When a tree falls in the forest...

...and no one is around to hear it, and there's a songbird sitting in it, does it make a sound?

Of course it does. Don't be silly. What do listeners have to do with anything?

They have a lot to do with everything, in fact, but back to the original question.
Doesn't matter who listens for sound to occur, but it does matter who listens for sound to mean something.


One of the biggest struggles of my life has been with sensing that I am not being heard and understood.
Enter; the written word. Co-starring: music!
When I sing, people listen. I have noticed this recently.
When I write, people read. I have noticed this recently.
I am a slow, slow person.

Well, thank you, all; you're so patient.
I guess I need to start a newsletter for my family; perhaps they will then pay attention and read, too!
It would be a printed version, hence the need of the fallen tree. Then they could each have their own copy, both for practical reasons and for posterity.
(I could sing it to them, then perhaps they would understand what is required of them in this little family.)
It would be like one of those pioneer woman diaries; but it wouldn't, because life is pretty different now.
I bet it was dreadfully difficult to be heard and understood in the middle of the prairie; your neighbors speaking another language, maybe even hostile; no marriage counselors and books on relationships at the ready. No TV, computer social networks, cell phone; no nothin'. Just you, and some paper, and a few other people if they hadn't died yet. If you were one of the fortunate ones. A couple of pieces of clothing to wash now and then, hopeful a working shotgun to clean regularly, a row to hoe, mmm-hmm, perfect, now I'm feeling guilty ever complaining about anything. Perfect!

But if I feel like complaining anyway, I can sing about it. Apparently the drama involved is pretty effective. Or is it the sound of the voice? Don't know, don't care; I just enjoy it so much, it doesn't matter.

I have found that it does matter to me, very deeply, though, if folks understand what I'm communicating when I sing. So it doesn't make sense to sing in a forest where no one is around to hear; nor in my bedroom with the door closed, which is much more probable.

I left the forest. I like it out here. I like when you enjoy what you hear, and when you let me know it.

Someone felled my tree, and I have flown off to a happier roost. (Thank you, "Tree Feller"!)
You probably didn't hear it fall, but you can hear me singing at a coffee joint, maybe near you.

On "doing pretty good"

Ha!
I did pretty good last weekend. (Okay, "well" is proper, but I'll pull out my poetic license if you want to see it.)

At our city's annual festival, WHFR had tables of promo CD's; dollar apiece, a bag for $10. (You know I went for the bag, right?)
Knowing WHFR, (89.3 FM and www.whfr.fm) and not knowing much about most of what I was seeing, I was excited anyway. :) (Hey, they play some wonderful and some really far out stuff!) I figure, that's a pretty good use of almost half of my discretionary spending for the month; me wanting to listen to different music and all.

My 2nd listen; "Love Big, Us Small" by Jan Krist. So, if the rest is garbage, I did well,(I mean, good!) Enjoying this a lot! Really nice disc.('Tho, I doubt the other stuff in the bag is all refuse; I see some intriguing material in there...)

Ha. Sometimes things work out pretty well,(I mean, good.) Mostly they do, for me. Really. How can I complain? A little (bigger than I'd like) leak here, a temporary pain there, a lot of mess. Whatever. (That's negotiable and disposable.)

I am surrounded by wonderful.

Good music in my head, good love in my heart, beautiful kids, a man of integrity. (He's pretty cute, too.)

I guess "doing pretty good" didn't start last weekend with a bag of CD's.

I've been doing pretty good for a long while. Sometimes, takes some little something to remind us.

To remind me.

Don't post on facebook when you're mad...

... and other smart ideas.

Make sure there are no objects in your hand when you scream at child.

Put a pillow over your head when you bellow obscenities.

Make sure the windows are closed, too. Pillows have a way of moving rapidly.

Get it all out in one session; saves time and energy.

Do not, under any circumstances, look victim in the eye until the carnage has passed.

