Monday, July 31, 2006

For Jan - or in contrast

SIMPLE GAME

I have thought a bit on the chaos of simplification.
You know, reduction of self to childhood's innocent appeal,
and getting rid of that back-pack full of ungrateful rubble.
Amongst the twigs of broken relationships and moldy regrets
there must be a hard-fought truth or three to sway self-delusion.

In this fine search for balance between divine humanity,
and chanced even more elusive human divinity,
there is cause to caress or trash some spiritual growth values
placed secure by others in my jumbled youth and scurried life.
Dare I build a model drawn from internal reflection alone?

One thing certain has evolved through belly-lint contemplation.
The soul and the spirit are vastly different parts and view
of the cosmic joke that caused the Light to love us into existence.
Spirit for me has always been a touch of God placed within,
while the shifty Soul is kind of the place where Spirit hangs out.

Now I have a more patient view, fueled by an itchy thought
that maybe the Spirit has difficulty coming to roust
'cept occassionally because our pace is most dreadful slow
from self-imposed chains around our sorry feet and blinders on.
Poor thing has to circle about and is only rarely seen.

And the Soul isn't quite a place at all, but a kind of fulcrum
for Archimedes's lever to shift the earth, or my butt, one.
I kind of envision that tool as the staff I use to touch
Mother Earth, and draw up energy from the Covenant,
or hold the Agreement out at friendly distance -- not sure.

Not sure the balance lever where the Spirit must ever dance
isn't more like a mirror that reflects back our passion or lack.
Too much teeter to the human side and we are lost in shame,
while a giant swing to divine embrace risks our humanity,
so seems maintaining a balance is the secret named '42'.

Philosophy attempts to solve this dilemma of Spirit chase
by fuddled strengthening the Soul fulcrum's essential focus.
Organized religion tries to freeze the swing pulse of everlife
into a static tremble state where the strangled, gifted Spirit
and base Given humanity both die in whimpered defeat.

Religiosity serves up all right if'n it tries to stroke
the swing from willful claim to willing yield into little steps.
At least this way there's small danger of falling off the darn'd thing,
while tricky balance is achieved or at least artfully pursued,
and maybe Spirit gets a chance at both human love and Light.

Of course the recycled birth Spirit prance is simplified
if the mirror-lever is shortened some by finding some peace
in love and humility and letting go of groundless fears.
With such balance and a more simple self and clearer eye
I might even get a quick peek into that shadow mirror.

So let me see if'n I got it right this time going around.
I am -- which should be enough really, except for the game
in which the object is to figure out the rules and don't keep score.
Slow down to keep better balance and let my Spirit catch up
and join in pray not dropping the love-ball all over again.

Hey, which team am I on anyway?

papa faucon

Sunday, July 30, 2006

Friends

I watched you, I watched you walk away
After making all those promises,
Those promises,
That you would always stay,
My stalwart, my ally by my side -
You calmed me, you soothed, don't be afraid,
But you knew then, you knew you would renege,
And leave me - so callously betrayed.

You could not look, you could not meet my gaze,
No wonder, you were counting down the days;
How could I? Why did I drop my guard,
And fail to see your carefully masked charade?
But I saw it, in the wincing of your face,
Your contorted hideous efforts not to stare,
When you saw me dwarfed by you, in my wheel chair.

I never, I never thought that you,
Would be the one to turn your back on me.
Years and years of friendship tossed aside,
Your hollow, stammering pleasantries could not hide,
The selfishness etched deep within your eyes.
It pierced my soul; but, most incredibly,
Was how my crippling pain made you turn me,
Into a non-person you could not see.

It haunts me, but now I have no fear;
I never drop my guard, no one gets near.

Jan

New Bugs!!!

I made new bugs. Happiness!

I haven't done any wirework stuff in a while. A cousin requested to have one commissioned for a friend and I couldn't say no even though my neck and arm is not recovered yet so I made...


Antfly

After I finished all my chores I went on to make...

White Ant and...


Mookie G!


Princess Antela

I just can't stop making these critters. That's why I haven't made any in a while. I wont' be able to stop until my arm and hand hurts. Oh, well. I'll risk it. I need the creative fix and the members of my previous bug menagerie are now with their new charges so I could use new guardians.

Saturday, July 29, 2006

Sunday Evensong

We are finding our way;
In the chill of late October,
When the sun dips behind bare sleeping trees
And never really seems to rise
Much beyond a flicker - we find our way.

There is light,
If at times only the faintest glimmer;
Light at the end and on the journey,
For those of us walking through the bitter frost -
And in the knowledge of a flame,
We are not lost.

We are comrades who do not say,
Other than in murmurs and with glances
That we are happy to be comrades.
As leaves of autumn fall at our feet,
The harvest moon
Hangs steady over stubble fields.
We say in the darkness
Those words that our companions need to hear;
We are guarded, guided,
And finding our way.

We are the welcome at the door.
He is the man who smiled at me
Last evening;
She is the woman
Who would not leave my side,
Even though I could not speak.
There is the man who helped me to a chair,
And the woman who offered her prayers:
Here is the blessing of love,
As we find our way.

Jan

ABBESS, ELDERS - I HOPE THIS IS LEGAL!!

I appreciate that one should edit work thoroughly before posting but I have realised that in the poem, 'Parting' "quarter moon" is not how I wished to convey that image. I wondered if I could make a diversionary post in the name of 'art' as it were. I believe the image should have been "crescent" moon; or, possibly "melon" or "lemon" - if anyone reading this cares to have an input feel free because one could say this is 'alchemy'in the melting pot as I atttempt to make my work as good as it can be. (I have read other posts defining 'alchemy' so to some extent this is actually an obsevation on the philosophical and conceptual components regarding the very essence of how and why we strive for perfection.) So if it's not legal - I can only ask your forgiveness.

XX and hugs, Jan

Thursday, July 27, 2006

asian alchemy



inspired by A for alchemy and a postcard a friend sent to me advertising an art exhibition called asian alchemy. This is my take on the subject

Parting

If I had words to say or time to tell it,
I doubt now, this night of early autumn frost,
That deepest feelings lying at the core,
Would surface.
I doubt in truth,
The very memory of what it was that passed
Between us.
Yet when I see the quarter moon,
Faceless and eternal,
I know that I have seen this moon
With you,
Somewhere in a past once shared,
And now neglected, thrown aside, put firmly
In its place.
You never could fight off your jealousy
And fear.
You could not give,
So, in the end, we parted
Without words;
Taking only bitter thoughts for company.

Jan

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

Missing

Some people came last night to see the house;
A young couple who love sweetpeas and poppies.
The old gardener doesn't know if he will stay now.
The grass is burned on the back lawn,
I left the pruners hidden in a bush
And your old leather gloves are by the fence.


Even the roses are fretting.

Jan

Nether Shades

Nether shades
from distant,
closeby.
Seen, then not,
yet finally understood.
They bear a weight
more comfortable.
copyright Imogen Crest 2006.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

"Thoust have the audacity to quarrel before thee so? Think yourselves shamed and turn hither and rethink your transgretions. Speak not! For the deceptions thou would speak have been said before. Turn and leave me in silence." Shamed, the two males left the throne room. The Queen sat upon her throne, sighed and put a hand over her eyes.
"Tell me not of what have'st taken place, Oh voice in my ear. For it is the same as it has always been. The night of nights shall pass before friends shall not fight. Yet I can not call them such, for to do so would be decption upon deception." The Queen moved, getting up from her throne and moving to the window. She looked out before turning and addressing the empty room. "I have told thee not to speak, yet please disregard my foolishness; guide as thou would, for I need of such guidance, though truth may be hardest to accept from thine lips. Speak'th now, guide, I ask thee."

...........................Just a little something im going to be continuing.
Dark Fool
~Em

Gone

Where are you when the wind whispers your name?
When dusk comes are you hiding far away,
A shimmering figure wandering the horizon?
Oh my love, I miss you so, come home.

Where am I when your silhouette appears a shadow,
Here and there in and out the roses?
When my body feels the anguish and the pain
Watching petals fall red satin on the grass,
I reach to catch your hand but it's not there.
Oh my love, I miss you so, come home.

Why is it that someone so dear as you,
Should slip away so quiet and serene?
And everywhere I look I know I'll see
Those dancing, laughing eyes I so adored,
Your perfume follows everywhere I go.
Oh my love, you were my very soul,
But never will you make the journey home.

