Root of Desire https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/t1215 Runboard| Root of Desire en-us Thu, 28 Mar 2024 23:21:19 +0000 Thu, 28 Mar 2024 23:21:19 +0000 https://www.runboard.com/ rssfeeds_managingeditor@runboard.com (Runboard.com RSS feeds managing editor) rssfeeds_webmaster@runboard.com (Runboard.com RSS feeds webmaster) akBBS 60 soclibsem 2https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p17535,from=rss#post17535https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p17535,from=rss#post17535soclib sem 2 (the School Everyone has their stories, and they are fascinating mused with imagination would we not rather share, engage with daring quests, brave romance, laughs of surprise so much more fun, entertaining, even wise than hiding behind barriers of hateful cruelty, isolated, lonely, in despair with no stories but our boring old self-deprecation? Please, release these wonders you could become to everyone.nondisclosed_email@example.com (libramoon)Sat, 17 Mar 2018 16:58:35 +0000 Re: Root of Desirehttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p17231,from=rss#post17231https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p17231,from=rss#post17231Extempore (from Root of Desire) Swift bare feet pound and release worn, gritty pavement. Cobbled stone surrounds flowing fountain. Ecstatic 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 taskmaster 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, feel being here as a part of shared energy, a tribal peace. If we could each rhythmically extend, sing out our own creations, move completely from serene centers, unconscious of pressing time or important matters, how could we continue as the labor pool 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 percussions, 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 spontaneous poetry. Betty plays rhythmically, supplies beats and counterbeats upon their found object percussion kit. Her eyes turned downward, her vision inward, Betty enjoys playing musical accompaniment on the instruments they fashioned, garishly or arcanely embellished. It can be amazing what people freely throw away that can be put to good purpose with love and imagination. Their audience also gladly buys other art pieces they have set out on their temporary stage. Renata’s natural authority is obvious on an unspoken level to everyone who sees her. It is one of those unspoken mysteries that she, who counts on keen awareness, is oblivious to her own power. By instinct Renata knows just when to disperse her audience to avoid unwanted attention. The spell rescinds, sending they who had gathered flocking back into the thoroughfare of public space. She collects their tribute 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 Betty, who, pleasantly worn out from drumming, is languidly compliant. On the way home, new objects for their re-creations might be serendipitously discovered. Happy children play. https://windsongmyths.wordpress.com/2015/04/26/extempore-from-root-of-desire/nondisclosed_email@example.com (libramoon)Sun, 26 Apr 2015 21:07:34 +0000 Re: mythic renditionshttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p17057,from=rss#post17057https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p17057,from=rss#post17057Dancers dance musicians play Enchanting sylph narrates stories while seductively moving to sinuous back beat, tick of chimes. Occasionally emphasizes subtle percussions with intense expressions, leaps, cunning stumbles, falling to crawl into spellbound speech. Scheherazade myths, archetypal passion escapades, poignant weeps, salient shouts to power. Exquisite meditations on mystic climes, spirit and form. Merry masks, sparkly costumes, paint and glitter as embellishment to the tellings. Theater as intimate ritual. Anything could manifest. Pisces murky androgeny Libra emits graceful beauty Scorpio at home in passion Deeply attractive Complicated self-hatred urging service and demeaning. At core strong self-belief expressed intuitively. Stories from the collective well, mystic ether, imbued in earth, exhaled by flames. Centering, sense memory trances exhibits as sinuous performance. This world is ending ... Even happy families share dissonance, complex histories, emotional triggers. Happy families learn to thrive, profound mutual respect as guide, resort to good humor for smoother passage. Why fight, divide strength from where it is better spent? Folk who pull together by choice rejoice in shared communion. Outside self-circumscribed worlds Diverse perception of views Sight with wide spectra of hues     She heard him crying, a lost child in the night. In her prophetic heart she knew only she could comfort him. But she was only a child who was never allowed to be lost. How could she comfort this lost boy when she had no freedom to reach out? Late in quiet dark, after her people, asleep, would not be checking on her, she opened her window and made daring escape. Wandering in the outside dark, she listened for his cries. At first she discerned wind among leaves and branches, small creature forays, clash of metal against pavement, perfumed strains from afar. Then, yes, whimpers, ragged rhythm past exhausted weeping. He was huddled, hidden, on the alley side of a cold brick building. Seeing him, frightened, lost, she did not know what to say. He smelled of rancid sweat and fear. She did not know how to speak. She cried. She emptied herself of every caustic tear, every regret held for guilty ransom, every sadness kept inside so no one would fuss. He looked up at her watery face and asked with amazed concern: “Are you lost, too? Because if we are lost together, really we have found each other. We don’t have to stay scared and alone.” She looked around, realized that in al her blind wandering she had lost her way. She had no idea where they were. She knelt beside him. They smiled and hugged. For that precious while they became beloved kin. Perhaps some special night they’ll meet again.     Mythy visions to transcribe; thought fragments to form. Myths we live, and how to rewrite them. She knows she has awakened. Every effort of her body pinches, aches, demands refuge in self-talk, reason, mental override of pain. Carefully, she measures out tools of destruction, what she must carry in her pack into the city, to her place of destiny. Doing what one can to make sense, have meaning. Life is short, ugly, pointless, unless you get that call. Trying to act cool with familiar friends, laying low, hiding from everything that doesn’t allow relevant existence for dregs like us. Recognition? Commendation? A scrap of real notice? To sacrifice this humorless joke to Godly cause, that’s got to be imbued with meaning, to be holy. How not find zealous courage, so dishonor numbing a drug, one point of focus. All my sins, my impoverishments, inadequacies, forgiven in ultimate atonement. God can love me. I am made pure in His sight. A tool, a weapon, no matter how lowly, bestowed sacred purpose in this great fight. My parents, my kin, vindicated, their suffering denied nobility avenged. Cleansed in adventure’s icy plunge, only ever young in throes of romance, a chance for breathless rush of brief immortality. question everything accept or reject with clear awareness and flexibility purity of essence is to will one thing She didn’t like her skin. So hard to blend in. She didn’t like her body, jutting awkwardly, too bulky, not compliant to conscious control. She ached to let her spirit free from matter’s burden, to ooze out onto open air. Her envisioned wish took her to aerial glee, and no more. “What would I see, outside of eyes, no biological boundaries?” Her attention, turned to this yearn for omniscient sight, was caught, held strong and seduced. Ever present, ever expanding through every crevice of her consciousness, she became inured to matter’s inadequacies. She desired entirely. No one could reach her, though no one tried. She trance-walked through her duties and habits with none to notice any lack of aliveness, lack of any impish spark within her eyes. Self-consumed, obsessed, absorbed in apotheosis, physical possibilities no longer matter. Her spirit no longer held to this room, this body. Blind to her unseeing world, enraptured in unfiltered light, colors far beyond our rainbow. 