Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
Printed from http://www.writing.com/main/profile/notebook/stuka
Please follow an ASR rating.*
As The Crow Flies


         There are many things that I take great joy in remembering, and many things that I would rather forget. When you think about it, there are many things we can attempt to run away from in life. Memory is not one of them. Our memories are always with us, our welcomed or unwelcomed companions. Positive and welcomed memories are often those that we turn to in times of great stress. The very image of a loved one or happy time can go a long way in keeping the mind from unraveling.
         Memories are the stuff of true amazement when one considers that they may last with pristine clarity for a hundred years. A childhood memory can resonate as though it happened just the other day. That is truly amazing. Just imagine, our bodies grow older and more feeble, and those things we took delight in doing we can no longer do. But the memory, it is very often as clear as to when there was a spring in our step and a twinkle in our eye.
         To be certain, memory defines the very life we live and is the life-line to life itself.
I love my memories, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Good or bad, I don't want to lose them, as I would be losing a part of myself.
I've found myself dwelling on the not-so-pleasant memories far too much. I have had to force myself to think of the Joyful ones instead. Now I make a concerted effort to replace any bad memory rising to surface immediately with a good memory. It has helped me appreciate the journey of my life much, much more...including the good, the bad, and the ugly!
Crow, you are totally right about our memory defining our life. I had a friend whose brother developed amnesia from an accident. He didn't remember the family dynamics of his older brother beating him up when they were young and now that they were roughly the same size as teens, he didn't see why his older brother should always get his way. It was very interesting to see how different he, and thus the family, was without him having his memories.
As The Crow Flies

Final Exit

It does appear, at times, that all things make very little sense. These are the times when a man might question his reason for living. It is, after all, true, that in one fluid motion there is the seeming end of the pain of endless error, desire, and clutter of emotion. So dare I consider the final decision, the simplistic and practiced movement. The very thought is a scandal, a phantasm, but who can see but God alone; and who can expiate but the same, and so am I fearfully emboldened. It is an approach toward the precipice by the outrageous thought alone. Is it not the meanderings of a woebegone spirit walking through graveyards, conversing with residents? But, oh, how those long sleepers are to be envied. Deep and silent is their resting place as though they did sleep without dreams. None bothers there. They are removed from all interruption. There, the worm is silent, and the mole sees nothing but his myopic path. There is no waking, and no toll of the bells; there is no pushing through a stupor of mind and body. Also, no one will shake us to our irritation. However, I cannot forbear, so I must say it now; I am dead! You need know nothing more than this, but I must confide that I was never more loved and lauded than now. Never did hearts so yearn for me as those who sit with me now and gaze upon my still features. How perfectly still is my repose. Oh, that I might admire my so perfect pose. So, yes, though I will soon call the worms to their feast, I care for nothing for that. So hurry along you momentary mourners, you strangers, and those who dropped in for a doughnut, or a smoke on the steps. For it is my time you squander. This is, after all, my final exit.
As The Crow Flies

**Here is a poem written about the finality and helplessness of death.


Is this helplessness a perception of mind or a reality of flesh? But no, it is a sure reality. For what is there in me that may stand as a bulwark against what I cannot see? He stands in shadows, as patient as stone. He will wait and count the beatings of a heart, which he would count forever if a heart could last. He follows, unnoticed, witnessing the laughter and the tears. However, he shares neither, for there is no care nor pity there. He is witness to the spades symmetrical work where tears water-thirsty soil, but he offers no comfort. He is never coming, for he is already here, and never to leave, never to leave, a silent specter of stoic countenance. Is he waiting for me, or am I waiting for him, helpless either way? Do I walk through gardens of stone, searching for my etching? Am I helpless to sponge away the letters and the guilt as I stand in the rain with mourners? They may retire, returning to life and laughter, but I must remain, held fast in acrid earth by the marker of my passing, helpless. I long to go with them, but I may not, turning to look upon a stone and the life that could have been; helpless.
As The Crow Flies

A New Entry At Last *Delight*

It seems like forever, but I have finally added something to my portfolio. I'm embarrassed to admit that I don't know how to create one of those thingamajigs so that you can go right to it, but just go to my port and it's found in the article folder. You may be yawning, but I'm excited.
If you just wrote it, you can type {item: and your last like 8-10 things pop up and you can click on it. Otherwise, you can go to the page and copy the item number and then type {item: then paste the number and then put in the closing brace.

