Reminiscing the Poetry of 8 Words: There'll come a time, don't you forget it

There'll come a time, don't you forget it

All day before my eyes come little visions.

There’s a beautiful land where dreams come true.

And this old world is a new world.

Aren’t many things one can be sure of…

In one moment you’ll know what it is

There'll come a time, don't you forget it.

You might find the night-time the right time

You walk without a sound down forgotten streets

And you see it comin' down the street

In it’s hanging on, and with fingers clutching

Baby, telling you, you've been gone too long.

I've got to follow where it leads me

Here tonight as I stand inside the rain

I'm glad I'm mad and can't live without

Me wanting a little sweetness in my soul

I want to touch your face, your hands

I’ve always loved the simple things about you

Oh touch me now and let me know

If you like it let me know it.

In the dark I get such a thrill

When I kiss you every night and day.

You are my nights; my night and day.

I declare you gonna drive me stone insane

Quiet baby, don’t explain there’s nothing to gain.

Don't talk just hold me closer to you.

I need your affection and not your protection

Keep looking in my eyes we'll be fine

I know it will be so it's time

Lie away resting away deep in my arms

From memory these arms still hold a thrill.

A thrill that should have been gone by

Like that dance before the flame that burns. 

Oh please forget the dreams that were broken

The future that someone says may never be

Tomorrow might not come, when dreamers dream late

But still I hope the time will come.

And when you have some time to spend

Come on back see me when you can.

8 words. Nina Simone. A friend introduced me to lovely music of Nina Simone almost 15 years ago. Since then her music has always been a staple in my collection. One that I've gone too long without recently. It seems fitting that when the pieces of this puzzle came together they formed a metaphor for love. Its a feeling that makes the old world a new world. And it feels as though it's been away too long. The dreams once broken become the past for the lovers when they welcome new love into their life. Needless to say it wasn't written for anyone or about anyone. Something I should have made clear sooner... I could say more, yet I will not. enjoy the loving, living and breathing with the people in your life. kisses. m.

what if...?

What if you slept
And what if
In your sleep
You dreamed
And what if
In your dream
You went to heaven
And there plucked a strange and beautiful flower
And what if
When you awoke
You had that flower in your hand
Ah, what then?

What if you slept? - Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Ever play the "what if" game? Well "what if" life were a dream? It's certainly not something to be played, and definitely not a game. Life is a bit like a dream for some people. One day they wake or come to realize what they once dreamed of is now in their hand or hands. It's amazing for them. Ever do that?  Dream of something and make it real. There are more than a few people living in this world who are. And although I'm not there yet knowing that people do, makes me realize that it happens. As people living their dream is the best inspiration for others to continue to press ahead with their goals and reach for something that seems unattainable. A dream takes hard work and commitment.

Some people have found their destined long journey and they should continue to be well, take care, and filled with great joy while traveling along it. If you are one of those people then count yourself fortunate. I think there are other people who have to keep looking in order to find that destined path. When they realize that isn't on their current path then it must come to an end. Ultimately sometimes moving closer to the end of a trail for one person, like myself, simply means it is the end of a path for them. Not for you or anyone else. As far as I am concerned for myself there is nothing to fear by ending one journey to begin another. To revisit and loosely quote Keats: What if sleep were death and life is the dream? Wouldn't a person prefer to be living than dying? I know I would... For if this is sleeping, dying, then it is surely necessary to wake up, live now.

What's your "what if?"

enjoy the loving, living and breathing,
kisses.
m.

The Poetry of 8 Words: If life’s a game, true love’s a trophy

If life’s a game, true love’s a trophy

Woke up this morning and it wasn’t heaven.

Won't have a soul to wake up while

I wonder if there's hearts that will deliver.

Speaking in metaphors for something in your heart

I’m waiting for the present dream to last.

Why can't I sleep with my eyes open?

There's no reason my mind should be still.

Is every kind of love an imaginary love?

Why does it always have to be chaos?

Quiet. I don't want to know the answers.

Got a dream and that's all I need.

You gave me your love in one day

And with your heart you will never lose.

Tell me, if will you settle for love.

Saw what I'm looking for in your eyes

Where beauty is existence. You turn me on

Love, longer than day making my heart sing.

All of my life days turn into nights.

It's only when you're outside that you notice

From where you are, to where I am.

When you were here I missed you. Now 

You just sittin there dreamin' of instant pleasure.

I’ll hold you the way you should be.