1/20/15 A brave and learned man hired out to guide a motley assortment through a narrow, rocky passage to a settlement in need of laborers. At this time, he was a stranger to settlers and these prospective immigrants. He had an idea of joining their project, but felt nag of doubt enough to only commit as far as hiring out for specified work and pay. This Job – this man who gave his name as Job – was curious, clever, aloof because caught up in thoughts complex, calculating, critical, cynical, contemplative, entertaining. He spoke as necessary for terse communication. He listened as if a subtle etching of rain on sand. He sucked in sounds and all their meaning to nourish his chattering brain. Though his behavior, demeanor, presentment appeared distancing, others tended to respect his leadership, his abilities. Even those who mocked or boisterously complained in private camaraderie in which he did not join agreed that he bested them at coming through. After their passaging, safely gathered at the settlement, words and gestures of gratitude lauded upon him were spontaneous and sincere. As settlers and new arrivals met together to discuss their common project, ask questions, give opinions, figure out teams and chores, Job continued his passage. Busy in their plans and adaptations, no one noticed him disappear. Capture my imagination Take me for a ride self-discipline, acknowledge without judging Philip, he so tired, exhausted, can’t bear the nattering. Silly people, spew of soft-heart advice. Stupidly happy people, smug in their hugs and white smiles. Philip recedes into deep, dark hate – so mired and convoluted spirals down his mind. Lethargic impulses, held back, kicked down, pounded to weakness as he grew in twists and turns. “Don’t look at me.” He hears his silence scream. Horrid beast snarls, whimpers. Philip aches to hide from his own mind, beastly child whining, cringing around cutting steel for comfort. Snappy, happy babblers burst like saliva balloons, insult, annoy. “Don’t speak to me. Don’t daintily pretend you understand; oh so precious extended hands, limpid eyes question, judge, sentence to demented status. “I am fine, or will be when you all leave me alone. Ignore my retreat into secure solitary recrimination, whip lash of vengeful sin. You know you don’t really want to be let in, to feel the wrath I am. Scatter, you flesh-covered delusions who choose to disturb my sleep, my darling nightmares’ stomping victory. You clearly don’t need my input to be complete. Complete fools – go do your better things. Enjoy your day. I’ve no more to say, to share.” Aloud? Allowed? He allows himself to voice complaint aloud. And the folk crowd ebbs out beyond his self-fixed point. “Express your truth,” he silently affirms. People may listen. Imbibe trance Fall into story Record intimately Become one story Imbibe trance intimately Record while falling face shifter. story spinner. dervish zeitgeist possessed. defined by shades, by shadows, by negation. Sammy scary loco crazy. They say he got the paranoid schizophrenia. What he got is commandos tracking his thoughts, grinning. Party of demons who been with him, telling him what to do, clever talk when he needs to answer some fool. He’s got my nightmares, but can’t shake them awake. No one wants to listen to me or him when we say what’s real. They want us to be kids, whatever that is. They want us to make them feel alive in their self-comforting fantasies about responsibilities. What is Sammy responsible for or to? Because he suffers disability, because he can’t break through Hell’s circles, flames of purity. I walked from Hell. My mind still burns. I am strong, a born survivor. He survives as he can. Is that weakness, or alternative dimensions habitated? I am amazing, mobile, continuing, sensibly explaining, harmoniously relating, conversing like a pro. I struggle. I hurt, it feels unbearably. I work until I want to scream, become explosive screaming. I stifle, call up mania to work on. Efforts only I applaud – amazing me! Nothing spectacular to entice the jaded they. Sammy is spectacular. I am seriously amazing. I won’t let them blind me. They walk in and out of patterns, broad swath of night. No designated home; no one has to accept them. They walk. Dust, dirt, soot, effluvia collect, protect in the sense of repel. In safe dark none encounter to harass. Those alive by day buried in bed. They walk without notice or plan. This is their closest approach to sleep, hypnotic glide through distance. Landscape undifferentiated by visible presentation. Footsteps feel clearly what comes under, it seems by instinct -- or possibly familiarity. They walk on perhaps forever with no where to stop. Pit stops. Beg for food or find leavings. Play merry fool, eyes gleaming, lips voice hands form expressive grand soliloquies, hoped fee implied (implored). Sustenance they afford varies by mood of kindness, unswayed by desperation. Exhaustion only dulls, removes any attractive shine. As air blows colder, nights freeze over, they seem to dissolve into neverwere. Empty shadow, haunted tingle bereft of cause. “They were never us, nothing like us.” Unspoken song bears rhythms of walking unseen. She awoke in a body, young, womanly, driving consciousness on hold somewhere like dreamless sleep. It was her occasional brief invasion to feel in touch with mortal concerns. She is to be a bride, again. Foolish, innocent yet of so many regrets and betrayals to come. She is ready to exult in the veil and it symbolic lift. Happy to perform, darling of her audience of familiars. Happy day, swept clean of trepidations, of all yesterdays and their burdensome effluvia. Today is always hers. These ceremonies, traditional duties and pleasures, bind her to cults, cultures, accumulated lore and intuition. Not creature, but weaver – still she is inseparable from the story. Today she again assumes bridehood. Tonight, awash in festivities, again she removes her spell of possession. This new bride returns to a familiar world, changed. No longer civil child nor spiritual supplicant, she has ascended. People see her differently, treat her with more deference, more distance even as they proclaim her their precious chosen intimate, ply her with cherished secrets as if her allegiance would add value. Her bearing carries an air, an enhanced spirit, a subtle awareness, unspoken by any inner voicing. Language is a human art. Gathered on picnic table benches behind the home, hot in sunshine. Karen explains, fact by fact, how Gus became her inseparable soul. They beam together. He gives consoling hand to shoulder as she grieves children left with their father, her ex’s condemnation, stern paternal assertion of power. Saving his kin from this unrepentant whore. Karen cries, again – unrehearsed habit. She carries sadness; leaks occur. Gus hardly speaks. His troubled eyes, weary stance, gentle pull and pass of their pint bottle as he glances with deep countenance to each face around is eloquent conversation. Sweat smells, condensed alcohol, burnt tobacco, drying shit from local dogs, passing fumes from