true, so 'very' true...

"...So avoid using the word 'very' because it's lazy. A man is not very tired, he is exhausted. Don't use very sad, use morose. Language was invented for one reason, boys-- to woo women --and, in that endeavor, laziness will not do. It also won't do in your essays."

--John Keating, Dead Poet’s Society

I have been guilty of this in the past, very guilty indeed!

artist watch - Melissa Haslam

Kinda reminiscent of Audrey Kawasaki, and lovely in it's own right. Melissa Haslam has some beautiful moves.Here's a link to her place. Check it out.

This piece is called Honey Hive

what's wrong with american 'disEase' care

Not a question, but a statement...



What is wrong with disease (not 'health') care in the U.S. is our rejection of commonsense basics. We glibly recite the mantra 'You Are What You Eat,' but we reject everything it implies... or at least the most important parts. It's not enough to eat 'health' foods. What we should be eating are 'healthy' foods. And the only truly healthy food is one that comes in its original raw state.

I own this DVD and it is an eye-opener, to say the least. I've been moving toward a raw diet for a year now, and believe me, it hasn't been easy. But I'm almost to the 50% raw point (currently 40-45%). The goal is not to make sure each week or month's intake is 51% raw foods; the goal is to make sure each MEAL consists of at least 51% raw. And trust me, that is a very tall order for someone who was raised on cooked food, and lived by cooked food for near 50 years. But this is the answer to disease and illness. It's not a pill, or an injection, or a shot of radiation. It's fresh, organic, nutrient rich, foods. Your body has the amazing capacity to heal itself, even of cancer, if you give it all the nutrients it needs.

I highly recommend this video. And, if you act before the end of this month (Dec 2010) they have a half price deal going on... you can get this video for 10 - 12 bucks. That's not a bad deal at all.

of the light and dark of our musical drEams

I'm glad someone else has noticed this as well; that song lyrics have drastically changed since I was a lad. Not simply in quality, but in simple beauty as well. What follows may not be a fair comparison [it's not] because even the seventies had some silly lyrics, but I'm finding it difficult to believe 70's lyrics were as vapid as this 2010's example...




















To be fair, there are some fine lyricists today, but has anyone noticed how dark [and stark] music has become? What I remember of the 70's was a far more light-hearted feel to music. There was some darkness, but it was mostly overpowered by a bright lightness that has all but disappeared today. Much of what you hear today sounds dark and gloomy... as if our children have awakened from the dreams in which we've chosen to stay.

Now, Kashmir is, admittedly, a dark tune; the lyrics are lofty but the tune is brooding, to say the least. On the other hand, Like a G6 is upbeat. So take your pick. For me, Like a G6 makes absolutely no sense.

It almost feels as though the Law of Entropy has wreaked itself more quickly upon the imagination of modern music, than on the rest of the world. For if, in 35 years, we've degenerated from Kashmir to Like a G6, is their any hope at all left for intelligent, soul-stirring music?

e's songs

I've been listening to The Flaming Lips lately; and this is important-- the album, I mean. It's the sound and feel. I began thinking about a story I'm writing and began to think about it in terms of musicality. So with Fight Test in my head, I quickly hammered out lyrics for my story-based, Flaming Lips inspired, song...

Where You’ve Gone

[1] What happens to the soul
As it moves through the door
Does it know where you’ve gone
Can it feel you anymore
‘Cause you’re here to stay
Until you find the way
Did you know where you were going
Before you stepped through the door

Can heaven find you should you die here?
Does it even know where you’ve gone?

[2] How does it feel to know
He can’t hear you where you are
You’re not merely lost in space
Nor circling a foreign star
If Universes were city blocks
Would you have considered their locks
Crossed the street without thought of a key
Would you have thought to bring a key
Before you stepped through the door

Can heaven find you should you die here?
Does it even know where you’ve gone?

[Bridge] How did it feel when the door closed
And you knew something important was gone
Did you ever think you could ever miss
What you casually took for granted

[3] If universes were city blocks
Would you have considered their locks
Crossed the street without thought of a key
Would you have thought to bring a key
Before you walked out the door

Can heaven find you should you die here?
Does it even know where you’ve gone?
Does it even know where you’ve gone?


ELAshley
113010.114316.1
Revisions:
120610.041450.6

Listening to The Flaming Lips’ Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, and considering my own novel in the works, it’s said that emulation is the greatest of flatteries.

