"Since I must now focus my considerable energies on becoming a legally required whore", she said, gently, twirling the pen held delicately in her grasp, having laid aside the hated gun, "I will kindly advise you of what my gentle response will entail, my darling...."
He stepped back, warily, having puffed his importance in her direction, feeling both emasculated and angry with himself, before this latest international temper tantrum.
"Firstly, this: since you have obviously confused God with politics, and love with your own inability to control yourself, and, instead, vent it on me, I will require daily transportation, at this particular time, to my place of worship, and back home, that I might cleanse myself in the sight of God, having been vilified and mistreated in the name of politics, and power - not love, nor concern of any kind."
He shifted, awkwardly.
"The religious leader has agreed that not doing so means you are clearly lazy, and concerned with other priorities, so if I do not attend, as I have stated, you will be required to pay a sum of my choosing - like the whore that I have been forced to become - at your whim, as a result of your uncontrolled rage."
He looked at her, saying nothing, aware that she was deeply angered, finally, at this show of such deep disregard for her sex, and the sacredness of what he had said he held in very high esteem: their respect for each other - which did not involve the violence they both had sworn not to show as an example to their children, to each other - especially not in the bedroom.
"Secondly, since I am required by law to make this my duty, I am NOT required to do any of the other things that you receive for free: cooking, cleaning, laundry, medical care, speaking, listening to your problems, preparing your schedule, answering your phone calls, decoratingyour home with my artistic ability, creating things of beauty, to make your world a more beautiful, and possible, place of joy; translating things you do not understand - since I am the only one with time to read, although I had to figure most of it out myself, due to not having access to education; giving you my opinion about anything; working at anything that shows you I respect your ability to support us, financially, by lessening this burden, and helping you, because I know you to be a man not ruled by ego, or the drug trade which is destroying the world - not just your hated enemies, this week, and their offspring - and because I do care if you do drop dead of a heart attack too soon, because of overwork.
I must, needs be, seek instruction on this new duty; therefore, I will require that you bring in professionals in this trade, that I might learn these skills from them, by classroom environments which will ensure your great happiness, and my desired subservience; additionally, I will, as mentioned above, no longer be able to spend any time doing the aforementioned things; thus the fee involved for professional instruction, and the new help you will need to hire, might add some pressure, and cause you to be away, at work, in order to pay for it. You will have to also call in take out, since no one will be available any longer to pack your several lunches, bathe your many new children - or school them, since they, too, can't go outside, for fear of being attacked with acid by a human animal masquerading as a human being, rather than a gentle adult pleased with childhood innocence and God given beauty, - and since you're the only one allowed to take anyone anywhere. I imagine your new duty as increasingly busy driver will add length, again, to your working day, as well as additional expense, for which I feel for you, deeply, but, again, you are directly responsible, sadly, in terms of logic, work sharing, and the need for power and control.
Since I think we will probably not be able to afford professional assistance of this kind, at the very least, I will have to carefully study the satellite t.v., mostly all day, in my pyjamas, in order to become a good, obedient whore, although it makes me sad to think about how dirty our house is going to get, frankly. Hopefully, you won't invite anyone over for dinner, as there will be no one to cook it, since I will be far too busy, dear."
He cleared his throat, which suddenly felt very restricted.
"Or", she said, "I could just take all of the credit cards, and go on holiday for three months, until you come to your senses, darling. Either way, this new law might prove very, very expensive...."
she sighed. "Plus, I will miss out on my charity work,which is something that causes me great distress." He hung his head.
"I must admit, since I know you to be such a wise and good man - which is why, of course, I married you, knowing you loved me, - that I thought you liked the fact that I was clever, much more than having to wait, occasionally, for something...." she mused to herself, quietly.
"Such a patient man". She smiled up at him. "It made my not being allowed, or able, to become a doctor, so irrelevant - although the rest of the world might miss my absence, in this capacity, since we seem to, as a species, need so very much healing, lately. Perhaps it's just a spelling error on your part then, my darling? Healing, I mean?"
She stared straight at him, her eyes narrowed dangerously. He suddenly realized that she was very, very angry.
"One more thing, my darling." She purred the words. "Since creativity in exchange might be required, in terms of method, in the midst of our expressed need, which you feel you must seek in a court of law, instead of having the guts to ask me to my face - I cannot be assured of the ferocity of my appetite." His eyes widened in shock. "The damage might very well be permanent, within the contex of consumption, and how tired you will aways be, with this new, forced focus of my inner strength and drawn upon energy, rechanneled, however wasted."
His eyes widened at the cannabalistic reference drawn from a far less advanced time in their tribal history.
Recognizing, at last, again, why he respected her so deeply, since she stood, quietly, toe to toe with him, waiting, unblinkingly, for him to raise his hand to her, without flinching, and ready to raise her own, to block it - and connect, in turn, if necessary, to deflect it - he bowed deeply, grasped her right hand in both of his, kissed it, whirled out of the room, and entered the room of screaming, ridiculous male politicians with renewed sanity of purpose, thinking his wife was the most beautiful creature in the world. His twelve hour work day, lunch bag in hand, was a mere blink. He smiled at how she had winked at him, slyly, before patting him on the bottom as he had walked out of the door. He could hardly wait to get home.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Electric bee yawn..Zap!
Tap and peck and poke and prod
And sift, and spit and turn the sod -
A shoot! Ah, spark of green amidst the soil
Seething...see!
Such work amidst the boil
Of greying earth.
What!Only her, then...moving like a bee;
Funny...looks a bit like me:
Ha! Radar Love transmitting with those
funny feelingsers....just so!
Bzztmwah!(and O)
And sift, and spit and turn the sod -
A shoot! Ah, spark of green amidst the soil
Seething...see!
Such work amidst the boil
Of greying earth.
