... it's not really something I would have ever seen in myself, outside of the basic reminder that however rough I feel I have it, there are those who suffer daily much worse than I. And yet...
I find myself resentful of the friends who claim they understand what I deal with yet do nothing to help... or nothing when I need it, or who completely neglect to ask: "hey I'd like to come by and bring you some things, what do you need?"
Then I question why I am so angry, and why do I feel so betrayed, and what right have I to expect anything of these friends or family members, and it comes down to wanting to point the finger anywhere but in the mirror. My current difficulties aren't all my fault, sure, but many of them are, so why should it behoove anyone to help? And when did I get so proud that asking for the specific help I need is so damned hard?
When I look hard enough into the mirror, all I see is someone who can't make herself worth the effort from anyone else, and that being the case, what point is there in feeling hurt over the perception of neglect? No one is neglecting me worse than I am myself.
There is a deep and dark hole in me, that I insist on digging just a little deeper, almost daily.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
Cavalia
We had a great parking spot, due to my waving a cane at the parking attendants. The prices on the concession and souvenirs were inflated of course, but I couldn't complain, I hadn't paid for the tickets after all. We were there in plenty of time, among the first people under the big top for our great, front row seats. The stage was mostly obscured from view by three large banners, but the forepart was decorated by various statues, sculptures and stuffies of horses, and rocking horses, most of which were softly spotlit. Kimiko did get a picture or two of the backdrop and the little ponies.
We passed the wait by talking about how you could tell the horse people from the watchers: a lot were wearing boots, comfortable slacks or jeans, and even those that bothered to dress for the occasion walked with a certain recognizable power in their stride. There is a noticeable difference in the way horse people walk.
They warmed up the crowd with projected pictures and trivia about the show: it was a very clever way to engage the audience and get them calmed and focused on the stage.
The show started, beautiful music: flute, cello, and voice, and then the performers moved out slowly to remove the decorations from the sand. The back drops stayed in place, as we caught our first glimpse of the real stars of the show: the horses. Two weanling mustangs, a red and a blue roan burst from the entry closest to us, and I felt a fist clench in my chest. They ran, circled, played with each other, staying very close in the delineated spaces of the stage, even as the singer took center and moved over the sand as she invoked a calmness and a wonder with her voice.
I was very surprised how much this opening touched me. I actually cried as I watche dthose babies play. It was a very effective beginning, hitting an unexpected emotional depth in me from the start. I am not sure this effect was intended or was a side-effect of my own limitations of health and feelings of caged impotence when I recall how much a part of that world I was once. Kimiko was affected too: perhaps others were reached in similar ways.
I don't recall the order of the acts, just that some were visually wondrous, others were powerfully athletic. In some pieces the horses' personalities were very clear: mostly intentionally. The clown of an Andalusian who stuck his tongue out for us in an early act made everyone smile or laugh and bound the audience even closer to the horses on the stage.
The liberty horse work was very good, starring with one performer and one horse and a cleverly designed water feature in the central stage portion. They played tag, and the dark bay Lusitano stallion in the piece was breathtakingly magnificent up close
The second liberty performance was a solo trainer and her 6 grey (mostly Polish) Arabians and then for shock value, one lovely airy black Egyptian, who floated along in the group. They were all very attentive to their trainer, and performed a few rudimentary routines. I suspect the routine was much more impressive to people who haven't trained or free-longed horses, but it was lovely to watch them move freely like that, regardless of the intricacy or difficulty of the performance. I was very impressed by her ability to control two groups of horses at once, keeping those nearest her circling close while the other half ran the circuit of the stage.
http://www.cavalia.net/pages/theShow/artists_horses/artists/sylvia-zerbini.aspx?lang=EN-CA
The acrobats were gifted performers, and the choreography was light and airy, especial the aerilalists, but the tumblers were superb too. Watching them do basic vaulting and the tumbling in and around the two heavy horses used for the vaults reminded me of those old mosaics of Minoan bull dancers. Made me wonder if there was ever a chance at seeing a real recreation of that sort of an art form. The backdrop for the tumbling and the Roman riding was a coliseum, arches behind which hid the band.
The Roman riding I had been eager to watch and I was not disappointed. The Criollo horse I'd especially wanted to see was a mount of the best of the drivers, a woman with long spiral curled red hair. She was a very capable, read her horses and the teams of the others very well. She was the driver of the finale: a very impressive drive of a six horse team over a three foot jump, in tandems. She was brilliant. Roman riding is something I'd never seen live before, and I doubt I'd have enjoyed doing it much when I was able-bodied. It looks as difficult to do as anything I can imagine.
