She Held My Hand
I dreamt last night she held my hand
and it was as if the world caught fire
though the conflagration grew she did not let go
and i beheld her
as she held my hand
She was a sun and my heart caught
in a timeless ring ~ ever pure and without end
the hairs upon my skin stood with new awareness
as i beheld her
her hand in mine
Her smile soft and contentedly pleased
opened windows long sealed curtained and dim
my heart like a box unlocked and opened at last
to behold her
and her hand in mine
Is there gold or honey left in the world
for all the sweetness and light of her pretty soft hair
or turquoise remaining for the blue in her eyes
as her i beheld
and her holding my hand?
The feel of her, the touch of her
the endless and momentary sense of knowing for true
no vision could more rival perfection
than the loveliness i beheld
she holding my hand
Do i think, do i dwell too much upon a dream?
or do i reach, eyes still filled with morning sands
for flesh and blood? for her?
I must, or be a fool
For i dreamt last night she held my hand
and why should dreams not desire her as well?
ELAshley
123109.115826.6
As my muse she would be amused
should she ever read these silly lines
Thursday, December 31, 2009
e's yEar-end brain dump
It has been a year of epiphanies. A year of hope. A year of change. It has been a year of desolate heartache and a year of light. It has been a candle floating upon a turbulent sea, lit in spite of the storm because no storm could ever put this candle out.
It has been a return to dreams and dreaming; something I've not done in a very long while-- not that I remember, of course. I've begun to dream again. And what better way to ring out the decade? After all, it has been a dark decade and it's getting darker still, but in the midst of the darkness is that candle. Hope... and the promise of change. No not the kind Obama promised, but rather real change; the kind you know is real because you effected it-- You set the stage, you set the ball to rolling, and the top to spinning. Not some ephemeral promise that things will get better, but instead the change you make for yourself.
That is where I find myself on the last day of this year.
I spoke just now of dreams? I had a dream two weeks ago that is still playing in vivid living color... I dreamt she held my hand. I dreamt I reached for her, and she took my hand and did not let go.
You can't imagine how wonderful that was, to wake up and remember that, even though a mere dream, someone thought enough of me to hold my hand. The trick now is to make that vision a reality. I don't know who she'll end up being, but I know she's there.
I've changed twice now in little more than a year. Same company, different posts therein. If anything, I can attribute my new ability to dream, in no small part, to these changes. Sit in one place too long and walls begin to climb about you. You don't see them but you can certainly sense them, they're the sure knowledge-- understood as such or not --that you're being penned in, that some force is keeping you from being what you were meant to be. Think of the feed lots, how the cattle are confined and forced to dine on a diet contradictory to their nature. That's you. Taught to eat from a trough when you were created to graze freely. That's the way I've felt for good many years.
But that all changed this year. I've been thrust out of the lot, and made to roam... so to speak. I'm not yet comfortable with my new station, but I'm getting there. I've had to make adjustments; some painful, some absolutely delightful.
One, both painful and a bittersweet (at present) kind of joy, is the decision I made to get out of a relationship of 20 years; one that has gone nowhere despite all my efforts to see it bear fruit. Knowing she doesn't wish to marry me hurts more than I can ever express, but I also feel at peace with my decision. I'm out of practice socializing with women, but I'm looking forward to it. I, like everyone else on the planet, just want to be loved. And if one woman doesn't want me, there's someone else out there who does. I just need to find her.
I've become more introspective this year, which is either an utter amazement or extremely distressing depending on your point of view, since I have already been a deeply introspective person for these past thirty-five years. I'm not sure what that portends but it's been a personally noticeable change. There's more of a determination than ever before to build a bulwark of personal honor and self-determination; to project strength in who I am in relation to the rest of the world. There was none of that twenty years ago. None whatsoever.
How this will stead me in the months ahead? I can't say. But everywhere I turn I get, and am given, encouragement... inducement to keep moving forward. And that's what I'll do.
For now, I need to begin work on my New Year poem. I've thought about it all week, and now it's time to begin writing.
i will find
and you will find
and we shall find together here
underneath the bunker...
But that's not really how it goes, is it? Like the song to which you thought you knew the lyrics, only to discover you had it wrong all those years.
I like my version better.
