Once upon a time there was a girl who retreated under the covers and decided to never come out.
She said "I am staying under here until I have the mother I deserve, one who loves me and needs me and listens to me and protects me."
She said "I am staying under here until someone loves me unconditionally and looks after me."
She said "I am staying under here until someone comes for me."
She said "I am staying under here until someone who is strong enough to guide me in my healing comes for me."
She said "I am staying under here until someone strong and brave comes for me."
She said "I am staying under here until..." She was cut off by a sharp knock.
She peered out from under the blanket and gasped, there was the one she was waiting/asking for! My she was beautiful and strong and powerful.
The girl reached out her hand and the woman extended her own hand...the girl scrambled out from under the blanket and ran to grab it...but the reflection in the mirror could only press against it and not hold it.
thend
(C) 9-19-05 PR
Friday, August 10, 2012
Thursday, August 9, 2012
disabled
whoa, feeling like writing tonight. Not the usual stuff, but opening that conduit to that place inside that I have zero control over. I have 3 hours in sleep in me. Buckle up kids, I have no idea where we are going...
I was born with wind in my hair and the sun on my face. Jump roping intrauterine left me with my umbilical cord fashionable looped twice around my neck.
I hit the ground running, prancing like a horse and neighing for bowls of oatmeal and sugar as a tot.
Pictures of me swinging naked on the bars at three year old.
My family two generations removed from the circus, yet I still had sawdust in my shoes.
Trees were to be climbed.
Roofs to be jumped off
The spring winds to be rode
My shoes lasting forever, cause as fast as I flew they didn't spend much time on the ground.
my eight siblings formidable foes and teammates
basket ball was more fun as a full contact sport
My legs strong and free
they carried me everywhere
they were my only source of escape
Rollerskating opened a graceful new door a new outlet in my teens
me and the music one rhythm
the spins the graceful lines the silence in my soul
the excitement to stroke hard, line up and vault aloft
free
from this world
to twist in the air and try to enter a different reality
almost reaching it
only to have gravity snatch me back.
The horses too loaned me their legs and I rode
and rode
as if my ancestors where centaurs.
but then one day
one man
one moment
one heartbeat
one devastating OJI
one trip to the ER
one MRI
one orthopedic surgeon
one devastating word.
disabled.
How dare the universe put me on trial and level this sentence on me!!
How dare it take from me my one means of running?
gone is the skating, the games, the freedom from pain.
I rebel
refuse to accept
I WILL NOT GIVE UP! I WILL PERSEVERE THROUGH THE PAIN AND BE AN ATHLETE!!
I WILL!!!
and I did.
and one year later the bay mare reared up and flipped over pinning me to the ground
and the universe whispered to me on the way to the OR
"did you not hear me little one...I sentenced you already, Let me repeat myself and make it clear. DISABLED."
The world looked different at this pace I found myself moving at.
This walking pace.
How strange the trees looked from this angle
how being disabled in my 20's and handed a
"be in pain forever" card
really changed how I look at my life.
Being forced against my will to grow and change and evolve.
Seeing my children take flight on the wind and forgetting for the moment
and running after them one ...two...three steps before
the pain chains grind and halt my flight
How my soul withers
how my wings droop.
and how I feel so lost
and a stranger in this body.
How it drifts day to day
till angrily I meet her gaze in the mirror
and scream at her
I WILL CUT MYSELF FREE OF YOU!!
setting sail on the sea of depression, drifting aimlessly on the undulating waves
I don't look for land,
but it finds me.
I stumble from the boat
born anew on a journey of discovery
a new life
a new path
and I start over again and found ways to still be me within the pain and broken body.
I was born with wind in my hair and the sun on my face. Jump roping intrauterine left me with my umbilical cord fashionable looped twice around my neck.
I hit the ground running, prancing like a horse and neighing for bowls of oatmeal and sugar as a tot.
Pictures of me swinging naked on the bars at three year old.
