A Jumble of Words

Winter's chill
Has come again
Hand in hand
With evening's shade
Icy daggers
In spinal walks
Torment me well
Into midnight black
Each turn I make
Every breath inhaled
Brings cold pin pricks
To my frosty heart
I am worn out
By such bitter cold
By icicles piercing
My wounded flesh
These barren lands
Of stillness and grief
Overwhelm all sense
Of direction home


Moonlit altar
Deserted wood
Lying still
On marble stone
The aching quiet
Thunders loud
In deathlike space
Of empty echos
Haunting murmurs
Of paths not taken
And regrets
As loud
As the sea

On Being An Artist

I have begun to read The English Patient. I really need to read excellent literature more often. With great hubris I read my work, and with puffed feathers I declare...to myself, as if I were god...that it is good. Upon reflection, after reading the work of a true master, I realize that I am merely a fool and, maybe, if I am very lucky, I might have a raw talent that (with copious amounts of training) I can eventually make use of and even sing the songs of angels. Hell, I'd just settle for a damn good choir, at this point. But for now, I guess I just need to keep reading the masters and train myself thusly; perhaps their ghosts will whisper to me through the pages and transform my pea brain into something truly magnificent. It's worth a shot, at least.

Where do the greats get such amazing images? All of my metaphors are borrowed and used up like the worn, dirty carpet in front of a well walked-through door. I admire beautiful imagery, sensual and speaking volumes of story within a scant few lines, and I gaze at the words in utter awe and amazement. I read them over and over again to myself, and listen to the flow of the words as I watch the perfection unfold in my mind. How did the artist think of this? How did the brain meld such images together in harmony so perfect that I know exactly what he means, can smell and taste every facet of the object or scene, and yet, I know that my mind would never yield the same interpretation, would feel foolish even making such comparisons and I wouldn't, in sheer cowardice, even dare to write such words. I am convinced that I am nothing more than an idiot, sometimes, without one single ounce of creativity within. 

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Have you ever noticed that the best stories seem to be about hopelessly broken people? Why is this? What is it about pain and limitation that, within the ugliness of dark situations, make something tremendously beautiful appear? It is in that moment of sublime humility when the soul seems to peek out of the shadows and shows itself head-on. Before that, when all is perfect, it is nothing more than the mask of the meat-suit, the gruesome grin of the empty-brained hedonist who is so disassociated from his frailty that he thinks he is invincible. This is what the mythologies of old have come to tell us; naive ignorance is comical, while invincible power becomes boring. The Christ, as GOD, would send us apathetic; the real story instead comes from the vulnerability of the anguish, the ability to be ripped apart by thorns, nails and spear. Even Superman needs kryptonite to be worthy of our tales, and Sampson is a dolt until he buckles after his hair is shaved away. Our heroes need to prove to us that they can rise up from the ashes, can carry their shame and wounded bodies forth to not only stand tall in the sunrise, but to also save the world from imminent disaster and demise. To be weak, yet to overcome, saves us all in the long run. It gives us the hope that we desperately crave, the sense that maybe we, too, can reach out of our private hell and redeem not only ourselves, but also those who were brave enough to believe in us with every step of our tortured journey. 

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Is this what it means to be an artist? To delve into the muck of our existence, to rage against the chains that bind us to flesh and blood, just so we can write, or paint, or create something that evokes a response within others that moves, stirs, and ignites the spirit into the experience of feeling alive? If I never wrote another word, could I still see myself as an artist if I at least provoked emotion in those around me? Is my life a work of art that can inspire, or enrage, or at least invite discussion from those close to me? And their lives, in turn, would also be a work of art that moves me just as much. 

Dear readers, thank you for your beautiful creations. I am honored to witness them all. 

Letter To A Friend

Sometimes I channel things in letters that I just need to share. The follow excerpt is one such example:

I had a client yesterday in Westminster who is a very deep, insightful woman. She's a psychologist and trauma therapist, and the sharing of her thoughts after her session in 'the box' provoked a lovely discussion on how the human spirit chooses to create it's experiences here within the duality of three dimensional reality. I love profound discussions such as this...they are magical, fruitful, full of gossamer epiphanies that carry levels of daily experience to a higher realm of comprehension.

