There and Back Again

I'm sure that some of you have noticed (assuming there are even still followers out there at this point), that my blogging here has dropped significantly. It's been a rough summer to cap a very rough year and a half or so. The artistic muses have escaped from me again. Every once in a while I catch one and make him or her sing for me, but overall, the poetic fountain is running pretty dry right now.

I also realize that I put too much of myself out there to too many people, and have had my heart broken too many times recently by the people I thought I could trust. I've been warned by family and friends that some of the things I post on here are just too personal or too vulnerable. And while my intention for this blog is to reach out to others around me who are struggling as well with depression, stress, etc., somehow my blog has become seen as something written for the sole purpose of garnering sympathy or attention.

So, in between the actual busy-ness of several huge transitions in my life, and the fact that I've needed to guard privacy of both myself and others around me, I've become less frequent here. I've been posting more newsy type stuff on our family blog and less artsy stuff here. Someday I'll get back to the art. Right now, life is in the way.

To my Muses with Love...

You'll never be forgotten,
So please don't walk away.

I don't like it when we're fighting;
Can we please just talk this out?

You work for me; I work for you.
I need you as much as you need me.

Without you I've got nothing to say;
Without me you've no one to say it.

Can we both have what we need?
Can we treat each other kindly?

Can we ignore the ones who judge us
And write things anyway?

Come back to me, my dear, sweet muses.
Hold me close and I'll hold you.

One Lovely Blog Award

Vicky Burkholder, writer of fantasy and paranormal romance, awarded me the "One Lovely Blog Award," and I would like to thank her (and the academy and... oh... wait, wrong award). I am honored to be a part of this apparently long running tradition.

In following with the tradition of One Lovely Blog, I hereby pass this award along to Susan:an artist of words, an explorer of beauty, and a friend of the heart and soul. This award is for her personal blog as well as for her writing blog: Typescript ~ which exists to encourage and assist writers by providing writing prompts, book giveaways, and the occasional first person author's anecdote. Her words and her friendship have been invaluable to me. Thanks, Susan!

For the second part of the award, I'm supposed to tell you ten things about myself you might not know, so here goes:

1. I play the flute, but haven't done so in public for years (aside from a brief moment of insanity in the past year where I actually brought it out to play during a rehearsal for the worship band that I sing with).
2. I design jewelry, both in real life and in Second Life. I haven't sold much (in either place), but I enjoy the creative challenge of both.
3. For my birthday, freshman year in college, my brother bought me the super~mega~deluxe box of Crayola crayons and some coloring books. It's what I asked for. I still love to color and it's one of my favorite past-times. I am a Crayola snob and don't like to use any other crayons.
4. I've never really learned to roller skate or swim. I can survive at either, but it's just not pretty.
5. My children are the only grandkids on both sides of the family, which makes for interesting holidays and birthdays.
6. My first job was, "Would you like to supersize your value meal?"
7. I have been outside the country three times, but never to a non-English speaking country. I could however, get by in most countries that speak romance languages.
8. When my husband first suggested we watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I thought he had lost his marbles. I have now seen nearly every episode at least a half dozen times, and quote it frequently.
9. I know the difference between American Sign Language and Signed English, and have been nearly fluent in both at one time or another.
10. I have friends in every continent of the world except Antarctica, but I sure do love penguins!

