metamorphosing

Silent Poem

2012-02-01T21:16:00.000-06:00

I finally wrote a poem to go with this pic, as suggested by my friends here.

Silent

I have been taken down

like an ornament

put away

silent night

I’m going to walk away

like a senile patient

in shame

silent day

I’ll forget what I’ve learned

like keys left behind

at the lake

silent decent

And deposit rusty bones

like leaf covered litter

decorating a

silent trail

The Big Thicket 2011

2012-01-20T17:11:00.000-06:00

It's been 4 years, a hurrican, and a drought since my last visit to the Big Thicket.

Nature has been dealing some daunting blows lately, but the Thicket perseveres.

Many of the oxbows have dried up (like this one here) and the Thicket looks a little thin from tree loss, but as the Ranger pointed out to us, this area is one of the least affected areas in the state from the drought.

Our visiting friends, Sue and Bernie were just thankful to get away from freezing rain, and enjoy a sunny, spring-like hike through the woods.

Downtown Houston

2012-01-20T16:45:00.001-06:00

city haze

church reflections

glass appiritions

Our friends from Canada, Sue and Bernie, wanted to see downtown Houston while they were here, so we took them up 60 floors in the Chase Building, down through the tunnel system (which was a waste of time thanks to the last few hurricanes), and then around photographing churches and glass reflections. I learned from the trip that Houston does indeed have a building more than 100 years old (Houston is such a new city by most standards). The church in the second pic is about 150 years old. Sue says that everyone they visit learns something new about the city they live in while they are there.

More From Galveston

2012-01-20T16:20:00.000-06:00

While in Galveston with Sue and Bernie, we took the ferry over to Bolivar Peninsula from the island.

Sue and I spent the entire ride photographing the seagulls...

Then watched the sunset on the way back to the island, where we ate steamed clams and Italian seafood for dinner.

Sue's Visit

2012-01-19T17:53:00.000-06:00

My friend, Sue, and her husband, Bernie, came to visit us the last week of 2011. How exciting to meet for the first time someone that I've been friends with online for a while. We had a week of taking pictures, talking about writing and music, and showing my Canadian friends some of East Texas.

We spent a day in Galveston.

A day in downtown Houston.

Standing on top of the world on the 60th floor of the Chase Building.

And, a day at The Big Thicket National Park.

The Madisons - Greener

2012-01-18T18:28:00.000-06:00

My friends have produce a new CD, and asked me to do the cover art. I used Inception for the front cover, and Sprout for the back. The CD won't be released until February, but here's the video for the first single:

and here's how you can download the song:

See the sweet write up she gave me on her blog The Madisons, and say hi while you're there (she's still trying to get the hang of blogging and could use the encouragement).

Winter at the Beach

2011-12-08T22:14:00.001-06:00

They've been continually working on rebuilding the beaches in Galveston since Ike. These were taken at the seawall where there are flower covered dunes once again. Yea!

Illustration Friday: Silent

2011-11-15T17:33:00.001-06:00

Inspired by Mary's post for this weeks topic over at IF.

Tennessee Trip 2011

2011-11-05T11:39:00.000-05:00

The Appalachian Mountains in Tennessee as seen from my friends' house. I went to visit for a week of hiking and relaxation. It was great to get away from the Texas heat and drought. The fall color was at it's peak.

We had a picnic dinner one night on a hill just up from their house. We ate Amish cheese with wine, and watched a front roll in.

The next morning, I awoke to this view outside my window. It's been months since I've seen it rain like this.

When the sun finally came out again, I went hiking around their property. They own about 100 acres in these mountains.

The hike was photographically inspiring. I've posted more pics here at Silk Creek Portal.

Haunted Tour

2011-09-10T12:18:00.003-05:00

Haunted Tours

I once saw the Aurora Borealis
Tried to capture it, but it flitted away
Now I search for my faithful camera
Finding only incomplete equipment gifted me
In a misguided attempt to prepare for passage

I offer guided tours for your reading pleasure
Through secret corridors
Behind the walls of my childhood home
Where a colorless version of those Northern Lights
Flickers among apparitions that haunt here

Whereas Exile

2011-09-06T22:16:00.003-05:00

Inception

Embryo

Bithiah's Assignment

Individuation/Assimilation?

2011-08-21T17:37:00.000-05:00

...or the lack of both. This poem seems to demonstrate the lack. The > Language > Place Blog Carnival's theme this month is Individuation/Assimilation. I'm a little late to join the carnival this time, but thought I'd post this anyway. Maybe next month.

rush hour

stepping out of line
from a nameless crowd
and losing my place -
socially extrinsic

waste by-product of a
selfish generation
my speech is drunkenness
my sickness self-inflicted
coughing up anger chunks
intoxicating and toxic
ineffectual smears

driving exhaust-fumed freeways
with backward exit signs
slapping laughing faces
belligerently – just like them

groping for wisdom, but
babbling into empty ears
they see I’m lost
nakedness turned inside out
shame and weakness
bead up like sweat

they’re indifferent, and
I’m too tired
or maybe lazy
damned dyslexia

Loop 610's bridge over the Houston Ship Channel, obviously not during rush hour. To me this bridge reminds me of a giant serpent slithering across the landscape. Rush hour traffic gives it the illusion of movement. This pic was taken on a Sunday morning.

This is Beltway 8's bridge over the same ship channel. It makes me think of an invading Roman army. It's a toll bridge, so the traffic's not usually too heavy. This pic was taken during evening rush hour.

Here's a view of the east side of downtown, from 610's bridge. I live between the two bridges, but closer to 610.

More Dickinson Inspiration

2011-08-16T22:34:00.000-05:00

Still enjoying my new poetry book. Emily frequently wrote poetry about death.

Relentless Grief

Mother of Silence, father of Cold
Summer’s birds have flown
Sleeping children tucked ‘neath a fold
Spring’s sod and tears not their own

No scraped knee, nor thoughts of what cou’ be
Processional ended too soon
Relentless grief gnaws malignantly
In the house of a winter moon

The living long to be, unwittingly
Reunited beneath the fold
But desire wars with proclivity
There’s no peace in growing old

I wrote this for a friend who said she finally found the right words to describe what she has felt for years, "relentless grief". People say, "there's no getting over the death of a loved one; you just learn to accept it." I think that it is impossible for us to accept death, because our natural inclination for survival is too strong. When we lose a loved one, a war begins inside us. The battle is between the desire to be with our loved one and the desire to survive. It can not be reconciled while we yet live, so what we really come to "accept" is living the rest of our lives with this battle inside us. We learn to live with relentless grief.

Ice Water River

2011-08-15T12:33:00.004-05:00

my foot knows where to go
though I’ve forgotten
alighting each step
with precision

like a grasshopper
descending the embankment
leaving roots undisturbed
and sand in its place

grade steepens and
steps turn to leaps
building momentum
yet retaining agility

I marvel – after
months of heavy heat
from a parched withered land
such a light footed find

Ice Water River from below
they say too cold to swim
but I’ll just wade
and find relief from the Drought

Reading Emily Dickinson

2011-08-10T17:21:00.004-05:00

After reading many of Ashok's commentaries on Emily Dickinson's poetry, I've become very fond of her work.

I bought this book the other day, and it's been inspiring me to write. For example, I came across this poem, and something about it just sang to me.

Summer for thee, grant I may be
When Summer days are flown!
Thy music still, when Whipporwill
And Oriole—are done!

For thee to bloom, I'll skip the tomb
And row my blossoms o'er!
Pray gather me—
Anemone—
Thy flower—forevermore!

I'm sure when she wrote "anemone" she was refering to the woodland flower, but I thought of this:

Anemone, I long to be
Eternal summer by the sea
Tropical calm – Hibiscus aplomb
In the shadow of Mango Tree

Blossoms wilt when Delta silt
Crosses the Ocean’s current
May Bed’s frailty embolden me
Oh, Drifting garden deterrent!

Since I can't be
eternally by the sea
I bring it to me

Meet Boomhower the Beta. He isn't actually from the sea, but we like to pretend.

Aid for Japan's Artists

2011-07-13T15:05:00.002-05:00

My friend, Yuko, is an artist in Japan who was affected by the recent disasters in Japan, and was just interviewed by the Arts NPO Aid program. The interview isn't in English yet, but there are some photo's of her wonderful work. The Arts NPO Aid program is a non-profit program set up to help Japan's artists get back on their feet after the 311 quake/tsunami/nuke disaster. Please visit the Arts NPO website to show your support.

Windows for Drips of Ink

2011-07-08T15:23:00.009-05:00

I miss my home. All these pics were taken from my window there.

My computer desk sat just inside looking out over my gardens.

My window was so much more entertaining than any TV.

This little guy and I had a wonderful arrangement. He really loved a certain weed with little yellow flowers, which I let grow in my gardens, and in return, he didn't eat any of my other flowers.

Such a serious little fellow.

Peek-a-boo

Caught with the evidence still on his beak.

Someone's hungry.

Is that a look of guilt?

This little guy would get angry at his reflection... every day!

Well, he's certainly well fed.

And, when they're done eating...

I've Been In La La Land Lately...

2011-07-06T15:17:00.007-05:00

...and haven't been doing much blogging. It seems I've been in the mood for drawing mythological beings instead.

This is a color pencil sketch for a project that I'm working on for a friend. I call him Thor, but he seems to be dressed for a warmer climate, like maybe Greece. Could be because of the 100 degree weather we've been having lately.

I made this one with different colored ball point pens. She was originally just an outline I made for this piece of digital art from several years ago.

The weather we've been having has been wreaking havok on my mood lately. We're six months into a drought right now. I've been trying to save my gardens, but may end out loosing a tree. I've been known to cry when a tree dies, and there are dead trees everywhere I go. These little beauties help lift my spirits when I go out to water.

I like to imagine that little faeries danced on the top of this one and left a trail of their steps.

And, the Faerie Princess left her crown on this one.

But, then I wake to sad dreams in the morning. This morning the dream was about a dog that I had abandoned and then died before I could get back to it. It made me think about a real dog that I used to have years ago, whose death was surrounded by mysterious circumstances. So, I wrote this poem.