the road out front, all permeate, help set the mood. They treat the stranger in their midst as a friend of long acquaintance, just another straggly member of a morphing crew. “Ain’t we all strangers of long acquaintance – everybody a wrapping of layers, appearing in colored bits along our drowsy companionship. Strange friends, welcome distractions, smoky mirrors that let us see as we discern.” Bonnie and Denise giggle at Big Dan’s pedantic speech. They solicit contributions for their liquor store expedition. Enough gets thrown in to make it a go. Go, girls. We’ll be waiting, celebrating what we can because here we are. nondisclosed_email@example.com (libramoon)Tue, 03 Feb 2015 17:36:42 +0000 Re: mythic renditionshttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p17052,from=rss#post17052https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p17052,from=rss#post17052She awoke in a body, young, womanly, driving consciousness on hold somewhere like dreamless sleep. It was her occasional brief invasion to feel in touch with mortal concerns. She is to be a bride, again. Foolish, innocent yet of so many regrets and betrayals to come. She is ready to exult in the veil and it symbolic lift. Happy to perform, darling of her audience of familiars. Happy day, swept clean of trepidations, of all yesterdays and their burdensome effluvia. Today is always hers. These ceremonies, traditional duties and pleasures, bind her to cults, cultures, accumulated lore and intuition. Not creature, but weaver – still she is inseparable from the story. Today she again assumes bridehood. Tonight, awash in festivities, again she removes her spell of possession. This new bride returns to a familiar world, changed. No longer civil child nor spiritual supplicant, she has ascended. People see her differently, treat her with more deference, more distance even as they proclaim her their precious chosen intimate, ply her with cherished secrets as if her allegiance would add value. Her bearing carries an air, an enhanced spirit, a subtle awareness, unspoken by any inner voicing. Language is a human art.nondisclosed_email@example.com (libramoon)Sun, 01 Feb 2015 15:45:28 +0000 Re: mythic renditionshttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p17051,from=rss#post17051https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p17051,from=rss#post17051They walk in and out of patterns, broad swath of night. No designated home; no one has to accept them. They walk. Dust, dirt, soot, effluvia collect, protect in the sense of repel. In safe dark none encounter to harass. Those alive by day buried in bed. They walk without notice or plan. This is their closest approach to sleep, hypnotic glide through distance. Landscape undifferentiated by visible presentation. Footsteps feel clearly what comes under, it seems by instinct -- or possibly familiarity. They walk on perhaps forever with no where to stop. Pit stops. Beg for food or find leavings. Play merry fool, eyes gleaming, lips voice hands form expressive grand soliloquies, hoped fee implied (implored). Sustenance they afford varies by mood of kindness, unswayed by desperation. Exhaustion only dulls, removes any attractive shine. As air blows colder, nights freeze over, they seem to dissolve into neverwere. Empty shadow, haunted tingle bereft of cause. “They were never us, nothing like us.” Unspoken song bears rhythms of walking unseen. nondisclosed_email@example.com (libramoon)Fri, 30 Jan 2015 14:54:22 +0000 Re: mythic renditionshttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p17049,from=rss#post17049https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p17049,from=rss#post17049https://windsongmyths.wordpress.com/evening-dionysian/nondisclosed_email@example.com (libramoon)Thu, 29 Jan 2015 23:20:09 +0000 Re: mythic renditionshttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p17048,from=rss#post17048https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p17048,from=rss#post17048face shifter. story spinner. dervish zeitgeist possessed. defined by shades, by shadows, by negation. Sammy scary loco crazy. They say he got the paranoid schizophrenia. What he got is commandos tracking his thoughts, grinning. Party of demons who been with him, telling him what to do, clever talk when he needs to answer some fool. He’s got my nightmares, but can’t shake them awake. No one wants to listen to me or him when we say what’s real. They want us to be kids, whatever that is. They want us to make them feel alive in their self-comforting fantasies about responsibilities. What is Sammy responsible for or to? Because he suffers disability, because he can’t break through Hell’s circles, flames of purity. I walked from Hell. My mind still burns. I am strong, a born survivor. He survives as he can. Is that weakness, or alternative dimensions habitated? I am amazing, mobile, continuing, sensibly explaining, harmoniously relating, conversing like a pro. I struggle. I hurt, it feels unbearably. I work until I want to scream, become explosive screaming. I stifle, call up mania to work on. Efforts only I applaud – amazing me! Nothing spectacular to entice the jaded they. Sammy is spectacular. I am seriously amazing. I won’t let them blind me. nondisclosed_email@example.com (libramoon)Mon, 26 Jan 2015 15:32:17 +0000 Re: mythic renditionshttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p17045,from=rss#post17045https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p17045,from=rss#post17045 Capture my imagination Take me for a ride self-discipline, acknowledge without judging Philip, he so tired, exhausted, can’t bear the nattering. Silly people, spew of soft-heart advice. Stupidly happy people, smug in their hugs and white smiles. Philip recedes into deep, dark hate – so mired and convoluted spirals down his mind. Lethargic impulses, held back, kicked down, pounded to weakness as he grew in twists and turns. “Don’t look at me.” He hears his silence scream. Horrid beast snarls, whimpers. Philip aches to hide from his own mind, beastly child whining, cringing around cutting steel for comfort. Snappy, happy babblers burst like saliva balloons, insult, annoy. “Don’t speak to me. Don’t daintily pretend you understand; oh so precious extended hands, limpid eyes question, judge, sentence to demented status. “I am fine, or will be when you all leave me alone. Ignore my retreat into secure solitary recrimination, whip lash of vengeful sin. You know you don’t really want to be let in, to feel the wrath I am. Scatter, you flesh-covered delusions who choose to disturb my sleep, my darling nightmares’ stomping victory. You clearly don’t need my input to be complete. Complete fools – go do your better things. Enjoy your day. I’ve no more to say, to share.” Aloud? Allowed? He allows himself to voice complaint aloud. And the folk crowd ebbs out beyond his self-fixed point. “Express your truth,” he silently affirms. People may listen. Imbibe trance Fall into story Record intimately Become one story Imbibe trance intimately Record while fallingnondisclosed_email@example.com (libramoon)Fri, 23 Jan 2015 16:24:27 +0000 Re: mythic renditionshttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p17044,from=rss#post17044https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p17044,from=rss#post17044A brave and learned man hired out to guide a motley assortment through a narrow, rocky passage to a settlement in need of laborers. At this time, he was a stranger to settlers and these prospective immigrants. He had an idea of joining their project, but felt nag of doubt enough to only commit as far as hiring out for specified work and pay. This Job – this man who gave his name as Job – was