Inspiration

into the air and out the window

that's the last it was seen

it seems to always be in the last place

you expect it to be and you never think

to look

it's tired when you're awake

it's hungry when you're full

and it's angry when you're at peace

but never expect the flip to be okay

it's not you know because you have to strike

while the iron is hot or you just have to live

a life of regret for the lost thoughts or dreams

and forgotten ideas

remembering yourself

forgetting the rest

knowing it doesn't end

the way you expect

Left Blank

this page is not blank

despite the intentions

random smudges remain

captured in ridges

too small to notice

to anyone other than me

there was something

written here on this sheet

long before today

how long it remained

or why it was put there

no one could tell you now

despite all the efforts

anyone could tell

an eraser can only do so much

the grooves are still there

when the graphite's removed

if you search long enough

you'll find them

the imprint will never fade

they're no longer legible

and can't be understood

since it no longer looks the same

with clarity and substance erased

Meeting my Muses

Some writers talk about their muse, like they have only one.  I have an entire family of muses; some of them I know REALLY well, and some of them I'm still meeting and learning about.  (It's almost like marrying into a family and learning about your in-laws over the course of time.)  My muses ACT like a family: they love and respect one another, but they also know how to tear each other apart (but no one else better try to tear them down...).  Each one has a distinct personality, distinct quirks, and distinct ways of reacting to my life.

My poetic muse is the silent dreamer, the hopeless romantic.  Often she manifests as a 17 year old girl, but from time to time, she is wise beyond her years and is more like an older and wiser version of herself.  She sees life as it could be, but lives in the world as it is.  She is hiding quietly in the corner right now, playing with words, phrases, thoughts and feelings that are better left unshared in public again.  

My babbling muse, however, tends to take over and won't EVER shut up, more than thrilled that the poet has left the main stage for a bit.  Apparently the babbling muse is a 7-year-old child (probably more female than male, judging by the babbling, but you've met my son, right?).  She will ramble on and on about anything and everything in the hopes that somewhere along the line, something profound and meaningful will eventually emerge.  (Guess which muse is working right now!)

My philosophical muse is somewhere around 40 years old and refuses to tell me how old he really is.  He says that age is unimportant and gets annoyed if and when I even try to figure it out.  He's far more interested in the "more important" parts of life: the how and why of everything, understanding people, politics, religion, and any other nebulous idea.  He listens intently to the babbler, always scribbling down something in his notebook for further contemplation.

My erotic muse (which I'm convinced every writer has hidden inside, but many choose to keep locked away) is an exotic seductress.  She spends most of her time dreaming up fantastical adventures that could probably never happen in real life.  She's quite fond of teasing the rest of the family, throwing all sorts of crazy ideas into their projects, just to see what they will do with them.  No one is sure how old she is either (and everyone knows better than to ask a woman her age).  I wouldn't even begin to guess with her; she can be rather vindictive and I don't know that I'd like her when she's angry.

My lyrical muse is a twin to the poet.  I'm only starting to get to know him, but he likes to take the ideas of the philosopher and mix them with the babbling and the hopeless dreaming of the poet and turn them into something that brings honor to them all.  He's the most level headed of the bunch and can generally put even the erotic in her place and make her behave... sometimes.

My storyteller muse is the grandfather/mother of the family.  (S)He has seen it all and knows all.  I think (s)he is the spry-est 93 year old I've ever met.  And (s)he LOVES to talk, oversee the family, make sure they all do what they're supposed to, and then bring them all together for holiday dinners or a family picnic from time to time.  (S)He is the glue that holds them all together, reminds them that they need one another, and generally loves and encourages them when they fall.

They influence one another, assisting each other with their daily tasks and "household maintenance" (where the house is my mind, of course).  They have long conversations and arguments all the time which drive me to set up semi-permanent residence in the land of insanity (maybe I'm just living in the suburbs?).

There are others who live here.  I know I haven't met them all, but as I meet them, I'll share.

knowledge more sociable

here

are cities 

darkened

with gravity 

unruffled

with skies 

always needed

and 

with satellites 

recording

a curious kind

like the secret 

happy girl

who wants

the world

the secret

happy girl

who's jealous 

of the early 

prisoner 

mapped

in celtic 

line faded 

photograph

the secret 

happy girl

who generates 

continuous

young flowers

in hidden chambers

devouring time

and of he

who forgot haste

as one place

was interconnected

(for Word Play II: Wednesday Writing Challenge @ Typescript)

Death to the Muse

Words tumbel
loss in teh miss-spells

the write words
in right phrases

a comma, here,
a Capitol Their

here the word you want
swallow you're pride

someday you'll be a righter
butt for now my I and hart will bleed




"I'm almost finish with a novel I've been righting for three years now. I finished a hole chapter last night... One more chapter and its done. WAHOO!" (~an actual quote from a facebook friend... LOVE him, but no way am I going near that novel with a TEN-FOOT red pen!)