Rest and forget yourself in my arms tonight.

And wouldn't it be lovely? Life is Beautiful. 

There'll be rainbows and we will finally know.

What I believe in I know is true

There'll come a time, now don't forget it 

You’ll believe in love, what’s supposed to be.

And my love for you will drive your

Need to go. When I'm leaving for Paris

Please be there. Don't know where I’ll fall.

Won't you walk me through it all, darling?

I don't know what I'm doing, I'm saying

Will I walk away from love knowing nothing?

Do I guess to have no more fears?

If life’s a game, true love’s a trophy.

Keep in the game maintaining mystique facing forward.

8 words. Rufus Wainwright. Rufus was an amazing music recommend  a very very long time ago and he’s always stayed close to me. Needless to say, this man’s music is an all time love affair for moi. It’s actually inspired a few pieces; “Between My Legs” to name one. Anyway, this is for anyone who loves Rufus Wainwright as much as I do. Enjoy. kisses. m.

*Track Listing.

After you've gone 

The Tower Of Learning

Oh, What A World
Between my legs

Instant Pleasure

Imaginary Love

Greek Song

11:11

This Love Affair

Leaving For Paris No. 2

Waiting For A Dream

Poses

I'm Not Ready To Love

Movies Of Myself

Nobody's Off The Hook

Vibrate

April Fools

In My Arms

The One you love

Release The Stars

Do I Disappoint You

I Don't Know What It Is

One Man Guy

Want

Baby

Cigarettes And Chocolate Milk

Going To A Town

Beautiful Child

14th Street

Tiergarten

Sanssouci

Sleep: Dreams & Nightmares 34

"On Death"

I.

Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream,
And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?
The transient pleasures as a vision seem,
And yet we think the greatest pain's to die.

II.

How strange it is that man on earth should roam,
And lead a life of woe, but not forsake
His rugged path; nor dare he view alone
His future doom which is but to awake.

- John Keats.

If life is the dream… you should live every moment as if it were the last one. Enjoyed to the fullest. And death should be faced without fear, as if it were no more significant than sleep.  

-m. 

Magician.

The magician's assistant is easy to spot
by the way her arm curves like a swan's neck as she points out
a favorite piece of furniture for our inspection and approval,

the way her deathless smile charms us into believing,
disarming whatever might otherwise cut her in half.
Where does a magician find his assistant,

such a beautiful woman (though we hardly notice her!)
who will smile at his side and give nothing away?
We assume she knows, of course, and imagine 

that behind her perfect teeth her mind is haunted by the knowledge
of another, secret kingdom where a dove crouches
next to the heart-hammering hare in a dark warren, waiting

to be abracadabred back to the dovecote, to lapin reality.
In that country of lifted wallets, colorfully endless handkerchiefs
and torn one-hundred-dollar bills that heal themselves, 

women, cut in half, seem to dwell mindlessly under a spell,
play games with a marked deck or recline in utter weightlessness,
suspended only by our wish to believe in them. 

On Being Introduced at a Neighborhood Party to a Magician's Assistant

-Charles Darling

Magician.

(8-12-2010)

The only thing I’ve ever known of magic is illusion. And illusions are a trick of the eye and mind. There it is not happening right in front of you, but your mind tries to fill in the blanks and connect the dots to make a bigger picture look real. It isn’t happening, you only think it is. Magic tricks are in the mind. If you knew the truth would that make the illusion any less real?

It’s 9 o’clock sharp on Monday morning. I’m on time for my scheduled appointment with the newest magician on the scene. There’s a secretary behind a u-shaped counter and she keeps telling the ringing lines. Thank you for calling ‘The Box’ where beauty is no longer an illusion.

Nothing prepares you for the real life illusions. The ones that seem too good to be true. Beauty is one of those and in that respect only real in the eye of the beholder.

When I was a child, a young girl of thirteen my father took me to a magic show. There were men that could make snakes dance with a tune from a flute, men that had beautiful girls swallow swords with ease, and men that could pull rabbits from hats and other things from mysterious objects. But there was only one man that had my full attention that night. He could make a grown man disappear, a woman fly without wings, and then most importantly he could change you into to something else and it wouldn’t hurt one bit. And he could do this with no more than a box and some knives. This is what he promised, and we all were captivated. My own heart betrayed by desire couldn’t stop beating in my chest. I wanted him to change me. Do it with the greatest of ease.