curious, clever, aloof because caught up in thoughts complex, calculating, critical, cynical, contemplative, entertaining. He spoke as necessary for terse communication. He listened as if a subtle etching of rain on sand. He sucked in sounds and all their meaning to nourish his chattering brain. Though his behavior, demeanor, presentment appeared distancing, others tended to respect his leadership, his abilities. Even those who mocked or boisterously complained in private camaraderie in which he did not join agreed that he bested them at coming through. After their passaging, safely gathered at the settlement, words and gestures of gratitude lauded upon him were spontaneous and sincere. As settlers and new arrivals met together to discuss their common project, ask questions, give opinions, figure out teams and chores, Job continued his passage. Busy in their plans and adaptations, no one noticed him disappear.nondisclosed_email@example.com (libramoon)Wed, 21 Jan 2015 15:05:17 +0000 Re: mythic renditionshttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p17043,from=rss#post17043https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p17043,from=rss#post17043question everything accept or reject with clear awareness and flexibility purity of essence is to will one thing She didn’t like her skin. So hard to blend in. She didn’t like her body, jutting awkwardly, too bulky, not compliant to conscious control. She ached to let her spirit free from matter’s burden, to ooze out onto open air. Her envisioned wish took her to aerial glee, and no more. “What would I see, outside of eyes, no biological boundaries?” Her attention, turned to this yearn for omniscient sight, was caught, held strong and seduced. Ever present, ever expanding through every crevice of her consciousness, she became inured to matter’s inadequacies. She desired entirely. No one could reach her, though no one tried. She trance-walked through her duties and habits with none to notice any lack of aliveness, lack of any impish spark within her eyes. Self-consumed, obsessed, absorbed in apotheosis, physical possibilities no longer matter. Her spirit no longer held to this room, this body. Blind to her unseeing world, enraptured in unfiltered light, colors far beyond our rainbow. nondisclosed_email@example.com (libramoon)Tue, 20 Jan 2015 14:14:24 +0000 mythic renditionshttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p17041,from=rss#post17041https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p17041,from=rss#post17041Dancers dance musicians play Enchanting sylph narrates stories while seductively moving to sinuous back beat, tick of chimes. Occasionally emphasizes subtle percussions with intense expressions, leaps, cunning stumbles, falling to crawl into spellbound speech. Scheherazade myths, archetypal passion escapades, poignant weeps, salient shouts to power. Exquisite meditations on mystic climes, spirit and form. Merry masks, sparkly costumes, paint and glitter as embellishment to the tellings. Theater as intimate ritual. Anything could manifest. Pisces murky androgeny Libra emits graceful beauty Scorpio at home in passion Deeply attractive Complicated self-hatred urging service and demeaning. At core strong self-belief expressed intuitively. Stories from the collective well, mystic ether, imbued in earth, exhaled by flames. Centering, sense memory trances exhibits as sinuous performance. This world is ending ... Even happy families share dissonance, complex histories, emotional triggers. Happy families learn to thrive, profound mutual respect as guide, resort to good humor for smoother passage. Why fight, divide strength from where it is better spent? Folk who pull together by choice rejoice in shared communion. Outside self-circumscribed worlds Diverse perception of views Sight with wide spectra of hues     She heard him crying, a lost child in the night. In her prophetic heart she knew only she could comfort him. But she was only a child who was never allowed to be lost. How could she comfort this lost boy when she had no freedom to reach out? Late in quiet dark, after her people, asleep, would not be checking on her, she opened her window and made daring escape. Wandering in the outside dark, she listened for his cries. At first she discerned wind among leaves and branches, small creature forays, clash of metal against pavement, perfumed strains from afar. Then, yes, whimpers, ragged rhythm past exhausted weeping. He was huddled, hidden, on the alley side of a cold brick building. Seeing him, frightened, lost, she did not know what to say. He smelled of rancid sweat and fear. She did not know how to speak. She cried. She emptied herself of every caustic tear, every regret held for guilty ransom, every sadness kept inside so no one would fuss. He looked up at her watery face and asked with amazed concern: “Are you lost, too? Because if we are lost together, really we have found each other. We don’t have to stay scared and alone.” She looked around, realized that in al her blind wandering she had lost her way. She had no idea where they were. She knelt beside him. They smiled and hugged. For that precious while they became beloved kin. Perhaps some special night they’ll meet again.     Mythy visions to transcribe; thought fragments to form. Myths we live, and how to rewrite them. She knows she has awakened. Every effort of her body pinches, aches, demands refuge in self-talk, reason, mental override of pain. Carefully, she measures out tools of destruction, what she must carry in her pack into the city, to her place of destiny. Doing what one can to make sense, have meaning. Life is short, ugly, pointless, unless you get that call. Trying to act cool with familiar friends, laying low, hiding from everything that doesn’t allow relevant existence for dregs like us. Recognition? Commendation? A scrap of real notice? To sacrifice this humorless joke to Godly cause, that’s got to be imbued with meaning, to be holy. How not find zealous courage, so dishonor numbing a drug, one point of focus. All my sins, my impoverishments, inadequacies, forgiven in ultimate atonement. God can love me. I am made pure in His sight. A tool, a weapon, no matter how lowly, bestowed sacred purpose in this great fight. My parents, my kin, vindicated, their suffering denied nobility avenged. Cleansed in adventure’s icy plunge, only ever young in throes of romance, a chance for breathless rush of brief immortality.nondisclosed_email@example.com (libramoon)Sat, 17 Jan 2015 18:45:51 +0000 Rory and Renata Go to the School - draft 1, act 1https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p16822,from=rss#post16822https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p16822,from=rss#post16822Rory and Renata Go to the School     “We work with a diverse population of the underserved underclass. We find the people we need, and the people who need what we can make happen. Yeah, it’s a struggle every day, and a surprise that we figure it out and carry on. It’s following a vision that’s always being re-envisioned as we figure out what works, how to pick up synergistic pieces and keep going because that is what we do.”   Karl and Janna, Marcus and Eddie along with Betty have settled in to their playhouse hotel that Tom River helped them acquire.   Rory is too city, too restless for bucolic creative bliss. Renata needs to expand her mortal experience, learn new skills, try new lifestyles. They visit the crew when they can, take their part in the theatre. It is better that they bring refreshed perspectives from outside. Rory has discovered the School through his elusive, randomly distributed contacts. He brings Renata to observe the dance and respond as she will.   