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 |   All that remains: here in my afterlife as a 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. |
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The Idiotic Ideate?? Formerly: New Zenith To Hell…(all started with arc as writer here from the trials of Rising Stars to Preferred Author to WDC Quills Best Poetry Collection to the falling action I feel now that settles in a white case.) Got to hustle to preserve the best of me before fully fading on that virtual horizon glowing more brilliant with each passing day to permanent nuclear winter. if people don’t get it, I don’t need to explain it. We kill all that’s beautiful before we question it’s purpose. So many people find it easier to think in the black and the white. God forbid you get lost straying in the gray. "Whoever fights monsters should see to it…he does not become a monster.” I’ve been to the abyss and back. Not so bad. The loneliest happy person you'd ever meet, when not the saddest person who needs to be alone. In an ever-changing world, we need to handle topics at the ready. If you roll over and give in to the narrative without lending a voice of your own, you might as well hand over your civil liberties. We have voices that should connect to true conscience and spirit for honest and open discourse. Why feel so redacted? Unify on issues and put drama aside. Open minds require complete objectivity. If none need apply, question the unbendable sources for answer. If you knee-jerk react to every issue lurking out there that clutches your neck, you fall victim to your own ignorance born from a life of apathy (no doubt) in pathetic cries of injustice. Just writing what I feel without the narrative-altering mind f---ing with my head. [MY Chorus] In your house, I long to be Room by room, patiently I'll wait for you there, like a stone I'll wait for you there, alone "It amazed me how truth was often suffocated in minutes, but lies were given sufficient air to breathe indefinitely." "You are all better than you think you are, you are just designed not to believe it when you hear it from yourself." ![Merit Badge in Second Time Around Contest
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Congratulations on winning the Grand Overall Prize in [Link To Item #2164876] with your beautiful poem, [Link to Book Entry #933358]. This poem really moved me. Great writing!
Rachel *^*Heartv*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Second_Time_Around_Contest-2164963_14.gif)    "...lasting art is never anything more than a mathematical expression of the relations that exist between the internal and the external, the self [le moi] and the world." -Jean Metzinger I'm in love with carefully chosen words, arranged just so, audible, edible, to inhale. I attempt to post new poems and epiphanies daily with some links to what inspires. I am legally blind with a rare, genetic form of glaucoma. I'm described as "end stage" after two successful surgeries, still subject to further vision loss. Cataracts complicating matters. Writing Can get strenuous but seldom deters what yearns to emerge, despite a documented history of depression and recently diagnosed ADHD and undefinable social disorders and/or PTSD. My recent poetry:
Sometimes epiphanies about my insights on writing and life and what goes on... Making sense of life is maddening. Why do I need to know, when truth may not actually exist? Learning to accept would be a better pursuit? Flailing about in my own mediocrity, hoping to bust out. I am visible. You can put a face with a name. I would like to see other writers, too. Fiction is what you write, not who you are. Reinventing myself. I couldn't continue on the path I was on and needed a fresh start. This time around I want to put the focus on writing and the world outside of this community as it affects my life. I realize now that I have been baring my chest a bit more, as when young. fake me much more boring and unliberated than the real me. A world arriving as silent as that blossom in your garden that I told you about... |
| Just scratching the surface, Digging holes deepest In soft sand. But, my hand Is but a tool Of the disparaged mind. Would scoop your brain, Heaping, oozing spirit Of knowledge, Fill the ground With its beguiling love -- Stamp it firm And go home. Let me rest. |
I want to escape somewhere inside from you to hear my voice sing without the contempt should I wake you -- something awakened. I want to escape this world, reality, send the falsetto free on changing wind where sweetest harmony finds me. Does it have to be far from you? Limber in a neon room pulsing, should I haul you in my arms, sweep the dusted floor in limber strides, carefree of former sorrow? Would you have me? If I'm not attuned, eyes to the moon, wayward stars, I'm staring directly into a setting sun blazing back at me. One lone star fades on a barren hill. I stand on leaves crisp, air musses the gray growing despair -- too old to behave this way -- Hiding my heart, hiding from your dark. When will our dawn arrive? if not tomorrow? Your eyes contain visions unseen from my vantage. I clear my throat. Hiding in my heart, hiding from your dark, I ask again, does it have to be far from you? 10.1.2017 6.23.20 edit Perhaps, not yet fully realized. |