It has been a return to dreams and dreaming; something I've not done in a very long while-- not that I remember, of course. I've begun to dream again. And what better way to ring out the decade? After all, it has been a dark decade and it's getting darker still, but in the midst of the darkness is that candle. Hope... and the promise of change. No not the kind Obama promised, but rather real change; the kind you know is real because you effected it-- You set the stage, you set the ball to rolling, and the top to spinning. Not some ephemeral promise that things will get better, but instead the change you make for yourself.
That is where I find myself on the last day of this year.
I spoke just now of dreams? I had a dream two weeks ago that is still playing in vivid living color... I dreamt she held my hand. I dreamt I reached for her, and she took my hand and did not let go.
You can't imagine how wonderful that was, to wake up and remember that, even though a mere dream, someone thought enough of me to hold my hand. The trick now is to make that vision a reality. I don't know who she'll end up being, but I know she's there.
* * *
I've changed twice now in little more than a year. Same company, different posts therein. If anything, I can attribute my new ability to dream, in no small part, to these changes. Sit in one place too long and walls begin to climb about you. You don't see them but you can certainly sense them, they're the sure knowledge-- understood as such or not --that you're being penned in, that some force is keeping you from being what you were meant to be. Think of the feed lots, how the cattle are confined and forced to dine on a diet contradictory to their nature. That's you. Taught to eat from a trough when you were created to graze freely. That's the way I've felt for good many years.
But that all changed this year. I've been thrust out of the lot, and made to roam... so to speak. I'm not yet comfortable with my new station, but I'm getting there. I've had to make adjustments; some painful, some absolutely delightful.
One, both painful and a bittersweet (at present) kind of joy, is the decision I made to get out of a relationship of 20 years; one that has gone nowhere despite all my efforts to see it bear fruit. Knowing she doesn't wish to marry me hurts more than I can ever express, but I also feel at peace with my decision. I'm out of practice socializing with women, but I'm looking forward to it. I, like everyone else on the planet, just want to be loved. And if one woman doesn't want me, there's someone else out there who does. I just need to find her.
I've become more introspective this year, which is either an utter amazement or extremely distressing depending on your point of view, since I have already been a deeply introspective person for these past thirty-five years. I'm not sure what that portends but it's been a personally noticeable change. There's more of a determination than ever before to build a bulwark of personal honor and self-determination; to project strength in who I am in relation to the rest of the world. There was none of that twenty years ago. None whatsoever.
How this will stead me in the months ahead? I can't say. But everywhere I turn I get, and am given, encouragement... inducement to keep moving forward. And that's what I'll do.
For now, I need to begin work on my New Year poem. I've thought about it all week, and now it's time to begin writing.
i will find
and you will find
and we shall find together here
underneath the bunker...
But that's not really how it goes, is it? Like the song to which you thought you knew the lyrics, only to discover you had it wrong all those years.
i will hide
and you will hide
and we shall hide together here
underneath the bunker...
--REM
I like my version better.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
riddles to make one think
What's the difference between a military engineer and a civil engineer?
A military engineer builds missiles. A civil engineer builds targets.
What do you call a medical student who graduates last in his class?
Doctor.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
my own personal midlife crisis: doomed to solitude
To reiterate. Every thought, image, and response has a musical connection. Some songs resonate more than others, and that is where the "soundtrack of one's life" meme is rooted. But some songs resonate more than others. For me, I can recite that litany of songs which truly, madly, deeply reverberate through my soul, on a single hand.
Pain, or so it seems to me, is the foundation of genuine worldly beauty. Beauty is an expression of defiance against that which would crush us, would we but allow it. There is nothing remarkable about a straight line-- a straight line is unremarkable in a forest of conformity. But curve that line... well then, that's something new altogether. Where pure pleasure is the straight line, pain then is the curve.
Take Celtic music for instance, or the vocal stylizings of groups like Ladysmith Black Mambazo. Cultures which have experienced oppression and suffering sing with a heart that seeks to rise above the pain... whether they realize it or not-- the pain creeps into their musical expression, and however straight-lined their words, their vocals and instruments speak in curves.
And so here I am, long story short, to the point of my own life's soundtrack, and one song from that one hand that has reverberated through my soul for thirty-four years. I've made mention of it here (or elsewhere... I know I've written about this song somewhere), but at the risk of appearing unduly obsessive I return to Yer Blues by the Beatles.
Why bother mentioning it all? Well, I came across a review of the song online and felt compelled to comment upon it.
First the lyrics:
Depressing, right? Suicidal, even? But why? And why does it resonate in my soul? Well, here's one reviewer's thoughts on the song:
And this is the key phrase, for me:
This is about what one feels about himself, not what someone else has done to him. And I reckon this speaks as much about my life as it did, perhaps, about his... Lennon's.