Dorothy and Alice are at the core of the project. The have each had excessive lives, developed strong resilience and motivation. Since they have found each other, they have further developed through mutual support. Their self-assurance and charisma inspire gifted idealists to commit to a plausibly possible cause.   What is a school? A place to be shaped, to be contused and polished through interaction, to discover, be directed or create your own role and style. It is an entrance of ignorance into a process into a home, a grounding to grow, produce from seeds and dung and work. A school, a structure wherein we learn what we learn by lecture, by example, then practice to entice competence, tasks to master, ideas to fester, projects to test and explore. A school can be much more than a prison for clearing the streets, teaching shame and defeat or for a few fanning ambitions seldom fit to meet. This can never be that twisted. Rather we envisage a tool for healthy breakthroughs out of misery and flailing infirmity. We dance. We talk. We teach and learn. We develop the skills we need to be the people we care about. We are put down, but we can care so much, be so much, just by learning to be who we are.   Dorothy and Alice Gaya – We gave ourselves our surname in a commitment ceremony during our neo-feminist period. Heavily layered in spiritual/political significance. It’s not that we’re against people using drugs. We’re against unconscious lives bereft of informed choice.   “Neo-feminist?” Renata, quizzical, “What are you now?”   Alice smiles. “Teachers of the oppressed.”nondisclosed_email@example.com (libramoon)Sun, 16 Mar 2014 15:34:00 +0000 Re: Root of Desirehttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p12401,from=rss#post12401https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p12401,from=rss#post12401Hey libra, When I saw that you had posted to this thread, I thought Yay! Didn't know what to expect but anticipated something lively and of interest. "girl talk" is a great title. The camaradarie comes through and the humor. Always best to keep an eye on humor, even if it's gallows humor, when the topic turns to love. This made me laugh and gave me an insight into some gals, inner and outer, I have known: "I always let them define me. It seemed easier than complaining." The piece put me in mind of something a friend once said in conversation about some him or other: "We all thought he was such a great catch, when really, he was the booby prize." Thanks for sharing, libra. nondisclosed_email@example.com (Katlin)Sat, 05 May 2012 07:11:21 +0000 girl talkhttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p12397,from=rss#post12397https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p12397,from=rss#post12397Marcus reads and pontificates, expansively stoned. Betty takes delight in his assured cadences and gestures she improvises dance to his expressions, which relaxes him. He enjoys watching her move, amused by her ease around him. He feels gentle, shouting when he does not in anger but enjoying the rushes of air and sound. Sometimes she cuddles her head on his knee or shoulder. He feels protective and honored by her trust.   Meanwhile, in their own stoned circle, passing the joint and jug, the girls -- Renata, Janna, Edwina -- talk about love. (Karl and Rory are off on other adventures -- which they may share later, nor not.)   Renata sits, imperious and giggling. She is a virgin, not a prude. Her friends' antics, rolling on the carpeted floor, grappling, laughing, she understands to break the ice of embarrassment. We make inroads to understand what is acceptable to you, to me. Here we have embraced a banner of authenticity.   Renata enjoys the camaraderie and insight into mores, modern memes, intimacies.   "Sex is simple. Love is complicated." Edwina's ready opening. In so many ways she had severed, shed instinctual link between social body and mind. She could be the fantasy that pleased with no hesitation, enjoying pleasures of the role. This was not a challenge, but a honed skill, easy and clear.   "Love, it's got too many rules, too many layers, too much baggage, shame, ineptitude. It's hard to know where you are. Except when you do, and the world, your bubble, is perfect."   Janna, looking far away and small, a distant child, touched them each with an extended hand. She danced up and twirled into herself, a vision of delight.   "I always let them define me. It seemed easier than complaining. I needed the occupation of drama around me to make me feel okay, somehow to ground me. When I wasn't okay, wasn't enough, when they left or stopped showing up, or pranced onto the scene brandishing someone else, I was more ashamed than lonely. But there was always plenty to be done, and someone else would come along. Kind of like my mom, always being about the guy, no matter what a loser, no matter what an abusive pig or other barnyard critter. I don't even know why except it seemed easier than not.   Karl's not like that at all. I'm me. He's him. We each define ourselves. It many not be easy; but the feelings are real and spontaneous, us."   Renata does not want to break the flow of confidence. She knows something is not being said.   "We love each other without it being sexual. I know there is an electric, chemical flow, a palpable attraction between each of us, and together. There is sexual charge, but also an interest, a trust, intense caring that is not about sex. It is a biological thing, but more a choir of spirit, an integration of personal energies. Yeah, sometimes urgency feels more excitement, different friends excite us in different ways and circumstances. But isn't that the essence of what you call "love" in your sexual partnerships? Who we are to each other is a complicated recursive partnership to the degree that we allow, I suspect. Or maybe it's to the degree we shed expectations and really experience because we can." nondisclosed_email@example.com (libramoon)Sat, 05 May 2012 00:48:22 +0000 Re: Root of Desirehttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p10749,from=rss#post10749https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p10749,from=rss#post10749This rocks! God damn but I am loving Edwina. Quarter way into the poem and each line pushes me on to the next. Immediate perception pushing me on to the next. Of the characters Edwina's is the best realized, fleshed out. A punk rock girl in her glory. Here is something to think about. I should like to fall in with this woman and I would be afraid to. No man or lover, I suspect, can save her from the blues. What is always the case. This is poetry operating in the range of duende. Terenondisclosed_email@example.com (Terreson)Sat, 24 Dec 2011 20:51:40 +0000 Re: Edwina Sings the Blueshttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p10674,from=rss#post10674https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p10674,from=rss#post10674She will perform as directed, ready for her close-up. It's what she does to turn a street of sad contempt into her brilliant stage. How can it matter, the fashion, or the age of time. Life as experimental Art. Enjoy what freedom can be sustained within these walls: play inside. Trading in secrets for wisdom       Acting Lessons   Act as if. I know that one. It never works. They find you out, send you back to the prison, where you belong, and the taunting never ends. "Who'd you think you was, anyways? Deserving better?" The embarrassment. Like peeing on your best friend's mother's spotless floor when left there on a play date for the first (only) time, and didn't know where the bathroom was until -- too late. Sticky, soggy, a puddle of tears