Upon completion of necessary tirade, quickly self-intervene with rational measures:
Disengage from artery of victim.
Do not drive for 2 hours, unless a matter of life or death.
Do not dispense punishment or judgement for 24 hrs.
Do not self-mutilate, deprecate, or agitate.
Do pray ferociously.
Do reflect upon God's gracious mercy.
Don't call you mother; she'll remind you what a lousy mother you are.
Do not communicate with negative people.
Do not call father of said children home from work, unless there is morbidity involved.
Do not message him regarding his spawn; he has work to do, and that's not fair.
Remember that children are a blessing.
Try to visualize and remember bringing them home from the hospital, (as opposed to sending them back to the hospital.)
Do not, under any circumstances, tabulate the exact cost of their damages at this critical time.
Do begin preparing to assess necessity for apology, and begin visualizing it's formation, if possible. This may take some time; it's okay.
Breathe.
Deeply.
Find some good music and a cup of tea.
Do not despair.
Please.

Rhyme time; (thyme? Wait...)

...have you seen Webster's Rhyming Dictionary?
(Who are you, anyway? I should address you; "Dear Imaginary Friend"...)

This thing is weird. You have to relearn the English language to use it.

I picked it up at Target the other day for a dollar; don't actually think I need it, seeing as how I have made a thousand legitimate rhymes in the past few months just using my thinker. I couldn't resist, though.

240 "ism" words, give or take 1. Including: me-tooism, hooliganism,(there's a great song waiting to happen,) Quakerism, Shakerism, (very popular,) paroxysm (note the lack of the letter "i"! Special!) snobbism, botulism, (Yum!)

I am so inspired. *snoring*
Wait, I don't snore; I talk in my sleep.
It would probably be in rhyme if it were comprehensible.

Would Mr. Webster be okay with these lists of words not being in alphabetical order?
I think not.

Need to know what rhymes with EW?
"Whoop-de-doo, Xanadu, bolt from the blue (used that last month already!),Brian Boru, Cardinal virtue, cornflower blue (that actually inspires...) didgeridoo...

It may be handy at some point. I'm sure it will. But I could've gotten a nice chai...
oh well. We all know Starbucks is more than a dollar, and one can never have enough books. Wait...

Wait; I think the cornflower was worth the dollar... I can feel it....

Okay, 'nuf said.

BABY.

Baby, baby, baby. Oooo, baby-baby. Baby, baby, I'm taken with the notion...
To say it 300 times!

Some people say not to use it in songs unless you absolutely have to, whatheheck ever that means.

"I ABSOLUTELY need to say baby here! Like, there's no other endearing term or possible rhyme!"

Some folks take themselves seriouslier(sic!) than they should. :)~

You know what?
I started writing songs SPECIFICALLY so I could legitimately say baby over, and over, and over, and over. Ok, that's not entirely true; but I think it's great fun, and has been in a jillion songs that I like, and dang it, it's mine to use and abuse, too.

Baby blue, baby pink, baby diapers, baby stink
Baby come, baby go, baby please, baby don't
Baby to the beat, baby to the end
Baby takes the heat, baby be my friend
Baby love you, hate you too; baby, can't get enough of you
Baby on a beach, baby on a bed
Baby blue eyes, baby just said...
Baby, gotta leave; baby, one more night
Baby can't do that, baby don't fight
Maybe, baby I can't make another rhyme
But maybe I'll say baby 20 more times
Baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby.

There.
I feel better.
Hope someone's unhappy; glad it's not ME!

(Baby, it's NOT cold outside! HAhahahaha!)

Hope Stands

Hope Stands
(A 21st century folk tragedy)
It started out with about, 10 to 15 verses; many, like the old songs often had. I decided I could make my point a lot quicker, so I tried.
Did I succeed?

Hope is standing at the door/She wouldn’t feel right just walkin’ in
It was her home before, but she’s not livin’ here anymore/she stands knockin’
Oh, oh

Feels like forever while she waits/wonders if he’s still around
He was her man before, but he isn’t anymore/she stands knockin’
Oh, oh

While she waits, he’s in there alright/dancin’ with an angel of light
Hope starts to walk away, but somethin’ makes her stay/ her memory is knockin’
Oh, oh

Hope stands, tears a’ fallin’ down/to the icy cover on the ground
Snow sparkles in the night; pulls her coat around her tight/her memories are knockin’
Oh, oh

Haven’t seen each other in a year/She’s been livin’ there, he’s was livin’ here
Snow took his sense away, that’s why she couldn’t stay/her knees are-a-knockin’
Oh,oh