Taken to the Woods

taken to the woods
by a friendly face
did she wonder
why he was with her
instead of me?

visit to her favorite place
ends abruptly with a
bullet in her brain
I failed her again

old and sickly
I left her vulnerable
was it a mercy killing?
look of horror on his face
when I mention that
she was getting better

extra effort required
isn’t given when needed most
another piece of me is gone
and the cycle continues

he leads me astray
but I follow willingly
into the woods
looking for peacefulness
because it’s just easier
he thinks he’s doing me a favor

This last one was written the other morning.

My Conscience is so Much Crueler

while my subconscious
whispers to me in my sleep
like a compassionate lover
“you underestimate yourself”
“feel unworthy of giving encouragement”

my conscience becomes enraged
lies in wait for me to wake
to scold with a harsh voice
like an angry father
humiliates and rejects me
until there is no more desire to wake

Well um... I think I'll go back to my mythological world now.

Patterns of Sand

2011-06-15T10:45:00.000-05:00

Elaborate granular legends

Continuously reshaped

By elemental sculptors
Of dead fish

Bone and scale epitaph

That one day rolls back
To the sea from which it came

For my sweetie, who teasingly said I would write poetry about dead fish.

Brain Rash

2011-06-14T20:06:00.003-05:00

apocalyptic apparitions rain like ash
on an otherwise clear day
mushrooming delusional brain rash
keeps contentment at bay

boredom rolls in
befogging a creative high
sacrifices begin
mediocrity must die!

clarity becomes a blue sky illusion
passing clouds irritate
scourging syndrome cycles toward confusion
when aversions animate

darkening doom
locks me in a room
imagined tomb
infectious fume
that consumes

emptiness rolls in
befogging a creative high
medications begin
numbing desires to fly

extremes too surreal
what do I really feel?
driven to zeal
strained and concealed
only haziness heals
when you’re…
locked in a room
imagined tomb
with infectious fumes
that consume

This poem is for my stepson, who's going through a tough time. He's a poet, and is into rap music.

Look What's In My Backyard

2011-06-12T16:15:00.005-05:00

I think they're somebody's pets, because you don't see this in an inner city neighborhood everyday. They wandered in while trying to avoid the dogs on either side of us, and then found a hole in the back fence to continue on their journey.

I count 15 babies.

The only other place I've seen this type of duck was in Mexico. This last pic was taken in Puerto Vallerta. I googled them and discovered they're called Black Bellied Tree Ducks. They are only found in South Texas and Mexico.

No Way Out

2011-06-01T16:17:00.003-05:00

"Is there no way out of the mind?" - Sylvia Plath

outside the air is real
and ascends in currents and streams
unpolluted

I breathe dust and ash
wipe silt deposits from my eyes
swim through a smoky mire toward

stage lights cast blue reflections
on musicians playing with passionate fury
cast highlights on an inebriated audience
artificial fog obscures the source that is

shrinking room at one end of a tunnel
the other end twists and turns
culminating at a dead end with a peep hole

outside the air is real
I strain to study and then
turn back to the smoky mire

Tyburn

2011-05-26T10:52:00.005-05:00

Trying out another form of poetry called Tyburn. It's supposed to be 6 lines with the specific syllable counts of 2,2,2,2,9, and 9 respectively.

This last one isn't the correct syllable count, but I really liked the word 'viraling' [I made it up], so I wrote it anyway. They're supposed to be a commentary on the warped weather patterns we've been experiencing lately.

Marching Absurdity

2011-05-07T11:45:00.002-05:00

Some doodling in my sketchbook. I was going to do more to it, but drew a blank, pardon the pun. After I started drawing it, I decided it fit the poem on the previous post. I may do more drawing for that poem.

My scanner's not working, so I'm resorting to using my camera, but it's hard to get the lighting even. I had to apply curves to this, so it looks bluer than it really is.

Anthropological Ball

2011-05-04T10:52:00.003-05:00

When we can get past seeing ourselves as victims, then we can release the anger and discover our true identity.

anthropological ball

marching absurdities
scatter in patterned formations
diverging from a Dali painting
in undulating spirals
summoning –
Come inside
Come inside

ancient carney clown-faced beasts
hail the puppeteers
mummies on strings
in a sarcophagus strewn tent
chanting –
See the show
See the show

Inspired by this song, and is a continuation of the poem, 'Nature of Identity'.

Tired Again

2011-05-03T16:48:00.002-05:00

tired again
though winter’s rest is over
sun dried chill blows
through a honeysuckle covered
briar patch

Respite cut short
by an early drought

balmy aroma settles sluggishly
among prickles and poison ivy
like artificially flavored syrup
on bleached, deep fried bread

stripped of nutritional purpose
sweet intoxication deteriorates

Spring at the Beach

2011-04-30T11:42:00.005-05:00

prickly blossom view
veils invading industry
harsh spring survival

oddly arid wind
abates momentarily
tenacious spring seized

Six Sentence Sunday 4/17

2011-04-16T14:48:00.004-05:00

For Six Sentence Sunday this week, I'm posting another part of the same story that I've been working on. [See the previous post for the last 6 from this story] No title for it, yet. You can find links to many other Six Sentence Sunday submissions here.

"How can ya sell pot, if ya don’t smoke it?”

“It’s not mine. It’s my boyfriends’.”

“But he sends you out to sell it… hmm,” he said with a creepy smirk.

The moonlight reflected off the grease and sweat on his rotund face and stringy, thinning hair. They took a few more hits, and then he started talking down to me like I was a school girl that had never gotten high before.

Six Sentence Sunday

2011-04-02T11:28:00.000-05:00

Hi! I had such a wonderfully friendly response last week with the Six Sentence Sunday gang, that I'm back again this week. This is from something I started to work on, and then never got around to finishing. I'm hoping to get back to it. Click on the link above to see what everyone else is writing.

There was a putrid, bitter taste of disgust that seeped out of a hidden crevice deep inside me. It was the kind of crevice that unwanted memories disappeared into. When B.W. sat back in the car, that taste erupted into rage.

"I want to go back and beat those guys with a tire iron!" I said tightening my jaw in an attempt to bridle the rage. "We could hide in the woods and wait for them..."

Latest Art

2011-04-01T19:22:00.004-05:00

Moon Music

Road Rage

Yea Spring!

2011-03-31T21:40:00.004-05:00

These pics were taken in my garden.

And, this is the reason why I've not been online much lately.

This garden is named Ilma's Garden, after the woman who originally started it.

I love scented geraniums, and...

have them all around my front porch.

There are more pics of my garden here on Silk Creek Portal.

Six Sentence Sunday March 27

2011-03-25T19:50:00.003-05:00

I found this web site on my friend, Sue's, blog, where people post six sentence excerpts from their work and leave their links to it. This is my first time to try it. Mine are taken from a previous post entitled "Places I Ought Not Go".

I begin to wonder if this lunatic in my back seat is having delusions of being a hero.

“Shouldn't you be radioing in for help or something?”

“And tell them what?!” His calm demeanor snapped. “That I left my squad car on the side of the highway with the keys still in it, jumped into a car with a crazy woman who thinks she can ‘feel’ a monster’s presence, and then runs over God knows what?” He pauses for a second, “Probably some poor motorist who was stranded and looking for help… I’m gonna lose my job over this one.”

For links to other Six Sentence Sunday posts click here.

The Cretoron List

2011-03-12T12:21:00.003-06:00

During the early 80’s, I drove four hours every day, two hours each way, in rush hour traffic to attend high school downtown. At that time, the boom-town oil rush of the 70’s left Houston’s freeways plagued with a stifling bumper-to-bumper 20 mph stop-n-go crawl. There were bumper stickers that read, “Will the last one out of Michigan, please turn out the lights?” it wasn’t just Michigan, though. There were probably just as many out-of-state license plates as there were Texas plates. At 16, I learned how to drive in this traffic.

I carpooled with three other classmates of mine in a ’72 Dodge Dart, that one of the girls christened “The Hippy Mobile”. The actual christening was another story that I won’t go into here. Suffice it to say that this fire red Hippy Mobile was well suited for four teenage girls in rush hour traffic. The scratches and dents just added to its personality.

I left my house every morning at 6am to pick up the others, and didn’t get home until 6pm, so all our after school free time was spent driving. We quickly found ways to entertain ourselves. Groucho Marx glasses and hand puppets would solicit some pretty humorous reactions in the morning. After school though, a six pack of beer and a bag of Doritos while waving at all the truck drivers was the entertainment of choice. My friends like to see how many of the truckers they could get to honk their horns.

The morning rush hour mentality was different from the afternoon’s. In the morning, people were sleepy and distracted. They would be reading the newspaper or putting on make-up in the rear view mirror while driving. We were rear-ended many times, but in stop-n-go traffic, it was more of an annoyance than a fender bender. Nine times out of ten, it wasn’t worth stopping for. One day, we came up with the idea of having one person sit in the driver’s seat reading the newspaper, while I sat beside her and drove with my left hand and foot (the Hippy Mobile didn’t have bucket seats; it had one long bench seat). We thought the double-takes of the other drivers were hysterical.

In the afternoons however, people were tired, cranky, and in a hurry to get home. The unintentional accidents of the morning became intentionally rude road rage in the afternoon, hence the creation of the Asshole List (please pardon my language here; we were just teenagers). Yes, we kept a score card above the sun visor to track all the incidents. Here’s how it worked: An asshole was worth 1 point, and was someone who would cut you off and then drive slower than the rest of traffic especially in the left lane. A total asshole was 2 points, and was someone who’d cut you off, and you would have to swerve or slam on your breaks to avoid hitting them. A complete fuck up was 3 points, and was someone who actually hit you, ran you off the road, or tried to run you off the road in a fit of rage. For example, those idiots who don’t care to merge safely, because they don’t want anyone to get in front of them. After about six months, we figured up the totals and found we averaged about 17 points per week. Unfortunately, my dad found the list one day, and took it away. He didn’t think the language was appropriate for young ladies, and tried to scold me for it, but couldn’t keep a straight face. I wouldn’t be surprised if he took it to work with him the next day to show the guys in his carpool.