My family two generations removed from the circus, yet I still had sawdust in my shoes.
Trees were to be climbed.
Roofs to be jumped off
The spring winds to be rode
My shoes lasting forever, cause as fast as I flew they didn't spend much time on the ground.
my eight siblings formidable foes and teammates
basket ball was more fun as a full contact sport
My legs strong and free
they carried me everywhere
they were my only source of escape
Rollerskating opened a graceful new door a new outlet in my teens
me and the music one rhythm
the spins the graceful lines the silence in my soul
the excitement to stroke hard, line up and vault aloft
free
from this world
to twist in the air and try to enter a different reality
almost reaching it
only to have gravity snatch me back.
The horses too loaned me their legs and I rode
and rode
as if my ancestors where centaurs.
but then one day
one man
one moment
one heartbeat
one devastating OJI
one trip to the ER
one MRI
one orthopedic surgeon
one devastating word.
disabled.
How dare the universe put me on trial and level this sentence on me!!
How dare it take from me my one means of running?
gone is the skating, the games, the freedom from pain.
I rebel
refuse to accept
I WILL NOT GIVE UP! I WILL PERSEVERE THROUGH THE PAIN AND BE AN ATHLETE!!
I WILL!!!
and I did.
and one year later the bay mare reared up and flipped over pinning me to the ground
and the universe whispered to me on the way to the OR
"did you not hear me little one...I sentenced you already, Let me repeat myself and make it clear. DISABLED."
The world looked different at this pace I found myself moving at.
This walking pace.
How strange the trees looked from this angle
how being disabled in my 20's and handed a
"be in pain forever" card
really changed how I look at my life.
Being forced against my will to grow and change and evolve.
Seeing my children take flight on the wind and forgetting for the moment
and running after them one ...two...three steps before
the pain chains grind and halt my flight
How my soul withers
how my wings droop.
and how I feel so lost
and a stranger in this body.
How it drifts day to day
till angrily I meet her gaze in the mirror
and scream at her
I WILL CUT MYSELF FREE OF YOU!!
setting sail on the sea of depression, drifting aimlessly on the undulating waves
I don't look for land,
but it finds me.
I stumble from the boat
born anew on a journey of discovery
a new life
a new path
and I start over again and found ways to still be me within the pain and broken body.
Three....two...one.
recap: of the recap:
Three interesting questions posed to me this morning.
1. What is your most famous piece of writing?
I don't really think of my stuff as famous.
I mean are you talking about awards? - then its a short/shorty called H-h-help.
Are you talking about global coverage? - then its When Mom hurts There are copies all over the planet. (addy is null)
Are talking Professionally published? - then its pick one: Twonight, There is a space, Swing etc etc
Are you talking volume? - any of my Handcrank children's books.
When I think of my writing, really think about it what I am most "famous" for is some posts that were not written for praise or awards or publication or global audience they were written for some one in pain.
Stuff that only a handful of people saw at the time. Stuff that got these responses:
"wow, wow and WOW thats beautiful DD and it hits right at the heart of things."
"Oh thank you P, for understanding me, i feel like no one under stands me like that. I will write that story down and carry it with me forever! I am not lieing i will. It touched me and made me cry. Thank you! You have touched my soul when i needed it most. I hope you are right and my kids will carring on a legacy of my hard work. You have know idea how much you have helped me! "
"I am sitting here with tears running down my face. I have no words"
"Tears in my eyes too. Some days, most days, you know exactly what to say, dear DD.
I'm so glad you're in this world. I'm so glad you're in our world. I'm so glad you're in MY world.
Thank you.
And thank you for sometimes reminding me how to be a (loved and protected) child again, filled with wonder and laughter.
Pass those olives over here...."
"wow!!!!!!!!!!!! i don't usually feel much, but wow this should be published "
"P, you are so very talented at being able to put feelings into words. Moms everywhere would identify with your words --- thanks for sharing with us -- brings back lots of feelings"
"Thank you so much for sharing this with us, I am honored to be allowed to see this part of you. I can't tell you how deeply I am touched by it - it has me in tears and it somehow reached into my soul and found that place where these same feelings hide."