I remember a task I set for Mary Angel as her sponsor into Iota Gamma's "Little Sister" program; circa 1983. It was common for the brothers to set an impossible task for their charges, and I, thinking myself clever, asked Mary Angel to bring to me the lyrics to my favorite song, giving her only one clue... "My father was of the earth."
I thought I was clever, but I was outdone by an intellect far cleverer than my own. She called my little sister and asked what my favorite band was. Easy! she was told-- The Beatles. It then became a search for which song held that particular line. Now this was 1983; no PC's worth a flip, no Google, no world wide web to really speak of, so my sister begins to play all my Beatles albums, song by song, until they hit upon a winner.
Mary Angel was NOT pleased by the song I called "my favorite." Not pleased at all. But without going into too much detail-- long story short --I gave her no context so she had no way of knowing why that song, as tragic in tone as it is, was my favorite. And truth be told, I never considered the reason myself till much later.
As a young child I was constantly uprooted and thrust into new situations, new schools, new friends... new bullies who saw in my stuttering reason enough to make my life more and more miserable. I learned very early to simply keep quiet and not draw too much attention to myself.
So here I am years later, 21, maybe 22 years old. I've asked out the moderately attractive Kathleen Tremblay. I've picked her up, and taken her to a party. While there she pretty much dumps me and begins making out with someone else. I leave. Without her. And I go to a place I routinely frequent when I wish to be alone. It's a small but long pier on St. Andrews Bay.
It's dark. Only a sliver of moon in the sparsely clouded night sky. I take out a knife. Put it's tip to the right side of my chest and slash downward. And a second time, but without much enthusiasm. I throw the knife out to sea, stagger back to my car and drive home. I'm covered in blood so I take a shower. Excruciating pain! I bandage myself, and go to bed.
How do you tell your family you did something like that to yourself? I couldn't. I told my father I was attacked on the beach.
There was no trip to the hospital. Just a jar of sulfur to pack the wound to keep it from getting infected. What I got was one big ass scar, and more isolation from people I considered friends. The scar was quite noticeable for many years, but has since faded. The memory however has not, nor do I expect it to.
This was not an attack on the girl who broke my heart but was instead, "an attack on the man [myself] who, through some or many unspecified flaws, doomed himself to solitude." I attacked myself for some unknown, unseen, unfathomed flaws that kept me single, and without friendship or intimacy from girls.
Here's one major distinction between my own experience and that of the song in question. I was not suicidal-- I had absolutely no intention of killing myself. Had that been the case I could have easily pushed the knife straight in. Instead I slightly dimpled the flesh of my chest inward and swiftly sliced down... not in. I did not want to kill myself. What I wanted was to externalize the pain I felt in my heart.
And so this is my fear... my own personal midlife crisis... that I am doomed to solitude; that I will never find love... never share my life with a woman who loves me.
This song resonates with me. It didn't before that evening. Nor did it resonate for many years after. But today, after years of swimming in the soup of "some or many" of my own "unspecified flaws" it has come to carry a great deal of weight in the soundtrack of my life.
I am 49 years old, and still Solitude Standing. I've waited twenty years for a woman to say "yes" to marriage only to realize at last that she doesn't wish to marry anyone, let alone me.
So I'm moving on. Suicide was never an option... has never crossed my mind-- it's simply not who I am. But I'd be a liar if I said I didn't suffer a modicum of despair over having reached the heliopause of 50 and still single; having wasted the last twenty years on someone who chooses not to love or be loved.
What is left for me to do now? Accept what is and move on. And never give up looking for someone who will love who and what I am in spite of who and what I am not.
There. It's out. Welcome to my midlife crisis.
Pain, or so it seems to me, is the foundation of genuine worldly beauty. Beauty is an expression of defiance against that which would crush us, would we but allow it. There is nothing remarkable about a straight line-- a straight line is unremarkable in a forest of conformity. But curve that line... well then, that's something new altogether. Where pure pleasure is the straight line, pain then is the curve.
Take Celtic music for instance, or the vocal stylizings of groups like Ladysmith Black Mambazo. Cultures which have experienced oppression and suffering sing with a heart that seeks to rise above the pain... whether they realize it or not-- the pain creeps into their musical expression, and however straight-lined their words, their vocals and instruments speak in curves.