Jan

Monday, July 24, 2006

Don't Know Why

I don't know why I am posting this,
just found while searching for something else ...

just a thought --
...............................

Look Again Fondly

“As a child,” it is said – or Given –

“With nothing but innocence – follow,”
we are guided by Word and Light.

“Have done to thee as the least of men,”
is the song of the yearning soul.

So I must return – turn again …
I must remember – join once more …
I must respect – look back and again …
and for this I need you,
my love.

Your eyes can see what I cannot,
and hear the cries of passions lost,
and share with me a touch of awe –
again and again,
I will look again
respectfully.

Let me be a mirror of soulful mirth,
a shield against the trembling Light,
a shoulder on which you can stand –
again and again;
please look again
with kindness.

Each by each and in cleaved embrace,
we may know in twain what one might hide
from self and life and fearsome child –
again and again;
most fondly again,
re-spect with me.

Lovely Quote

I get daily sends from a dear man in Ohio, among which is his 'Daily Quotes'. Yesterday he sent all quotes from Robin Williams, either as himself or as a character. True, I am always stunned with what Robin can do in a 'serious' role, but these words resonated in me and I felt I must share them with those I know will understand the resonance.

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute.
We read and write poetry because we are members of
the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life.
But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for."

(From "Dead Poet's Society")

Sunday, July 23, 2006

Seven Stages - Journey Talismans

Heroine's Journey
copyright Heather Blakey 2006.

Journey to Island of Ancestors

The Ferry Woman appeared vividly--a young, light-haired woman who looked vaguely familiar. She was calm, with no expression, and did not look at me.

In the great hall, at the hearth, sat a figure with an ancient face--bulging eyes, long crooked nose--a man, I think. I asked what path I should be following. This ancestor produced a large red heart--the actual organ--held it up, and then began gnawing on it. Though I was shocked, I understood this was a symbolic art that I needed to meditate on to understand fully. It means something about giving up myself, giving up my heart. He gave the heart to me. Then he asked me, "What are you doing for the Earth?" "I try to honor the Earth," I replied. "I give thanks every day." In return I give this ancestor a necklace of purple, blue, and yellow beads that I made several years ago. I thank him and depart. The Ferry Woman appeared vividly--a young, light-haired woman who looked vaguely familiar. She was calm, with no expression, and did not look at me.

Saturday, July 22, 2006

EMPLOYEE OF THE YEAR

Inspired By The Soulfood Alphabet Project:
C is for Facing Chaos
http://www.dailywriting.net/Alphabet/C.html




Binnie Cardea works for a company called Bannatyne and Hayman.

Well, that’s not exactly true, she lives for a company called Bannatyne and Hayman, she exists for Bannatyne and Hayman, she’d be nothing and I mean nada but another little fish in the big overcrowded fish pond of life where all the little fishes looked the same if it wasn’t for Bannatyne and Hayman.

Each weekday morning Binnie Cardea’ s alarm clock goes off at 5:00 and she really does jump out of bed –just like people in the commercials that advertise how grand life is if you buy the right mattress to sleep on. Then she snaps her alarm clock off with a happy tap and sings as she starts her shower.

She hums as she washes her hair and whistles as she dresses.

Then she collects her work tools from the sideboard in her hallway and…I kid you not practically skips to her car.

One day Binnie got to work at 6:30am sharp, her tool kit clenched in her happy relaxed hand when she saw everyone, and that included the office staff, the salespeople and even the clean up crews standing around the workshop.

They were standing around with worried lines creasing their foreheads, no one was smiling or making for the box of doughnuts on the ‘treat bench’ that held their coffee machine and cups and the little ice color underneath where they kept their juices and pops and bottled water.

“ What’s up? “ Binnie asked with a song in her heart and a smile on her face to no one in particular.

“ The Morana’s are opening a plant up in Edgewater.” She heard a voice say from across the workshop and her heart really did freeze up in her chest- right along with the smile on her face.

“ Oh,” Binnie said and everyone turned to face her “ oh is that what they think they’re going to do?”

That’s what the Morana’s did…a company like the Morana’s did to small companies like B&H what the locusts do to crops and the cold virus does to anything with a respiratory system.

They invaded, they ate they destroyed and there was nothing you could do to stop them.

Here in the States, there’s really only one very big, very successful company like Morana and their line of products was impressive and their delivery system was unsurpassed which counted for a lot when your product line were coffins.

Binnie went through her workday on that somber Tuesday without as much as a smile or cheery hello to anyone. Her dark cloudy expression was frightening, especially when she started to talk about those darn Morana’s and their “ production line o’ death” and she waved around her sharp little carpenter’s tools to emphasize her points.

Then sometime after lunch she had an idea, a brilliant one, an inspired one and when she punched the clock at the end of her shift she was whistling again and no one asked her what was with sudden change of heart.

It seemed like a good idea not to.

The thing about Morana was that they were one of those 24 hour plants, someone was always going on or off shift and they were always in a hurry to go and very, very slow to arrive.

It only took a few days for Binnie to figure out what needed to be done, who was who and how to complete the task at hand. She hadn’t been made Employee Of The Year, Employee Of The Month and Carpenter Of The Year because no one else competed.

Binnie Cardea was a company woman and a team player extraordinaire.

But she was also very, very self-motivated.

Very.

One month after Morana opened it’s doors something happened that had never happened in the 50 years they’d been in business. They got backlogged.

Boy, did that cost them.

Do you know what happens when a funeral can’t happen on time because the Coffin didn’t show up? You don’t want to know because it involves the court systems and lawyers and judges and that my dear reader is to horrifying for me to go into.

It started out as a mystery and it stayed a mystery, Morana’s workforce clocked in and their co-workers would swear up and down they’d see them at their workstations. They just never clocked out.

It made for some morbid new stories: factory workers disappear into think air at Coffin making company.


It didn’t take long before “ The Production Line O’ Death Company” folded in Edgewater and that black eye forced them down all over the Country.

After all who would want to work for a company that ate its employees alive?

No one ever figured out what happened.

But of course someone knew exactly what happened and how.

Long after that someone had retired and by that time owned exactly half of B&H, almost a week after she passed away at the ripe old age of 92 a construction company worker found all those people from the Edgewater plant in the basement of a little brick building not even two streets away from the big empty ultra modern building once owned by the Morana Corporation.

The Angerona Building has this stone elephant on its roof and it was built in 1899. It was used as a print shop, a restaurant, a gym and even a as a Church.

Then a family called Cardea bought it back in the 1970’s and rented it out for warehouse space.

But really what was interesting about the Angerona Building…what was interesting about all of the buildings on that block as a matter of fact were the series of tunnels that ran under the streets that once upon a time bootleggers used to move their inventory. They could move from the train tracks and docks without ever once stepping foot above ground. The air wasn’t great, but it was dry and quiet and naturally sound proof.

Now, the ‘bootleggers doors’ weren’t really doors. Just holes in the walls that the bootleggers punched out themselves with sledge hammers to make their travels and deliveries more efficient.

There were bootleggers doors everywhere down along the waterfront in Edgewater, including five that were covered not by concrete but by plywood and plaster when the building that they led into was torn down. The name of the building is gone forever but the building that was built over its foundation is interesting…it’s called the Morana Building.

But this story ends at 333 3rd Ave West in the Angerona Building.

In its basements are 50…count them 5-0 wooden boxes lining an unlit tunnel that goes nowhere. Each one is nailed shut and each one holds an awful secret and each one bares the mark

PROUDLY HANDCRAFTED BY BANNATYNE AND HAYMAN

Heat

Lois' wonderful post at the Mystery of the Dead man's Chest inspired me to post this old story of mine. I had such admiration for pioneer women, their courage and their tenacity, and wondering how they managed to live at all through an Australian summer in those heavy clothes was the starting point for the story. I tried to imagine what it must have been like and the rest just fell into place.


The horse and rider had long since dissolved into the shimmering borderline between earth and sky, but Mary Mulgar remained on the verandah, her hand shading her eyes.

She could feel the rivers of sweat running down beneath the cotton fabric of her blouse, into her armpits and down from the crease of her breasts into the waistband of her stiff linen skirt.

Her hair felt as if it was full of creatures, wriggling and snaking their way between the soft brown strands, slithering worms of sweat scuttling down into her collar.