We spoke of dreams, trauma, the autonomic nervous system, out of body experiences, past lives...I shared many of my thoughts and insights with her, and her feedback was pretty enlightening. In a nutshell, my reluctance to create my reality in a 'positive' way is simply because my spirit has something to figure out in the darkness. I am searching for something in the scraps of pain that I dig up, rooting in the dirt like a bird searching for grubs. There must be something delicious in those fat, slimy worms, otherwise, I would fly off in search of more tender morsels elsewhere. When I have had my fill, belly big and bloated, feathers smelling earthy and sweet, I will raise my sights to the clouds above and touch them easily with one or two solid wing strokes against the solid air. Please keep in mind, I have the power to do and be anything I wish. 

So, dearest, worry not about my projected dismal future. All may not be lost, after all. I DO know that I create my reality, and I know for a fact that once I truly focus on an object, I can usually manifest it fairly quickly. I have seen miracles in my life that amaze even me. 

I have a fascination with the darkness. Although I never chose to dabble in drugs or alcohol, I do explore my own addictions regularly. I give in to my fears, my desires, my emotional turmoil. The observer within me finds all this drama fascinating; she sits above me, watching in non-judgment, as I fumble through this life, this body, chained to a device of my own making and crying out as, she notices, I hold the keys. I am learning something, finding pleasure somewhere in the abyss. As a spirit having a human experience, I am playing with forces unknown to my higher self, crashing through walls of illusion and polarity as I search for what this life is, what makes it beautiful, what really matters about all this sticky, tricky webbing that holds the mortal coil firmly in place. 

I want to know passion. I want to know what it means to be alive. Can you do this through logic and reason? Can you truly know love, exquisite pain, despair, intense joy, the experience of losing yourself to a person or situation if you coldly, logically, set up your future in happy little rows of safety and security? Without risk, there is no real play. Without abandon, the experience is lost. Creating safety is not living; it is helpful to survival, no doubt, but it is not being alive. Some of the most beautiful memories I have are from drowning in the depths of lonely anguish. I am alive then. I am whole, complete in the waves that pull me into the sea, suckled by the tides as I float down to the watery graves below.

I know I can change my fate. Despite your observation that I am vulnerable, it is only a vulnerability that results from my desiring it. I am stronger than you give me credit for. I can feel that power flow through me; quietly, within the recesses of my mind, I am well aware of the fact that, the moment I chose something different, it will manifest in magnificent splendor. Worry not. I can part the sea, and call forth fire from my fingertips. All will be righted in time.

A Beautiful Quote

A few days ago I chanced upon a story that described a severely depressed person reaching out to comedian Chris Getherd via email to ask if he had ever experienced depression himself. Chris's answer was beautiful, and I wanted to post a piece of it on my blog.

Chris wrote:

"Always remember that beautiful experiences and massive amounts of love are on their way. If you are able to feel pain and sadness this profoundly, more than most people can ever imagine, remind yourself that you can feel happiness and joy and love this profoundly as well, and that’s our little reward as depressed people. We feel things harder than other people do, and when those things are negative they are complete and total torture. But while we feel pain harder than other people have to, we feel beauty and joy and love harder than anyone else gets to, and that’s the victory that’s waiting on the other side of this pain for you. Hang on. Be tough. Better times are coming. Beautiful things and loving people are already out there, and when this cloud passes you get to experience them all so, so deeply."

Little did Chris know, his heartfelt response touched more people than just this one. I found myself profoundly affected, as well. It's so true...the depths of despair can be so deep when you feel emotions intensely, but I can also feel love and bliss in a way that most will never know. It's a great perspective to view this problematic situation from. 

Thanks, Chris. I never watched your comedy before, but I will be sure to be a fan now. 

An Excerpt from a Letter

The whole letter is too personal to post, but I can post this:

I know I need to think positively and create my reality into something so much better. I just choose to stay a little stuck. Stupid, I know. I don't know what my deal is. Maybe I'm just in rebellion against being here in flesh and blood. I can't figure out why I agreed to incarnate this time...must have been for a reason. Be damned if I know what it is.

I had a dream when I was 7 years old. I was in a barn with a huge black stallion (I was reading the Black Stallion series at the time, as I recall), and an old woman came in with a shotgun to kill the horse. As he reared up in his stall, I ran in front of him and took the shot in my neck; falling to the ground, all went black and faded away. All that was left was me, my existence, in a soft, dark, comfortable place. I was floating in inkiness, breathing deeply, fully relaxed and happy. Pure happiness, pure peace, and connected to absolutely everything. I could hear voices in the background, news from around the world, personal conversations, even random thoughts of others. I had the thought that I maybe should focus on a particular stream and learn something, but then I also realized that none of it mattered....it was all unreal, just games we all play, and so nothing was worth latching on to. I dimmed the voices, turned down the volume by refocusing my thoughts, and went back to my blissful state for what could have been an eternity. I loved it.