For example...

{item:2109126} shows "The Contest Challenge

There are also big items which are as follows...

{bitem:2109126} shows
The Contest Challenge  (13+)
Join our challenge by entering a contest at least 12 out of 13 months. Win Badges!
#2109126 by Schnujo is NaNo-ing

Congrats on your newest item. *Smile*
As The Crow Flies

What Image To We Project On WDC?

         You could never decipher the many types of personalities on WDC. Do you really know the type of personality you are? There're many that can very honest in their self-appraisals, while there are many others that have difficulty seeing themselves as they truly are. Others of their writing colleagues may be able to give them a self-analysis, but they often remain resistant to seeing the big picture
         There is a line in Hamlet which states, "To thine own self be true" There are, of course, problems with being true to a self that you don't clearly understand. You have heard it before, but it is of the utmost importance that you know who you are and what makes you tick. Projecting an image is one thing while being that image is quite another.
         And then, there is the problem of acceptance. Do you want to be accepted for who you are, rough edges and everything else? Would you be as generous to others? Have you been hard on other writers, touting the 'tell it like is line?' To be sure, telling it like it is might be seen as an expression of one's own frustration being projected toward others.
         I will be the first to admit that I have not always been as patient with others as I should have been. I have seen posts that stirred within me a certain intolerance. Most often, I clenched my teeth and remained mute. At other times I vented the frustration. When I did decide to put in my to cents worth of bile, it only made things worse.
I understand my personality very well. Those that know me well understand the heart of the man inside. That's the heart I would like to project to others.

I am me...trying to fit my craziness under one umbrella is counter productive
As the crow flies

*From the pre and post-mortem collection

A Garland From Her Hair

A garland from the hair of our maiden fair,
That once breathed the Spring and Summer air.
And, as was your way, ran hurried up the stairs.
To fall upon your bed and write those secret thoughts,
Your lilac pages of virtuous naughts.
Then did Summer wind blow softly upon your bed,
And touch you gently upon your head.
You were tired, you said at first,
And then you burned with insatiable thirst.
And now we have but a garland of your hair,
Reminding mother and me of our maiden fair.

**A poem written from viewing a framed memorial wreath made from the hair of Ada Duncan, who died of Diptheria in 1877.
As The Crow Flies

I wrote this poem late Thursday night. It came from a sudden feeling that washed over me and I thought I would share.

A Broken Heart

Why is it that a heart can break when thoughts of life emerge,

And all the sadness of this world like waves of the sea do serge.

When remembering things that happened that never should have been,

Brings such heaviness to certain hearts that flood with memories of them.

Where weeds of time do grow and grow where not a flower can bloom,

And ghost shuffle across dusty floors and search from room to room.

Tell me why this life is sad and nothing sweet solace will lend.

Oh tell me now while there is time before this heart doth end.
I really don't get the laughing emoticon.
Oopsie! Yeah, I get why you didn't "get the laughing emoticon." Apparently my thumb hit the wrong button and I didn't notice. I apologize. *Hug1**hug**Hug2* Maybe I should stop looking at WdC while on my phone. Or stop looking at strangers' stuff on the newsfeed. If I'd made this mistake with a friend, they would have just been like, "Oh, it's just Schnujo." *Laugh* Anyway, my mistake. I meant to hit the Heart. *Wink*
As The Crow Flies

Are You Inherently Sad?