She moved stiffly across the verandah, dragging her skirt like a chain.

The heat in the house was even more oppressive, for the fire in the stove was still glowing from the morning's baking. The bread had cooled, and must be stored away. The cake, which had taken the last of the oven's heat, was turned out and covered with a crochet cloth to protect it from the flies.

She dusted the small table, and covered it with a clean cloth. Carefully she laid out the last surviving pieces of the china tea set she had brought with her from England--how many years ago? She frowned, perplexed that she could not remember.

She had kept a calendar on the door but five years after she had started it, a flood had carried it away. Since then she had lost track. She wasn't even sure what season it was. Here in the Australian Colony in the 19th century, it got hotter, then colder, with no discernible change in the seasons. When it rained, the river overflowed and the land went under water. When it didn't rain, the days dragged on like this one, stiflingly hot and dry.

But there was no time to reflect on the vagaries of colonial weather. Tom had faded from the horizon, and soon her visitors would arrive. Quickly she washed off the dust of the day with a rag dipped in water. After months of dry weather there was no water to spare for the luxury of a "proper wash".

"Children!" she called, as she patted her hair into place. "Come and get dressed. They'll be here any second."

Mary smiled as her children came running in from the back verandah, faces dirty, legs and arms thick with red dust.

"Here, Henry," she admonished, handing her eldest the damp cloth. "Clean off that muck. Let me see to you, Miss Molly," she added, catching hold of the lively little girl.

Somehow, with the help of the damp cloth and some clean clothes, she had Henry and Molly looking presentable when they gathered on the front verandah. The track stretched away into the seemingly endless Australian horizon, treeless and silent. In the distance a small eddy of dust stirred, and soon a pony and trap appeared, heading for the house.

The two women seated in the trap called and waved, and the children escaped Mary's grip and ran down to meet them.

The older woman in the trap leaned down and took Mary's hand, allowing herself to be helped to the ground.

"Grandma, Grandma, what did you bring us?" Henry and Molly cried.

"Ask Aunt Alice," Grandma puffed, fanning herself vigorously with a Chinese paper fan.
Aunt Alice, a younger version of Mary, climbed down from the trap and opened her pretty handbag.

"Taffy apples!" Henry cried. He snatched his and ran off, leaving it to Molly to curtsey and say thank you.

"Henry is becoming quite unmanageable," Mary murmured apologetically as she helped her mother into the house.

Amelia Aburne lowered herself into a chair and let out a hissing sigh.

"Oh my, this heat." She said. She glanced appreciatively around the room. "Mary, dear, this is remarkable. You've managed to make a home in this wilderness."

"It's the way you raised her, Ma," Alice said, dropping a kiss on the old woman's gray head.
"It is a harsh country," Mary said, pulling out a chair for her sister. "It's not only the children's manner I fear for, but their health, as well."

"All a child needs is good food, a clean bed and a mother's love," Mrs. Aburne said firmly. "And where is your good man?"

The irony was not lost on Mary. She knew that her mother had little love for Tom Mulgar.
"He is working," she said. "This is a poor selection, mother."

"What's a selection?" Alice wondered, taking off her gloves.

While Mary explained that the Australian Government had made small farms, or "selections", available to willing workers like Tom and herself in the outback, Mrs Aburne listened with her lips pursed.

"Who could make a farm in a desert like this?" She asked when Mary had finished.

"It isn't always dry, mother. We had a flood last season. It was very terrible."

"It is always terrible here, one way or another," Mrs Aburne said. "Come back to England with us, Mary."

"I can't. My place is here with Tom." Mary busied herself laying the table, and the women exclaimed over the daintiness of the cake, produced from that ugly potbelly stove.

The children came in again, Henry apologized for his rudeness, and they all had a nice tea. The women shared gossip, secrets and worries in a long, enjoyable trivial conversation.

The children soon got bored and ran outside again, but Mary enjoyed every minute of it, replenishing the cups as soon as they emptied of tea, fearful the heat would dry up the flow of conversation.

As the sun dipped down to the horizon, Mrs Aburne and Alice prepared to leave. Mary and the children clung to them.

"Please come again," Mary begged.

"Of course we will, dear." Mrs Aburne said. "As often as we can."

The pony and trap clattered away down the track, and Mary squeezed her children's small, damp hands as she watched it go.

* * *
Tom Mulgar settled his horse for the night, and walked slowly back to the house. It was still warm from the day's heat, buzzing with flies, and the lamp had not been lit.

Sighing, he glanced at the remains of a tea party on the table. He recognized the cups as being from a tea set Mary had received from her mother as a wedding present.

He guessed where she would be. He walked through the darkened bedroom, out onto the back verandah and down the steps into the garden.

Mary's garden was looking much the worse for wear. The dry spell had killed most of her flowers. He saw her sitting on the bench he had made for her, near the apple tree she had tried to grow, but which was dying.

He watched her for a moment, a lump in his throat. This harsh outback country was cruel on women. They grew old before their time, or went crazy from the heat and the loneliness.

Somehow Mary bore it all, even though she had not seen or spoken to another woman for almost a year now, not since Kathleen Geoghan from the next selection had left her husband and gone back to England.

Nor would there be any more letters from home. The last they had heard, diphtheria had taken both Mary's mother and younger sister.

"Mary, I'm home," he said softly.

She stirred, and looked up at him.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot to light the lamps again. Hasn't it been hot? I just came out for a moment to sit with the children, and I think I fell asleep."

"Come on into the house," he said. "I'll light the lamps."

He helped her to her feet and they walked back to the house in the gathering dark, stepping carefully around the two small mounds in the dusty earth. Mary straightened the wooden marker, on which Tom had written, in an unsteady hand, "Henry and Molly, our dear ones, taken in a flood."

"Goodnight, children." Mary murmured.

Then she straightened her back, smoothed her skirt, and followed Tom into the house.

Friday, July 21, 2006

Meeting

As I walked around the hearth the hooded figure turned to smile at me. My favourite aunt. A lonely child, I always had a bond with her and after she went I found lots of her books in which she'd marked passages which spoke to me. I asked her why she'd written her poems and she told me that they helped her in the very saddest times of her life and through them she grew stronger and found faith. She reminded me that my mother also wrote poems. She gave me an engraved silver disc. Then she asked me if I was being true to myself. I gave her a rose quartz crystal to heal her heart and as I turned to leave she smiled at me again.

Ancients

Just in case any friend gets the idea that I don't listen to Ancients,
or because I don't fit in 'natural' at Duwamish --

give a thought to Sakin'el

.....................................................

Ever Tegsh

All are greeted,
"welcome to Sakin'el,"
and some notice the basket
of bread and salt and water gift,
but most simply wish instructions
on where to place their coat,
or an explanation of why
we have this place.

"Why would people with disabilities
choose a house with steps --
steps of wood and stone and grass,
and railing of logs and un-raked leaves --
an immense house for two --
are you expecting company?"

"Why do you have names for every room,
when each has collections that make no sense,
yet I am called to ask of the story
but not sure if I would then in turn
be asked to tell one instead."

"I am disturbed by things in such confusion --
a bowl of stones with several outside,
a wall of books I have never read,
a feast of dishes just for me --
but how did you know I liked
curry?"

"What is her name? You know -- the house?

Built in 1920 you say -- lot's of work,
but then you seem able to fix thinks --
don't know where you find the time --
but I hear her. Didn't believe in vortex stuff …
what's her name?"

The answer is simple after all,
"Because I can!" and for a while --
for each soul seeks balance in deLight
and we can offer thee an invitation
that She will know then of you --
and you of life
by living.

Thursday, July 20, 2006

Ferry Woman of Duwamish Bay



This is the Ferry Woman who took me across Duwamish Bay to the Isle of the Ancestors. She would not tell me her story try as I might to get her to speak. But her eyes say it all.