And so here I am, long story short, to the point of my own life's soundtrack, and one song from that one hand that has reverberated through my soul for thirty-four years. I've made mention of it here (or elsewhere... I know I've written about this song somewhere), but at the risk of appearing unduly obsessive I return to Yer Blues by the Beatles.
Why bother mentioning it all? Well, I came across a review of the song online and felt compelled to comment upon it.
First the lyrics:
Yes I'm lonely. Wanna die
Yes I'm lonely. Wanna die
If I ain't dead already
Woo, girl you know the reason why.
In the morning. Wanna die
In the evening. Wanna die
If I ain't dead already
Woo, girl you know the reason why.
My mother was of the sky
My father was of the earth
But I am of the universe
And you know what it's worth
I'm lonely. Wanna die
If I ain't dead already
Woo, girl you know the reason why.
The eagle picks my eye
The worm he licks my bones
I feel so suicidal
Just like Dylan's Mr. Jones
Lonely. Wanna die
If I ain't dead already
Woo, girl you know the reason why.
Black cloud crossed my mind
Blue mist round my soul
Feel so suicidal
Even hate my rock and roll
Wanna die. Yeah, wanna die
If I ain't dead already
Woo, girl you know the reason why.
Depressing, right? Suicidal, even? But why? And why does it resonate in my soul? Well, here's one reviewer's thoughts on the song:
For all that chatter about The Beatles predicting the band members' solo work, only two of its Lennon tracks would be of a piece with his Plastic Ono Band, arguably the defining post-Beatles disc. One is the muted, tender "Julia"; the other, the searing, spooky "Yer Blues"...
Following in the grand blues tradition of women doing wrong and leaving a man in pain often simply by leaving him, Lennon seethes in heartbreak. But his introspection (call it his utter self-absorption) turns the misdeed inward, and the song focuses on his reactions rather than whatever wrong she supposedly committed. This is not a revenge story, or an attack on an unfaithful woman. This is instead an attack on the man who, through some or many unspecified flaws, doomed himself to solitude.
—Charles Hohman
And this is the key phrase, for me:
This is instead an attack on the man who, through some or many unspecified flaws, doomed himself to solitude.
This is about what one feels about himself, not what someone else has done to him. And I reckon this speaks as much about my life as it did, perhaps, about his... Lennon's.
I remember a task I set for Mary Angel as her sponsor into Iota Gamma's "Little Sister" program; circa 1983. It was common for the brothers to set an impossible task for their charges, and I, thinking myself clever, asked Mary Angel to bring to me the lyrics to my favorite song, giving her only one clue... "My father was of the earth."
I thought I was clever, but I was outdone by an intellect far cleverer than my own. She called my little sister and asked what my favorite band was. Easy! she was told-- The Beatles. It then became a search for which song held that particular line. Now this was 1983; no PC's worth a flip, no Google, no world wide web to really speak of, so my sister begins to play all my Beatles albums, song by song, until they hit upon a winner.
Mary Angel was NOT pleased by the song I called "my favorite." Not pleased at all. But without going into too much detail-- long story short --I gave her no context so she had no way of knowing why that song, as tragic in tone as it is, was my favorite. And truth be told, I never considered the reason myself till much later.
As a young child I was constantly uprooted and thrust into new situations, new schools, new friends... new bullies who saw in my stuttering reason enough to make my life more and more miserable. I learned very early to simply keep quiet and not draw too much attention to myself.
So here I am years later, 21, maybe 22 years old. I've asked out the moderately attractive Kathleen Tremblay. I've picked her up, and taken her to a party. While there she pretty much dumps me and begins making out with someone else. I leave. Without her. And I go to a place I routinely frequent when I wish to be alone. It's a small but long pier on St. Andrews Bay.
It's dark. Only a sliver of moon in the sparsely clouded night sky. I take out a knife. Put it's tip to the right side of my chest and slash downward. And a second time, but without much enthusiasm. I throw the knife out to sea, stagger back to my car and drive home. I'm covered in blood so I take a shower. Excruciating pain! I bandage myself, and go to bed.
How do you tell your family you did something like that to yourself? I couldn't. I told my father I was attacked on the beach.
There was no trip to the hospital. Just a jar of sulfur to pack the wound to keep it from getting infected. What I got was one big ass scar, and more isolation from people I considered friends. The scar was quite noticeable for many years, but has since faded. The memory however has not, nor do I expect it to.