Well, here it is thirty years later, and Houston’s freeways have finally caught up with its population. Even though there’s still construction on many of the freeways, there’s no more stifling stop-n-go traffic except after an accident. One would think that the driving attitudes would improve with the progress, but apparently not. I still see road rage on a daily basis.

The other day, I was driving in the left lane, getting ready to pass a silver SUV and the 18 wheeler in front of him, when suddenly the “2 pointer” SUV pulled over in front of me, causing me and the cars behind me to slam on their brakes. Generally in most states, the left lane is for passing. Slower traffic is supposed to keep right, but Mr. 2 Pointer must have felt he was the exception to this common courtesy, because he continued to go the same speed as the 18 wheeler that was still in the lane to his right. The cars behind me cut over two or three lanes to the right to get around them. I decided to wait and see if he would eventually speed up. He did, and I followed him. When I was even with the cab of the 18 wheeler, Mr. 2 Pointer cut back over to the right in front of the 18 wheeler, revealing to me the road construction that was ending my lane. I didn’t have time to stop, so I sped up to get in front of the 18 wheeler. Apparently angry about the SUV, the 18 wheeler sped up also, and intentionally hit me, because he didn’t want me to get in front of him as well, making him Mr. 3 Pointer.

The rage of these two men spreads like the swine flu across our freeway systems, infecting everyone who comes near. It’s a highly contagious, ugly, angry, porcine disease, and now I have it too. I’m afraid to drive, afraid of acting just like them. So, I’ve decided to start another list, to try to make fun of the situation. I’m trying to make light of things like we did in high school. It’s the only way I know how to work through this kind of anger. This time I’m calling it the Cretoron List. I made the name up from the words ‘moronic cretin’. The words seem more descriptive than the previous list’s words. Here’s how it works: A Cretoron is 1 point, a Gross Cretoron is 2 points, and an Utter Noxiousile (from the words ‘obnoxious imbecile’) is 3 points. The standards for scoring are the same. If anyone would like to play along, feel free to leave your scores here in the comment section on Fridays.

I've also been spending a lot of time in my garden, trying to work through the anger.

floral choir's hymn
harolding healing colors
nature's therapy

Oh!

2011-02-17T09:16:00.002-06:00

Elena over at My Quest is hosting Weekword this week, and has chosen the very expressive little word "oh". I used that word quite a bit on my latest trip to Galveston.

"Oh, what a beautiful bird. Hope he stays still long enough for me to get a good shot."

"Oh yea! I got it."

"Oh how sad." We saw a lot of dead things on the beach that day.

"Oh weird. Look how big it's scales are. They look like sea shells."

"Oh cool..." Don't ask me why. My sweetie replied with, "Oh no, next you'll be writing poetry about dead fish, huh?" Hmm... maybe another time ;]

"Oh *shoot! My batteries are dying!" (*not the word I actually used)

No sunset pics this time, due to the dead batteries, but we stayed to watch it over a lovely seafood dinner and a glass of wine, and then headed home.

Cynosure

2011-02-11T09:54:00.000-06:00

This week's weekword is brought to us by Junebug's Musings. She mentioned Valentine's Day in connection with the word 'cynosure', and it made me think of these beautifully brilliant orchids I have hanging over my monitor. My sweetie brought them home for me as a surprise last week, so I thought I'd take a picture of them and make a card for him. I searched on the web for the language of flowers, and learned that orchids mean 'refined beauty'. I thought of a mature beauty, like the love shared between two people who have out-lived their first spouses, and have been refined by life's experiences to share a different kind of love. Different from that naive exciting first love of youth, but still brilliant in it's own way.

The poem is an acrostic, which means the first letter of each line spells a word, in this case 'romance'. I'm stepping a little out of my comfort zone writing a love poem, but I guess that's therapeutic, too.

Nature of Identity

2011-02-10T20:18:00.002-06:00

nature of identity

mirroring antique anger
at an ontological vanity
elaborately Victorian

tearing tangles from my hair
with silver inlay brush
applying nightmarish
clown-faced foundation
to ancient scars
in my dusty sunbeam room

rituals in preparation for
an anthropological ball

inspired by Moineau en France and Justahumblebee's comments on the previos post

Therapeutic

2011-02-03T12:14:00.009-06:00

This week's Weekword is 'therapeutic'. You'll find links to other posts listed here on Domestic Scribbles. The dictionary defines it: of or relating to the treatment of disease; curative. Yet, many of us regularly refer to our hobbies as therapy. Why is that? Is life a disease? The stresses of life can cause disease. Autoimmune diseases are becoming more prevalent today partly because of these stresses.

The dictionary defines hobbies as an activity pursued in spare time for pleasure or relaxation. Yet for me, my hobbies have become a very necessary part of my routine for staying healthy. Like exercise and eating healthy, they have become needed therapy rather than a spare time pursuit.

One of my hobbies is photography. Last Friday, I went to the arboretum to take these pictures. The walk in the woods left me feeling so serene, that the obnoxious rush hour traffic on the way home didn't bother me like it usually does.

Of course not all therapy is pretty. I've got to vent some of the bad stuff too, which is usually the case with most of my poetry.

scolding darkness
pointing cold rigidity
at my chest
as if to blame

I wait numbly trepid for
bony rapping on my chest bone
unknown impact
wafts through memory pillars
and cobweb dreams
stripping reality
from a marble library

concentration dissipates
the blow never comes
just disbelief
gawking at the bloody muscle
ripped from my chest
oozing through frigid phalanges

afraid to breath
afraid to discover
I’m no longer able

outside the library
primal forces compel exhalation
awareness materializes
how am I breathing without a heart?

the pool of blood crackles
but the sound is within
slow and faint
a new one pumps
barely able to catch my breath
fingers and feet still numb
struggling to remain conscious
the only warmth
deep inside me

Places I Ought Not Go

2011-02-02T15:31:00.004-06:00

Several years ago, I helped my sister move back here to Texas from New Jersey. On the second night of the drive, I drove until my nerves began to fray, so my sister took over for a while. Unable to unwind, I just silently stared out the window, and let my mind wander. I noticed that when we’d drive up to an animal like a rabbit or raccoon on the side of the road, it’s eyes would seem to glow even before the headlights would reach it, and then after shining on it, it’s eyes would glow red. Well, my imagination ran away with this, and after about an hour or so of my imaginary travels, my sister asked if I was asleep.

“Nah,” I said, “just daydreaming.

“Tell me about your daydream, so I won’t get sleepy,” she requested, and this was the story I told her:

I’m driving down I-10 at night in Louisiana on that long, flat, boring stretch of highway that cuts straight through Louisiana’s swamp land. It’s a series of bridges connected sporadically by patches of dryer land. By day, this straight line of pavement roams as far as the eye can see, but at night, the infinite blackness of the swamp seems to swallow it up along with the light from my high beams. Visual stimuli is limited to the occasional passing car, the mesmerizing reflective road stripes, and the glowing eyes of local inhabitants of the wet lands I’m passing through. Oh yeah, and speed limit signs, which are easily neglected when the monotony lulls me into a trance, and then recalled after awakening to the excitement of red and blue flashing lights behind me.

I pull over, and the officer pulls up behind me, sitting in his patrol car for a few minutes before approaching me. I put my car in park, but leave the engine running, even though I’ll be sitting here for a little while. I’m a bit spooked about being in the middle of nowhere alone, and probably a little tired from the hypnotic drive. He asks for my license and insurance, and as I reach over to get it, I’m suddenly overwhelmed by an irrational fear of some lurking evil in the swamp. Trembling, I hand him the requested documents, and try to compose myself. “It’s just my overactive imagination,” I say, hopefully to myself, but the officer is looking at me oddly, and the feeling persists.

“Are you ok, ma’am?”
“Yes sir.”
“Have you had anything to drink tonight?”
“No sir.”

Now, I’m only vaguely aware of his presence, distracted like a B movie horror flick when there is foreboding music playing in the background, but in reality everything is eerily quiet. The feeling grows stronger, as if the evil is moving closer. I can hear my pulse as I struggle to maintain composure. Then I notice the officer staring off into the farthest reach of the high beams. I strain to see past them, hoping to find what has caught his eye, when finally I find the glowing eyes.

“Get in the car!” I blurt out abruptly.
“What?” His voice cracked with surprise.
“Get in the car! It’s heading toward us!”
“What are you talking about?!”

“Don’t you feel it?!” I’m yelling now, but I’m not sure he hears me, because I’m rolling up my window, and throwing my car into gear without thinking about the legal ramifications of what I’m doing. To my surprise though, he jumps in the back seat.

“Lock all the doors!” I scream even though I’ve already hit the main control button for the electric locks. He reaches across the car anyway, and slaps his hand down on them just to make sure. At this point, the headlights are highlighting a shadowy outline of a figure running toward us, and it’s eyes are turning red. I slam my foot down on the gas pedal, but it's blocking my only escape route, so I steer straight for it. I never really get a good look at it; just hear the thud as it bounces off the hood of my car.

“Did you see it?!… Did you see that?!” I turn around to look back. “What was that?! Did you get a good look at it?!”

Glancing back to my rearview mirror, I’m praying he has answers to my questions, but he just stares blankly and shrugs. Feeling that my paranoia has just been justified, I’m hysterical now. No more trying to hide it. I’m white knuckling the steering wheel, and repeatedly muttering, “oh my God.” He, however, was in a very different frame of mind.

“We’ve got to go back,” he mumbled.

“What! Are you insane?! I am not going back there!” I could not get far enough away fast enough. The little four cylinder engine of mine whines as I drive at speeds faster than my speedometer can register.

“Ma’am, you really need to calm down.”

I begin to wonder if this lunatic in my back seat is having delusions of being a hero.

“Shouldn’t you be radioing in for help or something?”

“And tell them what?!” His calm demeanor snapped. “That I left my squad car on the side of the highway with the keys still in it, jumped into a car with a crazy woman who thinks she can ‘feel’ a monster’s presence, and then runs over God knows what?” He pauses for a second, “Probably some poor motorist who was stranded and looking for help… I’m gonna lose my job over this one.”

“There’s no way in hell I’m going back there!” I just could not bring myself to see where he was coming from. “Besides, you felt it too. I could tell.”

