To Laugh or Not

     My children are asking me to write something "funny." They tell me that I am too dark and

brooding  and that I should lighten things up a bit. I don't know if I know how to do that.

     I can be a funny person face to face but my writing has always been a way for me to let out the

 monsters. I'm not sure if I'm funny or just eccentric, although they seem to derive a great deal of

pleasure from my one liners. I just don't know how to write about them.

      Now, my girls, they are funny. They can make me laugh so hard it hurts. They are witty and

clever in a way I could never be. Maybe it's their youth, it's certainly not genetic. Let me put it this

way, I can see humor in many things, I can be witty and a wise ass. I just can't write humor. Comic

writers of the world have no need to fear. Here is something written a long time ago out of cynical

frustration with my allergies. Is it funny? Maybe.

Fluff 

I hear the cottonwoods coming after me.

Silent, little puffs of fluff searching me out,

 – they have no sympathy.

 

My eyes swell shut.

My nose closes; it is attempting to run off my face.

I cannot swallow, cannot taste, coughing, wheezing,

there’s lead in my veins.

 

A David and Goliath match if one I have ever seen.

Goliath’s going down, again;

taken out by something so very hard to see.

 

How much would the story change if it went this way instead?

Goliath died from allergies, not a rock to the head.

He did not see it coming; he had closed his eyes to sneeze.

 

A tiny little puff of fluff brought him to his knees.


So, maybe it's cute. Let's try another.

The Cat in the Chinese Hat, and the Consequences

 

 

Came out the door, stepped out of my flat, what should I see, but a cat,

in a Chinese hat. 

 

I walked quickly away, trying not to look back; I really didn’t know what to

think of that. 

 

I moved down the street as I picked up my feet, mumbling aloud, afraid of

what else I might see.

 

I thought to myself as I ambled along about other things that could have

gone wrong. 

 

If all you meet at the start of the day, is a cat on the steps – probably a

stray – wearing a hat from a country far away – 

 

Tickle his chin and rub his back, what does it matter he’s wearing a hat? 

 

Smile smugly as you look around your street, how lucky for you that you both should meet.

 

Pray tell my friends, how many have you met, that could tell the same tale without embellishment? 

 

You are lucky; fate has smiled behind your back.  I know few others who have met the Chinese Hatted Cat. 

 

So, hatted or not, give him some milk.  You will probably never meet another of his ilk. 

 

When he leaves and goes wherever hatted cats go – you my friend, will smile and glow –  

 

For having met this Chinese cat, you now hold the secret to the facts of his hat.

 

Is it funny? Maybe, guess it's open to interpretation. Till next time.........

 

An Indifferent State of Mind

                                                         An Indifferent State of Mind

I am bipolar. Simple statement, not so simple to live with, but that is not the topic of my post. I merely wish for you to understand part of what makes me, me.

I have been reviewing some writings from several years ago, when my mental illness was ablaze and alive. I'm sure it's not gone, but for now it's quiet, doesn't bother me much. Because of that stillness, I am able to read my writings through different eyes. Oh, I remember the emotions and the circumstances, but the pain, although still present, is tempered.

In the review of these turbulent writings I am able to work them into a more literal style, one not quite so rambling and obscure. What shocks me is the emotion that radiates from these written
words. I remember, but where has it gone? Don't confuse my curiosity for wishfullness, I do not want that rage, confusion, or pain to engulf me, yet I do not wish to stay in this state of calculated detachment. It's as miserable, if not more so, than the alternative. At least when I rage I feel alive. Now I merely take up space.

Ah, you say. She's depressed. Perhaps, but obviously not much so or I would be despondent. As it is I am not even that. Numbness is the best way to describe it. Perhaps this is why so many mentally ill individuals refuse medication. They do not wish to be numb. I do not have the luxury of experimenting with my medicines. I am sane enough to know the damage that can be done if I do not take them, although I must confess to "forgetting" them occasionally. My responsible side will not allow me to walk to close to the edge, although it is a sirens call.

I am not suicidal. I have examined it like a jeweler exams a diamond, like a sommelier savors wine. I have looked into the depths of its substance and find it lacking. I do not fear death, I just want more of life and how can that be done in this state of numbness? Do I need to draw blood to feel? Do I need to imbibe to find something hidden within me? I can't just wait for things to change, I must change things, but again I ask, how can that be done while numb? I must confess to being at a loss over it all. I am well aware that my thoughts and feelings are not exclusive to me. I regret my inability to answer my own questions. It seems I am caught on a tide of indifference. But wait, isn't indifference an emotion, or is it a state of mind? Their is something for this fuddled mind to chew on. Keep it busy lest it rise up and rebel.

