Lemurian Abbey

Arise, it is Spring

2007-05-04T19:33:00.000-07:00

Oh my Lemurian Abbey are you really here waiting for me! But alas! Time has stopped and spring has not burst forth on the Abbey grounds. Unless it is only me that is not seeing. Seems that the bluebells should be swaying by now. Have I left you lying fallow for too long, my sweet Lemuria? Dare I now dream again of you until my believing causes you to awaken? If there was a hope that I would cling to, it would be you.

Your Loving, Wayward child, Tren

Charkra Cross

2006-11-21T04:28:00.000-08:00

This image has been given to me during my meditations and whoever gave it has been 'bugging me' to create it and get it seen for quite a few months now. I'm not a very good artist as you can all see!

Along with the two extra ear charkra's at each side of the cross (either side of the third eye charkra) it shows our seven charkra's.

I like how the charkra's being contained within the cross links our charkra's to our spiritual growth. As the cross has been identified with the spiritual path/growth for quite some time, it seems almost 'natural' that these to should identify with each other.

Mouse, Cat, Dog...

2006-11-15T00:36:00.000-08:00

a few moments in the afternoon with some of my favourite mammals

Come take a walk with me...

2006-11-12T01:41:00.000-08:00

At night it is always a walking meditation.

Sparrow Girl - New Stuff

2006-10-21T03:36:00.000-07:00

Aside from adding a Sparrowgirl afepress shop (www.cafepress.com/sparrowgirl), as well as having written some new stories. More finalized watercolour illustrations have started replacing the placeholder sketches.

stories at www.aletta.org/sparrowweb01.shtml

another sparrow girl story

2006-10-19T20:13:00.000-07:00

Sparrow Girl – The Night the Refinery Blew Up

There are certain sounds you wake up to feeling inexplicably fearful and sickened. Long before knowing the why’s of it your stomach is already in great big knots. Very few events in my life had prepared me for waking up like this. In that split moment of waking up from what was my first experience with concussion from an explosion I had nothing on which to base my fear other than just knowing instinctively that this was a very, very bad thing. Before that split second was over I had already called out to my mother.

posted at www.sparrows.wordpress.com

My illustrated home

2006-10-15T19:02:00.000-07:00

Oh happy day! My home has been featured in a major newspaper today.

Sadly though, the online article does not include photographs that the actual article features so I've uploaded jpgs of what the article chose to include.

Except for the part where I've been described as someone who dabbles in mixed media art -I've never in my dabbled in anything. I always jump in with my clothes on, into the water, so to speak, you see. Iam for the record, a multi media artist because I work in various media to create a tangible perceivable version of my concepts. Unless the definition for a multi-media artist changed while I wasn't looking, I am and will probably always be a multi-media artist. Be that as it may, I'm pleased with it. Thank you Me-an!
This is not the same jpg that was used in the news paper article. Me-an removed all traces of human habitation from it. I don't mind showing my everyday clutter to the rest of you so here's an uncensored, cluttered photo of my kitchen. This scan of the journal entree about the building where my flat is was done before I added words on the background. I'll upload a jpg with the text later. Like my flat, all my pages seem to be eternally in progress.

New Journal Pages, New Zit and Other Profundities

2006-09-03T08:15:00.000-07:00

I still haven't figured out how to have my jpgs appear with my blog entries in my wordpress blog. I'm a bit uninhibited in writing my entries there. Probably because I know no one is really reading it because I haven't promoted its url. Crazy, really!

Anyhow I've ended up making these pages in "The True & The Questions" journal by Sabrina instead of making a piece on "peace." I meant to do that but these pages are what spilled out of me today so here they are.

Now I'm beginning another page in that journal again and I've begun to add more text on this page but I'm too lazy to take another picture so you won't see the new stuff I've added on it until I've done so.

Bugger! I've sprouted another zit just now. I've been eating this vegan ham made of seaweed and soy all week. Soy gives me zits due to its high fat content. For those of you who aren't vegans you don't know the value of eating vegan ham despite the fact that it gives you zit because it really tastes like spam. Glorious!

Moving on. I just realized that this "The True & The Questions" journal, is really about making lists and that I've been a listmaker most of my adult life. I remember making lists using the typewriter when I was in college. Being a procrastinator, lists are my way of dealing with my inequities in following through with what I start. Being an arian, I'm big on starting new things but I'm not good in the finishing department. This is actually what I've begun to write in the margins of "My worries" page and the page after that.

Making lists is like an exercise in self-commitment. Once I've listed it down my internal gears have no other recourse but to set out to complete the task enumerated therein. No matter how much time it takes I don't throw out the list until I've done so. Otherwise I just carry over the unfinished task in a new list.

Its really an obsessive compulsion. Can you tell? Hah! You've found me out eh? Right. On to my lists then.

Moving to Refurbished Abbey

2006-08-29T15:40:00.000-07:00

The lights will be dimming here as we all move to the newly refurbished Abbey. If you are not able to post at the WordPress based Abbey please let me know and I will sign you in. The Abbess is very excited about the prospect of filling up those new monastic cells with fascinating people from all walks of life.

Happy Birthday Heather!

2006-08-27T07:55:00.000-07:00

Medieval scholars were amazed to find that, when roughly translated, this richly adorned manuscript read:

"In centuries to come, there will be a woman who inspires many and brings forth their creativity from within. She will use her unique talent on a marvelous invention called the Internet so she might reach out to those far from her as if she were in the same room. Her name will be Heather and this is a birthday greeting to her in the future."

Happy Birthday Heather and thank you for all your inspiration!

Happy Birthday, Heather

2006-08-27T06:25:00.000-07:00

Happy Birthday, Heather.
With all best wishes and love from Carol

Happy Birthday From Duwamish Bay!

2006-08-27T00:31:00.000-07:00

TO HEATHER,

HAPPY BIRTHDAY FROM DUWAMISH BAY
AND FROM ALL OF YOUR FRIENDS AT
THE CHAMBER OF HORRORS
OWL CREEK BRIDGE
AND
DEADWOOD HALL

NONE OF US WOULD BE HERE WITHOUT YOU HEATHER!
LOVE FROM
ANITA MARIE

Raven At The Tea Party

2006-08-26T06:44:00.000-07:00

"Happy Birthday Enchanteur!"

