. The glass is empty, and I hurl it against the wall. The glass shatters against the prison wall, the shards spreading against the unyielding collage of colors like water across tile. Before they hit the floor, they are gone.

It felt good, that bit of control. The act of violence snaps the fragments of my mind to a whole. Yes. For a while, I am free of the madness that stretches its fingers towards me. I can think, I can remember. I remember why I am here.

An innocent day. An ancient bottle, stuck on the top shelf of an equally ancient shop, in a tumbledown shack of a curio shop in India. The beautiful swirl of colors glinting in the dusty sunlight. My longing to have the antique in my hands. The wide, blackened teeth smile of the wizened shopkeeper as he takes it from the shelf.  The old glass stopper, made of the same myriad color glass, flaring out from the neck of the bottle then tapering to a delicate point. Tight, the stopper, hard to remove. Inside the bottle the scrap of ancient parchment. Giddy with curiosity, translating the words. Blackness and light. Here.

A fire ignites behind my eyes as the rage builds. Remember the words! Those words trapped me here, those words changed my world, and those words changed my being. Those words so violated me, those hateful words. I need to remember them, to scream them out!

I feel the need to splatter myself against the walls of glass to end this existence, but I cannot. I traded my freedom for the dream, the unreal. With those spoken words I imprisoned myself.

I am the genie in the bottle.

ME – 101 – Phone Conversation

Well, this is certainly getting more intimate. Phone conversation strips away another level of separation between the contributors. There is a texture in the spoken word that can't be conveyed in the written format...you can hear the pain, the laughter, the sorrow or joy in someone's voice - you can certainly 'hear' a smile.

I've had some epic conversations in my time - hours on the phone at times, discussing everything from the quality of macaroni -n- cheese to political instabilities to chaos theory.

I am very flexible in a phone conversation. My lighter side shows strongly, with quick quips and sarcastic remarks - jokes flow readily through me in a phone conversation. I can be deep and meaningful too, though, if discussing the right subject. And, confidences are sometimes easier to make - to share the deepest secrets of heart and soul - these are easier to release in a phone talk.

One thing I don't do in a phone conversation well is convey personal or spiritual pain - it's just too hard to get words out when you're blubbering..

I've learned a lot from phone conversations - people have the intimacy they need, but still a level of separation between them and their focus on the other side of the phone.

Interesting Evenings

Captain & Coke....Malibu & OJ, a sour apple martini. It' amazing what alcohol can do to me. It liberates my tongue, this blend of fermentation by-products and sugars - it sets my voice free. The nicotine in my PV sets a harmonic counterpoint to the booze - a low-level undertone of crashing surf and a buzz along my spine. My empathy is electrified, a lightning-sharp staccato of impressions, ethereal, intangible, felt but not touched. Everything is so sharp, so clear, so completely in focus. 

So with this potent mixture of booze, nicotine, and empathy, I pick up my phone....dial.....ask for Avery.

The alcohol does evil things with my tongue - I tipsly flip-flop words - and stumble over the few hard ones. We giggle, we laugh. 

I recount the highs and lows of my evening - the disappointment in finding that the bar near me has cancelled it's Karaoke. The bartender I'm used to is not on, and his replacement can NOT mix a martini. The music the DJ is playing to the handful of people in the bar is too loud and too modern for the crowd. My foray to the next bar where the music is live, the place packed, and the martini's fabulous! 

He's been busy as well since I spoke with him last, busy with his own blend of intoxicants.

The energy crackles through the phone lines - I can feel it. It rubs along my spine, sparkles in my blood, causing my heart to beat faster and my skin flush with extra blood. It thunders through that which brands me female. The connection is potent, vibrant, and sings through my being. There is a catch in my breath as I enjoy my primal reaction.

There is a momentary pause in the conversation as he feels his own reaction. The muse has reached out and stroked his soul with sure fingers, the fates are singing, his own sensitivities have ignited and blended with mine. Even with physical distance between us, we have closed that gap, and are one.

The connection is intimate. The sharing complete. The exchange of energy unstinting and unselfish. I give as much as I receive, and it grows exponentially. 

Physical sex pales in comparison to the fire of two who balance so completely.... He is physicality, primal, potency and strength of body and muscle.  I am spiritual, metaphysical, intangible, blending emotions and sensitivities.


