Sunday, May 27, 2012
Towards Expression, Impression, and Growth!
The artistic impulse is instinctively towards healing and creation, through expression of some sort. If you look at a DaVinci, or modern visual art, or think about music or sculpture, the idea of "being touched, moved, and inspired, somehow" - the "pointer finger connecting to pointer finger" as one little girl said, perfectly - is its Essence.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Search for Air - A Discussion of Process
He was slightly bent over, one hand on his hip, breathing in and out laboriously. Spittle was hanging from the end of his nose. He turned his head rapidly, sideways, to peer up at her, through one open eye, pirate-like. The other one was squinted shut. A glob of the nose spittle flew up and hit her in the eye. She smiled, unfazed, like a surgeon.
"What was THAT?" he whispered, weakly.
"Eight solid hours of induced laugh therapy", she intoned. She wiped the nose spittle glob out of her eye with her shirt, sighing with satisfaction. "I learned it from a slightly odd Indian man who most people thought was just psychotic. He turned out to be a genius, therapy-wise, despite being alone a lot." She smiled at him again, watching him anxiously, like a bug.
"I may have overdone it a bit, but I didn't want you to think I had been neglecting you. I just get very focused." He was coughing, and gripping his side.
"Is it supposed to result in this much sharp, stabbing pain?" he answered between coughs.
There was a little spittle lodged in the corner of his mouth, foam-like, which he couldn't quite manage to wrap his tongue around. The tongue itself was hanging out of his mouth, dog-like, fighting for cooling air, like a lizard - and, really, to shepherd more of the air stuff into his lungs. The resulting intake of breath was interspersed with a strange moaning sound. He was terrified he'd have to urinate next, and destroy the whole carefully orchestrated process of bodily functions he was still, at the moment, mastering. He could only imagine what he might have looked like, to someone passing by....
"Stop, oh stop", he gasped.
"Are you sure?" she said. "We want to try and push this to your burn limit, if we can. The effects last longer." She was squinting, as if she had a tic, where the spittle had flown into her eye, as the cool air hit the wet surface. A mad image of Groucho Marx flew into and out of his head, briefly, standing there. He felt lightheaded.
He was staring at her face, helplessly, gagging at the tic. He thought he might die at any moment.
"Can't you just stop all movement briefly?", he moaned, finally. The tears had slipped out of his left eye, and were pouring down his face. The body was showing its rebellion against stroke.
"Liquid release!" she blurted out. "Usually it's the other end! You're really worked on the control focus exercise, haven't you? Good for you!!!!" She was relentless. He thought she might end with "my little elf man", or something equally impossible. He was allowing himself the moan sound mixed with air, generously.
"Ahhhhhaaaahhhhhh errrr mroooow, " he said. He crossed his legs, still bent over, and fell over, at last.
"I'll be right back", she said. "The phone's ringing....."She trotted off, like a pole vaulter. He noted, absently, that although the rest of her body moved - including her breasts, which jiggled slightly above the underwire bra beneath her shirt - her head, like a bobbling dashboard doll, remained unflinching, like a strange orb eye, or a rock, with hair on it. The sound of his moans bounced off it, echoing slightly in the afternoon sunshine, as she retreated.
He lay there, silent in his sudden private moment, looking at the dark stain on his trousers, and sighed. He was her slave, he knew, happily. He felt wonderful, despite the nasty smell. He barked out loud, suddenly, for no apparent reason that he could understand, feeling free at last. Martin Luther King Jr., he knew, would have understood. He looked upwards, slowly: the dark cloud had lifted.
Never again would he refer to himself as Schleprock. She had won.
"What was THAT?" he whispered, weakly.
"Eight solid hours of induced laugh therapy", she intoned. She wiped the nose spittle glob out of her eye with her shirt, sighing with satisfaction. "I learned it from a slightly odd Indian man who most people thought was just psychotic. He turned out to be a genius, therapy-wise, despite being alone a lot." She smiled at him again, watching him anxiously, like a bug.
"I may have overdone it a bit, but I didn't want you to think I had been neglecting you. I just get very focused." He was coughing, and gripping his side.
"Is it supposed to result in this much sharp, stabbing pain?" he answered between coughs.
There was a little spittle lodged in the corner of his mouth, foam-like, which he couldn't quite manage to wrap his tongue around. The tongue itself was hanging out of his mouth, dog-like, fighting for cooling air, like a lizard - and, really, to shepherd more of the air stuff into his lungs. The resulting intake of breath was interspersed with a strange moaning sound. He was terrified he'd have to urinate next, and destroy the whole carefully orchestrated process of bodily functions he was still, at the moment, mastering. He could only imagine what he might have looked like, to someone passing by....
"Stop, oh stop", he gasped.
"Are you sure?" she said. "We want to try and push this to your burn limit, if we can. The effects last longer." She was squinting, as if she had a tic, where the spittle had flown into her eye, as the cool air hit the wet surface. A mad image of Groucho Marx flew into and out of his head, briefly, standing there. He felt lightheaded.
He was staring at her face, helplessly, gagging at the tic. He thought he might die at any moment.
"Can't you just stop all movement briefly?", he moaned, finally. The tears had slipped out of his left eye, and were pouring down his face. The body was showing its rebellion against stroke.
"Liquid release!" she blurted out. "Usually it's the other end! You're really worked on the control focus exercise, haven't you? Good for you!!!!" She was relentless. He thought she might end with "my little elf man", or something equally impossible. He was allowing himself the moan sound mixed with air, generously.
"Ahhhhhaaaahhhhhh errrr mroooow, " he said. He crossed his legs, still bent over, and fell over, at last.
"I'll be right back", she said. "The phone's ringing....."She trotted off, like a pole vaulter. He noted, absently, that although the rest of her body moved - including her breasts, which jiggled slightly above the underwire bra beneath her shirt - her head, like a bobbling dashboard doll, remained unflinching, like a strange orb eye, or a rock, with hair on it. The sound of his moans bounced off it, echoing slightly in the afternoon sunshine, as she retreated.
