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Root of Desire


Chapter 1: Chalice


 An empty chalice, open, to be filled by spirit's essence, placed according to ritual, waits for its turn.

Goddess of so many duties, so many eras, so many sorrow-filled worshippers, She feels the tears, the emptiness.

"I cannot fill you. I can not fill the chalice of emptiness. That is not my gift or purpose. I can offer only what is already within you."

Almost quiet, sea sounds, dank odor of lowtide, creeping Spring carries melt of harsher climes. She stokes the fire to remember warmth when the Sun was high and strong, and present. Fire has its own secrets, its own order. As do we all, each our own furnace, nurturing a flame that is destiny. So old, She has been burnt by many flames -- blistered, scarred, hardened. She still feels every one, tastes fiery spice, seasonings, marinades. It all moves Her to cackling hysteria. You don't want the pain of knowing what She endures. You just want soothing stories, fantasies to believe in.

She understands your fear, and withdraws. No need to escalate sorrow. She is self-contained in her work and close-knit layers of exquisite aeons, sense memories, distilled lives.

"Was I a woman, then, upon the Earth, feeling sweet breeze of early Spring uplift my being when returning birds and budlings made ready for new beginnings?"

In the dark, in the cold, enclosed below that hopeful ground, stirrings still find Her. She can not miss the Sun, the Sky, the open fields. They are ingrained in Her, as there and intense as ever they could be. There is no yesterday, no tomorrow. Always all times, all places, all emotions, overwhelm, yet gentle strand by strand amuse. She has no pity. There is only action, including the action of long enthrallment, of stasis within unfolding storms. There is no room for judgment, no excuses. She sees all the rationales, the weak flailing attempts at blame, at justification.

Laughter takes Her. It makes so much more sense to revel in explosion, expelling, cleansing for exploration, for readiness to take the next step.

-----

The Goddess stands over Her cauldron, deep in a hidden chamber of Her chthonic cave. She tosses in the herbs, reciting the liturgy, long-practiced but never without supreme concentration.

Sprite sparks, disembodied voices, curls of smoke stained with potent ash, swirl about, crazily careen, above and around Her energy absorbent pot of charming, of magicks.
  
The rampant confusion clears. She sees the moving scenes, hears the clamor of supplications, feels, breathes, the stories. She cocks an ear, widens the circumference of her eyes, takes in this kaleidoscope of landscape, of cacophonous data. As She minutely discerns cloying strings of powerful souls as yet unaware of their gifts, gladly grasps familiar flavors, She narrows in Her focus, becomes more attentively intent in Her seeking, in Her imagining of journeys to be undertaken. It has never been that She demands worship. It is, She is fully aware, Her responsibility to those few who demand Her influence, those who, knowingly or with but strange intuition, claim kinship.



Chthonic wilds, primordial, ancient castings, building over eternity, silent, archetype of will, ponders life. Intrinsically senses dispair, bottomless sorrow, waste of intent of expression on such a merciless plane. She is challenged, gives challenge to her wards. Find me, at the root of desire. Your truest wish of will to be fashioned, you must give only the price of who you were made against your nature.


-----------------

Renata would not get her breakfast today. She was being unbearably willful. Certainly a Princess is expected to want her way; but there are some subjects a child of any class should be taught to shun.
  
Poor, motherless child. She is really such a sweet soul. She just does it for attention. She must be taught. We don't want to attract attention of the wrong kind.
  
Born into royalty is just being born, thrust into a time and place, people, conditions of behavior having nothing to do with survival, other than it is learn or die defying.
  
"No time for me" wasn't in Renata's thinking. Accustomed to her own company while all hue and tumult went to her brothers' training and vying for dear King Papa's throne and favor. She carried secret smiles, knowing her bravery and sharp wit belong to her alone. No, not alone. All that she can mean belong to the Goddess who carries her, from within her first principles, before awareness. This motherless daughter, before the end while birthing her, last and only conscious gift from death to birth, was consecrated to her mother's Protector, Friend, Purpose.
  
"His precious sons are his, to carry his legacy. I have paid that price. You, daughter, are mine to gift to Her; and She is my gift to you." Renata feels her mother's gift as the air of life, flowing through, in, sparkling energy, surety, allegiance.
  
"My life is mine," a sweet phrase she might sing, even knowing that in this world it is anything but.


Look at them, the twins, ambitious, rambunctious, ready to the rule besting each other; little Terrence, bright warrior in the Queen's (his mother's) eyes -- sons, heirs, worthy by their birth.

Renata knew she had been sold. Nothing so crass was said, or thought by any but her. She was betrothed to a man she had hardly met -- seen perhaps on numerous occasions in close repartee with the adults who had sold her. She was part of a treaty, a sealing of a deal for mutual gain. What should she complain of? She was to be a Queen, of a nearby Kingdom -- with all the rights of a young and pliant slave. Though she had not engaged in conversation with her husband to be, she knew enough of him to understand he would not be seeking her counsel, consolation, or companionship. He would expect to enjoy her body at his whim, at least while she was young and comely. He would provide the comforts of his opulent home and the companionship of guards and gossips, watchfully assuring her loyalty and continued ignorance of any means to power.

It could be a pleasant enough life, one certainly admired by girlfolk, frivolous women, or those in need of romantic fantasy. There would be no lack of the kind of luxury she had grown up within. Another woman would have been content if not thrilled by the prospect of such a destiny. Renata was not that other woman. She had always believed in a special destiny, perhaps implanted at birth by her dying mother's promise.

Long that Full Moon night she stood on the balcony, staring at Lady Moon, breathing in sweet night blooming herbs from the garden. She fancied hearing faint music in the rustling wind. Slowly, not knowing that her body moved, she danced, the wind carrying her like a lover's arms caught up in dancing slow and closer than a kiss. She felt helpless, unloved, unsupported. She felt a slow, undulating anger move through muscles and mind.

"Goddess?" Her voice quavered at the audacity; but she felt surer of her course.

"Goddess, I am your child." Nothing had ever felt more true.

"I am of you; and in need of your aid. You know I have not asked anything of you before. We are an independent, self-dependent kind. We enjoy challenge, figuring out the puzzles, crafting our own prize, facing the demons square on with defiance and grace. I know these are your attributes when I seem myself thus behaving.

Tonight I am lost. I have lost my lust for challenge. I am defeated, unable to marshal the means to fight.

I beseech you, turn to you in supplication. Tell me, what can I do? How can I escape this false fate that will seize and drain my very soul, if I can find no exit?"