Enchanteur's Afternoon Tea for my Birthday

2006-08-25T23:47:00.000-07:00

le Enchanteur has been cooking up a storm and has made a cake and afternoon tea for my birthday. Since she has been working her fingers to the bone she told me that I better make sure to invite everyone to come to tea.

Croath Head: September

2006-08-18T14:59:00.000-07:00

Midnight; the sea surged calm,
Early morning ferocity
Stilled.
My heart beat with the rhythm
Of gentle waves
And the anger within
Washed itself away
As I stared, amazed
At depths rolling shoreward
In peace.

When sea and skyline meet and merge
Beyond sight
We look sometimes to life
Eternal
And well beyond the day just gone.

I saw it all that night;
In a moment of quiet I heard the breeze;
Moon and lamplight cast long shadows
As I walked toward the harbour wall
And sorrow left me.
Salt, white and crystal cleansed my soul;
The sea beckoned in whispers:
I saw the far horizon -
And lost myself.

Jan

Why?

2006-08-18T04:55:00.000-07:00

Would it seem weird to the human race if the trees started growing sideways just because we’ve only ever previously seen them grow towards the heavens?

Is that why, when we see someone who hates life we look down on them, like they’re pathetic? Like they have a problem? Like it’s their fault that they don’t fit in the world? Just because they hate life, we look at them with disrespect and disgust?

Why isn’t it the people who like life with the problem? Why aren’t the people who hate life looking down on those who love it with disrespect, disgust, anger? Life cannot exist without death, and death cannot exist without life. Without death, there would be nothing to inspire anyone to live. Without life, there could be no death.

Why don’t we view those that hate life with respect? Respect that they have different views from those we deem normal? We are just getting over racism and sexism, though we still have a long way to go, why cant we stop stereotyping those who have no emotion in their eyes? Those who wish there was another world for them to escape to? Those who do not belong? Those who were born wishing for another world just for them?

Why will someone always think they’re better then anyone else? Why will they make everyone suffer just for them? Why can someone be broken down so many times by someone, and have no one else care? Why, then, do we hate them and look down upon them when we didn’t bother to help them back up after we have watched them fall so many times, watch them scream in anguish as their very souls cry out? Why will when someone is so in need of help turn away from them, in their hour of need, and walk away whistling along the street?

Why then will that person who walked away one day cry out like those they had walked away from, with no care but to helped, thinking they are deserving. Why will a person who beat someone periodically cry out against someone beating them, or a family member or their child? When they had beaten someone’s family member? Someone’s child? Why will a rapist plead for mercy from the death sentence or jail, when they are guilty? When they have no reason to be receiving mercy from any.

Why will a country, a world cry out against terrorism when people die everyday from people? In car accidents? Where drunken fiends get away with murder, simple because of human folly, when we would all condemn those terrorists in less than a second? And why don’t we all cry out about war? All the wars that have past have claimed millions of lives that wanted nothing more than to settle with their families to live a life. A life that didn’t include having to go to war for some sick leader. Are those who condemn others to war really justified? What right do they have to murder thousands for an insult to themselves? If war was nothing more than politicians fighting, there would be no wars. For all politicians do is sit and plot, moving humans like chess pieces in their sick games.

And yet why when faced with a simple answer and a complicated one will humans opt generally for the simpler one? Why will we lie and cheat, deceive and plot all to ease our own suffering? Why in doing so will we not bother to notice the effects it has on those around us? Why when asked a simple question will we lie so that the other person doesn’t think us stupid? Or irresponsible? Or disgusting? Or shameful? Are we so vain and shallow that we will risk destruction for everyone around us just for our own selves? And when we hear of those that are hero’s and martyrs that we automatically put them on a pedestal above ourselves, when all they have done is redeem themselves for themselves? When they have made at least one persons life a little worse than it was? Why do we think they haven’t sinned? Why are politicians so quick on the uptake to say they were brave and almighty, though they mentioned not how the situations could have been avoided, or how at the time they were doing nothing more than bickering over nothing?

Yet there is and isn’t a simple answer. For me it seems that we are doomed to forever misuse the gifts we have. For we will use the brain we were gifted with to plot and commit crimes, with no thought to killing or hurting others. Men will misuse their bodies, and instead of protecting women with their physical superiority, abuse us, though we have born them through the ages. People will misuse power, and the gift to lead, all for the sake of their own greed. It is sickening and yet it goes unpunished. As I write, or speak, and others listen or read a thousand people are crying out for help. Half of those will never find it. Half of those will die. Half of those will wish for something more. Maybe those spat on, being disrespected, disregarded, shamed will ask themselves one day, maybe the trees should grow sideways. Maybe then the world will change.
Dancing on the edge of the blade of consistent life.

Dark Fool
Emily-Rae Temple
“Show me someone who hasn’t sinned, nor committed a crime against any, or spoken out against any, or hurt any by word or any other means, show me this person and I will show you the heavens.”

for Jan

2006-08-16T09:11:00.000-07:00

Stone bridge

2006-08-16T08:35:00.000-07:00

The fields are bare and bleak, quiet, still;
Trees bereft of leaves, black bark, stoical;
Past the farmer's house and barns just a short walk
Along the rutted lane you can listen to the river swell,
And hear the sparrows chirrup, searching food.

At the stone bridge you have to fold your arms,
Lean forward, look over at the water, even though
The winter cold seeps through scarf and gloves;
You jump and stamp your feet, breathe warm air
Into your hands, watch twigs and leaves
Make their way down stream.

In the distance muffled cars and lorries
Go about their business, chase from one town
To the next.
Real life goes on, it stops for no one:
But here, now, at the stone bridge,
Looking way into the distance,
Hearing sparrows, watching water,
Solitary, alone with my thoughts -
Where does it begin and end, real life?
Bleak fields, chirrups, rustling of bushes;
All the real I need.