He lay there, silent in his sudden private moment, looking at the dark stain on his trousers, and sighed. He was her slave, he knew, happily. He felt wonderful, despite the nasty smell. He barked out loud, suddenly, for no apparent reason that he could understand, feeling free at last. Martin Luther King Jr., he knew, would have understood. He looked upwards, slowly: the dark cloud had lifted.
Never again would he refer to himself as Schleprock. She had won.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Happy Mother's Day, 2012
Sunday May 13, 2012
One of my fondest memories was of my mother and I going on a hike together, one Good Friday, down
Red Hill Creek Valley.
When we found our destination, and after looking at various small animals, including birds, squirrels, and the occasional rabbit or two, the best lunch ever got cooked over an open fire: wieners and beans.
The smell of the open can of beans, roasting over our little fire, while we roasted wienies and then mixed them in the beans, was out of this world, and seemed a rare feast to a little girl with a smudged nose, and a canvas cap. All I knew was that I had the coolest mom, ever.....still do, in fact: an adventurous spirit still wending her way, with my dear Dad at her side, through the highs and lows of life. My life has been blessed, as a result.
For everyone lucky enough to have a mother in their lives - or a woman dear to them, who tried to fill in for her, as best they could - here's to remembering, celebrating, and letting them know how grateful you are for those moments.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom! I love you!
One of my fondest memories was of my mother and I going on a hike together, one Good Friday, down
Red Hill Creek Valley.
When we found our destination, and after looking at various small animals, including birds, squirrels, and the occasional rabbit or two, the best lunch ever got cooked over an open fire: wieners and beans.
The smell of the open can of beans, roasting over our little fire, while we roasted wienies and then mixed them in the beans, was out of this world, and seemed a rare feast to a little girl with a smudged nose, and a canvas cap. All I knew was that I had the coolest mom, ever.....still do, in fact: an adventurous spirit still wending her way, with my dear Dad at her side, through the highs and lows of life. My life has been blessed, as a result.
For everyone lucky enough to have a mother in their lives - or a woman dear to them, who tried to fill in for her, as best they could - here's to remembering, celebrating, and letting them know how grateful you are for those moments.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom! I love you!
Monday, April 16, 2012
Intelligent Design
Each image is pressed upon my brain, like Darwin's silhouetted imprint:
Curve of jutting bone; high flush of cheek - and warm beneath my trembling fingers,
Pulse beating frantically, quietly, defiantly in a surge of
Tintern Abbey's all-encompassing Dance:
Ages and Sages tell of these etchings, eked out upon our lifelines,
But not
The glint in two other worlds,
As they stare into Sudden Speechless Mindlessness
Developing into Happenstance and Hinterland, in an instant of
Flame and Reason.
Curve of jutting bone; high flush of cheek - and warm beneath my trembling fingers,
Pulse beating frantically, quietly, defiantly in a surge of
Tintern Abbey's all-encompassing Dance:
Ages and Sages tell of these etchings, eked out upon our lifelines,
But not
The glint in two other worlds,
As they stare into Sudden Speechless Mindlessness
Developing into Happenstance and Hinterland, in an instant of
Flame and Reason.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Freezing Spray and Lemon Torte
The whoosh of wind had whipped the waves into neat froths, like a meringue torte amidst an ice of freezing gelati. She turned her collar up, shrugging her shoulders against the buffeting, as the spray and freezing mist bit into her face, and stung her ears.
She was not sure what made her look up at that instant. Until then she had been sauntering along the beach, unrestrained and unknown, really, aside from the haunting of the gulls, and the slight awkwardness to her gait, as the boots cut into the sand, making her "walk wobble plonk", in little indents, as she plodded along.
She did, now, though, stopping dead in her tracks.
He was standing about twenty feet away, hands jammed deep into his jacket, a wild flush high on his cheeks; the hair flopped about his head in an impossible shock of newly clipped and failed decorum.
"You're late", he growled at her, from somewhere very strange, deep within his chest cavity.
"I can't possibly be late; we haven't actually met yet", she shot back, setting her lips, and narrowing her eyes at him. She cocked her head to one side, giving him her twinkly cheeky look. When in doubt, go for the injured supervisor look. Supervisor of someone else, obviously, she thought resolutely.
"Besides; you're much too nasty." She stood there, trying to decide if she might have to drop kick him.
"You look like a mad elf", he said, relenting. She looked like a human cactus. He was suddenly unsure of himself for the first time in his life. This was definitely NOT the reaction he had expected.
"I am a mad elf", she said, simply. "It was very rude to sub in a dwarf, you know." He coughed, trying not to laugh. "Look at you!" she trilled, sarcastically. She didn't hold out her arms.
"Come here,' he said, quietly, with exasperation.
"I'm not a dog", she said, sticking out her chin and glaring at him. And then, "You're quite cheeky for such a large, slightly bossy man. It's not very attractive".
He could see she had absolutely no fear of him at all, and blew out his breath, exasperatedly.
"I was thinking it needed a towel," he said, quietly. He closed his eyes, sucking in his breath forlornly, realizing the continued, unfortunate, dog reference.
She sighed. He walked towards her, slowly.
"You're shorter than I thought", he said, stopping two feet away. She looked up at him, hands still jammed into her pockets. She could probably take him out at the knees without too much trouble.
"You look very aggravated. Are you annoyed with me?" She said the last part very softly. She hadn't moved an inch. It was worrying, he decided, that she sounded so hopeful.
"No", he said. "Yes", he said. He put his hands around her face, stepping towards her, and moved his hand around her back, pulling her gently against him, as her hands came out of her pockets, and up and around his neck.
"You have to decide which one", she said, against his mouth, finally, and staring into his face, sternly.
He kissed her then.
She was not sure what made her look up at that instant. Until then she had been sauntering along the beach, unrestrained and unknown, really, aside from the haunting of the gulls, and the slight awkwardness to her gait, as the boots cut into the sand, making her "walk wobble plonk", in little indents, as she plodded along.