I have attached a few of the aforementioned pieces for your perusal. Comments would be more than welcome. I do hope you find something within them that makes you feel. It's hell to be numb. Till next time.......

                                                            An Illicit Affair

Passion springs from my hearts’ desire,

wrested into subjectivity only to be fueled

again by whispered words of seduction.                                                 

                                               Think of me, come to me, call forth

                                              the vision that entwines us. Ponder the taste.

                                              Savor the pain; exquisite, extinguishing pain.

 

I must not, I cannot. My spirit screams for

you, my spirit screams at you. Come, whisper

lies into my mind to justify this act. Go!

Before I fall and believe you.

 

                                                Your skin so cool, so soft, so white.

                                                Your lips, cherry red, that cannot yet

                                                be kissed. Let us sway to the mournful notes

                                                you sing and dance away to never or forever.

 

Do not touch me, nor whisper your deceit.         

Today I am of strength enough to turn you away.

You will come again, I know, but not to my call.

You must wait until your time, no matter how long.

 

                                                   I will wait. I will entice you with

                                                  words that float in your head.

                                                  Release, peace, quiet, the dark.

                                                  You will think them your own until the

                                                  final hour. Then you shall see my

                                                  face, angel or devil.

                                                   Your final dance with me, glorious,

                                                  elating, transcending, will take you

                                                   from this place.

 

True words indeed, for in the end, death takes

what it will. Nevertheless, it will not be something I give,

no matter how sweet the kiss.

 

 

3-29-2011

                                                        Questions

 

What good does it do to question the stars?

Arguments of old, debate of the ages,

Yet still, no true answers.

 

What good does it do to reach for those same said stars?

Unreachable, forever eluding the grasp and comprehension,

While fueling wonder and imagination.

Yet still, no true answers.

 

Where is the good in taming the sea?

Where is the wisdom in attempting it?

Where is the good in helping when your help is not wanted?

Where is the good in the pain of that, and why does it matter?

Yet still, no true answers.

 

Where is the wisdom of courage, where is the fear in bravery?

Where went the passion of standards and ideals?

Where went honor, integrity, substance, and soul?

Where did they go when they crawled off to die?

Perhaps to lick their wounds, heal, and then return once more?

Yet still, no true answers.

 

Be careful of seeking answers for lies abound, and truth is evasive.

What would you do after your attempted quest?

What if truth be found and you are hated for it?

Where is the good in all that?

Yet still, no true answers.

History of a Revelation

10-2-2012


This is written with the presupposed idea that everyone has a father. You may not know him for several reasons. Physical or emotional abandonment, death, fear. Perhaps you did not like your father or he you. Regardless, everyone has a father.

My relationship with my father has been volatile at least, heart wrenching at times, bittersweet at best. He is a hard person to know therefore a hard person to love, yet, not unlovable. As a child I feared him. Feared his discipline, his sharp tongue, his biting cynicism. I think he feared those things within himself. As a teenager, I rebelled as teenagers do. I defied him, pushed his cynicism and fears to breaking, yet he never left me. As emotionally hindered as he was, he truly never left me. I would not know this for years. Fortunately, I know it now.

As a young adult I was tired of being "fatherless". I determined I wanted a relationship with him, that he was worth knowing and learning about, that I wanted his love. I was determined to dig it out of him, make him say he loved me, make him say he cared. The dilemma I faced was how do you break stone facades? How do you tear down self imposed walls, his as well as my own, and the cages of others? How could I reach my hand and touch this fearful mans' heart? I resorted to the only thing I knew.....words.

Since a verbal relationship with my father was practically impossible, we always ended at odds, I began a written relationship with him through letters.. I do not know if he still has them and it really is no matter. What matters is that he could not avoid them and had no need for reply. It made him hear me without any responsibility on his part. I wrote him periodically for a couple of years. When on my 28th, or 29th birthday, odd I don't remember which, I knew the wall was cracking when the phone range and it was my father singing happy birthday to me. That was the gist of it, not much conversation, but the dam had begun to leak. I cried.

Over the course of many years I would send him  the occasional post card for no reason. Call him to say I love you, just because, talk to him  when I visited and slowly the man emerged and one day the words I had so long for came. I love you. It was at a time when my marriage was rocky, I was without confidence, fearful of the future with two children. His words filled me with courage I did not know I had. Three words so impactive, so strong. When I was moving into a trailer with just my children, working in a dry cleaners for a pittance, I told my father I was frightened and did not know if I could do what needed done. We bounced together in the seat of the U-Haul we had rented together, him driving me to the future, me supplicant and feeling five again.  He looked at me with genuine surprise then turned his eyes to the road. His words have echoed in my heart for years. "Well, I don't see why you can't. You can make it if you want to." I sat silent for half a minute, stunned by the outward display of unknown confidence in me. "I guess your right, Dad. I can if I want to." It was the only reply I could think of. What can you say to that? For once, words escaped me.