Jan

Snapshot

2006-08-14T10:45:00.000-07:00

The autumn frost glistens and the breeze is sharp,
I watch late afternoon slip into dusk and breathe deep;
How I adore to see the frenzied fall of leaves swirling,
Clash - red, orange, shrieking lemon.
My body shivers from the cold but in the musky air
I smell a garden bonfire - feel alive.

Jan

Abbey Talismans - Soul Food Hermitage Store

2006-08-13T21:50:00.000-07:00

http://www.cafepress.com/createart/1566897 - store link

image copyright Heather Blakey 2006.

Alphabet Story 2

2006-08-12T16:11:00.000-07:00

CAT was an adventuresome sort. After all, what good are nine lives if you spend them licking yourself, catching the odd mouse or bird and horking up hairballs? No thank you. Everycat must die sometime and Cat preferred to die gloriously.

“Live hard, die young, and leave a good looking corpse,” as Cat’s F. Scott Fitzgerald quoting Master was fond of saying.

Cat craved adventure and the adventure he craved most was to explore the MOON. How tantalizing it was! Floating just out of reach. Cat used up a few lives trying to jump to it from the tallest tree in the neighborhood. He must get to the moon, come hell or high water!

He went by rocket ship.

Upon his arrival on the moon, Cat was greeted by a ZEBRA and a PENGUIN. As you can imagine, lunar zebras and penguins are not like terra firma zebras and penguins. Lunar Zebra was fuchsia and lime stripped with a shining silver mane, tail, and hooves. Instead of the formal tuxedo look of earthen penguins, the lunar counterpart looked like a badly done tie-dye. However, both were cordial and enthusiastic to show Cat around the place.

Penguin invited Cat and Zebra aboard his BOAT, the Moonbeam. Cat commented on the lack of water for a boat. “Your rocket ship sailed through the ether, so does my boat.” That silenced Cat.

Penguin deftly hoisted sail and navigated as Zebra pointed out the sites of interest.

“This is the Sea of Tranquility,” intoned Zebra with a grand sweep of his leg.

Cat was struck dumb with awe of the beautiful vista. Then he was struck dumb from terror. A huge aquamarine tentacle, then another and yet another! were probing about the inside of the boat. One tentacle brushed Cat’s foot. He gave a strangled ‘mew’ which fetched Zebra’s attention.

“Oh bother,” sighed Zebra, rolling his eyes. Noting Cat’s bristling back he added,”Don’t worry. OCTOPUS is harmless. He’s not dangerous, just annoying.”

Penguin pulled out a box of jelly doughnuts from the boat’s locker. Giving half to Zebra they threw the doughnuts pell mell out of the boat. The tentacles withdrew and Penguin gunned the engine.

“Good riddance,” muttered Penguin. Turning to Zebra he asked, “Where to, matey?”

Zebra replied without hesitation. “To the JACK-IN-THE-BOX.”
“Excellent idea,” proclaimed Penguin, adjusting the tiller to change their course.

“Jack-in-the-box?” queried Cat.

“Jack is an oracle,” explained Zebra. “He gives excellent advice, when you can understand him.”

“And if you don’t understand him?” asked Cat.

“Then it’s your problem for being too thick.”

Duly they arrived at Jack-in-the-box’s box.

“Go the way of the ANT,” advised Jack.

“What does that mean?” wondered Cat when they were back in the boat.

“Hmmm,” mused Penguin, who then began to sing:

“The ants go marching one by one. Hurrah! Hurrah!
The ants go marching one by one. Hurrah! Hurrah!
The ants go marching one by one,
The little one stops to suck his thumb-“

Zebra joined in with gusto.

“And they all go marching
Down!
Into the ground!
To get out of the rain!
Boom! Boom! Boom!”

“Down into the Ground!” cried Zebra and Penguin in unison. Penguin set their course for underground. As they entered the large mouth of a cave, Zebra flipped on electric torches, fore and aft, starboard and portside.

Cat stared wide eyed at the fantastic formations. Each room was more amazing than the last. The size of the stalactites! The whimsical shapes of the stalagmites! And the colors! Cat had never imagined anything like it.

They entered a smaller room, warmer, filled with EGGS. The eggs were marvels, glowing from within, jewel-like in colors, intricate patterns adorning the shells.

“What is this place?” asked Cat.

“Incubation caverns,” replied Zebra. “The eggs hatch into magical things.”
“Like dreams,” said Penguin.

“And unicorns,” added Zebra.

“And poetry.”

“And griffins.”

“Music.”

“Dragons.”

“Fairy tales.”

“Harpies.”

“Myths.”

“Basilisk.”

“Epics.”

“Dinosaurs.”

“I get the picture,” interrupted Cat, who was more interested in looking around. “What’s that?”

He pointed to a contraption that looked like a cross between a YO-YO and a XYLOPHONE. A gnome-like creature was hitting a xylophone board with a mallet while watching a blazing red disc roll up and down a cable.

“That is the Incucalcubatorlator. It senses which eggs are due to hatch. Just before peeping the eggs are shipped hither and yon…”

“To where they belong?” asked the Cat.

“Exactly!” replied Zebra.

“I’m hungry,” said Penguin. “What do say about going to the IGLOO for a bite? I could go for the HOUSE special, Apollo 11 latte.”

“I’m with you,” answered Zebra. Turning to Cat he added, “You really haven’t lived until you drink an Apollo 11 latte.”

Being the adventuresome sort, Cat was agreeable.

The Igloo lived up to its name; it was on the dark side of the moon where it is cold enough to keep the ice from melting. The hot drinks didn’t stay hot long in the Igloo.

An odd color of chartreuse KANGAROO served them their drinks. The Kangaroo had an electric blue Joey peeking from her pouch, giggling. He had never seen a grey cat before.

Cat took a swallow of the latte and began to gasp and wheeze. Zebra pounded him on the back while Penguin grinned.

“Too strong for you, Cat?”

“What’s in that stuff?”

“Who wants to know?” Said a voice behind them.