What!Only her, then...moving like a bee;
Funny...looks a bit like me:
Ha! Radar Love transmitting with those
funny feelingsers....just so!
Bzztmwah!(and O)
Monday, March 23, 2009
A Word of Space and Time
What brightness, is the sun, if I have no warmth?
All the heat and glow of my life is you,
And, therein, when I feel glimmers in moments too quiet to recall readily, or without some small restraint
Of heart, and mind, to soften loss
I close my eyes to fire's glow, hearth's home, and thee.
What then....the moon? Glow of white shadow eye, hanging there,
Sky metronome, awash with soft cloth of night's watch - there, just beyond my tremulous reach,
Blinking lullaby upon the waves, to order ebb and flow; great Tidal rhythm, bending oar, and bow,
Within this quiet breathing, between we two. What then, love?
Of orb's glow, or fire's heat, does thy sight alight this same, streaked star, blinking, and awake?
How or why, is't, then? Is't to collide amidst the ink of night; incendiary end, and start, to bliss?
Not so; only trails amidst the orbits then, when planets born of sigh and spark
Do hum and thrum and whir about, as dervish dance amidst the dust,
And Passion, finding Passion clings, and grows, to Be, and See, and Live.
Oh, wondrous Word, to order same - and Pattern's Love - anew!
What heat, what solace, this kindred journey long, to find, oh Dearest...You.
All the heat and glow of my life is you,
And, therein, when I feel glimmers in moments too quiet to recall readily, or without some small restraint
Of heart, and mind, to soften loss
I close my eyes to fire's glow, hearth's home, and thee.
What then....the moon? Glow of white shadow eye, hanging there,
Sky metronome, awash with soft cloth of night's watch - there, just beyond my tremulous reach,
Blinking lullaby upon the waves, to order ebb and flow; great Tidal rhythm, bending oar, and bow,
Within this quiet breathing, between we two. What then, love?
Of orb's glow, or fire's heat, does thy sight alight this same, streaked star, blinking, and awake?
How or why, is't, then? Is't to collide amidst the ink of night; incendiary end, and start, to bliss?
Not so; only trails amidst the orbits then, when planets born of sigh and spark
Do hum and thrum and whir about, as dervish dance amidst the dust,
And Passion, finding Passion clings, and grows, to Be, and See, and Live.
Oh, wondrous Word, to order same - and Pattern's Love - anew!
What heat, what solace, this kindred journey long, to find, oh Dearest...You.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
“Forest in Late Summer” ….watercolour…Dawn M. Nevills
$450.00
Old City at Sunset
….acrylic on canvas…..Dawn M. Nevills
$375.00
“Self Portrait – Current Impossibility” ….acrylic on canvas…Dawn M. Nevills
$425.00
Monday, February 23, 2009
New "Us" es
We move within our parts
Extending them outwards, protruberances of wit and wind -
Invisible, searching, winsome;
Hoping, in the doing, that the air moved, thusly,
Whispers just audibly enough
Of ourselves
To be.
Extending them outwards, protruberances of wit and wind -
Invisible, searching, winsome;
Hoping, in the doing, that the air moved, thusly,
Whispers just audibly enough
Of ourselves
To be.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Smiley smile
The purse ed lips, (too soon to tell)
You say are capable of spell
I say, they're just a way to say of that, that love is true, and spell is naught:
Too true, in fact.
What wonders, then? In speaking of these things to me
You often place a hand on knee....tried once, too true, again;
Back then praps I should have put a spell on you.
...I'd start with A's, of course - a solid bit of cheek -
To celebrate your whit and weak...and then? A "B:"
The sound, (so like one dear to me)...not you; excelling as you do at rest
I'd sooner spell a Bee to death; but no!
Just the whirring recitation, rhymed with recitative nation
Meant a rhyming lot, well pressed.
At least most of them didn't guess.
Sweet letter! Oh, sweet life!
No spelling...save a weary wife, expunged.
You say are capable of spell
I say, they're just a way to say of that, that love is true, and spell is naught:
Too true, in fact.
What wonders, then? In speaking of these things to me
You often place a hand on knee....tried once, too true, again;
Back then praps I should have put a spell on you.
...I'd start with A's, of course - a solid bit of cheek -
To celebrate your whit and weak...and then? A "B:"
The sound, (so like one dear to me)...not you; excelling as you do at rest
I'd sooner spell a Bee to death; but no!
Just the whirring recitation, rhymed with recitative nation
Meant a rhyming lot, well pressed.
At least most of them didn't guess.
Sweet letter! Oh, sweet life!
No spelling...save a weary wife, expunged.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
My Valentine
This shadow, smell of moss, against my face, darling,
Hard and real and urgent...
Is it answer, or question, sweet?
There, then; I will rise up, your Empress; held within, and sweet solace, found
I am your ocean.
Feel and swim within your world of moment, mine,
Perhaps one day when I die
You'll think of this,and live, instead.
....For Keanu, to smile.
-------------------
(*Note: What, if any(thing, in the poem, would suggest to you that the author has "transcended" something? If so, what, and what is there in the poem that would suggest that to you? Given this, is there an irony to the word "die?" Is it one you would have expected, either in a modern, or traditional sense? Explain...)
Hard and real and urgent...
Is it answer, or question, sweet?
There, then; I will rise up, your Empress; held within, and sweet solace, found
I am your ocean.
Feel and swim within your world of moment, mine,
Perhaps one day when I die
You'll think of this,and live, instead.
....For Keanu, to smile.
-------------------
(*Note: What, if any(thing, in the poem, would suggest to you that the author has "transcended" something? If so, what, and what is there in the poem that would suggest that to you? Given this, is there an irony to the word "die?" Is it one you would have expected, either in a modern, or traditional sense? Explain...)
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Towards Valentines...
They stared at each other for a long moment, saying nothing.
A tingle began at the base of his neck, as he stared at her face.