She did, now, though, stopping dead in her tracks.
He was standing about twenty feet away, hands jammed deep into his jacket, a wild flush high on his cheeks; the hair flopped about his head in an impossible shock of newly clipped and failed decorum.
"You're late", he growled at her, from somewhere very strange, deep within his chest cavity.
"I can't possibly be late; we haven't actually met yet", she shot back, setting her lips, and narrowing her eyes at him. She cocked her head to one side, giving him her twinkly cheeky look. When in doubt, go for the injured supervisor look. Supervisor of someone else, obviously, she thought resolutely.
"Besides; you're much too nasty." She stood there, trying to decide if she might have to drop kick him.
"You look like a mad elf", he said, relenting. She looked like a human cactus. He was suddenly unsure of himself for the first time in his life. This was definitely NOT the reaction he had expected.
"I am a mad elf", she said, simply. "It was very rude to sub in a dwarf, you know." He coughed, trying not to laugh. "Look at you!" she trilled, sarcastically. She didn't hold out her arms.
"Come here,' he said, quietly, with exasperation.
"I'm not a dog", she said, sticking out her chin and glaring at him. And then, "You're quite cheeky for such a large, slightly bossy man. It's not very attractive".
He could see she had absolutely no fear of him at all, and blew out his breath, exasperatedly.
"Especially since I made a point of shocking you back to yourself, after you were done acting like a total asshole."
She jammed her hands into her jacket pockets, her cropped head
poking out of her turtleneck and canvas coat with a windswept defiance. "Mr. Snarky."
He did laugh, then, standing there, twenty feet away from her, feet planted in the sand, on a freezing Saturday afternoon of a New England beach - facing off against each other, really, both of them with their hands jammed into their pockets, like two very strange Marines.
"We're quite far away from each other, still", she blurted out, unnecessarily. "It's slightly awkward."
He was coughing, and trying to breathe. He wiped his eyes with one of his hands, and jammed it back into his pocket. "Shit", he said, hating his own guts and then feeling ridiculous, since he really wasn't, he decided objectively, an asshole at all.
"Also" she continued, "then you CALLED me, like a DOG. You're a rather odd man, aren't you, as far as first meetings go.....?" He was quite perplexed as to what to say next. "In this part of the planet human beings do not salivate and come running up to be led about with a leash. Got it?"
"Not until now", he blurted out, exasperated with his own reply. His face went beet red.
"I have that effect sometimes; sorry", she said, cocking her head to the other side, and staring at him, relenting slightly. "I took assertiveness training. You look cold."
"I hadn't really planned on a walk on a freezing beach, pre-tornado", he said, drily.
"It's rather nice, isn't it?', she sighed, cheerily. "Invigorating." Her hair was stuck to her head, like a sort of flat brillo pad of wet growth. "I think my hair is stuck to my head", she said, describing what he was looking at, matter-of-factly.
She jammed her hands into her jacket pockets, her cropped head
poking out of her turtleneck and canvas coat with a windswept defiance. "Mr. Snarky."
He did laugh, then, standing there, twenty feet away from her, feet planted in the sand, on a freezing Saturday afternoon of a New England beach - facing off against each other, really, both of them with their hands jammed into their pockets, like two very strange Marines.
"We're quite far away from each other, still", she blurted out, unnecessarily. "It's slightly awkward."
He was coughing, and trying to breathe. He wiped his eyes with one of his hands, and jammed it back into his pocket. "Shit", he said, hating his own guts and then feeling ridiculous, since he really wasn't, he decided objectively, an asshole at all.
"Also" she continued, "then you CALLED me, like a DOG. You're a rather odd man, aren't you, as far as first meetings go.....?" He was quite perplexed as to what to say next. "In this part of the planet human beings do not salivate and come running up to be led about with a leash. Got it?"
"Not until now", he blurted out, exasperated with his own reply. His face went beet red.
"I have that effect sometimes; sorry", she said, cocking her head to the other side, and staring at him, relenting slightly. "I took assertiveness training. You look cold."
"I hadn't really planned on a walk on a freezing beach, pre-tornado", he said, drily.
"It's rather nice, isn't it?', she sighed, cheerily. "Invigorating." Her hair was stuck to her head, like a sort of flat brillo pad of wet growth. "I think my hair is stuck to my head", she said, describing what he was looking at, matter-of-factly.
"I was thinking it needed a towel," he said, quietly. He closed his eyes, sucking in his breath forlornly, realizing the continued, unfortunate, dog reference.
She sighed. He walked towards her, slowly.
"You're shorter than I thought", he said, stopping two feet away. She looked up at him, hands still jammed into her pockets. She could probably take him out at the knees without too much trouble.
"You look very aggravated. Are you annoyed with me?" She said the last part very softly. She hadn't moved an inch. It was worrying, he decided, that she sounded so hopeful.
"No", he said. "Yes", he said. He put his hands around her face, stepping towards her, and moved his hand around her back, pulling her gently against him, as her hands came out of her pockets, and up and around his neck.
"You have to decide which one", she said, against his mouth, finally, and staring into his face, sternly.
He kissed her then.
Spring Save
The sunshine splash of sleeping bloom that is daft, and dill sill,
Waves, and the late spring frost is but a twinkle of surprised season, stalled
Yet awhile, in the twixt and tween of morning, and bloom.
Ah! It droops with sleep, but creeping lighted tendrils, coaxing
All the while, and...
Heads up!
Petals throw back their leaves, shaking encased cocoon away,
Admitting
Light and Thee
Into the frond fond, and embrace, of
New
Grace.
Waves, and the late spring frost is but a twinkle of surprised season, stalled
Yet awhile, in the twixt and tween of morning, and bloom.
Ah! It droops with sleep, but creeping lighted tendrils, coaxing
All the while, and...
Heads up!
Petals throw back their leaves, shaking encased cocoon away,
Admitting
Light and Thee
Into the frond fond, and embrace, of
New
Grace.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Watching the Clock for St. Patrick
"Hi there, beautiful." He sidled up to her. The band was playing the nearing end of night songs, and the music had slowed down some.