          There have always been those born under the mantle of sadness, or at least a proneness to melancholia. There are, of course, doctors that could give long and complicated explanations as to why this is so. When it comes to more cut and dried answers the conclusion is usually, we just do not know.
         It has been found that most people get depressed at some point in life. The stresses of daily life are often too much for some. Others have experienced some form of trauma in early or later life which causes them to experience bouts of depression.
         However, in spite of the great number of depressed people, including those whose condition requires some length of stay in hospital care, there are those who appear to be of a more melancholy nature than others. As one writer says, you can be prone to sadness from birth.
         What can we learn from this? Probably the most important lesson learned is that people who have a tendency toward sadness are not mentally ill. To feel deeply and to see beyond the common spectrum of life should not be considered a sickness. Intensely sensitive individuals feel with the full range of emotions. They have the ability to express deep empathy and sympathy. They are in touch with whom they and others are on a profound level. If such feelings are to be seen as mental illness it might be preferable for this world if more people were possessed of such a malady.
         Throughout history, some of our greatest artists were prone to bouts of darkness. Whether writers, painters, or any other such type, they produced some of their greatest work while in a state of melancholy. Was that good or bad? Who can really say? The problem is that, whoever they were, they were often cast into the same light as those whose sadness overcame them and they took their own lives. However, just because a person is of a sad nature, does not mean they will end up succumbing to the extreme result of that sadness.
         The fact is, believe it or not, some of us lean toward the shadows of life. We certainly have the capacity to enjoy all that life has to give. But, consider this solution when those melancholy waves wash over us, it is then time to listen to the more somber classics and take our pen in hand.
As The Crow Flies

Home At Last

Throughout my life, I have often questioned the substance of who I was as a human being. As I am nearing my seventieth year, such questions and considerations have become exceedingly crucial. Although it should have been obvious to me that I was caught in the vortex of an existential crisis, I had yet to define my frequently searching state of mind. However, although it has been long in its incubation, I am joyously happy to have deciphered what has been the inmost drive of my heart these many years. I see life as a great sadness. I could weep for that sadness, but my weeping would be without end. Taking one day at a time and being able to express the disquiet within, may well be my only salvation. In any case, it's good to be home.

"My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. Everything interests me, but nothing holds me. I attend to everything, dreaming all the while. I am two, and both keep their distance..." Fernando Pessoa
*HeartP* *ConfettiB* *Bigsmile* *ConfettiO* *PartyhatR* *ConfettiP* *HeartY* *ConfettiB* *CupcakeV* *ConfettiB* *Bigsmile* *ConfettiO* *PartyhatG* *ConfettiP* *HeartY* *ConfettiB* *HeartP*
*BalloonB* *Quill* *Bird* Happy 4th WdC Anniversary, Crow! *BalloonG* *Quill* *BalloonB*
*HeartG* *ConfettiB* *Bigsmile* *ConfettiO* *PartyhatB* *ConfettiP* *HeartY* *ConfettiB* *CupcakeB* *ConfettiB* *Bigsmile* *ConfettiO* *PartyhatP* *ConfettiP* *HeartY* *ConfettiB* *HeartG*
*Confettir* *Balloong* *Confettib* *Cake2* HAPPY 4TH WDC ANNIVERSARY, CROW! *Cakep* *Confettio* *Balloonr* *Confettiv*
As The Crow Flies

To The Unpublished

         There is little argument when it comes to a discussion as to whether writers would like to see their work published. In spite of those who say they write for themselves and have little concern about what others think. I believe that attitude is a method of self-preservation. They may be afraid of finding out things they do not wish to know.
         For the rest of us, seeing our work in just about any publication would be nice and self-affirming. It would show to us that someone felt we were worth there time and effort and that we had something of some importance to put before others.
         So, what it really comes down to is this: we must decide to be content with our writing without the need to be published, or we must be willing to put whatever labor is necessary for getting our words into print. It really is a very simple either-or. You can write for the love of the craft alone, or do so with a more specific goal in mind. It boils down to whatever you can live and be happy with.