Cat turned to look. Through watering eyes he saw what he thought, but it couldn’t be, could it? A SNOWMAN.

“Please forgive our friend,” said Penguin. “He’s from Earth. Just arrived. It’s his first meal out and he doesn’t know that it is terribly bad manners to ask what’s in your food and drink.”

“Earth, heh?”

“Earth.” Gasped Cat.

“Just arrived.” Added Zebra. “Let me introduce you. Cat, this is Crusty, owner of this fine establishment. Crusty, this is Cat, earthling.”

Crusty held out a frosty hand for Cat to shake. Cat reluctantly shook, finding his paw quite frozen when Crusty let go.

“Here,” said Crusty, thawing toward the shivering animal. “I got something that’ll help. Got it from Neil Armstrong.”

Crusty left the room and returned with a large, multi-colored LOLLIPOP. Although he did not have much of a sweet tooth, Cat licked at it gratefully. He did begin to feel better.

“Thank you, Crusty.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Penguin settled their tab and the trio hopped back into the Moonbeam.

“Where to now?” asked Penguin.
“Fishing!” shouted Zebra. Cat was not quite as enthusiastic, but Penguin loved to fish so fishing it was. There were only two poles, so Cat was in charge of the NET.

Cat did not know what to expect. They caught a VIOLIN, a GOAT, a WATERMELON and an UMBRELLA. Zebra and Penguin did not seem to think this was unusual. The Goat was crotchety and none too pleased about being caught. Penguin put him off at the closest promontory and gave him the watermelon and umbrella to mollify him.

Zebra kept the Violin and began to play. He was not a virtuoso, but he was good. Cat and Penguin lay back in the boat letting it drift where it would, while Zebra played melody after melody.

The Moonbeam bumped gently into a rock formation, returning their awareness to the here and now. Penguin recognized the formation. “This is Julius Caesar Crater. If we climb over we will be in the land of RAINBOW TREES.

Rainbow Trees sounded exotic to Cat, who followed Penguin’s waddling lead up and down into the crater. It was filled with slim, tree, rather like birch, but where on earth the tree would have leaves, here it bore bubbles. The bubbles shimmered iridescent with rainbow colors.

Beneath the Rainbow Trees, FROGS hopped purposefully, taking bubbles into their mouths and then jumping high into the air, out of the moon’s orbit to –

“What are the frogs doing?” asked Cat.

“The frogs are servants of Hekat, a goddess of your planet, who is Queen of Midwives. The Frogs bring mature Rainbows to her, and she displays them wherever.”

“Oh,” answered Cat, who knew nothing about the Egyptians save they used to worship him.

A shocking pink puppy came running through the woods to them. “I am so glad I found you,” he panted. “The DOG QUEEN, Canina, heard about the earthling and would love to have him for tea. It is so seldom we have visitors here, you know.”

Cat, Zebra and Penguin followed the puppy, a page to the Royal Canina, and had a lovely tea with the Queen. They discussed peaceable relations between earth cats and moon dogs until it was time for Cat to return to Terra Firma. Cat was heart-broken to have to leave, but rocket shuttles to the moon have strict schedules, and besides his oxygen pod was running low.

“Until we meet again!” called out Zebra and Penguin in farewell, thrilled because had it not been for their chance meeting of Cat, they would never have had audience with the queen.

Cat was overwhelmed with the hospitality and wonders he experienced. Upon returning home he tried to set up an Moon Travel Agency, but it never got off the ground.

Reflections

2006-08-12T04:59:00.000-07:00

Zola, lying completely still
On the salt water of The Dead Sea
Thinking of 'L'Assamoir' wondered fleetingly
If the gods of Eastern nations in their infinite wisdom
Would toss him some ideas or would he, in desperation
Write a letter home to mother
Who would only implore him to end his search
For mystical Nirvana and tell him of a buxom
Lyons milkmaid just waiting to produce a house
Packed to the rafters with Zola children
In a boudoir decorated Louis X1V and late rococo
As preference to carefree romping in the straw.

No lapping wave in Eastern waters;
Salt taste on his lips, his mind's eye
Conjures up last April's meeting with
Doctor Freud - he is taking the leaden
Waters of the sea to bring him peace and lead him
Into forest paths of strange lucidity:
A passing camel blinking one soul eye
Reflects intelligently that all the prodigies
Of Europe come here to rest aching bones and hearts.
The camel carries his own water and lost
His mother at birth.
Vesuvius meanwhile erupts again
Onto unwitting bronzed Italians planting grapes
And tending olive groves.
Zola is completely unaware and in his solitary floating,
Drifting, wouldn't really care
If the whole of Italy were devastated by
Temperamental volcanoes,
He concludes, and rightly so, that he's an egotist
And goes to sleep dreaming of diamond encrusted starfish.

Jan

Alphabet Stories

2006-08-11T15:30:00.000-07:00

My summer employment is to work in an hourly child care center. Low pay, long hours and really bratty kids. Well, some are darlings, but for the most part there are little terrors who delight in trashing the place. So the staff continuously are picking up after them.

I chose this job because I can bring my daughter, and it is important to me to be close to her. It also has the perk of allowing me to drop her off an hour or so before my shift, go to the coffee shop and write.

While picking up after juvenile cyclones, my mind is somewhere on the Silk Road Journey/Heroine's Journey.

One game I have created for myself is to create a story using the items pictures on the alphabet carpet squares in the order I find them. The result has been fun, coherent nonsense.

This is the first of my boredom busters. The capitalized words are the items in the order they were discovered on the floor.

Alphabet Story 1

TREE looked forward to winter. For then the children made a SNOWMAN right next to her. Though it was a different creation each year, its personality never changed. Tree and Snowman were very good friends and looked forward to their annual reunion.

They spent the long winter months sharing stories. Tree maintained an extensive inter-root connection with her world wide relatives. Snow man boasted of the collective consciousness of the water cycle. Both were learned in their own ways.