Many years have passed since that time and my relationship with my dad is quiet, peaceful, full of understanding that goes unspoken. I have learned much about him, this child-man, this brave man who faced a frightened future with four children and no idea how to parent. We do not say much but he tells me he loves me every time he sees me. He tells me all the time. I regret the loss of those years past but feel blessed with the years we retrieved for the sake of each other. He accepted my offering and offered up in return.

Today my father is fading. He has Alzheimer's and slowly as the clock turns he is slipping away from us. Such is life. We all have a path to trod and have no choice in what manner it will take. He is taking it humbly yet with dignity. He forgets what he said a minute ago but still knows all his children, even on the phone, and knows his grandchildren if prodded, sometimes on his own. Sometimes he even knows his great grandchildren. In his eyes you can see that he knows what is happening, that sometimes he is scared and silently calls for help. He has retained his personal pride, his manners, his southern gentile way. He has lost his anger. He has been humbled, along with us all. I pray that when my time comes I will have the grace that he is teaching. No matter what has passed, no matter what is, I know now that he has always loved me, he knows I have always loved him, and the thing that broke the barrier, words, are no longer necessary between us. I wish him peace.

The writing that follows is of some length. I appreciate your patience if you choose to read it. It bloomed from my visit that allowed me to see his physical failing for the first time, his frailty, his dependence and trust. It was the first time I say the true man, the man I knew hid behind such bravado for so long. I fell deeper in love with him that visit, grew prouder, and allowed my heart to break for this child-man who lost his father so young.

We all have fathers. This is about mine. Till next time......


3-9-2012 Journal entry

Well, what a crashing reality to my world. How could I not cry? He's half the man I knew and becoming less every day. Oh God, is this your mercy? To him or to us?

I know not what fills his mind. Memories? Visions? Visions of heaven, the ethereal, or just nothingness? I cannot believe that. Minds may stop but the conscience, the soul, does not. Something has to fill that void. Let us pray it is sweet and tender, dreams of youth and vigor, dreams of hope that have come to pass in his failing mind. I wish I have never feared him. I'm sure he wished he never gave me cause, if he remembers. Probably not now, but once before I'm sure.

How obedient the defiant one has become. Does God bring us low in order to lift us up? Or does He press his thumb upon our fierce independence, some say humble us. Or is more a dissolution of human character. Is it painful? Is it peaceful? Is it precious, poignant, forgiving, exalting?

The doctors can only tell us the physical. They cannot tell us the interactions of our soul. I would not want to know.

My mother works herself to her death in a frantic attempt to bring back the life she knew which will never be again, for any of us. I wish I could give her peace. I can only give her help. My heart breaks and I don't know who for more. This frenzied grasping for life, her unwillingness to accept and begin letting go. Will it bring her peace, or insufferable loneliness? She cannot exist without a purpose and he is her purpose. She told me once she married him because he was the cutest thing she had ever seen. Somewhere along the way, love planted its seed and oh, how deep it has grown, how wide it has flourished. One will not be able to sustain without the other. They are bone of the same bone, flesh of the same flesh. They are one.

The guard is changing and we must ask our self if we can find dignity enough to equal theirs. We must ask if our love is deep enough to give as the have given to each other, even when they did not know, even when they did not know how. We must ask ourselves if we can forgive the humanity of those we have chosen and embrace the spirit within them, that which we loved first before life revealed their frailties.

If we run away, if we let anger lead and broken dreams prevail, we will rob ourselves of the beauty of our flourished growth. We will never be bone of bone or flesh of flesh to anyone. Our Independence, our selfishness, our self-righteousness will destroy the seed that was planted so long ago.

May it not be so.

Author Unknown

9-30-2012


There is a particular author who has been a great inspiration to me. I will not name this author, the name is not necessary, but for the sake of form we will call this author, he. This does not imply that the author is male, nor does it imply he is not.

The brilliance of his writing has been debated by many. I am inclined to believe he is, in fact, brilliant. Otherwise, where would the motivation lie? His descriptive abilities, his vocabulary, his uncanny ability to make you feel inside the world he has created improved my writing skills tenfold.  I consumed his works over and over. Oh, I knew his stories, but I did not know the art.

 Perhaps the author I speak of would not move you . You might find his works outrageous, cumbersome, boring. You might find my work the same. Such is the delight of the written word. One can always close the book, minimize the computer page, trash the whole works. There are numerous author's who have added to my knowledge of the written word. My psyche grows fat on the mental gluttony yet I starve, insatiable in my passion for words.