He is Male.  
I am Female.


And the universe itself aligns with a click.

The ties mark the closing of a circle - where he ends, I begin. It is BALANCE.

To be in this state of hyper-awareness, of balance, for more than a brief second in time, its nothing short of distilled light. To partake of this perfection, to be a part of its very creation is to taste ambrosia. To be here, dining on the intuition of the gods themselves, for four hours.....

I'm still buzzing. I've been altered, improved........reborn.

Now THAT'S a date.

ME – 101 – Live Chats

I discovered (or was made aware of…) live chat rooms about a year ago….and by live chat, I mean a site in cyberspace with 5-10-20 or more different people typing back and forth with each other.


Conversation in a good, live chat room can be lightning quick or very slow, depending on the typing speed of the individuals and how detailed they want to get in a response. I’ve been in rooms that run very fast, and I have to either drop into text speak (LOL, IMO, OMG, ROFL, FFS, etc….) or designate who I’m responding to (@tiger: LOL, ur nutz :D), and have been in rooms that take the care and time to construct proper sentences. The little smiley emoticons add an interesting texture to the written words, and are used to offer the nuances of facial expressions that would be otherwise missing from the typed text. Chat rooms are my favorite way to congregate with a group of people from across the world.


And, if you get into a quiet chat room with some special, select friends, you can let all your hopes, fears and dreams out. You can bare your soul to people you’ve never laid eyes on. You can fall in love. You can rail at the injustices of the world, or laugh at its silliness. You can offer up sage wisdom and receive it in return. Its intimacy, security, anonymity, and awakening all wrapped with a big, shiny bow when you get into a room with people you’ve established a solid rapport with.


And yes, for all you out there that are reading my words, I have done all of the above in a chat room….I speak from personal experience.


As an aside here…I think that the psychiatric community would make enormous strides in helping those who have emotional difficulties if they would adopt a chat room format, and let people come out about their problems behind the comfort of their personal computers…..far more helpful and therapeutic than pumping these same people full of drugs that only mask the pain, or sitting them on a couch for a one-on-one with a ‘professional.’ After all, life happens 24/7, 365 days a year, and not always during business hours, and its easier to pour out your heart when you don’t have to worry about blubbering incoherently. Although, the tears do make it difficult to read what you’re typing at times :(


Usually, in live chat, my goofy side comes out. I’m the queen of the quick one-liners, offering subtle barbs or thinly-veiled innuendo with quick, sure fingers. My reward is to see those quick lines of text speak, the LOL’s, the ROFL’s, and my favorite, PMSL. I’ve chatted with people in Australia, the UK, Ireland, across all 4 time zones in the US, and as far north as above the Artic Circle.


Our world, once such a big and scary place, has grown so small with these technological advances.

ME – 101 – Email/Post communication

I love electronic journaling – I’ve always been rabidly addicted to words, madly infatuated with punctuation, spelling, grammar… Through my keyboard, I explore me. 

But, I’m finding, it takes more than just me and my keyboard – it takes outside interaction with other people.  I need that interaction, because it forces me to think in different directions, to explore new questions – questions I didn’t even know I had lurking inside me.

And I need all different types of interaction – Email/post, IM or chat, phone, and in person.  Each style of communication touches a different part of my personality…..

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Email or Post:  This is where the thoughtful side comes out – where I can read and re-read the words, both yours and mine, constructing my reply carefully and thoughtfully.  A flourish here, a simile there, a descriptive phrase inserted and another one taken away…….writing is as deeply moving for me as sculpting or painting or music for another – my words are my art, when the muse is flowing I catch a glimpse of my personal Nirvana.  

I explore myself deeply when I’m employing this type of communication, and I explore the one I’m speaking with, as well – getting a feel for the emotions behind the written word.  Make no mistake - there are emotions behind the keyboard – strong ones, if you let yourself feel them.

As a sidebar here - I’m forcibly reminded right now of a quote that was posted on the bulletin board in my high-school creative writing class – it’s potent, and has stayed with me for the 26-odd years since I first laid eyes on it: 

‘Writing is easy – you just sit at your typewriter and bleed.’

It is a perfect summation of what I go through each and every time I set fingers to keyboard.

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I’ll explore other avenues of communication in later journal entries, because each of them is an entry in with its own merits, deserving of its own posting.