Snowman rambled on about the Inuit and the IGLOO they make. “Made out of blocks of snow! I wonder if that would be practical for me?” After thoughtful discussion Tree and Snowman agreed it would not be practical – too confining and rather unnecessary as Snowman did not feel the effects of weather, though he might last a bit longer, as the igloo would melt before he did. But they agreed the isolation was not worth a few more days of time, especially as Snowman would be reincarnated again next winter as usual.

Tree was excited to tell about the ZEBRA his relative the Circus Tent Pole saw dancing a cha-cha accompanied by a XYLOPHONE and VIOLIN played by cats. Snowman did not think it was possible and argued with Tree about it. Until Tree took offence, Snowman’s disbelief implied doubt on the veracity of her relation.

As they did every year, Tree and Snowman peered through the windows of the HOUSE. They had never really came to a satisfying conclusion about the decorated evergreen the family brought in at midwinter and decorated so outlandishly. It’s not like they could ask the evergreen, for, as Tree told Snowman in a horrified whisper, “They never come out alive.”

Most nights they listened to the star songs, which both agreed were very much like the FROG music in spring, but in a higher, minor key. Both also experienced and agreed that DOG had appalling toileting habits.

They discoursed about the wildlife of Australia. Snowman deferred to Tree’s opinions here, he wasn’t as familiar with desert creatures, water cycle consciousness being a little weak in those areas. They agreed on the plurals of dingoes, KANGAROOS, and koalas, but argued bitterly whether platypus pluraled into platypussies or playtpi.

Snowman had learned the recipe for WATERMELON elixir, which he generously shared with Tree. Tree was less than interested, as watermelons attract ANTS. Tree was less than fond of ants. “They swarm all over me and make my bark crawl.”

“Ants are marvelously organized,” retorted Snowman, who proceeded to talk on and on about the organization of ants, to which Tree listened politely but without interest.

“Tell me about RAINBOWS,” interjected Tree, desperate to change the subject. Rainbows were one of Snowman’s favorite topics. While Snowman droned on about rainbows, Tree was following the stealthy progression of the CAT as it scooted itself up her trunk and along her main branch toward an empty NEST.

“Stupid beast,” muttered Tree.

“Did you say something, Tree?” asked Snowman, who had heard perfectly but thought Tree might be referring to him.

“Oh, the cat,” Tree shrugged a bit to indicate the feline creeping along her branch. “Dumb thing doesn’t realize those EGGS hatched and fledged long ago. Wonderful experience, sheltering a fragile nest, screening it from that carnivore with my leaves, watching the birdlings learn to fly…”

“I know. Birds are amazing. But not as amazing as the creatures of the sea.”

Snow began to expound on the wonders of the deep, an area where Tree had no expertise. Tree grew bored again, and jumped at the opportunity to change the direction of the conversation.

“Pardon me for interrupting, but isn’t the plural of OCTOPUS, octopi instead of octopuses?”

They argued the spelling question until the following full MOON. By then they agreed to disagree.

“Look at the moon!” exclaimed Tree. “Did you know the moon is a LOLLIPOP for the winds? It’s true,” continued Tree after observing Snowman’s incredulous expression. “The Celestial Mother pours it slowly until it is full. Then her children lick it until it is gone, and she does it all over again. What flavor do you think the moon is?”

“Humph,” replied Snowman, “I heard that the moon is the North Wind’s cookie. He eats it day by day, until there’s but a rim of scraps that crumble all away…”

They argued the composition of the moon for several weeks until Snowman was getting rather out of sorts. Preferring a friend to being right, Tree deferred to the cookie theory and changed the subject to another area of Snowman expertise.

“Tell me, Snow, why are PENGUINS considered birds when they swim instead of fly?”

“Feathers,” was the laconic reply. “You’ve no idea how often I am asked that question.”

“I’m sorry, Snow. I don’t mean to be a pest.”

“I don’t mind questions from you, dear Tree.”

“In that case, may I ask you, why is JACK-IN-THE-BOX? Is he happy in there?”
“That is a conundrum,” answered Snowman.

From there the conversation turned to animal husbandry, especially of GOATS, to BOATS they both knew, and how to walk the dog with a YO-YO.

“I personally think tying it around the creature’s neck is the best strategy.” Snowman was definitive on that point.

By then the temperature was warming daily. Snowman was shrinking more and more every passing moment. He had saved his juiciest morsel of gossip for last. “Tree, do you know what I saw during the summer?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t guess,” answered tree who correctly guessed her friend didn’t have time for guessing games.

“I saw the QUEEN,” confided Snowman. “She was wearing dungarees and chasing butterflies with a NET and an UMBRELLA! What is the world coming to?”

“To its senses,” muttered Tree.

Snowman was melting fast. They would have to argue about the suitability of the Queen chasing butterflies with a net and umbrella next winter.

“Good-bye, dear Snow!” Cried Tree.

“Farewell, dear Tree!” Croaked Snowman. With that Snowman was gone, and Tree was left alone.

Depression

2006-08-10T12:41:00.000-07:00

It is with me always;
It is the granite rock lodged within,
I have tried to assail it with pleas and tears
But it does not budge;
It is heavy and makes me crooked and twisted.

You will see it even should I smile,
Or forget for a second it is there;
You will feel its immensity and wonder,
How it came to be so monstrous and complete.

I devise plots and strategies to chip away
The cruelest, jagged edges; they never work;
Words and drugs and whisky soak inside:
It will not melt or relent.

I am crippled by its weight;
It casts shadows that I jump to see;
It is grey and does not flinch -
It will not leave me - it loathes me.

I cannot give the rock away,
Or leave it, or put it to one side;
It will not be ignored and cannot be smashed:
It is in my eyes;
You see it raging when my face is white.

Jan

An Exchange

2006-08-10T07:38:00.000-07:00

Almost a year since Em and I were wed and we found ourselves caught in 'routine'. I went to bed at nine from exhaustion over building a new bathroom in the basment, and Em much later, frustrated a bit from her latch-hook rug (difficult for a blink). She woke me to get a 'nightime kiss' (nothing more) to which I apparently did not respond well.

The next day I sent her a poem, and received a reply ...

