one day, when the interested see interesting
from the breeze we swing with
and the mystery of history makes sense
when the time between those
like an Angel’s song goes
leaves you breathless
and if their stint
still left a mark that lights the dark
on our collective character reference
then wouldn’t it be a proud moment to know
as if we could
that we stood with humblest of them
as if hovering on horizon
like a star
Franky. Yanky. Play hanky panky. Promises with fingers crossed behind backs like so skanky. Give gifts. Receive same. Sign that you know of Liberty, then take it. Trade it. Wage it like commodity. What proof can you hand our youth when uncouth action is the retraction of truth? Constant. Arrogant. Their memory sieve, should at best forgive…
By hook or by crook, if lenience is the title on the book — then where be benevolence? Forgiveness? Understanding-sought-deliverance? Deliberate is the duck-diving convivial… when book not in first-language written, the understand of behaviour behaved-back is invisible.
The fragility of accountability is embossed like braille over an earth seen from heaven. Hope. Faith. Truth for rent… from leaders all temporary genuine.
I wonder how often reflection trumps deflection when not insistent on being first to have their say? Do they every wonder about these things I call the Gallery of DNA?
This is our time to try to turn… temporary genuine, into contemporary genuine.
Every maker has his marks. When mine are written, for some subconscious reason, ‘ergo’ is the word I cannot forgo.
I heard it roll off Julia Roberts’ tongue. The wan of four letters unknown to interrupt, I had to look that up, which now props me same for fitting connection within descriptions. To salute and say and there to share ~ this is the rouse my art builds.
When by music I make mine, Madonna’s quote is never forgot. Not for the reasons readily read as obvious, but because of this: just when I thought my Dad might say “I’m tired of all this Madonna that you always wanna… show me!” He didn’t. There, he stared. So still. In the secret of his ill. He watched until it was done, and then he said ‘Wow! She really is quite something.’ But, like he meant it, you know? It was that clip. With that quote. Of all in her catalogue, there and then, he heard the truths from that monologue. So as someone unique, and rare, and hopeful to be fearless, I salute the spirit of that when I compose to say things in my own way, that I share like rooms in a house, from the rouse my art builds.
I labored such leaning and loves for The Light of the Sun that I shared on February 18, 2016 (and no doubt worked on, up to, and all through the 17th).
How happy I was to have and hold that, there, then, when I did. And then too, to watch as anyone else did, that day and over the time unconsciously used ~ and therein becomes evermore unpaused.
Babies of benevolence should have their siblings — of sorts. That something yang for the yin and yadda yadda yadda… Because, well isn’t that the very design that decorates the hall in each and every Gallery of DNA?
I like to think so.
It’s like an Opus.
Like… Mr. Holland’s Opus.
I remember how moved I was by that story. The layered labours of a man who wants to make with sound, and then with it to ultimately meet his deaf son somewhere, where they can.
The movie tells of Glenn Holland’s story as a musician and composer who takes a teaching job to pay the rent while — in his ‘spare time’ — strives to be true to that vow only he really knows, to vibrate closer to his goal…
Michael Kamen wrote the score. He was born in the 15th of April, 1948.
I green-eye composers as the most capable artists, forming theirs from passionate compassion, where EQ leads IQ into symphonic storytelling that must look something like the Milky Way.
He also wrote the score for the 1991 Blockbuster Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves.
As a loudmouth for what losers I feel bullies are, the tale of those who take from the rich to uplift the poor is tireless and all torque to me.
Historically, currently, globally ~ and locally now if not (arguably) more than ever.
Because the absence of such fairplay-fighters produces persecuted populations that recoil inside rings of ice… like ours, here in South Africa today. A place where Prince of Thieves has taken on an entirely new meaning, and would be a fitting signpost for out front the R246million-home of where our highest hideousness lives.
Back to me, who — four hundred and eighty two full moons after I merriment’d my way onto this speck we float through some giant warehouse of wonderment on — would like to share something of the sum, with this:
My pocket full of compassion pulses because of that which lives in my chest, and is as bright as what rivers nudge along mine network of veins.
