My feelings surround me like a blanket
Smothering me with their weight
Unseen monsters claw at my mind
Cutting a hole through my imagined prison
Provides escape for tormentts that haunt me
They are free to go but they go naught
Like glue they stay, sinking deeper
Where is the release?
Where do I find the peace I seek?
Dropping to the floor my acid tears melt
The carpet in patterns of confusion
The glaze across my eyes turns a candle flame
Into a burning star gliding though space
Could I hitch a ride?
Is that star my ship through the universe?
I pray it comes for me
Stopping at the door of my mind.
Here it is.
It has come.
Can my mind carry me past my tears?
The flames dim to reveal steps from the star
Unfolding to my mind
One step at a time I climb
Closer and closer to reality
A reality as God and the universe see me
Happy, healthy, with the peace of mind I long for
Reaching the top, one foot in the star
I look back at the false world behind
It will and will not be missed
As I fully enter, the starship flames melt
My protective covering
Bleak, despairing thoughts vaporize to
Nothingness, warmth and peace
My Heart full of hope
We sail off exploring new universes
New worlds, new thoughts and joys
Until we are but a glimmer of light
In the distant galaxies
My eyes now open
These new feelings still within
Thought I've never left the floor
Tearful patterns of confusion once known
Now gone
This universal journey I am on
A product of my mind
Is my mind
And the disappearing starship
Merely a candle flame burning low
Monday, December 22, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
The Bomb
I wonder what it takes to go back out that door
Comfortable nightmares seem tame after living in reality
I hear the sounds of cars speeding past me
And know it's my mind racing away away from the truth
That master of decit, my mind.
It chooses at will the visions which support my ego's plans
I feel trapped in a body, held prisoner by them both
Neither of which has shape or form.
They push me around, fueled by thoughts of fear
Felt only by something or someone perilously close to self-destruction
To what length would you go to stay alive?
To that extent and further yet will my mind and ego fight.
War's destruction all around us
But the battlefield of my mind
Rages with terror.
As I walk down the street
I am certain people hear
The bombs going off inside
And with each explosion
My head jerks imperceptibly.
My soul, the part of me held captive
Silently Screams
The "why" questions I promised never again to ask
Come thrashing out
And with every question asked
Comes no response.
I feel a drop of sweat running down my face
Confusion and chaos ignite within me
A gasp for air shrieks out of my lungs
And now I know
The drops of sweat are really tears
Tears for the sadness I feel
Tears for my fear of never escaping
The bondage I am in
All wrapped up in one
I am sinner, convict, judge, and jury.
The battle between good and evil
Commander of the warring factions
And yet a prisoner of the war
I feel I am everything and nothing
Between my allness and my nothingness
I wait to disintegrate
Comfortable nightmares seem tame after living in reality
I hear the sounds of cars speeding past me
And know it's my mind racing away away from the truth
That master of decit, my mind.
It chooses at will the visions which support my ego's plans
I feel trapped in a body, held prisoner by them both
Neither of which has shape or form.
They push me around, fueled by thoughts of fear
Felt only by something or someone perilously close to self-destruction
To what length would you go to stay alive?
To that extent and further yet will my mind and ego fight.
War's destruction all around us
But the battlefield of my mind
Rages with terror.
As I walk down the street
I am certain people hear
The bombs going off inside
And with each explosion
My head jerks imperceptibly.
My soul, the part of me held captive
Silently Screams
The "why" questions I promised never again to ask
Come thrashing out
And with every question asked
Comes no response.
I feel a drop of sweat running down my face
Confusion and chaos ignite within me
A gasp for air shrieks out of my lungs
And now I know
The drops of sweat are really tears
Tears for the sadness I feel
Tears for my fear of never escaping
The bondage I am in
All wrapped up in one
I am sinner, convict, judge, and jury.
The battle between good and evil
Commander of the warring factions
And yet a prisoner of the war
I feel I am everything and nothing
Between my allness and my nothingness
I wait to disintegrate
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
I SHOULD CONTINUE THERAPY
What is it about people that makes them stay in a place they don't really want to be? Habit, laziness, timing, convenience, or maybe the desire to try and make things work.
Can you really discover your real life while living another? Or do you have to vacate the current one to make room for the new? And what if that would put you at a disadvantage and make the new search a lot more work and trouble for yourself?
And why don't I just do what I want and others be damned? maybe I am waiting to be certain. That could be a long wait.