One of the most striking acts featured the silk aerialist flying out over the audience. It was lovely to see good acrobatics, but with the scale of the stage and the accommodations they had to make for the horses, sometimes the mechanics were a bit obvious. There's very little magical about watching two or three men on the lines holding the performer aloft, using their own tension to swoop and raise him. The Cirque productions, not having to work on sand or have the wide spaces horses need can disguise their mechanics a lit better, and use strategic lighting to ensure the audience never ntices the men behind the scenes.
One of the performances I've been eagerly awaiting was lovely and striking, but because of the width of the stage, it was harder to see the piece as balanced as it obviously was meant to be. There were other times, later in the performance when my eyes didn't know where to go, as well: sometimes the stage was very busy, and the shallowness and width of the stage made it impossible to see everything at once.
The dimensions of the stage worked phenomenally well during the cavalcade, however: 8 horses and riders moving in slow cadenced unison was very well done, and very different than the average quadrille: this was one of the very pleasant surprises of the show for me. They very cleverly created a Riders of Rivendell feel to the scenery, costumes and choreography, riders reaching their hands towards each other even as their horses danced, sleeves and silken cloaks fluttering gently. It was beautifully done, poetic and evocative.
A rain of leaves from the sky ended the last act before the intermission: tissue leaves in fall colours falling even as the aerialists performed on bungees and trapeze above us. I was eager to get my hands on as many of those as I could before they got trampled: a little piece of the show itself.
The pas-de-deux riders and acrobats returned in the second act, but the real stars of the final act were the trick riders. They started with a pastiche of a cowboy alone in the desert, and built up inertia rapidly, with pass after pass of two to four riders at a full gallop performing poses, drags and bounces with skill and agility, and a few exciting close calls with the draped entry arches. I know my heart was in my throat a couple of times watching how close the horse came to the corners, or how the rider barely got reseated before the arch. This was a surprisingly long portion, easily ten passes made from each gate, the Quarter horses and paints very bright as they flashed by in bursts.
There were only two acts where it was clear one performer was distinctly displeased about his part in things: either his rider was heavy handed, or he was hurting somewhere. He expressed his disapproval with pinned ears a lashing tail and occasionally overly emphatic steps, Sine it was a pas-de-deux, it was very clear by comparison that one mount was perfectly happy to be there and the other was just as clearly NOT.
I was a little surprised and very relieved that he was the only Mr. Grumpypants among the horses: far too often performance animals like these are over-used or otherwise abused. I wanted to find him in the stables after the show, just to see if I could see what had him so grumpy and I don't know, commune with him enough for him to know that his mood had been noticed by someone out there. It sounds weird, but he had the kind of personality I've always worked very well with.
We did get a great, if too brief wander through the stables after the show. I missed seeing the Criollo, as he was on the other half of the stable from where we came in, but still, it was really nice to see the faces of the ponies up close. They were all chowing down of course, and seemed for the most part quite settled and content.
The sole exception was the fellow on the entrance stall, an expressively eyed Andalusian. He was ignoring his hay and watching the crowds as they moved past his stall: it was very clear he wanted to be more social, but we were all too respectful of the request to keep our hands to ourselves. His white-lashed eyes looked out at us, and past us to the warm up arena: he seemed to be begging for some shared fun. Another personality I've had some experience with, and one I definitely miss.
It was a deeply affirming evening and a beautiful show. I hope they do well and wish them much success on future endeavors. It was a beautiful gift, and I wish the giver had not felt so conflicted that he gave up the chance to see the show for himself. :P
We passed the wait by talking about how you could tell the horse people from the watchers: a lot were wearing boots, comfortable slacks or jeans, and even those that bothered to dress for the occasion walked with a certain recognizable power in their stride. There is a noticeable difference in the way horse people walk.
They warmed up the crowd with projected pictures and trivia about the show: it was a very clever way to engage the audience and get them calmed and focused on the stage.
The show started, beautiful music: flute, cello, and voice, and then the performers moved out slowly to remove the decorations from the sand. The back drops stayed in place, as we caught our first glimpse of the real stars of the show: the horses. Two weanling mustangs, a red and a blue roan burst from the entry closest to us, and I felt a fist clench in my chest. They ran, circled, played with each other, staying very close in the delineated spaces of the stage, even as the singer took center and moved over the sand as she invoked a calmness and a wonder with her voice.