Her eyes were wild and old with death and sadness, seeing into him: her hair, slightly tousled, as usual - that look she had that always made him catch his breath, just to himself....He looked into them, and felt the dark, the quiet, the cold, the solitude - and her pain.
Her hips looked gently rounded; no jutting bones and concave mania here; he thoughtfully considered the womanly swell and rise beneath his hand: the waist tapered in, and the breasts swelled above it, rising and falling gently with her breathing. He watched them for a moment. He closed his eyes, thinking of her lips brushing against his. He didn't want to move.
He shook his head slightly. His face was warm.
Her scent lit something in him. He knew her, suddenly - instantly. His body leapt at the life of it in him.
She thought, slightly absently, that he looked a bit preoccupied.
Absently, she wondered if she had thought to comb her hair. She rubbed it selfconsciously, worrying about her glasses falling off, or banging into something accidentally. She worried that she looked like an owl that had just awakened from sleep. Her hair was probably sticking straight up, as it did, and she had absently forgotten that she had stuck a piece of string behind her ear, so as not to forget something. Evidently, it had not been important. She looked like she had just disconnected herself from a clothesline, she thought, laughing quietly to herself. He mused at her, smiling to herself...he wanted to know why.
Then they just stood there, gently watching the rhythmic breathing of the other; a kind of respectful observation of life force moving in and out of the other body.It was odd, and endearing - a dance of non-movement, like two terrified deer, caught in headlights, and frozen in time, each protecting the other.
He moved in closer to her, then, suddenly and directly, still watching the rise and fall of her breath, and slowly sliding his hand, palm down, up her forearm. She stood still, reaching up absently to run her fingers up the back of his neck, and softly around to stroke the lobe of his left ear. He drew in his breath sharply at the unexpected intimacy. He did not expect her to be so instantly at ease with him.
"Hello", she said, softly, staring at him directly. "You look like Elvis." Her eyes twinkled
He slid his nose along her temple...really, this was ridiculous.
"Heel", he said, solemnly, making fun of himself.
"No cookie?", she replied, in response. He exhaled on a quiet laugh..."You''ll never guess...what day do you think my birthday is on?"
He moved his hand down the small of her back, and ever so gently touched the inside of her ear with the tip of his tongue. He held her there, pressing his hand softly against her back, moving her hips purposefully into his, gently molding them together, like pottery, and gliding his other hand around to hold her breast, almost reverently, in his other hand. She felt warm, and awake. The round swell of breast shyly rose against his circling finger, the nipple hardening suddenly. Interestedly, he watched the pulse at her throat, and felt a bit like a conductor. She was breathing softly into his earlobe, molded there into him, as she was. He could feel a pulse in her pelvis...or perhaps it was him. Suddenly, he was not quite certain, anymore.
"Today"..he kissed her hair...."tomorrow"....he kissed her left eyebrow....."next week"....he kissed the bridge of her nose....."Friday"...he barely touched her lips with his...."every day"... he breathed the last into her hair..."April 14th..."he said, softly, finally."In politically incorrect sable. And nothing else...beside a fireplace. With your glasses on. I'll bring creme caramel, and feed it to you, okay?" He said this last lovingly, moving his finger across her lips.....
"That's a very interesting greeting", she said, absently, against his mouth, and finished the sentence somewhere into the air beside his head, as her hips began a soft trembling, against his.....Her voice sounded a bit strangled, watching his hand.
Will you be able to warm me, do you think?" Her voice throbbed with pain of grief, and ecstacy of trembling. "Will I be alive, do you think....visible, at last...?" Her voice was so soft he barely heard this last...."and.....yes...it is." She blew into his ear, very, very gently, and softly sucked the lobe of his ear into her mouth. The exhale of breath was not quite a sob...just a brief catch of bitterness in her breathing, with a second of sound. He moved against her, kissing her eyes, his breath catching, a soft rhythm of rocking between them, amidst the invisible and audible song that linked them, without thought.
"Windbag", she whispered into his ear, conspiratorially, stopping. She hummed against his ear, making his head buzz. It reached his feet, settling in his hips somewhere, relevantly. She was shaking softly against him, there, as he held her against him. She wound her hands around his shoulders, and moved with him, trying to breathe.
"mmhmm. ah..haaa." he said firmly, closing his eyes, and just pressing his lips into her temple, rocking against her. He bumped his nose into her hair, and rubbed it back and forth, concentrating on his breathing. It smelled like vanilla and coconut, and some kind of butterscotch pudding he'd liked when he was a kid, when he traded that little fat kid to get one in exchange for his Twinkie, one time. How had she done that to her hair? Hysterical....
He closed his eyes, holding on to her. He inhaled, slowly. He didn't apologize, moving her in a quiet two step, half circle, and sliding her other hand up around his shoulder. "Hold me, please....and come here."
She already had her head pressed into the side of neck, her nose wedged just below his ear, trembling there, against him uncontrollably, unashamedly. She was not laughing. He thought she might be in shock, until he realized she was trying to breathe. Had he done this, so easily? He had only moved against her, holding her close to his heart; a few moments, stolen, in the darkness together.
The words had been a simple request. His hand moved lovingly around this living part of her, finally. He looked at her, abruptly, earnestly, realizing joyfully, and said, quietly, "I love this breast. It's beautiful."..and teasing her gently, now..."This one always reacts faster..... I noticed, you know..... I love this breast, too..." He cupped it softly with his hand, and stood silently against her, holding her two breasts gently, pressing into her, willing her to know he meant it. He moved his right hand down and around, softly holding her buttock. "I will never hurt you, you know..." he kissed her eyebrow, his voice a controlled rumble. He knew her, even now. She was trembling, despite the bravado, with fear, and longing, and pain, and grief, and wanting, released gently.