Can you really discover your real life while living another? Or do you have to vacate the current one to make room for the new? And what if that would put you at a disadvantage and make the new search a lot more work and trouble for yourself?
And why don't I just do what I want and others be damned? maybe I am waiting to be certain. That could be a long wait.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Beat the chicken so it will lay eggs faster
Now we all know that doesn't work. Logic prevails, but only so far. As the players involved change, expectations and need destroy logic. The higher up the food chain the more logic fails.
I see and hear them. Fumbling over descriptive words stripped to a minimalist state. Seeking that one word or phrase that explodes a world of images in the reader's mind. Laboring over structure and characterization. Hours. Days. Months. Sometimes years.
Now a call from the agent. They can't represent a writers who isn't producing. They can't keep them on the register if they're not bringing in money. These agents are suffering the consequences and don't like it. Pressure from above. They call the screenwriter and deliver veiled threats.
Let's all remember that fear stifles creativity. Fear stifles desire. Fear stifles the art end of anything. And now the writer is afraid that they won't make the grade. That they will lose their insurance through the WGA. That they will be dropped from the agency, confirmed when the lonely drum roll and flute dirge arrive as the background music to the rewrite notes.
Frustration and fear. The agent calls. They read the notes too. The freak out builds. Emotions escalate. There is no way you can write when you are fighting for your life.
Do I want to be a part of all this? If I want to see my work produced, I'll write for theater. Or sneak in the back door and write a book first and sell it to the people who want to find a screenwriter to flog. No wonder screenwriters are considered odd. Knowing what they willingly put up with qualifies them as dangerous social misfits.
I see and hear them. Fumbling over descriptive words stripped to a minimalist state. Seeking that one word or phrase that explodes a world of images in the reader's mind. Laboring over structure and characterization. Hours. Days. Months. Sometimes years.
Now a call from the agent. They can't represent a writers who isn't producing. They can't keep them on the register if they're not bringing in money. These agents are suffering the consequences and don't like it. Pressure from above. They call the screenwriter and deliver veiled threats.
Let's all remember that fear stifles creativity. Fear stifles desire. Fear stifles the art end of anything. And now the writer is afraid that they won't make the grade. That they will lose their insurance through the WGA. That they will be dropped from the agency, confirmed when the lonely drum roll and flute dirge arrive as the background music to the rewrite notes.
Frustration and fear. The agent calls. They read the notes too. The freak out builds. Emotions escalate. There is no way you can write when you are fighting for your life.
Do I want to be a part of all this? If I want to see my work produced, I'll write for theater. Or sneak in the back door and write a book first and sell it to the people who want to find a screenwriter to flog. No wonder screenwriters are considered odd. Knowing what they willingly put up with qualifies them as dangerous social misfits.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
My Curious Beta Life
My entire existence if Beta based. Here, try this and hey if it doesn't work out, thanks for playing. Say, how's that Beta liver working for ya? If I wait for everything to be out of Beta I'm the last on the continent to participate. Some people go to church but I subscribe to my faith in Beta. Beta builds faith. How can one be hopeless in a Beta-based world? I am hopeful every day when I awaken that everything I use that has the annoying "Beta Testing Version" discreetly imprinted below the title will work. You know that argument we just had? That was a Beta test. No we didn't get back together so I'm simply stating the program crashed and we will have to try again tomorrow so sit down. All this makes me want to have a kid and name him Congif.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Seat Saver In My Own Life
What is this, the Academy Awards? We drive west Los Angeles Sunday mid-morning looking for a breakfast place that doesn't have a wait and doesn't have nation-wide signage over the door, although scarily enough, those places seem to have the longest waits.
There was a line outside our usual place (location to remain anonymous) so we buzzed the neighborhoods checking out those lined up in other places. Too many kids is the most popular issue and return and write my name on the list at "our place."
Wait. Wait. Wait. Chilly. Wet. Kid alert! Finally a four-top becomes available and the waiter informs us we are welcome to sit, but if a larger party arrives prior to our food being served we would have to move. He says this with a sincere expression.
"We aren't table fillers until a better party comes along!" How unrelaxing is that? Eyeing every new party that arrives, wondering if this is the time we move. Is this the time we stand and let the grown-ups, the real movie stars, those with more power and prestige look at us with their opinionated eyes as we scatter, grabbing our belongings and shuffle off to Buffalo?
The waiter immediately moves on to the next party of two and they agree to take the table. We eye them like the prideless losers they are.
