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

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.

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

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

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

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

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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.

Saturday, July 15, 2006

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.

Friday, July 14, 2006

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

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

Leaning on Raven

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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!

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.

Monday, July 10, 2006

Rose In The Woods

Rose running,
at centre,
through the woods.
Not seeing the woods
for the trees.
Running rose,
dark as night,
camouflaged and safe,
running rose,
has thorns.
The moon appears,
full lit in the woods,
gossamer clouds,
light the trees.
All is safe,
in the woods,
hearing the
sweet music
of Orpheus,
again.

copyright Imogen Crest 2006.

Lost Song

While Emmie was playing harp/guitar/singing at an art gallery grand opening Friday, I wandered about and found an 'open mike' reading group in progress in the park.
They were all singing songs, though -- so back to the car for a notebook under the seat.
There I found a song I wrote a couple of years ago. Not a dry eye in the group
..................................................................


LOVE YOU AGAIN

When I was young, and afraid of death,
And time a bag of golden coins --
I thought to spend some moments with you,
And maybe get some change.

But the coins ran out -- the wind blew in,
And I never got to know thee;
And I'm poorer now from having lost
Treasures you freely gave me.

When I was old, and afraid to live
And time a star out of reach --
I thought to wallow in memories,
And hold you to me again.

But the coins ran out -- the wind blew in,
And I never got to know thee;
And I'm poorer now from having lost
Treasures you freely gave me.

When I was born, given life once more
And know time by faith alone --
I thought of our love most selflessly,
And we came to be as one.

For coins shower in -- the breeze a kiss,
And I will ever know thee --
I am richer now for having found
Treasures life gladly gave me.


papa

Dawn Treck to School


Dawn Treck to School
Originally uploaded by FranSb.
Across the drifted field
hoar frost glistening
on the empty branches
her box of corrected papers
lunch
and lesson plans
she plods

Sunday, July 09, 2006

Numinous Raven Dreaming

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In my dreams a
numinous
all seeing
all knowing
raven
watches my descent
into the underworld
to plead for
time.

St. Goldy

That Raven just gave me a idea for a series. First up, an archetypal image of all that is loyal, protecting and unconditionally loving.

Photomontage: L. Gloyd (c) July 9, 2006

Home

Home,
home for all birds
and creatures.
Home,
harmless home.
A tree at night.

copyright Monika Roleff 2006.

A Raven View of Time

Mystics seek it in a drafty cave,
wizards within an awesome tower,
and scholars in dusty scrolls and books –
but to find the answer
or perhaps the question,
you need only ask the mists of dawn.

Why am I here -- what does it mean,
is there a heaven – why must I care,
religion a must or fearful trust?
So ease your questing mind
and give your soul blessed rest,
and ask a dew drop where it goes at noon.

You know within of the basic truth,
that your are one with Source and Light,
and that all paths lead home by right.
Don’t look within the stars,
mumbled spells or prayers.
Just ask the clouds what they see from there.

Abandon fear -- walk with knowledge tall;
open heart and hand to one and all,
and live as if you bear a message.
Love is null by itself,
but one and one makes three.
Just ask laughing raindrops dancing free.

Where am I to -- how stony the road,
when will I return -- how heavy the load,
who should attend me – give me sure advice?
Of these you will learn
if your heart is prepared,
to trace the river down to the shore.

The braid is eternal -- bound by Light,
each teardrop proof of recycled birth,
and trust and faith and timeless joy.
Find a perfect crystal
holding a speck of dust,
and know of creation’s gift of life.


Saturday, July 08, 2006

In the Eye of the Raven..........


In the Eye of the Raven...

L. Gloyd (c) 2006

The Thing That I Love

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The thing that I really love about Soul Food and the Abbey is that someone, somewhere around the world is wide awake and on the watch tower. The place is never closed and what is more, those ravens from Soul Food's rookery just float on thermal currents all day long.

Friday, July 07, 2006

What Lies Beneath

Here's my contribution to the "creepy lake" theme......

What Lies Beneath

It was more than the absence of light that gave being to the water's darkness. The darkness was palpable. It was like a sludge that eddied and swirled, a cold ooze that reeked of rot and death. The darkness held within itself all the suffering of the world since the beginning, and legions lurked in its vast depths. The denizens frequently broke through the surface, enduring the light long enough to torment those who lived in the light.