He mused --

In human draw and folly,
our perceptions of energy is measured (judged?)
by the discordance in our live,
of light where darkness is natural,
or sound where silence is a gift.

Can this be true of Currents?
even love?
Where we forget to embrace
the hidden flow –
and focus instead on actions
like kisses, hugs and trivial gifts?

Or is attention to these things
(to be nurtured and close held),
a part of humanity’s balance
and essential to sought spirit dance,
and I but confuse the two?

Her Response –

no gift is trivial
when gifted to and received from a love
a slip of paper with written thought,
a feather found in the so called weeds,
a beautiful leaf of vibrance,
a bit of dustkitty fluff from under the bed----

it is the hand outstretched
that is the truest gift
the heart extended
the mind embraced
the touch of love in all things
the mended hem
the leak fixed
the broken hinge replaced

it is in all things you do
and all things you are
and lo I know this
but my frail female self
loves your kiss and your touch
and loves to do so to you

and perhaps i ask too much of thee
in this way

i will revel in whatever is
and enjoy the mist
of your energy blest
within my Soul and Spirit
forever.....

School Days

2006-08-07T05:03:00.000-07:00

The child at desk 'one', head deep
In italic script, will not leave the classroom
Even for playtime - this is her salvation;
All of eight years old, plotting escape routes,
She does not bite her nails or show obvious distress:
She will coal-pick under hedgerows
Tonight at twilight when the neighbours cannot see,
There is no money for a fire and no T.V

Pouring over harder and more complex mathematics
Same child, striving for top position knows
This is where they make or break your chance
Of freedom - in her mind's eye she sees
The glory of grammar school tie and satchel.
Three years yet to wait the test,
Prepare for entry to a foreign culture;
Returning to school at dinner time she says
In passing to a skipping chum,
'My mother left this morning;
I don't know where, I don't know where
She's gone."

Results one August through the letter box,
Your daughter/son has been selected;
'And what will you do now?' says dad,
'What will you do now given this education?'
First and only one in the family to pass,
She wears the dark blue blazer with such pride,
Her heart is fit to burst; she has her course mapped,
Even now, on University - career planned
Aged eleven.

The Hoover broke down later in the day;
She spent three hours cleaning mats by hand -
Just missed the library - she has no books,
Other than 'Alice in Wonderland' given as a present
Once,
For her ninth birthday party.

She is staring at a white emulsioned wall
One morning of March as winter
Turns to spring. A young man of twenty five or so
Is hanging his arms in a bucket of hot water;
The people here with strange, distorted faces
Do not see through dull and drug glazed eyes
The frightened child shivering in a corner;
Nurse is nice and says it will not hurt,
Just a small pain in her head and temporary
Loss of memory.

On waking after 'treatment', half a million brain cells
Murdered at a stroke,
She is slightly sick and does not now remember
No T.V, no Hoover, lack of coal;
But neither does she see the varnished desks,
Or grassy dell where sixth form learn their French.
Just in her teens with past and future gone,
When her head clears tonight at dusk,
She will, if left alone, reflect
In half dazed torment,
How the planning all went wrong.

Jan

Prompted by Flow

2006-08-07T00:01:00.000-07:00

Related to the current theme, perhaps,
this piece was also prompted by a news story --

It was written for students at a 'wizard school'
as part of a series on defining wizardry,
as opposed to the Hollywood corruptions.

WIZARD WISH

It could have been at Solstice -- or Beltane -- or. The season has no reason when it comes to terror, so I will not relate the time or place.

" Who you are transcends
that and all --
and it must be so --
as one be wizard!"

So listen close, my children -- this is a test -- a knowing beyond believing:

The crowd was small, but large enough for his purpose. The old stone walls protected from the ranging storm, but also trapped those within. The thin, iron bound windows let in little light -- but enough for them all to see. His drooping raincoat fell open and away. No! Strapped to the scrawny man's chests were rows on rows of dun colored sticks -- wires trailing to a box above his heart -- a single coax cable extending to a button in his hand -- duct-tape. No one there had ever seen such a rigging before -- but all knew, and understood. The Angel of Death breathed on each neck -- silence. Then a baby cried.
"No children! There were to be no children here!" The voice was reedy -- shrill -- but carried no hint of panic. Despair? Resignation?

"All right then -- you have a chance. Spare this child -- though none of you deserve it!" The dread hand lowered a bit as the looming figure spun about -- eyes probing each victim's soul. "I will let fate decide -- or whatever God you now pray to. One of you will come forth and stand for all. This person will flip a coin. If it comes up 'heads' I will leave and meet whatever destiny awaits outside -- the child will be free -- and all of you as well. If you do not win this challenge I will count to five -- an eternity perhaps -- for you all to gather and nurture you spirits"

Silence -- each person looking furtively about -- hoping -- seeking.

"Choose! Have you no champion? Choose, or I shall start counting anyway!" One person walked forward -- alone.

Now, my students, consider your choices.

A) You have the courage and presence to step forth, or to stand silently by and pray that another will shoulder this burden. Perhaps it is a ruse, or the bomb will fail, or…

B) You do step forth, let us say. Is it because:

1) You believe your powers are such that you can control the coin?
2) You know that your faith is such that the coin will be biased in some way?
3) You just want this ordeal over?
4) You don't know why -- are just called to do it?

C) For whatever reason, you are there-- coin in hand. What are the options?

1) You win, and the maniac leaves as he says. How will this affect your life?
Are you strong enough to bear this burden for the rest of your life?

2) You lose, but are saved anyway -- intervention or failure of his resolve -- whatever.
Are you strong enough to bear this burden for the rest of your life?

3) You lose. You all die! In whatever manifestation you imagine …
Are you strong enough to bear this burden for the rest of your life?

4) You win! But you all die anyway -- there never was a chance -- or you didn't create one by your will.
Are you strong enough to bear this burden for the rest of your life?

Success or failure here can be measured in many ways -- and perhaps some untold here. The real question is -- are you a wizard?