Photomontage: L. Gloyd (c) July 20, 2006


Walking in the forest
lost and alone
she's forgotten where shes going
and forgotten why shes come
her pack is light to carry
but her heart is heavy and sad
the trees close in around her
and darkness fills her mind.
she hears a voice say,
child, remember all I told you
we are always with you
a heartbeat and breath away
just ask in trust and listen
we will remind you of your task
as she looked up and saw
a glimmer of light through the trees
the light increased
and she could see
who are you? she said
why are you here?
wings enfolded her gently
she leaned against their softness
while inside her mind the voice
caressed away all her fears
and whispered
I am angel of the forest

I am awake - again. It's 4am and every clock in the house is ticking the night away as if to remind me:- you're not, tick, asleep, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, life is passing by the clock/ tick, tick, tick tock. Does it sound funny? Do you think my light-hearted approach means that it doesn't matter? A tick here and a tock there and never mind because if it were a real problem there's no way that I could make it sound superficial and let's face it who would want to bore anyone to death with a chunter about sleeplessness. Does anyone care? Do people who sleep well care as they slip into their nightly rapture of unconscious being; crisp, cool linen sheets, a window open to welcome the night breeze and the waft of summer blossoms. Oh, so delicious, the body easing its way into the exquisite embrace of rest, comfort, contentment...oblivion.

What is it like? I mean, you know, sometimes it's happened to me so that's how I can describe it but what is it like to know that you will fall into it every night, for free, like a divine right that you take for granted. You see I long for it, natural, non-medicated, sweet, honeyed slumber. There is such a yearning inside me, a craving, a need to find the elixir that will give me absence from myself and plunge me into that other place where the only visitors are dreams. A place where I can take my extreme exhaustion and have it soothed away until the weariness is so refreshed it no longer rears its ugly head and I don't have to take it with me everywhere like a giant, invisible rock that weighs me down. In case you were wondering it does, weigh me down I mean; I try to stay quiet about it because, let's be honest, it's boring. If someone reads this they don't have to meet my gaze and be polite wishing they were somewhere else, they can just switch off and go blogging.

Blogging. That's a funny sounding word don't you think. Or possibly just a fun, modern word for serious modern techno-geeks. I have tried to use it instead of sheep which are truly old hat and nursery class. It doesn't work, it doesn't work any better than sheep or ducks or any other exercise people suggest in a vague effort to open the portal to the land of nod. If anything it's worse because I start making word puzzles out of the word 'blog' - you know, blog to bog and cog and log. Log to cabins, cabins to lumber, to Jack, to firs, to Christmas and on and on. The night passes, dawn breaks, I am still awake but at least I have sorted out gifts for the festive season with 6 months to spare. What a shame that my tired brain will forget those brilliantly appropriate presents by tea time.

Self-help books. I wonder how many people scour the shelves of book shops and supermarkets looking for the all encompassing self-help, read me and you will start your brand new life at 10:09am Wednesday, must have book. Some people swear by them, actually tell anyone who'll listen that, 'Take my Hand' completely cured them of their acute fear of air travel, number rituals, snake phobias and more or less any complaint you care to mention. You think I'm being disparaging don't you? You think that I sneer at these tomes of wisdom and pass them by because if science doesn't work or a warm bath and a quiet mind or warm milk and meditation I'm just not going to be interested. You genuinely think that I wouldn't touch them with a barge pole. Well guess what - I've read them all, I've tried all normal, weird, medical, strange and even plain loopy suggestions to see if it will conjure up sleep, pure, luscious, melt in the mouth sleep. That thing that people have when they stretch their arms, blink their eyes, look round the bedroom wondering about the time and smile, that gorgeous inner winner wonderment of waking to a new day. Philosophical poser; if there is no sleep between one round of 24 hours and the next 24 hours is the day new or a simple continuation of time passing?

Jan

No End in Sight

These two seeming old men are a fixture in my neighbourhood, exchanging smiles whether you give them a moment of your time, or a donation, or both.


no  end in sight, images aletta mes 2006


Since there is not much of an employment market for old alcoholic (ex or current) with bad teeth, bad hygiene (just where would you bathe?) and poor health with no skills? From here you cannot start with creating more jobs, first you heal the person, then exploit them for tax revenue.

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

Awash in Duwamish

TRAVERSING DUWAMISH BAY

One need not enter the water here,
and perhaps dare not –
dark water, roiling in a breezeless night –
a tester of souls.

So one must choose a vessel
suitable to ones disposition
and level of fear – to explore
the depths of their spirit’s call
and balance of heart
and knowing.

A small bark perhaps or cockerel
fit for one alone, but rudderless –
leading to adventure,
but never safe haven,
except by chance.

Select a punt and stand erect,
while probing the depths
with controlled trust and parry –
ever wary of being stuck
and stranded
alone.

A row boat is a sensible choice,
save you can only steer
by seeing where you have been –
or by furtive glimpses
leading to a circled course.

The ferry is always there, secure;
tethered to either foggy shore
by dogmatic ropes and shackle rings,
which require a stranger
to pull you along.

Me? I think a canoe –
with room for two (thereby three,
which I can control
with practiced stroke and glide,
and never care whether I
and thee
ever get anywhere at all.

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Coming to Duwamish


A postcard from the edge..........

The Thunderbird dropped me off at Duwamish Bay just in time to see the midnight sun skimming along the horizon and the Northern Lights pulsing in the heavens. And in the distance is the Isle of the Ancestors.

Digital construction: L. Gloyd (c) July 18, 2006

Ferry Women Gathering at Duwamish Quay

FerryWoman2

The Ferry Women are gathering in Duwamish ready to take those on the Heroine's Journey across to the Isle of Ancestors. We just need travellers to reach Duwamish and take up a room at the Duwamish Inn.

Monday, July 17, 2006

A Wild Calling

I. At the Abbey

I am sitting on the doorstep of the Abbey waiting for the Wakinyan. My faithful companion, Albert, had only just clip-clopped himself to the Abbey a few days ago. I did not have the heart to make him cart me off on my Journey.

The Abbess, knowing my urgency to embark on my Journey, summoned the Wakinyan, a Thunderbird, a mythical creature (though not so in Lemuria), to fly me across the heart of the continent to Duwamish Bay—to do what, I don’t know. I only know that I need to go and soon.

With a flicker of hot white lightning and a shattering crash of thunder, the Thunderbird arrived. With a 20 foot wingspan and a beak that could cut me in half, he held out an open talon towards me. Without hesitation I walked into the Thunderbird’s embrace. He gently closed his talon and with a whirlwind, he arose and took flight. And I wasn’t afraid to keep my eyes wide open.

II. Regarding “The Call”
There is no one who is not on a quest in this life. The goal of each person’s quest is different, but the stages of our journeys are common to us all. Joseph Campbell identifies and explores the stages of the Quest in his book The Hero With A Thousand Faces. He notes that the first stage of the Quest is The Call. The Call is that awareness that we need to change—that we MUST change—or our inner self will perish.

In my case, I have spent most of my life subjugating my desire to create in order to please others. I have kicked myself for not being “like other people.” I have felt unsuccessful and inadequate because my career has never moved quite as fast as others, that I don’t own a house or a fancy car, and that my relationships have always been “volatile.” I think the reason for these conditions is that on an instinctual level I know that to “settle for the status quo” and to be “like everyone else” would be the death of my creative spirit. This cannot be allowed to happen.

The Call has been echoing in my heart for years and now I heed it. To wrap this interior call in dramatic and visual terms, you might say that I am waiting on the doorstep of my life, waiting to be whisked away to a far place in order that I might explore the pathway that leads to my authentic self. This will be a place within myself where I can be the Artist and be the Writer without ridicule and scorn. Indeed, for my very life’s sake, I heed The Call.

Text: L.Gloyd © July 17, 2006.

An essay about the importance of music and the arts

I believe that this is a time in which the strength to dream remains most urgently needed by our society
How far does this opinion have resonance for the young composer of the early 21st century?

In this essay I will argue that there is a need for new music in our society and also point to some ways in which that music can be made more accessible to the general audience in order to make the dreams of young composers come true in some form.


The 20th century saw a battle commence for hearts and minds. On the one hand the capitalist world seemed to offer limitless opportunities for growth but at the expense of those who were weakest in society, on the other, socialism appeared to offer possibilities for all. The dream of the left was soured by what happened in the Soviet Union and China, where dictatorships flourished in the name of communism, a term which became synonymous with power and corruption. There were advantages for a few but the means did not justify the end and by the end of the 20th century capitalist ideology appeared to have won.