Some creatures of the darkness emerged less often than the others. These ancient ones, enormous and fearsome, slithered near the bottom of the darkness, emerging only once in while to wreck the most horrific crimes against the world. Many others, smaller and more eager to venture into the light, swam near the surface. Though not as powerful as their deeper cousins, nonetheless they plotted.

They plotted against of the Foolish, the Naive who cannot resist them. They plotted against the Elders who talk too much to the creatures' Enemy, the wise ones who send them all shrieking into the depths with just one prayer. They considered them. Some of the Elders were growing weary and were faltering. The creatures stirred and rippled in their silty nests at the thought of this. But there were those who are still strong, who could resist and prevail.

So the denizens of the deep water plotted against the Strong and the Wise to use their own inherent failings and flaws to bring them down. They have hurt them and they will hurt them more. They will drag them down to the depths of the Lake and torment them for their own amusement.

So they schemed, and if laughter were permitted, it would have pealed through the darkness.

L.Gloyd (c) July 7, 2006


Prompted Story

Gail's story prompted me to finish a slight story started some time ago -- lost in the daily mind-clutter. For this I give thanks. You will find it also of travelers and lakes and love -- yet not the same at all.
....................................................

TUESDAY


They came to Earth last Tuesday! This is a simplification and not quite true, of course – but I have a story to tell. ‘They’ implies a multitude of beings, but I cannot easily describe a flow of sentience that is both individual and gestalt. ‘Came’ implies a plan beyond chance, and a linear view of things – neither of particular concern for the Philli, as I shall call them/heash. They had come before, and one had remained by choice – an observer/absorber. For the Philli were nothing if not curious and drawn to all forms of Attention and Creation. The coming was to Connect/Learn, and perhaps gather the one home if he chose. “Tuesday’ only implies a short set in the past-time by which Earthlings choose to be bound -- certainly but a minute fraction of the Waiting.


The Philli had evolved far beyond the limits of form and time – able to manipulate positive space into any shape for self-disclosure and Blending. In close communication their ‘body-language’ was a statement of being as well as thought, and they were one with knowing. They had to travel from place to place by Agreement – soas not to disturb other forms of life through excessive disruption of space/time. Besides, each journey allowed for close Sharing not possible if one were everywhere at once. They traveled as a singularity of purpose, not exactly a ship, but a conglomeration of Philli with aligned purpose – some to form a protective hull, others to gather energy from feeble stars, others to listen for the Call – others to nurture the journey. They moved by creating a slight dent in the ether before them into which they fell, pushed by the pressure of space/time fabric. Instantly they were where they had not been before and arrived before they left – yet only slightly to avoid temporal cavitations, but sufficient to span the galaxies.

On Tuesday they came and left – except for another Philli who chose to remain in Companionship with the first, for what they Learned caused amusement and caress of spirit. Communication with the Earth species was found mixed in difficulty and great patience was required. Trees understood, of course, but had restrained their evolution by choice – for they too were Watchers. The young of many species saw the messages and laughed and pointed without understanding. The adults of each species rejected what they learned except on an emotional level – but it was a beginning. The human uprights had the intellect to understand but chose to listen to their own visions instead – their right, but somewhat sad – to limit wisdom to what is learned only from others of their kind – a believing in what others witnessed rather than what they experienced alone. This is what the Philli studied to embrace and understand.

They watched as man crafted a wheel and gods in their own image -- ignoring knowledge of Source. Each day the Philli attempted to communicate – shifting form and light in ways unnatural yet gentle. They watched as man defiled each other and the planet of their existence. They sent messages to all who might listen. Some poets did, and crafters of song and paint and clay. All human souls were touched by the message – the Calling. Few chose to attend. The two Philli in concert would try again -- and ever again.

When the shadows cross the waters of giggling streams and eddied lake, look to the bands of light and joy. Observe the dancing motes of bright and rainbow ripples pulsing in symphony with a tune that touches heart more than mind. Seek the patterns across the waves, and misted spray against the breeze, and whistles of birds never seen. Then grasp the hand of one walking near and observe the reflections in her eyes and Carry – Carry on to all you meet. Just for an instant listen.

For the Philli – it will be enough!

