We are each ─ to enjoy and be ever-regarded as ─ just Galleries of our DNA.
All that we did and didn’t do, make, or say; some of sum of all that everything, to be remembered when gone as someone that was here, then… when… by the little bits they left … from the lots they lived.
Ergo, why not give all of the any that you have to be given ─ as and when you’re willing.
And no, that’s not a question.
My healing is willing to do some of the sum of that this year, here:
posted-presents from me to me, and so too, to you.
If you do.
The seventeenth of each.
A little of the lots of me, here summated… and ever sure, they be just some of sum of the everything I am part of, that is our Here (created).
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FEBRUARY | 17th
When it comes to walking the talk of putting ourselves first, most of us are very good at talking… And why is that? Sure, no one wants to be walking as the always-moaning irrit, or the guy 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 sound like “…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 THE LINES 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 I’ve used (in the 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 literally. 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, each one is in his or her 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 we have to hello, 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’s assemblings.
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.
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MARCH | 17th
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.
Welcome to the Church of Me.
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APRIL | 17th
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.
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