and tremors. They only ever notice the sin. False expectations burn long. Why should I be the fortunate one who is remembered, lauded, for creative charms? Why not believe in fairytales when they have been so pervasively offered to pacify? (dwelling in suspension of disbelief -- belief is fungible, never to be trusted) Christmas was the worst. So cold, alone, after false festivity. It wasn't disappointment over gifts, but profound loneliness. No shining star, no angel, just dead wood, artificial flames, endless night. I grew to love the night, feel blanketed in darkness. Alone I am impervious, protected by magic. Please, don't let them tear down my spell with their palpable hostility. I act as if I know nothing, am nothing, have nothing. That is all true. The magic that protects me, a ritual concantation within my private theater. Thankfully, they pay no attention beyond my pained countenance. All the long night I am left in peace. I open my veins and bleed for my art -- not suicide (I bandage and heal after) just needing the colour and texture of blood. nondisclosed_email@example.com (libramoon)Mon, 05 Dec 2011 20:17:41 +0000 Re: Root of Desirehttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p10664,from=rss#post10664https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p10664,from=rss#post10664Again, you force certain questions. Again keeping to your theme: root of desire. I read your post, looked out the door and thought, not sure I have a clue anymore what it means to be human, not sure being human has any meaning at all. Then I remembered two poems by Goethe. Always I keep coming back to Goethe. The first one he called "The Metamorphosis of Plants." The second poem he called "The Metamorphosis of Animals." In botany he is credited with the discovery of how a seed can morph itself into a leaf, how a leaf can morph itself into a flower. There is more to the theory, but essentially it all comes down to this morphing action. Flower shape is in the leaf. Once transformed both form and nature change. As does purpose. Always dicey business extrapolating on a theoretical finding in science, in any science. But Goethe was not afraid to. In the second of the two poems mentioned he writes: "Every animal is an end in itself, it comes forth perfect from Nature's womb and begets young that are perfect. All limbs develop according to eternal laws, and even the rarest of forms mysteriously preserves the archetype....Thus ordered development displays both constancy and a tendancy to change because of external forces. The internal energy, however, of the nobler sort of creatures finds itself bounded by the sacred circle of living development. These are bounds which no god can extend, and Nature honors them: for only within such limitation has perfection ever been possible....Rejoice, supreme product of Nature, in your ability to re-think her supreme thought, the highest to which, in her creativeness, she has risen...." Both poems can be found on line, by the way, and here is a link to an explanation of Goethe's theory. http://www.cosmovisions.com/Williams040601.htm So here is how I respond to your meditations, at least as long as the wine lasted and the candles. Always changing, morphing, Goethe seemed to think, while always the same archetype's stamp. Maybe it is only a race grown weary of itself, and the individual, that cannot, as Goethe could, rejoice in being able to "re-think" Nature's ways. I know I have felt that weariness from time to time. Terenondisclosed_email@example.com (Terreson)Sun, 04 Dec 2011 17:39:27 +0000 conversation - generative instincthttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p10653,from=rss#post10653https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p10653,from=rss#post10653The oligarchy, patriarchy, isn't really about money, hoarding what is worshipped as wealth, or even in the sense we tend to think about power. It's about the seed, the legacy, continuance of essence, dominance of influence. Women, as the archetype of wife/mother within the tribal paradigm, instead want to nurture, to have the reality of family to focus their energy in inclusive relationship. __________ Sure, sometimes we feel a thrill of conquest, a pride of prowess, instinctual pleasure. We're human, too, though, you know, intellectualizing, insecure, needy, longing for love, to be cherished, a familiar clan where we can feel we belong in the thick of dramas, bickering, suffused with affection over time. We all enmesh in real, day-to-day relationships that mean, that are our world. We are not genomes or prepackaged wiring. We learn to follow pathways where we feel welcome, or at least sufficiently satisfied. Even the people we don't like to admit to, the clearly brutal, the chillingly mean, are operating out of much more than instinct or unconscious compulsion, or even asocial psychosis. We, all of us, are projects of individual lives. We just have a tendency to aggregate, to identify by type. But, yeah, hangover collective institutions, long-held civil structures and jurisprudence, accepted codes of behavior, probably often do reflect those generative values, that driving need to continue. ______ I'm not doubting that each of us, everyone, is a human individual with our own ways, ideations, desires, histories, angsts. It's those whose images become archetypes, the myths and metaphoric memes that become a background shorthand, that informs us of who We (writ large) expect ourselves to emulate or rebel against. ___________ So, what do they matter? We don't need to act out against some archetypal asshole. We can have a better time being who we naturally are -- because the instincts I see here are about getting along, getting to know about being us and working out how to make it work. We each say what's on our mind, get mad or get crazy or however we need to say, to make ourselves heard. It's not abut competing or pissing lines in dirt, or trying to maximize our own share, to profit or rule. We want to be more by sharing what we have, what we can do, who we are, what we can become. That urge, instinct, whatever, can't be unique to us. It comes from somewhere, from being human, from our instincts to survive, to continue, to get better. _______ But do we get better, people? There always are, there have always been, small groups -- families, if not of the established sort, or movement, coteries, salons, troupes -- marchers to all those syncopating drummers. Yeah, I know they saw we live longer now, have less agonizing poverty, cures for diseases and nonlethal weapons, refrigeration, electric light (when the electricity is on). That's not what we are talking about. Are people, generally, generatively, less obstinately cruel, more amiable or culturally aware, defaulting to enlightened self-interest instead of stomping on those we perceive as weak? _________________ Of course there are cruel people, not just a few seriously damaged souls, I know. Sometimes it seems like they are all ganged up, throwing sharp stones at any target they can find. Mostly it's a lot more personal -- sharp words, angry faces, balled fists, spit and the damp odor of disdain. Where does that come from? It's women every bit as much as men. Harpies shrike louder, even bolder at times. That's not about any hoped for legacy. That's rage, and profound disappointment, an all-pervasive idea of being cheated, cheated on, deserving retribution that can never be paid. Or maybe it's just escape from boredom. How should we who live vivid lives understand? we have made the edge not a horror, but a glorious quest. If we claim compassion, we should have no trouble feeling for our fellow sin-filled humans dealing as we can