Wednesday, 19 June 2013

Weeping Glacier

We cut a
Diamond staircase
Into the Misty Mountain 
Where maiden tears 
Frozen sea.
Aqua blue 
See through
Pearls and prisms
Graced resting giants 
frozen chest.
And wind whistled a
Sharp crisp call
Across the suspended
Ancient slippery vein;
That is slowly 
Slipping away

Shadows dance free

The naked woman who leaps

Into the painting of her own shadow

Bathes in the cleanse of the mother moon

Lets her Shadows dance free.

Sunday, 16 June 2013

Feeding the Tiger

"The world is but a canvas to your imagination." (Henry Thoreau)

A sphere of infinite possibility orbits beneath your feet. An endless stream of nighttime stars and distant galaxies conduct orchestras of light and unknown echoes deep beyond the blackness. 

Yet you sit here stuck searching for a story. Something to anchor your creative potential; a bone to chew; something to get the creative juices flowing. 

You wish to salivate upon the empty page until it is soaked with your shine. Yet all that emerges is a stuttering dribble;a jagged rimless vessel of jerky words. Where no sense wished to emerge. 

You look to the moon, gibbous and gorgeous in the corner of the western sky.
And it smiles silver,
a friendly fang incising the dark. 

You are distracted by non flow. Confused by the conflict between the desire to create and the thickness of your fingers that wait for download. They are hungry to pounce across the qwerty map, devour vowels and consonants. But no you still dribble. 

You dally around the flashing cursor as if some lightening strike of inspiration may at any moment tremble through you.

And still nothing. 

You shut your eyes take deep breaths ...'dream me up a story' your mantra...dreaming a starting line. 'Give me a place to start on this canvas of possibility.'
 The harder you try to focus the more restricted your creative tendons feel.
Your mind has become your Achilles heel.

Aaah and now your fingers are loosening up and there seems to be a slight swell of excitement. Like  the tide is about to change. Like the moon is about to tip some magic dust your way. A shovel full of wonder to twinkle over you.

In the absence of outstanding literary endeavour you pick up your pen. You choose to use this empty moment to develop characters. They're as boring as the blank page. You put down the pen in disgust and restlessness begins to pinch you.

You return to the keyboard hoping, praying for something to emerge, something, anything...and you wait. You keep the words flowing, that's what they tell you to do. 

Don't stop not now ... Keep going , just keep doing that... Aaarrrgghh like chasing the elusive orgasm. You know it's there but nothing seems to free it. Nothing seems to get you to the  point of no return. 

The sweep subsides it was just a tease. 

The mind returns chuckling at your foolishness and the fact that you thought you could just make a start and the rest would simply flow. 

Come on where are you. Impatience arrives. Not welcome but there nevertheless. You cast it a cursory glance but decide to truck on. Adrenalin begins to kick in. The race has started. Dopamine enlivens the neurotransmitters and the thrill of the hunt starts to bubble through your limbs. You can feel it. Searching, seeking, chasing that elusive tale, prose or bombshell thrilling creative moment. 

You crouch in the shade of the human brain panting, waiting, knowing it won't be long now and soon yes very soon all will be revealed.
The thunderous crack and roll of outstanding creative delight will pour through you, your veins will tingle and the tiger will be set free. 

The tiger will run from stand still into sleek speedy pursuit of the unsuspecting story line. You'll catch it by the tail, bite its neck, bring it to the ground and devour it. Belly first. The guts of the game. 

Blood and gore of unsuspecting bright pink flesh will burst and splatter across the page and you will shiver with delight. You will have conquered the drought. The famine will be broken,  the gods happy and the writer fed again. 

Wednesday, 12 June 2013

Wakes me up

                               This crispness

                            That bites my skin pink

       Seeks my attention

               Calls me into its breathless

 Cloudless blue canopy

Challenges my wintery perception

                       Lures me from my heated sanctuary

                         And walks briskly with me

                                         Through a glistening morning

                                           Into a shivering noon

                                    Wakes me up

                           This crispness

                       That pinches my cheeks

Aloft and upward

Whispers it silver sliver

Of moon in blackness

                              Constellates my upward facing awe

                            Beyond the hearth of my retreat

                                And walks softly with me

                               Beneath a sparkling cavern

                                               Into the clarity of night

                     Wakes me up

                        This crispness

                      Seeks my attention

                                   Bites my skin pink

                                              Pinches my cheeks
                                                   Walks with me
                                                                      Wakes me 

Sunday, 9 June 2013

Leave my light on

"I am not what happened to me. I am what I choose to become." (Carl Jung)

Seeing through the fog is never easy. Most of the time you need to put your lights on. Not that they help they just create more confusion, yet they do help others to see you coming toward them. Lights on warns others that you are approaching and they can prepare for the fleeting moment when the two vehicles pass each other with less difficulty. Lights on eases the situation. Simple really. But what about when the fog is not the out in the physical world, instead it is swirling around inside your head; a slapping grey cumulus cloud full of cynicism, negativity, sadness, anger. Not so easy to flick the light on. Not so easy to warn others so they may prepare for an emotional collision especially when they can't see the fog and they are still driving in the light.