While she waits, he’s in there alright/messed up by his mistress in white
Dropping the syringe, all finished with his binge /does he hear knockin’?
Oh, oh

Wonders if someone’s at the door/while he’s slumpin’ down onto the floor
He hears a thousand things, like a rush of wings/His heart is a-knockin’
Oh, oh

Hope stands, silent and alone/half hour gone, frozen to the bone
As he slips away, the dark to dawn gives way/No more knockin’
Oh, oh

While Hope was standing at the door/No, oh, oh/Hope/No, oh, oh

Robin Monterosso May,2011

Double Dog Dare

The queen of alliteration dares you to try this:

Go to the library, (or the music store if you're so funded and inclined;) and pick a shelf. Grab half-a-dozen random items. Take them home and listen. Criticize, analyze, etc..

Wasn't that fun? I bet you found something new that you like!

That was the basis for my "Ear Candy" list, below.

I nabbed one random c.d., then proceeded to an area that wasn't being restocked, so I wouldn't be in the way, and just pulled whatever struck, yeah, a chord. Everything from one shelf; no cheating.

Nothing I had heard, (at least all the way,) before. Like, who hasn't heard "Ode to Billy Joe" 5,000 times? But I had never heard ANYTHING else by Bobbie Gentry! That was an easily corrected mistake; all I had to do was lift it from the shelf for some free inspiration. (If anyone wants to tell me I can sing like that, it'd be very cool...)

Steve Earle may be lyrically a little depressing, but his music belies a ridiculously infectious sense of hopeful playfulness. I didn't know this until Monday! What a day.

Never heard of Elizabeth Cotten. Well, now you have, too; and this Smithsonian Folkways recording is a heartfelt breeze of simplicity. Makes me wanna learn some alt-tunings.

And then, I wonder, in each case, who is responsible for these recordings being available? Who requested or ordered them? Who borrowed and gave them back? Thanks, everyone!

I needed a vacation, and this one is so pleasant.

A double-dog-dare for the dog days of summer!

Love,
Robin

P.S. It also appears that, as previously unbeknownst to me, every one of the artists I've listened to so far from my selection, are songwriters! A heavenly wink, I think!

A fluid medium.

As much as I love paint and it's transformative powers, I have found a new love for a different fluid medium; (Oh, man, I just admitted I'm seeing other art! Sorry, acrylics!)

Songs.

flu·id
n.
A continuous, amorphous substance whose molecules move freely past one another and that has the tendency to assume the shape of its container; a liquid or gas.
adj.
1. Of, relating to, or characteristic of a fluid.
2. Readily reshaped; pliable.
3. Smooth and flowing; graceful: the fluid motion of a cat.
4.
a. Changing or tending to change; variable: a fluid situation fraught with uncertainty.
b. Characterized by or allowing social mobility: a fluid society.
5. Convertible into cash: fluid assets.
(Thank you, Free Dictionary!)

A song can be all of that! Ok, not molecular-ly, but essentially.

Words shift , words change; you change a note or an inflection; (usually every time you interpret it;) it might be a bit faster or slower. Is it EVER identical in live performance? Impossible.

Is a song a fluid medium? Does it change, vary? Obviously. And, can it be smooth? Sometimes! Does it allow social mobility? You bet! Does it assume shape? Think ice, or glass. Is it convertible into cash? We hope so, although the idealist in me struggles with that, the painfully honest girl in me sincerely hopes so, at some level.

Are songs ever "finished"? Is there a fixative?

I have rewritten one of my favorites (is it OK to pick favorites?)4 times plus. Now that I am happy with it, I am considering a "perfect" word for one little line; continually changing a word here, a phrase there, adding a bridge, balancing meter, considering repeats; I have revisited it at least weekly for almost 4 months. But, is it DONE?

Are they ever? As long as someone can interpret, play, improvise; the answer seems to be no!

It's like my, (and my sister's and mother's,) penchant for constantly rearranging furniture. There is, probably, an ideal arrangement of all the stuff. But then, it depends upon how the room is used, and how many people use it; things that can change. Basically, my brain can't process rooms as static in arrangement. I think of them as puzzles, and we even dream and daydream about it.

