Wednesday, June 20, 2018

Random Verbose Morning Thoughts

It is the cusp of Summer, and here, as I listen to VNV Nation's "Chrome" and "Futureperfect," I have put my inner musings into organized letters and broken sentences for your ethereal pleasure. Enjoy.

Soft verdure hues in the early morning haze of infant summer caress my gaze with a velvet allure.

The ambient energy vibrates with an anticipatory eagerness matched only by the restless longing of my caffeinated heartbeat.

A storm of yearning to sink beneath the surface in the moment while retaining the ability to freely sail away on serene waters rages in perpetuity.

Calm is illusory in the real chaos of internal human clockwork.
The whitecaps are smoothed out of public vision by refusal to open our eyes to others' mirrored struggles.
We are alone in our connectedness.

Wednesday, May 30, 2018

Music Saves the Day

When I find myself lost inside the façade this world pushes upon me, music brings me back. In fact, years ago a friend was lamenting her creative blockage. For those of you who do not count yourself as "artistic," imagination/creation block is exactly as it sounds; it is another form of that damn writers' block that has plagued thinking types for centuries. I wouldn't be surprised if this exists in every vocation and hobby. This friend of mine sounded so lost, and, having been there time and again, I offered the temporary cure I often use to get the juices flowing.


It's seems like such a trite suggestion, doesn't it? So cliché. Try it the next time you are caught up in your own vine-like thoughts. The music will soothe the tendrils' grips and you may slide to freedom of expression. What's the secret? Actually, there is a trick...and a caveat. The trick? The initial music you listen to can't just be anything, and it can't be what you've been listening to recently. Hop into your own personal time machine. Think back to when you were doing your favorite work. Barring that, go back to the most recent time your were creating. What did you have on repeat in your Walkman/diskman/mp3 player? (WHATEVER, I'M OLD!) That is the key to reclaiming your passion.

The aforementioned caveat? You will be inspired to recreate the style of that particular time period. It may be short-lived, and you may flow into a new style. Then again, you may end up following it into a new series of that same style that might never have occurred to you back then. Either way, you're creating again!

Of course, this post reveals the rearing of the monster blockage with whom I seem to struggle fairly regularly. Odd, though. This past semester (yes, I am still working on my degree...It's changed a couple of times...Take off your judgy pants and stay a while.) saw me drawing in charcoal and some ink. You would think that this would free up my mundanity-bound hands for freedom of luscious artistic expression. Well, unbeknownst to me, doing art from life and trying to capture real life images wasn't inspiring me to create as I once did. In fact, it was exhausting! I recall telling my mom over the phone that (*shudder*), "I hate drawing, now."


Then, last weekend, my sister and I went to Cambridge to see Aurelio Voltaire.

All of a sudden, I'm drawing new creatures, adjusting and finishing old pieces, and writing poetry, again. Poetry! I haven't written poetry seriously for, well, I really don't know when the last time I wrote like that. The beauty of this change, though, is that I didn't work to make it happen. Voltaire's music brought me back to a time when art was my everything. We hadn't seen him live for 15 years! (Though, it's funny, I have the picture of my sister and I with him at that past show framed on my wall. I've seen it every day for the past three years. She gave it to me as a part of a Christmas gift.) As for other creative outlets of mine, car-aoke will always be a thing; I belt at the light with the best of them! But, after some time, I have my eye on a couple of Voltaire songs I would love to cover for my YouTube channel if I can find instrumentals (and obtain permission. Though, I know not to old my breath. Everyone has their own lives and agendas, and I certainly don't delude myself into thinking I factor into any part of his.)

The point, though, is that, in dribs and drabs, my creativity and imagination are coming back. And it's all thanks, once again, to music.

Tuesday, February 6, 2018

A Call to (Magickal) Arms

Jack Frost is taken by the sweetness of Spring. This time of year, here and there he let's her shake her shining locks, the fresh scents of emerging green wafting before us, just out of reach. She makes him want to dance, and he shakes free the flurries of snow that had gathered on his shoulders while he was enchanted by her movements, her laughter, her smile. Spring is Jack's undoing, and he loves it. His laugh bellows out a crisp gust of wintry air, and she is gone again.

Imbolg sneaks up on me every year, much like the hide and seek Spring begs of sweet Jack. I have my own memories and private thoughts attached to the celebration of purity and newness, yet constantly watch it pass. Perhaps my mind and body are simply mirroring the sentiments of the holiday: safely tucked inside, awaiting rebirth. Here in Massachusetts, February has been the coldest, snowiest month of the year for the past four years, at least. Though it is merely beginning, we are experiencing a small break from this new norm; there are only a few, small piles of snow leftover from the last fall of fluffy white stuff. Well, at least along the lower South Shore, anyway. The spring breezes and sunrises have enticed and enchanted us along with Jack. I can't help thinking that Mother Earth is restless in her hibernation, this year.

Regardless of my physical indifference to Imbolg, my recent endeavors to settle back into a regular practice and appreciation of the magick that surrounds us have been a little fruitful. Since Lammas of last year, I have been into cross-stitch, and have made one from each holiday since (aside from Imbolg...which I have yet to begin...) Working on my little decorations have helped bring me into the moment, and think on the seasons, their bounties, the life for which I am utterly grateful, and how I may continue to work on myself. For, truly, the voices that called me to this Path spoke to the pieces of me that wanted changing.

And coming home always makes my heart glow with a warmth akin to Spring's promised sunlight on Jack's chilly visage.

Friday, May 12, 2017

Waning Thoughts

The human condition. What a mess! There are so many things we all go through, but no one talks about anything, so we all feel alone from time to time (or more often, depending on how often one feels different.) But we're not. We none of us are really all that different. And it's maddening!
Technology connects people all around the world, but in the end, it's ruining our ability to truly communicate. Shooting words thousands of miles via wires is a form of communication that doesn't require a human connection. And, for business, to a certain extent, that's all well and good. But even then, it can put a strain on business relationships, as well. Personal relationships, though, how do we cultivate those without contact? Tone is lost in text. Feeling is absent in the inability to, say, touch a hand because one would rather convey thoughts through text messages. Have we become the failed half of the Harlow experiments? Are we running to the cold, robotic mother for comfort, leaving the warm, soft apparatus untouched?
Where have we gone wrong? Are we Rome? Is this Mankind's Fall?

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