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Terreson Profile
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Re: Root of Desire


Coming to the 3 pieces posted on the 26th of the month. Once again you've worked this old body.

About your Root of Desire series, last February you said this:

"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."

Intention comes through clearly. Fullsome like too. While reading the first of the three I turned to light a smoke, heard myself mutter 'My God you can speak truth.' What I meant is that you do not shy away from what is undeniably in front of you, surrounding you. I hate it when poets do that, often for the sake of a well turned, felicitous phrase, and all too frequently found in poetry considered successfull, recognized. "That stuff don't do nothing for me." (line from a favorite song.) I've said before there are some women poets who, when they speak, my sense is that the earth herself is speaking her mind. The chthonic thing you allude to, keep after. Clearly comes through here, like a high priestess or a sybil drunk on the fumes escaping a crevice. I've also pointed to your tendency to work in the Hermetic style of writing associated with the early Renaissance alchemists. For me the second piece operates in that range.

[sign in to see URL], Libra. While I can respond to the kind of minimalist writing au currant, sometimes I want to be ravished, head set on spin, senses put in a tumult. All of which your poetry and prose sometimes, even regularly actually, succeeds to. Please be careful, judicious like, when you look to go editing the series.

As for the third piece, it works okay. Moral indignation is patent. But it doesn't work the way the other two do. Neither in the same range or with the same means.

Above I quote a favorite song line. Here is the song it comes from. The song has another favorite line: "Hang the rich." I love how both are spoken in a woman's voice. Makes sense to me.

[url][sign in to see URL]

While pulling up the You Tube video just had to listen again. What an extraordinary song! It occurs to me that this is precisely the kind of aesthetic most missing on the scene. One in which the senses are sacred. And paramount.

Tere
Jul/30/2011, 2:48 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
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Re: Root of Desire


Ya'll want to know something? I love this forum. Can't remember whose idea it was. I remember that In Translation was Kat's idea and pushed forward with a measure of insistence. I remember Field Notes was my idea. Whose idea was this spot? Anyway, all our fora are fun and with their own special purposes. This one I like for the freedom it encourages.

Tere
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Re: Root of Desire


Thanks so much, Tere, for reading and replying. It is hard to know, often, if what is so clear in my mind translates to others. You aid my faith in my visions and word paintings.

I have been trying to catch the flavor of the different characters, going to the places of me that they represent, and allowing them to speak. I am doing this not so much (though as well) for the story, but for the uber-story -- to find and befriend these aspects of myself. It is a real pleasure to be able to share these personal strivings toward some more wholistic truth.
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Re: Root of Desire


Dear Libra,

I am still trying to catch up. All is majical emoticonand beautiful. What, if any, feedback, help, do you want from us at this or any point?

Liz
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Re: Root of Desire


Thanks for reading, and enjoying, Liz. I like honest feedback that lets me know if I am communicating effectively. Any advice on literary prettification is also fine (though not necessarily acted upon).
Jul/30/2011, 5:00 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Re: Root of Desire


Literary prettification?

"There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in proportion." Sir Francis Bacon said that.

Tere
Jul/30/2011, 5:42 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
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Virgo work song (for Karl)


in the rhythm


Shell the peanuts.
Scrub and cut up the potatoes.
Knead the dough.
Pluck and chop the herbs.
Music in the fixing, in the mixing,
each practiced movement.
Music of each meeting,
each handing on, a dance.

Caught up in cogent vibration,
safe in sound, lightly bound,
guides to construe sense from sensation,
turns tasks into merry play.
Easy to commune with tune, tonality, glee.
Such fun these school days can be!

Back in the forests, the caves,
the glades,
elemental chemistries exchange,
sonic waves call wanderers home;
soothing night fears with lullaby,
comradely cheer.
Know us by our song --
music we've carried through
long brave trails, travailed years.
If the Word is our binding charm,
our song is our vow,
ever renaming our power.
Engaging, blending, restorative potion;
energy, purpose, pleasure of motion
enthused by
humanity's muse.

The people united
hanging together to avoid
being hung
one by one.
Growing their rhythm, get carried along in a
strengthening hum
tuned to common cause.
Shouting poetic, wrapped
together, in a banner of furious sound.
The people, excited, spring in their step,
clear on their ground, can not be kept down.

Entrapped, entranced
Who is to be gained
by loosening the ties?
What you remains
released into surprise?
Feel, beneath your eyes.
Ease into the rhythm.
Blessed familiarity --
heartbeat through pulsing memory.
Breathe, connect with the real --
the gift of air, of skin,
of night, of chance encounters,
of ringing melodies
strong enough
to call to potency
your most precious name.

There's always a child
dying
to play
loved and protected
through chilling curiosity,
worries over being too big or
clashing to fit in.
Little one, listen:
Condensed to soft-voiced
Song,
loving companion
on treacherous icy walks
in winter rain
embraces from within.
Play and be heard, protected,
assured of unsuspected glory.
Song imagines your story.

Surging through heart,
capillaries,
our ineffable beauty
sings.


September 2011



Last edited by libramoon, Sep/13/2011, 2:54 pm
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Terreson Profile
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Re: Root of Desire


Good stuff, Libra. I frequently respond to the incantatory voice in your poetry, its witchiness. A voice intended to raise up the elements. Here for sure. Where did you find that voice, by the way? I know it from the folklore. And from the spells. I am not alone in thinking the voice has literary merit.

One small bother, if you will allow it. Poem ends here:

Surging through heart,
capillaries,
our ineffable beauty
sings.

I feel okay in saying so, knowing you are strong person likely to chew up and spit out your critic in a mid-morning snack.

Good stuff. It keeps to the chthonic you are after. Yes. Root of desire.

Tere
Sep/1/2011, 11:16 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
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Re: Root of Desire


Thanks for reading, and writing, Tere. See, I neither chewed nor spit, but rather chewed over and revised.

L.
Sep/2/2011, 1:18 am Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Re: Root of Desire


Libra, 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.
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Re: Root of Desire


I 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.
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Re: Root of Desire


And 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.
Sep/2/2011, 10:31 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Re: Root of Desire


Oh 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
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Re: Root of Desire


don'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.
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Haphazard People (Karl and Janna)


Haphazard 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?

Sep/9/2011, 3:48 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
Terreson Profile
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Re: Root of Desire


This 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.

Tere
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Re: Root of Desire


Thanks, 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.
Sep/10/2011, 3:41 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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conversations (Rory, Karl)


Obviously, 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 !@#$ 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 !@#$ 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.

Last edited by libramoon, Sep/14/2011, 1:30 pm
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Edwina Sings the Blues


Edwina 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?
Oct/25/2011, 2:52 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Re: Root of Desire


Edwina'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.

Tere
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conversation - generative instinct


The 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.
Nov/30/2011, 2:55 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Re: Root of Desire


Again, 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 [sign in to see URL] 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 [sign in to see URL], 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.

[sign in to see URL]

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.

Tere
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Re: Edwina Sings the Blues


She 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.

Dec/5/2011, 8:17 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Re: Root of Desire


This 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.

Tere
Dec/24/2011, 8:51 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
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girl talk


Marcus 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."

May/5/2012, 12:48 am Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Re: Root of Desire


Hey 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." emoticon

Thanks for sharing, libra. emoticon
May/5/2012, 7:11 am Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 
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Rory and Renata Go to the School - draft 1, act 1


Rory 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.”
Mar/16/2014, 3:34 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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mythic renditions


Dancers 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.
Jan/17/2015, 6:45 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Re: mythic renditions


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.



Jan/20/2015, 2:14 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Re: mythic renditions


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.
Jan/21/2015, 3:05 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 


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