Upon meeting this newest magician I’m immediately apprehensive because he isn’t what he seems to be. He looks the part and wears the proper identification. And the words are coming out of his mouth. They are convincing. But he doesn’t reap the rewards of his craft. More and more the words keep coming out of his mouth. The same words I’ve heard in the testimonies. Those statements from your friends and colleagues that reaffirm the thing you’re about to experience is in fact “The thing that changed my life” and “I don’t know who I was before this changed me.”

The trick with anything new, whether it’s a toaster or a plate of spaghetti, is that once you believe it will change your life it will. Whether you need it or not.

So I’m here thinking that this man, this new magician that claims he “can change you” will do it. I’ve seen what he can do. I've seen the results with my own eyes. A little off the side, the top and the back without leaving a mark and they all swear by it. The man that charms the snakes, the woman swallowing the swords, the flying girl with her body off of the ground all happen and I saw them. It was really happening and it changed everything.

When this man asked for a volunteer from the audience I couldn’t help but jump with joy. Two lovely assistants came down from the stage and called me out. Although my father was skeptical he let me go but not before a warning.

My father grabbed my arm then leaned close and whispered in my ear, “He’s no more than a man with illusions. Don’t be fooled by them.” It was his way to protect me from disappointment. But nothing my father could say would make the magic any less real. You know the old saying as long as magic lives in your heart, it will stay alive in your head. From this moment I knew that this was really happening in front of my eyes. The man did disappear although we do not know where he went. The girl is off of the ground but we do not know how, only that it is happening.

Getting up on the stage led by a pair of women to a large box. The kind that looks a little like a coffin but partitioned. I’m told to take off my shoes and get inside. From the audience you can’t see the inside of the box. I’m securely fastened in from three sides and top and bottom. My head freely able to view the stage.

“You know what you’re doing?” I ask him as he gets out the sharp blades. There are three distinct carving tools. I’m waving my hands and smiling while he talks. 

“Don’t’ worry darling. I do this every night.” Although he says the words and I’m overjoyed to be experiencing this moment of transformation, I still can’t quite shake this feeling of apprehension that rests within me. He starts cutting into the box. Slowly. The house lights are far too bright for my eyes. I can’t see anyone but I can hear them breathing. Silent gasps on the brink of amazement.

The new magician tells me he does this all time while I sit at home. This is all business as usual. While I quietly knit a scarf he is out making things disappear and bending the laws of gravity upon his command. According to him Abra-Cadabra is not as important of a phrase as Here and Now. He says no more than this, as a true magician never reveals the truth behind his illusion. Playing God with the simple skills of the hand. Sitting still behind his Englin desk with his Prada button up shirt he mouths the words, “Not to worry. Nothing can go wrong.”

We are not really sawing me in half.

According to him and them, this is what will save me. Pulling me apart and reconnecting me will change everything. This thing that will make me appreciate beauty that way they see it. This will make the illusion real for me. Happening to me so they can all see the change.  The performances we make aren’t for ourselves, it’s so others will see us differently. Because we don’t like the way we see ourselves, so we think that others can not possibly enjoy it either.

Two lovely women gather me up and take me to the place where it will happen. The lights are brighter as the table turns. Count back from ten they tell me. Slowly. I can see the beads of sweat run across his brow and the smiling assistant the wipes it clean while he prepares to work. Precise movements while performing an illusion. When this is over you will have changed and never know the difference. Abra-cadabra.

The truth is that you will believe what your mind is convinced of. Even when you know it’s a lie. If your mind makes it real then it’s true. Even when you know it to be wrong, you make it right. When he tells me that these small things will change me I believe him. When I wake up I will be different. And I will.

More and more I try to convince myself of this fact as he carefully slides the blade in. He winks and smiles to the crowd. Every movement is elongated and lengthened into a struggle. Although there is no real conflict he appears to make one for the showmanship of the craft. This is only an illusion. We are not really going to split me into two. Obviously there are limits to his abilities as a performer and there’s no chance of something bad happening.

The only reason some illusions work because they are real. You can be disappointed by the reality. The new magician smiles and tells me “you’ll look better in a few days” and then hands me a small mirror.

They did not saw me in half.

I try to tell myself that all these little lines that run across my face are part of the illusion. “The swelling is part of the healing process” he lifts my gown to reveal thirteen bruises across my breasts connected by two tiny lines. Stitching that marks the skin although he tells me ‘there is no permanent scarring” and I will be perfectly fine. Eventually.

