Fiction, prose

No One is Around, pt 1 of 2

(Revisited with audio)

“Can we just lie here for a moment? She knows what to do and it’s so much easier to make out the words if you press your ear against the stone.”

He hated this place. But she promised it would be the last time. And it had started to snow. It would hopefully slow the others down.

They needed to leave. He was too scared to look at his watch and now he was struck by how beautiful she looked in this light.
That pink light, reflecting from the tears frozen on her face.

He pulled her gently up from her mother’s grave.

 

Lyrics:
 mother they are coming again
 they come to shoot what we already lost
 mother they are coming again
 our silver covered by their rust

father they are coming again
 they come to jail the things that i have seen
 father they are coming again
 burning minds to keep the ruin clean

no one is around

„little girl there’s safer ground
 follow the sea and you will find that place
 little girl there’s safer ground
 come take your years and put them in their hands“

safer ground (part two)

 

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Poetry

Tootsies and anti tribalism

I’m sorry, I can’t read

your long soliloquy

And I know this wants to rhyme

 

But it shouldn’t.
Maybe sometimes.

 

Because now my mind is

going through the racks

of the vintage store I loved, years ago.

Sparkly and kitsch

eclipsed by the pitch

black of memories in coat pockets

and the spark in eye sockets

as they held my joyous orbs

of sight.

 

(It took time and care

to find the gems there.)

 

There are many ‘clever’ souls

refining our fright,

our ear muffs on tight

as we step back in night

with our swords drawn.

 

But in this tiny blog space

there can be only one

tribe, that is.

If any at all.

 

And in case you were wondering,

it’s the human one.

I wish Tootsies still existed.
The craftsmanship was something to behold, and enjoy, and get lost in
(of varied conversations, I mean.
The clothes were rather beautiful, too).

 

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Fiction, prose

Safer Ground, pt 2

(Revisited with audio)

no one is around (part one)

She didn’t say anything.
Why wasn’t she saying anything?

But she had. She just couldn’t hear her.
She had always heard her through her heart, and now it was frozen to her cheeks.
He lifted her up as her chest was caving in. He sang instead. The words she had taught him when they met, years before.
The ones she had heard from her mother’s friend. Before they never saw him again.
“Little girl, there’s safer ground…”

That ground. Rising up out of the sea of him.

 

Lyrics:
mother they are coming again
they come to shoot what we already lost
mother they are coming again
our silver covered by their rust

father they are coming again
they come to jail the things that i have seen
father they are coming again
burning minds to keep the ruin clean

no one is around

„little girl there’s safer ground
 follow the sea and you will find that place
 little girl there’s safer ground
 come take your years and put them in their hands“

 

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Fiction, prose, Uncategorizable

those middle paragraphs

Rushing to the coat check, she was trying hard not to obsess over him not believing something she had said in the car. He had said it was absurd.
It was making the skin on her arm itch.
Irony did that. Well, in particular contexts. She wasn’t sure what this was.

She had felt so warm while they were driving and had wondered if she were overdressed. But then, he was the one who was filling the car with decorated axioms, making sure to remind her how insightful he was.  She had cringed wearily, then chuckled at the awful jokes forming in her mind – she started thinking she didn’t need her wisdom teeth when she digested his words, only her incisors. She could try to be environmentally friendly, she supposed, and recycle all of this packaging, but it wasn’t even pretty.

And now he appeared with two effervescent glasses, as her arm started to bleed.
She was allergic to champagne, she had told him in the car

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Fiction, prose

map

Her breath pliable, she crouched down in that corner, the one that didn’t fit like a glove.
Her movements were whispers, soft and borrowed from someone she couldn’t remember, but they had told her to use them in times such as these. The movements abandoned her though, as she started crying the music her mother used to sing to her.

 

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General bewilderment, Uncategorizable

i think there’s a glitch in the matrix. but, it’s been so many years, mr anderson. where are we again?

A friend sent this article to me this morning:

Elon Musk’s chilling Artficial Intelligence warning

(Edit, the video on there has since been removed).
Very interesting to say the least. I think it is a bit of a must read/watch. Also because ignorant me would love the input of anyone who knows a lot more about this than I do. On the video: “facebook recently shut down chat bots after they started speaking their own language”. What does that even mean?

And no, I don’t plan on getting a self driving car any time soon. I just bought a second hand car that’s manual for crying out loud. It’s been a long time, and gosh darn it if I don’t love the heck out of it. Manual cars are super fun. And as my elderly friend in Colorado has always said, “I like to drive my cars, not have them drive me”. If she only knew where that was really heading…

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Poetry

watch me walk, sometimes running, sometimes skipping, probably some tripping…

 

I typed my thought in

to the search bar of my mind

and lo! it timed out!