The world is rapidly changing. There is a consumer boom born of the capitalist victory and countries in the Far East which have hitherto been riddled with poverty now want their share of what the west has had for many years. There is an energy crisis looming, food shortages are predicted, there is deep unease in the Middle East, and globalisation appears to be increasing the chance of doomsday. It is very easy to become totally disillusioned by all of this, to say that there is no place for artists in contemporary society, driven as it is by targets and assessments. There is no time for a dreamer in todays fast moving world. Music has also become a victim of this culture. Concerts are assessed by their financial success and this by definition limits their scope.

In addition to this contemporary music -and modern art- have become confusing for the listener, their languages demanding understanding (which implies education) but also the time in which to listen to and learn them. In response to this, minimalist composers have tended to compose music which is very accessible but which is also limited almost by definition in the way it can develop. Nevertheless, there are also an increasing number of performers who specialise in contemporary music, and that must be encouraging to young composers who want to hear their music in concert.

I believe that there has never been a more important time for artists and dreamers. Although scientists appear to have some of the solutions to the worlds problems musicians can carry messages of hope and caring, as for example Daniel Barenboim has done in his work with Israelis and Palestinians, of which he recently spoke during the 2006 Reith Lectures on radio 4. Music has often been described as an international language and the work of composers who involve their performers and audience can draw people of different cultures and backgrounds together. Musicians provide ample proof that personal effort can reap community rewards and in this the role of the composer is just as significant as that of the performer or conductor.

One of the problems that has befallen art is the cult of celebrity with the aforementioned performers and conductors now taking centre stage. This is partly a result of the emergence of mass communication in the 20th century and partly because the arts are financially driven. Nevertheless, the voice of the composer is surely of equal importance, and the voice of the individual in this time of mass consumption needs to be heard. Composers show courage in speaking as individuals, and when they have that courage, their voices can be heard clearly, even if it is only by a few. Composers of the 21st century are laying down a history for composers of the future, a musical heritage. Many composers who were deemed “difficult” are now mainstream as any glance at a list of 20th century composers will prove – Webern, Stravinsky, Britten, and Boulez to name but four. A programme of music by Stockhausen is likely to draw a big audience these days. I believe that we can only understand the past by its contemporary relevance, and unless young composers provide us with music which has contemporary relevance, perhaps the music of the past will become destined for museum art.
If composers wish to be taken seriously in the near future there are various things for them to consider. They have to decide whether they are writing for themselves or for an audience. If they are writing for an audience they have to make a decision about which audience to work for, an audience who want to be entertained without much intellectual effort, or an audience who do not mind finding themselves struggling with the meaning of what they are listening to. The young composer has to decide in which style to write something with a recognisable form at least – for example a concerto, a rondo or symphony, or a work with no recognisable parameters. It might be necessary for the young composer to develop new tools with which to create some meaning in, or a continuos peace of, music. Composers used to be at the heart of music making, Haydn working with his orchestras, Bach, as kappelmeister in Leipzig, Mahler working as a operatic conductor whilst also working as a composer. Young composers could consider placing themselves at the heart of the relationship between performers and audiences, and if they have something valid to say they will surely find themselves being listened to. There is still a huge audience for classical music and theatre, and the people who go to hear a symphony concert or watch a contemporary play also read books and are willing to be challenged by new ideas.

In a recent Guardian article the composer Stephen Mc Neff writes:

“Putting composers back at the heart of the orchestra is one way to revitalise the relationship between the various parties. Audiences will engage with new music if they play an active role in its creation.”

He adds; “Not that I'm suggesting a conservative approach, a return to 19th-century musical values or writing in an outdated neo-romantic way just to fill concert halls. Composers should continue to present challenging music, but there must be an attempt at communication, with both sides agreeing on the terms. My experience, such as introducing Heiligenstadt, giving pre-concert talks and being available for discussion and interviews, has, I think, invited audiences to see that I'm willing to talk and explain myself in return for them lending me their ears….

Education obviously forms a large part of this process, but not all composers want to or are able to work in schools. Engaging with the wider community through outreach schemes and capitalising on the loyalty that regular audiences have are equally important.

If contemporary composers have something to say, we have to make it heard beyond a small group of aficionados and colleagues and participate without compromising in a real world of performance and music-making…”

One of the more disheartening aspects of modern society is its mindless consumerism, which encourages television which is not challenging, magazines, pop music and blockbuster Hollywood films. It is difficult to dream whilst surrounded by the world of instant success – especially pop music where the rewards in terms of money and celebrity are both enormous. Student composers, hoping that their studying will reap some benefit must often wonder where their dreams will take them –if anywhere. Nevertheless there is a lot of help available in the form of societies and publications dedicated to the performance of new music and these should help keep the dream alive. A glance at the pages of the BMIC (British Music Information Centre) indicates the level of support and information available. It should be an encouragement to the young composer that these bodies exist, and should also be an indication that his/her work will be welcomed. The centre promotes both new and already published composers and is there to help them find their audiences.

One of the difficulties young composers face is the accusation that classical music is elite. They must be the ones to find a way to dispel that myth and to engage with people of all classes and persuasions. Music is in a unique position to fulfil such a brief.

It is my belief that dreamers have never been so urgently required. They may be the very people on whom our survival relies. This may seem farfetched, but as science rushes towards some unknown future catastrophe it may be composers who write the music that unites peoples, reconnects them to their emotions, allows them some means of free expression and reminds them of their common humanity.

Two Fitzgeralds (55 words)

he wrote:


OUTSIDE THE EGG

One cannot return to the womb,
nor to the divine egg,
nor moment of yearning,
nor web of gossamer love …

But we can enfold
spirit and frailty
in the arms of another –
and touch,
and listen,
and breathe as one.

Of this there will be born
a Child of Light,
as it was,
and is now.

she responded: (an egg)

circled in
the arms of comfort
and passion
cradled in the mantle of purpose
and commitment,
nestled in the snugness of peace
and contentment
harbored from the wildness of the
stormy world
protected by the angelic song of
wings a'flutter
guarded by the breath of spirit's
eternal kisses
cloaked within the
reaches of lovers'
heartbeats

Typhoon Thursday & New Pages

Thursday was exquisite bed weather. Rainy, with occasional gusty winds and minimal street noise from pesky tricyles that cannot drive by in their usual cantankerous speed due to the weather. Hah! Happiness!

School was canceled throughout the city and it was perfect for curling up in bed with a good book. So I took advantage of the weather and instead of itching to go to the nearest mall to watch a movie or pick up the books I ordered, I stayed home and worked on these pages some more.

Missy, a dear friend did me the favor of buying my medication and agreed to visit me at home instead of going out for snacks so I had even more time to enjoy the weather.

This is the building where I live. My flat is on the top floor. I almost pasted over this one. It didn't turn out the way I wanted it to so I decided to do a paper mosaic on the building instead. Halfway through it I lost all hope of redeeming it visually, until Missy saw it. She asked what's so awful about it and told me how it distinctly looks like my house. So here it is now after much fussing over. Its a bit more decent than it was when I started on it.

This is the cabinet of drawers that I called, "Hiding Places"


This is what the inside of those drawers look like. The black and white stamp and ink drawing is still a work in progress. I plan to write something in it about what the things in the cabinet signify.

I was planning to stay in bed most of the day as my allergies took a turn for the worst and made breathing a struggle but I just couldn't. After I finished working on these pages I realized that I felt better despite the asthma. What do you know, art really does make me feel better, and happy and accomplished.

Shifting to Heroine Mode

HEROINE EYES

Pray come gather about the joining fire
and behold how the bright protected flames
flicker in the caress of approaching night,
and roar out in awe of sudden gusting
awareness of the approaching spirit.

“for you are alive – adept – centered,
protected, guided, driven by my presence.”


See strange shadows dance in symmetry
with the velvet strumming of Mother Earth
and vibrant song of a time-spun lyre.
Gather close round - about to sing and dream,
while tinkling embers fane warm your soul.

“for I can see your secret flame within,
and hear your lover’s special whispered name”

See in each new friend a mirror of being
who now fills in the words you did forget,
and shades your eyes from the glare of truth,
so that you can dance free of guilt and shame,
now reborne to the innocence of dawn.

“for these wise aging eyes will never dim
when you arrive with open hand and heart.”

Sunday, July 16, 2006

The Way


Even though I posted this on The Heroine's Journey, the Abbey is still my creative home so I am posting this here as well.