It boils down to a pleasing set-up at any given time you work it. After that, well... songs are open to interpretation and revision, small and great, continually. My friend Bill said, "...when you've had a publisher or artist say that they love something you've written, but they want a small modification, you'll lose your devotion to your original line in a hurry!" I'd like to experience that very fluid motion one of these days! I hope I never have to hear one of them destroyed, but too much in music is a matter of taste to not expect it at some time. But then, if that makes the song pleasing to another group of listeners, is it a bad thing?

I guess if it were only all about me, I wouldn't have anything to offer everyone else. "I" am certainly not my point in writing songs. I can fill a glass, as well as be the glass. I like to be the glass, too, for me and for others, but that's not why I write; (or the only reason to sing, for that matter.)

I hope that I write songs that make positive puddles in the world; that paint mental murals that create a better environment. I want to be the barrista of joy and goodness; of redemption, strength, caution, thoughtful wisdom; of ideals that I would like to reinforce and model. I want to empower voices that beg to be heard; to be an audible heart rhythm in poetic melody. I want to make people think and feel, and to be a relief valve. If I rant, may it be based upon the knowledge that others feel the same way. Music supplies a connectedness that nothing else can; it's the intersection of my story and "every-man's" experience; fun, silly, sweet, passionate, honest, angry, hopeful, painful; like life.

Next round's on me.

Playing catch up...

Last night, I went to bed at 11:11, my magic time. (Ask me about that later.) Slept for 7 straight hours. Got the lord of the manor off to work, cooked up a formidable stack of pancakes, and went back to bed... for an hour and a half. Ahhh. That felt good.

Haven't slept much lately; always having been an 8-9 hr. person, getting 4-6, and that not necessarily all at once, seemed to be catching up to me. Yesterday, my new, improved picking was not too hot and I couldn't type. (In truth, I barely type at my best!) These events made me realize, "I'm tired!"

I've been losing sleep by spending a lot of time the past few months catching up on other things. Kind of ironic, but, my dreams.

Music is just me. It's a base of reality. It's a therapy. It's intrinsic, natural. I had a revelation back in March or April. I know, sounds lame, but I looked at a friend and said, "I'm a musician!", like it was some big discovery. Kind of was, though. I never acknowledged it before. I "played" or "loved" music; I "love to sing", but I have never said "I am...". The larger component of the statement was the inclusion in it of an acceptance. Music is not only me, it is OK; it is helpful, acceptable, fulfilling; a gift to me and to others. It's not a hobby, it's a state of being, a life. And it's OK, it's good. Man, talk about "the best things in life are free"; and free, I have become. Feels like being born-again, again!

It's kind of a bucket-list thing; for the past year, I have been contemplating what I would do if I could simply do what I love, (under an assumption that you will be good at doing what you love,) and it was sitting right there. Don't know that it was invisible to anyone else. It just somehow wasn't OK, to be a musician, a writer. It wasn't conventional, instant money, a "practical" life. It was just my "artsy side." Guess what? I don't have another side! And, it's my good side, too. How many hundreds of times do you have to hear, "you have a beautiful voice!" before you believe it? Welp, yup, apparently about that many, in my case.

So, having been hit by a ton of bricks and a ray of light, I am juggling them at an insane pace. True, they're not really bricks; they are words; all of the words I have been ignoring, all of the melodies I have never recorded; tons of raw material that is pouring out like a fountain. I didn't realize how prolific I seem to be until someone expressed amazement. After saying nice things about a recent offering, someone curiously asked how many songs I had written since April, and seemed to think i was really cranking; I guess! All new to me. So, I am a victim of songwriting on steroids, or something. No, I don't take them, just vitamins. But my brain might be on something; it's kind of doing it's own thing, like it just got it's first car, a driver's license, and a $1,000 gas card.

In truth, only about, I think, 9 or 10 are in sharable condition. A number of them are still only a set of well-metered rhyme on paper, not having been happily joined with music to mama's satisfaction. I have, at last count, 7 varying sized notebooks going, some nearly-filled, with observation, thought, lyric, lines, ideas. Zero to 60 in 4 months, or something like that.

It sure is fun.
It feels like home.
I suspect my enthusiasm is probably annoying people.