I know it because it kneads me as much as I need it.
Ergo, and still:
Torture is alive.
Talent is alive.
Telling the truth of how you experience the difference between the two, to those you talk to — or the mirror — is a service you owe your soul ∞
between The Light of the Sun
and by The Bright of the Moon.
Thanks for coming to another quick-change I’ve quivered and quaked through here.
And for it, I hope that whatever you do with the rest of your day, please take this with you:
You are The Light of the Sun, that grows in that and too beneath The Bright of the Moon.
Don’t shine your Light where others won’t shimmer theirs as salutes back at you.
Julius Caesar lost out to 23 conspiring cowards for what history calls his last day, this one, the Ides of March. Isn’t it fitting that to them, he was the only exception? And they, for his downfall (and any coward collective, anywhere!) may be aptly described as Casual Juries.
Quite the shoe-fits as an anagram of Julius Caesar.
The threads that hold us together – or fray for forays of confusion before confirmation – are sewn where we seed them because of our need to sometimes-sample and sometimes-snuff what comes of that farming.
Inside it, or in the prowess of looking back upon, the denial or dancing-after respectively is some anagram of our pain. Shuffled. For different gleaning, meaning, and preening.
Ista Quidem Vis Est ~ or throw me to the wolves at night, I’ll fight a good fight. Throw me in the wildfire, I’ll fight the good fight… Caesar, Joan of Arc, Noah, Nat King Cole or Alexander McQueen… would know the same inside-perspective of the days of delight and dark to them, as each of us do – to us. As shuffled. For different gleaning, meaning, and preening.
So whether more hark or lark, finding one anagram for IDES OF MARCH to read FIRMED CHAOS is mine here.
When it comes to walking the talk of putting ourselves first, most of us are very good at the talking parts…
And why is that?
Sure, no one wants to be walking as the always-moaning irrit, or as the guy who’s always making sure his own war-cries are top of the agenda. Because that would almost definitely put you, she, he or I into category: ugh. There where the references rallied go “…that guy like totally literally has an excessive interest in himself… Like no jokes. Bible!”
So we anagram our pain.
An anagram is a word, phrase, or name formed by rearranging the letters of another. Like ‘pain’ for example, which can become ‘I nap’ – quite funny when you think about how most of us handle that example, yes? Even though underneath it, we always know something isn’t as sharp as the tools in our shed should be.
‘Heartbroken’ becomes let me keep busy, call my cousin or the banker and see if I can go on a holiday, and no doubt because ‘lonely and scared’ is easiest buried when we decide it’s a good time to load new land scenery.
I think breakdowns happen a lot more often than the ones that take us down, but just because we hurt in ways that aren’t halting or necessarily harrowing, doesn’t mean we’re not held to ransom by what we’ve deemed ‘stuff’ less than worthy of its own headline.
Until the headline reads:
DIVERSIONS ARE ONLY GOOD PLAYMATES UNTIL THEIR OUTLINES DISSOLVE
There are actual medical equivalents of this subdued willingness to keep the unnoticed just that. There’s the silent stroke that shows no outward symptoms, an absence seizure for epileptics, and a silent heart attack (which discriminates against none). While without announcements, a silent stroke still causes permanent damage to your brain and there will be scars left on your heart no matter how quiet any attack there.
So we hear about someone who knows someone who met someone who endured this happening to them, and follow that up on cue with the freak-out, first: that these happen, second: wondering whether you have had anything like this, and third: acknowledging the lingering-becoming-louder paranoia, humming how am I supposed to help myself if I don’t even know it’s happened?
So how is it that paranoia almost-always trumps our passion to treat ourselves to some *cough* narcissism? Or at least, sooner than we do. Before we’ve cleared our timetable of doing everything for everyone else, and finally like totally literally, decide it’s okay and shouldn’t pose a problem to anyone else if we take a gander through the Gallery of our DNA?
If it sounds bad, there has to be a good side, right?
Life leans in ways that will have us riding square wheels through its hard-time hills, which – whether it feels that way or not – also discriminates against none. And we know that we know this, when we see, hear or read about others’ hills they rode, once they’ve come to where they are when they can war-cry about it all.