He didn’t argue; just sat there thinking for a moment, and then quietly asked, “Will you please slow down?”

He radioed in, while I replayed the events over and over again in my head. Was there really something evil out there, or was I having some kind of night driving delusion? If it was just some poor stranded guy, why the awful dread before we saw him? And, why was the officer scared, as well? I tried desperately to remember what it looked like, searching my memory for a clue. In the background, I could hear dispatch ask for a description.

“It was wet and slimy, like the swamp,” I pipe in, trying to make the whole horrifying event sound real, and failing miserably.

“I thought you didn’t see it?”
“It?” A voice on the radio inquired.
“I mean him,” is his flustered reply.

“There’s green slime on the hood of my car.” I offer as proof, hoping to make him realize that we weren’t crazy, but the sound of my words makes me question my own sanity. Really, it was too dark to see what color the wet substance on the hood was or if it was indeed slimy.

“Just have someone pick me up at Al’s Kountry Korner.” He says to his radio, trying to ignore me.

After finishing his conversation with dispatch, he starts giving me instructions on where to take him. The last thing I want to do is leave the main interstate to drive down some dark winding exit ramp into the swamp. I want to keep going until we hit civilization, not some backwoods convenience store whose name is spelled with K’s. Pulling into the parking lot, there is a patrol car waiting for him. He tells me to wait while he speaks to the other officer. I can see that the other officer is annoyed.

He returns, and says, “Look, I’m not going to be issuing any speeding tickets tonight. Really, I’d like to just forget the whole thing happened. You’re free to go.”

Free to go where? Baton Rouge was probably another hour or so away, …and I’ll be alone again on a dark haunted highway in the middle of the swamp. As I watch him get into the patrol car, I realize that I will never know for sure what happened back there. Did I really run over somebody, or are those two cops on their way to be gutted and gored by some hideous creature that I thought only existed in Sci-Fy movies? How could I live with the possibility that I might have injured someone innocent?

What would you do? Would you go back, like all those stupid people in the horror movies do?

There was a long pause, and then my sister answered, “ Wow. You really need to write that one down.”

Let Words be Few

2011-01-27T14:46:00.003-06:00

winter sun whitens
without uttering one word
seeded grasses’ tales

Cycle

2011-01-25T14:34:00.003-06:00

Swan Jellyfish
Genus geopsychosis
Dwells in watery, cavernous fissures
Tenebrious and abysmally submerged
Among scars of geodynamic dross

Waiting for turbulent tides
To send it gliding through
Mirrored shafts hewn
Years of erosion refract and reflect
It’s venomous attraction so
Exquisitely arrayed

Rippled apparitions silently announce
It’s emergence at the surface to feed
It’s prey - oysters in penumbra
Stunted from lack of light
Beguiled into opening up for a
Sweet bouquet of plankton
Transported from below

Where, after dining sufficiently
It returns to proliferate

Adrift

2011-01-21T21:42:00.002-06:00

sent adrift
slapped about
by furious fists of sea
beacon fades
emotions crest
obscure light is out of reach
faith plunges
into dark abyss
abandoning futility

dawn inflicts fog
beacon’s blurred
no tide to wash ashore
anger dissipates
indifference creeps in
efficacy’s left laying
on the ocean floor

Light You Up

2011-01-15T09:43:00.005-06:00

photo found on the web

freedom and fame programmed at birth
taught to desire, but not self worth
put down for buckling under the heat
“suck it up, it gets tough on the street”

spark of anger ignites a flame
drawing desire to a mesmerizing game
to stand apart from the common mire
to fit in with the trendy hot fire

forging a world where losers are cool
idols imprisoned for breaking the rules
heroes demanding, lewd, and crude
success is loud arrogance with a ‘tude

heat of the fire brings life to a void
perishable warmth flares up annoyed
how long will it last before feeling the burn
numb propaganda bombards every turn

hey sister, look at your duplicity
equal “party” rights say “humiliate me”
do you really believe you can piss on a wall
light up so you can see how far you can fall

I really loved this poem by Laura Tattoo on Moineau en France.

Recycle

2011-01-11T18:24:00.005-06:00

This weeks "Weekword" is "Recycle". Below is a story about my friend, Lynda, that I posted on Silk Creek Portal back in March of '08. When I hear the word "recycle", I think of Lynda, and this is why:

Since one of the themes of this blog this month is Women in Nature, I thought I'd write about my friend, Lynda and her garden. Lynda has been fighting breast cancer for about ten years now. When she first started on this journey, doctors told her that the odds of surviving this long weren't good. She is currently undergoing the last and harshest chemo treatment for her cancer. She was told that she would be on this one for the rest of her life. It's left her very tired and weak, with a low blood count and low kidney function. So, when she told me about her plans for this garden, I was surprised, but happy to hear it. It could be so easy for her to dismiss the idea as being too ambitious right now.

I drove to Beaumont this weekend to help her get it started. The place she plans to grow her vegetables is at her in-laws house. In the back there are 8 or 9 raised beds that have been overgrown with about three years worth of weeds and grass. While we were busy pulling weeds and turning the soil, I asked her, "what does this garden mean to you?" She said, "recycling." I asked her what she meant, and she started to tell me about her father-in-law, Spud. These were once his gardens. He built them about 20 years ago when he retired. He was very passionate about them, especially his strawberries. He worked in his garden when he was well into his eighties. Once, not long before he died, his doctor asked him if he ever suffered from shortness of breath on exertion. Spud said, "define exertion." The doctor said, "when you're going about your normal daily activities." This eighty something year old man told his doctor that sometimes after several trips of carrying 80 pound bags of sand to his garden, he would have to stop and rest for a minute. We should all have that problem when we're eighty. Anyway, Lynda said it made her sad to see these gardens that were once the pride of such an energetic man who was so full of life become so overgrown like this since his passing.

Spud passed away about 2 years ago, so being the nosy friend that I am, I wondered why is it now that Lynda wants to start these gardens back up again. I pried further, "so you're doing this as a memorial to Spud, or does it go deeper than that?" She thought about it, and then said, "this is what kept Spud alive after he retired." I said, "so if you have no work, you die?" She said, "yes." But, it was more than that, because she added, "I can't give up now, I have gardens to tend to."

She also has work to be done at the animal shelter, puppies to rescue, foster, and find homes for. She won volunteer of the year for her work with animals. I think that all of this is more than just work for her. She used the word "recycling". In this context, it makes me think of the cycle of life. This garden is an integral part of that cycle. In spite of the gloomy forecast that the doctors give, she continues to fill her life with life, and give back to life.

Lynda passed away in October of '09, and then my mom the following January. Many of my creative endeavors came to a hault, including gardening and blogging. Slowly though, I'm coming back around. Last October, I wrote this poem for her.

Lynda's Poem

You embellished my life
with the last five years of yours
Adorned it with stories
from your animal rescue adventures
while I cried on your shoulder
after losing mine
Bejeweled it with bead work
made from our treasure hunt bounty
while helping me blow dust off mine
Illuminated it with photographic treks
no one else had the patience to join
Enriched it with gardens
that renewed environmental wonder
and recycled life

Hours spent in unspoken mirth
or in epic laughter
We shared the same muse
Your diagnosis was terminal
yet you filled life
with life and gave it back
Until the last harvest moon

It’s been a year since then
My camera and beads have
once again gathered dust
But, an overgrown flower bed
outside my door whispered
It’s creator died years ago
A thorny rose stem among weeds
Tiny begonias hidden in the grass
told the story of her love
I thought of you and recycled it

In memory of you
I took a new photo
A huge white bloom
that only opens at night
While inside my house
a bird screeched
A rescue you’d fall in love with
Thank you

Simplicity

2011-01-07T10:42:00.004-06:00

dormancy pervades
gray coated simplicity
Winter pond’s secret

This is for "Weekword", a weekly blogging challenge that I discovered on Mary's blog. The Haiku was inspired by hers. She went into a wonderfully in depth discussion of how difficult it is to attain simplicity. My photo probably doesn't seem simple, but for me, it represents the simple peacefulness I felt while taking it. That day at the arboretum, it was so quiet that it seemed like even the turtles were hibernating; like earlier that morning they squinted a sleepy eye at the gray clouded sky and said, "Yup, today is a good day to go back to bed." In contrast, below is complexity in winter colors.

Winter’s veneer hue
cloaks complexity within
strives for clarity

You can find many other blog posts on "Simplicity" by clicking on "Weekword" above.

Bridges

2011-01-03T16:56:00.003-06:00

arching vines mirror
amber drifts cushion crossing
traversing dank murk

Fall bridges twisted woodland
in ravines of awareness

January Moon

2010-12-29T16:00:00.003-06:00

left behind

the news of your passing
leaves them silent
but there’s no one left to preach to
so a stranger gives your eulogy
left behind
forgotten
because of years spent in memory’s effusion

life’s elemental scream
fades to a whispered prayer of confusion
a final exhalation
that no one hears

January Moon

shadowy fingers of night sky
unveil a swollen moon
with memories no longer to be recalled
their mother is gone

sharp angled barren branches
hint at this January moon’s frigidity
whose white hot passion
casts shadows on spray painted concrete
where I live

It seems to me that people are generally drawn to poetry that rhymes, so I rewrote the above poems to make the rhyming one below. Which do you prefer?

January Moon Rhyme

Night’s shadowy fingers unveil
A moon swollen with memories
Clouded recollection is impaled,
On the spires of winter stark trees.

News of your passing lingers,
Silencing those who knew you.
Your eulogy is given by a stranger;
There’s no one left to preach to.

Left behind, moon light raids
Years spent in memory’s effusion,
Your intrinsic scream fades
To a whispered prayer of confusion.

Final exhalation, this January moon
Hints at abysmal frigidity,
White hot quiescence carves a rune
That no one will ever see.

Shadows cast, their tales forgotten,
On dark empty streets of your begotten.