"P, *tears* that was the nicest thing anyone has ever written to me. Thank you. No one believes in me. :( not even me."
"I really, really appreciate your blogs and especially this e-mail. I don't
feel quite so alone. Thank you sooooo much for being there and for being honest."
When the dust settles...those individual bits of writing are what I am most proud of. Famous? nope, that word doesn't apply to me or my writing. I just a fellow traveler who is walking this path with you. Sometimes making you laugh, and sometimes crying with you.
I don't want to be famous. I don't want that pressure. If my writing wants to run off and be famous then so be it. As for me I just want to write for you.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
answers continued
recap:
Three interesting questions posed to me this morning.
1. What is your most famous piece of writing?
2. What is your all time favorite thing you have written?
3. Are you like this in real life? (as confident as you sound)
I didn't save a copy and only remember parts of it.
this is what I remember:
what did you do after high school?:
Joined a Russian circus to immerse myself in the language so I could learn it. (a total lie by the way)
further schooling?:
I attended Tanglewood Military Academy and got a degree in Crudunzel repair. (exspanding on my lies)
Being the smart arse that I am I couldn't resist messing with them. Besides who read that stuff anyway?
Well apparently the clerk who has to key in your answers! LOL!
Shortly after sending the info in I got a call from said person wanting to verify my info. Having the anonymity of the phone to hide my laughter and huge grin I proceeded to answer her questions off the cuff and convincingly to back up my serving of bull already established by my answers.
Clerk: says here you joined the circus?
Wait, was that snarky disbeleif I heard in her voice?
Me: Yes. I wanted to be an interpreter when I joined the Army and I wanted to prefect my Russian prior to enlisting. All I really remember after all these years is - Beringetsig-yah enzin Temhota' which means "dont piss off the elephants"
(actually I did know a little Russian, took it in college and self taught myself and its IS true that all I remember is that phrase, but it means Beware of Darkness.)
Clerk: (some of the disbelief leaving her voice) Says you attended Tanglewood military Academy?
Me: Yes, ma'am. I enlisted in the Army after returning from Russia.
Clerk: says you got a degree in Crudunzel repair? what is that?
Me: Are you familiar with explosives at all? Have you ever heard of mercury switches? The Crudunzel is the machine that calibrates them.
Clerk: yes ...(disbelief gone, totally sold now on my fibs) I never heard of that before!
Oh yes you have! If you have ever see Dr Seuss's tv adaption of The cat in the Hat - the cat uses a moss-covered-three-handled-family-crudunzel to clean up his mess!
After she read throught the rest of the form accepting all my other fibbery she thanked me and hung up. I hung up too and laughed my arse off.
oh, as a writer I love LOVE LOVE those fill in the blanks. I can't contain myself to be serious. And you are just asking for mischief and nincompoopery from me if you present them too me. My favorite writing is the silly stuff that makes me laugh. But to choose just one piece would be too difficult. I guess the best answer to two is: any of my writing that makes my readers respond.
Three interesting questions posed to me this morning.
1. What is your most famous piece of writing?
2. What is your all time favorite thing you have written?
I didn't save a copy and only remember parts of it.
this is what I remember:
what did you do after high school?:
Joined a Russian circus to immerse myself in the language so I could learn it. (a total lie by the way)
further schooling?:
I attended Tanglewood Military Academy and got a degree in Crudunzel repair. (exspanding on my lies)
Being the smart arse that I am I couldn't resist messing with them. Besides who read that stuff anyway?
Well apparently the clerk who has to key in your answers! LOL!
Shortly after sending the info in I got a call from said person wanting to verify my info. Having the anonymity of the phone to hide my laughter and huge grin I proceeded to answer her questions off the cuff and convincingly to back up my serving of bull already established by my answers.