Finally, it happened. I felt my feet, my young, seven year old feet. I was returning to the mold, to the cage, and immediately raged against it. The fight only slammed me in quicker, and I regained the feeling of my body from the bottom up...feet, legs, knees, hips, ribs...until, eventually, I was back in my bed with the covers high up under my chin. I refused to open my eyes for the longest time, and then, in an act of defeat, opened up one eye to the scene of my bedroom. I've had plenty of bad mornings, but that was one of the worst. To be surrounded by everything, to be just a drop that's part of an endless, beautiful ocean, is blissful. To be that same drop, abandoned on the rocky shore with bird dung, is awful. I have never been back to that place since, and for thirty-six years, I have missed it.

As lovely as life is, there is something much more wonderful beyond this place. I think I've been kicking my heels against this three dimensional reality in open rebellion ever since. 

Being On The Watch

Clouds are mysterious things. 

They seem so solid, so stable; a cottony-grey wall that hides the sun and stars away in their faraway, unreachable depths. And yet, as one can do in a thick fog, you can run your fingers through them, breathe them deep into your body, get lost in them without being stuck or even hindered. They surround, but do not hold; blind, but do not impede; caress, but do not touch. Nature produces beautiful illusions such as this all the time; to get wrapped up in such wonder is to truly experience being alive. 

I remember being young under a moonlit sky. In my early twenties, life pulsed within me, and I would park the car in my driveway, strip down to my underwear (it was a secluded area), and lie on the hood of my old Ford Fairmont in hypnotic rapture at the beauty around me. The sensual coolness of the air, the smell of the damp grass, and the feather wisps of clouds lovingly stroking the face of the Moon as they passed before her eyes left me breathless. Time stood still in this place, this monochrome dream of nature where everything around me seemed to breathe me in and hold me spellbound. My long hair wound up beneath my head as a pillow, I would lie there on that old, beat up car for hours, feeling that I had finally found my true love and lover who opened up their secrets for me alone. It was heaven. 

My old college roommate, Chrissy, introduced me to Heart's album "Dog and Butterfly". There's a song on there called 'Minstral Wind', and it's a meltingly lovely metaphor of a girl caught in the winds of love and lust. She sails in her tiny boat, and the Wind whispers seductively in her ears, tempts her with treasures and visions of intense beauty and pleasure, and as the song builds, she is left spun around, off course, completely lost in his torrents of passion, her will no longer her own. By the end of the song she stands on her watch on a still night, and she waits for the breeze to move her again, to feel the "magic space" ripple through her once more. She hungers for the surge of nature, passion, beauty...everything that keeps her alive in this world. From the moment I first listened to this song, I knew what she was waiting for, identified with the character wholeheartedly. It may be chaos, but to lose your way in deep passion, in the foggy cloudiness of drenching, muggy desire, is gloriously divine. 

My moonlit nights gave me a taste of that. Human lovers, as I grew older, added to the collection of sensations and experiences, but the magic of the natural world continued to always beg to be considered prominently. The tendril streaks of cloud across the canvas of sky, the smell, taste and feel of the rain as it splashes upon the skin and runs thrillingly across velvet flesh, the subtle heat of a mammoth tree that pulls one in and close enough to stroke and smell it's dusty, sweet bark....these are treasures of life, vibrant vibrational reminders that we are alive and part of it all. Our brains block out so much of these sensations as we do our day to day survival dances, but we are only cheating ourselves when we shift our priorities so much that we miss what is going on around us. There is another world that begs to be drunk in and ravenously tasted.

This world has been nagging at me to return to my child-like wonder and co-create with it once more. As part of my healing, I have also been consciously asking for an awakening of my own kundalini, the life force energy that is the source of all vitality and creation. Whether it is that, or the fact that I may be entering my change of life process...I have no idea....has left me more open to sensual excitement and more aware of subtle energy shifts in the natural world. It's like walking around with a constant orgasmic buzz that leaves me giggling at everything for no reason. It's wonderful, and I highly recommend it. 

Tonight, the clouds sailed past a brilliant full moon. Exhausted after a long day. I still took a moment to gaze up at my old friends, and I waited for that breeze to move me. I giggled as I felt the familiar stirrings, felt my breath catch in the physical thrills and tingles that murmured through my body with delicious promises. The minstral whispered, and I am seduced; I am, for the rest of my life, his.