Fortunately, the most important person is agreeable to all of this. My dear husband, better-half and quietly supportive advocate, anchor and adoring fan of whatever I am, isn't complaining about my obsession. Except, he says I need to sing louder and need a louder guitar. (We'll have to work on that request!) He seems to be ok with my new lifestyle, including the wonderful people, the meetings, the late nights, the unfinished house work. At least for now :) In fact, it's his idea that I post this entry, 'cause I wasn't gonna.

I've gone from being a person who couldn't ever get enough sleep to one who forgets she needs it. I've gone from demonstrating a level of timidity in almost everything to one who is probably out-there forward. I hope the moderation is never complete, though; I will be very happy to only come down about half-way from my crazy high. I know it won't always be this way, but so far, playing catch up is, literally, the time of my life.

Comes a time...

when you really do stop caring what other people think.
I am waiting for that moment.
I'm working toward it, and with good progress, but it seems a steep hill some days.
It's not that I don't care about other's opinions, it's just that I want to believe so strongly in myself that caring about their opinion doesn't change mine when it shouldn't.
Don't want to be uncaring, just, um, sturdy. Maybe the word is steadfast.

1. (esp of a person's gaze) fixed in intensity or direction; steady
2. unwavering or determined in purpose, loyalty, etc. (steadfast resolve)

That'll work.

I didn't have a word of the year until just now! Usually, I pick a word at New Year to set the tone for the upcoming year in my mind; (not one to make resolutions, finding them to be pretty much useless.)

Strong, not callous. Focused, not myopic. Determined, not indifferent. Unwavering, not inflexible. Not going anywhere but down the chosen road, one bump at a time, enjoying the clatter and the rhythmic rocking. Watchful, prepared for the haul; excited to see what's ahead...

are we there yet?

Resistance.

This word conjures up a bevy of images; electrical, military; most recently, to me, an image of "everything"; a swirling mass of everyday life. It is a mighty, domineering whirlwind; and overwhelming cloud. It's in the stuff, the attitudes, the places, and the people. It's in the minds of every person you see. It is all that is negative rising up against any effort forward; any effort toward positive investment.

I was recently, happily, gifted with a copy of Steven Pressfield's "The War of Art."
In his little, but loaded, book, Pressfield names the overbearing cloud as "resistance". (I'm the one with the overbearing cloud image; his descriptions are various and different from the one I am picturing today.)

I don't know if resistance is the devil, or in him, or of him; or a product of the fall; it is mystical, it is non-material, though. I don't know if it is engineered by God Himself, but I do know that it is real.

It pushes back, against, down. It hates beauty; it despises achievement. It lives in me, and I know it. It lives in you, and I know it. I think it is aptly named by Pressfield.

Have you ever struck out on a venture, or attempted something deeply meaningful, only to find yourself feeling very alone, very unsupported, very divided even within your own mind? Let alone the misunderstanding and criticism of others; even worse, their disinterest. All products of resistance.

Everything that can get in your way, will. Somehow. It just happens, even if you're simply emptying the dishwasher.

The word "transcendence" was tossed my way a few days ago; I caught it. My first thought was, "that's such a spiritual word", and my second thought was, "transcend what?" What is the enemy, the opposition? Resistance.

Transcendence doesn't mean we have to simply rise above, we can be grabbed at and pulled back under by resistance if we're floating on a fluffy cloud of superiority. We have to conquer; we have to visualize our big, heavy army boots of desire and purpose squashing the enemy. We have to acknowledge the reality and enormity of resistance, and fight back. We have to have a "cow catcher" affixed to our foreheads, fitted to shove aside the inevitable debris.

Once upon a time, "One step forward, two steps back" meant that I couldn't get anywhere. Now, it only means that I have to walk three times as far. (I think that's one victory right there; wouldn't ya say so?) Gotta hand it to me sometimes...

It's important to support the dreams of those you care about, (and who you should care about may be a whole 'nother issue.) It's important to acknowledge their accomplishments on the way. It is easy to observe and say why something won't work; to upbraid the downside. It's our nature. But love should conquer all, right? Love is part of the fight; love is active, it is an awareness pregnant with intent.

Don't be an "unconscious objector".
Wake up and join the fight.

Impatient?