I was very surprised how much this opening touched me. I actually cried as I watche dthose babies play. It was a very effective beginning, hitting an unexpected emotional depth in me from the start. I am not sure this effect was intended or was a side-effect of my own limitations of health and feelings of caged impotence when I recall how much a part of that world I was once. Kimiko was affected too: perhaps others were reached in similar ways.
I don't recall the order of the acts, just that some were visually wondrous, others were powerfully athletic. In some pieces the horses' personalities were very clear: mostly intentionally. The clown of an Andalusian who stuck his tongue out for us in an early act made everyone smile or laugh and bound the audience even closer to the horses on the stage.
The liberty horse work was very good, starring with one performer and one horse and a cleverly designed water feature in the central stage portion. They played tag, and the dark bay Lusitano stallion in the piece was breathtakingly magnificent up close
The second liberty performance was a solo trainer and her 6 grey (mostly Polish) Arabians and then for shock value, one lovely airy black Egyptian, who floated along in the group. They were all very attentive to their trainer, and performed a few rudimentary routines. I suspect the routine was much more impressive to people who haven't trained or free-longed horses, but it was lovely to watch them move freely like that, regardless of the intricacy or difficulty of the performance. I was very impressed by her ability to control two groups of horses at once, keeping those nearest her circling close while the other half ran the circuit of the stage.
http://www.cavalia.net/pages/theShow/artists_horses/artists/sylvia-zerbini.aspx?lang=EN-CA
The acrobats were gifted performers, and the choreography was light and airy, especial the aerilalists, but the tumblers were superb too. Watching them do basic vaulting and the tumbling in and around the two heavy horses used for the vaults reminded me of those old mosaics of Minoan bull dancers. Made me wonder if there was ever a chance at seeing a real recreation of that sort of an art form. The backdrop for the tumbling and the Roman riding was a coliseum, arches behind which hid the band.
The Roman riding I had been eager to watch and I was not disappointed. The Criollo horse I'd especially wanted to see was a mount of the best of the drivers, a woman with long spiral curled red hair. She was a very capable, read her horses and the teams of the others very well. She was the driver of the finale: a very impressive drive of a six horse team over a three foot jump, in tandems. She was brilliant. Roman riding is something I'd never seen live before, and I doubt I'd have enjoyed doing it much when I was able-bodied. It looks as difficult to do as anything I can imagine.
One of the most striking acts featured the silk aerialist flying out over the audience. It was lovely to see good acrobatics, but with the scale of the stage and the accommodations they had to make for the horses, sometimes the mechanics were a bit obvious. There's very little magical about watching two or three men on the lines holding the performer aloft, using their own tension to swoop and raise him. The Cirque productions, not having to work on sand or have the wide spaces horses need can disguise their mechanics a lit better, and use strategic lighting to ensure the audience never ntices the men behind the scenes.
One of the performances I've been eagerly awaiting was lovely and striking, but because of the width of the stage, it was harder to see the piece as balanced as it obviously was meant to be. There were other times, later in the performance when my eyes didn't know where to go, as well: sometimes the stage was very busy, and the shallowness and width of the stage made it impossible to see everything at once.
The dimensions of the stage worked phenomenally well during the cavalcade, however: 8 horses and riders moving in slow cadenced unison was very well done, and very different than the average quadrille: this was one of the very pleasant surprises of the show for me. They very cleverly created a Riders of Rivendell feel to the scenery, costumes and choreography, riders reaching their hands towards each other even as their horses danced, sleeves and silken cloaks fluttering gently. It was beautifully done, poetic and evocative.
A rain of leaves from the sky ended the last act before the intermission: tissue leaves in fall colours falling even as the aerialists performed on bungees and trapeze above us. I was eager to get my hands on as many of those as I could before they got trampled: a little piece of the show itself.
The pas-de-deux riders and acrobats returned in the second act, but the real stars of the final act were the trick riders. They started with a pastiche of a cowboy alone in the desert, and built up inertia rapidly, with pass after pass of two to four riders at a full gallop performing poses, drags and bounces with skill and agility, and a few exciting close calls with the draped entry arches. I know my heart was in my throat a couple of times watching how close the horse came to the corners, or how the rider barely got reseated before the arch. This was a surprisingly long portion, easily ten passes made from each gate, the Quarter horses and paints very bright as they flashed by in bursts.