Digital Construction: "The Tao" L.Gloyd (c) July 16, 2006

Cracking the Egg

Warm and protected, safe inside, I lack all worry, fear and responsibility. I curl around my very self and sleep a perfect sleep. But not for long. A faint stirring troubles my heart and soul and wakens what has lain dormant-asleep-unborn. For how long?

The time of gestation is done; the moment of birthing is near. It's a dangerous business birthing another; it's terrifying to give birth to oneself. What if it doesn't go well and I'm not fully formed? Suppose I emerge from this sanctuary only to be instantly caged by fate? I resist the urge to stretch, to push against the walls of what has been my haven, but instinct is powerful. I tap tentatively, desperate for an answer of certainty but none comes. I scratch feebly with my nails then claw and kick until I am free.

Surrounded by shards of debris I am higher than my mind could ever have imagined. I perch on the edge of a cliff, in the midst of a snow-capped mountain range, extend my wings, catch a thermal. . . . . . . and soar!

From the Cosmic Egg

Image Hosting by PictureTrail.com

My creative self, le Enchanteur, and I lay warm within the cosmic egg, meditating, brooding, reflecting on our current situation
It was while we were there that we realised that it is TIME
TIME to descend and undertake the Heronine's Journey.
We would really like to have some kindred spirits walk the paths of the underworld with us.
Just create an account with Word Press and once you are signed in you will be able to pass through the gate and descend through the Heroine's Journey blogger.
Simply send us the email address you used to sign in.
All will hopefully become clear.

Details

Hi Ashleyshea and anyone else who cares to know, the Goddess embroidery was made from a piece of silk that I hand dyed and then painted, stamped and stencilled.Also gold thread couched down, and some free machine embroidery, and applique. I spent a long time researching the symbols associatd with the goddess and then included those that best suited my purposes and message which was to do with fertility and motherhood. I began working on this piece about 10 years ago.....but new babies kept appearing on the horizon and it is only in the last couple of years that I completed it. It is a gift to my husband and is a sort of commemorative work for the miscarriage I had back in 1996. We were both very upset about this at the time, and I especially went seriously underground for a long time. At one stage while working on this embroidery I was expecting one of my subsequent gifts from God, and if you look closely at the upper right hand corner you will see a little triangle that is just heading into the main picture frame, that was my little Orla, the youngest of my 5!! The diamond at the bottom of the embroidery represents the lost baby..... an ancient symbol.

Saturday, July 15, 2006

Keeping An Eye On You :)

I waited as long as the dreamer could bear,
then caught a pink cloud and sailed through the night air,
High on a thermal the wind whipping my hair,
I circled above you and peeked in your lair.
I saw you all stretched out in front of TV,
then took a right turn and headed out to sea.
For a while I billowed and swooped with the waves,
daring the starfish in their dark coast-line caves.
Sang softly with mermaids, their old siren songs,
until pink filled the sky ahead of the dawn.
Then swiftly returned an appointment to keep,
but found you embraced by the darkness of sleep.

B Is For...Briefly Burning Bright

*Candle In the Wind
Goodbye Norma Jean
Though I never knew you at all
You had the grace to hold yourself
While those around you crawled
They crawled out of the woodwork
And they whispered into your brain
They set you on the treadmill
And they made you change your name

And it seems to me you lived your life
Like a candle in the wind
Never knowing who to cling to
When the rain set in
And I would have liked to have known you
But I was just a kid
Your candle burned out long before
Your legend ever did

Loneliness was tough
The toughest role you ever played
Hollywood created a superstar
And pain was the price you paid
Even when you died
Oh the press still hounded you
All the papers had to say
Was that Marilyn was found in the nude

Goodbye Norma Jean
From the young man in the 22nd row
Who sees you as something as more than sexual
More than just our Marilyn Monroe

Elton JohnThe crew from the space shuttle Challenger. Princess Diana. John F. Kennedy Sr. Bruce Lee. Elvis Presley. Marilyn Monroe. John Lennon of The Beatles. Briefly Burning Bright. Each with their own legend that will long out-live their all-too-brief burning candles.

You will all never be forgotten, I promise you that.

*I chose this version because it's the first, and it's the one I fell in love with first.

Descent into the Underworld

Familiar territory for me. Heather asks: "What will you leave at the gate before descending?"

In my real-life descent that began 15 years ago (and probably coincided with my Saturn return), I lost much that was dear to me (see previous post). This time, as we dwellers at the Lemurian Abbey put on our rough travellers' clothing and gather a few possessions into our packs, I get to choose what I'll leave behind! But this is no time to for trivial choices. The world is literally burning around us. I must leave behind all expectations--that life should be as I want it to be.

Not only our souls but the soul of the World is being alchemized in the crucible, and no one knows what will emerge. If you believe, as I do, that before we joined this Earth Walk our souls chose this time and place to be, then we must descend with open eyes and hearts, banding together as a new tribe. Those who love beauty know each other.

Meanwhile, every day I'm reveling in all the incredible visionary art being posted here and the profound poetry that seems to just fly off the tongues of my fellow travellers!

In 1991, my own Descent into Darkness began as, one by one, all the supports I had depended upon and believed in--friends, job, home, child--were ripped away from me. I felt completely alone and abandoned. People avoided me. And I resented it like hell! No, I wasn't a graceful sufferer. But eventually help came to me. I discovered the ancient story of the descent of Inanna and realized I was going through a similar archetypal experience. This made more sense to me than any sky god stories I'd ever heard or read because it addressed the psychic needs of women. And I loved that the story of Inanna was such an old, old story, rooted in the time when God was a woman. I came across these words in a book (sorry, I don't have the source handy right now): "When you begin your psychic journey, something will come on the road to meet you." That was the most encouraging bit of information I had, and I clung to it. One day a voice whispered to me, "Pay attention to the stories" and later, "You have everything you need." One memorable day, while still unable to find a job, I sat down to my computer and began to write. I had simply run out of options for procrastinating. Previously, I had made my living writing about other people's creativity, but that livelihood had dissolved. So there I was, at last, writing out of my own depths of experience. On the Soulfood Alphabet page just now, these words struck me: "In alchemical illustration the subconscious is often represented by flooding rivers or oceans." During that dark time, I had many many such dreams of both rivers and oceans, overflowing with dark waters. I still resented the loss of so much that was precious to me. Now, 15 years later, I can at last see some pattern of meaning and appropriateness to it all. I still mourn my losses but realize we all must undergo this journey in one way or another, in order to grow our souls. It seems like chance that I stumbled onto the SoulFood Cafe site just at the time when new people were being invited into the Lemurian Abbey, but I've learned there's a design behind all the apparent chaos. As we break the ground of Mother Earth to uncover both "hidden treasure as well as dread," I wonder where our journey will lead us. This time, I undertake the Heroine's Journey by choice and in the company of the most amazing and creative women and men. One couldn't ask for more on this Earth Walk.

Cosmic Egg births the Goddess

Friday, July 14, 2006

A Is For...Alchemy

al·che·my
1) A medieval chemical philosophy having as its asserted aims the transmutation of base metals into gold, the discovery of the panacea, and the preparation of the elixir of longevity.

2) A seemingly magical power or process of transmuting: "He wondered by what alchemy it was changed, so that what sickened him one hour, maddened him with hunger the next" (Marjorie K. Rawlings).

trans·mu·ta·tion
1) A change; transformation.

2) In physics, the transformation of one element into another by one or a series of nuclear reactions.

3) The evolutionary change of one species into another.

Turning lead into gold. Probably the biggest pipe dream and so far, the most useless endeavor, ever. Only a god could do it at the moment...if he really wanted to.But I wouldn't be too surprised if, sometime in the distant future--I dunno how many years or centuries down the road--scientists finally figured out the right alchemic formula for turning lead into gold. That is, if the world's end hasn't come.

We as a human race are quite clever, intelligent and even ingenious about many things; while these traits are commendable of humanity as a whole, they're also double-edged swords. I've said before, several times in fact, there's such a thing as being so intelligent, you're right back to being stupid (ie. biblical scholars who've studied and studied and know--mostly--all about the event/situation/person/whatever their particular interest is in and yet, they have doubts or do not believe it or the person actually happened or existed! There was a documentary on biblical people and events once on tv, and a couple of academics said King David may not have existed, that he was just a myth! A myth! And yet, King Solomon--his son--was documented by ancient records as having lived and built a beautiful temple! How could the one live without the former facilitating his existence?)