Absolutely.
I really, really dislike when I have to set a song aside because "the other half" isn't there yet. I guess I'm seriously spoiled; enough of them appear pretty much intact; lyrics & something of a working melody essentially in place, that when I have a perfectly good lyric, and it won't finish itself, I'm irritated. Just as badly as if "someone" ticked me off; that thing has a life of it's own, and shoot, a will of it's own, too! Hmmm. I thought I was done having kids. :)

The sounds of...

silence.

I have been listening to all kinds of music lately, and really enjoying the experience. Even reading creates a dialogue in my head that I have to consider "noise". I find, as a writer, that in all of that listening, I am missing something very important these past couple of weeks.

My own voice.

It's great to hear and experience lots of stuff, great to explore. It is necessary. I think, though, that we very often fail to miss an essential part of the art experience if we neglect the need for "negative space". It is essential to all art forms; a canvas fully covered still maintains visual negative space; in fact, it is that delicate balance of arrangement and color around negative space that makes art great and pleasing.

In writing, it's also a balancing act; editing. What to leave in, boot out, or add.

While studying and appreciating the art of others is mandatory, and fun, our art is not theirs. Our art is our own, born from within. It is influenced by our observations and appreciation of the art of others, but it is not theirs; it must remain our own if it is going to mean anything. Our art is the expression of our uniqueness.

So, do we make time to listen to the sounds of silence? I mean, isolation from the noises of the world, the constant input and outflow required by modern society. Have you listened to your brain, your heart, lately? Have you turned off the phone(s!), the computer, the TV, the radio, and just spent some time with yourself? You know, talking to yourself, thinking, wondering and hoping? Nope, not planning. That's outflow. Just being in the moment, with yourself.

This is the "magical" tipping point of creativity. (Not really magic, but as close as I can imagine to that concept we refer to when we can't explain things happening!)
When I listen to what I have to say, that usually translates into a song.
This is where the negative space creates the word-magic; this is where Mr. Muse infuses ideas and melodies, and best of all, sanity.

ALL of last week was a blur of activity for me; doing, planning, directing, blah. I can't carry that very far without the support of negative space in my head. That's when I become impatient, frustrated. I try to impress upon my kids how mom "needs her space", but they don't get it; so I am in charge of taking responsibility for creating it. I owe it to everyone around me, and they should appreciate it. We all have our personal boundaries, and need to be protective of them. Let in the positive influences, block the threats. A constant cacophony dilutes my ability to think, to create; and the need to create is, well, great. It supports sanity. I marries the dream to reality. I think this is why so many times, in the moments before sleep, some charming phrase or spirit-ish melodic line appears. I always hope I'm still awake enough to respond to them, but it's not always the case. If you are still, they will come.

I think that's why God asks us to "Be still, and know that I Am..." Psalm 46:10. We are able to realize His presence with us when we make ourselves aware of His presence. Sometimes He imposes Himself into our consciousness, more often not. He implores us to seek Him.

Well, if we're created in His image, I think it makes sense to seek yourself, too. Not in the "god" sense, since there is one Almighty. But not much in life comes from not striving, seeking; relationship comes with effort; mutual aspiration, goals; so it is with one's self.

Okay, I've been pouring out a lot of words here. Now I'm going to go and give you some negative space; some silence; and hopefully, the encouragement to grab that opportunity with delight.

Writer's block?

I cannot sit down to write and think of.. nothing. It's never happened. There's always something.
Unless, of course, you're trying to make something that isn't there appear. This came to me a couple of weeks ago, and I'm keepin' it forever:
There are no blank pages, many are simply undeveloped.
Remember "old school" film development? Unless we're professional photographers or die-hard artists, most of us never enter the world of film development anymore. Digital is great, but, remember? There was something there; it was hard to see; mostly outlines, dark and light, but not detail visible without light and magnification. And we hoarded them like gold; the film negative.
I look at a blank page, and that's kind of what I see. The moment you begin to write, it develops.
Just as lots of the old photos I took ended up "buy backs," ('cause it's never been my gift!), a lot of times I'm not thrilled with the results of a writing session. But that doesn't mean it's not there, and not valid for some purpose, even if it's only to keep us writing; attempting, moving forward, developing. And, it also doesn't mean it will never develop pleasingly; save it for later, and sometimes the results are surprising! That's one advantage we writers have over film; the editing is a whole lot simpler.
Writers should never not write; I tried it. I didn't like it. It's miserable.
A writer not writing is like running your car without oil. To pretend there's "nothing" there is unfaithfulness at it's worst; to yourself, and to the craft. The lack is not of creativity; rather, of your commitment. If you have the gift, you have the fuel, the lube the negative.
All you have to do is use it.