There were only two acts where it was clear one performer was distinctly displeased about his part in things: either his rider was heavy handed, or he was hurting somewhere. He expressed his disapproval with pinned ears a lashing tail and occasionally overly emphatic steps, Sine it was a pas-de-deux, it was very clear by comparison that one mount was perfectly happy to be there and the other was just as clearly NOT.
I was a little surprised and very relieved that he was the only Mr. Grumpypants among the horses: far too often performance animals like these are over-used or otherwise abused. I wanted to find him in the stables after the show, just to see if I could see what had him so grumpy and I don't know, commune with him enough for him to know that his mood had been noticed by someone out there. It sounds weird, but he had the kind of personality I've always worked very well with.
We did get a great, if too brief wander through the stables after the show. I missed seeing the Criollo, as he was on the other half of the stable from where we came in, but still, it was really nice to see the faces of the ponies up close. They were all chowing down of course, and seemed for the most part quite settled and content.
The sole exception was the fellow on the entrance stall, an expressively eyed Andalusian. He was ignoring his hay and watching the crowds as they moved past his stall: it was very clear he wanted to be more social, but we were all too respectful of the request to keep our hands to ourselves. His white-lashed eyes looked out at us, and past us to the warm up arena: he seemed to be begging for some shared fun. Another personality I've had some experience with, and one I definitely miss.
It was a deeply affirming evening and a beautiful show. I hope they do well and wish them much success on future endeavors. It was a beautiful gift, and I wish the giver had not felt so conflicted that he gave up the chance to see the show for himself. :P
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Procrasti Nation
I follow (sorta randomly) a really solid vlogger by the name of Philip deFranco. He has long referred to his followers as the DeFranco Nation, a moniker which Stephen Colbert also uses on his brill fake punditry show, the Colbert Report. I think it fits, but as I sat down to type out this I realised that as a whole most of Western Society may in fact fit the moniker as a the ProcrastiNation.
I just went looking for a google image relating to procrastination for my SWG blog, and found this grand lil advice blog called Magical Words (well, they use all kinds of 733t symbols instead of the letters, but us higher evolved types tend to see letters where n00b2 have used numb3r2, right?)
Anywho, I read over some of this blogger's advice regarding procrastination, and some of it really tied into what I have been pondering and discussing with friends of late: that it's one thing to realise you have a personal issue, and another to actualise change. My sister's big issue is communication, one of mine is a lack of drive, but definitely procrastination plays a role too. That said, I have been working on mine, and as a result I feel I have made some solid progress as a recovering procrastinator.
/wave "Hi, my name is Poetrix and I put things off. It's been two days since I washed my dishes."
The problem, and the subject of the above-mentioned pondering/discussion is that acknowledging is one thing, but once you have acknowledged that you have a problem, you have to actively work to fix it! That's the step that seems to be forgotten in this weird cyclical culture of blame/absolution we have created.
One of the key things that us selfish middle-aged gits lose track of is that our children see us model the very behaviours that have held us back all these years: that is part of the legacy with which we are burdening them.
There will always be distractions, but if we know we have a tendency to allow ourselves to be distracted, it is up to us, each of us alone and individually to combat that tendency, in order to actually live up to a fraction of our potential, and in order to model a better way of living and being for the children around us.
Food for thought. (Let's not consider the whole obesity/health issue thing, there...)
I just went looking for a google image relating to procrastination for my SWG blog, and found this grand lil advice blog called Magical Words (well, they use all kinds of 733t symbols instead of the letters, but us higher evolved types tend to see letters where n00b2 have used numb3r2, right?)
Anywho, I read over some of this blogger's advice regarding procrastination, and some of it really tied into what I have been pondering and discussing with friends of late: that it's one thing to realise you have a personal issue, and another to actualise change. My sister's big issue is communication, one of mine is a lack of drive, but definitely procrastination plays a role too. That said, I have been working on mine, and as a result I feel I have made some solid progress as a recovering procrastinator.
/wave "Hi, my name is Poetrix and I put things off. It's been two days since I washed my dishes."
The problem, and the subject of the above-mentioned pondering/discussion is that acknowledging is one thing, but once you have acknowledged that you have a problem, you have to actively work to fix it! That's the step that seems to be forgotten in this weird cyclical culture of blame/absolution we have created.