A nomad With white countenance Stabbing my way westward Drive you out To the unforgiving foothills Lay with the sheep You fear this dark heart A nomad Who dwells With ruthless warriors Disperses Egyptian foes Devours your vineyards Dines on your wild-eyed stock Lay with your sheep Fear in your dark In centuries come A nomad undressed His mysteries revealed He will be blessed To have my blue eyes Visions from ruthless words On scrolls of light Then Lay with your sheep Fear this dark heart Got the idea that my lineage could trace back to the Huns |
| "But there is wisdom in being circumspect about such things, to reflect before telling what can never be unsaid, or sharing some supposed “honesty” that may wound beyond healing. Better to swallow even that which scalds than to unleash, for whatever reason, an unknowable damage that might have been spared." https://www.imagejournal.org/2017/09/21/secret-mercies/ Perhaps, what drives us as writers is not knowing, not understanding what is going on. We try to fill in the gaps, try to make sense with our unknowing, by writing. Maybe, the origins of fiction was from being denied the truth. |
| Does this sound like sarcasm? Oh, now it does? Came out of a funny dialogue I had to get myself to read and review when I was too distracted and idling over unnecessary things. I'm learning I have more to write since I've reapplied the reviewing process to my writer's schedule... Why you should review: Studies of your brain (No actual source) show it is small (Don't quote me on this) when it does not contain words. How to get words In that cranial cavity, you say? Read. But, I don't know many words. That's why you read. But, words can be hard to understand. Writer's mix them up in different ways. I hear you say this, dear 'aspiring writer.' To understand words you read and evaluate their meaning in a process I like to call reviewing. Reviewing is good for a brain that needs words -- needs to process them by writing. This reviewing and writing you speak of... will it be hard on my brain? (Now I'm just putting words in your mouth -- see what I did there?) It's possibly harmful for your brain under certain conditions. You must take precaution. Consider reading when it is quiet, a place well lit, so you may ponder the words of another, allowing you to write your feelings about them in a review. For instance: Your story about a favorite cat that died made me feel sad... Your poem about mother made me very emotional. You can elaborate on those thoughts, if you are advanced in the ways of wordsmithery (Don't look that up). By reviewing, you discover new words and new expressions. Consider it an adventure for your brain that needs words. The more you do this it will be like riding a bike (simile), because it becomes easy to do. And just think (Something else a brain does), you will meet other writers who are readers who will consider your writing (review or other) and give you feedback on your words. It's a process writers go through to achieving success -- just by reviewing. Fill your brain with other people's words and envision a whole new panorama of critical thinking that will lead to better learning and understanding of words. And, you'll have a use for your empty brain. Or, just plant some nice flowers. |
| Maybe, I hate fiction, he said, he wondered aloud. Of course! Maybe, I hate spoken word fiction -- audio books read by the male Siri. Or, do I hate stagnant attribution, or plot, while still fresh: the fragrant smell of something, how one visualizes the world differently, why we do things, waiting to get through some thought about the past, if I did things differently -- novelists realizing missed opportunity? Or, is it me? I missed an opportunity starting the chapter of my next novel seventeen times, each start better than the last, tricky working out that plot; but, forgotten -- no longer hammered out on inked, soiled linen-like paper, reams unbound from glued, form-fitted wrap, now remote files stored two or three laptops ago, nay diskette. I hate fiction. I hate said, he declared... loudly... for emphasis. And, I hate punctuation. I'm done. |