"My breasts and I are deeply flattered." She said it with a gentle trill, and a small, selfonscious sigh, as if she would flourish a bow after it, suddenly, making fun of herself, in spite of the trembling. It was light humour, not sarcasm...assertively offputting, in the midst of being passionately direct. Her breath caught in her throat, sensing his earnestness. He stopped trying to speak, thinking hard, in response.
She smiled at his unaccustomed, slightly hesitant directness, admired his unique scientific summary - and stroked his neck until the hairs rose on the back of it.
Then she began to move her nose back and forth beside his ear, slowly.
He lowered his lips, moving them silently across her cheek, beside her chin, down her neck, and across her shoulder. She smelled like soap, and just a faint trace of jasmine. He decided he would find something that smelled like that flower, as soon as he managed to stop trying to blend into her ...If he could just stand there with her like that, he would forget what it was that had been thinking of, a moment before..except how her shoulder had tasted warm, like sunshine and honey....
"I...I like your glasses", he said, inadequately, his voice breaking slightly.He wished she could see inside of him. Nothing he could say to her would feel adequate in his own mind. Besides...he did like her glasses. They made her look like a Beatle, from many different countries all at once......God, how did you ignite a nerdy girl?
This was extremely disconcerting. He was terrifed of insulting her...especially at that particular moment. He thought he would probably never forget it...ever. It was that intimately wonderful.
"I know,", she said, calmly. "They're ten years out of date. The woman in Walmart told me. I stopped looking for another pair then, and left. I thought she'd start in on my sweater next." She sighed.
"Alas....... I'm doomed to creative disshevelment.."
She sighed,. drew her head back, and stared at him, worriedly. "Should I be concerned, do you think?" Her mouth twitched slightly. "Now you'll think I'm tarty. I get....ah....fervent about things... "
He was watching her nipple. He wished fervently, and suddenly, for more disshevelment. He thought he might fall down with it.
He looked at her face, very seriously. "No", he said..."and this turtleneck makes you look very feminine...But I think we should go to bed now, okay?" He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, near her glasses arm, softly. ..."Do you mind?"
"Should we have a full conversation first, do you think?"she replied, equally seriously."We might feel bad, otherwise."
He sighed, concernedlly. Then he looked at her face, raising her hand to his mouth, to touch it softly. "Ah, nerdy egghead woman I need...." he sighed again, and looked into her face.
"Nope."
A tingle began at the base of his neck, as he stared at her face.
Her eyes were wild and old with death and sadness, seeing into him: her hair, slightly tousled, as usual - that look she had that always made him catch his breath, just to himself....He looked into them, and felt the dark, the quiet, the cold, the solitude - and her pain.
Her hips looked gently rounded; no jutting bones and concave mania here; he thoughtfully considered the womanly swell and rise beneath his hand: the waist tapered in, and the breasts swelled above it, rising and falling gently with her breathing. He watched them for a moment. He closed his eyes, thinking of her lips brushing against his. He didn't want to move.
He shook his head slightly. His face was warm.
Her scent lit something in him. He knew her, suddenly - instantly. His body leapt at the life of it in him.
She thought, slightly absently, that he looked a bit preoccupied.
Absently, she wondered if she had thought to comb her hair. She rubbed it selfconsciously, worrying about her glasses falling off, or banging into something accidentally. She worried that she looked like an owl that had just awakened from sleep. Her hair was probably sticking straight up, as it did, and she had absently forgotten that she had stuck a piece of string behind her ear, so as not to forget something. Evidently, it had not been important. She looked like she had just disconnected herself from a clothesline, she thought, laughing quietly to herself. He mused at her, smiling to herself...he wanted to know why.
Then they just stood there, gently watching the rhythmic breathing of the other; a kind of respectful observation of life force moving in and out of the other body.It was odd, and endearing - a dance of non-movement, like two terrified deer, caught in headlights, and frozen in time, each protecting the other.
He moved in closer to her, then, suddenly and directly, still watching the rise and fall of her breath, and slowly sliding his hand, palm down, up her forearm. She stood still, reaching up absently to run her fingers up the back of his neck, and softly around to stroke the lobe of his left ear. He drew in his breath sharply at the unexpected intimacy. He did not expect her to be so instantly at ease with him.
"Hello", she said, softly, staring at him directly. "You look like Elvis." Her eyes twinkled
He slid his nose along her temple...really, this was ridiculous.
"Heel", he said, solemnly, making fun of himself.
"No cookie?", she replied, in response. He exhaled on a quiet laugh..."You''ll never guess...what day do you think my birthday is on?"
He moved his hand down the small of her back, and ever so gently touched the inside of her ear with the tip of his tongue. He held her there, pressing his hand softly against her back, moving her hips purposefully into his, gently molding them together, like pottery, and gliding his other hand around to hold her breast, almost reverently, in his other hand. She felt warm, and awake. The round swell of breast shyly rose against his circling finger, the nipple hardening suddenly. Interestedly, he watched the pulse at her throat, and felt a bit like a conductor. She was breathing softly into his earlobe, molded there into him, as she was. He could feel a pulse in her pelvis...or perhaps it was him. Suddenly, he was not quite certain, anymore.
"Today"..he kissed her hair...."tomorrow"....he kissed her left eyebrow....."next week"....he kissed the bridge of her nose....."Friday"...he barely touched her lips with his...."every day"... he breathed the last into her hair..."April 14th..."he said, softly, finally."In politically incorrect sable. And nothing else...beside a fireplace. With your glasses on. I'll bring creme caramel, and feed it to you, okay?" He said this last lovingly, moving his finger across her lips.....
"That's a very interesting greeting", she said, absently, against his mouth, and finished the sentence somewhere into the air beside his head, as her hips began a soft trembling, against his.....Her voice sounded a bit strangled, watching his hand.