Flying Boats

2010-12-24T17:40:00.003-06:00

sinking boat
suddenly takes flight
like the hearts of lovers
when lust is consummated
only to find
when the magic washes over
nothings changed

soaring unrealistically high
propelled by adrenaline
over bridges meant to be
sailed under
crossroads bypassed
in favor of a mid-air stall

last second parachute
cushions the end of a free fall
alighting further down stream
going nowhere
in a sinking boat

parachuting boats
as quixotic as
flying boats
and yet, unable to do
what it was meant to do

Trail

2010-12-22T19:42:00.001-06:00

Spent

2010-11-20T18:44:00.003-06:00

Coins dropped
into a hand of rotting flesh
Character spent

An old hag strikes a deal
with a luminescent daughter
Pale and delicate
retaining white linen that
repels murky water…
and wispy dark hair that
opposes ivory skin

Preservation paid for
she slips away
Constitution bared and bled
left standing alone in murky water
holding the putrefying jawbone
of an attacking dog

Camaraderie gawks
concludes and criticizes
standing safely on dry
decaying continents
of dragons and voodoo masks

They’re happy I’ll be staying
Preserved for decadent perishing
There’s no turning back
She took the dinghy with her

Beneath

2010-10-24T16:56:00.002-05:00

A collage made from pictures I took on a trip to Tennessee last year.

Traveling

2010-10-23T11:34:00.003-05:00

I made this collage with photos I took while on a trip to Garner State Park earlier this month.

Antidepressants

2010-08-07T13:48:00.002-05:00

eyes coated with a medicated blur
words refuse to focus
shoulders are lighter
but pages still haunt

don’t care about the pain
don’t care about the gift
lazy hands laugh
unmotivated feet dance
-in purposeless directions
-in silent numbness

but sleep reveals that
core chapters have not been numbed

Mom

2010-05-18T12:43:00.003-05:00

today
a warm bosom pillow
will cradle tears no more
today whispered poetry
is scattered by the wind
a woman on the night shift
watches another
exhale for the last time
raw eyes sigh tears of relief

she taught me to double tape boxes
-moving to keep up with life-
how to stack dishes
to minimize damage
got to keep moving

“life is moving so much faster now, mom
I think I’m beginning to understand
I miss you
I love you
farewell”

My computer is down

2010-02-05T14:02:00.000-06:00

I hope to be posting again soon!

Illustration Friday: Hatch

2009-12-12T10:41:00.003-06:00

My scanner isn't working properly :[.

I was trying to write in my journal, but was uninspired, so I drew all over an old entry instead.

Illustration Friday: Entangle

2009-12-05T13:49:00.005-06:00

handless people mesh with
wicked minded hands
entangle with wicked thoughts
actuating the hands

ineffectual dexterity
plucking anemone tentacles
from sex books strung
together like beads

feeling foreign philosophies with
acquired unstable tactility
organizes books, but
salvaging anemone is futile

only a week late, but oh well, thought I'd post it anyway.

Metaphor

2009-11-30T19:44:00.003-06:00

on I-10, I’m a silver Honda
conservative fuel efficient four cylinder
headers’ asphalt fantasies
obscured by exhaust

windshield cracked
paint fading to grey
factory radio screams lithium rock
speakers can’t keep pace

broken road taunting
with broken limits
concrete barrier keeps me east bound
constructing civility before rage

weaving through traffic unnoticed
hurrying nowhere
sunsets seen only
in the rearview mirror

Plunge

2009-11-07T10:14:00.004-06:00

Plunge…

into Forbidden Lake
warm waters massage aching feet
pushing pain out through pores
orgasmic dispelling of anger
defecation floats to waves above
resurrected desires sink
into ripples of light

See more Beach Birds at Silk Creek Portal.

Funeral for a Friend

2009-09-24T14:09:00.002-05:00

Funeral for a Friend

They cut away at her
attempting to starve the demon
possessing her bones
They force her to run
using all remaining strength
to a chapel door
An alter candle burns out
the ascending medicated confusion
wafts and dissipates as
the door closes
Where was I?
Puking in the ditch
back on Zion Road

Diligence can’t prevent
the birth of guilt at death
Intercourse - an awkward exchange
of secret emotions in this pew
I don’t belong here
They judge me unfit
Disfellowship me

Gone But Not Forgotten

2009-04-21T16:01:00.005-05:00

I took these photos back in February on my last trip to Galveston. I've been meaning to post them for sometime now, but have been very distracted lately.

This was taken at the east end of the island where the bird sanctuary used to be. Somebody named Chris spray painted the words "gone but not forgotten" on the steps. The clean up process after Hurricane Ike is going to take a while, but the birds are making do. There are more photos of birds on my other blog Silk Creek Portal.

This is where my favorite restaurant used to be. I'd park at the east end of the island, and walk about 2 or 3 miles, eat lunch, and then walk back.

I was so happy to see that there were still so many birds here.

Flying Blind

2009-03-28T20:44:00.005-05:00

Missing in action, marked
by defective compass -
absent medications
dissolve his directions.

Magnetic arrow points
to twisted perceptions
Blindly navigating,
hurricane confusion,
he's high on delusion,
thinks his conscience intact.

Absence of his conscience
invincibility,
freedom - insanity.
Medications reveal
limit of directions,
compass calibrations,
labored navigation,

altering the compass
consciously

Invincible

Chemical Abandon

Special thanks to Ashok Karra and Sharon Warden for all their help with the poem!

Avatar Projections

2009-02-28T19:57:00.003-06:00

Avatar Projections

Is there anybody out there?
Can you feel my cyber quivers -
fidgeting mouse uncertainty?
Hear my mp3 groans -
cracking backspace key?
Smell my electronic friction -
running fetid program RAM fumes?
See my pixelated facial expressions -
stuttering keyboard skittish smirks?
Am I real or virtual?

To be in the present is
to be alone
Winter feet blue
Hard drive hums speechless for days
Candle scents lack of hygiene
Week old pajamas can’t remember a smile
What do you see when you look at me?

This poem was inspired by an article I read the other day in a Psychotherapy Networker magazine called "Screenworld" by Michael Ventura.

Rants and Vents

2009-02-27T12:22:00.004-06:00

laying in a bed of piss

cradle of birth
dried up
prolapsed -
once nurtured
topiary progeny
now lays in a
bed of piss

fruited heirs
drop buds of blame
divesting their guilt
“She did this to herself”
angry at her for
being angry at them

Cured

how many times
will you be cured?!
do you really think
I’m that stupid?
how many excuses
repeated time and again?
do you really think
I’ll come running?

you’re so much holier than me
God has chosen you
above all the sick and dying
healed, yet
you can not control the voices

you can not keep a job
you alienate those who care
do you really think
I’d believe you’ve been blessed?!

I Can Choose Not To Listen

“Thank you Jesus, for healing me”
He cries out
Wanting more pain meds
Refuses to take his psychotic meds
Doesn’t care how the hospital bill gets paid

“Just be strong and take care of things”
Clueless fatherly advice
Running thousands of miles away, so
He won’t see the mess he’s left
Thinks he can buy respect

Two generations of
Self righteous rhetoric
Spat out
Condescending benevolence for
Their own benefit

At my expense

Illustration Friday: Contained

2009-01-11T11:27:00.003-06:00

The Caretaker

What use are you to us
When you make yourself sick
Wallowing in self pity
Won’t listen to our advice?

Because we’ve spent our money,
You have no excuse
You owe us an explanation
Nothing’s free

You are not living up to our expectations
We have given you what we deemed necessary
You have been judged to be in arrears

Now you need to return to
Your previous role!

BluerPrintReview Issue #19

2009-01-10T10:41:00.003-06:00

The new issue of BluePrintReview is out, and my article The Season's Solace is included in it! Here's a note from the editor:

"the new issue of blueprintreview is online!
#19: beyond the silence

silence:
the absence of sound. refusal or failure to speak out. a period of time without speech or noise.

and beyond the silence?

unified fields . and voids. a terrible beauty. and a claustrophobic little boy. flowers. and a meeting with Oba-chan. the shape of grief. and the way it should be. the season's solace. and rain, rain...

yes, this one is a vast issue, both in theme and in size. it also marks a new level: again, there was a new peek of submissions. plus, blueprintreview was listed as one of the 100 favorite online journals by the Women's Poetry Listserv. parallel to that, i received my first hate-mail. (karmic balance, i guess).

here the shortcut beyond the silence: blueprintreview #19

and here the quick guide to the issue:
to start the silence, erase all the sacred texts.
to end it, remember the things you know by heart.

thanks so much for adding your tune to this issue ~
have a beautiful, inspired and magic year 2009 ~
doro"

Hippy Geometry

2009-01-09T22:44:00.005-06:00

Hospice Engineering

Step into quadrilaterals
Stand and pivot for transfer
Train track keys of a player piano
Strike chords with apathy
Reverberate on rails of life and death
Geometric notes
Measured begrudgingly
Side by side into the next depot
Dirge of a run-away-train whistle

Step onto meshed polygons jumbled
Indifferent symmetry spirals within
Lounge car player piano
I’ve become an inconvenience
No scheduled destination
Black and white parallelograms
Depress and release
Clack-clack tracks below

Stand and pivot or
Remain confined to this berth
Parallel rails don’t reconcile

Linda Perhacs' Parallelograms
Paul called this "Hippy Geometry". LOL, I love it! Thanks for sending it to me, Paul.

Dream of the Gifted

2009-01-03T20:48:00.002-06:00

Dream of the Gifted

long hair thick with power
a genetic gift
voice written with
celestial notes
underscored with chords of callow haughtiness

small stature belies her strength
delicate child climbs
ancestral monument
ancient stage carved with her heritage
searching through faces of history for
the source of mystery and power

suspended center stage
long sharp spear
once grasped, androgynous dancer
appears, amusing and entertaining until
self-indulgent curiosity pierces its human neck
rabbit face distraught
turns ominously toward her
“What have you done, child?”

daylight obscured
nature’s balance blackened
dance ends in death
severing lyrics from melody
darkened stage
keeps performing on its own
haunted, materializing
over abundance of food for her family

a score of negligent indulgence
is written
for her repertoire

I submitted the first draft of this poem to The Critique.
Dallas, an editor, offered many helpful suggestions that you can read if you follow the first link. Below is the first draft. Let me know what you think.