She continued in the ecstasy of the dance, eyes closed still facing moonlight. She felt a calming presence, so near, palpable. The perfume was like sleep, intoxicating, evoking dreams. That funny way that dreams have, half-baked images, fragments take on narrative.

She was somehow, without memory of travel, deep in the forest, archetypal forest. It was deadly dark; but the trees, the moss, flower petals, glowed, an unearthly light from an unannounced source.

She was drawn to a particular tree, indistinguishable from many others, yet a presence unto itself. Without segue, a shovel was in her hands, shoveling. Her apron pockets (an apron that had apparently fashioned itself and appeared atop her dress) had supplied themselves with a mixture of particular herbs, most of which were unfamiliar. Somehow her arms and shovel had excavated ground to reveal the roots of the tree.

Strange roots, these, alive. Yes, I know roots of a growing tree are alive; but these were lively. They wriggled, pulsed, seemed to dance, though in circumscribed place.

The shovel was now a knife. She cut open a finger of root. It bled copiously, a brilliant green. She mixed the root blood with the herbs from her pockets. A song came from her lips, from her throat, from her gut, bubbling through her as the herbs and tree blood mixed into a viscous paste.

"Root of desire calls
infinite melodies
binds the seven seas
spills through centuries
cast out among the stars
essence of who you are.
Feel the root of desire
enflame your heart
realize your part
play its haunting melody
charm vibrations repair your fears,
released from harm, from chains
of foes,
find your destiny
rooted in the throes of desire."

She recognized the Goddess's chalice that held the potent mixture as it touched her lips. Drinking the potion of the root, she felt light and free. Viscous green light poured through her, igniting every capillary, every neuronal fiber. The dream receded; and she slept deeply.

The Goddess smiles, spent for this evening. She fills her chalice with consecrated wine to drink, savor intoxication of liquid fire, as embers of her night's workings settle, gently, into history.


Chapter 2: Challenge


Renata awakens. She is lying beneath a tree, on a summer morning. Her clothes feel strange, different. She has no idea where she is.

She hears other people's movements close by, smells their animal odors. She open her eyes.

Around her she sees people in brightly garbed array, some lying on the ground, perhaps a sack of belongings as a pillow, or not, some rising upwards from sleep to activity. She looks up to sky, through dark green of healthy leaves, becoming light, going through shades of hues fractured by a rising Sun. She breathes deeply, taking in what she can. It seem best to do away with expectations.

"Figure out the puzzle. Look at the pieces for clues. I am awake; and in a foreign place. I must be careful in my actions while I learn how things are done here. These people appear relaxed, not hostile."

She allows herself to rise slowly, circumspectly surveying her companions. This is a very small forest, no, not a forest, but what? Trees, benches, wild flowers, an ornate fountain not too far beyond this grove where people appear to wash and play, strange odors, strange sounds, she restrains from compartmentalizing. This must be some sort of magical kingdom the Goddess has transported her to, to save her from her dreaded fate.

"Thank you, Goddess. I will not let this strangeness detract from your great gift. It will be my challenge, my gift to you of my profound acceptance. I will find my way here, as you have opened this opportunity."

Smiling, joyful in a way she had never known before, Renata becomes aware of the curious smile of a young man in her path. His attitude toward her, she feels, in puzzlement and gratitude, is that of an equal, a potential friend.

"What shall I say? Who am I in this place?" she wonders, nervously. Experienced as she has been with listening noncommittally to those around her, she is still too overcome by all this sudden change in her circumstances that nervousness takes hold.

"Rory, I'm Rory. And you seem familiar, too. That is why you're looking at me so pensively? Because you can't remember my name?"

He is jolly, well met, fine and sandy, easy to smile with, to feel cheered and comfortable. She likes him.

"Of course you are Rory. And where are you off to today?" She delivers a breezy tone filled with sunshine and a kiss of morning dew. He seems pleased.

"Let's go get some breakfast, Sunshine." He grabs her lightly at the arm. "I know a place where the donuts and coffee are free if you listen to their boring sermon. You don't really have to listen, just pretend while you're eating."

It seems a reasonable way to learn more about her surroundings. She is hungry, but had put that off until she could learn enough to focus on food. This Rory obviously wants company in his little scam. She would give him a more pleasant focus than the dreaded sermon, and she would pick up what she could of local customs.

"You don't say much, Sunshine." He comments as they walk along roads paved of various hard materials between large structures filled with wares. Vehicles of various sorts carrying people and more goods appear on these roads, sometimes moving at alarming speeds. She concentrates on moving nonchalantly, letting the ever-changing scenery wash over and around her. It will all become clearer over time, she hopes.

"Haven't anything to say just now. I'm sure you'll hear me plenty when I do." She replies flippantly, or at least so she hopes he will take it, without question.

"Or maybe you're the strong, silent type, intense and ready for action, or too cool for words?" She feels as well as sees his easy smile, and knows they are in sync.

Concentrating on this repartee, letting the scenery be scenery, Renata feels herself falling into place. So far, so good, following through.

* * *

They arrive, enter a door next to a large glass window decorated in bright colored paint. It is a portrayal of a man on a cross. Bloody red holes mar his hands and feet. A thorny green crown sits on his head.

Inside are cakes and hot black drinks on a short table. A few others are also eating and drinking. On the floor, next to a large, tattered chair, a woman sits, rocks, dirty and worn looking. Her shaking hands make attempts to feed coffee to her lips, but more is spilled on her worn and spattered dress. She has been mumbling incoherently. She is getting louder. Renata starts to make out words.

"They fill yer belly with their babies. No more babies. They hurt and make me so sick. The men, they fill me with their nasty liquid babies. They make them grow in me, take over my body, make me sick, and cut so hard to get out. I won't take them, horrid demons. So they throw me back in the street for the men to fill me again, hurt me again. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. No more babies. No more pumping out their nasty babies. I won't. I won't go there. You can't make me leave." She burbles, gasps, cries, mumbles, and repeats her litany. She rocks her body, suckles on her fingers and strands of long, lank hair. She seems in a trance, perhaps poisoned, perhaps cursed.

From further back in the room, a man dressed in black, prominently carrying a black book, approaches the group around the table.

"Don't mind Betty. She's a hard case. We can't find anywhere that will take her." He seems perturbed by this inconvenience, embarrassed by this woman's plaint.

Thoughts of keeping still while learning how to blend in have flown from Renata's mind. She goes quickly, yet with gentle motion, to sit beside this Betty. Close up, she is surprised to see this woman is young, certainly no longer a child, but not the old used up hag she had appeared to be. Her burbling snot and tears mixed with spilled coffee and older stains make her an unappetizing sight. Yet, there is something so fragile, so sad and affecting in her defiantly defeated form, Renata can not help but reach out her arms to comfort.