The man and two assistants take me apart and spin me around so everyone can see how different I am. Special. Always staying me only different. I can’t see the reality that I’m not really in two pieces. Then they put me back together. But I’m not ordinary anymore. I’ve been transformed by this act. Everyone saw me change and change back again. Magic.

Magic is in the mind. You believe it because you want to. Look how different I am, but I don’t feel any different. The change is real but the reality is that I’m not any different. The truth is there revealing that it happened. The marks looking back at me completing the illusion.

This is how you make an elephant disappear. Distraction. Tell the people what they’re supposed to see and they might just believe it.

On the way home my father asked me if I was disappointed that there was no magic in the trick. I told him, “But Daddy, didn’t you see it. They cut me in half.”

All you have to do sometimes is believe. Belief in yourself and things that you can not see will take you far in this life. Your fears, they have a face. Anything you can be afraid of has a manifestation in your mind. Take that focus and use it for something more powerful. Use it to believe in yourself. You can say that someone else changed you when it was you that changed. Sometimes we need to hang on to that idea though. However, you can say that someone’s presence in your life motivated you to be a better person, for it is in fact true that the people in our lives are there for a reason. I can not explain this if you do not understand. There is a reason you do not yet understand. When you are ready you will see it. I believe in things that people do not see. The world is full of yet to be understood magic and mysteries. And I know there are scientific explanations for everything. But on the other end of the scope there is a great deal of science in spirituality and there is an in-between. Discard what you think you know about the world. Take a chance and believe. You never know what might happen. Innovation and ingenuity have shaped the world by risking belief in things that do not yet exist. Enjoy the story. Kisses. m.

The Poetry of 8 Words: There'll come a time, don't you forget it

There'll come a time, don't you forget it

All day before my eyes come little visions.

There’s a beautiful land where dreams come true.

And this old world is a new world.

Aren’t many things one can be sure of…

In one moment you’ll know what it is

There'll come a time, don't you forget it.

You might find the night-time the right time

You walk without a sound down forgotten streets

And you see it comin' down the street

In it’s hanging on, and with fingers clutching

Baby, telling you, you've been gone too long.

I've got to follow where it leads me

Here tonight as I stand inside the rain

I'm glad I'm mad and can't live without

Me wanting a little sweetness in my soul

I want to touch your face, your hands

I’ve always loved the simple things about you

Oh touch me now and let me know

If you like it let me know it.

In the dark I get such a thrill

When I kiss you every night and day.

You are my nights; my night and day.

I declare you gonna drive me stone insane

Quiet baby, don’t explain there’s nothing to gain.

Don't talk just hold me closer to you.

I need your affection and not your protection

Keep looking in my eyes we'll be fine

I know it will be so it's time

Lie away resting away deep in my arms

From memory these arms still hold a thrill.

A thrill that should have been gone by

Like that dance before the flame that burns. 

Oh please forget the dreams that were broken

The future that someone says may never be

Tomorrow might not come, when dreamers dream late

But still I hope the time will come.

And when you have some time to spend

Come on back see me when you can

Nina Simone. Love this lady's music. That voice. Wow. And another wow... It's been far too long since I've pulled one of these out. There's old and new coming... definitely more of these. Enjoy. kisses. m.

*Track Listing

Black is the color of my true love's hair

Don’t you pay em' no mind

Day and Night

After you've gone 

In the dark

I want a little sugar in my bowl

Love me or leave me

Alone Again (Naturally)

Do What You Gotta Do

I Got It Bad (And That Ain't Good)

Just Like A Woman

For Myself

Human Touch

Take Care of Business

That's All I Want From You

Why? (The King of Love Is Dead) 

You've Been Gone Too Long 

Brown Baby 

Who Knows Where the Time Goes

Do I Move You 

Everything Must Change 

I Can't See Nobody 

Cherish

Can't Get Out of This Mood

Do Nothin' Till You Hear From Me

I'm Gonna Leave You 

Don't Explain

Gimme Some

Forget

Chilly Winds Don't Blow 

Beautiful Land

For a While 

Feeling Good

He Needs Me 

Desperate Ones

The Music 55.