So what do my lyrics mean? They're derived from some of the philosophical questions asked in the story I’m writing. I don’t have a melody as of this writing, so here’s hoping the music also flatters my aforementioned muses.

the frog in the well

I spoke with a man today at my favorite Indian restaurant. He described his "ascension" to the American way of life as a frog in a well. He said one rarely recognizes the climes one inhabits when it is all one has ever known. It is only when one climbs out of the well of his life and sees beyond the rim of sky, that he learns to appreciate what he has attained, and from what he has come. America was an eye-opener for him. He knew things here were different, but it took coming here and spending time to really grasp the differences between living in India and living in America. I understood all too well what he meant; I've spent time in foreign countries, albeit many years ago. But I've recently come to learn there is another kind of well... the kind we can fall into.

I've never been rich, but neither have I been so poor that I feared for where I might sleep at night, or if I could keep my dog with me. I know I have a home in Panama City-- my family would take me in --but I never considered how important it was to save for a rainy day. I, like too many others, have spent the money as it came in on the 'necessities' of living in America. I never thought I could ever be homeless, but now I find myself tipping on that very edge. I am that frog... on the edge of an abyss, with the forces of economics (among other things I'll not speak of) pushing me closer to the edge and into darkness. I need money. Lots of it. Or the cart throws a wheel; the horse, its shoe, and the frog leaps free-fall into obscurity.

I still have my job, though it has never really paid enough. I still have my car, though it is twenty years old and in constant need of repair. I still have a roof over my head, though new circumstances threaten to strip even that away. I've been in the well before, though I never saw it as such and, I'm sad to say, never thought to catalog its lessons, let alone remember them. But this is new. I spent the last two decades climbing out, in pursuit of riches-- those things I thought declared loud enough that I lived above the earth (though beneath the sky) --and even they seem to have eluded me.

One man climbs out, another falls in. I could blame partisan politics for the current state of the economy (and do) but that does nothing for my present predicament-- I could blame myself and be closer to the mark, but who truly thinks such things could come to harry them back into obscurity? The economy is not getting any better, unemployment is still too high, and inflation is still right around the corner. And I may also be there soon, just around the corner... me, my dog, a guitar, and every scrap of dignity I have left in a small canvas bag.

That may seem an image worth hanging like a Rockwell, but it's frightening as hell to be the one on the other side of the lens. I don't know what's going to happen in the months ahead. But this I do know... my job will still pay me less than I need. My car will still need repairs. I will still need a place to live. My dog will still need all the love and care he currently gets from me. And if that's all I'm ever able to manage, I guess it will have to be enough. Because, to my eternal shame, I have never been good at trusting Him.

rEtreating to the obscure art of pen and paper

From early afternoon to closing time yesterday, my office computer was running diagnostics, so I was left alone with nothing to do; nothing I could do in terms of work productivity, and I found myself falling back into well-worn reveries - wishing for an upcoming change to hurry. I reached for the keyboard thinking I'd come to this or another blog and write... until I realized again the computer was doing its own thing. I was shut out.

So I took out a pen and paper, immediately wondering how long it had been since I had done that, and began to write... What follows is the result of near two hours of drafts and revisions and I'm still not sure I like it.


We Came

We came to play
We came to sing our troths and vespers
At the closing of the day
We came to dance
We came to toast long love in whispers
At the closing of the day

But will it, my Love
Will that this night should last forever
That these few hours of sharing
Fit as sure as a glove
Take hold, my Love
Thrust through the burning heart of the sun
Don't let go, break away, cease from kissing me
Feel the tides of our love
Fit as tightly as a glove

We came to love
We came to drown in waters changed to wine
In the soft fall of night
We came to learn
We came to search each hill, leaf, and vine
in the soft call of night

But will it, my Love
Will that each touch should last forever
And our long years of sharing
Should defy the coming day
Take hold, my Love
Thrust through to the blinding light of the sun
Don't let go, break away, cease from rocking me
Feel the tides of our love
Fitting tight as a glove


ELAshley
110310.051521.6
Most Recent Revision:
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110410.042707.6

tuesday's child a'quErying....

Where is the grace in aloneness?



It's everywhere you look, everything you set your hand heart mind voice soul to. That and much much more...

today is awesome poetry day... 'cause E said so

Here's a poem I stumbled upon by Gabriel Gadfly...


Beautiful Like...

STOP!
Right there.
I want to remember this image
for the rest of my life.
I want to remember the shape of
your thighs clamped tight around mine,
the shine of your tangled hair,
the sheen of the impassioned sweat
on your slender, outstretched arms,
and the gleam of the blade
on that really big knife you're holding.