There was a tired sway to the quiet dancers on the floor.
There was a curious detachment which drew him to her. She turned to him, and their eyes locked for an instant of electric current. He stepped back, a half step. The green flashed out of them, just before he smiled, and he cleared his throat.
"Ah, the sweetness of a hopeful liar." Her eyes were kind, and so was her voice, which sounded like a curious kind of honey in the dark. They smiled at each other.
"The thought of a smile so real made me sad to think that the body attached to it was not dancing," he said, smoothly, in a voice that did not belong to his heart. He felt both a liar, and an alien. She was quite disconcerting.
She laughed a low purr, with her head tilted back to stare up at him, unafraid. He had better not step on her foot, he thought, rapidly, not used to an absence of being impressed with stature. She stood her ground, cocking her head to one side.
Then she winked.
"A dance, Oh Tall One?", she said, quietly, the grin flashing out beyond the removed quietness he had seen in a private space, just a moment ago, as she sat silently, listening to the music. What an unusal woman: he had better not blow this.
"Ah, of course." He held out his hands, smoothly, grinning a boyish grin which he had not expected from himself. He had been about to buy her a drink. They stepped out on to the floor.
As the music began, he drew her towards him. She seemed a comfortable warmth, there, keeping step with him, leaning against him gently in the darkness. Her hair smelled of freesia, cropped close against her head in a kind of curling cap defying both tomboyishness and enforced girliness. She did not force banal conversation; just glided around the floor with him, breathing...comfortable.
He rested his mouth against her temple, and felt the pulse beating there, steadily, as if they had done it for years.
"You smell lovely", he said against her temple, ridiculously.
"Freesia", she said, quietly. "Quite out of date." She chuckled, not moving her head. She liked the way his voice made her ear buzz. She sighed, unapologetically.
He smiled, breathing in her hair. He had not stepped on her foot, as they twirled that last bit, despite talking to him at the same time. He found that rather attractive, in an oddly provocative way, and he was proud of himself for not trodding upon her instep, despite feeling very silly, all of a sudden.
She began to hum to the music. It was quite endearing, since he knew she wasn't hammered. Always so nice when someone knew the actual song, and didn't ruin it by yowling drunkenly, while cavorting about the floor like an idiot. She just hummed, and swirled, like rum.
He breathed, relaxed. They moved about the floor, silently. He raised her palm in his hand, moving his head back to look down at her face. She met his gaze, tilting her head back, and gave a laugh, stepping back, so he had to follow her. She took a quick step to one side, and then the other, not letting go of his hand.
She smiled at him.
"Happy St. Patrick's Day", she said, gently, swaying and stepping gently, as the music crooned quietly around them. " I got my wish."
"And what was that?" he said, gently.
"I wanted to dance with Love", she said, quietly. She touched the side of his face, stepped forward, kissed his nose, laughed.....
and walked briskly from the room.
There were, thankfully, still some women who knew that Time was Precious.
There was a tired sway to the quiet dancers on the floor.
There was a curious detachment which drew him to her. She turned to him, and their eyes locked for an instant of electric current. He stepped back, a half step. The green flashed out of them, just before he smiled, and he cleared his throat.
"Ah, the sweetness of a hopeful liar." Her eyes were kind, and so was her voice, which sounded like a curious kind of honey in the dark. They smiled at each other.
"The thought of a smile so real made me sad to think that the body attached to it was not dancing," he said, smoothly, in a voice that did not belong to his heart. He felt both a liar, and an alien. She was quite disconcerting.
She laughed a low purr, with her head tilted back to stare up at him, unafraid. He had better not step on her foot, he thought, rapidly, not used to an absence of being impressed with stature. She stood her ground, cocking her head to one side.
Then she winked.
"A dance, Oh Tall One?", she said, quietly, the grin flashing out beyond the removed quietness he had seen in a private space, just a moment ago, as she sat silently, listening to the music. What an unusal woman: he had better not blow this.
"Ah, of course." He held out his hands, smoothly, grinning a boyish grin which he had not expected from himself. He had been about to buy her a drink. They stepped out on to the floor.
As the music began, he drew her towards him. She seemed a comfortable warmth, there, keeping step with him, leaning against him gently in the darkness. Her hair smelled of freesia, cropped close against her head in a kind of curling cap defying both tomboyishness and enforced girliness. She did not force banal conversation; just glided around the floor with him, breathing...comfortable.
He rested his mouth against her temple, and felt the pulse beating there, steadily, as if they had done it for years.
"You smell lovely", he said against her temple, ridiculously.
"Freesia", she said, quietly. "Quite out of date." She chuckled, not moving her head. She liked the way his voice made her ear buzz. She sighed, unapologetically.
He smiled, breathing in her hair. He had not stepped on her foot, as they twirled that last bit, despite talking to him at the same time. He found that rather attractive, in an oddly provocative way, and he was proud of himself for not trodding upon her instep, despite feeling very silly, all of a sudden.
She began to hum to the music. It was quite endearing, since he knew she wasn't hammered. Always so nice when someone knew the actual song, and didn't ruin it by yowling drunkenly, while cavorting about the floor like an idiot. She just hummed, and swirled, like rum.
He breathed, relaxed. They moved about the floor, silently. He raised her palm in his hand, moving his head back to look down at her face. She met his gaze, tilting her head back, and gave a laugh, stepping back, so he had to follow her. She took a quick step to one side, and then the other, not letting go of his hand.
She smiled at him.
"Happy St. Patrick's Day", she said, gently, swaying and stepping gently, as the music crooned quietly around them. " I got my wish."
"And what was that?" he said, gently.
"I wanted to dance with Love", she said, quietly. She touched the side of his face, stepped forward, kissed his nose, laughed.....
and walked briskly from the room.
There were, thankfully, still some women who knew that Time was Precious.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Zorb and Onk on St. Patrick's Day
An observatory conversation between Zorb and Onk, from the planet Abconchcall, on St. Patrick's Day. Unfortunately, they have focused their observations on a bar.