Clerk: says here you joined the circus?
Wait, was that snarky disbeleif I heard in her voice?
Me: Yes. I wanted to be an interpreter when I joined the Army and I wanted to prefect my Russian prior to enlisting. All I really remember after all these years is - Beringetsig-yah enzin Temhota' which means "dont piss off the elephants"
(actually I did know a little Russian, took it in college and self taught myself and its IS true that all I remember is that phrase, but it means Beware of Darkness.)
Clerk: (some of the disbelief leaving her voice) Says you attended Tanglewood military Academy?
Me: Yes, ma'am. I enlisted in the Army after returning from Russia.
Clerk: says you got a degree in Crudunzel repair? what is that?
Me: Are you familiar with explosives at all? Have you ever heard of mercury switches? The Crudunzel is the machine that calibrates them.
Clerk: yes ...(disbelief gone, totally sold now on my fibs) I never heard of that before!
Oh yes you have! If you have ever see Dr Seuss's tv adaption of The cat in the Hat - the cat uses a moss-covered-three-handled-family-crudunzel to clean up his mess!
After she read throught the rest of the form accepting all my other fibbery she thanked me and hung up. I hung up too and laughed my arse off.
oh, as a writer I love LOVE LOVE those fill in the blanks. I can't contain myself to be serious. And you are just asking for mischief and nincompoopery from me if you present them too me. My favorite writing is the silly stuff that makes me laugh. But to choose just one piece would be too difficult. I guess the best answer to two is: any of my writing that makes my readers respond.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
One out of three ain't bad
Three interesting questions posed to me this morning.
1. What is your most famous piece of writing?
2. What is your all time favorite thing you have written?
3. Are you like this in real life? (as confident as you sound)
I can answer three easy enough. The others I have to give more thought too. I have many personalities and my online "Me" is a confident cocky sun of bun, who is vocal and casts a strong impressive persona. In reality however I am a shy, awkward nerdy type of woman who trips over her own tongue and is ill at ease in this world.
I have had the strange experience of having two people travel across the US to come meet me in person after only interacting with me on line. I think they both left disappointed to find that I can't match up to the person they got to know on line.
I am quite simply boring in real life.
I have the face to face communication skills of a 5 year old gorilla that knows some sign language. There is a huge disconnect in my head between verbal skills and writing skills. They do not cross over.
My husband and I met via email. Had he met me face to face and conducted out friendship from only that side, I doubt we would have gotten married. He got to know me through our writings. Early in our friendship we met every few weeks to play chess over the board. I didn't say much to him. I am surprised he didn't think I was a total fruit cake. Or maybe he did? He must like fruit cake though, he eventually married me.
HOWEVER...while I may be simply boring in real life.....the life I have lived has NOT been boring.
and this is what adds the fascination factor to what I put into my writings online. My writing compost pile has some interesting manure in it. Which makes me sound more interesting then I am.
true facts from my real life:
I have answered the work phone and taken two bomb threats
I have held a severed foot in my hands
I have watched a man bleed out and held him as he died in my arms
My first suicide attempt I was 4 years old
I have seen more penis's then the average porn star will see in her entire career
I have been searched by the Secret Service
I have talked to the FBI...twice.
I have been interrogated by immigration (just recently in fact LOL)
I have had a police office reach for his gun while talking to me
I have had a demented mans hands around my neck
I have been the object of a potential fatal attraction
been pulled over for having an unrestrained doll in the car
I have danced sacred dances with eagle feathers in my hair
called 911 over a dozen times
I have buried treasure
I have been stalked via phone, and mail and on line.
Been in a house fire
ran over my sister
pick axed my brother in the face
held my dead baby brother
been in a car crash
rode an unbroken mustang
been in a car that was on a live arching downed power line.....(ooh there is even newspaper pictures of that one!)