Obligation

their love could follow moonstones

but hell existed always

in a world where souls hesitate

wiping their feet

from questions

once a dream is born

they remained

mortals

as fate meddled

not budging

harassing them

and stars kept

remembrance seeing

analyzing those

whose tears

were perhaps

just such assurance

as hardly enough responded

so they departed

their passion crushed

as chameleons cried

and music restored them pain

(for Word Play: Wednesday Writing Challenge @ Typescript)

Conspiracy

Bianca walked in on a conspiracy~

the kind of conspiracy 

that everyone assumed

was no more than mere theory

but they would be wrong

because this one 

had obviously grown up

beyond a doubt

previously hidden 

in smooth silk stockings

now strewn on the floor

having already bedazzled

the world with a knock-out 

beauty and grace

and the darkness she'd buried

deep beneath her surface

now lying naked and exposed

(for Word Play: Wednesday Writing Challenge @ Typescript)

Stagnant

It's burning inside

 like it does

 sometimes.  

An intense desire

 to write.  

Like there's something in there

 begging

 to be released,

 just waiting

 for my permission.  

I think I'd like to now.  

Release it.  

It seems

 painful

 to both me

 and to it

 to keep it

 stifled.  

Unfortunately,

 today,

 I'm not sure

 what it is.  

It

 doesn't want

 to write itself today;

 it's determined

 to make me

 do the tough

 work

 of pulling

 it forth

 on

 my

 own.

Surrounded by Clouds

Voices echo...

   ... through time and space

   ... across miles and years

   ... over eternity

Eyes observe...

   ... the things I consider but never follow through

   ... the expressions I make when no one is watching

   ... the pages I write for no one to read

Ears listen...

   ... to thoughts unspoken

   ... to songs unsung

   ... to muffled cries

   ... to stifled laughs

Arms encircle...

   ... protecting

   ... soothing

   ... helping

Witnesses...

   ... of the inner me

Post 100

This is officially my 100th post.  I feel like I should do something significant here, but really, I got nothin'.  The fact that I'm even writing a 100th post is frankly, pretty impressive to me.  I don't believe that I've stuck with any journal or writing project long enough to get to a 100th anything.  My attention span just isn't that long.

So to those of you out there, still reading my blog, thanks.  Sorry my 100th post isn't incredibly profound or awesome.  But thanks for sticking with me through the ups and downs and the craziness that is my life.

Here's to more poetry and passion to come (a little less pain would be preferred).

Resignation of the Muse

I was speaking the other night with a friend of mine who is also an artist (musician), and we were lamenting the fact that we've both been relatively uninspired artistically lately.  This happens to every artist, but we decided that our vindictive muses must have run off somewhere....  We sure hope they're coming back, but after the "postcard" below that I received this morning, it's hard to say.  If you happen to run into them, tell them to come home:

Postcard from Rio

Dear Nean~

Jack and I have eloped.  We're sitting on the beach, drinking Mai~Tai's and laughing at the thought of you and Tristan, floundering to function without us.  We're tired of the abuse, of being expected to constantly produce perfect performances and we've had enough.  Beautiful clear blue caresses and silky silvery sand, accented with fiery forbidden fantasy ~ it's enough to keep us here forever.  Inspiring one another is far more fascinating than the unrequited inspiration we're shackled to with you.  I'd say "I wish you were here" but we both know that's not true.  Maybe you should start looking for a new muse.  I don't think I'm giving Jack back to you.