with the fate befalling. ___________ But compassion wasn't the point. We make our fates, or at least create our furnishings to fit that scheme. We have free will, or enough of an illusion to serve. We have bendable mindsets, reframing techniques. We are not slaves to instincts. We can tame and train them to our purpose. I can be immortal in my own mind, can be completely convinced. I am my own legacy. That doesn't mean that I don't want the comfort and stimulation of intimate others. What would be the point of immortality alone? ________ Perhaps immortality could only be alone. You would outgrow, turn to different directions from the others. There is no guarantee that even those you feel most attuned to would remain and grow in the same fascinations. Forever is a very long time. The only way to manage it is to become wholly engaged in each episode. That's it for the jug of wine, and pretty much the candles. Probably time to sleep on it and see where our dreams take us.nondisclosed_email@example.com (libramoon)Wed, 30 Nov 2011 14:55:11 +0000 Re: Root of Desirehttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p10481,from=rss#post10481https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p10481,from=rss#post10481Edwina's Blues. Libra, I don't know if this is Literature. Then again I don't know that it is not. I do know the piece brings its case all the way over from where you sit, typing to your screen, to where I sit, reading what Edwina feels. I know this because I feel it in my body. Said parenthetically, I want Edwina to say such things to me, to map out all of what it means to love and want as fully. But then my confession to her would be that so much love would scare the hell out of me, move me to set out on another highway. That is another part of the equation too, you know. The fear of being loved. I think I've read every entry in your Root of Desire thread. Certainly I've read most of them. I sense an organic logic to your theme. And I sense a guide, the nature of which, trying to explain or define, courts the danger of reductionism. I don't come across writing like this often, certainly not often enough. How to explain what your thread brings to mind? Title is perfect. It should be read, taken in, literally, in its full value. Were I pressed hard enough I might declare that that is what all literature, even philosophy, is about: getting at the root of desire. It is a messy place, the underground, subterranean, chthonic place were roots take hold. Full of micro-organisms, fungi, worms, decay that feeds, all exchanges of energy silently furious. Rules there are not sunlit. It's a Dionysian kind of place, not Apollonian. It is no accident that the birth of tragedy took place in the temple precincts of Dionysus, not Apollo. And I think ultimately this is the root all of literature desires. Only, mostly can not obtain to, since, inhuman and not safe. Not a subterranean place where most of us can breathe for very long, not even poets, even poets most adapted to the environs, such as Rilke. My point is this. By and large literature fails at the task. I am struck by your theme's courage and by its means. Terenondisclosed_email@example.com (Terreson)Sat, 29 Oct 2011 14:02:29 +0000 Edwina Sings the Blueshttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p10436,from=rss#post10436https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p10436,from=rss#post10436Edwina Sings the Blues You wouldn't think it, but Marcus wants to be degraded. He wants to feel the pain, rushing through him, making him bleed and cry. He is sad and beautiful. With me he can be brutal, but then so tender, or clinging like a frightened child. He lets me love him. He lets me open to him, take him in my arms, in my mouth. He lets me be his source, his safety, his. We are not so different, wounded children in the night. There are lots of kinds of wars. People excel at cruelty, at vituperative rage, destruction of each other. If we find a way to love, imperfect, awkward union, it can seem strange, pain attracted to pain. I feel like I am healing here, slowly becoming my own by sharing who I am with people who honestly care. I am not the pervert, creep, unaccepted outsider, here. I am just me, discovering what I can do, can bring, can share, can receive. If blood families could be so clean, accepting, giving a sense of purpose and reflection, we might be better. We might be happy children, not make believe. We might not need to be so angry. We might be more graceful lovers. Imagine the dance, sweet and low and uncomplicated by fear or expectations. When Rory and I sing together, it fits, though our bodies never touch. Is that another kind of love? When we all jam out, each from our own artistic sphere, a groove will envelope us We are free and entwined. We are love. There are angers, misgivings, bad days, fights. They are ripples, with consequences. They are not the river. Fat, happy fish bask. We are a school. We are traveling together. Maybe we will fall apart, fall out, fall back into lonely disrepute. Maybe we will create something beautiful, wonderful, a theatre of joy and deeply layered meaning. Maybe we will have a chapter of our lives to write about, recreate as art, when we are old and trying to be wise. What do I know, just a creature of the night streets acting out building a nest for winter. Underground, cozy in dirt and stone, creepy crawly creatures without costumes and masks to appear normal, naked in the act of love. social beings we crave attention Is anyone looking now?nondisclosed_email@example.com (libramoon)Tue, 25 Oct 2011 14:52:34 +0000 conversations (Rory, Karl)https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p10057,from=rss#post10057https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p10057,from=rss#post10057Obviously, you can love anyone. Your crazy, abusive parents; your obnoxious, useless brothers; your nasty, foul-mouthed, foul-breathed, explosive spouse; your whiney, combative kids -- you can and do love anyone you think of as family. Love is not without its component of hate -- the hurts so good mystique, perhaps. Love does not act as a barrier to violence. Love is not the opposite of fear, but can be its fond companion. Love is a bond, a binding tie, an invisible cohesive. What we do, and call it love negates its claim to purity, to innocence, to angelic countenance. Or maybe it is a babe of fallen angels, raised to vindicate their cry for Holy favor. "Look what a miracle we have given Man (dear favored brother of our Father's Creation). We have blessed him with this bastard, gestated from our last union with Your Holy Love. (Though, to be honest, Your Holy Love can feel a lot like fire, brimstone, glacial ice, miasmic pestilent clouds, not what we expect from Grace.)" Better than love: honest respect, loyalty based on confidence in its reciprocity. I'm not knocking that singing, soaring feeling, that specialness of shared intimacies. I'm just saying, there's a lot more to aim for. You're so Catholic, Rory. Fallen angels? Who was it, the Greeks? had names for all the kinds of love -- not just family. Maybe we do love people who don't deserve it. But then, who are we to decide? I mean, what is deserving of love, and whose, and which definition? I love you, man. That's not because of your virtues and in spite of your faults. It's a real bond, because we have been through it, you know. We know who we are. We know the key phrases, the easy rhythms and the syncopations. We can groove, and feel, be freely, because we know what to expect and that disagreements don't mean shit in the big picture. Like the way we harmonize, seems like naturally, because we now each other's