This was not an attack on the girl who broke my heart but was instead, "an attack on the man [myself] who, through some or many unspecified flaws, doomed himself to solitude." I attacked myself for some unknown, unseen, unfathomed flaws that kept me single, and without friendship or intimacy from girls.
Here's one major distinction between my own experience and that of the song in question. I was not suicidal-- I had absolutely no intention of killing myself. Had that been the case I could have easily pushed the knife straight in. Instead I slightly dimpled the flesh of my chest inward and swiftly sliced down... not in. I did not want to kill myself. What I wanted was to externalize the pain I felt in my heart.
And so this is my fear... my own personal midlife crisis... that I am doomed to solitude; that I will never find love... never share my life with a woman who loves me.
* * *
This song resonates with me. It didn't before that evening. Nor did it resonate for many years after. But today, after years of swimming in the soup of "some or many" of my own "unspecified flaws" it has come to carry a great deal of weight in the soundtrack of my life.
I am 49 years old, and still Solitude Standing. I've waited twenty years for a woman to say "yes" to marriage only to realize at last that she doesn't wish to marry anyone, let alone me.
So I'm moving on. Suicide was never an option... has never crossed my mind-- it's simply not who I am. But I'd be a liar if I said I didn't suffer a modicum of despair over having reached the heliopause of 50 and still single; having wasted the last twenty years on someone who chooses not to love or be loved.
What is left for me to do now? Accept what is and move on. And never give up looking for someone who will love who and what I am in spite of who and what I am not.
There. It's out. Welcome to my midlife crisis.
Friday, December 11, 2009
outliving the culture
"You spend your life fighting depression; it's the default human condition. The shit we buy, the people we hang around with, fuck and even love are just means to an end, a way to stave off the crushing loneliness that is to be alone and unloved.
"We buy into the idea of happiness as portrayed by the mass media, that happiness is found through social engagement, through the expenditure of the money we earn working for multi-millionaires that don't know us, don't care. If we live or die, we haven't made a mark on the world.
"We check Facebook compulsively, Twitter about our breakfasts and talk to our friends and coworkers about wild parties, prospective mates and expensive purchases: Attempts to show our sociability, our ability to fit in, our willingness to buy into this great corporate dream.
"If you want my advice, write something. Draw something. Tell someone something. Do something, ANYTHING, that will outlive this culture, that will transcend its boundaries and touch someone."
There is but one way I know of to outlive this culture, and that is to free yourself from this culture; do not let it shape you, do not let it affect you spiritually; do not let it define your soul's focus or path. You must rise above-- or transcend, as the anonymous writer exhorts --the ugliness that is this life. How do you do that? Choose for yourself who you are and what relevance you hold not only for yourself but for the world. Choose your legacy-- define it, quantify it, then build it. You can't escape the culture, but you can certainly outlive it.
In case you had forgotten, You are free. That's right, FREE. Now go out there and act like it. Go out and tell the world who you are. Don't let the world tell YOU who you are.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
i've learned to love a good many things...
...including peas; which I hated as child. I hated tea. I hated brussel sprouts, and still do. I've even hated a few people; none of whom I hate still.
And though I once hated peas, I love this poem I found online...
I like peas, but I can't imagine eating them with honey. And what ingenuity! But again, why not use a fork? The space between tines make perfect nestlings for those peas with a wont to wander.
And though I once hated peas, I love this poem I found online...
I eat my peas with honey;
I've done it all my life.
It makes the peas taste funny,
But it keeps them on the knife.
--Anonymous
I like peas, but I can't imagine eating them with honey. And what ingenuity! But again, why not use a fork? The space between tines make perfect nestlings for those peas with a wont to wander.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
i'n not a big fan of the stones, but...
Jagger appears to have been an easy client to deal with...
What would it be like to have a reputation so stellar as to allow others complete confidence in your work?
Thursday, December 3, 2009
another great quote
An intellectual is a person who has discovered something more interesting than sex.
--Aldous Huxley
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
why wE kiss?
Brie Cadman claims to have the scoop on why we kiss...
Why We Kiss: The Science of Sex
--Brie Cadman
Final analysis?
I'm not sure 1,161 words were necessary considering how succinctly those last two sentences sum it all up.
Why We Kiss: The Science of Sex
--Brie Cadman
Final analysis?
One of the best things about kissing, however, is that we don’t have to think about any of this. Just close eyes, pucker up, and let nature takes its course.
I'm not sure 1,161 words were necessary considering how succinctly those last two sentences sum it all up.
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