Bringing the night to a close....

I sit again by candlelight. The altars are closed now, the workings done for the night. The building and maintaining of temple space has been interesting. The feel of it is crystalline; its song a gentle echo within the self. I sing its place here; I bring it forth and let it be less in word and more in meaning. Some languages have no words, and this one lines my walls, inlays my floors, and weaves through every surface and breath of air, song and story without a word.

The painting is finally finished. It took three of them, fittingly, to complete, but it’s done now, sealed at last as it should be. Now I can step forward again onto the path once more and toward what is next, no matter the direction. Though I do direct, I do not dictate. I cannot, for though the way is mine, I do not always know the way there. I find it an interesting way to go about it, self-understanding given context. The tools needed have always been there, the skills always present. To learn them again is to become closer to the self of Will, not simply the self that happens to be.

So much to be done, yet I am unafraid. Does that make me brave or foolish? Both? Neither? I don’t know of any who could say for certain. The only certainty I have left is that when it’s all over, I will be as I always was and more than when I began. It is the same for all of our kind, and it is an encouraging thought.

Need to stop writing when I’m this tired…

Sleep deprivation and bomb making

The guy sitting across from me on the train is muttering. No sound, but patterned, rhythmic. I want to know what he’s saying. Does that make me invasive? Curious? Lonely? Too tired to figure it out right now.

Just saw Hurt Locker. Still shaking a little inside. Makes mundania seem like a 50’s sitcom and a human interest nightmare had reality while on a bad trip.

It’s something that always in the back on my mind, the mindlessness. Violence begotten on strangers not because of wrongs done but because of ideals stood for. Fear. Fueled so much of man’s history for so long it makes me wonder if fear-based response really is the true governing body of our gleaming, progressive society.

I’m way too tired for this. That’s it, new rule! I’m not allowed to write when I’m so tired my eloquence filter falls off and I can’t keep from sounding delightfully unstable.

(This post is from several days ago, just catching up. Cheers.)

Tray of Fire

A serving tray filled with flickering tealights, one by one making their way onto scattered tables as the sun lets in the night across the city. It instills a kind of forced romanticism onto already bleeding décor. Yet it still tickles me how fire is lit in the night even in this learned and electric culture, lending an air of the olden ways and the inherent mysticism of perceived safety in the night. There are still predators to be afraid of. The night is still prowled by those who would use its wiles for mischief. A world filled with bicycles races and play dates, super computers and yoga retreats. A world so lit it can be mapped from the moon. A species afraid of the dark, annihilating it as it has every other natural predator its ever known. And thus a traveling tray of fire, sprinkling safety onto the subconscious of a people who have forgotten what it’s like to be someone else’s dinner. Let the hunt begin….

Blot

I’ve got ink on my hands again. If it’s not ink it’s paint, which I still find rather weird and fascinating. Two forms of creation in the same hands, both learning to breathe their own way. Writing has always been a passion. That and music, but there is nothing in this world or compare to music. Not laughter, not color, not chocolate. Seriously.

But I digress…

Writing is a passion long known while painting is a passion recently given light. Never been very good, mind you, but it still comes to be in its own way, its own voice. (More music references. Oy. ‘Me and my Arrow…’)

Plot on the page, blots on the canvas, and now blots on my skin. Ah, creation…it’s messy….

Fish gotta swin...or not (Woods Ramble, fair warning)

Ah, boundaries. Gotta love walking into walls. Brick, cement, stone, I just love walking along, thinking everything is pretty ok and then staring up at the sky from the flat of my back, a bruise forming where my thick head made contact. And of course, the more important the boundary, the harder I make that contact.

But its the boundaries that have no walls, no warning bells, nothing to strike against that often are the most damning and do the greatest damage not just to me, but to the owner of that boundary. And when the owner is me? Boy...

Now, self-deprecation is something I excel at. I spent so much of my life getting my pitfalls and failures shoved up my nose that I eventually didn't need the help. But my sinus is clear as is my windsheild these days, but I can't help but notice that every now and then pieces of myself I didn't know I was missing come totting up to kick me. Things like WANT.

Not need, because need is elemental enough that it can't be ignored most days. Need to eat, need to sleep, need to breathe. Needs are easy by themselves. Want is hard. And there are those who disagree. That's allowed. Why comment fields were invented. But I've found that when need is in question, survival need, want takes a side-step. And when want is in question, that need comes in to decide. But it's when the boundaries of need and want blur that I end up inadvertently cloud watching.

I was asked this question recently, what I was looking for/what did I want, and I gave my usual nonchalance masked in sarcastic charm answer. And then I got called on it. I didn't get pushed, but the panic still boiled up my throat to sit on my tongue and make everything tingle in unpleasant ways. I didn't have an answer. I had an idea, but even that didn't have words yet. A writer without words. NOT a good sign.

And I didn't have it in me to fake it. I COULDN'T fake it. What I was being asked was beyond sarcasm, beyond charm, beyond the masks that I have built for so long and tried so hard to let go of recently. Yet my defenses still went up when I didn't know what to do or say. That much was understandable, forgivable. Continuing to run in the same direction not knowing (and being fully aware of not knowing), however...

Now, I'm certain there are many out there that feel this idea is childish. "Why haven't you figured this out by now? You're an adult!" Huh. Do YOU know what you want? What you really, truly, hardcore WANT in this life? Yeah, didn't think so. When was the last time you thought about it? Uh huh. Stop clearing your throat, stop straightening in your seat, stop acting like this doesn't phase you because it does. And that's allowed, too.