For two days I've been in and out of fog. Reminding myself that it will lift, it will clear and my view will return to its normal self. Yet this is all part of my 'normal' self.

The shadows that squirm and tease and tighten my chest, constrict my throat, lock my jaw, furrow my brow and lift my nose into a sneer are all real. These parts of me still waiting to be owned, acknowledged and entertained.

So much crap comes up. The crap I thought I'd cleared out long ago. Perhaps it had just been tidied up into a neat little bundle waiting for the next rainy day. I know its no longer relevant but it does intrigue me.

The truth is when I slip into this foggy state I feel creative.
I feel like I could write a heart bleeding squeamish psycho drama and yell it out to the world.
But I don't.
I try to remember the pain, the blackness and the psychology of it all so I can use it for a character in the book I've yet to write; so I can twist it into the shadow of the sunny side up perfect heroine.

I procrastinate. I don't write it down. I don't run away from it. My body is to heavy with it. I can't distract myself with the endless dribble of housework or a brisk walk outdoors. I want to sit still and feel it. I actually love the stories that bubble up. The turning points they have been in my life. They must have been poignant otherwise they would not be so clear and easy to recall.

 Without to much detail, but perhaps one day all will be revealed.
They show me the genesis of patterns.
They show me why I don't reach to far,
why I haven't stepped fully into my abilities and strengths
even now as a grown up.
They reaffirm my reluctance.
And once again I am safe in their swarming incoherence.
I am locked inside their miserable monochrome memories.
And I can stay there for as long as I like.

These past days with the re-surfacing of these old foes that I have allowed to become allies to my non-flight I felt the time is actually coming closer to releasing them. Some of them are seriously juicy, full of unnecessary shame, anger and fear. Some of them I can see with the benefit of adult hindsight, and a bucket load of personal development, were challenges in humility, others were testing my commitment to keeping peace (as in don't rock the boat) and protecting others around me. And to be quite honest some weren't all that bad they just for some reason impacted me at the time.
As a child I didn't understand the depth or far reaching implications of forsaking myself. At the time it just seemed the right thing to do.

Some of them showed me at a young age that there are some confused, unhappy and nasty people in life. Instead of getting angry I sucked in my experiences and withdraw into
a tight and comfortable inner world.
A world where I found plenty of space to hide things.
My things.

I learned to fit in, say the right things, wear the right clothes, do what others did: blend in.

Of course there has been (and increasingly are) plenty of times as an adult when I have made choices purely off my own back. And from the outside I know people have seen me as 'gutsy'. A 'shield of bravado' or being so pent up I have no choice but to 'push through' (before I explode) have been my devices to get on on through the world.

Fortunately I do love life. I do feel those elastic clear moments where all feels in flow.
I understand and fully agree with the current campaign that we
'create our own reality'.

I have experienced spontaneous moments of utter connection, deeper understanding, expansion, heart-FULL-ness. Remembering all this in today's fog I realised too that many of these more painful stories that stick, that just won't go away are gifts waiting to be revealed.

 They are painful points in my path that have been offered and stored waiting for the day when they can be shared...and received perhaps by others needing to hear them.

As an adult I can reflect on these childhood and early adult memories and understand them from a new perspective.They have given me an understanding of the diversity of the human experience and opportunity to explore the human psyche.
In short they have given me
fodder for stories.

 I enjoy and know I can write; my excuse is (oh, you'll love this ;-)...) "...but I don't have any interesting stories". Today I realised that the time for me to share them is nigh. I have an urge to write stories, prose and poetry and my experience, my knowing can be weaved in. 

 I can distance myself from the deeply personal (and not wanting to surprise or expose others - oh dear there it is that 'keep-the-peace-don't-rock-the-boat-protect' pattern again :-)), while not compromising the personal depth and vulnerability that comes of revealing oneself through ones art; and in doing so hopefully amuse, touch and awaken others.

I can share the point and possible power of my stories in the cloaks of fiction and narrative.
I am beginning to see this now. The fog is lifting and
I'm going to leave my light on.

So now looking back at the Carl Jung quote at the beginning of this post, and trying not be too ‘convoluted-new-agey’ I would like to add:

I am not what happened to me.  I am what I choose to become.

My past is a part of me,

I choose to see it as a gift

Weaving into my present

As purposeful



(...ready to blossom)

Sunday, 2 June 2013

Upon a tide

St Leonards, Denmark WA

Within the Baltic  pine walls of this little red chapel
Half arpeggios floated from bass clarinet, kissing the edge
Deep double bass undertones curved the sanctuary arc
Cello strings wavered to silent stillness
Breathing the haunting magic of violin
Wind and strings wove a trail for the words in waiting
Prose  and poem spun yarns of shoreline inspiration
Recalling moments of ecstatic submerging and deeper revelation
Singing bowls echoed the fathoms of  seas
Guitars and ukeleles brought songs to the surface
All together
Upon a tide of many sounds this current carried us
Through deep waters to shorelines
To home