For a wizard would not hesitate -- would act …

For the measure of 'who you are' will already have been asked and considered.
"To be willing" is a matter of accountability -- balance -- a sense of being.

Who are you -- right now??

Untitled

2006-08-06T14:31:00.000-07:00

38 minutes ago
This early Tuesday morning
In Somewhere, USA.
A 6-year-old girl,
who had escaped a house fire,
ran back inside to find her mother,
not realizing
her Mama had jumped to safety
from a second-floor window,
the police say.
The child, Da-Onah Childers,
never made it back out alive.
Firefighters found her little body
under a bed on the second floor.
Was it her mama’s bed?
The firefighters didn’t know.
Da-Onah and an older cousin, Nesha Boyles
had been asleep on the first floor
after watching scary movies, sharing secrets, eating sweet potato pie.
They awoke to flames about 12:30 a.m.
They ran from the house, said Steelton Police Chief.
Nesha lost her grip on Da-Onah.
She didn't realize the child, her cousin, her friend, her playmate, secret keeper
had run back inside
until it was too late.
A neighbor summoned help.
But the heat and flames were too intense
for police or firefighters to get inside.
The home was destroyed.
Da-Onah's mother, Myiaa Simon, 26, survives,
But wishes
She had died
Instead of her Da-Onah.
Cousin Nesha, grandparents, other cousins, friends
survive too
There are no siblings,
Da-Onah is an only child.
The town has about 5,700 residents.
Now there is one less,
Until another baby is born or
Someone moves in,
But there will never be another
Da-Onah
"This little kid played in the neighborhood.
We waved at her," said the Mayor.
"Everybody knew her.
It's a tragedy."

Woman With Child

2006-08-05T16:32:00.000-07:00

A woman appeared one Sunday for morning service;
She had her child with her.
The child was bemused and afraid;
The woman was withdrawn and ignored the child.

They came then every Sunday for months
And sat alone - and together;
The woman stared at her companion but did not speak;
The child could not sing and thought she had offended God.

Gradually, through the summer months, the woman said hello
And was on friendlier terms towards her fellows;
But the child did not know if she should be blessed;
And the woman left her - fretting.

The congregation wondered about the woman
And the child;
They wondered why the child should sob so
And offered her sweets and kisses.

'Why are you doing this for my child?'
Asked the woman. Do not give her your sweets and kisses,
Do not give her your hugs and embraces;
She sobs for mischief and is best alone.'

'Why do you not comfort your child?' they said;
'She needs you.
She weeps for your love but you turn her away;
She is not at fault for being as she is - hold her.'

'The child clings to me and will not let go,'
Said the woman. You must not give her your sweets
And kisses for she will want them all the more;
She cries at nothing and wakes me in the night.'

And thus it went on;
And the woman who had begun to talk
And give of herself, drew back;
Crept off with her child and hurried away:
Desolate.

Jan

More Bugs!

2006-08-05T00:34:00.000-07:00

I made two more new bugs the following day. I was able to post this just now.

Princess Antela is my favorite. I think I won't put her up for adoption.

This is Prinsipe Talahib (Prince Reed). He's a blue praying mantis, sort of. All these are of course high breeds and are only loosely based on the real thing. The beads dictate what form the bugs will turn out to be.

Prinsipe Talahib (Prince Reed)

This is the Blue Ant. I made it with wings and took a picture of it and then later decided to take out the wings. Here's a picture of both versions, the final of which is the one without wings.

This batch has either japanese crystal bead (Princess Antela & White Ant) or a fresh water pearl (Mookie G, Prince Reed, & bantfly) for a head.

I've ran out of the oval bead I use for the thighs of these bugs so I've stopped making them today. I'll make some more when I get new supplies. They're fun to make and very fulfilling to look at. Everytime I make them I end up feeling like I want to keep them all to myself but I'm willing to let them go when people ask to adopt them. LOL!

Stabilising Women - Soul Food Hermitage Store

2006-08-04T05:01:00.000-07:00

Heroine's Journey

Stable Women

Ferry Women

Supportive Talismans

Art by Heather Blakey

http://www.cafepress.com/createart/1680596 - direct link

Six

2006-08-03T14:18:00.000-07:00

They are screaming.
The child sits rigid, hopeless on the stairs -
They do not see;
There is no one.
The house is cold and the wind moans -
Rain beats at the open window where the primrose curtains flap,
But no one knows or cares or comes
To comfort;
So there.

She is a pawn played in some murderous adult game
Of make believe -
Let's all pretend the storm will pass
If someone makes the final move and leaves:
Queen to Bishop four slams shut the door -
Checkmate;
Mummy's gone.

The child sits on.

Stares blindly at the broken doll
With fixed glazed eyes;
Twists wretched fingers into ragged knots,
Repeats inside,
What have I done?
It must be me
It must be me.
Cries into the void,
"I am all wrong."

Jan

2006-08-02T11:44:00.000-07:00

I left the Abbey to see what people post on the 'journey':- I wanted to see if I could write in a completely different style so this is my first attempt.

Spiralling upwards, tremendous crescendo
A torrent of raven-haired fury and beauty
Black lashed eyes flashing sapphires
Silver skin shining starwards;
With consummate ease, head held high
Starts her journey
Every stride spanning oceans
She is searching the heavens
For foundlings; undeterred, never wavering,
Angelwoman embracing the Earth she will
Gather all souls who call out to be saved;
Scythe her way forward in glorious splendour
She has space and a place for all of her children,
Spirit chambers so deep and so wide, glowing,
Lined with such power and protection,
If need be
She will clasp and keep safe
Every flickering heartbeat-
Incomparable,
Warrior goddess of love.

Jan

Somewhere

2006-08-02T05:46:00.000-07:00

I have a need to post this somewhere,
might as well be here in the quiet shadows.
................................................................

TERROR

Terror, terror on the wall,
what's the closest of them all --
atrocities done unto man,
or that no one seems to care?

See the stranger -- kill him, kill her;
Uncle Pat says its Christian --
Papa George will tell you who
lacketh faith and deserves to die.

Terror, terror burning bright
in the forest of the night --
'cause my power bill's outa sight,
while good ol' boys stack diamonds high.