But I digress and am letting one example run away with me. Throughout the milennia that we have been on this earth, we have made wonderful discoveries and breakthroughs with the various schools of science we study. In addition to those discoveries and breakthroughs, we also have created and discovered darker things--like nuclear energy, the atomic bomb and the dubious ability to clone living organisims. (Though it's not yet perfected.) Finally being able to turn lead into gold...? Just think about it. With that ability the global economy will never be the same again! And it raises--naturally--questions to my mind; does it yours?

  • As the lead would now be gold (pure gold?), would it be valued as the same as original gold, or would its value be more or less as it once was lead?

  • What about the ethical ramifications of this?

  • What laws would be put into effect to keep any ole Tom, Dick or Harry from creating their own fortune and upsetting the global economy?

  • Wouldn't prices skyrocket?

  • What if there was no way yet to keep the gold from turning back into ordinary lead?

    *sniggers silently at this thought* That may solve the effect on the economy after awhile--that is, until the scientists perfected the transmutation process.

    Hence the double-edged swords of cleverness, intelligence and ingenuity. While making fascinating and wonderful milestones, we (humanity) also make grave, serious and dubious ethical ones.

    As I was doing a bit of researching last night on alchemy, I came upon a site that gave another possibility for alchemy. As defined above, alchemy is the nuclear process, or transmutation of something base into something of higher value or evolution. The example the site gave was of the physical body becoming a spiritual being or a being of light (ie. enlightenment). Through this type of alchemy we change or leave behind the base, selfish and unimaginative desires, traits and habits of the flesh. We become more in tune with the spiritual and elemental side of ourselves, of the natural world around us and, of course, of the Higher Being who created us and our world, plus countless others. We become more aware of things we've never noticed before; our minds open up to new opportunities and experiences. We become well-rounded people. And in my opinion, we gain self-esteem, self-confidence; we are happier and more content with ourselves, making it easier to deal with disappointment and adversity.

    This is the type of alchemy worth pursuing, I think. This should be our goal. Leave the other as a medieval pipe dream.

  • E is for Euphoria from D for dance

    Beneath the Ashes

    There is a special dance
    of which you may not know –
    yet of all in practice and imagination
    it most softly touches my soul.

    Beneath the ashes of Pompeii,
    ancient yes, yet in passion’s way
    close in fear and tomorrow’s dread …

    couples were found in common embrace,
    now called the Pompeii Dance –
    the man in peaceful slumber,
    left arm around his mate,
    who nestled close with head on heart –
    a blending of two as one –

    else what is dancing for?

    or life?

    but do not wait until impending sunset
    to lie in a meadow of dreams
    with another close held
    in a position most natural
    and sublime,
    in a dance
    of silent wonder.

    Thursday, July 13, 2006

    E is for Egg

    "The Cosmic Egg"

    Digital construction: L.Gloyd (c) July 13, 2006

    Going Gypsy

    Of course you are all going
    to the Gypsy Camp to dance
    with Heather and Darryl --

    so, to prepare for any wishing
    to dance with me ...

    "I know that my movements follow no set rules or form,

    but that is because you are too close, hand upon my arm
    to see how carefully I touch certain stones on the parquet floor.

    All is chaos -- jumbled god-dreams and silent song;
    yet as I believe there is a pattern hidden there,
    I follow."


    a Charita-Fitzgerald written for Em

    Gusari Mystique

    Can anyone tell me about the Gusari Mystique blogspot? Have been reading through the postings and they are fascinating! Tried to post comments but couldn't because I am not a member of that blog Also tried to find ''Strum of the Gusli'' for some explanations, but no luck, so far anyway! Finally tried to e-mail symbol_magic but e-mail returned with failure to deliver message! Hoping that someone can tell me which way to turn next!!
    This blog seems to really resonate with where my ''mythical journey'' is going. Am trying to resaerch elements for the altar/shrine that my heroine has just come across. Also feel that it time she found herself a guide, perhaps to go under.......I am holding my breath to see where she is going to bring me!
    By the way my family think that I a losing my mind. I sort of hope that they are right..............

    D is for Diversion

    Rearrange Letters
    This has got to be one of the cleverest
    E-mails I've received in a while.
    Someone out there either has too much
    spare time or is deadly at Scrabble.

    DORMITORY:
    When you rearrange the letters:
    DIRTY ROOM

    PRESBYTERIAN:
    When you rearrange the letters:
    BEST IN PRAYER

    ASTRONOMER:
    When you rearrange the letters:
    MOON STARER

    DESPERATION:
    When you rearrange the letters:
    A ROPE ENDS IT

    THE EYES:
    When you rearrange the letters:
    THEY SEE


    THE MORSE CODE:
    When you rearrange the letters:
    HERE COME DOTS

    SLOT MACHINES:
    When you rearrange the letters:
    CASH LOST IN ME

    ANIMOSITY:
    When you rearrange the letters:
    IS NO AMITY

    ELECTION RESULTS:
    When you rearrange the letters:
    LIES - LET'S RECOUNT

    SNOOZE ALARMS:
    When you rearrange the letters:
    ALAS! NO MORE Z 'S

    A DECIMAL POINT:
    When you rearrange the letters:
    IM A DOT IN PLACE

    THE EARTHQUAKES:
    When you rearrange the letters:
    THAT QUEER SHAKE

    ELEVEN PLUS TWO:
    When you rearrange the letters:
    TWELVE PLUS ONE

    AND FOR THE GRAND FINALE:
    MOTHER-IN-LAW:
    When you rearrange the letters:
    WOMAN HITLER

    Wednesday, July 12, 2006

    D is for Darkness, D is for Despair

    When we descend to the Great Below, that dark place deep within our souls, we encounter ourselves. It is not always pleasant. We find the woman in despair. That woman is like the legendary La Llorona, the "Crying Woman", who weeps for her dead children. We meet this phantom and we long to set her free. It is the Dark Night of the Soul of which St. John of the Cross writes. But it is only in the darkness that she can see the light. It is only when love is absent that she can feel it when it comes. We love the despairing woman and we embrace her. The tears of the crying woman are wiped away and our love saves her. And with us, she ascends to the light.

    Manipulated photo and text: L. Gloyd (c) July 12, 2006

    Day follows night

    As she awoke she wondered if the voice she had heard was real, or just a dream. ‘’Awake O you who have shown great courage. A new day has dawned. It is time to arise, for there is far to go.’’ Rubbing her eyes, she glanced about her to see who had spoken, but all that was to be found was a black raven sitting atop the oak tree. As she looked wonderingly at the bird, the raven shook her feathers and cawed loudly, before rising from the tree, circling it three times and flying off into the distance towards the mountain peak. When the bird was no more than a tiny dot in the sky, she lowered her eyes again. At first she thought the bountiful selection of fruits and berries was merely a mirage caused by the sudden alteration in the focus of her vision. She realised then just how hungry she was. She had not eaten since the prior evening when she had supped alone on bread and cheese. Sitting back down under the oak she ate the offerings with great relish. After eating her fill, she began her journey again, feeling more satiated and hopeful than the night before.
    Gradually the stones scattered along the path grew less numerous, while the grasses and mosses began to inhabit the greater part of the route. Soon the stones were all but gone, and with them the pathway. Panic briefly seized her, for she had become accustomed to the trail, and suddenly it seemed as if she was about to lose her bearings and that on which she had depended thus far. She looked about her to see if she could find a new track. By now it was mid-morning, and as the sun climbed higher in the sky, the day became increasingly warmer. Her clothes were almost completely dried out, although she knew she must look a sorry sight, but lacking a looking glass she couldn’t tell how bad, nor did she care to know. Suddenly she was completely overwhelmed by a deep sense of freedom which for one crazy moment made her want to throw her head back and laugh out loud. Here she was , unwashed and unkempt, alone and with no idea of where to go nor where she was heading for, and yet all she experienced in this moment was a sense of openness and spaciousness. Still her feet hurt, her soft dancing slippers being no match for the rough terrain they had being forced to traverse. She longed to dip them into some cool and refreshing pool. No sooner had the wish being expressed than she thought that she had heard the tinkling sound of running water. Listening carefully now she tried to find the source of the serendipitous sound. In the end it wasn’t that far from where she was standing. Catching a glimpse of the glint of sunlight on moving waters, she ran to it, and pulling off her slippers and stockings, she quickly dipped her poor aching feet into the cooling stream. Breathing a deep sigh of relief, she shut her eyes momentarily, all the better to enjoy the welcome respite. When she opened them she looked around at the landscape that filled her view. On the other side of the stream there was a dense forest of trees both enormous and tiny, interspersed with bushes and occasional dots of colour. It had the appearance of a place where the sun rarely managed to penetrate. Yet something warm and life-giving must have passed through it at some time given the sheer verdancy of it’s vegetation.
    With her feet still dangling over the water’s edge she wondered which way to turn now. She could follow the stream, and perhaps this would bring her where she needed to go. She could veer left and walk through the open meadows, or alternatively she could enter the shadows of the forested land and see where this trail took her. In the end she decided that the stream was a rather pleasant place to be and that for now anyway it offered her what she needed, as well as being a source of hydration to quench her thirst. Picking up her foot apparel, but declining to put them back on and instead carrying them slung behind her shoulder, she began to walk alongside the stream that rushed and gurgled past her. With the sun warming her entire body, and a gentle breeze saving her from being unpleasantly hot, she hummed softly to herself as she stepped on the warm, mossy earth, into which her feet just seemed to sink. Enjoying the pleasing ambience of a balmy autumnal day she continued along the way uninterrupted for a long time. After some time something caught her eyes in the distance. It wasn’t until she was almost upon it before she realised that it was a shrine or altar. Uncertain whether she ought to approach it or turn back, her curiosity got the better of her and she slowly advanced towards it.