Gifted

youthful hair thick with power
and a voice written
with celestial notes
underscored with chords of callow
haughtiness
her tiny frame climbs
an ancestral monument
an ancient stage carved with her heritage
searching through faces of history
for the source of mystery and power

suspended center stage
a long sharp spear
once grasped, the androgynous dancer
appears… amusing and entertaining
until self-indulgent curiosity
pierces it’s neck
it’s rabbit face distraught
turns ominously toward her
“What have you done, child?”

blackened balance
ends the dance in death
severing lyrics from melody
the darkened stage
keeps performing though,
materializing
an over abundance of food
for her family

a score of negligent indulgence
is written for her
repertoire

Inspiration

2008-12-11T16:26:00.003-06:00

I thought I'd post the inspiration for the poem From Vatnajokull to Sargasso. My friend Paul e-mailed me this picture he created, and explained it's inspiration, which is partially quoted below.

"30 years have passed since I was in the Sargasso Sea... named for the seaweed that reminded early Portuguese explorers of Salgazo grapes. I take a sip of wine. It is true that the only company I kept during my churchyard haunting was that of the local wildlife. I can remember leaning against the heavy ancient tombs, listening to the wind tickle the the long thin meadow grass; the birds sweet twittering only there to distract me from their nests.

The hawsers stretch across the deck, over windlass and into the becalmed Sargasso. They drag there until the sea unknots the tangled hemp.

I'm looking at a painting I started some years back - a Photoshop enhanced version appears above. I started a few like this. I was responding to the patterns that I saw in nature.

The bark of trees...

Lichen growing on stone...

Sand ripples left by the receding tide.

As is so often the case with this kind of doodling, I started to see half familiar shapes emerging from the squiggling foam. A creature here and there. The hint of something hidden just below the surface. A place from the past."

He also sent me links to Chris Watson's Vatnajokull and Maya Deren's Meshes of the Afternoon. Thanks Paul, for letting me share this :]

Illustration Friday: Similar

2008-12-11T15:34:00.002-06:00

Serenity
Poured through a sieve
Every hole similar
Nothing changes
In this room
No windows
No doors
Yet, luminescence varies in the passing
Red, yellow, green, blue
Beads in a prism
Strung on daisy chains of light
Waiting

The poem is for CPCCC's Saturday Share. The picture for Illustration Friday's Similar.

Winter Colors

2008-12-08T19:42:00.004-06:00

Remembering when this time of year wasn't so depressing. I don't care for the poem much, but again, kind of like the picture. The poem was written for Legacy Writers of Harmony Pub picture challenge.

Twenty one years ago a church bell rang
Tolling pale azure and white
Against an iridescent midnight
Refrains of devotion, candlelight sang

Olden ritual with white rose petals misted
New birds chirp warmth into the frozen
Borrowed from time, sterling vows are spoken
Blue, truer than all ancient affections listed

For fifteen years the colors tolled
Now silent, their hues have faded
In shadows of grey, winter is shaded
Rose petals withered by the colorless cold

Reflection's Passages

2008-12-07T23:35:00.002-06:00

I went to the arboretum yesterday, sat at my favorite spot by the cypress bog, and daydreamed about traveling into the reflections of the fall leaves.

Reflection’s Passages

Diving into reflection’s passages
I soar high above the oxbow
amber branches give way
greeting
entreating
casting amber beams of hushed petals
to the path before me
vanishing far below
where mirrors ripple
with Eleionomae sighs
displaced
Forsaken waif

Deeper into the golden embrace
I discover
the point of origin has been silenced
the bejeweled resin is no closer
the vernal vibrancy is dangling from the
thorny arm extended toward me
Exhausted

Dark Dance

2008-12-05T16:21:00.004-06:00

Here's another one for the Saturday Share. I'm not crazy about the poem, but I think the picture turned out kind of cool. When I was layering a couple of my photos in photoshop to go along with the poem, the girl just mysteriously appeared. I airbrushed her a little to make her stand out. Originally, I had no intention to have her in there, but I guess she was determined to be a part of her own dance.

Dark Dance

Stark Cypress sway in celebration
Child of midnight spinning round
Shadows explode with symphonic elation
Lost in song on this frozen ground

Where turbulence and placidity abound
Gusts of pine needles sprinkle
Oh how mystical melodies resound
Around disembodied eyes a twinkle

Moonlit reflections wrinkle
And echo harmoniously across the bog
Sleepy curiosity rouses a jingle
Timid choir huddles under a log

Winter woodland rug rustles agog
With the dance of the dark child
She cloaks the night in frigid fog
Silhouetted hoots and howls are riled

She desires daylight to be beguiled
Breathing an elegy in anticipation
Between timbre wild and tone mild
Swirling disposition resonates sensation

Surfs Up

2008-12-05T14:55:00.005-06:00

I've been traveling the Atlantic lately. ...In spirit, anyway. And, while journeying, I've been trying out some new forms of poetry. The first is a Villanelle.

Soul of the Sea

Oh ardent aria for the soul of the sea
When operatic coral awaken under an argent moon
Bear an azure sanctuary for me

Sympathetic waves lave from Charon’s ferry
Ungodliness into the tidal hands of Neptune
Oh ardent aria for the soul of the sea

Dissolving error through a rippled melody
Drifts of celestial glitter’s serous rune
Bear an azure sanctuary for me

Kraken, Leviathan form fondness for me
Where edenic reefs are hewn
Oh ardent aria for the soul of the sea

Their luminosity wanes in the Atlantis of anemone
Misty chants that wisp ere shadowed dune
Bear an azure sanctuary for me

Oh that starry fluidity would serenade soon
My ashes to ebb and emancipate my boon
Oh ardent aria for the soul of the sea
Bear an azure sanctuary for me

From Vatnajokull To Sargasso

Icelandic groans of spectral profound
Ripple forth from frozen wombs
Augural creaks ominously resound
What veiled chants Vatnajokull assumes

Squiggling chimera within frothy blooms
Traversing rampart currents to where
Sargasso lichen cover sunken tombs
Crumbling reflections exhale arctic air

We’ve journeyed to where reveries dare
To tranquilize sonorous seas
We find therein knotted waters ensnare
Unattended growth the stillness seize

Swaying headstones in a liquid breeze
Lingering fingers are sifting through
Gardens of silt laden memories
Where foam apparitions stew

In mid Atlantic we rendezvous
With glacial hymns and salty wine
Hawser meshes of the afternoon
Swimming through placid brine

This last one is a Virelay. They're both dedicated to Paul, my travel companion who lives on the opposite side of the Atlantic. We meet half way ;]

The Season's Solace

2008-12-03T17:23:00.005-06:00

Dear Mike,

Annually, I make my trek to memorialize the day I brought you home to a rocky land of cactus and Mesquite thorn. Ceremoniously, I cling to you through your family in a silence that is interrupted intermittently by the call of a wild turkey. We gather on this harsh prickly land, and I brace myself for the season’s chill. Your family comforts me, though, within this Hill Country’s beauty that you knew so intimately.

Burnt sienna and burnt umber whisper with a frigid November breath. There, vermillion dotting rolling hills against an azure sky, hushed briars nestle in for winter. A sunset highlights the spiny edges of a Prickly Pear and the golden seed heads of wild grasses. Muted beauty that you are continuously revealing to me still.

I never cared much for Fall. I never wanted Summer to end. You and I together finding so many sun bright things to do. Since your death that blindingly blank summer day, I long for Fall’s consoling blanket of solitude. I long to escape failed expectations of summer togetherness, like the way a fallen leaf is alee the cold Autumn wind. Now the quiescent place you call home mirrors my parched brittle soul that is beginning to adorn new colors of beauty you’ve yet to see.

Fitting it was then, that it was Fall when I carried you home. We spread your ashes among rock and bone under changing trees. We held each other to say good bye and remember you, but that reclusive fire that took you, laid hold of me. It’s been changing my hues to burnt earthen pigments. A newfound beauty decries the emptiness that the fire refines. Fire and ashes in my veins, but my bones are growing cold. Autumn’s beauty carries me beyond the soundless deer seeking shelter, beyond your ashes undisturbed.

Tell Me I'm Here

2008-11-21T22:03:00.004-06:00

Saturday share at CPCCC

Blog Award

2008-11-20T22:13:00.002-06:00

Mary has awarded me with yet another honor! Thanks Mary! And thanks for your loyal support!

Illustration Friday: Pretend

2008-11-20T19:03:00.003-06:00

I've been having computer problems again. I think my computer just doesn't like cold weather. Neither do I, so I snuggled under a blanket on my couch and doodled in my sketch book instead. Pretend this is my brain while I doodle.

Illustration Friday: Wise

2008-11-15T15:58:00.002-06:00

I was going to try to participate in Illustration Friday last week, but posted this too late. Maybe this week.

Tuned Out

2008-11-15T15:43:00.002-06:00

Trying to learn Haiku.

The Vice

2008-11-15T15:13:00.003-06:00

Another Saturday Share at CPCCC. Saturday Share is a poetry challenge that starts on Tuesday nights when Cheryl gives us a line. This week's line was "inside out and upside down". Then everybody contributes lines of their own until 6 pm Wednesday night. Next we pick from the contributed lines and create a poem to share on Saturday. The line I picked from the list was "intrusion, confusion, confound" by Sheila A. It's a lot of fun, and can get pretty silly sometimes. Everybody is welcome to join in.

Ocean Song

2008-11-08T14:14:00.003-06:00

Another CPCCC Saturday Share.

Lucy

2008-11-05T11:24:00.003-06:00

Volunteering at an animal rescue after the hurricane.

Picture by Lynda

This is Lucy. A police officer found her after Ike. That hurricane left her orphaned. She goes up for adoption this week at the Beaumont Animal Rescue. I wish I could adopt her. She and I bonded.

The Deception

2008-10-31T22:51:00.004-05:00

For Saturday Share at CPCCC.

Cards From Mary

2008-10-30T16:47:00.002-05:00

Mary is one of the most thoughtful people I have met, and is a dear friend to me. She has sent me all of these cards you see below to encourage me during a difficult time. They are all her original artwork and photography. To see more of her work go here or here.

And here's yet another award she's sent me. Yea!

Thanks Mary!