Been the subject of a newspaper article all about me
been published
have one of my books all over the planet
Know a serial killer
Have taken care of three murders
have had the National Guard hunt me down to retrieve military property in the vehicle I was driving
heard more death bed confessions then I could ever write down
been there for over 300 people last breath
washed more corpses then I could count
snitched
know some stuff I am not suppose to know
had my finger in more body orifices that belong to other people, then I really want to admit
keep a few secrets....and have told a few too.
Got on a horse that reared up and flipped over on me
had surgery
been spit on by a lama, right in my face
peed on by a monkey
owned elephant poop
eaten rattlesnake, buffalo, squid and octopus
walked into my bosses office with a loaded gun (relax its not what you think and a very funny story to boot)
broken a bone
had third degree burns
etc etc etc....
so to answer question #3 ...are you like this in real life?
Not really. Keep in mind I am a writer and if you peel that talent off of me you will find me cowering next to the "wizard" of Oz behind the curtain. In other words, what you are seeing on line is what is in my head vs how I am in real life. What is that saying? "I'm a legend in my own mind" Kinda like that.
What is in my mind is more exciting then me. I'm just a toothless old woman with hairy legs who can write. I blend into the crowd in real life and I am only special to those who love me and that is all that matters to me.
1. What is your most famous piece of writing?
2. What is your all time favorite thing you have written?
3. Are you like this in real life? (as confident as you sound)
I can answer three easy enough. The others I have to give more thought too. I have many personalities and my online "Me" is a confident cocky sun of bun, who is vocal and casts a strong impressive persona. In reality however I am a shy, awkward nerdy type of woman who trips over her own tongue and is ill at ease in this world.
I have had the strange experience of having two people travel across the US to come meet me in person after only interacting with me on line. I think they both left disappointed to find that I can't match up to the person they got to know on line.
I am quite simply boring in real life.
I have the face to face communication skills of a 5 year old gorilla that knows some sign language. There is a huge disconnect in my head between verbal skills and writing skills. They do not cross over.
My husband and I met via email. Had he met me face to face and conducted out friendship from only that side, I doubt we would have gotten married. He got to know me through our writings. Early in our friendship we met every few weeks to play chess over the board. I didn't say much to him. I am surprised he didn't think I was a total fruit cake. Or maybe he did? He must like fruit cake though, he eventually married me.
HOWEVER...while I may be simply boring in real life.....the life I have lived has NOT been boring.
and this is what adds the fascination factor to what I put into my writings online. My writing compost pile has some interesting manure in it. Which makes me sound more interesting then I am.
true facts from my real life:
I have answered the work phone and taken two bomb threats
I have held a severed foot in my hands
I have watched a man bleed out and held him as he died in my arms
My first suicide attempt I was 4 years old
I have seen more penis's then the average porn star will see in her entire career
I have been searched by the Secret Service
I have talked to the FBI...twice.
I have been interrogated by immigration (just recently in fact LOL)
I have had a police office reach for his gun while talking to me
I have had a demented mans hands around my neck
I have been the object of a potential fatal attraction
been pulled over for having an unrestrained doll in the car
I have danced sacred dances with eagle feathers in my hair
called 911 over a dozen times
I have buried treasure
I have been stalked via phone, and mail and on line.
Been in a house fire
ran over my sister
pick axed my brother in the face
held my dead baby brother
been in a car crash
rode an unbroken mustang
been in a car that was on a live arching downed power line.....(ooh there is even newspaper pictures of that one!)
Been the subject of a newspaper article all about me
been published
have one of my books all over the planet
Know a serial killer
Have taken care of three murders
have had the National Guard hunt me down to retrieve military property in the vehicle I was driving
heard more death bed confessions then I could ever write down
been there for over 300 people last breath
washed more corpses then I could count
snitched
know some stuff I am not suppose to know
had my finger in more body orifices that belong to other people, then I really want to admit
keep a few secrets....and have told a few too.