Rory ambles over with more cake and coffee to share. He is awed by this instant, by Renata's compassion and Betty's plight. He wants to be a part of the drama, the connection.

"I know a squat, a place that was abandoned, people stay there. Really, it's a cool space. We could bring her there, stay ourselves and get her settled. The people, they're ok. They won't hurt her. They'll be fine. Unless you have somewhere else?"

Of course, Renata has no where else. She is still adjusting to being in this somewhere else. Why not take what is freely offered and also helps this sad soul she seems to be taking on? Perhaps this is all part of the Goddess's plan for her, for the destiny she must fulfill, the reason she has been saved from a life that she has no further need of, that was never really hers to lose.


Chapter 3: Community

Renata, Rory, Betty have what is understood to be their own room in this large house. They reside in a crumbling neighborhood, rats and weeds and broken sidewalks battling with bits and junk for identity. One assumes this place was once cared for. The structures and infrastructures must have been built with reason, with belief that they would become part of a thriving system of shops and homes. Now their reason seems to be these hideaways for throwaways, away from the eyes and minds of the good folk.

Here, people with nowhere else come, go, stay for awhile. Some few seem entrenched, even familial.

These three are acclimating, solidifying through routine safe structure for exploration.

Though the oldest of the three, Betty is as helpless as a small child. She is too disconnected from the here and now to act effectively. Betty has bonded to Renata as a makeshift mother, much better than the one that birthed her and left her to the world's cruelties.

Rory is an effective forager. He has always figured out his next move on the run, kept in touch with where what might be needed could be found. He is happy to be a helpful friend, and stay out of trouble, under the radar, easily fading in out around.

Renata has found her element. Her element is air, the sweet breeze of creative activity, the place where dreams grow up.


Candle wax melts into layered color sculpture, artistic side effect of lighting our room and conversation. A very different home and family from what I knew is becoming my touchstone here. In this short time, I am more connected to, comfortable among, these erstwhile strangers than the people I grew up knowing as blood.

Marcus gets Betty in a way I can't reach. It is more than the different cultures. They are akin, in some tribe of survivors whose lives have been shell-shocked into ever struggling in a dark mud of unacceptable circumstance. I have no desire to go there, or anywhere near. Yet it pulls me into strong love connection as I perceive their call to battle with respect and awe.

Rory is a dear and a darling. He preens so self-consciously. I know he wants to be too proud to acknowledge need. He wants to be the magickal genie -- everywhere at once, granting wishes. He doesn't want to admit to having fears, inadequacies, or craving for connection to lean on when energy palls.

Perhaps I am still but a child. Certainly I lack experience in this world's history, customs, moral code. I can still love, feel empathy for human psychic tragedy that transcends social cues. No one here seems to care, or notice, that I might express myself strangely, have serious gaps in common knowledge. Whatever their personal self-flagellations or angers, they reserve judgment against others for hurtful qualities. Mere difference is cause for curiosity and celebration. Even my slight understanding of the majority of the locals gives me grateful confidence that I have been greatly fortunate in falling among these exceptional friends.

Janna is so sweet. She makes me dizzy with her rapid dance from idea to idea, moving so swiftly, so deftly, to leave a whirl of orderly beauty. Our room is transformed with colorful scarves and cut-out picture collage, candle drippings, whatever the day might bring. Her every motion, every smile, every word is a prayer of grace. Her touch, her kiss, her breath like a desert spring, encourages life as celebration. I am learning so much about how to be this new me, outside of this world looking in while creating a sense of how to be, with Janna's calm excitement as example.

Of course I know Eddie gives too much. No, there is no way I could tell her that. She is practically bleeding, psychically, from invisible stigmata. These people, givers, spiritually pure, idealistic innocents ready to die to save the vilest of sinners, feel dirty. They don't realize that they are designed to accept and transform ambient evil with their wealth of purity. In ignorance, they too often succumb to the poison that gladly pours into them for salvation. No one told them, gave them reason to believe, their holy vocation is not about blame and castigation, but about transforming love -- which must first be learned through joyful love of self. How do I know this? I am filled with these images, interpretive stories, in Eddie's presence. She exudes for sensitives, such as I seem to be, what she does not experience for herself. She has closed herself off from her own urge to healing, to nurturing. As a result, I want to strongly to heal, to nurture, her. That kind of giving is not in my nature. Is she concepting within me, creating new traits from her influence? Is this part of her gift, beyond the obvious will to sacrifice?

She is a "she" to me, despite anatomical differences. She feels like a sister. Men can be giving, sensitive, tragic, even nurturing, able to lovingly self-sacrifice. Women do it with a denser style. Women, like Eddie, Janna, I can even see it in little, old virgin me, feel it in our wombs, that enveloping protective instinct. We want to make it alright, make it alright, MAKE IT ALL right, so everyone can be happy, so it';s not our fault, so we can relax and just be our adorable selves. Obviously, it's not about genitalia. It is about the stories we tell ourselves about who we are.

How did I get so perceptive? Well, traversing worlds might do that to a girl. Goddess, I know you imbued me with wisdom beyond my years at my birth. But, it could just be my self-applauding mind making much of what everybody is born knowing.

Isn't it marvelous that I have this new, alternative family that happily encourages me to voice these thoughts, to honestly probe confusions that might otherwise paralyze me. Goddess, thank you my soul mother for looking after me, giving me what I need to survive and more.

And here is Karl, soothing, energizing, always knowing how to move us. He never seems quite there, quite connected, quite grounded in the every day real and earnest life. He breathes a rhythmic eloquence I can not imagine. Yet, here he is, talking, laughing, eating, !@#$, carrying on among us.

I have been cast into an enchanted life, here. I feel responsible for these people, as if my presence had influenced them outside of their previous destinies. I feel grateful to them for taking me in without question despite my outrageous strangeness. They don't make me feel that way. I am home. We are kin. I hope I know better than to expect this will last beyond the moments that we serendipitously share.

My mother and I shared such a moment. No one knows I remembered so early in my consciousness. I don't know if it is true of everyone. I have always been aware. Now I am aware of these dear creatures around me in the candlelight.

We talk and argue and sing and spin and share our stories. Who could be more wealthy than we?


As in prayers, Renata explains subvocally, in reverence, her emerging relationships, her rooting in her new life. She is not wrong in supposing that her presence has become a significant influence on the destiny of her new friends. They had not before thought themselves family, or otherwise in organized connection. Her natural regality needs no trumpeting clothing or pageantry. Her natural empathy, reason, grace, and substance have not been lost on this bumbling group of perceptive outsiders. They understand, each in individual metaphor, that they have been granted access to a miracle. Beyond conscious consent, they know their allegiance, up to and beyond the forfeit of their lives, belongs to her.