Will you be able to warm me, do you think?" Her voice throbbed with pain of grief, and ecstacy of trembling. "Will I be alive, do you think....visible, at last...?" Her voice was so soft he barely heard this last...."and.....yes...it is." She blew into his ear, very, very gently, and softly sucked the lobe of his ear into her mouth. The exhale of breath was not quite a sob...just a brief catch of bitterness in her breathing, with a second of sound. He moved against her, kissing her eyes, his breath catching, a soft rhythm of rocking between them, amidst the invisible and audible song that linked them, without thought.
"Windbag", she whispered into his ear, conspiratorially, stopping. She hummed against his ear, making his head buzz. It reached his feet, settling in his hips somewhere, relevantly. She was shaking softly against him, there, as he held her against him. She wound her hands around his shoulders, and moved with him, trying to breathe.
"mmhmm. ah..haaa." he said firmly, closing his eyes, and just pressing his lips into her temple, rocking against her. He bumped his nose into her hair, and rubbed it back and forth, concentrating on his breathing. It smelled like vanilla and coconut, and some kind of butterscotch pudding he'd liked when he was a kid, when he traded that little fat kid to get one in exchange for his Twinkie, one time. How had she done that to her hair? Hysterical....
He closed his eyes, holding on to her. He inhaled, slowly. He didn't apologize, moving her in a quiet two step, half circle, and sliding her other hand up around his shoulder. "Hold me, please....and come here."
She already had her head pressed into the side of neck, her nose wedged just below his ear, trembling there, against him uncontrollably, unashamedly. She was not laughing. He thought she might be in shock, until he realized she was trying to breathe. Had he done this, so easily? He had only moved against her, holding her close to his heart; a few moments, stolen, in the darkness together.
The words had been a simple request. His hand moved lovingly around this living part of her, finally. He looked at her, abruptly, earnestly, realizing joyfully, and said, quietly, "I love this breast. It's beautiful."..and teasing her gently, now..."This one always reacts faster..... I noticed, you know..... I love this breast, too..." He cupped it softly with his hand, and stood silently against her, holding her two breasts gently, pressing into her, willing her to know he meant it. He moved his right hand down and around, softly holding her buttock. "I will never hurt you, you know..." he kissed her eyebrow, his voice a controlled rumble. He knew her, even now. She was trembling, despite the bravado, with fear, and longing, and pain, and grief, and wanting, released gently.
"My breasts and I are deeply flattered." She said it with a gentle trill, and a small, selfonscious sigh, as if she would flourish a bow after it, suddenly, making fun of herself, in spite of the trembling. It was light humour, not sarcasm...assertively offputting, in the midst of being passionately direct. Her breath caught in her throat, sensing his earnestness. He stopped trying to speak, thinking hard, in response.
She smiled at his unaccustomed, slightly hesitant directness, admired his unique scientific summary - and stroked his neck until the hairs rose on the back of it.
Then she began to move her nose back and forth beside his ear, slowly.
He lowered his lips, moving them silently across her cheek, beside her chin, down her neck, and across her shoulder. She smelled like soap, and just a faint trace of jasmine. He decided he would find something that smelled like that flower, as soon as he managed to stop trying to blend into her ...If he could just stand there with her like that, he would forget what it was that had been thinking of, a moment before..except how her shoulder had tasted warm, like sunshine and honey....
"I...I like your glasses", he said, inadequately, his voice breaking slightly.He wished she could see inside of him. Nothing he could say to her would feel adequate in his own mind. Besides...he did like her glasses. They made her look like a Beatle, from many different countries all at once......God, how did you ignite a nerdy girl?
This was extremely disconcerting. He was terrifed of insulting her...especially at that particular moment. He thought he would probably never forget it...ever. It was that intimately wonderful.
"I know,", she said, calmly. "They're ten years out of date. The woman in Walmart told me. I stopped looking for another pair then, and left. I thought she'd start in on my sweater next." She sighed.
"Alas....... I'm doomed to creative disshevelment.."
She sighed,. drew her head back, and stared at him, worriedly. "Should I be concerned, do you think?" Her mouth twitched slightly. "Now you'll think I'm tarty. I get....ah....fervent about things... "
He was watching her nipple. He wished fervently, and suddenly, for more disshevelment. He thought he might fall down with it.
He looked at her face, very seriously. "No", he said..."and this turtleneck makes you look very feminine...But I think we should go to bed now, okay?" He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, near her glasses arm, softly. ..."Do you mind?"
"Should we have a full conversation first, do you think?"she replied, equally seriously."We might feel bad, otherwise."
He sighed, concernedlly. Then he looked at her face, raising her hand to his mouth, to touch it softly. "Ah, nerdy egghead woman I need...." he sighed again, and looked into her face.
"Nope."
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Art as Healing: Singing as Extension.
One of my dearest friends is an art therapist, and having watched the slow and methodical progress of overcoming pain, through visual art, of people like her clients, whose great desire is to give voice to their healing visually, it is something to see why, how, and for what ultimate purpose the "art" - be it rough or fine - is made.
Singing is an interesting extension of that ideal, in an age when music therapy is now a recognized and accepted discipline within the greater parameters of art, proper. In an age of "developing idols", we remember the recordings of our own experience; the well-loved rough rumbles of Tampa Red, perhaps, the smooth silk of Sinatra, the trills and thrills of Dolly Parton, maybe, as representative of an experience, and a handling, of the gift of the material itself. As an artist, we explore, in our way, and in our means, the experience and the "story" of a song, too, sometimes, if we are courageous, and willing to do so, to better understand, perhaps, those who have sung it before - even, perhaps, when the experience is unfamiliar, or unknown to us. Singing a K.D. Lang song, then, might mean understanding a particular artist's take on something: singing material normally sung by someone else, allows us to live, for a moment, in the performance perspective, momentarily, to try and better understand why and how those who have sung it before us, might have sung it in just the way that they did. It is a man singing a woman's song; a woman singing a man's song. Ultimately, it is just a song, with words and lyrics a malleable kind of paint, to the creative.