Two places at the counter open up but that's like trying to have a relaxing breakfast in the middle of a loud, busy kitchen run by strangers.
Finally a two-top. We sit and my friend can only obsess about why two lesbians were allowed to sit at an open four-top and we weren't. Why they received special dispensation. "Because they agreed to move!" That's not a difficult one, and his self-flagellation skids to a halt.
But just to show the waiter that we can't be manipulated, my friend declares he'd like to sit at the two-top next to us. He says it's because it is closer to the heater. I don't even see a heater and pick up my purse and move like the dutiful dining companion.
There was a line outside our usual place (location to remain anonymous) so we buzzed the neighborhoods checking out those lined up in other places. Too many kids is the most popular issue and return and write my name on the list at "our place."
Wait. Wait. Wait. Chilly. Wet. Kid alert! Finally a four-top becomes available and the waiter informs us we are welcome to sit, but if a larger party arrives prior to our food being served we would have to move. He says this with a sincere expression.
"We aren't table fillers until a better party comes along!" How unrelaxing is that? Eyeing every new party that arrives, wondering if this is the time we move. Is this the time we stand and let the grown-ups, the real movie stars, those with more power and prestige look at us with their opinionated eyes as we scatter, grabbing our belongings and shuffle off to Buffalo?
The waiter immediately moves on to the next party of two and they agree to take the table. We eye them like the prideless losers they are.
Two places at the counter open up but that's like trying to have a relaxing breakfast in the middle of a loud, busy kitchen run by strangers.
Finally a two-top. We sit and my friend can only obsess about why two lesbians were allowed to sit at an open four-top and we weren't. Why they received special dispensation. "Because they agreed to move!" That's not a difficult one, and his self-flagellation skids to a halt.
But just to show the waiter that we can't be manipulated, my friend declares he'd like to sit at the two-top next to us. He says it's because it is closer to the heater. I don't even see a heater and pick up my purse and move like the dutiful dining companion.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Living in LA (or at least I'm not wearing a Burkka)
To not acknolwedge how lucky we are to live in America is to prove our ignorance of the world. Okay, what's it like living in the paradise of southern California? The sun is out, the sky is blue and the first thing you notice is that LA is like walking into the Emerald City in the land of Oz. If NYC is black & white and Texas more sepia tones, LA blows your mind with the colorful flowers, green grasses and blue skies on idyllic days.
Then one day in January, February or March it rains and keeps raining. Rivers of water drain from the mountainsides carrying with them the dirt which closes all the roads. In some instances leaving no recourse but to take the long, two-hour way into town or stay at a hotel close to work. Then the Santa Anna winds blow in from the desert and some idiot tosses a cigarette or sparks from a vehicle ignite a field and now fires destroy homes and lives.
Okay, you'd bettter enjoy the sun while you can because "the big one" is on its way. Like insurgents, we don't know when or exactly where, but we have a pretty good idea it's a given. And LA. The airports, Longbeach Harbor, the unprotected shorelines. Too much area to watch. I know they are trying. I pray for them.
But I also believe one day in some way paradise will end. Okay, I'm walking and talking and driving and laughing and no one shoots at me because of my religeous beliefs or my heritage. No one drops bombs in my neighborhood or snipes at me from a rooftop. And because that is not happening I refuse to take on survivor guilt. The inequity of life is a good arguement for reincarnation. The arbitrariness just too painful.
Then one day in January, February or March it rains and keeps raining. Rivers of water drain from the mountainsides carrying with them the dirt which closes all the roads. In some instances leaving no recourse but to take the long, two-hour way into town or stay at a hotel close to work. Then the Santa Anna winds blow in from the desert and some idiot tosses a cigarette or sparks from a vehicle ignite a field and now fires destroy homes and lives.
Okay, you'd bettter enjoy the sun while you can because "the big one" is on its way. Like insurgents, we don't know when or exactly where, but we have a pretty good idea it's a given. And LA. The airports, Longbeach Harbor, the unprotected shorelines. Too much area to watch. I know they are trying. I pray for them.
But I also believe one day in some way paradise will end. Okay, I'm walking and talking and driving and laughing and no one shoots at me because of my religeous beliefs or my heritage. No one drops bombs in my neighborhood or snipes at me from a rooftop. And because that is not happening I refuse to take on survivor guilt. The inequity of life is a good arguement for reincarnation. The arbitrariness just too painful.
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