-------------------------------------------------------
Onk: Observe, Zorb, the strange gyrations of this humanoid. I feel deep empathy for their illness, and wish to intervene. Pehaps if I stroke him out, he can be still, and at peace.
Zorb: No, Onk. This is forbidden. Besides, based on his diet, this is certainly imminent anyway. Besides, if you are careful, in your caring observation, you will note that this provides probably the only exercise that this human unit gets, in addition to the pleasurable feeling which he receives, as he moves with the count of the beats coming from the sustained sound of that piece of wood in the mouth of the nearby humanoid. This is a "pan pipe." Do you see it, Onk? It is not an unpleasant sound - although the pattern need not be repeated again, and again, as if we would forget it, without constant drilling. Perhaps they are stupid, and this instrument holder knows of this weakness, and seeks to address it by means of gyration pattern installation in its listener. I must observe more closely.
Also, this, I have noted, is sometimes a mating ritual. Why have you not noted this in your log?
Onk: Zorb, forgive my laziness. I am weak with respect to sustained focus. It requires such patience, I fear I fail repeatedly at this task. Might I sigh with resignation, with your permission?
Zorb: Must you, Onk? This is rather selfindulgent. Have you tried the gyrations yourself? We might learn from these Beings.
Onk: I prefer to run repeatedly on this metal device, with no real destination in mind, Zorb. In harnessing the energy it creates, I have contributed to the Greater Good, and I will provide energy for our sustenance garden. This illogical pan pipe gyration movement seems much like a kind of liquid, and I am uncomfortable with the elemental comparison, with respect to my outer shell. Cannot you compare me to barium? It, at least, has a clearer purpose.
Zorb: As you wish, Onk. This is not openminded, for an explorer. You are closeminded. This is often unhelpful, as far as being judgemental, and Superior.
Onk: Zorb, I feel you are drawing away from me, speaking as your completion unit, and this scares me. You are too influenced beyond our insular circle of completeness. I protest that I wish you to return and meld with me, immediately, as a comfort and assurance.
It is because I am insecure. However, this is required.
Zorb: I will not, Onk. This is most inconvenient timing for your personal needs. You are here for a greater mission than your own reassurance. Prostrate yourself among the flowers of the space garden immediately, and contemplate your place in the Greater Nature. I am ashamed of you. I will continue this affectionate and nonjudgemental support of this strange, yet loving, and seriously retarded, species.
Please go to our growing area. I do not wish to view you or engage in discourse any longer.
---------------------------------------------------------
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Onk: Observe, Zorb, the strange gyrations of this humanoid. I feel deep empathy for their illness, and wish to intervene. Pehaps if I stroke him out, he can be still, and at peace.
Zorb: No, Onk. This is forbidden. Besides, based on his diet, this is certainly imminent anyway. Besides, if you are careful, in your caring observation, you will note that this provides probably the only exercise that this human unit gets, in addition to the pleasurable feeling which he receives, as he moves with the count of the beats coming from the sustained sound of that piece of wood in the mouth of the nearby humanoid. This is a "pan pipe." Do you see it, Onk? It is not an unpleasant sound - although the pattern need not be repeated again, and again, as if we would forget it, without constant drilling. Perhaps they are stupid, and this instrument holder knows of this weakness, and seeks to address it by means of gyration pattern installation in its listener. I must observe more closely.
Also, this, I have noted, is sometimes a mating ritual. Why have you not noted this in your log?
Onk: Zorb, forgive my laziness. I am weak with respect to sustained focus. It requires such patience, I fear I fail repeatedly at this task. Might I sigh with resignation, with your permission?
Zorb: Must you, Onk? This is rather selfindulgent. Have you tried the gyrations yourself? We might learn from these Beings.
Onk: I prefer to run repeatedly on this metal device, with no real destination in mind, Zorb. In harnessing the energy it creates, I have contributed to the Greater Good, and I will provide energy for our sustenance garden. This illogical pan pipe gyration movement seems much like a kind of liquid, and I am uncomfortable with the elemental comparison, with respect to my outer shell. Cannot you compare me to barium? It, at least, has a clearer purpose.
Zorb: As you wish, Onk. This is not openminded, for an explorer. You are closeminded. This is often unhelpful, as far as being judgemental, and Superior.
Onk: Zorb, I feel you are drawing away from me, speaking as your completion unit, and this scares me. You are too influenced beyond our insular circle of completeness. I protest that I wish you to return and meld with me, immediately, as a comfort and assurance.
It is because I am insecure. However, this is required.
Zorb: I will not, Onk. This is most inconvenient timing for your personal needs. You are here for a greater mission than your own reassurance. Prostrate yourself among the flowers of the space garden immediately, and contemplate your place in the Greater Nature. I am ashamed of you. I will continue this affectionate and nonjudgemental support of this strange, yet loving, and seriously retarded, species.
Please go to our growing area. I do not wish to view you or engage in discourse any longer.
---------------------------------------------------------
St. Patrick's Day
In honour of St. Patrick's Day, I have prepared the following pieces, for my own sanity (since I need a break from considering the project in which I am currently embroiled), and also because I think it's necessary. Each will be prefaced by a creative explanation.
-----------------------
Grouping One: Hitler's letters to his mistress, Eva Braun.
(Only two have been discovered, and many say that that is really enough to understand the man. Many then say they now know, for certain, why they wouldn't want to, anyway.)
---------------------------
Letter 1
Mein liebchien, I wish you were a man....I am so passionate, I am venting inappropriately, and feel ashamed of my urges. Please don't poison me. I'll take it out on everyone else, instead, since I also just suck as an administrator. No one listens to me, poopsikins. I will steal from them.
Love, your Rolfie.
----------------------
Letter 2
Eva, I have made them salute your sacrifice my darling, by showing me their clean hand. If I was weak, they could lower it to work, before they experienced massive pain in their shoulder area, but I will not: your love is tantamount, and I am a horse to your love. They must jump this high.