Now, in living without self-worth for so long, I look back and realize that I did learn how to own what's my fault. I screw up, I own it, it's me. I did, however, tend to take full responsibility when things go wrong, wallowing in my own shame of failure without really seeing that though I played my part, it was just that. A PART. Today I find myself in that seat again, at the end of a screw-up that isn't entirely my own doing, but credit where it's due.

I let myself go beyond my own boundaries. I set these walls in place because I KNOW me, and I know what I like to do as opposed to what I SHOULD do. I'm a Fish, damn it, I swim. But after years of bucking the current and/or just letting myself get swept under, it gets hard to find the balance of riding the wave while still steering. The water got cold fast and it's gotten hard to move again, but movement is imperative or I'll get eaten, not by fishermen but by my willingness to just let go the line without so much as a word. Can't do it.

This THING, this situation, this moment, this meeting is not something I WANT to let go of. I want to keep it, keep it close and safe and real. But I also know that suffocation happens that way, and I'd rather have the bear walking beside me because he wants to then try to leash him and get mauled, nor do I wish to walk away from the bear. But the bear has walked away from me, and I stand in the woods a moment, breathing in the air and the scent he left behind, remembering it, keeping that much within me and safe. I leave behind a ribbon on the stone next to me, knowing that the bear knows this spot. If he comes back he'll find it there, and with it find me. And if he doesn't, no one will know what that ribbon is, so they won't know to understand it. I'm at peace with that much, never forgetting the past, but placing this want into the paws of another, knowing now what the want is and what needs are attached to it. And now as I wait, the backstroke...

Ding dong, the bitch is dead!

Ok, so I'm a little late to the party on this one, but it's been a long weekend, as many of you know. I knew this was happening from the beginning, and I have to say, I'm rather enjoying watching the circus unfold around the "Palin."

From tell-all books from the world's most famous baby-Daddy to making Engrish sound correct to Letterman, this bison-boffing bitch doesn't know when to quit. Oh, wait...

Yes, it's true, she quit. *Doing the Happy Dance of Joy in the background*

Now that that's out of my system, one has to wonder what the motivation is here. I mean, even as the republican party is finding new and inventive ways to commit ritual suicide over and over and over, this crops up and overshadows it all, not because she's a republican or even because of everything that's happened so far. No, this is because this bitch find new and inventive ways to get attention in the worst ways possible. I could start with her state and trickle down, but I'll stick to the ones that really got it for me this time.

I've covered this previous, and you may know, but it still amazes me that this botch is allowed to speak in public. Or at all, for that matter. the more I listen to her, the more I realize that the English language is something that pipes through her, but is never really understood by her. Sarah Palin going off script is worse than Dan Quayle and George W. put together, and for those of you who remember both these jokers, you realize how lucky we are not to have yet another speaking-impaired human in the White House. Joe Biden has NOTHING on these guys. NOTHING. One word: POTATOE. Yes, indeed...

Oh, but wait, she then has the unmitigated gaul to try and sue a blogger for making SPECULATION about a possible embezzlement investigation being made? Uh, honey, you've already proven that ethics mean simply that people do exactly what you want when you want or your army of minions go after them. This isn't a far stretch. Now, it may not be true. It is entirely possible that it isn't true, especially as hard as she has been campaigning for her PAC.

Speaking of which, HUH?! Not a week before she resigned, she was hardcore begging for money for this Political Action Committee, and then up and turns tail? If she's gunning for 2012, someone should tell her the story of Ross Perot...

But there's also the thought that she is leaving politics. She's sick of the media, except when they love her, she's sick of the scrutiny, except when she's using it against her opponents though heaven forbid the searchlight get shined anywhere NEAR her, and she's sick of having to constantly defend herself and her actions. It's politics, child. this is how the game is played in the REAL world, not just in your little head. There are no 'yes' men anymore, there are only people who seriously need you to get shit done. Since the only thing you can manage is to set women in politics back 50 years, I say don't let the door hit you where the dog shoulda bit ya.

On a side note, I have to admit to a boatload of respect for Sarah Palin's spokeswoman, Meg Stapleton. She has had to endure a great deal in the wake of this fiasco, and she has performed in a way that can only be called admirable. Especially since it seems like Palin didn't even TELL HER OWN SPOKESWOMAN that she was resigning. A truly rare showing someone who had to speak for a woman who thought Africa was a country. Respect, Meg, and lots of it.

Sooj in Waukegan

Every 4th of July should be like this. Beautiful, sunny, and filled with music. and not just any music, oh no, not just any will do. no, this weekend was filled with the Siren calls and pirate brawls conjured by SJ Tucker(www.sjtucker.com).

Our Lass of Song and Story arrived before I did up in Almost Wisconsin country. After making my mother's infamous "Oh My God" cheesecake, we made our way North, Evan, Alyse and I, to their house and to the event of the weekend.

it was incredible. Faces that had never heard our Siren before lit up in delight and broke into hysterical laughter at her hands, including poor Phil who broke down not once but twice into red-faced lack of breathing. The second time was especially amusing not because of the faces he made but because of the recovery time needed (Please don't lick my toes...). Kay was at his Mercenary best, though there was not room to jig. *Sigh.*

Gypsies, Pirates, and a song circle filled with voices ringing through the house, with enough extra help that the host and hostess actually got to relax and enjoy the show itself.

And as the day drew closed and the night fell, the evening dark was lit in LED wonderment, swirling around the hips of our Gypsy siren, showing off her fabulous hoola hoop moves. a glorious end to an amazing day.

And now it's National Fried Chicken Day, and my boss had hats. Pictures exist. Gods....