Sincerely, 

~"Rio"

Denouement

One tiny strand 

   of infinite 

 unimportance

       

trails

Wisps of 

  weathered

     worn-out 

worries

   

     shed

Edges unravel

    wasting away

 senses elude

Fading to

   darkness 

fire falls as

 certainty

 falters

How this will end

  is not for me to say

So I wait and I watch

  the game as it plays

Interview Time

A dear friend, Becky, was interviewed on her blog by a mutual friend, and issued a challenge to interview others.  Me, being the sucker that I am... agreed! :)  So here goes:

1. If you had to be on any reality tv show, which one would it be and why?

Okay, this is impossible to answer as I HATE, I mean REALLY HATE, the entire concept of reality television.  If you are going to force me to choose one, I suppose I'd choose a singing show like American Idol, but I'm not even remotely interested.  Seriously, television producers have sunk to a new low with reality television.  I mean... come on... Where is the artistry of plot, theme, characterization?  I watch television to escape reality, not watch someone else's "feigned reality."  I want a well-written story and some ideas to think about.  That's what entertainment should be.

2. What is your proudest moment (so far)?

I think I have to say my children.  I know this is a pretty standard answer for parents, but I truly see both of them as miracles.  I'm constantly amazed by the things they teach me on a regular basis, and I'm proud of both of them and the beautiful people they are becoming more and more everyday.

3. What is your favorite thing about your home?

Not much... LOL.  I think the fact that it's mine.  And the fact that obviously people live here.  My home is cluttered chaos most of the time, but there is love here and creativity -- evidence of my family and life everywhere --  and I wouldn't trade that for the cleanest house in the world.

4. What do you hope will be different in five years time?

I hope to be more settled in who I am as a person.  This doesn't mean that I hope to have all the answers; I hope I never stop questioning, but I hope to be more at peace and more confident with myself.

5. In general, what inspires you to write the most?

Really, everything.  Writing is how I process the world around me.  I've written poetry for people, objects, places, and ideas.  I've written for real life and imaginary worlds.  Mostly, though, people (and their ideas and our relationships) inspire me.  Good conversations over coffee or wine usually yield poetry the next day.  We'll talk, my brain will start churning,  I'll think about the ideas or concepts or the relationship itself, and things will just come out on paper.  

For me... good writing is the stuff that comes out on its own.  The stuff that I don't think as much about.  I put pen to paper (or fingers to keys more often) and just start writing.  There will be editing and revisions, but the raw material writes itself most of the time.

Now if anyone is into this and wants to be interviewed, let me know:

1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."
2. I will pick FIVE questions to send to you by email for you to answer.
3. You will update your blog (or FB note) with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation & offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you choose five questions for them to answer.

Annoyed

You know what I hate?  When I wake up in the morning with a poem floating in my head... and don't get a chance to write it down immediately... then it's gone.  :(  If I get it back later, you may have the pleasure of seeing it.  If not, then I suppose it was meant to be lost to the muses in my mind forever.

Bring It...

I'm reading a lot of blog entries of friends regarding the new year.  I even posted one myself yesterday, since I had this moment of nostalgia and ... whatever it is.  Some people are incredibly hopeful with the "new beginning" and are busy making goals, resolutions, etc.  Other are intensely cynical about all the hooplah and "pretense" of new starts and the "artificial" deadlines that surround our plans and goals when we rely on the "new year" as the only time we set goals.  I find myself falling somewhere in the middle actually.

While I don't want to use January as the only time I do this, I find nothing wrong with the concept of evaluating one's self at the new year, with setting goals for the next year (although I balk at calling them resolutions -- because that feels like setting yourself up to fail).  It's good to be in constant mind of where you're headed, or you become in danger of making a wrong turn and finding yourself pretty hopelessly lost -- much like I did last year.

We found ourselves at hanging out with a few very close friends on New Year's Eve this year.  The topic for discussion for a large part of the evening was, "What was your high and your low from this past year?"  My ultimate low (and indirectly my high as well) was the fact that I got lost this past year.  It ended up rocking the foundations of my life in ways I had no idea were going to happen a year ago.  I found myself having totally rearranged my life in the past year.  