Just Stop,
because I've got to tell you something:
you're beautiful.
And I don't mean run-of-the-mill
girl-next-door kind of beautiful
You are stunningly, terrifyingly,
shock-and-awe beautiful.
You are beautiful like
bullet tracers over Fallujah are beautiful,
beautiful like the thousand shapes and colors
swimming in your vision
after a too-soon flashbang
in a Baghdad bakery are beautiful.
Beautiful like the grenade at your feet
still has the pin is beautiful,
beautiful like the bullet that kissed your dog tags
and only went halfway through is beautiful,
beautiful like the bullet that kissed your throat
and went all the way through is beautiful.
Beautiful like the bright instruments of a British medic
in a field camp hospital clamping your veins,
and stitching your flesh, and saving your life are beautiful.
Beautiful like three bags of
Typo O negative blood are beautiful.

Stop
Right there.
I want to remember this image for the rest of my life,
like I'll remember the image
of you stepping out of a C-130 transport plane,
and realizing that when they told me
they never leave one behind,
they didn't mean they wouldn't leave a few pieces.
You are beautiful.
You are beautiful
like the edges of the broken pieces
of a celebratory wine bottle,
glittering like razor wire all across
the earthtone tablecloth are beautiful.
You are beautiful like the stares of people in Wal-mart
when the bang of a box sliding off a shelf
puts you screaming on the floor are beautiful.
You are beautiful like nightmares are beautiful.
You are beautiful like
“Honey, Mommy might be a little different when she gets back.”
“That's okay. I'll still love her, Daddy” is beautiful.

I'll still love you, baby.
We'll get you the help you need,
but you need to give me the knife.



It's absolutely beautiful... stunning imagery. I tend to write introspectively; desire, personal fear, reflection, metaphysics, sometimes of war, but again in terms of desire, fear, reflection etc. But Gabriel here, writes viscerally; he's pulled no punches. Got to admire him for that.

If I had to place one of mine next to his; not to contrast or compare my introspection with his clarity, but in addendum to clarity, I'd choose what follows below. We tend to see each moment of our lives as having absolute clarity, we see what we see and interpret as rightly as we know how the meaning of it all. One man sees the knife in his traumatized wife's hand with far more clarity than a man who's never seen the ravages of war-- personally or second-hand --while another man sees from a distance the high cost of war in purely clinical terms; of numbers and lives and flag draped coffins... Taps echoing across a field of white stone.

I've been in the military, but I've never seen war, let alone fired upon another person, enemy or otherwise. So I write introspectively... romantically. If anything war produces could ever be described as 'romantic.'

But if I had to place one of my own next to his? This would be it...


Resurrection

I draw the muslin over my head
Feel my breath mist beneath its weight
Trapped and drawn again inward
Last moment's breath
Called upon once more
Weaker now; bearing life still
        My brother lies near
        No mist beneath the muslin
        No breath revisited
        No life ~ weak or otherwise
        Only the sure knowledge that moments are fleeting

I pull the muslin down and away
Breathe in the cold chill of night
Fresh and unsullied air…
Open my eyes and see the heavens turn
Each breath new
Filled with life ~ strength
        My sister lies near
        Unmoving ‘neath the muslin opaque
        Oblivious of the passing of moments
        Oblivious to the sound of my heart's beating
        And the sure knowledge of the song it sings

Sing Brother!
Sing Sister!
Draw the curtain from your eyes
And let life ~ Fresh and unsullied
Beneath equally pristine skies
Fill your bodies once more
With hope and new breath
Let your wounds draw closed
Your limbs bind with sinew and bone unshattered
And let's walk once more ‘neath the stars of heaven
In the sure knowledge of life everlasting


ELAshley
020306.014802.1


Mr Gadfly understands the visceral human connection, I grasp the metaphysical. He sees the human toll, I see the spiritual. I'm sure he sees the metaphysical as well, but he chooses to rub our fine sensibilities in the hot coppery truth. And I wouldn't dream of faulting him for it. Bravo, Gabriel. Bravo.

disrEgard - what follows is meaningless without context

Aubade

Morning comes and the dream thins
Paint from heart world's canvas washes away
Sun's herald cries aloud, and our whims
Shall be forgotten come the light of day
I would that you might stay
Here in our gossamer bed
Where our souls lie safely wed
But the tapestry grows thin
Stay, my love. Stay

....