i live in music
is this where you live?
i live here in music
i live on c# street
my friend lives on b-flat avenue
do you live here in music
sound
falls round me like rain on other folks
saxophones wet my face
cold as winter in st. louis
hot like peppers i rub on my lips
thinkin they waz lilies
i got 15 trumpets where other women got hips
& a upright bass for both sides of my heart
i walk round in a piano like somebody
else be walkin on the earth
i live in music
live in it
wash in it
i cd even smell it
wear sound on my fingers
sound falls so fulla music
ya cd make a river where yr arm is &
hold yrself
hold yrself in a music

i live in music - ntozake shange

Casey At The Bat

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning left to play;
And then, when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go, in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which "springs eternal in the human breast;"
They thought, If only Casey could but get a whack at that,
We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn procede Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a no-good and the latter was a fake;
So, upon that stricken multitude grim meloncholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball,
And when the dust had lifted and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second, and Flynn a-huggin' third.

Then from five thousand throats and more threr rose a lusty yell,
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell,
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face,
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the croud could doubt `twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tounges applauded as he wiped them on his shirt.
Then, while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there,
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped --
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him; kill the umpire!" shouted someone from the stand;--
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

"Fraud," cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered "Fraud,"
But one scornful look from Casey, and the multitude was awed.
The saw his face grow stern and cold; they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip; his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville -- mighty Casey has Struck Out.

---

Written By Ernest Lawrence Thayer, circa 1888

Wakefulness.

Wakefulness

Wakefulness is the way to life.
The fool sleeps
As if he were already dead,
But the master is awake
And he lives forever.
He watches.
He is clear.
How happy he is!
For he sees that wakefulness is life.
How happy he is,
Following the path of the awakened.
With great perseverance
He meditates, seeking
Freedom and happiness.
So awake, reflect, watch.
Work with care and attention.
Live in the way
And the light will grow in you.
By watching and working
The master makes for himself an island
Which the flood cannot overwhelm.
The fool is careless.
But the master guards his watching.
It is his most precious treasure.
He never gives in to desire.
He meditates.
And in the strength of his resolve
He discovers true happiness.
He overcomes desire -
And from the tower of his wisdom
He looks down with dispassion
Upon the sorrowing crowd.
From the mountain top
He looks down at those
Who live close to the ground.
Mindful among the mindless,
Awake while others dream,
Swift as the race horse
He outstrips the field.
By watching
Indra became king of the gods.
How wonderful it is to watch.
How foolish to sleep.
The beggar who guards his mind
And fears the waywardness of his thoughts
Burns through every bond
With the fire of his vigilance.
The beggar who guards his mind
And fears his own confusion
Cannot fall.
He has found his way to peace.

Taken from The Dhammapada Translated by Thomas Byrom

Only a fool sleeps when the rest of the world is awake. Please think larger. Kierkegaard isn’t simply about breaking laws. There are those afraid and foolishly not willing to see things outside of what they know. Accepting what is in front of them without being willing to try, ‘TO DO’ something new. Unwilling to attempt anything foreign because it represents the unknown. Ignorant. With eyes tightly closed. Aggressive. Fists clenched ready to strike. Immature. Like a little child with a hard lump in the throat.

Change… Change... Sigh. Took three extra breathes on that one. This is hard cause I like the unknown. To be perfectly honest, there are no go-backs and very few opportunities to re-do in life. If you focus on what you’ve left behind you can not see what lies ahead. Change, as luck would have it is a little like flipping a coin. You never know exactly what will happen. Yet it isn’t that bad either way. And I know a few people who don’t believe in fate or chance. But life is very much chaos and a gamble.

Waking up is unknown and a gamble. Please don’t crawl back into bed after I say this… Today, tomorrow or next Tuesday could be the last day for any one of us to be alive. There is nothing you can do to stop the day from happening. Even staying in bed could have adverse consequences. You could be avoiding a car accident but lose your job by not showing up. Or you could get up; watch the road - particularly the other guy - and show up on time then work your ass off. The point being you could spend this last day hiding out from it all or embrace the world. Live it up surrounded by everything with your eyes wide open. Don’t believe me? Talk to someone dying of a terminal disease. Understand?

Yes, there are things out of your control. My mind conjures up the domino effect when I think of this concept. Ah, but don’t let the idea of it spiral out from fear. Use your mind not your reaction. You can either accept that it is all happening to you or try to take control of the things that are tangible. Things will happen whether you participate or not. Awareness gives you more control of the journey whatever that may be. Once open, you shouldn’t close the door and hide yourself away if you dislike what you discover. Ultimately, what you know and understand about the world is entirely up to you.

*More brain food. Digressed. M.