| Raw and unedited....my feelings on my first writing mentor...an instructor at a community college in 1984...she lived a wealthy, charmed life...I believe her husband was a paper mill executive. She doesn't pen environmental poems...but loves her flowers. What's Going On With Elinor (A Cryptic Poem of Suffering) He wanted to write lines like Elinor -- break them, cut them up just so, crop precise symmetry -- leave a preposition on that cliff, but What followed below didn't flow like his Stream of consciousness. He realized they thought Differently Never saw eye to eye. He was taught to respect A future poet laureate (nominee), his writing instructor At a community college Her accolades wouldn't come until white came To her hair. He was gray now, too. But wiser? Crafting thoughtful those sharp edges So elinor could see? No. He wrote what was in his heart, about The rejecting fire that consumed him The endless pursuit of respect, moving on To the next one, find walls of indifference Arrogance, unable to ignore the shame That consumed him, for trying something Original at a poetry reading she coaxed him to attend A young poet of 25 in suede jacket, a rainy night Rusty, foul-pipe smell of an antiquated library To recite words he just penned about loss and His darkest secret, cryptic, told to strangers In front of a mic -- dark blend of blocked memory Mockery, turning away from Elinor, her modulated Southern admonishing accent punishing a name given to him by his mother -- one fellow instructor spared further tongue lash. Brian had a new secret. He failed the woman Who encouraged his writing, encouraged him To risk his love of words. He would hide 20 more years. Heart repeatedly jabbed by Her blue editing pen years after. Couldn't construct Any more visions on his closeted journals. Couldn't see the point of the publishing dream Maybe fiction? Her white hair make her forget Him? Is her dark secret also a forgotten memory Of the last time they would share a molecule of air Together? Elinor is celebrated for words that Bend just so on even lines, and she wonders Naively about the world and future at 78. The Woman who reminded him of his mother, outlived her, still thriving at 86. As of three years ago, according to Poets & Writers, Elinor travels to Give readings, splits time between her homes In Upper Michigan and Florida. Is photographed Spending time with her well attended flowers But does not return emails from a former Student still waiting for approval of his latest Poems. Not her style? She could never see the World through his eyes. Though, she wonders About it. We will all die, except Elinor who will Muse and we will sigh at her thoughts of white Birch and blue waters from their shared origins Calling her, unlike Chattanooga, Tennessee, Her birth home. She must like trains? Or Has she rejected engineers, hot, dry weather, Hill people, racists and rapists because they Do not exist in Elinor's world? I wonder, too. Her use of 'turned' was uninspired I reveal: http://elinorbenedict.com/excerpts.html https://twitter.com/glaedrfly/status/911252808124518400 |
She would have been 94 years forever young today. Happy Birthday, Mom.  Her love of books and poetry inspired a young lad:
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While Listening To Our Song Apple blossoms gone I swirl with you Round the verdant room To our favorite song Lilting Leaning, I whisper Deep into your ear I'm dying, I'm dying One last dance bare On dewy delight Clover cropped Our autumn bright -- Fades in blue eyes Fades to white Tightly we hold on Crash with crimson sun Into that good night. |
| Another 1-Finger Type Leave Leave it alone See how clouds swirl... Leave Leave it behind Smell autumn's arrival Hear dry foliage clatter Forgotten laundry Soon unpinned stems Come Come over here Touch dewed lawn Come Come to my voice Taste sweet apple Savor sour perfection Look Look my way Harvest this Not memory Do not mine Rockpile of thought The sun soon departs While it lasts Come cast a look Leave it behind I cannot In good conscience Leave him behind I cannot A poor boy confused Refuses to leave Ruddy-faced Blond, blue-eyed Delusion Does not know I cannot Pure in heart Look ahead I cannot A delicate child Scared to come Mussed clothes Bare of foot Fears, still Hasn't realized I cannot Quit him I cannot come To his aid We're both stuck Go on ahead We're all right here Say goodbye to autumn The sun, vistas Someday seen Before you go... Too dark I'll be here Until we meet again. I was beautiful once Realized too late Can't get it back Still inside me I keep reaching in But something different comes out Grasping Regretting Shrugging Energy spurned Humming deep within Teasing, reminds I was beautiful once Innocent, lost Still in a dark Husked heart Unsheathed When I near you Truth lighting My cavernous soul With no eyes I yearn to be within Reside with you Describe for me What's there So at least I can shed a tear I was beautiful once I did not know him At least I did Time forgot I feel him And he won't come out. |