Got on a horse that reared up and flipped over on me
had surgery
been spit on by a lama, right in my face
peed on by a monkey
owned elephant poop
eaten rattlesnake, buffalo, squid and octopus
walked into my bosses office with a loaded gun (relax its not what you think and a very funny story to boot)
broken a bone
had third degree burns
etc etc etc....
so to answer question #3 ...are you like this in real life?
Not really. Keep in mind I am a writer and if you peel that talent off of me you will find me cowering next to the "wizard" of Oz behind the curtain. In other words, what you are seeing on line is what is in my head vs how I am in real life. What is that saying? "I'm a legend in my own mind" Kinda like that.
What is in my mind is more exciting then me. I'm just a toothless old woman with hairy legs who can write. I blend into the crowd in real life and I am only special to those who love me and that is all that matters to me.
Monday, August 6, 2012
The Obsidian Stallion
When I started trying to find a really cool name for my blog I googled all the names I came up with to make sure I wasn't stepping on anyone's little bloggy toes.
I thought about using "The Obsidian Stallion." It is the name of one of my well known poems and at one time, a book I was working on.
When I googled it, this came up.
http://joetutalo.com/stallion.html
(I will post the poem at the end of my blog so you can read it in its normal format)
I clicked on the link and instantly went from 0 to 60 and came off my chair.
HEY!! SOMEONE IS TRYING TO STEAL MY WORK!!
I sat down and patted my hackles back down and read on. It didn't take long to see that he gave me full credit, cited where he got it and spelled out what he was doing with it.
He wasn't mass producing it or anything like that, just simply it was a poem that got under his skin and he used it to show case his massive talent.
I was blown away. I am STILL blown away.
I know the power of my writing. I use it all the time on the message boards I haunt. I use it to ease others pain. To help others on their healing journeys. To try to reach and heal others pain, with the knowledge I have gained over my lifetime. Some things I have written are just so powerful that it boggles my mind that they came out of me. TOS is one of those poems that came from the deep well of compassion and the part of me that yearns to heal others.
Writers write for others. Our work isn't for US, we write for YOU. In a strange way, everything I write belongs to my readers. I can take credit for assembling the words and typing them in, but how they affect you and what you do with them is beyond my control.
What Joe went through to illustrate my book is fascinating to me. First he had to like it and be taken with it enough to want to start his project. Then he had to climb inside my mind and decipher my words and take the unseen musical pattern that I write to and translate it to drawings.
I can imagine him, sitting alone at his desk, rolling the words over and over in his head trying to sync up with my thoughts. Sight unseen he had to understand where I was coming from.
Quite the task since I don't even understand myselves.
Either he deciphered it or my writing style explained it to him. Because he got it. His book accurately captures the feel/intent of my work.
When I have done poetry critiques in school I have done the same thing. But those were great works of art, not some poem about SIV that lives in cyberspace. It is strange-creepy-flattering-giddy-feeling to have it done to me.
I emailed Joe that night I found his site, but have never received a reply. He remains a sweet mystery, adding a new element to the strangeness that is my life.
Some people have internet stalkers, and some have trolls, I have an internet illustrator!! How cool is that!!
The Obsidian Stallion
You would never know it by her dance.
You would never know it by her smile.
You would never know it by the peace that surrounds her in a soft glow.
You would never know that she once danced with the obsidian stallion.
A beast so huge and dark that those who dared to ride him clung to his back with great fear.
She met him when she was little.
so very little
She had wandered to the edge of a great meadow, (for lack of proper adult supervision)
and there was a field of horses.
She rode them all.
They were docile tame and kind and gentle. Each one giving her a loving kiss on the forhead.
These horses made her nervous and scared. For no one ever treated her with such kindness and respect.
As she was leaving the pasture she caught sight of the obsidian stallion.
His angry steel trap eyes froze her in her tracks.
His teeth were razor shrap and ready to cut.
His mane was burning flames, rising straight up from his shiny ebony neck.
His shadow, like hot oozing tar, crept her way.
but she wasn't afraid.