~+~

My brother and I were discussing the Beatles, and I reminded him that in an interview, Paul McCartney was asked what it was like to be the best song writer in the world. He said something like, “I don’t know, ask Neil Finn!” Thus began another CH listening spree.

This song was, firstly, a Split Enz song, (1984) appropriately recorded at the end of their life as a band. Then CH re recorded it at the beginning of its life. It was a big deal (the dissolving of Split Enz) for Australia and New Zealand.

This Easter has been a time of new beginnings for my brother and me. Can you hear me smiling? And, as much as many talk about walking away from toxic relationships, or people we just don’t like, or maybe, we are just spoilt and things aren’t going the way we think they should, for me, this is about walking away from the terrible thought patterns I had developed over the years. I honestly can’t think of anyone I want to walk away from. I would much rather walk away from the bad way I have handled some things.
Here’s to new beginnings. And to wiser loving. Of others, and myself.

 

 

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reblog

return to the lost planet

Steve truly makes me laugh, and cry, and come to the edge of many things. Or something. I’m not sure. But it’s amazing.

inconstant light

anesthetic_runes_s

Microscopic particles of time
rain upon our lives.
Paper promises grow brittle,
mapped forgiveness folds, unfolds,
frays and tears along the creases.
Our memories refract through prisms
until the brightest day is lost
in anesthetic runes.

~/~

I heard a motor revving in the carport,
and from my gate,
I watched my Kia Starfish drive away,
with the spindly legged carport
galloping behind.

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Poetry

 

it’s funny isn’t it

the way we nod with our eyes

but disagree with the size

of an unspoken epiphany

and all the snips and the clips of we

trying to gather themselves up

to be examined

in the light bulb moment

that might change on the morrow

the nuances of sorrow

and the other venn diagrams

we find impossible to share

as we try to bear

the broken glass of the light bulb

in our hands

 

 

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Christian, Poetry

the aching sweetness of pierce…

in childhood.

Those tears –

crystallised
in hovered cadence,

unspoken
epiphanies’ radiance,

beyond the reckoning,
the reasoning
of fractured eyes
and thwarted whys,

bursting up through the belies,

the linguistic instant
of heartfelt cries

angelic.

(I remember seeing this on television when it was first performed. and the music wrecked me (no pun intended). I am not Catholic, but this small section was my favourite part. For those of you who practice it, God bless your Easter meditations.)

Originally posted: April 15th, 2017

(Just discovered this video no longer plays here, and likely other places. I found this one but the quality is not nearly as good, unfortunately. The snippet I loved is between 6:50 and 7:35.)

 

 

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Uncategorizable

A little while ago I did mention something about trying to upload some audio, but it did not work for me. And then today, I guess all the required satellites, imaginary and otherwise, somehow lined up perfectly and it worked!

Trigger warning, I do reference the clown in me, in case you missed all the other references from Captain Obvious. Also, this is not very exciting.

But, HI!

 

 

 

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prose

conative dysfunction

My chest knocked again on its wall with a growling of deep hunger for sleep. But the words were reading themselves to me in a quiet urgency of a recognizable introvert. And as I jotted down some thoughts in response, I noticed that my handwriting changed with the pen I was using. Do handwriting experts take that into consideration? Do they even exist anymore? I had only written a paragraph and my muscles were already tired.

What about graffiti? Is it still a thing? I don’t mean art. I mean, senseless/tragic/manipulated violation of blank spaces. I mean, we have the internet now.

 

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reblog

Embracing Blessed Pregnancy (Shape Poem)

Amaya’s writing is so beautiful. I adore this.

Gospel Isosceles

I am
in bloom.
Full of blood,
bubbling, full of life.
Face aglow, I am awed
by the blood vessels
flowing into womb,
thickened veins and
umbilical pulse. I can
feel their swollen contours
as they inflect upwards beneath
the skin. Bulbous breasts plump with
sweet amber, ~~ dripping like blackstrap
molasses. ~~ Soon the ambrosia will pour
forth as the new baby feeds, feeding the
flowering plants, tuberose and jasmine,
clematis and columbine, blossoming
blackberry brambles; ~~ this milky
blancmange enriching the fertile
soil of spring. ~~ Efflorescence
all around; a flurry of blood
cell activity flourishing in
living to fullest potential.
Warm mountain spring
water placates all of the
pressure and submerged
I float like slumbering
baby in womb. Resting in
this nine-month umbra,
cloistered from world’s
abrasive ways, ~~~~ I am
imbued with an afflatus
shine; mother and baby,
together an emblem for
Holy Spirit’s ripest fruit.

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personal, prose

confession

A while ago, I had some pretty serious depression. And I knew it was depression for a lot of reasons, but most disturbingly, I had lost complete interest in music.
(This blog has been some wonderful therapy.)