Average, average -- do not try,
shun education and self-worth --
cramp the bell curve down to nothing,
preach only bigotry and selfish pride.

Food chain -- food chain, join in dance;
let them starve who dare to dream
of simple justice, blind and free --
as long as I am not one right now.

Whisper, whisper to your child,
suckled by a virtual tit --
forced to squalor by 'right to live',
becoming fodder for their greed.

Terror, terror -- 'tis my right,
'cause my neighbors say 'tis so --
get yours now and rape the earth;
but leave me alone to die in shame.

For Jan - or in contrast

2006-07-31T07:24:00.000-07:00

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

Friends

2006-07-30T14:34:00.000-07:00

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!!!

2006-07-30T13:07:00.000-07:00

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.

Sunday Evensong

2006-07-29T14:30:00.000-07:00

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!!

2006-07-29T04:41:00.000-07:00

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

asian alchemy

2006-07-27T12:56:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-27T05:43:00.000-07:00

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

Missing

2006-07-26T08:23:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-26T05:37:00.000-07:00

Nether shades

from distant,

closeby.

Seen, then not,

yet finally understood.

They bear a weight

more comfortable.

2006-07-25T21:50:00.001-07:00

"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

2006-07-25T10:29:00.000-07:00

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

Don't Know Why

2006-07-24T07:23:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-24T02:23:00.000-07:00

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")

Seven Stages - Journey Talismans

2006-07-23T22:20:00.000-07:00

Heroine's Journey

http://www.cafepress.com/createart/1577623 - direct link.

Journey to Island of Ancestors

2006-07-23T11:45:00.000-07:00

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.

EMPLOYEE OF THE YEAR

2006-07-22T16:35:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-22T02:49:00.000-07:00

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.

Meeting

2006-07-21T11:35:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-21T03:05:00.000-07:00

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.

Ferry Woman of Duwamish Bay

2006-07-20T21:37:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-20T13:54:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-20T13:01:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-20T00:58:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

Awash in Duwamish

2006-07-19T02:43:00.000-07:00

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.

Coming to Duwamish

2006-07-18T22:38:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-18T20:40:00.000-07:00

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.

A Wild Calling

2006-07-17T22:43:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-17T16:58:00.000-07:00

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)

2006-07-17T13:47:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-17T07:55:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-17T06:25:00.000-07:00

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.”

The Way

2006-07-16T21:12:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-16T17:23:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-16T05:42:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-16T02:57:00.001-07:00

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.

Keeping An Eye On You :)

2006-07-15T22:28:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-15T16:47:00.000-07:00

*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

2006-07-15T11:17:00.000-07:00

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!

2006-07-15T11:15:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-15T08:02:00.000-07:00

A Is For...Alchemy

2006-07-14T16:16:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-14T07:08:00.000-07:00

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.

E is for Egg

2006-07-13T22:06:00.000-07:00

"The Cosmic Egg"

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

Going Gypsy

2006-07-13T08:10:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-13T06:02:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-13T03:15:00.000-07:00

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

D is for Darkness, D is for Despair

2006-07-12T23:10:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-12T10:15:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-12T06:41:00.000-07:00

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

'bout a man unknown

2006-07-12T03:39:00.000-07:00

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.

What Do Cats Dream About?

2006-07-11T20:01:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-11T19:30:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-11T13:24:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-11T09:28:00.000-07:00

Details

2006-07-11T09:08:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-11T06:44:00.000-07:00

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.

Autumn Leaves from the Golden Grove

2006-07-10T13:36:00.000-07:00

The First Night

2006-07-10T09:28:00.000-07:00

It was the first of the nights of autumnal storms; a wild, wet and windy night, not a night for any sane being to venture outdoors on. But she had procrastinated for long enough. She knew that the hour of her leaving was upon her. Opening the door of her cottage at the foot of the mountain she slowly stepped over the threshold, not wanting to leave, yet impatient to wait any longer. She pulled her crimson cloak tighter around her shoulders in an attempt to protect herself against the elements, even while knowing deep in her heart the sheer pointlessness of such an action. For this was the journey into the depths of hearts that all pilgrims of the way must pass through, and no cloak or any human artifice could save her from herself. She had looked out her window for many long years and seen how altered those who travelled this path became. She knew that the higher she climbed this mountain, the deeper and lower she would descend into the abyss that lay awaiting. Such is the paradox of the way. To rise is to fall. Would she remember that it was also true that to fall was to be simultaneously in the ascendant? She had heard it said that there was a dark cavernous cave at the uppermost peak of the mountain, and had often mused while spinning on her wheel at the state of mind of those who chose to go there. Yet here she was now herself about to embark on the path that many before had trodden As she placed her slippered foot onto the stony path she noticed something colourful out of the side of her eye. Stooping down to get a closer look she saw that there were two beautiful autumn leaves lying together, one overlapping the other, as if the less decayed leaf was being offered protection by the luminous skeleton of it’s ravaged soul mate. She picked them up and tucked them both into the folds of her cloak. Stepping carefully to try and avoid the deep puddles that were scattered along the path, she slowly headed towards the garden gate.

Blessings

2006-07-10T08:47:00.000-07:00

For Heather and Kris:

Opening my hands, I spread them wide, letting blessings fall like showers of grace to decend around your shoulders.

Rose In The Woods

2006-07-10T04:58:00.000-07:00

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.

Lost Song

2006-07-10T03:33:00.000-07:00

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

A New Day Dawns

2006-07-10T03:22:00.000-07:00

The scene is set,
The day has dawned,
The time is now.
Let the journey begin.

Dawn Treck to School

2006-07-10T01:57:00.000-07:00

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

Numinous Raven Dreaming

2006-07-09T21:42:00.000-07:00

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

St. Goldy

2006-07-09T17:22:00.000-07:00

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

Ancient Mother fo the Golden Seed Grove

2006-07-09T13:31:00.000-07:00

This is what emerged from the ground when I planted a seed in the ancient Golden Seed Grove of Lemuria.