It is sometimes, too, less about "polish" and more about connecting; contrarily, the perfection of an Ella Fitzgerald, complexly handling, with effortless dexterity, musically, material handled quite directly, and without artifice and a dearth of technological addition, by others, seeking a purist kind of invocation of a real sense of awe, in ourselves, at natural ability. Perhaps, then, from a coaching standpoint, when we truly love the art medium itself, we become more impatient with the unburnished perfection, when that is being sought, or the rough edge and rumble not quite achieved, when that is sought, too. But, ultimately, unlike the "Idols" created by companies with a particular agenda, it is the "making of the thing" - and our encouragement of each other to continue to do so, which continually produces uniqueness in this, and other disciplines, and the continuing idea of "artistry for life", not "idols for a moment". This is a very different ideal, for very, very different reasons....
The world becomes a place where one song is a different story, in different hands, with those connecting to it, in a way that is unique to them, for different reasons: it is the essence and the reason, ultimately, for artistry beyond the release, and the need to express, which it has satisfied, momentarily, in the artist. It is being, at its immediate, and spontaneous, its most exuberant, its most controlled, its most perfectionist, and most instant, best. It is life - and that is a beautiful thing...
Singing is an interesting extension of that ideal, in an age when music therapy is now a recognized and accepted discipline within the greater parameters of art, proper. In an age of "developing idols", we remember the recordings of our own experience; the well-loved rough rumbles of Tampa Red, perhaps, the smooth silk of Sinatra, the trills and thrills of Dolly Parton, maybe, as representative of an experience, and a handling, of the gift of the material itself. As an artist, we explore, in our way, and in our means, the experience and the "story" of a song, too, sometimes, if we are courageous, and willing to do so, to better understand, perhaps, those who have sung it before - even, perhaps, when the experience is unfamiliar, or unknown to us. Singing a K.D. Lang song, then, might mean understanding a particular artist's take on something: singing material normally sung by someone else, allows us to live, for a moment, in the performance perspective, momentarily, to try and better understand why and how those who have sung it before us, might have sung it in just the way that they did. It is a man singing a woman's song; a woman singing a man's song. Ultimately, it is just a song, with words and lyrics a malleable kind of paint, to the creative.
It is sometimes, too, less about "polish" and more about connecting; contrarily, the perfection of an Ella Fitzgerald, complexly handling, with effortless dexterity, musically, material handled quite directly, and without artifice and a dearth of technological addition, by others, seeking a purist kind of invocation of a real sense of awe, in ourselves, at natural ability. Perhaps, then, from a coaching standpoint, when we truly love the art medium itself, we become more impatient with the unburnished perfection, when that is being sought, or the rough edge and rumble not quite achieved, when that is sought, too. But, ultimately, unlike the "Idols" created by companies with a particular agenda, it is the "making of the thing" - and our encouragement of each other to continue to do so, which continually produces uniqueness in this, and other disciplines, and the continuing idea of "artistry for life", not "idols for a moment". This is a very different ideal, for very, very different reasons....
The world becomes a place where one song is a different story, in different hands, with those connecting to it, in a way that is unique to them, for different reasons: it is the essence and the reason, ultimately, for artistry beyond the release, and the need to express, which it has satisfied, momentarily, in the artist. It is being, at its immediate, and spontaneous, its most exuberant, its most controlled, its most perfectionist, and most instant, best. It is life - and that is a beautiful thing...
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Hushed and Trembling Hope
Oh, see, amidst the scurry of the day,
And chores and times - and moments in a row -
That instant...just a stolen moment....
Hand over smile, awash among the throngs,
Celebration, given, taken, hoped for, all those gone before,
amongst the lulling song;
And yet, Still
As if sweet spring had peeked around the corner,
Winking,
Onward, Hearts!
And chores and times - and moments in a row -
That instant...just a stolen moment....
Hand over smile, awash among the throngs,
Celebration, given, taken, hoped for, all those gone before,
amongst the lulling song;
And yet, Still
As if sweet spring had peeked around the corner,
Winking,
Onward, Hearts!
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Mists of Ice
Droplets crystal, glimmer bright
and see beneath the water's light
Amidst the twinkling stars above
You are a special, unique love.
Liquid Desire of the Ages
Sung and spoken amidst pages
Long, and still bright lit amongst them all
You would not, could not, will not Fall.
I can but speak of moments dear
When hurt and pain and those not here
Were, holding in our hearts and minds
The same small light of loving kind.
And yet, in sharing this with you
They live and breathe, again, renewed.
Perhaps these moments, then, quiet, calm, and real
Remind us both at last ....we feel.
and see beneath the water's light
Amidst the twinkling stars above
You are a special, unique love.
Liquid Desire of the Ages
Sung and spoken amidst pages
Long, and still bright lit amongst them all
You would not, could not, will not Fall.
I can but speak of moments dear
When hurt and pain and those not here
Were, holding in our hearts and minds
The same small light of loving kind.
And yet, in sharing this with you
They live and breathe, again, renewed.
Perhaps these moments, then, quiet, calm, and real
Remind us both at last ....we feel.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Ellipsicles
The sigh of breath froze in the air,
A cloud of comment, hushed.
If I'd said aloud the warmth,
Perhaps we would have ignored the ice around, among, and within -
And laughed at winter's sleeping....
But I did not.
I only closed my eyes, and opened them again,
To watch the cloud drift near your imagined form,
Somewhere
Warmed, in my mind's eye, like some great lion,
Nuzzling me expectantly in the
Snow,
Having suddenly been awakened.
Jan. 17, 2009
D. Nevills
A cloud of comment, hushed.
If I'd said aloud the warmth,
Perhaps we would have ignored the ice around, among, and within -
And laughed at winter's sleeping....
But I did not.