One of the key things that us selfish middle-aged gits lose track of is that our children see us model the very behaviours that have held us back all these years: that is part of the legacy with which we are burdening them.
There will always be distractions, but if we know we have a tendency to allow ourselves to be distracted, it is up to us, each of us alone and individually to combat that tendency, in order to actually live up to a fraction of our potential, and in order to model a better way of living and being for the children around us.
Food for thought. (Let's not consider the whole obesity/health issue thing, there...)
Friday, March 25, 2011
Plans Change
I have had both my younger sons for the last week: it's been nice to share some with my middle boy, who is changing as each day passes. I wish my place were larger, with room enough to give him a space of his own, but I simply don't have that kind of a budget.
After a full week of both boys, and not getting the previous weekend childfree, I am more than ready for this next 10 days of being on my own. I had been looking forward to spending some time at my sister's hanging out and getting my laundry done, but it appears she forgot that plan, so I was packed and ready to go, and she didn't show. Without a phone, the only way to reliably reach me is via email, but that is pretty damned reliable, considering my house-bound status.
I had just celebrated with her roomie that I'd be seeing her tonight and then caught myself: just yesterday I was saying to Arkay that it was never to be counted on that my sister would recall our plans: our family is nothing if not reliably unreliable. It's one of those things. Communication skills in abundance, and no where near the drive to use them (kinda like our particular artistic temperament, in that lack of drive, actually.)
"Read my mind, dammit!" has always kinda been the unspoken attitude all of us have: my oldest sister has gone the farthest down the path of mature expectations as far as that goes. We learned it young and with no better examples: my mother remains one of the least punctual people on the planet. So JB's plans changed, or she forgot, or forgot to let me know that plans had changed.
In this case, it doesn't really have much impact, and JB knows that. She can "get away with it" because I have no choice but to forgive her for something I have all too often exhibited myself. In one sense it's just a continuance of a pattern that I wonder if I am the only one of my feminine family that notices, cares, or wishes to change.
And to be absolutely BitchWare honest: this particular time, I didn't really mind. After having a housefull of kids, guests, and family, without pause for a full three weeks, it's kinda nice to have a quiet evening at home, alone.
After a full week of both boys, and not getting the previous weekend childfree, I am more than ready for this next 10 days of being on my own. I had been looking forward to spending some time at my sister's hanging out and getting my laundry done, but it appears she forgot that plan, so I was packed and ready to go, and she didn't show. Without a phone, the only way to reliably reach me is via email, but that is pretty damned reliable, considering my house-bound status.
I had just celebrated with her roomie that I'd be seeing her tonight and then caught myself: just yesterday I was saying to Arkay that it was never to be counted on that my sister would recall our plans: our family is nothing if not reliably unreliable. It's one of those things. Communication skills in abundance, and no where near the drive to use them (kinda like our particular artistic temperament, in that lack of drive, actually.)
"Read my mind, dammit!" has always kinda been the unspoken attitude all of us have: my oldest sister has gone the farthest down the path of mature expectations as far as that goes. We learned it young and with no better examples: my mother remains one of the least punctual people on the planet. So JB's plans changed, or she forgot, or forgot to let me know that plans had changed.
In this case, it doesn't really have much impact, and JB knows that. She can "get away with it" because I have no choice but to forgive her for something I have all too often exhibited myself. In one sense it's just a continuance of a pattern that I wonder if I am the only one of my feminine family that notices, cares, or wishes to change.
And to be absolutely BitchWare honest: this particular time, I didn't really mind. After having a housefull of kids, guests, and family, without pause for a full three weeks, it's kinda nice to have a quiet evening at home, alone.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Wolf in Sheep's Clothing
So, some of this is going to come across as very egotistical, I'm sure, but I have to say it is only and ever honest assessment, not in any way self-gratifying aggrandisement.
I have been pondering attraction and the acting on attractions that I have had to deal with in the last few months, since I announced that I had split from my ex. It was an inadvertant announcement, based on the fact that I changed my status on facebook to Single, and thought it was private, but it turned out it wasn't, and all of a sudden the sharks started to circle.
Within a couple of days a friend, an acquaintance, and a TOTAL STRANGER had all let me know they would be happy to try and fill Scott's shoes. The thing is, I'm single and so very NOT LOOKING it's just not even possible to state. I am alone, happily, and since I have never felt the driving need to share my bed and my life with someone/anyone else, I could conceivably stay quite comfortably that way for the rest of my life. So why is it that all these people are crawling over themselves to step into the vacancy I haven't advertised?