Auspicious our beginnings
How real the love of our dream

.....
092710.114302.6


Context will be made plain (clear) in time. For now, this is a snippet of notebook..

kisses

Kisses kept are wasted;
Love is to be tasted
There are some you love, I know;
Be not lothe to tell them so
Lips go dry and eyes grow wet
Waiting to be warmly met
Kept them not in waiting yet;
Kisses kept are wasted

--Edmund Vance Cooke

sensuality and haiku

Simple is best. Simplicity is the soul of grace. And the simplest pleasures are free. Take sex, for instance; assuming you're not paying for it in some form or fashion it is free. It is an exchange. It is more than simply give and take... give and "accept" is the greater form [for the semantically challenged, yes, there is a difference]. But what does all this mean? If my words don't lead to a responsible conclusion I've wasted my time.

I believe I find myself exploring the topics I do because they hide themselves from my own personal experiences; they rarely darken my door, or brighten as the case may be. Is it my fault my life has not lived up to my expectations? But this is a digression.

Sensuality. I love the feel of silk on my skin. I love the feel of no clothes on my skin. I love the feel of bare feet on plush grass or carpet. I love the sensation of clove in my mouth and rushing through my nostrils. And like countless others I love the sensation of being inside a woman. I would consider it the height of pleasure to simply slip inside and stay there... unmoving... just relishing in the enveloping heat, arms, and vision... the sound of unhurried breath, the scent of soft, clean, unperfumed, skin. Just to be inside and stay there for as long as desire and patience will allow.

And then there's this. Written this morning. For no particular reason at all...

Our love lies squandered
Souls spent swift in sweat and seed
Soft lips hot with breath

ELAshley
091610.092621.1

My Haiku... Eleven long years down the road from this gem...

Her eyes slid closed
Emeralds. Slowly and softly
And her form unclothed
T'was bathed with light. Softly
She smiled and posed
Her lids eased softly
Open. Then shut and dozed
Dreaming slowly. Softly
Her legs, lithe and hosed
My hands caressed softly
With desire prosed
In tender words. Softly
With moistened lips I 'trothed
Kissed her throat softly
Thighs parting she glowed
Mystery and pleasure. Softly
Her scented petals flowed
My tongue did taste her softly
She to me bestowed
The jewel of her love. Softly

Her lips. Her scent. Her taste. Her touch. Softly
On this deepest of nights proposed. Softly
The union of lips, scent, taste and touch. Softly
Her warm embrace held me enclosed. Softly
And I gave to her my soul,
Completely


ELAshley
060199
Latest Revision:
091610.111117.1


I wrote that when I was 39... a young man yet. Now I'm 50. Why am I still thinking the same things? Why do I still dwell on sensuality?

artist watch -- Moony Khoa Le

"Birds" by Moony Khoa Le, Moonywolf at Deviantart.com


"Little Voice" Moony

e at fifty

I reached this milestone early last week on the 23rd of August. I can't say I'm happy about it, neither can I say I've accepted it, let alone become comfortable with the idea that half my life is now in the tank. But there it is, whether I like it or not.

And without any fanfare.

the promise of shared synchronistic stirs ?

"If It Should"

And if it should happen
that one day you play our song
when I am not there
know that I will hear it
because you are hearing it.
Know that I will not
turn my ears from you
when my chimes ring-
they are yours.
Know that I find instances of you
in distant songs
faint music
old books.
Know that I hear you when I drink
your soft voice
your brush of hair
your tongue full of eden.
And if it should happen
that one day I play our song
when you are not there
know that I will listen for you
as wind listens for doves.

--Michael Gravel


..::(e)::..

If it should indeed. I know this feeling all too well, and have even managed to capture some near-equally fitting imagery myself, but I must give credit to Mr. Gravel for capturing "it" so succinctly... so beautifully.

A sample of my own, you ask? Here... enjoy.

Souls are not bound, as are bodies
To a point of reference
On a geographical map
Nor should they be thought of
As bound by the laws that govern flesh
They are transcendent
Larger than human form
Which cannot hope to contain them
My soul lies beside you as you sleep
And it whispers to me in my dreams
Every wonderful detail
My soul’s arms ~ Such as they are
Hold you throughout the wheeling of stars
In a sky much like my own
We share proximity…

As I said... near-equally (in my own estimation). For the entire poem click here. My stirs, in this offering at least, are not as strong. Here's a link to something stronger... Resonance, and something immensely more satisfying here, The Dance. IT is this last one I feel the most affinity for; it most closely shadows my inner turmoils. It more truly reflects my heart.