That you love me, I know, now. I am sorry I am such an asshole that I cannot give you my name, but you are still imperfect. That I am weak in this way means I must screw you repeatedly. We must tell no one, however. You may dream of me, though, if you wish. You must tell me if you do, however, so I may absolve you of these illusions you have about me, so that I remain pure.
If you continue to pleasure me, I will torment you lovingly with my love stache. In later years, imperfect men who grow things will mistakenly interpret this gift I make to you, and grow noxious substances out of various leaves, which they will, (because they're lazy and unclean), make you smoke, so that you can only envision these experiences in history between us.
They will envy us, my darling snowshoot, but simply sink into a chasm of sleep and then experience ravenous hunger which will then revolt them later, like a bird discovering how it has fed its young. They will never experience our purity, my love chub.
This is not to be mistaken for Peyote, which is different. Those guys are just crazy motherfuckers.
I have taken aspirin, again. I am weak.
Forgive me.
The headache of your love is a testament to the concussion of our minds, being one within the Greater Reality which I will create in my own artificial image. I must hurry and repeatedly continue to smash my head against the wall for inspiration....perhaps, until I am dead.
Oh!
-----------------------
Grouping One: Hitler's letters to his mistress, Eva Braun.
(Only two have been discovered, and many say that that is really enough to understand the man. Many then say they now know, for certain, why they wouldn't want to, anyway.)
---------------------------
Letter 1
Mein liebchien, I wish you were a man....I am so passionate, I am venting inappropriately, and feel ashamed of my urges. Please don't poison me. I'll take it out on everyone else, instead, since I also just suck as an administrator. No one listens to me, poopsikins. I will steal from them.
Love, your Rolfie.
----------------------
Letter 2
Eva, I have made them salute your sacrifice my darling, by showing me their clean hand. If I was weak, they could lower it to work, before they experienced massive pain in their shoulder area, but I will not: your love is tantamount, and I am a horse to your love. They must jump this high.
That you love me, I know, now. I am sorry I am such an asshole that I cannot give you my name, but you are still imperfect. That I am weak in this way means I must screw you repeatedly. We must tell no one, however. You may dream of me, though, if you wish. You must tell me if you do, however, so I may absolve you of these illusions you have about me, so that I remain pure.
If you continue to pleasure me, I will torment you lovingly with my love stache. In later years, imperfect men who grow things will mistakenly interpret this gift I make to you, and grow noxious substances out of various leaves, which they will, (because they're lazy and unclean), make you smoke, so that you can only envision these experiences in history between us.
They will envy us, my darling snowshoot, but simply sink into a chasm of sleep and then experience ravenous hunger which will then revolt them later, like a bird discovering how it has fed its young. They will never experience our purity, my love chub.
This is not to be mistaken for Peyote, which is different. Those guys are just crazy motherfuckers.
I have taken aspirin, again. I am weak.
Forgive me.
The headache of your love is a testament to the concussion of our minds, being one within the Greater Reality which I will create in my own artificial image. I must hurry and repeatedly continue to smash my head against the wall for inspiration....perhaps, until I am dead.
Oh!
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Nearer to Buds and Green
There is such small breath between us, I feel ashamed that I steal your air.
Only move here - a smallbreath further - and you shall collide with my lips.
They wait there for you, having spoken so many words of worry and wonder
That the poets of old - and of new, shudder......
See! Ah.....I think I see a tremor course through thee, reminding thy eyes to awaken;
That thou art still, (with breath moving around and within), yet with me,
And my hand, outstretched, might touch those trembling lips, fingers fumbling,
To seek the earth in them that is yet ours awhile, Dear One; tracing all the storied hours of roar and remember, there, with
the wide-eyed newness of it all, washing over me like the
Watering suddenness of
Warmed Oak Age, and Flowers of Spring, in an
Instant of
Carbon Spark.
Only move here - a smallbreath further - and you shall collide with my lips.
They wait there for you, having spoken so many words of worry and wonder
That the poets of old - and of new, shudder......
See! Ah.....I think I see a tremor course through thee, reminding thy eyes to awaken;
That thou art still, (with breath moving around and within), yet with me,
And my hand, outstretched, might touch those trembling lips, fingers fumbling,
To seek the earth in them that is yet ours awhile, Dear One; tracing all the storied hours of roar and remember, there, with
the wide-eyed newness of it all, washing over me like the
Watering suddenness of
Warmed Oak Age, and Flowers of Spring, in an
Instant of
Carbon Spark.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Personal Flight
Whenever clouds abound amidst the highest peaks,
Blotting out the azure glow of sky,
And circling wings of keen-eyed eagles seek
The treasured blink and small-winged cry,
But find it not, take heart;
All soon will fade away, like misted days
Long past:
Then greater journeys, and better notes,
Will ring.
Blotting out the azure glow of sky,
And circling wings of keen-eyed eagles seek
The treasured blink and small-winged cry,
But find it not, take heart;
All soon will fade away, like misted days
Long past:
Then greater journeys, and better notes,
Will ring.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
ON SALE NOW! Brand new Audio Download MP3 minibook!
Dawn's brand new "mini book" available via "Download" in Dawn's store:
"Ride of a Lifetime - The Rotor (with comic apologia)." FAMILY FRIENDLY!
How many smile-makers do you remember as a kid? Order "Ride of a Lifetime" in MP3 download, and laugh along, now - just $6.99! at:
http://www.reverbnation.com/store/artist_1316932
Click under "Downloads" to find it in the store.....Enjoy!!!!!
-------------
Want to hear Dawn sing? She has a whole list of recordings you can listen to here - TOTALLY FREE!
http://www.thekaraokechannel.com/online#page=profile&tag=1f2ui0e94g8
Click on the "recordings" tab......and sing along!
Have a great day!
"Ride of a Lifetime - The Rotor (with comic apologia)." FAMILY FRIENDLY!
How many smile-makers do you remember as a kid? Order "Ride of a Lifetime" in MP3 download, and laugh along, now - just $6.99! at:
http://www.reverbnation.com/store/artist_1316932
Click under "Downloads" to find it in the store.....Enjoy!!!!!