I only closed my eyes, and opened them again,
To watch the cloud drift near your imagined form,
Somewhere
Warmed, in my mind's eye, like some great lion,
Nuzzling me expectantly in the
Snow,
Having suddenly been awakened.
Jan. 17, 2009
D. Nevills
Saturday, January 3, 2009
2009:To Hope, To Dare...To Dream Again.
As 2009 begins, amidst the harbingers of war, the frustrations of nations determined, and intent on protecting themselves, their way of life, and their people from destruction, without losing the very sense of identity and freedom which other nations have both envied and withheld from their own, it is telling that our sense of possibility is tied into a changing view of ourselves, of who we think is capable - and why. It is possibility, and audacity in the face of regression, repression, and recession, and the very daring that not only suggests hope - but creates it again, in the minds and hearts of those shared, shining lights.
In a world sometimes bent on crushing progress, destroying understanding and tolerance, withering a sense of growth and kindness after the incessant violence of wars which do nothing to lessen the glamorization of war, and preserve the old ideal of "returning to normalcy" as the mission's heart, to hope - nay, to dream again - must be something that we celebrate about our determination, as 2009 brings in a time of challenge. We're up for it.
In a world sometimes bent on crushing progress, destroying understanding and tolerance, withering a sense of growth and kindness after the incessant violence of wars which do nothing to lessen the glamorization of war, and preserve the old ideal of "returning to normalcy" as the mission's heart, to hope - nay, to dream again - must be something that we celebrate about our determination, as 2009 brings in a time of challenge. We're up for it.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Love at Christmas
...do you remember the first Christmas you were in love?
Anything would have been the most romantic gift in the world - even a plastic basket filled with garlic bread with cheese - shared - two half bowls of french onion soup, and a large glass of dry, crisp white wine, split into two smaller glasses, because all you had to go out to dinner together was ten dollars.
As you trudged along the street, mittened hands clasped together, laughing as the impossibly huge snowflakes danced around the glow of dingy streetlights, the glow that seemed to soften the dinge reminded you of what was inside....in spite of it all.....and it was enough.
Anything would have been the most romantic gift in the world - even a plastic basket filled with garlic bread with cheese - shared - two half bowls of french onion soup, and a large glass of dry, crisp white wine, split into two smaller glasses, because all you had to go out to dinner together was ten dollars.
As you trudged along the street, mittened hands clasped together, laughing as the impossibly huge snowflakes danced around the glow of dingy streetlights, the glow that seemed to soften the dinge reminded you of what was inside....in spite of it all.....and it was enough.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Saving the Auto Industry - Part II - "The Big Wigs"
In a rather telling indicator of the second part of the discussion on "salvaging" the auto industry's giant, a member of the U.S. government - "on the floor" - when faced with the request by industry officials for additional funding to bolster the operation, rather pointedly asked who, among them, had flown "commercial" to attend the meeting. No one responded.
"Let the record show", he said, "none of the officials in attendance has indicated that they have flown commercial."
To their credit, two or three of the officials smiled in response. However, under the circumstances, the smiles were completely inappropriate and, at that point in the equation between seeking recognition from the populace which supports it, and asking them for their money without buying anything to show for it, it became almost a mockery of the very procedure.
I like to think helpfully.
I like to think that those officials, faced with the daunting task of holding so many futures in their hands, were unaccustomed to both begging, and recognizing that that was what they were doing. As a result, they did what is socially acceptable of "in control officials" in an exceedingly awkward situation: they tried to look like they WERE in control. Often, we do this by exhibiting a lightheartedness in a desperately difficult situation. It then becomes almost unreal, rather than potentially devastating, if a mistake is made.
It was painfully obvious that those smiles were an indicator of extreme awkwardness - and yet not one person indicated that they recognized the serious of the request - and the situation - by having provided the leadership of a simple thing like "flying commercial" - something government officials MUST do, as an accountability factor, every single day.
It was an indicator, simply put, of instant expectation, in behaviour, outlook, and expected result, and it was an immediate, serious, and honourable one. I am not sure how successful, or sobering, it was, sans the smug superiority the ires of the irascible executive would intantly have read into it, in a moment of extreme personal discomfort, but it was a very gentle shock to the "system" which requires such examples, and quickly, if we are, as a group, to bring a group of people to the brink of personal ruin, and back again.
Consider the following, ensuing realities, in tandem with working with "the line", if you will:
1. The requirement for all company officials in management to pay for their cars, like those on the floor. Certainly, there will be drastic, and immediate incentives for these purchases, but there will be no more "freebies". They are ambassadors for a necessity - from the salesman's perspective which they will support - not a draw on a currently overstretched system. Nothing in this life is free, and especially not during the implosion of the industry from which it is drawing blood on a constant basis, without replenishment.
2. A recognition that administration feeds the "outgoing" business of making sales. At this point, all bonuses should be cut, and all percentages given to the people "on the sales floor" - in this case, dealerships - in order to "move out" old stock, and move in new stock. If they do not sell, you do not have a reason to produce. This is a reality everyone seems to have forgotten. Even more so than the "creators" of the commodity, if you do not have a market, then you had better make one for yourselves again, even if it means "brutal shock sales" for a brief period of time. If you break even, you are still not "under". The danger is not underselling, and, thus, devaluing your commodity, on a permanent basis. This is called "market glut" and "flooding", and farmers know about it well, in a market which does not have the same standards, the same expectations, or the same costs. They fight back with a marketing board, and the odd subsidy. Perhaps it's time we treated our auto industry with the same considerate eye to import/export relationships, if we are serious about maintaining it as an entity. At this point, on the long road back, this is a huge step over constant, steady loss. It only goes up from here....