Well, and here's where the ego comes in: as I go back over my life and various romances and relationships, I realise I am quite a charismatic person. Aside from a short period of solid hawtness as a teenager, I'm unphotogenic in the extreme, only marginally talented in too many areas, and not exactly the catch of the century as far as health, looks or bankroll goes. That said, I acknowledge that I do have a certain charm, sparkle, or whatever (my very own je ne c'est quoi!) that attracts certain people. And they can be harder to scrape off, however politely, than shit on a shoe.
I saw my mother cling to one man then another, I've seen my sister finally find happiness and passion with a fellow, and I've known every phase of love and desire that is out there. I don't want anything but friendship and companionship from any of my friends, but I am honest to go feeling hunted at times. And I look at myself and go, what? really? why? I'm 40, crippled for life, barely able to make ends meet much less get ahead... there really is better out there in every damned library in the country. Go! find someone ELSE!
In one significant case, I wanna smack the guy and say if you have to fall in love, fall in love with the woman you are sleeping with and leave me the hell out of it: she's my friend, arsehole! Thing is, he'd enjoy the smack, because he's that kind of a beaten puppy. Stockholm syndrome, anyone?
I wish the notsogood men, puppies and precocious predators would go wherever it is the good men have gone. I need to enjoy my comfie single bed by myself and without this weird pressure to let myself be bought and sold.
I have been pondering attraction and the acting on attractions that I have had to deal with in the last few months, since I announced that I had split from my ex. It was an inadvertant announcement, based on the fact that I changed my status on facebook to Single, and thought it was private, but it turned out it wasn't, and all of a sudden the sharks started to circle.
Within a couple of days a friend, an acquaintance, and a TOTAL STRANGER had all let me know they would be happy to try and fill Scott's shoes. The thing is, I'm single and so very NOT LOOKING it's just not even possible to state. I am alone, happily, and since I have never felt the driving need to share my bed and my life with someone/anyone else, I could conceivably stay quite comfortably that way for the rest of my life. So why is it that all these people are crawling over themselves to step into the vacancy I haven't advertised?
Well, and here's where the ego comes in: as I go back over my life and various romances and relationships, I realise I am quite a charismatic person. Aside from a short period of solid hawtness as a teenager, I'm unphotogenic in the extreme, only marginally talented in too many areas, and not exactly the catch of the century as far as health, looks or bankroll goes. That said, I acknowledge that I do have a certain charm, sparkle, or whatever (my very own je ne c'est quoi!) that attracts certain people. And they can be harder to scrape off, however politely, than shit on a shoe.
I saw my mother cling to one man then another, I've seen my sister finally find happiness and passion with a fellow, and I've known every phase of love and desire that is out there. I don't want anything but friendship and companionship from any of my friends, but I am honest to go feeling hunted at times. And I look at myself and go, what? really? why? I'm 40, crippled for life, barely able to make ends meet much less get ahead... there really is better out there in every damned library in the country. Go! find someone ELSE!
In one significant case, I wanna smack the guy and say if you have to fall in love, fall in love with the woman you are sleeping with and leave me the hell out of it: she's my friend, arsehole! Thing is, he'd enjoy the smack, because he's that kind of a beaten puppy. Stockholm syndrome, anyone?
I wish the notsogood men, puppies and precocious predators would go wherever it is the good men have gone. I need to enjoy my comfie single bed by myself and without this weird pressure to let myself be bought and sold.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Toxic Muse
When the words that leak forth are a poisoned froth
of malice and fear
a fragmented song
until you fear to ever sing again...
How long does she hold her grip?
How long till you sluice her taint from your heart,
excise her claws;
free your self,
retrieve your gifts from the slurry, the slag, the refuse heap
rinse them clean and repair them?
She is not you, and she is not your muse
She is nothing anymore
a dim and dank memory, a scar over the damage done.
Heal, singer.
Let it go, let her go and free your self.
Free your voice
of malice and fear
a fragmented song
until you fear to ever sing again...
How long does she hold her grip?
How long till you sluice her taint from your heart,
excise her claws;
free your self,
retrieve your gifts from the slurry, the slag, the refuse heap
rinse them clean and repair them?
She is not you, and she is not your muse
She is nothing anymore
a dim and dank memory, a scar over the damage done.