Don't tell me their lives were going nowhere, and now they have a purpose. Don't tell me to spit on these brave souls simply because they were vague and unconnected to a greater cause. Catalysts are not so rare. A call to purpose can arrive any day.

Renata is a gift -- that is intrinsic to her destiny. Renata's new found family is her gift from the benevolence that is also intrinsic to her destiny. Gifts don't need to balance. They are better when they synergize.

They had been searching outward for salvation, or looking inward to identify and cast out flaws. Accessing the possibility of creating a self-fulfilling clan could offer a different kind of salvation. If it's okay to be me, how might my flaws be assets? How might I transcend labels and their limitations? In my innermost heart, I feel infinite. How far can I go if encouraged by circumstance, by the courage and comfort of true companions?

Families form over time shared and exploited for knowledge. How do I fit in? How do I matter? Not intellectualized, it is lived, inculcated, in the day by day. If a family is fortunate enough to be real, held together by mutual love and respect, the day to day can be quite beautiful. Work that flows, hardship that feels like treasured challenge, every little victory a celebration -- every defeat an opportunity; along the way, most days get to be gifts of surprise.


Swift bare feet pound and release hot, gritty pavement.

Hot, gritty pavement. Feet pounding to the beat, to the swirl. A small crowd caught up in the trance, poetry, simple music, a lady dancing, glinting with glitter and smiles that light from her eyes. Just as the hot summer day slides into night with welcome melancholy rush of breeze reminiscent of dismembered yearnings. It helps to get caught up in ritual, undisciplined ceremony. Make a break from responsibilities. We don't always have to be running to keep up with the plan. Thrown another dollar in the gypsy's bright woven basket. Her exuberant craft reminds us to delight in the moment ecstasy, a feeling of being here as a part of shared energy, a tribal peace. If we could each dance, sing out our own creations, move completely from our centers, unconscious of pressing time or important matters, how could we continue as the people we have come to depend upon to sustain the world we know? We pay for the service to our soul, and hurry on.

Renata learns this city in excursions, finding objects to fashion into musical percussives, colorful craftworks, collaged art. She finds open air markets and parks where performers display their wares. People gladly throw coins and bills into her open basket as she dances charismatically to the tunes of her extemporaneous poetry. Betty enjoys playing musical accompaniment on the instruments they fashion and garishly or arcanely embellish. People also gladly buy their crafts. It can be amazing what people freely throw away that can be put to good purpose with some love and imagination.

Her natural authority is obvious on an unspoken level to everyone who sees her. It is one of those mysterious that she, who counts on her awareness, is oblivious to her own power.

Betty plays rhythmically, supplies beats and counterbeats upon their found object percussion kit. Her eyes turn downward, her vision inward.

By instinct Renata knows just when to disperse her audience to avoid unwanted attention. The spell descends, sending people flocking back into the thoroughfare of public space. She gathers up their proceeds into her pockets, art and instruments into the basket with its convenient sling for carrying.

"Let's get some dinner to bring back to the house," she urges Better, who, pleasantly worn out from drumming, is happily compliant. On the way new objects for their artwork might be serendipitously discovered.

Happy children play.


It's getting colder. There's no heat or electricity going to this abandoned home. There is always the fear that the owner will materialize and throw them out. They need a better option.

Janna works part-time at the Mercury Diner, does textured collage, crayon and chalk drawings. Karl sells weed, fashions musical instruments, to play for coin or sell to the fascinated, out of this and that. He enjoys teaching Betty about music, which seems to be more about awakening a language natural to her. Marcus is a middle-aged street revolutionary collecting a less than subsistence government pension for his wounding in a previous war. Eddie, often Edwina, happily scams the marks, sells her sexuality on the street, performs in opulent drag, and comes home to Marcus her soul-mate and mentor. Collectively building up a pool of cash they are looking to rent a cheap artists' loft space, then promote events to get the community supporting further payments.






Last edited by libramoon, Jun/13/2011, 5:34 pm
Feb/20/2011, 5:33 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
Terreson Profile
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Libra, my habit is this. I keep as new and unread stuff I figure is going to require full attention. I do this with everybody, especially when it comes to poetry. It is the only way I know how to be honest and real. So I am finally getting around to your piece.

In Ateliers we can talk, which is maybe why you put the piece here. You bet. The wildness, and petulence, of the warrior woman comes through. And how it is that in a sense she is parthenogenetically conceived. It is true, don't you think? Renata must see herself that way. Her mother certainly does.

Prose poem's last line rather says it all, doesn't it?

Now I am wondering what you plan for Renata.

Tere
Feb/21/2011, 11:39 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
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Thanks, Tere. I'm playing. I am in the early stages here of what is looking to become a long fiction (not sure yet how long). It's a story I've been thinking about for a few months now, about a woman consecrated to a Chthonic Goddess who is able to transform her life into one very different through magick. It is not one of those Goddess fantasy hero stories, but a magical realism about finding oneself.

As I said, this is very early in the game. I am looking forward to seeing where it goes as it works its way through me.
Feb/22/2011, 1:14 am Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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This is exciting, Libra. I'm feeling privileged to watch it unfold.

Chris


Feb/22/2011, 10:27 am Link to this post Send Email to Christine98   Send PM to Christine98
 
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Thanks, Chris. I hope it unfolds well.
Feb/22/2011, 1:36 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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I'm playing.

Hi Libra,

Just wanted to say it's nice of you to play here where we can peek in and enjoy the creative fun. emoticon
Feb/25/2011, 9:00 pm Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 
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Thanks, Katlin, for encouraging my play. It is so nice to have this space, with all of you enjoying recess in your various styles.
Feb/27/2011, 2:13 am Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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quote:

libramoon wrote:

Thanks, Katlin, for encouraging my play. It is so nice to have this space, with all of you enjoying recess in your various styles.



You reckon it is a playground with many sand boxes?

Tere
Feb/27/2011, 12:46 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
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sand boxes, jungle gyms, swings, slides, the whole deal
Feb/27/2011, 6:55 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Just a note to advertise the new edit.
Mar/5/2011, 3:16 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Re: Root of Desire


I've read your edited poem in light of what you've said, responding to the Durer link Kat gave us. I can't fully remember the original, but I get the sense of synchronicity you point to. Durer's subject could, in fact, go by the name of Renata.