Alibis

2008-10-29T21:38:00.004-05:00

Another one for CPCCC.

Not Myself Lately...

2008-10-24T17:25:00.005-05:00

...but seems to be appropriate for the season.

These were done for "Cheryl's Pals' Creative Collab Corral".

Summer Flowers '08

2008-10-23T19:39:00.005-05:00

These were taken on my trip to Wisconsin last summer. I have more photos of flowers from this trip here.

Summer Sunsets '08

2008-10-22T22:37:00.004-05:00

To see more sunsets from my summer vacation click here.

Blog Award

2008-10-01T17:38:00.004-05:00

Atomicvelvitsigh gave me this award, and I am very honored! I've been going through a tough time lately, and my mind has been far removed from blogging. Velvet's encouragement could not have come at a better time. Thank you so much! The bright cheerful colors are a welcome addition to my side bar. She said for me to pass this award on to the blogs I love, and she would definitely be one of the blogs I would like to pass it on to. There are other bloggers that have been very encouraging to me, and whose blogs I love. Three of them are Mary, who has several blogs of wonderful art, Michael, who loves to digitally alter photographs, and Ashok, whose blog isn't really an art blog, but has some wonderful commentaries on the arts. There are more. Some of the blogs no longer exist, but all of you and your blogs have been encouraging to me. Thank you!

Hurricane E-mails

2008-10-01T17:13:00.003-05:00

Here's some e-mails I've received from friends lately. Obviously there has been a lot of people with a lot of free time around here. What else is there to do while waiting for your power to be turned back on?

Top Ten Reasons Hurricane Season Is Like Christmas:

10: You decorate the house (with plywood and tarps).
9: Last minute shopping in crowded stores.
8: Regular TV shows pre-empted for 'Specials'.
7: Family coming to stay with you.
6: Family and friends from out of state calling you.
5: Buying food you don't normally buy . . . and in large quantities.
4: Days off from work.
3: You have lit candles and lights all over.
2: You visit the liquor store to party with the neighbors.

And the #1 reason Hurricane Season is like Christmas:

1. At some point you're probably going to have a tree in your house!

The hurricane grouch quotient can be calculated by adding the number of children and pets in a home without power, multiplied by the number of days quoted on the CenterPoint telephone recording, divided by the number of fans or portable air conditioners powered by your home generator, (however if you were last in line at Home Depot and have no generator then multiply by the daily temperature high for that day reported by the news), then add the number of trips to the washateria and add the days left until school opens again. Discount by the percentage of time spent at neighbors who have power and alcohol. Recalculate as often as necessary.

• No matter how many times you flick the switch, lights don't work without electricity.

• Calories consumed during a hurricane or power outage do not count.

• Vienna sausages and Spaghetti-Os only appear on the food pyramid during hurricane season.

• Despite protests, kids can re-live their parents' youth when there were only 3 tv channels!

• Houston without traffic lights resemble Mexico City, Rome, Los Angeles and New York City all rolled into a single snarl.

• A 7 lb bag of ice will chill 6-12 oz beers to a drinkable temperature in 11 minutes, and still keep a 14 lb. turkey frozen for 8 more hours.

• There are/were a lot of really big trees around here!

• People will get into a line that has already formed without having any idea what the line is for.

• Gas mileage is recalculated based on miles per fume.

• Telemarketers function no matter what the weather is doing. New Delhi does not check the weather report in South Texas before calling

• Most popular text message after September 13: do u hve pwr

• Twenty-seven of your neighbors are fed from a different transformer than you, and they are quick to point that out!

• Crickets and cicadas can increase their volume to overcome the sound of 14 generators.

• Dirty clothes in an unsupervised hamper multiply at an exponential rate.

• Coffee, spaghetti and frozen pizzas can be made on a grill.

• He who has the biggest generator wins.

• Tree service companies are under-appreciated, except after hurricanes.

• There are a lot more stars in the sky than most people thought.

• If you owned a store that sold only ice, chain saws, gas and generators, you would be rich.

Riding the Storm Out

2008-09-17T14:32:00.007-05:00

Friday afternoon, about 4 pm, I'm sitting at my desk with a local TV station streaming through my computer the latest updates on Hurricane Ike. The winds are already picking up, even though it's outer bands have only just begun to hit Galveston. Spring Texas, a northern suburb of Houston, is a good 90 minute drive north of Galveston. Thanks to the storm's surge, the flooding of the city's bayous has already begun, even though the rain hasn't. They're asking everybody on the north side to "hunker down" and ride the storm out, so that the people on the south side can evacuate. The freeways had started to back up Thursday afternoon, and really, where would we all go? The storm is 200 miles wide. So, here I sit... and wait.

My clients have cancelled, I've cleaned and put oil in the hurricane lamps, new batteries in the flashlight, moved all potted plants and out door furniture into the garage, and my refrigerate and freezer have been stuffed full of containers filled with drinking water. I did all my cleaning Thursday, the ice chest, bathrooms, kitchen, and laundry, because I'm expecting to be without water for a while. The only things left to do is one last shower, and then fill the bath tubs with water. I'll wait until the last minute to unplug and disassemble my computer, so I can move it to a safer place. The waiting, though, is pure torture.

I'm not waiting for the storm to hit. I know there will be some damage and fallen trees, but I also know I'll be alright. I'm waiting for the aftermath. In '83 when Alicia hit, we were without power and water for 2 weeks. In '05 when Rita hit, the temperatures were in the 100's. No work. No income. Getting ice or fuel was like beating buzzards off a meat truck. An entire city of [about 6 million] people who are hot, miserable, and haven't bathed for days - not my idea of fun.

Fast forward now five days to today, Wednesday. I have power and water! Yea! Unfortunately, I think my neighborhood is the only one in the entire metropolitan area that does. Living alone makes it seem like I haven't talked to anyone for days, so yesterday cabin fever and canned soup got the best of me, and I decided to go for a drive to the grocery store, hoping to find something else to eat. Whoa! I think every street light in this city is out. There were downed trees and debris everywhere. There were lines at the few gas stations still open that were about a quarter of a mile long. They were saying on my car radio that the lines in the grocery stores were just as long, and only imperishable goods were being sold. I was not going to wait in line for more canned soup, so I checked in on a friend and went home. No work for me this week, which will be tough financially. All I can do is daydream about Mexican food and margaritas, and tell my blog about it. Thank God for internet.

Other things I'm grateful for: The cool front that came in - no 100 degree weather, yea! My house is still livable in spite of losing shingles and water damage in my living room - no having to find another place to stay, yea! I've been able to bathe since Monday, yea! I'm definitely one of the lucky ones.

My brother lay in bed wide awake all night, the night of the storm, and waited for a tree branch above his bedroom to fall. It finally fell around 4 am, and the winds blew it so that it went through the roof of his dining room instead. He said after that, he could go to sleep. I heard a story on the radio about a man who, when the rains from the cool front hit, took his shampoo and soap out to his back yard and bathed. I guess if you could talk family members into holding up a shower curtain for you, that might not be such a bad idea. My greatest hardship was trying to avoid stepping on the crawfish while cleaning the shingles and tree branches out of my swampy yard. I thought to myself as I sat on my porch with my propane camping burner, heating up my soup, "if I ever run out of soup, I could always have a crawfish boil."

Unlike my brother, though, I couldn't get but a couple of hours of sleep the night of the storm. I think it was when the eye passed over us, because when I finally nodded off, about 5 am, the winds were still coming out of the northeast, and when I woke at 7 am to the sound of my fence crashing down and shingles being ripped off my roof, the winds were coming out of the southwest. I ran to the window, and I could see my banana trees were kneeling and praying to the northeast. They survived, although their leaves have been shredded by the wind.

It was a long storm. The longest I can remember. The rain started about 11 pm Friday night, and didn't stop until 5 pm Saturday evening. It seems like Alicia in '83, which was a category 3 [Ike was only a 2], lasted only about 5 or 6 hours. Maybe it was longer, but not as long as this one.

The picture above is of a sign someone posted at the only entrance to my neighborhood. In the 12 years that I've lived here, we've never had any looters.

For Mary

2008-07-19T01:44:00.002-05:00

See Mary's here. Learn how she makes them in the comments here.

The Water Dance

2008-07-01T00:14:00.003-05:00

I've had this computer for 3 years, and I'm just now finding this program. Duh.

Mike's Song

2008-06-30T23:20:00.003-05:00

Photo Friday: Religion [Losing my...]

2008-06-27T18:35:00.002-05:00

Perception

Sign painting upside down
The perspective distorts
The edges all around

Brushes are misshapen
There are exaggerated reports
From backward slants taken

How will I tell the blue from the brown?

Watery blur is what I find
Magnifying tears
Gog of Magog is blind

Not bridled by it's virtual desire
But sunken in obscure fears
I evade it's visual fire

Soaked in brown from peering behind

Haunted waters are glowing
With solid feet grounded
Opaque people are flowing

Underwater lenses are spying
Shapes and colors founded
But refusing to see they're dying

An eye patch focuses knowing and prevents showing

Journaling

2008-06-25T22:54:00.006-05:00

My blogging friend, Ashok Karra, and I have recently had a discussion on journaling, and he asked the question, "Do you think it is essential for a life coach to get her clients journaling or blogging? " I thought this was an interesting question, and wanted to write a post about it.

As I'm interested in life coaching, but not one yet, I can only answer from my experience as a personal trainer, and from my personal experience. I have found through personal training that the clients who are most successful at reaching their goals, are the ones that keep a journal. All the research on weight loss shows the same.

The first session with a client is usually spent evaluating, and discussing goals and the importance of journaling. At one gym I worked for, we gave every client a free journal when they signed up. I have them write out their goals in the present tense affirmative, and they have to be specific. For example, "I will be able to run a mile without stopping within the next six weeks." Next they are to write what obstacles are preventing them from reaching their goals, and how they plan to overcome them. I help them with the planning and what they can reasonably expect within their schedules. They are then supposed to keep track of what they do daily/weekly to reach their goals, and if the goals involve weight loss/gain, they are to keep a food log, as well.