| "You don’t get to control everything. You can wake up at 5 a.m. every day until you’re tired and broken, but if the words or the painting or the ideas don’t want to come to fruition, they won’t. You can show up every day to your best intentions, but if it’s not the time, it’s just not the fucking time. You need to give yourself permission to be a human being." http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jamie-varon/to-anyone-who-thinks-theyre-falling-be... |
A Tribute to 💎 Stan Stanley  💎, one of the good ones Writing.com forgot:The Veld “So hows life treating you?” Wobbling my hand, "comme ci comme ca.” Phrases I have used countless times throughout my life without thinking twice just carried on with my routine for the day. (I)n the early hours of the next morning, when I went to bed, I was starting to drift into what I call neither world, neither here nor there. It is between being awake and sleeping, my body relaxed mind at peace with myself. It is also when I am most vulnerable to unwarranted fears and unwanted thoughts. It was then a thought lay on the empty stage of my mind, like a white plastic carrier packet laying on an empty street at night, in the circle of a street light, waiting for the wind to sweep it up. The thought was waiting for me to carry it away. Knowing from past experience trying to sleep would be more exhausting than getting up, I got up quietly made myself a cup of coffee and sat outside on the porch pondering on the thought: “So hows life treating you?” Herman Charles Bosman once said, "Sometimes at night when the world is very still, a soft wind comes sweeping across the veld. Then, if you are outside and listen very carefully, you can hear the story it has to tell." Miss you, my friend. Brian All rights belong to him. Attribution to a deeply reflective, poignant man who suffered 'high grade' bladder cancer. My sorrow for his departure from our community. Please share his words and memory. |
| A poet is like a murderer, Leaving clues at the scene of his crime, Hoping you piece them together, Come looking for him; So he can kill you Where he lives. https://twitter.com/glaedrfly/status/906485083896520704 |
| Stream of Life Snub-nosed Cruising past perilous outcrops The stream of life Hurled rush Pushes me ashore Tail battered Scarred Sometimes bleeds Redirects, Flips, whips I shimmy higher The stream of life Rushes around Sends me down A sandy stir Dust up Rippled skin, Scale-worn Deflect Float again into The stream of life Soft, Bubbling Sends me again On a journey Little fins coast Eyes alert Body sleek Shimmer beneath Cool glass sun The stream of life Unaware Tosses me asea Turbulent tide Monsters quake, Glare, menace My feeble flesh Narrows to hide Dark wasteland The stream of life Fades fast Leaves me be My misfortune No business here Little pond So long ago I miss home I look back for The stream of life Invisible, gone I'm on my own Goodbye |
| Painting No matter the ups and downs The times we cause each other's frowns I stand by a beautiful stream Flowers stun, monarchs freely dream Longing only for your loving touch Longing for the One I need so much The only tears I chose shed are of joy, Our life with the artist and wonder boy No matter the black din that divides us Before it all falls apart And I'm staring at an empty vision in my head. Finality forces us summarize Slow down, look around I'm doing a dance here. No partner, music? Think I'm going to stop. Context, Brian . |
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In the Falkland Islands, internet is very limited and very expensive. The place I'm currently staying only lets me use it in the middle of the night, so when I have to get up at 3 am to check my texts (no cell service to the US here unless I'm on the internet) or WdC, I don't do nearly as much as I used to. 
I currently have 2 very long emails I still need to get to from several days ago. Anyway, I miss everyone, but I also miss sleep, so there's that. 
Have you spoken to the doctor about your vision problems lately? I know there are special glasses for it because I have to wear them to read much ever since the brain injury. It's part of why I now only listen to audiobooks instead of reading regular books. It took 8 years for anyone to diagnose it because I have a brain injury and while one might think it would be obvious to me that I see double, it wasn't. Partly, my brain does a fair job of compensating. But also, partly, you use your brain to realize and understand that the 2 images you constantly see are double vision and something you should mention to your eye doctor. Since my brain was damaged, even basic things like that can escape me. 
I never once thought to mention it, even with annual eye exams in the Army and an exam every 2 years at the VA. Though, in my defense, since it happens in something like 41% of people with a brain injury, it should have been discovered by an eye doctor much sooner. 
I know doing that activity is a CRAP TON of work. But you made a difference in lives, not just his, but for all the people he's reviewed since. 
Well done! 