Thursday, July 06, 2006

The Diner


















Some of the lakes round here hold some very strange secrets....

The atmosphere in the diner was jittery. People spoke to each other in hushed tones, someone dropped a fork with a noisy clatter, a woman laughed nervously.

The object of interest seemed to be the waitress. A plain slab of a woman with an impassive face, she stopped by my booth to take my order.

``Ham and eggs,” I said.`` She scribbled on her pad, swept the rest of the customers with an icy glance, and walked away.

As she went behind the counter and through the door to the kitchen, a stream of chatter started up around me. I caught snatches of it.

``Did you hear? – hung hisself – not human – he musta known - ”

She came back into the diner and the chatter abruptly stilled. She walked back to my booth with slow, measured steps.

``No ham,” she said. ``Sausage?”

I nodded. The people in the booth opposite were whispering, giving her furtive glances, and she quelled them with a look.

``Take no notice,” she said to me. ``Just passing through, are yer?”

``Yes,” I said. ``I’m stopping over for a day or two to get in some fishing on the lake.”

``You’ll hear talk, `bout my husband killin’ hisself down there.” she said heavily. ``Don’t mind it. Folks got nuthin’ better to do.” She glared around the diner again and made her slow, heavy way back to the kitchen.

One of the women at the opposite booth leaned across to me.

``I wouldn’t go down to the lake, if I were you,” she said. ``We don’t believe it was suicide – there’s something down there.” She slid back into her seat as the waitress returned.

I finished my breakfast and went back to my motel room to collect my fishing gear. The talk in the diner didn’t worry me. I’d taken a fancy to this place, to the neat motel and diner on the banks of a lake where I was told the fishing was good. It was sad to think of the tragedy that had occurred here, but I wasn’t about to let it spoil my one break of the year.

The lake was beautiful and peaceful in the morning sun. I noticed there were only a couple of others fishing there, and those on the far side of the lake, but that just made it more pleasant. At lunchtime, I bought sandwiches from the diner and some takeaway chicken for later, deciding to make a day of it.

As night fell on the lake, I unrolled my sleeping bag, planning to stay for the night, and watch the sun come up.

The Moon rose high, and I ate my cold takeaway, at peace with the world. Then I saw it. A roiling on the still, placid surface of the lake, that suddenly erupted as something leapt out of its depths.

The moonlight shone off its slick body, vaguely human in shape, as it moved slowly toward me. I froze in horror, my chicken falling from my hands.

``Don’t move!” a voice commanded.

I turned and saw the waitress standing behind me. In her arms she held a small child. Its eyes shone like dark slick body of the monster.

``He won’t hurt you,” the woman said. ``He likes chicken.”

Strange webbed hands, with jet black claws, scooped up my fallen chicken. I watched with horrified fascination as the monster carefully, almost daintily, stripped away the meat with sharp rows of teeth like a shark.

The woman and the kid walked down to the water’s edge. The child wriggled out of her arms and staggered to the monster. A clawed, webbed hand rested briefly on the small head.

The woman looked back at me.

``You won’t say nuthin’,” she said. ``No one would believe you anyhow. My darlin’ here– “ she glanced lovingly at the monster - ``he’s not from round these parts. I found him when his ship crashed in the lake, and I nursed him back to health. Someday he’s goin’ home and we’re going with him.”

I started to gather up my belongings prior to flight. But there was one more thing I had to ask.

``Your husband,” I said. ``Did he kill himself because – “

``Yes,” she said, not looking back at me. ``So would you, if you found out your child weren’t yours – weren’t even human.”

Abreviation

ALl CoMe fIrST

Cup your hands and raise outstretched
as a symbol of an open heart --
receive the heavy burdens of life
to transform into shining gold.

Bequeath that all comes first
before a thought of self and pride –
claim the weight of pain and strife
to transform into healing Light.

Sing the ancient selfless song
of those who wrestled magic to earth –
and science and wisdom now held sure
by those we call al’c’m’ists.

Les and I July 61


Les and I July 61
Originally uploaded by FranSb.
In January, 1941, my brother and I were dropped off to walk a mile
and a half through the deep snow to our home. Neither the folk who
had given us a ride or we knew that the temperature had dropped to fifty-five below farenheit. Here is my memory of the night my knees were frozen.