Depends where you are among your hills when you hear them, I guess.
The James Baldwin excerpt (included in my mashup below) speaks of poets and their re-telling our truths – for the healing we all need, and that which comes with reflection.
The artistic metaphor is not one I stand by exclusively. I believe that, just like writing and music are The Church of Me, a person who loves to garden, weld, knit, fetch the kids from school and get them ready for extra murals, build muscle in the gym, wage war in a computer game against unmet friends made through an internet connection, take pictures, look at pictures – whatever starts the smile from inside their chest – there is every he/she in their own reservoir of goodness. And there is the hallowed hello from your Church of Me.
Just like these little trip-ups eventually call our attention into headlines – triumphs work the same way. There on the other side of the breakdowns, when tremors become more thrilling, and the building you began work upon starts to look like something more than just a dug-out foundation with materials set aside it, your chest-smiles grow and eventually present something composite of your new architecture.
No jokes. Bible.
Maybe you could enjoy some nonresistance to a little narcissism?
Mine for the purpose of this share – though surbated – are summated here … as / in / from and for ~ DRAGONFLY LEA.
Some stories need pictures – moving or otherwise… others don’t.
You’ll decide when you craft your own – as and when you do.
Whether that is out loud for anyone to see and or hear… or just between you and your thoughts while you’re in the shower or the traffic, or when you have one of those pretend-arguments in your head where you get to say all the things you would have said – when you weren’t so on the spot…
Because you feel them, then, and they make such perfect sense to you in that space!
There are always going to be minutes, months and moments… that do, and that don’t matter.
So… with that in mind, does it then make more– or less sense to you when you hear the words:
“Time goes by… so slowly…”
Because there are always going to be minutes, months and moments… that do or don’t, and that did or didn’t matter. Still, dance among them we will! When they are sacred to us – sounded-out through pain or pride… prominent and bold or in the bereaving between us… because you feel them, then … and they make such perfect sense to you in that space.
I once wrote a piece called I know a rape victim, because I watched her eyes as she told me she was that – and then, there, I knew she would always journey that story’s hell – in different ebbs and flows – then… and since…
I once made a mashup that started with what I imagined ‘it’ would say – if HIV had a voice. Because I know too many people who hear that – whether in the healing or hell they live with, in that always-journey with its different ebbs and flows – then… and since…
I don’t condone victim blaming, shaming, racism, sexism, destructive hedonism, blasé-ism… or bullying. Which, if we – or I here – am honest, is all of these, before and after it becomes any of the titles that history and our stories label it with.
The girth and its greatness is the division where dialogue is denied.
Have I been a bully?
To affect harm or to diminish?
Because I know the feeling both become, before and long after the fermentation of purgatory’s station; and at the very understood-thought – I’d wince… because… I know the hell I’ve lived there – and since.
It’s not okay to just say I was misunderstood, there, on the ground I dug my feet into – like thug – just because I wanted the other to see the human in me talking my truth to he, she or they…
To be heard, from the words I would…
Self-deemed, deserving deity?
And I will laud the lonely gaps I see when we give in to what we’re given, versus what we in our heart of hearts believe in…
You know which fights are worth fighting. Why would you airtime the ones that can’t when they fake attempts at igniting – anything…?!
Like all issues, Feminism – for example – is due dualism, worth its dialogue! And that is a deity deserving all its own. Pick which lane you want to accelerate in… and then go safely, for speed without care saves none and just makes more morons in our collective, ever-eagerness to unthinkingly become dumb.