Sleep: Dreams & Nightmares 23.

Insomniac

The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole ---
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue ---
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

-Sylvia Plath.


Originally the sleep series begin with a period of my life that marked a dramatic new pattern in rest... And a desire to be able to sleep when I wanted rather than allow it to be uncontrollable as it had become. Often, for most of my life, when I find rest it has been filled by vivid dreams (Dali-like) or horrific nightmares. Much has evolved in that sense. I don't dream much anymore when I'm sleeping. Nightmares are few and far between. What does it all mean? Not the slightest. But it's so much more wonderful and a welcomed surprise when the dreams do come now. Dreams and nightmares are like mirrors, fun-house style to the internal workings of the mind. Can only guess to their true meaning. It isn't what you may think... nothing ever really is. Anyhow, tonight as I'm setting in to write, (mostly type), this poem reminds me that there is more AWAKE and Letters to come. Actually the next few are along a similar path. There is a lot to come this week.  -m.

Humpty Dumpty.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again.

This felt OH SO appropriate. You know it's not really about eggs. haha. Don't worry, I have my own deadlines to carry out. Three will be up by tonight. But for now... this is a little fun. Don't you think? kisses. m.

Love Letter

Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn't just toe me an inch, no--
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
Of apprehending blueness, or stars.



That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake
Masked among black rocks as a black rock
In the white hiatus of winter--
Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure
In the million perfectly-chiseled
Cheeks alighting each moment to melt
My cheek of basalt. They turned to tears,
Angels weeping over dull natures,
But didn't convince me. Those tears froze.
Each dead head had a visor of ice.


And I slept on like a bent finger.
The first thing I saw was sheer air
And the locked drops rising in a dew
Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay
Dense and expressionless round about.
I didn't know what to make of it.
I shone, mica-scaled, and unfolded
To pour myself out like a fluid
Among bird feet and the stems of plants.
I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once.


Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, an arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.

- Sylvia Plath


Love letters. Warned months ago. I said there was a possibility of this becoming a series as most of my fascinations tend to... now it is. m. 

The Music 39.

'The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust.'

We caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot's house.

Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The 'Treues Liebes Herz' of Strauss.

Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.

We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.

Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille,

Then took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.

Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.

Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.

Then, turning to my love, I said,
'The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust.'

But she - she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.

Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.

And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.

The Harlot's House - Oscar Wilde

André Gide

" The most beautiful things are those that madness prompts ........" ~ André Gide


"It is better to be hated for what you are than to be loved for what you are not." ~ André Gide


"Art is a collaboration between God and the artist, and the less the artist does the better." ~ André Gide


"Be faithful to that which exists nowhere but in yourself - and thus make yourself indispensable." ~ André Gide


"Believe those who are seeking the truth. Doubt those who find it." ~ André Gide


"Dare to be yourself." ~ André Gide


"There are admirable potentialities in every human being. Believe in your strength and your youth. Learn to repeat endlessly to yourself, 'It all depends on me." ~ André Gide


"Work and struggle and never accept an evil that you can change." ~ André Gide

"Know thyself? A maxim as pernicious as it is ugly. Whoever observes himself arrests his own development. A caterpillar who wanted to know itself well would never become a butterfly." ~ André Gide

Lady Lazarus.

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

Lady Lazarus - Sylvia Plath

Ahh... Alright I will share. Sylvia Plath is one of my favorite writers. If you're smart you've already figured that out. 'The Bell Jar' is one of my all time favorite books which probably sounds a little mad. Not for the reasons people might think, but on that thought... We all have our breakdowns, some of us just a little more public than others. Some people handle them better than others too. But it is in how we are able to overcome and move forward from those dilemmas that shows what we are made of. And, yes I love J.D. Salinger as well. Remember we are not what we read, it can only be harmful if you let it. Enjoy. Kisses. m.

Where the Wild Roses Grow.

Where the Wild Roses Grow - Nick Cave w/ Kylie Minogue

Nick Cave was inspired to write "Where the Wild Roses Grow" after listening to the traditional song, "The Willow Garden", a tale of a man courting a woman and killing her while they are out together.