She had danced with monsters all her life. She knew pain no child should know. All she had been through had severed her soul from her heart.
She walked over to him...drawn by the emotionless silence he cast off.
"You can't hurt me" she said to him.
His neck arched and his muscles rippled as he tucked his head and looked at her.
"little one, many choose to ride me. I buck off all my riders. I hurt everyone who rides me."
"You can't hurt me" she said to him again, and flung herself unto his back.
His gallop had a frightening pace, eratic and lurching.
The icy wind numbed her skin.
Her legs grew weary of clutching his slippery belly. Her hands seared by the hot flame of his mane.
But she didn't let go. She held on and let herself think she was in control.
She rode and rode and rode. The years slipping past...she grew more comfortable in her place on his back.
She never looked up.
If she had she would have seen the fence as it approached.
He tucked and set his haunches and for a moment
(just a moment)
froze
before he vaulted them aloft.
She opened her eyes, her blood slicked hands, unable to keep there hold on his neck, started to slip.
"You will fall!" the obsidian stallion shouted. "you will get hurt, I buck all my riders off"
"No" she replied. "You can't hurt me"
"You are falling!" he called.
"NO" she responded, "I am getting down."
and she did.
Her landing wasn't graceful or pretty and she tore her shirt.
But she got down.
She glanced around and saw she was miles and miles and miles from home.
So she stared walking. It took time for the strength to return to her muscles.
Soon she was jogging.
She found others along the way and she found it comforting to know she was not alone in her journey.
Before long her legs healed and she was running, heading back to find her place.
She found it and she no longer has to run. She rebuilt her life and reclaimed all the lost power that was taken from her.
You would never know it by her dance.
You would never know it by her smile.
You would never know it by the peace that surrounds her in a soft glow.
You would never know that she once danced with the obsidian stallion.
Her scars are all that remain of her ride.
A road map of her journey.
They show where she has been...not where she is going.
thend
(c) PR 4-16-2005 - all rights reserved.
I thought about using "The Obsidian Stallion." It is the name of one of my well known poems and at one time, a book I was working on.
When I googled it, this came up.
http://joetutalo.com/stallion.html
(I will post the poem at the end of my blog so you can read it in its normal format)
I clicked on the link and instantly went from 0 to 60 and came off my chair.
HEY!! SOMEONE IS TRYING TO STEAL MY WORK!!
I sat down and patted my hackles back down and read on. It didn't take long to see that he gave me full credit, cited where he got it and spelled out what he was doing with it.
He wasn't mass producing it or anything like that, just simply it was a poem that got under his skin and he used it to show case his massive talent.
I was blown away. I am STILL blown away.
I know the power of my writing. I use it all the time on the message boards I haunt. I use it to ease others pain. To help others on their healing journeys. To try to reach and heal others pain, with the knowledge I have gained over my lifetime. Some things I have written are just so powerful that it boggles my mind that they came out of me. TOS is one of those poems that came from the deep well of compassion and the part of me that yearns to heal others.
Writers write for others. Our work isn't for US, we write for YOU. In a strange way, everything I write belongs to my readers. I can take credit for assembling the words and typing them in, but how they affect you and what you do with them is beyond my control.
What Joe went through to illustrate my book is fascinating to me. First he had to like it and be taken with it enough to want to start his project. Then he had to climb inside my mind and decipher my words and take the unseen musical pattern that I write to and translate it to drawings.
I can imagine him, sitting alone at his desk, rolling the words over and over in his head trying to sync up with my thoughts. Sight unseen he had to understand where I was coming from.
Quite the task since I don't even understand myselves.
Either he deciphered it or my writing style explained it to him. Because he got it. His book accurately captures the feel/intent of my work.
When I have done poetry critiques in school I have done the same thing. But those were great works of art, not some poem about SIV that lives in cyberspace. It is strange-creepy-flattering-giddy-feeling to have it done to me.