Crrrrushed....

...and not eating, not sleeping, not caring much about anything except the object of my affection. On my mind all day, all night, I s'pose, when I can remember what dreams there could possibly be; none better than he. Wakes me at all hours, like yet another baby to nurse. Every distraction from his attention is deemed a nuisance, depriving me of my passion. World, go feed, clothe, and tend yourself. My lover awaits; lovingly, longingly. My lover is insatiable, unrelenting in pursuit. My lover is an obsession, a calling. His desire is for me alone, his words falling only from my lips; I am all that he knows, and only he can reveal all that I am. He overflows with inspiration; a gushing spring, desperate to be imbibed, to become and integral and nourishing element of me; to unite us forever in purpose and motion. He is jealous, and I will neither tease nor betray; no, I cannot trifle any longer with his pure affections. He has waited far too long. His intention clear, his proposal awash in unerring devotion; we must be.
Quite the mystery "man", no?

Care to Dance?

http://tinyurl.com/62claex
This would be a good album for such occasions. I can't be still when it's on. I love it. So there.

A friend warned me: "It can be a lonely undertaking, this writing thing...".

I recently found pure delight in the solitary study of writing; when it was again fresh and long overdue.

Not so much later, I'm starting to see and understand the inevitability and wisdom of his words; but only starting.

Is the loneliness bound in needing to be alone, wishing to be alone, or being made to feel alone? Is it an agent for good, for ill, or simply another tool; amoral and malleable? Should it be released or embraced? Is it a fuel or an abatement? A blessing or curse?

One true statement; many good questions.

The death of me...

...giving life to 4 children. They are the death of pride, privacy. They were the death of creativity for years; and of freedom.

Then, there's the other side of the coin. While they often kill intimacy, they sometimes create it at another level. They sometimes create a unique freedom, because they provide excuses for many things. They force you to be places and do things you otherwise wouldn't; they stretch their parents to the point that they are reshaped, and i don't just mean the flabby mom-belly.

They are the source of constant entertainment and annoyance. Children provide a horrifyingly real mirror that can be most instructive. Their comments can injure like no others, and they can validate as deeply. They reign in the tendencies of the wild and weak, and bring down the empires of kings.

They also give you something to think about, write about, dream about. A frightening but inspirational lot, children. They are the death of the old me; the person I was before. While I gave life to them, mine was being remade. It hurts, no lie. It can hurt a lot. It also inspires and motivates. I realize that now that if I don't follow my dreams, and use my gifts, I can't expect them to use theirs; for themselves, or for me; for the Lord or for anyone. Being all I was made to be is the best way to ensure they will fulfill this one treasured hope i have for them: that they will shine like stars where they are gifted, and appreciate and know the Giver of all good gifts. So, my giftedness still intact, and probably better after years of change, I now venture out against my fears; success, failure. Mostly success. Failure is an everyday occurrence; success, not so much. Or maybe not as easily acknowledged? Either way, scary. I need to shine. It's what my name means!
Anyway, as they slowly mature, I mature. We die, and are remade; we pour ourselves into them, and they are poured into us. And then, one day, it's just time for the next thing. Crawl, walk, run, fly from the nest, play in traffic.

Come alive; live the dream.

The Heat is On

Ya, i know it's like, zero out, but i just had a radiant experience. I have been overlooking a treasure in my generally-considered-to-be-substandard home. The back door faces south. The screen door is black metal with highly low-tech non-filtering glass. My inner door is steel. Do you see the potential here???
I let the dog out. I leaned against the burning hot door. My hand touched the balmy temperature'd glass. I neither left nor closed the door. I did, however, close my eyes, and suddenly i was feeling mighty summery! I got the blazing red and orange and magenta scenic view that occurs when i look to the sun through my eyelids and unzipped the very high neck of this sweater and was suddenly on temporary vacation. Sooothing. Dreeeeeamy. I think i made some vitamin D! Goody! Hail, the mighty sun and it's power to heal! Thanks, God, for a little spa spot; right here, right now :)