Something else occurs to me, something I've pointed to so many times I run the risk of being boring. There is a class of poets, always women, who, when they speak, I feel as if the earth herself is speaking, telling her mind. This through a kind of ritualized enactment of what the earth herself sees, feels, thinks, desires. I've never gotten the same sense from men poets, not once. Truth is it is what I come to look for in women poets. It is like an atavistic fall back to the Wild Women, the Maneads acting out fertility, and sacrificial death, in abandonment of stylized dance before they got tamed and transformed into the Muses.

This is what comes through here. The title rather says it all, ne's pas?, what the prose poem itself fleshes out gives body to.

On a different note, I too am drawn to the motif of chalice and cauldron, which are really one and the same. Elsewhere in Ateliers I'll post two pieces, one a poem and one prose, to the theme. But not here, since, not wanting to take away from your thread. Subject heading will give the clue. Of course, mine is a man's take only.

Tere
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Re: Root of Desire


Another note, another edit (or rather, expansion)
Mar/12/2011, 4:48 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Re: Root of Desire


and another expansion
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Re: Root of Desire


Hi Libra,

I finally had a chance this evening to catch up on your expansions to this piece. I am enjoying the way you are telling the story as well as the way the story itself is unfolding. You have a storyteller's way about you and have packed a lot of setting details, character development and action into just two chapters! BTW, it was nice to learn where the title comes from. Looking forward to reading more as the tale progresses. emoticon

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Re: Root of Desire


hi Libra,

I'm following your story and I'm intrigued by
the turn it just took...

Waiting for the next installment.

Chris
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turning back


"I wasn't aware that we had a leader. Something needed to be done. I took the initiative, and the responsibility. That gives me no authority."


Backstory

Rory - mercurial, self-defined, needs to be free (Gemini, Uranus)
characteristically bright, curious, a man who knows where to find resources because he travels around the blocks
He takes care of himself, expects no back-up. His deep desire is a cause or community we can believe in. He strives with his need to serve, for his energy to be part of worthwhile endeavors.

He's got people, family; but they never got him. Maybe his mom did, sometimes. She's mostly spaced out on prescription happy pills. They help her hide from that constant anxiety of desire to be doing the right thing, to behave well, to fit the mold that never fit her quite right. Brought up by abusers, a long line of alcoholic losers, she feels so lost in an overwhelming world.

Dad wasn't like that. She thought of him as her savior. He tries to hard to make her be right, fit in, not embarrass him. He comes from a decent, hard-working, family values clan. She was so pretty, so vulnerable, so in awe of a secretly frightened about his manhood boy. Once she was pregnant, he had to do the right thing, for her and that molly-coddled boy. It became alright with the others, children that took after him and his. He could be a proud papa in the appropriate places. At family gatherings, football games, dance recitals presented so charmingly by his little princess and her talented friends, he could beam out his true worth. Elsa and her Rory might be disappointments; but she did make up for quite a bit with the rest of the brood she produced for him. At least she knew enough to keep quite, nondescript, not drawing too much comment beyond a pleasing sympathy for his long-suffering benevolence from concerned friends and family. He assures himself that it is just the right kind of concern that honors his position, not overly solicitous denigration. His Elsa is likable enough, if pathetic. She does obviously try so very hard to please, to overcome her inadequacies, even if falling short seems the best she can manage.

But that Rory, though certainly of his siring, was no son that Max Salinger could claim with pride. Mama's little helper, cute when he was barely more than a baby helping to care for younger baby brother (who later making papa proud, came to despise this caring brother for his womanish ways), became more irritating when not outgrown. The kid wasn't even pitiably gay, as far as Max could tell. Girls seemed to like him just fine, and he them. But the boys who ought to have been his friends, brothers of his brothers' good buddies, wanted nothing to do with him. They weren't actively hostile. There was no call for hostilities. Everyone in this social circumference understood his place. Rory's was that of the tolerated, but not accepted, fool. The girls that liked him did so more for his attitude toward them as interested equal, though not put off by his, if effete, charming good looks. Regardless of his social standing, he was happy to be on his own, following his bliss of the week. His busy mind abuzz with curiosity, with chance adventure, could not be bothered with tiresome bandying rituals, small talk going nowhere, the popular qua popular. He danced to his own drummer, thank you, because this drummer is cook, hot, and right where I want to be.

The street can be all the theater one could ever need, for free. Why waste time striving for so much less?

Finally 18, so they can't touch him for being underage, he's feeling fully good about himself, his proven ability by now to land on his feet, keep his eyes open to danger and opportunity, go with that old cosmic flow and enjoy the ride.

Hear Rory roar.


Nobody likes to talk about Betty; but you can bet we cream over her (secretly, all cozy in our beds, in our heads and groins).

Nobody likes to admit what casual cruelty we are capable of. Gang-raping children because we can doesn't appeal to our desired self-image. Her mother allowed it in exchange for food, a place to sleep, the blessed drugs to keep away the pain of knowing the endless, hopeless misery life had become. Or, she was alone on that dark street, lost and frightened, with nowhere safe to go, no one protecting her just then. Her sexuality tempted me, in all that frenzy of bonding blood cries, heightened primal energies, hot insistent bodies falling under ritual spell. She is but a sacrifice, a holding cell for sin. There is no freedom for will to grow within her, only unwanted, tainted seed, thrust outward from the nauseous collective psyche to poison her potential. Does she need to be defined by what has been done against her nascent will? Is there salvation in finding a slim, hiding, healthy cutting from her core, carefully planted and watered in hallow grounding? And what of all those other sacrificial lambs? What cosmically sympathetic vibration can be turned to healing, calling forth a will to grow whole, to become one's own desired destiny?

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character sketch: Karl (#1)


Karl
The Musician
lives in a world of vibration.
Each experience-ordered sense memory
carries along a current
of song
He listens for the frequencies
in every item that intercedes,
works out the right and the wrong.
Call it destiny, Chorus of Fates,
or remembrance of where he belongs.
Rehearsed Lessons of history as told by devout
philosophies
miss obvious chords of diversity
perceived by those immersed in pure tone.
Never at loss or alone,
always at home in reality,
ever intent on clarity,
he listens and learns to play,
more competent every day.
Karl, those who know him say, is a man we can
depend upon. His song is his bond.
His word is his muse.
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Re: Root of Desire


Somehow I missed "Turning Back" until tonight. This is some fine writing. I mean, what is the point of characterization if the characxter's personality doesn't come through, which it does here. In all cases.