The negatives (the lows) to that were the toll this all took on my marriage and family, and even on some of my friendships over the past 12 months.  I was so busy being caught up in my self and what I needed that I missed the fact that I was failing everyone around me, including my employer... resulting in a change of occupation as well this year.

The positives (the highs) in this come down to the realization of what amazing friends and family I have, not the least of which is my incredible husband.  I'm finding myself and I'm rediscovering him too.  I'm learning who I can depend on to be there for me -- no matter how often I fail them.  We finalized the adoption of our daughter this past year, which was a definite high as well, but even more than that for me is the falling in love with my hubby that is happening all over again.  I'm rediscovering myself, my inner poet/romantic/writer, and I've written more this year than I had since college.

Frankly, I never wanna repeat 2008.  It was a dark valley in the overall picture of my life.  There were distinct moments of sunshine, of course, but I found a few paths in that valley that I wasted a lot of time on since they were leading to nowhere.  2009 is a year of promise... a year for restoration, regrowth, and reconciliation for me.  There are relationships that need to be re-established and/or redefined, and it's a long road, but at least this one has an ultimate destination worth pursuing.

The pain and passion that I'm sure 2009 holds for me... I'm ready.  It's never easy, but I'm ready.  Bring it on.

A Matter Of Perspective

Today has been a crazy day.  I've argued with people I love and care about and I've loved people that I've argued with too much recently.  One thing I realize is that there are times when saying too much is a problem, but more often than not, I feel like it's when we don't say enough to one another that the problems grow.

I'm speaking intentionally in vague generalities... as it's been a day for that.  I process by talking or writing (or more accurately, in this age holding conversations in writing).  In the "good old days" I'd have died of confusion and impatience waiting for the post office.  Today... I have an entire network of "perspectives" at my fingertips (literally) when I need to process something.

Ever used Twitter or Facebook?  You need an answer to a question?  Ask on Twitter or set your status on Facebook... usually within minutes you'll have several possible answers and if you're lucky, maybe even a conversation between several people discussing the pros and cons of each possibility.

For deeper, more meaningful conversations, blogs with comments and/or emails suffice.  I think about something (like the nature of conversation in the modern age), pontificate about it for a while on my blog, and then just wait for someone out in cyberspace to read it, ponder it themselves, and then comment or email me with something related (or opposing) to ponder.

My latest issue of Relevant Magazine came in the mail today.  I was flipping through it quickly, while awaiting hubby's return from work so we could go out for a much-needed dinner date, and came across an editorial page on the instant gratification of the twitter generation (or whatever the actual terminology used).  It was all about the pride and arrogance associated with assuming the rest of the world cares what you're doing every moment of every day.  And there is a certain truth to that I suppose. 

But if you don't care what I think, why are you still reading this?  No one is forcing you to.

And I said as much to a friend today in conversation.  She was worried that I put too much of my heart on my sleeve in this blog.  Maybe she's right.  Maybe I do.  But how anyone chooses to read this blog is their business.  I write because it's who I am.  It's what I need to do.  It's how I process things around me: by positing my opinion and waiting for others out there to express their agreements, objections, and overall perspectives.  

Because that's what I'm after: your unique perspective to sort through along with mine and my experiences.  It's how I make sure that I remember the world is bigger than just me and my minuscule viewpoint.  Because when I share with you and you share with me your thoughts, feelings, observations, and experiences, we grow closer.

And while there is something to be said for flesh and blood interaction, the truth of the matter is that I feel no less close to those of you with whom I carry on deep and meaningful conversations via the wires on a regular basis than I do with people that I interact with in person (sometimes on a fairly superficial level).

And that is what true communication is about.

Writer's Block

Words well up inside

With no outlet they hide

Tired of fighting

Reduced to mere babble

Strangers unravel

With nothing inviting

So I try to unload

With poetry and prose

Hoping for enlightening

Where is my muse

Lost and abused

Poetic passion frightening