Heal, singer.
Let it go, let her go and free your self.
Free your voice
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Something Beautiful
Okay, this one is going to be very stream of conscience because it is late and I am barely.
Just had a lovely visit with an old friend over tea and chatter, catching up, and swept away by how lovely a woman she is, and in a quick browse over the web once she had left, a faint feeling that something was awaiting, a sense of immanence. Brush over etsy and there in the recent listings I find... this card. A digital overlay imagery of butterfly and tiger eyes, subtle and haunting... such exquisite beauty.
Actually while that piece alone was nice, not really riveting, it sent me on a trip down the weblines to a site of two brilliant artists. I'm wandering around it, seeing so many things of invention and alchemy and sheer aesthetic glory... it was one of those satori moments as I looked over every piece of art and jewelly - a virtual window shop into a fantastic Oriental little market stall of wonders. I see pieces that JB would love, or Arkay, or Kimiko... even my kids, my mother. And yet... not quite anything that is just for me.
I am awed by the creativity and intuitiveness that artists like these can pull up out of dormant materials, out of inorganics such vibrant living colour and form. Awed, and I admit it, deeply envious.
The thing is, after a browse over literally every piece they had to offer I am both frustrated and inspired. Inspired by the creativity, the purity and the invention of the images and jewelry, and always frustrated by my own fragmented talents and means to make the things I see in their work, and the awareness that no matter how good I could become as an artist of any media, my work will always leave me cold while that of these artists sings to me. Frustrated also knowing I would love to own a piece made by such hands, but I'd wish for something custom to me, that didn't just resonate vaguely but rang me like a bell, strummed me like a harp string. They are already so close... if they could just see into me, they could play an entire orchestral etude in beaded, silver, copper, glass and paint... I would never look away from that piece. It would make of me Narcissus.
And yet... stung by images as beautiful as my dreams, I *want* so badly. I am sore with the writhing bittersweetness of it.
So synchronous that I feel I had been primed for the moment, like a canvas, a pump or a gun. A surface prepared, and the finding of those artists can't be the whole of it. Immanence remains, a dull throb behind the ache of desire to build, make, paint, create.
And I am left holding thread and hook and a limited craft and even more limited talent. It is the ambition that is limitless.
I wonder if the ostrich ever dreams in memory of flight.
Just had a lovely visit with an old friend over tea and chatter, catching up, and swept away by how lovely a woman she is, and in a quick browse over the web once she had left, a faint feeling that something was awaiting, a sense of immanence. Brush over etsy and there in the recent listings I find... this card. A digital overlay imagery of butterfly and tiger eyes, subtle and haunting... such exquisite beauty.
Actually while that piece alone was nice, not really riveting, it sent me on a trip down the weblines to a site of two brilliant artists. I'm wandering around it, seeing so many things of invention and alchemy and sheer aesthetic glory... it was one of those satori moments as I looked over every piece of art and jewelly - a virtual window shop into a fantastic Oriental little market stall of wonders. I see pieces that JB would love, or Arkay, or Kimiko... even my kids, my mother. And yet... not quite anything that is just for me.
I am awed by the creativity and intuitiveness that artists like these can pull up out of dormant materials, out of inorganics such vibrant living colour and form. Awed, and I admit it, deeply envious.
The thing is, after a browse over literally every piece they had to offer I am both frustrated and inspired. Inspired by the creativity, the purity and the invention of the images and jewelry, and always frustrated by my own fragmented talents and means to make the things I see in their work, and the awareness that no matter how good I could become as an artist of any media, my work will always leave me cold while that of these artists sings to me. Frustrated also knowing I would love to own a piece made by such hands, but I'd wish for something custom to me, that didn't just resonate vaguely but rang me like a bell, strummed me like a harp string. They are already so close... if they could just see into me, they could play an entire orchestral etude in beaded, silver, copper, glass and paint... I would never look away from that piece. It would make of me Narcissus.
And yet... stung by images as beautiful as my dreams, I *want* so badly. I am sore with the writhing bittersweetness of it.
So synchronous that I feel I had been primed for the moment, like a canvas, a pump or a gun. A surface prepared, and the finding of those artists can't be the whole of it. Immanence remains, a dull throb behind the ache of desire to build, make, paint, create.
And I am left holding thread and hook and a limited craft and even more limited talent. It is the ambition that is limitless.
I wonder if the ostrich ever dreams in memory of flight.
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