Tere
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Janna


Janna feels.
Janna sees beauty in unlikely places.
Broken bits of treasure catch her imagination.
She deftly knows which pieces go together,
show interactive, amusing, yet profoundly moving aesthetic family.
She loves passionately every bright buzzing being that delights her day.
She wants, deep in the night, in her tears, in her innermost fears,
in what she laughingly calls her soul,
she wants that glorious lover who will make her whole.
Janna is wise, welcomes adventure or whatever arrives.
She knows how to juggle multiple lives, keep them all thriving
by enjoying the joke, not letting broken heart bring her down,
scolding that frown till it jumps to a smile.
She was never and always a child.
At play in the world, Janna's a right clever girl,
yet never seems to get past the dreaming stage.
Janna's at an age where she hasn't much to lose.
Someday she plans to choose a place to stand,
a partner's hand, a hearth and home.
For now she'll let her moments roam as they may.
Janna feels deeply;
lets that carry her completely.
That's the way she knows to make it be okay.


April 12, 2011
Apr/12/2011, 2:23 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Re: Root of Desire


Good stuff. Janna is someone I know, have known more than once in different women. The line that stops me is: "She was never and always a child."

My name for her, or maybe for her sister, is Mignon. Mignon is a literary character Goethe invented. From the south of Europe, exiled to the north, and sorely homesick. She again appears in a minor mid-19th C. opera. There she is traveling far and wide in search of her father. A third time she appears in a 20th C novel by James M. Caine where she is a Southerner in New Orleans during the occupation by Union forces. Her father is a Confederate and an insurrectionist to whom she is devoted. The Union officer who falls in love with her must choose between his love for her and duty. About Mignon Goethe said this: "What's the world done to you, poor child, to hurt you so?" Got to be the same gal, or at least her sister.

Tere


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Marcus


Marcus

He's learned to love his demons -- best of drinking, drugging buddies. They do give him an old familiar scare. Keeps the heart pumping, the adrenalin junkie ready to rumble. War wounds.

"It's not my fault -- it was war. I had to do my job, what was commanded. It is my fault. Of course, it is my fault. All mine. I could have let them kill me. I could have done the honorable thing and ended this stupid life. I could have, should have, never joined to serve my nation, to be a bully for democracy. I could have been a different man."

Belly laughter ensures.

He is a very different man from back then in the field of battle. He is broken, but never ridden by any but the demons he calls his own.

Great friends, good listeners, demons hang on every word. Every blessed word of profanity, gives them little shiver dances, enhancing their macabre smiles.

"God, drugs, that's the thing, the binding force that nature allows we buddies at arms, in my head, on the ragged road we call the street.

We need a home, guys. Sneak into this likely empty boarded brick and mortar. Just make sure there's no gypsy boarders to give us a fight.

Yeah, we can have a good old time, you demon memories, you story screamers, and me with this sweet LSD that kid laid on me. That kid I laid. What was his name? It will come to me when I see him again. It's good I have this pint of cheap brandy to keep warm. No heat here, in this abandoned homestead. Sewer and water pipes, though, are flowing. Get to take a real bath at last -- can't remember when. Good for these old bones to find some comfort. Not much here; but great wealth of privacy. Law enforcement doesn't even bother to extend an appearance. Nothing left to steal -- no one to exploit. No one know we're here."

Marcus parties, lets the world morph into dark hellscapes he knows well.
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Re: Root of Desire


Libra,

Wow! I just read through Backstory and the other character sketches. This is all so rich, varied, full of startling insights and much good writing. You are not afraid to go into the dark places in the human heart and face them head on while still retaining a human/izing perspective. This is really good stuff. Thank you for sharing it with us.
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Re: Root of Desire


Thank you, Kat, for being so encouraging.
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Eddie


Eddie/Edwina


He/she secretly calls her/himself
"abomination"
Cat calls constantly claim "Pretty!" in fascination
A pleasure to the eye, the hand
appeal to fantasies all men have
far from procreation.
If life be sin, why not cash in on
that wage.
So much more than whore, though, this
child man who would be womb
to chosen kin.
Those wise enough to seek treasure
of intimacy such as she can express,
they bless by permitting her
to give.
Apr/25/2011, 3:23 am Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Re: Root of Desire


Well, this is a different kind of conception. It raises up a number of associations for me. The hermaphrodite for one. Another is the androgenous character, psychologically speaking, of both men and women I've know. Also, in ancient Middle Eastern relious rites devoted to the Goddess, variously named Inanna or Astarte, there was the office of the holy prostitute whose work it was to bring into the holy precincts men who through a kind of sympathetic magic would then sexually encourage the fertility of the land. A sad, personal association it raises is a boy I once knew, just such an Edwina type, who could not accept the nature of his sexuality and ended his life.

"If life be sin, why not cash in on / that wage." This stands out.

I am very much enjoying the purpose to which you are putting your Ateliers thread. I hope it is fun for you.

Just rembered something. Mozart's Popagana/Popagano (a bird girl and boy) in his opera, The Magic Flute. A lovely duet.

Tere
May/7/2011, 1:04 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
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connection


Backstory

Rory - mercurial, self-defined, needs to be free (Gemini, Uranus)
characteristically bright, curious, a man who knows where to find resources because he travels around the blocks
He takes care of himself, expects no back-up. His deep desire is a cause or community we can believe in. He strives with his need to serve, for his energy to be part of worthwhile endeavors.

He's got people, family; but they never got him. Maybe his mom did, sometimes. She's mostly spaced out on prescription happy pills. They help her hide from that constant anxiety of desire to be doing the right thing, to behave well, to fit the mold that never fit her quite right. Brought up by abusers, a long line of alcoholic losers, she feels so lost in an overwhelming world.

Dad wasn't like that. She thought of him as her savior. He tries to hard to make her be right, fit in, not embarrass him. He comes from a decent, hard-working, family values clan. She was so pretty, so vulnerable, so in awe of a secretly frightened about his manhood boy. Once she was pregnant, he had to do the right thing, for her and that molly-coddled boy. It became alright with the others, children that took after him and his. He could be a proud papa in the appropriate places. At family gatherings, football games, dance recitals presented so charmingly by his little princess and her talented friends, he could beam out his true worth. Elsa and her Rory might be disappointments; but she did make up for quite a bit with the rest of the brood she produced for him. At least she knew enough to keep quite, nondescript, not drawing too much comment beyond a pleasing sympathy for his long-suffering benevolence from concerned friends and family. He assures himself that it is just the right kind of concern that honors his position, not overly solicitous denigration. His Elsa is likable enough, if pathetic. She does obviously try so very hard to please, to overcome her inadequacies, even if falling short seems the best she can manage.