-------------
Want to hear Dawn sing? She has a whole list of recordings you can listen to here - TOTALLY FREE!
http://www.thekaraokechannel.com/online#page=profile&tag=1f2ui0e94g8
Click on the "recordings" tab......and sing along!
Have a great day!
Sunday, February 19, 2012
ON SALE NOW! Brand new Audio Book - Dawn M. Nevills
http://www.reverbnation.com/store/artist_1316932
Dawn Nevills reads 7 different selections from her latest poetry/painting collection, "Poems from Butterscotch Cottage" on this new CD collection, "Poems from Butterscotch Cottage - selections".
Order the CD today - just $14.99, or download the instant MP3 version, in the "Downloads" section, for just $9.99!
Dawn's watercolour painting, "Brazilian Glow" is available for sale in our Merchandise section, on a quality white t-shirt, for just $15.99.
On an entertainment budget? We have 99 cent selections, too!
You can download a single selection MP3 by clicking on the "Downloads" section of Dawn's ReverbNation store, too ....lots to choose from!
Have fun!
Support the spoken word! Bring poetry to life!
Dawn Nevills reads 7 different selections from her latest poetry/painting collection, "Poems from Butterscotch Cottage" on this new CD collection, "Poems from Butterscotch Cottage - selections".
Order the CD today - just $14.99, or download the instant MP3 version, in the "Downloads" section, for just $9.99!
Dawn's watercolour painting, "Brazilian Glow" is available for sale in our Merchandise section, on a quality white t-shirt, for just $15.99.
On an entertainment budget? We have 99 cent selections, too!
You can download a single selection MP3 by clicking on the "Downloads" section of Dawn's ReverbNation store, too ....lots to choose from!
Have fun!
Support the spoken word! Bring poetry to life!
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Interesting Times
We live in interesting times. Whether or not this is viewed as curse or continuing challenge, perhaps, is in the eye of the observer, but passivity is likely the harbinger of nothing but itself, even in surmise.
Progressive, or pensive? Like all artists, observing by what means, and just how, we reflect our own "growth" is often the best, and most accurate, gauge of our opinion of ourselves, and just what it is we are "seeking" as human beings. And politics is often the modern arena by which we measure skill in the management of a nation, and its peoples.
In the United States, fresh from the smarting wounds of a still-protected-deep-within-itself Camelot wish buffeted by the viciousness of extreme, a hopeful nation has drawn in on itself, somewhat, its genuine and ardent wishes deeply scarred by the manipulation of a political extreme that thinks nothing of robbing pensioners on a fixed income, and treating the need for a basic surety of care like a luxury, trumpeting "proper spending", while the highest echelons mock the determination of a helmsman to fix the economic ills of a country by trusting first in corporate ethics as a fulcrum of democratic stability, even as it skims from the very people it was charged to help, by awarding million dollar bonuses to itself, after moaning about the implosion of its own systemic bulwarks. Alas, they could not be fired. They can, however, be monitored by the financial watchdog in place on every board where bailout moneys stabilized an industry, and will answer to them, on behalf of the voice of a nation which hammered the stones in place, and aim to keep them there - million dollar bonuses be damned.
The helmsman? What is sniffed at as "cool, aloof demeanour" is something the rag-like oafs straggling just out of reach of actual journalistic debate abhor: dignity, and an absence of the penchant to be manipulated like a performing seal, or taking more than a passing politicial interest in the interestedly detached "Al Jolson" perspective of a man of intelligence: a family man, with the contemplative nature that speaks of policy, and one who is learning very quickly about the vacuous nature of a sometimes vicious need for "newsotainment". Having been schooled in the ways of political and financial political extremes, the picture is very clear, indeed:their agenda has always been, and will always be, the same. Cultivating a culture of xenophobia and fear of the unknown, it taps into the very political extremism and culture of disparity it has created, erasing any legacy of international diplomacy - excepting a very few, who see beyond, and have always known, and comforted, in the midst of the devastation always caused by its reactionary, volatile, obsessed extremes. It sees enemies everywhere, and where there are none, any voice which speaks of concern and debate becomes one. It self-perpetuates.
There are comments of "massive ego", where there is only the discipline always required of leadership, and the drawing in, measured response, and intelligent solutions which also involve compassion - or, at least, a quiet demand for respect for earned trust, in spite of the inculcating culture of fear, and a refusal to be sucked into the gaping vortex of "finding the latest scapegoat" which, by default, is anyone who might wish to actually SUCCEED at something. Like Hitler, misery must find, and punish, someone - as long as it isn't one's self, and the more convenient, and visible, the supposed perpetrator, the more likely the real culprits - the same ones who insisted upon, offered up, and then gouged out the proffered repairs to the foundation - then resume their snickering positions in the safe confines of the latest run for the "eye of newt, perfect hair" image of itself.
The rest of us struggle with bedhead, staying ahead of the machinations, and a somewhat grim, but wiser, surety that these bastards will stop at nothing to widen the gap, stepping over the latest homeless with the easy stride of someone used to kicking things out of the way - even if it's the guy who taught you about stealing from the local candy store, by marching you back there and returning it to the merchant, who then made you shovel his front walk for a week, in reparation. You sure showed those little peons! They won't even get a nurse, when the day is done....unless she's volunteer, or some other person you don't have to "waste" money paying. .....One can only hope you get them as caregivers, one day, so you understand that working double shifts somewhere else can sometimes cause...yes....ERRORS. Meanwhile, they continue to do their best, equally determined that you won't kill their actual concern, and they won't kill you.....much as they might like to, as an easy solution, frankly. That would be too much like you.
Fresh from the "101" of extremist financial marksmanship, shining moments possibilities safely armoured against all manner of ills, including the penchant for behavioural antics and, some say, actual personality that suggests leadership - scoundrel and all - which we hate to love, and love to hate, simaltaneously, because it suggests that we can all, be, sometimes imperfect, as long as we can "still do the job", we are reminded that to be human is to learn, sometimes, about what is always a reliable roadmarker: the surety of greed.