    Leaning on Raven

    Image Hosting by PictureTrail.com

    Weather beaten,
    wearied,
    a presence
    a strong head
    a shoulder to lean upon

    'bout a man unknown

    A lamp is welcome comfort
    for travelers nearing home,
    or exploring written wonders
    in a nestled corner nook –
    and little thought is given
    to the source of splendid light.

    Ever ready – predicable;
    a sudden strike – flaring bright,
    just past vesper time for some –
    then steady glow, as you know,
    with warmth and flickered laughter.
    Give some thought then to its soul.

    There is a source of power
    unseen ‘neath the comfort vessel –
    gold pristine oil, thrice refined,
    and filtered by strife and pain,
    ‘till free of guile and more divine,
    from seeds picked by careful hand.

    Then there is the wick, of course,
    that must be trimmed a trifle –
    and nurtured with loving care
    lest the flame burn too brightly
    or we curse the diminished glow,
    still a faint gift of soul and light.

    Nay! The Lantern’s of all three –
    the Source, the Body and the Light;
    that gives such simple pleasure
    because it can and therefore must –
    for those who see its silence
    as a companion to the dawn.

    Tuesday, July 11, 2006

    What Do Cats Dream About?


    The Cat: Mysterious, intuitive, capricious, and unpredictable

    Photomontage: "Cats Dream of Eating Angel Fish" L. Gloyd (c) July 11, 2006

    New Visual Journal Page: Pressed for time


    I've somewhat finished another page. I may or may not end up tweaking it again. Being the OC that I am, that's not an improbability. Ha-ha!

    In my mind, most of my pages are actually pop-up. I realized that doing that would require that each page be constructed individually before the journal is bound. Now that I'm working with an already hand bound journal I can't seem to figure out how to accomplish the paper engineering of the pages I've designed.

    I meant for the head to look much larger. I guess I can always tweak it in PS. Its supposed to look like its being viewed with a fish eye lense.

    Anyway, I'm happy to share these pages with all of you. I hope that my intention to heal will supercede the emotional heaviness of a lot of these pages. As I've said, my healing, like my journals are a work in progress.

    Happiness!

    The night continues

    As she clicked the latch of the gate closed she heard the old grandfather clock chime the midnight hour behind her, and turned to look back one last time at all she was leaving behind. Turning around again she began her journey forth. It was a dark night with no moon or stars visible in the black vaults above. She knew not what path she would walk on, nor had any perception of what might lie waiting for her. All that she knew, if knowing it was, was that she had to reach the top of the mountain. Stepping forth with a cold fear gripping her heart, she began to walk. Within minutes her cloak and dress were saturated. Her silken slippers squelched with each step. With her long braided hair breaking loose from its confines and wrapping itself hither and thither around her face she began to momentarily lose sight of the pathway, feeling as if she was being blinded by the very feature that was considered by many to be her crowning glory. The stones became more numerous, making the way increasingly difficult to traverse. The first time she fell she cried out in pain and shock. The second time she fell she was brought to her knees, and as she pulled herself back up to stand she felt her beautiful handworked white dress tear beneath her. The next time, she fell against something sharp and sobbed as she felt the blood drip downwards on to her tongue. Tasting blood was an entirely new experience, and not a welcome one. The last time she fell she was thrown against a huge boulder that appeared to have just put itself directly in her path and rendered utterly helpless as she lay in a quivering heap face down in the muck and slime. Hell could not make her suffer more than this. Yet still it was the fear that half frightened the wits out of her. Fear mingled with the taste of blood. She lay still, stretched out prone and too tired and weary to even think of getting up again. By the time the cold and wet had completely penetrated her clothes and seemed even to have entered the very marrow of her bones, she realised that she had a choice - either get back up, or die. But she wasn’t ready to die just yet. She didn’t want this, nor did she want to return to what she had had before, but neither did she want to kiss the lips of death. The taste of blood was enough of a foretaste of what might be before her, but not yet. Leaning her elbows on the muddy rain-soaked earth she slowly raised herself up enough to lift her eyes and peer around. What she saw was almost enough to make her put her head back down, but she resisted the impulse. Instead she hauled herself up on to her knees and from there, with a momentous movement of force that she knew not from whence it came, she finally rose back up and once more stood upright. As she looked around she saw images that she had thought only belonged in her nightmares, one of which had emerged constantly in a recurring dream in recent nights. It was a lone, misshapen tree, the top of which had been ripped off by a bolt of lightening , leaving it jagged and split in half. Shaking uncontrollably she stumbled forth. Following the unknown path and simply just remaining on it, she felt a strange sense of what could almost be called peace emerging from her depths even as she continued stumbling and falling forwards through the wind and the rain. After what seemed like an eternity she finally came upon a huge ancient oak tree which seemed to have enough leaves on its branches to offer some form of shelter to her. She desperately needed to rest before continuing on. Looking up she whispered a breathless thank you to the tree. Its leaves rustled in the wind as if to answer her. Closing her eyes she fell into a deep, deep sleep and slept without moving for hours until the first light of dawn began to emerge in the east.

    Sketch of leaf

    Details

    Hi just wanted to atate my sources for what I have put up on the site so far. My old woman collage is a fabric and mixed media collage, using a postcard of a figure from a quilt by a quilt artist called Deirdre Amsden (I think). The idea for my mythological story came from Jane Tilton's ''Energy Mountain visualization'' in the 2005 Advent calendar, a truely wonderful source of prompts and ideas. Am I ever going to be able to sleep again?! Finally the leaf embroidery is a piece I had just completed making and is based on a drawing that I sketched a few years ago...my very first sketch ever!! I had always wanted to turn it into an embroidery, and now I have. If you click on the photo image it enlarges and you can see it in better detail. Again it is a mixed media piece using hand dyed fabrics and threads, plus free machine embroidery, including embroidery on metal and paper. And that's all folks!

    I ask of thee

    If you ascend before dawn hint –
    from slumber, snuggled bed,
    to brave cold stones –
    echoless save clandestine breath
    to witness the lantern ritual --
    then you might know me.

    There is a slab of grayish slate
    upon which each traveler must step
    to enter or leave the Abbey haven –
    and thereon is inscribed a message;
    faint from shuffled sorrow
    and chipped from striding joy
    and filled with memoried dust…

    and I cry out to be heard!

    Only when the myriad shadows cross
    from the flame’s rigid lattice grate,
    and moonbeams silvering silent
    through woven maple branches,
    and morning kiss reflected from
    giggling clouds of birthing
    will the tracing of my life be revealed.

    By harsh light of noon’s judgment
    I am nothing but Raven scratches
    too arcane for mortal scrying –
    but for those who dare the meadow dew
    and lie supine in humility
    to trace by shadow’s lift the Words
    set down by ancients –
    monks of yesteryear…

    and when you do,
    pray share with me
    what you have seen.