But that Rory, though certainly of his siring, was no son that Max Salinger could claim with pride. Mama's little helper, cute when he was barely more than a baby helping to care for younger baby brother (who later making papa proud, came to despise this caring brother for his womanish ways), became more irritating when not outgrown. The kid wasn't even pitiably gay, as far as Max could tell. Girls seemed to like him just fine, and he them. But the boys who ought to have been his friends, brothers of his brothers' good buddies, wanted nothing to do with him. They weren't actively hostile. There was no call for hostilities. Everyone in this social circumference understood his place. Rory's was that of the tolerated, but not accepted, fool. The girls that liked him did so more for his attitude toward them as interested equal, though not put off by his, if effete, charming good looks. Regardless of his social standing, he was happy to be on his own, following his bliss of the week. His busy mind abuzz with curiosity, with chance adventure, could not be bothered with tiresome bandying rituals, small talk going nowhere, the popular qua popular. He danced to his own drummer, thank you, because this drummer is cook, hot, and right where I want to be.

The street can be all the theater one could ever need, for free. Why waste time striving for so much less?

Finally 18, so they can't touch him for being underage, he's feeling fully good about himself, his proven ability by now to land on his feet, keep his eyes open to danger and opportunity, go with that old cosmic flow and enjoy the ride.

Hear Rory roar.


Nobody likes to talk about Betty; but you can bet we cream over her (secretly, all cozy in our beds, in our heads and groins).

Nobody likes to admit what casual cruelty we are capable of. Gang-raping children because we can doesn't appeal to our desired self-image. Her mother allowed it in exchange for food, a place to sleep, the blessed drugs to keep away the pain of knowing the endless, hopeless misery life had become. Or, she was alone on that dark street, lost and frightened, with nowhere safe to go, no one protecting her just then. Her sexuality tempted me, in all that frenzy of bonding blood cries, heightened primal energies, hot insistent bodies falling under ritual spell. She is but a sacrifice, a holding cell for sin. There is no freedom for will to grow within her, only unwanted, tainted seed, thrust outward from the nauseous collective psyche to poison her potential. Does she need to be defined by what has been done against her nascent will? Is there salvation in finding a slim, hiding, healthy cutting from her core, carefully planted and watered in hallow grounding? And what of all those other sacrificial lambs? What cosmically sympathetic vibration can be turned to healing, calling forth a will to grow whole, to become one's own desired destiny?

Karl
The Musician
lives in a world of vibration.
Each experience-ordered sense memory
carries along a current
of song
He listens for the frequencies
in every item that intercedes,
works out the right and the wrong.
Call it destiny, Chorus of Fates,
or remembrance of where he belongs.
Rehearsed Lessons of history as told by devout
philosophies
miss obvious chords of diversity
perceived by those immersed in pure tone.
Never at loss or alone,
always at home in reality,
ever intent on clarity,
he listens and learns to play,
more competent every day.
Karl, those who know him say, is a man we can
depend upon. His song is his bond.
His word is his muse.

Janna feels.
Janna sees beauty in unlikely places.
Broken bits of treasure catch her imagination.
She deftly knows which pieces go together,
show interactive, amusing, yet profoundly moving aesthetic family.
She loves passionately every bright buzzing being that delights her day.
She wants, deep in the night, in her tears, in her innermost fears,
in what she laughingly calls her soul,
she wants that glorious lover who will make her whole.
Janna is wise, welcomes adventure or whatever arrives.
She knows how to juggle multiple lives, keep them all thriving
by enjoying the joke, not letting broken heart bring her down,
scolding that frown till it jumps to a smile.
She was never and always a child.
At play in the world, Janna's a right clever girl,
yet never seems to get past the dreaming stage.
Janna's at an age where she hasn't much to lose.
Someday she plans to choose a place to stand,
a partner's hand, a hearth and home.
For now she'll let her moments roam as they may.
Janna feels deeply;
lets that carry her completely.
That's the way she knows to make it be okay.

Marcus

He's learned to love his demons -- best of drinking, drugging buddies. They do give him an old familiar scare. Keeps the heart pumping, the adrenalin junkie ready to rumble. War wounds.

"It's not my fault -- it was war. I had to do my job, what was commanded. It is my fault. Of course, it is my fault. All mine. I could have let them kill me. I could have done the honorable thing and ended this stupid life. I could have, should have, never joined to serve my nation, to be a bully for democracy. I could have been a different man."

Belly laughter ensures.

He is a very different man from back then in the field of battle. He is broken, but never ridden by any but the demons he calls his own.

Great friends, good listeners, demons hang on every word. Every blessed word of profanity, gives them little shiver dances, enhancing their macabre smiles.

"God, drugs, that's the thing, the binding force that nature allows we buddies at arms, in my head, on the ragged road we call the street.

We need a home, guys. Sneak into this likely empty boarded brick and mortar. Just make sure there's no gypsy boarders to give us a fight.

Yeah, we can have a good old time, you demon memories, you story screamers, and me with this sweet LSD that kid laid on me. That kid I laid. What was his name? It will come to me when I see him again. It's good I have this pint of cheap brandy to keep warm. No heat here, in this abandoned homestead. Sewer and water pipes, though, are flowing. Get to take a real bath at last -- can't remember when. Good for these old bones to find some comfort. Not much here; but great wealth of privacy. Law enforcement doesn't even bother to extend an appearance. Nothing left to steal -- no one to exploit. No one know we're here."

Marcus parties, lets the world morph into dark hellscapes he knows well.

Eddie/Edwina


He/she secretly calls her/himself
"abomination"
Cat calls constantly claim "Pretty!" in fascination
A pleasure to the eye, the hand
appeal to fantasies all men have
far from procreation.
If life be sin, why not cash in on
that wage.
So much more than whore, though, this
child man who would be womb
to chosen kin.
Those wise enough to seek treasure
of intimacy such as she can express,
they bless by permitting her
to give.

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Condensation


The world bleeds.
Life consumes life.
Energy becomes lethal,
the sum paid.
Slipping away, recedes, a mirage of wealth
in the salted desert
takes on lifeform, Queenly grace.
She carries many faces.
Grandeur becomes Her.
Little deadly nano minions
slip along through Her
kinky crevices.
"Pinch me!"
"Beat me!"
"Devour my impure flesh --
become outrage, all the ill
humours, masque of gleeful
execution!"
This is no dream;
no sinful memory
blurred in twilight vengeance.
Crows, ravens, portents of
black flight circle above,
a crown of shrieks, feathers
cascade, rain like pestilence.
No blame in blindness.
"I could not see through feathered fog;
could not save you."
I clasp my guilt like well-earned scars,
treat myself to belt bound arm,
sweet bitter sting and
ecstasy of retreat.
"Sweet dreams, my love, my world,
my semblance of reality." Lull the anger
of your seas with chemical castration.
Enjoy this brief vacation.
The dance of End Times is ready to
embrace me, accept my plea.
Better to breathe a secret dream, embroidered
in internal rhythm,
feed that schism. Better to glance
inside if a chance arise.
Shhh.
Let the latest lullaby set the dance.
Just don't miss the chance.
What am I saying?
Don't listen to me.
The world is bleeding.
Taste it.