And Canada? Canada has, at its helm, , it's true, a Tory....but it has, too, amidst the sea of blue, a conscience, and a consideration, and a steadiness carefully coached in "just the right touch" of Stones-playing piano to titillate the bluehairs, and, at least, a willingness to consult and discuss which speaks of a shift AWAY from extremism, and a quiet, very genuine, desire to consider the blatant, awkward, arrogant cultural errors of its past interactions with itself, towards a different, albeit, cautious sense of curiousity about the morrow.....
Unfortunately, it looks a lot like today, and for those needing a promise of betterment, after earnest striving, and the shouldering of financial woes imposed by its extremes, even as the opportunity to remove it through effort is removed, (along with working class democracy"), it does nothing to improve, or provide, anything to discuss, other than "Change. "
Moneypenny would be proud....at least before they ditch her, too. All those jars, grubby hands, and rolling papers.....sigh. And you have to COUNT them....!
Progressive, or pensive? Like all artists, observing by what means, and just how, we reflect our own "growth" is often the best, and most accurate, gauge of our opinion of ourselves, and just what it is we are "seeking" as human beings. And politics is often the modern arena by which we measure skill in the management of a nation, and its peoples.
In the United States, fresh from the smarting wounds of a still-protected-deep-within-itself Camelot wish buffeted by the viciousness of extreme, a hopeful nation has drawn in on itself, somewhat, its genuine and ardent wishes deeply scarred by the manipulation of a political extreme that thinks nothing of robbing pensioners on a fixed income, and treating the need for a basic surety of care like a luxury, trumpeting "proper spending", while the highest echelons mock the determination of a helmsman to fix the economic ills of a country by trusting first in corporate ethics as a fulcrum of democratic stability, even as it skims from the very people it was charged to help, by awarding million dollar bonuses to itself, after moaning about the implosion of its own systemic bulwarks. Alas, they could not be fired. They can, however, be monitored by the financial watchdog in place on every board where bailout moneys stabilized an industry, and will answer to them, on behalf of the voice of a nation which hammered the stones in place, and aim to keep them there - million dollar bonuses be damned.
The helmsman? What is sniffed at as "cool, aloof demeanour" is something the rag-like oafs straggling just out of reach of actual journalistic debate abhor: dignity, and an absence of the penchant to be manipulated like a performing seal, or taking more than a passing politicial interest in the interestedly detached "Al Jolson" perspective of a man of intelligence: a family man, with the contemplative nature that speaks of policy, and one who is learning very quickly about the vacuous nature of a sometimes vicious need for "newsotainment". Having been schooled in the ways of political and financial political extremes, the picture is very clear, indeed:their agenda has always been, and will always be, the same. Cultivating a culture of xenophobia and fear of the unknown, it taps into the very political extremism and culture of disparity it has created, erasing any legacy of international diplomacy - excepting a very few, who see beyond, and have always known, and comforted, in the midst of the devastation always caused by its reactionary, volatile, obsessed extremes. It sees enemies everywhere, and where there are none, any voice which speaks of concern and debate becomes one. It self-perpetuates.
There are comments of "massive ego", where there is only the discipline always required of leadership, and the drawing in, measured response, and intelligent solutions which also involve compassion - or, at least, a quiet demand for respect for earned trust, in spite of the inculcating culture of fear, and a refusal to be sucked into the gaping vortex of "finding the latest scapegoat" which, by default, is anyone who might wish to actually SUCCEED at something. Like Hitler, misery must find, and punish, someone - as long as it isn't one's self, and the more convenient, and visible, the supposed perpetrator, the more likely the real culprits - the same ones who insisted upon, offered up, and then gouged out the proffered repairs to the foundation - then resume their snickering positions in the safe confines of the latest run for the "eye of newt, perfect hair" image of itself.
The rest of us struggle with bedhead, staying ahead of the machinations, and a somewhat grim, but wiser, surety that these bastards will stop at nothing to widen the gap, stepping over the latest homeless with the easy stride of someone used to kicking things out of the way - even if it's the guy who taught you about stealing from the local candy store, by marching you back there and returning it to the merchant, who then made you shovel his front walk for a week, in reparation. You sure showed those little peons! They won't even get a nurse, when the day is done....unless she's volunteer, or some other person you don't have to "waste" money paying. .....One can only hope you get them as caregivers, one day, so you understand that working double shifts somewhere else can sometimes cause...yes....ERRORS. Meanwhile, they continue to do their best, equally determined that you won't kill their actual concern, and they won't kill you.....much as they might like to, as an easy solution, frankly. That would be too much like you.
Fresh from the "101" of extremist financial marksmanship, shining moments possibilities safely armoured against all manner of ills, including the penchant for behavioural antics and, some say, actual personality that suggests leadership - scoundrel and all - which we hate to love, and love to hate, simaltaneously, because it suggests that we can all, be, sometimes imperfect, as long as we can "still do the job", we are reminded that to be human is to learn, sometimes, about what is always a reliable roadmarker: the surety of greed.
And Canada? Canada has, at its helm, , it's true, a Tory....but it has, too, amidst the sea of blue, a conscience, and a consideration, and a steadiness carefully coached in "just the right touch" of Stones-playing piano to titillate the bluehairs, and, at least, a willingness to consult and discuss which speaks of a shift AWAY from extremism, and a quiet, very genuine, desire to consider the blatant, awkward, arrogant cultural errors of its past interactions with itself, towards a different, albeit, cautious sense of curiousity about the morrow.....
Unfortunately, it looks a lot like today, and for those needing a promise of betterment, after earnest striving, and the shouldering of financial woes imposed by its extremes, even as the opportunity to remove it through effort is removed, (along with working class democracy"), it does nothing to improve, or provide, anything to discuss, other than "Change. "
Moneypenny would be proud....at least before they ditch her, too. All those jars, grubby hands, and rolling papers.....sigh. And you have to COUNT them....!
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