I recently went through one of those very-ugly-for-reasons-long-reduced things, that pressure-cooked contempt and its equal release were to such points that “ugly” wouldn’t’ begin to describe them – from any perspective. But ugly isn’t really surprising when the suppressions become the sickness – right? Right. So better now. Or will be. Point is, in that there, then, there was a person I needed– and knew I could call. And so that night, when I got into bed, I opened my notepad and wrote this for her:
life is like music
and bars of eight where we celebrate the miss-guessing and hot-stepping
through the open ones or hairbrush-singing
outside the un-fun when we commiserate spate for them come upon locked gates
friends are like music
in bars and bars from eight without veneer means no need for linear which life never is when in it unscripted not cryptic or supposed to fulfill any sort of hat-trick
after time gone and sunsets done crimes and their fines healed from alone’s seen-signs over dry-grass lawns or ceilings stared into until dawn while the world is asleep and you feel furious at the creeps or just lie there and weep
then, there, just as you would be
things just as they should be
with some in many not in every episode so that cameos aren’t catapulted or camouflaged as anything less or untoward
but just there then when the things that should be traveled as I rather than We reminding you that things are always just as they should be
that is soul business and there’s no other quite like it your fit proven alive by that nudge through fog under moon echoed by swoon
of Howling Dogs
it is there
the Universe will kiss
like Kettle Mist
✯ ✯ ✯
We did amazing things!
Yes. You – and I – reading and writing this.
And here’s why: Because You may not know just how much, but you wrote these with me.
And we wrote these stories Differently. Realities that were sometimes soft, often not and thumped out as bigger sounds in booms – and bytes.
So thank you… thank You… THANK YOU!
Your Light is Tall – and I salute it from here in mine, with this:
Space isn’t a derivative you can look up in the book of relationships. That is because any book – other than your own diary – that calls itself a ‘book of relationships’ is a phoney from cover to cover. So there isn’t any guideline or guilt-trip for those who need, want, take or impose it.
Space that is. Between them and any / any other / others.
I guess the test then is the translation of that into whether you
a) re-meet, chat and the other of everythings that go with that, or
And because there is – and I’m paraphrasing here – no guideline, or guilt-trip for those who need, want, take or impose it, there can be no right or wrong from a or b, so no pass or fail and therein I suppose, no test possible, after all.
But – and again – I paraphrase: Don’t panic … aint nothing going on but History … it’s been coming for some time.
All that said, it’s been beyond nice to hear your voice again, Kim!
So… there has been so much outpouring of love and Light in the shared news of what headline’d Finn’s. And with it, we THANK YOU!
We also promised you some inside info – the “secret” we called it… But, and here’s the thing… it’s not a secret. Because it is YOU all – and that Light you give! In the comments and messages and inbox’d words… Still… if this sounds confusing, then here… try this:
✯ ✮ ✯
I know you know what I mean when I suggest that you have a friend that you like a lot, because you have invested the time that validates your allegiance… but will still have mutual friends who write them off, or have assumed big things based on small amounts of (the consumed) information… and so, when you can, you try to use the forum to sell the Saint parts of what many others see as just-saline?!
After I shared 5iftySe7en, my friend Nundi said that she learned so much/more about Madonna via listening to my share… and therein such prize for my presentation!
Still, these (my) relentless ravings can and will be interpreted as juvenile, often. But not unlike a station you can bitch about for its programming – or ultimately choose to switch from – my loves here are plastered in the same way. No one has to watch or hear what they choose not to.
After the Paris attacks in 2015, a friend of mine I’d known for a decade un-friended me because I’d said on Facebook that I found it annoying that people would change their profile pic and/or share the (then, that day, very generic) #PrayForParis one… And I said so because I am very sure that these kinds of considerations to such topics are fleeting. And so very, very vapid.
I was not nor have I ever mitigated the seriousness and intensity of this global issue and its traumas! My point was (and is), that if you are going to make a statement – DO and BE a statement!
I don’t think that because you clicked your mouse a few times and changed your picture, for those in your friends-list to see, is anything really in to turn the tide for the way the world responds to– and deals with acts of terrorism. Sure, it shows you are aware of current issue and a sensitivity for those closer to flames than you may be… but, most who do that – believing it makes a actual difference – will in the hours that follow, go back to allocating their cerebral capacities to the next Kardastrophe – or similar…
Anyway, since re-acquainting, I proffered VNFVKVRSLF\5OOTWORK as in retrospect of my own sentimentality and intimacy to the issues, but one I’d compiled in context, . soon after the second bouts of attacks on Paris at the Bataclan Theatre… from as small or not my vantage point is.