Just the act of putting their goals in writing, increases their chances of success. I read once that physiologically, writing takes an abstract idea associated with the right brain, and breaks it down into a logical process associated with the left brain, getting the whole brain involved in focusing on the goal. Seeing their own words in writing commits them, or seals their commitment to achieving the goals, like a contract. And then, there is the realization after they start charting their progress, that they don't always eat as healthy or exercise as much as they thought. For my clients who stick with it, journaling is an eye opening experience. So, I would think that for life coaching, journaling would be just as important, if not more to achieving goals.

I asked Ashok what his thoughts were on journaling or blogging to help him achieve his goals. He is currently working on his dissertation for his graduate studies in political science. Here's his reply:

"For me, blogging started out as a way of getting thoughts down. Thoughts don't just come without strings; they're always attached to other thoughts, not all of them good. When I first started blogging, I was really hurting because a girl I liked wasn't interested in me at all. And I wondered if anything I could do or be could remedy that.

So every time, in those earlier years, that I was reading a poem or watching TV or looking at art I would have thoughts of her, and my inadequacy, and thoughts of the object at hand. Blogging helped me sort through those issues: it didn't take me really long to realize I was writing for an audience, and they had needs. Slowly my more self-absorbed thoughts began to subside. They didn't disappear; it was just that the entries focused more on where my audience and I could meet, i.e. Robert Frost's "The Pasture," and the sentiment underlying the whole discussion was informed by the initial desire to express pain. But at that point, it might have been impossible to tell I was pained in any way :)

In terms of immediate organization/dissertation help, blogging has just made me that much stronger of a writer. It must have doubled/tripled the speed I write and edit. It's made me more careful about what words I pick. It's pushed me to explore issues from a number of angles before and while writing. The dissertation right now reads like the poem commentaries I have, except with more footnotes and a slightly denser style all around.

But the main thing blogging/journaling has done is give me a public capacity. Writing helps privately - I still keep a paper journal (I've had one since 2001). But being online and working to build the audience and writing for them is huge, esp. in an age where academics like myself aren't guaranteed work. I don't need anyone to give me a job; I know what mine is, and I'm at it everyday, whether there's money or not. This is my voice, my thought, and if the world doesn't want it, it's the world's loss."

I really enjoy Ashok's poetry commentaries. You can find an index of many of his commentaries here.

While I've seen that there is a correlation between journaling and success regarding physical and academic goals, I also believe this to be true with emotional healing and growth. Another blogging friend, Mary Taitt, has talked about 'writing her way out of depression', and has written a book called Morning Shadows. "Writing my way out of depression," here's where blogging comes into the picture for me.

Ironically, I never kept a journal when I lost weight or started my exercise routine. In fact, I started blogging before I started journaling, but blogging was just a creative outlet for me to post art and photos to get feed back. I didn't know what a blog was when I started. I just wanted to participate in Illustration Friday. Soon I found others who were using their blogs to write about their personal problems, collect thoughts, or as Ashok stated, "sort through issues." I was inspired to start keeping a written journal of my own. That slowly started to spill over into my blog. Keeping a journal has been an eye opening experience in my battle with depression. Physically writing things down regularly, has helped me to see things more clearly. Like Ashok, when I post some of these things to my blog, it helps me all the more so, because I'm searching for the right words to explain my thoughts to others, forcing me to think things through.

Do life coaches recommend journaling? I know Carla does in her Wings 4 You challenges, and I've seen other blogs by life coaches that encourage it, as well. What do you think? Has journaling/blogging helped you to achieve goals? If you write a post or have written a post on this, please leave me a link to it. Thanks.

Nap Time and Boredom

2008-06-19T14:11:00.008-05:00

When I was little, probably about 4 or 5, I decided I was going to run away from home. My reason - nap time was too tortuous. How could anyone just lay there for 30 minutes and do nothing? The boredom was overwhelming!

"Can I get up now?"
"It's only been 10 minutes! Go to sleep!"

If I drifted off into imaginary adventures, my mom always knew.

"Lori, if you don't lay down and go to sleep, you will not be let out or your room!"

How did she know? I would be so careful not to make a noise. Being sent to your room was supposed to be punishment, yet I had to endure this imprisonment every afternoon.

One afternoon, I snapped. I had a baby sitter that afternoon. Sandy Quist. I always looked up to her. She was so cool with her long golden hair, and the finger painting classes she'd have in her garage for little kids like me. None of that mattered, though, when she said it was nap time. I could endure no more. Being little must have been a crime. I needed to find a way to escape this horrible form of punishment. In a moment of desperation, I devised a plan for my great escape. It was to make a mad dash for the front door. Unfortunately, I was caught before I ever tasted freedom.

"Where ya goin'?" Sandy asked in confusion.
"I'm running away from home."
"Why?"
"Cause I'm never gonna take naps again!"
"Well... what cha gonna eat?" She was smiling now.
Hmm... I hadn't thought of that.
"Where ya gonna sleep at night?"
I just shrugged.
"Under a bridge?"

I nodded even though the thought of sleeping under a bridge seemed a little scary. Sandy was able to convince me that 30 minutes of nap time was better than living under a bridge. Now I long for nap time. My mother said that would happen one day. Laying there for 30 minutes is a lot easier when you don't have anyone scolding you for going on imaginary adventures.

Boredom. Now that's another story. I could be in the middle of watching Mr. Rogers, and suddenly be consumed by a feeling that everything in life was hopelessly mundane and boring.

"Mom, I'm bored."
"Well, go outside and play, honey."

Nothing I could do would make that feeling go away, and I really don't think that was poor Mr. Rogers' fault. As a teenager, that feeling turned into a feeling of unexplainable loneliness and boredom, and as an adult, hopelessness. I never understood that feeling, but always associated it with the color brown, and after a while, I began to realize that it's extremity was not normal.

It didn't take me long to realize that crayons seem to posses the magic I needed to keep the brown boredom monster at bay. On one of my nap time adventures, I was able to sneak into my closet with a box of crayons and create one of my first masterpieces on the wall. I thought I was pretty clever, because mom never realized I wasn't napping. Then one day, I heard her yell, "[my full legal name, middle name included]! Get in here right this instant!"

"What is this, young lady?!"

It seemed pretty obvious to me, as she was pointing to my masterpiece, so I thought, "does she know that I wasn't napping?"

Sensing my bewilderment, she announced, "We do not draw on the walls!"

Oh. What a concept. Little did she know, I would get paid to do that later in life.

I think that it was about this time when my mom said she realized that I would much rather make my own drawings than color in coloring books. She was pretty clever in that way. She started buying me colored construction paper, instead. She said it amazed her how I would sit for hours and draw, while the other kids my age would get distracted and wander off. As a teenager, I did so even more, including during class when I was supposed to be listening to teachers. School was unbearably boring to me. I usually understood the teachers the first couple of times they explained something. I would spend the rest of class drawing on my book covers. Like nap time, it was the only way I could make it through.

Now, I escape digitally into photoshop or one of my other programs. I'm finding, though, that I can use it for more than just an escape. It's helping me to understand the monster a little better. The escape detaches me a little from the overwhelming feelings, so I can look at it from a different perspective, especially if I'm escaping into a picture of something I really love. I think the more time I spend feeling positive, the better equipped I am to battle depression. Even if the drawing is negative in nature, though, the escape is still helpful in breaking down barriers, releasing the negative emotions, and in giving a positive feeling of accomplishment. It continues to amaze me how such a simple creative act can do so much on so many levels.

Here's a poem I wrote when I was probably about 16 for a class assignment:

I feel brown
Not a wood stained brown
Not a suntanned brown
Not a brown like the mantle piece
that only appeals the the guest's eye

But a childhood memory brown
Brown like the artist symbol of boredom
Brown like the mixture of
a dull, lonely blue-gray
and a sick orange
Brown like a forgotten feeling
that hasn't died yet

Not Quite Right

2008-06-16T21:49:00.004-05:00

For Illustration Friday's Voices on 12-19-08

They all know
Everybody knows
That I'm not quite right
Their timid small talk dissipates
As I stare right through them
With empty eyes
I subvert their ease

Can't let them see
There's no control
Else I'll succumb to the madness
Concentrate my focus
Past their whispers
The worms
And the shadows

Determined to gaze long enough
For reality to be revealed
They don't realize that I understand
Perceive their discomfort
My concern with them is fleeting

Ignore the Whispers
The Worms
And the Shadows
Destroy the imagined
Before escaping past my lips
Fixate on the tangible
The alternative is a nightmare

Two months of fading
Through a disjointed world
Secrets leak without comprehension
Intellect is annulled
Desperate to fill the empty crevices
The spirit randomly dumps images
Else bereft of memory
I would perish

They all know
Everybody knows
My mother repeats the words
I once said
My memories crash in
On the crest of a wave
While hers are sucked out
In the undertow of Dementia

I watch her private fantasies
Tumble out before me
Like a play
Whose script was shuffled in the wind
Now the pages have all blown away
Nothing left to fill the empty spaces
I don't want to watch anymore

They all know
Everybody knows
My brother's uttered these words, too
"I've got brain damage", he jokes
Hoping to excuse his behavior
The voices tell him
He must lead with the right foot
The therapist stretches his mind
Twenty years of trying to see
That he needs to look away

I remember racing down back roads
He doesn't
I have to pretend it's normal
Afraid of the Whispers
The Worms
And the Shadows

Mary sent me a poem I really love called Edge Of Glass, about her mother's dementia. Check it out. You'll have to scroll down to the bottom to see the English version.

Perfectionism

2008-05-29T15:49:00.004-05:00

Striving for perfection
Better to desire divinity
Arrogance begets the ambition

Will judging harshly bring improvement?
Determined and driven...
Into self defeat

Fighting in fear
Inferiority and mediocrity
Arrogance is inspired by insecurity

Is there so little faith
In abilities to excel
That I should abuse?

Layers of Orange

2008-05-18T16:38:00.004-05:00

Layers of orange

I turn my back on it

Press against it

It pressed in all around me

Screaming past me

I try to push it back

Viscous

Visceral

Toxic

Lacking the crimson of blood

Which reaches depths of true blue

It besmears everything

Sheets of geodynamic dross

I'm left to peel

Vitiated