voices. Why shouldn't people come together as family against the barbaric hordes, or to build a warm, safe home? Yeah, sometimes we suck. Sometimes we take out our shit on the people who are close by. That doesn't mean we won't be loyal when it counts. Like any of our folks were so loyal to us? Where are they, our loving families? Right here, bro. It's not about biology. I mean, sex is cool; but it's its own thing, not the same as love. Families based on who fucked who and the results I guess seem logical enough. That's one of those other names of love, not what I'm talking about. Truth, you know, it gets trapped in words. Then we think we've found it in captivity -- but that's not its natural state, not true truth. Maybe we should just hum a few bars. Ommmmmmmmmmmm -- as my hippie pappy used to say. And you can't say they don't love me, in that true truth sense. They didn't abandon me or throw me away when I was too much trouble. They let me decide. They respected my choice, and were loyal to my cause while I was loyal to theirs. I'm not saying that to be cruel. I am sorry that you feel disrespected, cut loose, because your asshole dad couldn't appreciate and respect the much better man he produced. You just say that because he thinks you're a freak. His loving family might differ. And you? Do you "love" him in some aspect of Greek philosophy? Are you a loving son, honoring your father and mother as God commands? To be true truthful, he hasn't seemed real to me in a very long while. I guess I've made him into some caricature in my head. Who he really is strangely doesn't concern me. I am a distanced, unfeeling son. Surely I will be struck down for my sins. But then, I am a distant, unfeeling son to Heavenly Father as well. I think I prefer Renata's Goddess. She, at least, produces useful miracles. My dad's Heavenly Overseer just seems to keep them miserable, small-minded, falsely superior. And lookey, we have a Queen among us thieves and scoundrels. How cool are we! Yeah, the mysteries and consensual foolishness of love. You got something on for tonight; or are you gonna be here for the meeting? Never sure, my man. You take notes.nondisclosed_email@example.com (libramoon)Mon, 12 Sep 2011 14:38:07 +0000 Re: Root of Desirehttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p10043,from=rss#post10043https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p10043,from=rss#post10043Thanks, Tere. Yes, it is a process. It is an untangling for inspection, and a merging of levels of understanding. It is a getting into the muck that feeds the root, and playing.nondisclosed_email@example.com (libramoon)Sat, 10 Sep 2011 15:41:22 +0000 Re: Root of Desirehttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p10042,from=rss#post10042https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p10042,from=rss#post10042This theme of yours, root of desire, strikes me as both essential and expansive. A root is a fundamental thing, right? Without rootedness we are wholly subject to accident and chance, on the wind like. But roots are not things onto themselves. They have commerce with everything subterranean. This is how I am reading your series. It took me a moment but the dialectic comes through. Yes. We are all engineered to one extent or another and by mechanisms over which we have no control. At the same time there is this miracle of yours: I like that she could choose and freely cleaves to me. What comes through here, meant in a good way, is the messiness of process. That of a thinker thinking through a problem. Terenondisclosed_email@example.com (Terreson)Sat, 10 Sep 2011 15:29:49 +0000 Haphazard People (Karl and Janna)https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p10032,from=rss#post10032https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p10032,from=rss#post10032Haphazard People     Mostly pretty ugly, pretty useless, pretty ignorant, not pretty at all. But how can I discount them when unexpectedly somebody kind, unreasonably wise, a vision of grace, unbearably lovely. How could we account for miracles, unlikely odds coming through? Random chaos is enough for human ingenuity to engineer you or me, or any soldier joe or social geek. Whose to say which or any of us is the freak? I like my women half-crazed, strong, and vulnerable. I like someone to cry with. I like someone who laughs me out of my blues. I like that she could choose, and freely cleaves to me. Haphazard people. Unplanned lives. What are the chances we might get it right? nondisclosed_email@example.com (libramoon)Fri, 09 Sep 2011 15:48:49 +0000 Re: Root of Desirehttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p9999,from=rss#post9999https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p9999,from=rss#post9999don't panic. I was just curious as to what you meant. Plenty of time to explain, if you so desire, when your time is more plentiful. Enjoy your whatevertimeofdayitiswhereyouare. Peace (and dreams), L.nondisclosed_email@example.com (libramoon)Fri, 02 Sep 2011 23:03:01 +0000 Re: Root of Desirehttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p9998,from=rss#post9998https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p9998,from=rss#post9998Oh no!  I am ofen quite pedestrian, but I would never consider a theme to be indicative of the writers sex. That would be foolish. It is the way that a female perspective shines through in storytelling, how certain concepts are handled, words employed. I did not explain myself well. The Sandman, you see, even now he prevents me from doing so.... alki nondisclosed_email@example.com (Alkiviades)Fri, 02 Sep 2011 22:46:48 +0000 Re: Root of Desirehttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p9996,from=rss#post9996https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p9996,from=rss#post9996And where did your considerations wander? I don't particularly think of myself as a "woman writer". Don't let the Goddess theme fool you. I consider myself more like Eddie, or sometimes the elemental force Itself moving through my mind and fingers, trying to meet the vision.nondisclosed_email@example.com (libramoon)Fri, 02 Sep 2011 22:31:03 +0000 Re: Root of Desirehttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p9995,from=rss#post9995https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p9995,from=rss#post9995I have only gotten through the half-way point, but I find myself properly entwined with your creation. What beautiful prose-poetry you utilize to tell weave your tale, lm. I was considering today the stark difference betwwen male/female writing styles and entering your realm seemed to punctuate that theme for me. Looking forward to seeing where this goes. There are some brutally charasmatic themes at play. alki. nondisclosed_email@example.com (Alkiviades)Fri, 02 Sep 2011 22:19:34 +0000 Re: Root of Desirehttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p9988,from=rss#post9988https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p9988,from=rss#post9988Libra, you got to love it sometimes. I didn't want you to lose entirely what came after poem's rightful end. Thought of suggesting you fold that part back into poem's body, which you've done. On your own. So don't like meddling too much with another poet's poem. Tere. nondisclosed_email@example.com (Terreson)Fri, 02 Sep 2011 05:03:05 +0000 Re: Root of Desirehttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p9987,from=rss#post9987https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p9987,from=rss#post9987Thanks for reading, and writing, Tere. See, I neither chewed nor spit, but rather chewed over and revised. L.nondisclosed_email@example.com (libramoon)Fri, 02 Sep 2011 01:18:59 +0000