My angle here isn’t that I deserve a medal for creating the collection of content included therein, but that these do take hundreds of (love-filled) hours, and ideally click with enough people to start or feed conversations around the mix of messages offered…?! That may be a dinner table of two, or four or more… But, sure… Is it any better than changing your profile picture or sharing one? Maybe not… Perhaps I am simply biased – for and within my own context?
So, whether it’s Alanis, cheese, poetry, heart-strings heart-sleeving stuff or my girl here, this is my way of taping the torque of my truths onto others’ art. Theirs. These. Herein.
✮ ✯ ✮
It’s almost this deities birthday. And during the planning of this mashup, I also came into some unhappy news on the birthday of anothers… Madonna has in the past, offered some pretty powerful messages in the context of her having a child, the way her understanding of Love changed therein, and how that made her experience life in different, clearer ways… Ergo, a good fit, for me, here and now.
You don’t have to spend 46 minutes on the chance you may learn something different, be surprised, amused, mused or bemused, but if you do like music, a great story and have the time – give it a whirl.
And if you’re already a fan, I doubt you even read this far before pressing ►
With the state of news-reporting being what it is, I thought I’d stage an intervention. And do my own. It’s unwitnessed. Probably not LIVE. But still less generic than the news you’ll hear anywhere else, yes?
It may not be now what it was to me then… the glean, sheen of America’s Marketing Machine. But I know that that’s (also) because the world has shown – and shows – the untolds that, as a kid you never knew you didn’t want to know about, until you already do…
I grew up ensconced in TV’s heyday, whence the States set the bar for how glistening that was begot to everyone who did: almost all the (Western) world – watching on screens both big and small.
‘Small’ then didn’t define the device, but rather what was a literal translation of affordability – a snowy, black-and-white output versus full colour… the full-stop that ended the statement of your bank-balance.
“Fascination” would be the laziest of understatements to describe my slack-jawed green-eyed-gawking at Green Card central! The planet’s HQ – as far as I was concerned. Held highest… and for the longest…
I wanted to see the twinkling lights of Los Angeles at night; to witness whether steam really did seep upward from Big Apple’s streets, and whether the Keyes unlocked the summer inside, when from in-car and across Florida’s beaches, you basked across and under its sun…
I can tick off the latter two, and can confirm that those filmic representations are not strange to their there-and-thens…but just the norm that I (we?) put on fascination’s pedestal.
Sad, that the world’s sheen is lost when we graduate from tween and teen.
And oh if only to see and do then, when the mind is open to ~ which is all of it!
But I’m not here to Debbie-downer with longing for the glitter and magic from old calendar days’ ticked.
I’m here to ask you to dance…
…or simply sway…
It’s Independence Day!
Something America makes a big noise about… and so they should.
And so should we all!
Independence should be a global holiday.
As and when – for everyone, in theirs there, as and when.
and Every Me.
nor thunk too small…
Pride has just been commemorated in passion’d places across the planet. Most loud, no doubt. Some less so, I’m sure.
Still… what is that?
And why should it be so pronounced?
This is rhetoric.
I’m not anti, except for that I don’t think that the being-pronounced can ever really be deduced to one X on the calendar. And so I often wonder why these commemorations still are? So as to wait 364 days to dance that pride again?
Well that’s just pressure-cookings waiting to combust!
And then?! Would these be spontaneous? Or when the X says okay, go!
This is rhetorical.
My Finn just celebrated his fourth birthday… and whether madman or coping mechanism, my talking as / through him is therapy, regardless.
Ergo, he now knows each of us to be “centimetre-beings”… And so be it!
In a world made of steel… made of stone… and from this sentient being to you – be your centimetres Black, Indian, ISIS and / or Gay – I hope you make the Pride of your passions an everyday goal.
Some of the Loves we live for are harder than others to explain…
If they are yours and you feel that or them… or those, there…
…then, by G-d…! Best you raise the fckn’ curtain!
Because to those who do, even the hardest of us aren’t hard to love.