I would like to thank him, this author who has inspired me to push the limits of my abilities. I would like to thank him for motivating me to higher standards. In doing so I thank every author whose words have blown over the dieing embers of my confidence, their breath fueling a flame.

The following piece was provoked by several different works of his, this author. It is a weak attempt at a style not my own. It was a self-imposed exercise to push myself, to step into the shoes of a fellow wordsmith. If you have read his works, the title may tip you off as to who it is. If you know, I hope you find this piece a tribute to his work. If you do not know him, I hope you find this piece intriguing enough to make you wonder. Till next time....

                                                                   Savage Eden                                                          

 They met face to face on a moonless night, their eternal desire for confrontation arising again.  Eternal foes scrying the mind, one of the other, anger flaring and hatred burning within the belly of providence newly aroused. 

The dark haired one strutted around his nemesis. Cynically eyeing  the glowing golden creature, he laughed a laugh of mockery that echoed through space and time. “You with the crystalline eyes what strengths do you possess that could vanquish me? What knowledge have you gained as you moved through time that will raise you to the pinnacles you seek? You in your ancient, tattered wardrobe, a vision from another time; what words can you say to make me bend the knee? I have no fear of your yesterdays. What can you tell me of my tomorrows?” 

Casually indifferent the golden one reclined; arms crossed at the chest, unmarred boots cocked at the ankle, eyeing the darker with amused disdain. A wicked smile lay upon his ruby lips spitting venomous words in a whispered caress. “What do you know of tomorrow when all your days are today's, when yesterdays are never remembered and all you know is now. Why should I fear you? My tattered clothes are of no consequence. My strengths run deep and if you are wise, you will fear them. As for pinnacles, they are for falling from. You, dressed as an undertaker, smelling of decay freshly pulled from the ground, dare to criticize me? The paths I have followed have enlightened me and left you to the devil, or yourself. 

The two beheld each other for the longest while. Suns came and went, civilizations rose and fell, yet they stood at impasse. The winds of eternity howled through the annals of time yet dark would give no leeway to light, and light would not dim for the dark.  

The battle rages still.

 

I knew It!

Well, I did know it.....I knew that if I started a blog, somewhere along the way I was going to mess the whole thing up! I consider deleting not only the post I was working on, but the former post as well, messing up.

Fortunately, messing up is something we all do, especially people who write. If pressed I would have to say that most authors rewrite their books, novels, poems etc at least three times. And if you edit your own, well that's a long time, that's all I can say. So, big deal, I mess up. Hope you got to read the first one and if not, here's another for your perusal.

Why write? I write because no one will sit still long enough to listen to me ramble. I write because I am bipolar and my mind never shuts up so I have to have some sort of outlet or bad things happen. I write because I live in a world that does not exist, that changes moment by moment with heroes and villains, dragons and magic. Watching the sun shine through my crystal candle holder can send me to another dimension. I write to stay stable. I write the words of my soul. Some of you will understand, some will thing it rubbish. That's ok.

I would like to share a piece with you that I wrote about a year ago. It is about writing and other things Let me preface that when I put pen to paper I never really know what the ink will say. Truly, no jest. The words flow from my soul, to my mind, to my hand, through the pen and onto the page. It;s part of my other world......till next time.

                                                                    Sweet Dreamer
                                                                          8-23-11

     My dream is to write professionally. I have been playing at it for years but in the past decade a torch has been set. Profit would be nice, fame not necessary, notoriety delightful. I keep looking but cannot seem to find a way into the ever sprawling field. I'm an ok writer, sometimes good, potentially great. I persevere, all the while fearing it will go the way of most of my dreams. Why does the desire still burn so hot if God does not wish it for me? The request, made so many years ago, to lower the burn, has been declined. Perhaps not only will my body turn to ash but my spirit as well.

     Where is the way? Novels so cleverly lead their antagonists forward providing insight and clues. Although thwarted and diverted, it seems the results are always, or mostly, the fulfillment of the goal. Love and passion co-exist, lies lead to honesty, faults forgiven, old woulds heal, and bonds grow tighter. A sound reason for calling it fiction. It doesn't work that way.

     Lies are compounded by more lies, honesty is a myth. Forgiveness is conditional and love and passion never join. Love is dependence, eating away at personal sovereignty while passion turns to anxiety as dreams quiver in death. Destruction has many faces and the destroyer many masks. I may be helpless to control others but not myself. I cannot bring or give purpose to someone else, they must find it on their own. One need not force the willing yet the unwilling will not be moved.

     I will not quit. I will preserver even when others do not. I will not walk away or turn my back but I will step aside and leave others to their choices. I will follow the barely visible deer trail and find sustenance and shelter there. I will make my way and those who wish are welcome to come. Only time will tell who will choose.