3. Recognize that this equation, this input/outpout relationship, and this priority, in the chain of production and replenishment, must be an ongoing one. You cannot continue to suck upon the teat that has no output. Eventually, the sustenance dries up. Seasonal imbalances are one thing: constant draw with no "busy time" means L O S S. Customer brand loyalty, although true for a time, will not endure if there is no integrity during a tough period, in product, service, and considerate cost management during a period of slump. They are telling you that they want something different. You are not listening. It is time you did - and fast. The recognition of "help and continuance" must bring with it a different way of doing business. Period.
4. Also recognize that allowing even a partial "Chapter 11" bankruptcy to occur will do nothing to fix the problems which exist at the top. They will only punish the line workers who will only pledge to seriously examine the "group pain" required if it begins at the top, and includes them, and their input for saving the industry, at every step. If you are not on the same team, and continue a pattern of adversarial blame, and ultimate target, during a near bankruptcy, they will NOT be on the same team, and any attempts to begin the painful idea of salary, wage reductions, job sharing, cost cutting, job layoff, and renewed input for streamlining, employee stock options, rotating and voluntary "time offs", and other drastic measures, will simply not be on the very large round table which is still possible, and could begin a new, and exciting era in an industry which takes a long, hard look at itself, shakes off its doldrums and its arrogance, and, like Madonna, successfully reinvents itself with an exciting, bold, mercurial, and always gutsy renewed sense OF its own possibilities. Use the ingenuity within, without hesitation. Use the bold and unexpected approaches. Woo the unreached, and lull the already won.
Your audience, and our chariots, await. Only the horses know what happens next...wink.
"Let the record show", he said, "none of the officials in attendance has indicated that they have flown commercial."
To their credit, two or three of the officials smiled in response. However, under the circumstances, the smiles were completely inappropriate and, at that point in the equation between seeking recognition from the populace which supports it, and asking them for their money without buying anything to show for it, it became almost a mockery of the very procedure.
I like to think helpfully.
I like to think that those officials, faced with the daunting task of holding so many futures in their hands, were unaccustomed to both begging, and recognizing that that was what they were doing. As a result, they did what is socially acceptable of "in control officials" in an exceedingly awkward situation: they tried to look like they WERE in control. Often, we do this by exhibiting a lightheartedness in a desperately difficult situation. It then becomes almost unreal, rather than potentially devastating, if a mistake is made.
It was painfully obvious that those smiles were an indicator of extreme awkwardness - and yet not one person indicated that they recognized the serious of the request - and the situation - by having provided the leadership of a simple thing like "flying commercial" - something government officials MUST do, as an accountability factor, every single day.
It was an indicator, simply put, of instant expectation, in behaviour, outlook, and expected result, and it was an immediate, serious, and honourable one. I am not sure how successful, or sobering, it was, sans the smug superiority the ires of the irascible executive would intantly have read into it, in a moment of extreme personal discomfort, but it was a very gentle shock to the "system" which requires such examples, and quickly, if we are, as a group, to bring a group of people to the brink of personal ruin, and back again.
Consider the following, ensuing realities, in tandem with working with "the line", if you will:
1. The requirement for all company officials in management to pay for their cars, like those on the floor. Certainly, there will be drastic, and immediate incentives for these purchases, but there will be no more "freebies". They are ambassadors for a necessity - from the salesman's perspective which they will support - not a draw on a currently overstretched system. Nothing in this life is free, and especially not during the implosion of the industry from which it is drawing blood on a constant basis, without replenishment.
2. A recognition that administration feeds the "outgoing" business of making sales. At this point, all bonuses should be cut, and all percentages given to the people "on the sales floor" - in this case, dealerships - in order to "move out" old stock, and move in new stock. If they do not sell, you do not have a reason to produce. This is a reality everyone seems to have forgotten. Even more so than the "creators" of the commodity, if you do not have a market, then you had better make one for yourselves again, even if it means "brutal shock sales" for a brief period of time. If you break even, you are still not "under". The danger is not underselling, and, thus, devaluing your commodity, on a permanent basis. This is called "market glut" and "flooding", and farmers know about it well, in a market which does not have the same standards, the same expectations, or the same costs. They fight back with a marketing board, and the odd subsidy. Perhaps it's time we treated our auto industry with the same considerate eye to import/export relationships, if we are serious about maintaining it as an entity. At this point, on the long road back, this is a huge step over constant, steady loss. It only goes up from here....
3. Recognize that this equation, this input/outpout relationship, and this priority, in the chain of production and replenishment, must be an ongoing one. You cannot continue to suck upon the teat that has no output. Eventually, the sustenance dries up. Seasonal imbalances are one thing: constant draw with no "busy time" means L O S S. Customer brand loyalty, although true for a time, will not endure if there is no integrity during a tough period, in product, service, and considerate cost management during a period of slump. They are telling you that they want something different. You are not listening. It is time you did - and fast. The recognition of "help and continuance" must bring with it a different way of doing business. Period.
4. Also recognize that allowing even a partial "Chapter 11" bankruptcy to occur will do nothing to fix the problems which exist at the top. They will only punish the line workers who will only pledge to seriously examine the "group pain" required if it begins at the top, and includes them, and their input for saving the industry, at every step. If you are not on the same team, and continue a pattern of adversarial blame, and ultimate target, during a near bankruptcy, they will NOT be on the same team, and any attempts to begin the painful idea of salary, wage reductions, job sharing, cost cutting, job layoff, and renewed input for streamlining, employee stock options, rotating and voluntary "time offs", and other drastic measures, will simply not be on the very large round table which is still possible, and could begin a new, and exciting era in an industry which takes a long, hard look at itself, shakes off its doldrums and its arrogance, and, like Madonna, successfully reinvents itself with an exciting, bold, mercurial, and always gutsy renewed sense OF its own possibilities. Use the ingenuity within, without hesitation. Use the bold and unexpected approaches. Woo the unreached, and lull the already won.
Your audience, and our chariots, await. Only the horses know what happens next...wink.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)