Over the last week, I have felt moved to spontaneously sing love songs. I haven’t done this for a very long time, when I think about it, and, admittedly, it was over chocolate. But still, it was a very good sign.

I confess, though, there was some slight collateral damage…

Me: (opening fridge and seeing the chocolate chip hot cross buns I had forgotten about. My heart bursting into the chorus of “Silly Love Songs” by Paul McCartney and Wings.)

I…….LOVE…….YOU…….
(notes dripping smiles)

Husband: (in another room) Awwww, I love you too, Honey.
(Pause. A very distinct pause).
Did I hear you open the fridge?

I kid you not. He actually asked me that. And then he said:
Are you actually singing to the hot cross buns?

Now kids, we will be married for twenty two years this June. That is a whole other post that I probably won’t write. But, I will say, we are at a point where we can laugh heartily at our foibles, rather than be so offended by them. Well, in this scenario, I can only speak for myself when I say that I wasn’t offended.

I am pretty sure he was laughing, too. And not in that sympathy way…pretty sure…

(I did find it alarming, however, that he knew exactly what was happening without witnessing any of it. Come to think of it, being a sort of introvert, that kind of offends me.)

But I really did think it would be a one off deal. The whole thing surprised me. Until a couple of days later, after we had a glorious evening meal outside in the spectacular autumnal caress of divine weather known as autumn – he had cooked up a lovely, well balanced summer meal for himself, and I had a punnet of strawberries and a snickers bar, you know, the things I would imagine you would pick from the trees in the garden of Eden.

I took our dirty dishes (or in my case, packaging) inside.

Sunshine,
my only sunshine,
you make me happy…
is, of course, not what was
BURSTING OUT OF MY HEART AS I HELD THE CHOCOLATE WRAPPER…

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Poetry

you are not alone

dwight

Summer stretches out

the viscous my mind’s pushing

through, enticing me,

 

to take a dive down

into the undulating

clarity telling

 

myself that it is

possible to take with me

what I know now and

 

swim without any

paraphernalia, (like

er, oxygen tanks?)

 

No, that’s not what I

mean. So I should take a breath

and when I find me

 

down there thrashing the

life I think is unique to

me in my naive

 

(but adorable)

youthfulness, I would say, “HEY!

You need to hear Dwight.

 

And wear these goggles.

(And don’t open that email.)

And trust me. I’m you.”

 

originally posted, March 21st, 2017

 

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Poetry

M.O.: if it sounds right, it must be (or, there’s always room for grace)

These rules baffle me,

makes grammar seem so grammar-

ly, while habitat

 

poetic should not

be stoic-ly honed, watch me

analysing some

 

prosetry there with

crossed toes, and spaces filling

not where they should be.

 

I’d rather splash ’round

before diving into this

language embrace of,

 

of finest syntax

enveloping me, bathing

astonish-ed-ly,

 

your words of divine

crafting, filing pieces of

your soul. Absorbing,

 

inspired, what I am

trying to say, is that my

heart has grateful eyes.

 

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Uncategorizable

The Versatile Blogger Award

These two lovely people, who deserve a big congratulations, added me to the party going around, that is otherwise known as ‘the Versatile Blogger Award’.

Thank you so much Basilike Pappa from Silent Hour and
Allane at SPO_OKY.
I’m honoured ❤

(I am not as versatile as you have given me credit for, as I could not get the logo onto my blog. Two copies of it are now floating around in the cyber ether, so just a heads up, in case it appears randomly.)

I think there is a general consensus, well, at least amongst the people who agree with me, that the blogger award thing is quite an enigma. Just where, exactly, are these awards coming from? Will we be receiving something in the mail? What if I don’t want to give my mailing address? Let’s cut to the chase, is it made of chocolate?

Continue reading

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a little fun or something, reblog

Today’s German Lesson (Humor)

Egads, this needs to be shared. Hilarious.

Contemplative Moorings

Today we are going to learn some useful, everyday phrases in German. Repeat after me auf Deutsch and then in English.

*

Hallo. Wie geht es dir?

Hello. How are you?

*

Mir geht es gut. Danke für die Nachfrage.

I am doing well. Thank you for asking.

*

Ist das nicht der Tag wunderbar deprimierend?

Isn’t the day wonderfully depressing?

*

Meine Seele ist schwer mit Bedauern.

My soul is heavy with regret.

*

Die Liebe ist verwirrend zu dem kleinen Kind aber klar, der Mann auf dem Totenbett.

Love is perplexing to the little child, but clear to the man on his deathbed.

*

Früher haben wir in den Keller gehen und ziehen Trapeze in der Kohlenstaub.

We used to go down to the basement and draw trapezoids in the coal dust.

*

Der Supermarkt abgebrannt. Wir verhungern.

The supermarket burned down. We starve.

*

Bis morgen. Auf…

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