July 26, 2011
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Softly sane, Betty has a delicate voice, redolent of secret inspiration, not often used.
There is the high-pitched panic
drones like angry bees, chaotic, insistent. That voice is not hers, but of her demons,
flaying, cackling, castigating, sizzling knives flown from angry hands -- pyrotechnic effect while consciousness bathes in restraint;
senses restrict to calm, to cleanse, safe inside.

There is another voice, sure as ocean rain, forceful as gunshot on a silent night.
When we hear its tune, we listen. Pure bell that sings only Truth, it is in our sacred core to listen.
That voice is rare and wonderful, the essence of beauty. We become attuned, in awe, compassionate wisdom takes hold.
We become the voice of welcome, of familiar kind regard.
We become complicitous encouragement.

Mobs, ignorant, angry, boo and hiss, too loud to hear anything useful.
Lords of violence, long conjured real enough fear, sneer for the big screen. Pimping for Jehovah?
We learn to fear from what attacks every day.

Addiction

Choose to negate a life that is never true.
Better the degradation than devil's compromise
to consensual reality's unmeetable demands, measurements.
Like suicide, a mortal sin, to give in to bestial temptation.
End life of the day; descend into fetid disgrace.
Is that so attractive?
Is that reason to negate possibility of choice?

 How can I explain?
Rats, spiders, assorted displaced vermin, semi-feral humans, scrabble through garbage, stagnant remnants of rain and refinement, to no good end.
Unspeakably worse, self-protection demands imprisonment to stave off temptation.
Children grow consuming what is available, what is given or taken.
Revised as zombies -- no minds worth saving, subsisting on dead flesh and legendary fear. How can dreams cope?
One whiff and life as conceptualized dayplanner delineation loses all continuity, protection from chaos,
impossible to pick up such raveled stitch.
Nothing to be done. Leave them alone.

Watery imagery -- the ocean that meant to keep me so many years ago.
I become a swimmer,
a survivor in the storm.
I don't know why. It wasn't my idea to be strong. I didn't think, just let my body work along from one plane to the next.
It may well be about discovering one's ideals and working toward them. It is certainly not about having it all together from the get go.
Sing of Summer surf, held close to mystery. Undersea caves cradle chests of gems, shining like starlight.
Stars far from here call our craft home.
Call the cheer that carries carefree souls.
We've made our career a matter of energy.
Find a free meadow under the sky.
After brief eternity, given the designation "life," simple, mundane sensuality
-- slimy tears dissolve eye grit; sore structural muscles ease into melodious jazz.

She is stronger more able, vibrant in song. We are all learning to sing, dance, play, in this world we create, build in conversation,
in turning conceptions from experience into a private wealth from each to each,
teachers and students on the art of renaming.

This peculiar Hades Bohemia reflects like jewel facets, bioluminescent charms.
Too bad those chained to arms,
deprived of what arms can claim to feel fulfilled,
seek release in arms defined to kill
or to be killed.
I elect representation, powerful self-devised agent to promote my best interests,
prescient shadows, to pay my penance,
ritually claim my soul.
Yet, essence,
possibilities inherent in living seed
grow in potent mixtures
(tinctures for violent bifurcation, strictures, intricate captivating lulls)
for acculturation.
Captive, imagination still wanders on
long walks that suddenly awaken questioning:
"Where am I going?
Who is this "me"
that has a destiny
or merely flits along prevailing wind?"
That wandering devolves to slumber.
No one to remember, holding on to random sensory familiarity.
Don't trust the mirror.
Aging eyes have looked too far for reliable witness. They love to lie, lazy, wistful --
if wishes could be more real than these fantasies,
murals tied to greasy walls --
self-made Hell --
Why should death's mystery entice so much more than life's?
What hope the best of men survive death's fiery trial?
Why insist, assume, the bond of flesh is blood consumed, all against every?
Where is ecstasy of hand touching hand?

Jul/26/2011, 2:13 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Who are they to co-opt me into disapproving for them? It's my time, my interpretation of the Universe and my place, purpose, revels and revelations. The paradigm of enslavement only works on they in its thrall. Otherwise, it's just crass bullying, extortion, nothing to honor or obey. The sane response is avoidance, or if unavoidable, defense -- improvised from any available resource. Flight, fight, laughter, mad disregard, mad incursion, sane reason, whatever carrot and stick comes to mind and hand. Best to understand who I am, how I am strong, how I am free.


The right amount of government --
just enough to protect everyone's freedom
without destroying anyone's.
But who decides what that line is,
each with our own dispositions?
Is it up to fate of
social evolution?
Not a satisfactory solution
for we who cannot wait.
Our lives are forfeit now
to silly fields of behavior
deemed acceptable
to the respectable
who rule the day.
While life is disrespected,
devalued, expect those
learning their behaviors from
the crowd
to coldly laugh and kill.
If that is the will of the people ...
Such death we freely choose.
Those who would desist
not allowed to exist.
Instead organized Reality tv fights
define our rights.
 
We call someone evil when they don't value life, have no compassion. Is treating life as valueless what they learned when discovering identify and relationship?
 
Our brains grow. We can change. We make that effort if we feel assured of a real reward. At best that is people thinking well of us, giving us place and positive identity. When we feel safely, honorably enmeshed, that feedback loop reward makes the effort to keep it worthwhile .
Unanchored, unconnected, we might learn that we do not matter, find pleasure in negative impact on unvalued others. With self-respect, self-valuation based on what we know of ourselves to be golden, we provide our own rewards and can easily afford compassion . We can teach an underlying understanding that living well (however defined) requires clarity in our vision of how our world works.
Jul/26/2011, 2:17 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Re: Root of Desire


Shoot. I shouldn't have clicked to your 3 poems from today, Libra. My habit is to keep as "new" the big stuff I know needs a brain not work day tired, saving it for the weekend. Same is true of almost all, if not all, the poetry posted here. I'll get to it.

Tere
Jul/26/2011, 6:48 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 


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