"The Willow Garden"

Down in the willow garden
Where me and my love did meet
It was there we sat a courting
My love fell off to sleep
I had a bottle of the burgundy wine
Which my true love she did not know
And there I poisoned that dear little girl
Down on the banks below

I drew my sabre through her
It was a bloody knife
I threw her in the river
It was a dreadful sight
My father often told me
That money would set me free
If I did murder that dear little girl
Whose name was Rose Connely

And now he sits in his own cabin door
A-wiping his tear-dimmed eye
Looking at his only son
On yonder scaffold high
My race is run beneath the sun
The devil is waiting for me
For I did murder that dear little girl
Whose name was Rose Connely

I shall get out of this!

In Plaster

I shall never get out of this! There are two of me now:
This new absolutely white person and the old yellow one,
And the white person is certainly the superior one.
She doesn't need food, she is one of the real saints.
At the beginning I hated her, she had no personality --
She lay in bed with me like a dead body
And I was scared, because she was shaped just the way I was

Only much whiter and unbreakable and with no complaints.
I couldn't sleep for a week, she was so cold.
I blamed her for everything, but she didn't answer.
I couldn't understand her stupid behavior!
When I hit her she held still, like a true pacifist.
Then I realized what she wanted was for me to love her:
She began to warm up, and I saw her advantages.

Without me, she wouldn't exist, so of course she was grateful.
I gave her a soul, I bloomed out of her as a rose
Blooms out of a vase of not very valuable porcelain,
And it was I who attracted everybody's attention,
Not her whiteness and beauty, as I had at first supposed.
I patronized her a little, and she lapped it up --
You could tell almost at once she had a slave mentality.

I didn't mind her waiting on me, and she adored it.
In the morning she woke me early, reflecting the sun
From her amazingly white torso, and I couldn't help but notice
Her tidiness and her calmness and her patience:
She humored my weakness like the best of nurses,
Holding my bones in place so they would mend properly.
In time our relationship grew more intense.

She stopped fitting me so closely and seemed offish.
I felt her criticizing me in spite of herself,
As if my habits offended her in some way.
She let in the drafts and became more and more absent-minded.
And my skin itched and flaked away in soft pieces
Simply because she looked after me so badly.
Then I saw what the trouble was: she thought she was immortal.

She wanted to leave me, she thought she was superior,
And I'd been keeping her in the dark, and she was resentful --
Wasting her days waiting on a half-corpse!
And secretly she began to hope I'd die.
Then she could cover my mouth and eyes, cover me entirely,
And wear my painted face the way a mummy-case
Wears the face of a pharaoh, though it's made of mud and water.

I wasn't in any position to get rid of her.
She'd supported me for so long I was quite limp --
I had forgotten how to walk or sit,
So I was careful not to upset her in any way
Or brag ahead of time how I'd avenge myself.
Living with her was like living with my own coffin:
Yet I still depended on her, though I did it regretfully.

I used to think we might make a go of it together --
After all, it was a kind of marriage, being so close.
Now I see it must be one or the other of us.
She may be a saint, and I may be ugly and hairy,
But she'll soon find out that that doesn't matter a bit.
I'm collecting my strength; one day I shall manage without her,
And she'll perish with emptiness then, and begin to miss me.


In Plaster - Sylvia Plath

Fight Club

It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything.

What would Marilyn Monroe be doing if she were alive right now? Clawing at the lid of her coffin.

If you could be God's worst enemy or nothing, which would you choose?

This is why I loved the support groups so much. If people thought you were dying, they gave you their full attention. If this might be the last time they saw you, they really saw you… People listened instead of just waiting for their turn to speak. And when they spoke, they weren’t telling you a story. When the two of you talked, you were building something, and afterward you were both different than before.

A minute of perfection was worth the effort. A moment was the most you could ever expect from perfection.

Sticking feathers up your butt does not make you a chicken.

Our fathers were our models for God. If our fathers failed, what does that tell you about God?

This is your life and it's ending one minute at a time.

I just don't want to die without a few scars.

You know that saying about how you always kill the one you love? It works both ways.

If I could wake up in a different place, at a different time, could I wake up as a different person?



These are quotes. 
They are from fight club.
Have you read the book? Or watched the movie? 


So this is like my fave thing, um book, movie... da da da... at this moment. Even though I don't own the book. Anyway, I've been feeling a little out of sorts [normal, again], and I can identify with the urge to completely destroy my present situation just so I can be different again. Destruction begets creation. And I'm totally not sleeping right. When am I? So just the notion of 'what if' I'm really two people makes my head swim. It's a kinda interesting. Twisted? Not really when you think about it. Ever want to destroy something to create something new? Think about it. kisses. m.