I emailed Joe that night I found his site, but have never received a reply. He remains a sweet mystery, adding a new element to the strangeness that is my life.
Some people have internet stalkers, and some have trolls, I have an internet illustrator!! How cool is that!!
The Obsidian Stallion
You would never know it by her dance.
You would never know it by her smile.
You would never know it by the peace that surrounds her in a soft glow.
You would never know that she once danced with the obsidian stallion.
A beast so huge and dark that those who dared to ride him clung to his back with great fear.
She met him when she was little.
so very little
She had wandered to the edge of a great meadow, (for lack of proper adult supervision)
and there was a field of horses.
She rode them all.
They were docile tame and kind and gentle. Each one giving her a loving kiss on the forhead.
These horses made her nervous and scared. For no one ever treated her with such kindness and respect.
As she was leaving the pasture she caught sight of the obsidian stallion.
His angry steel trap eyes froze her in her tracks.
His teeth were razor shrap and ready to cut.
His mane was burning flames, rising straight up from his shiny ebony neck.
His shadow, like hot oozing tar, crept her way.
but she wasn't afraid.
She had danced with monsters all her life. She knew pain no child should know. All she had been through had severed her soul from her heart.
She walked over to him...drawn by the emotionless silence he cast off.
"You can't hurt me" she said to him.
His neck arched and his muscles rippled as he tucked his head and looked at her.
"little one, many choose to ride me. I buck off all my riders. I hurt everyone who rides me."
"You can't hurt me" she said to him again, and flung herself unto his back.
His gallop had a frightening pace, eratic and lurching.
The icy wind numbed her skin.
Her legs grew weary of clutching his slippery belly. Her hands seared by the hot flame of his mane.
But she didn't let go. She held on and let herself think she was in control.
She rode and rode and rode. The years slipping past...she grew more comfortable in her place on his back.
She never looked up.
If she had she would have seen the fence as it approached.
He tucked and set his haunches and for a moment
(just a moment)
froze
before he vaulted them aloft.
She opened her eyes, her blood slicked hands, unable to keep there hold on his neck, started to slip.
"You will fall!" the obsidian stallion shouted. "you will get hurt, I buck all my riders off"
"No" she replied. "You can't hurt me"
"You are falling!" he called.
"NO" she responded, "I am getting down."
and she did.
Her landing wasn't graceful or pretty and she tore her shirt.
But she got down.
She glanced around and saw she was miles and miles and miles from home.
So she stared walking. It took time for the strength to return to her muscles.
Soon she was jogging.
She found others along the way and she found it comforting to know she was not alone in her journey.
Before long her legs healed and she was running, heading back to find her place.
She found it and she no longer has to run. She rebuilt her life and reclaimed all the lost power that was taken from her.
You would never know it by her dance.
You would never know it by her smile.
You would never know it by the peace that surrounds her in a soft glow.
You would never know that she once danced with the obsidian stallion.
Her scars are all that remain of her ride.
A road map of her journey.
They show where she has been...not where she is going.
thend
(c) PR 4-16-2005 - all rights reserved.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Tired arms
***************************
This is dedicated to Missy and Spiral_girl
****************************
I have often wondered what I would say to me if I could go back in time and
talk to the me of the past.
Gawd I was such a mess, filled with rage and hatred and venoumous eyes that
shot barbs of steel at anyone who dared to make eye contact.
I was like a homemade explosive that was made by a madman, wrapped up in
duct tape with filthy rags and bare wires poking out here an there in a
chaotic disaray. If you messed with me the single tilt of my head would trip
the mercery switch and I would go supernova.
The darkness and madness were tangable in and around me. I was untouchable,
unaproachable, and bordering on unhuman.
What could you say to reach someone so far intrenched and barracaded behind
brick walls and rolls and rolls of barbedwire?
......how would I speak to her? Could my words make a difference and ease
the pain in her heart?
lets see...
Once upon a time when I was wandering in time I came across me. This
woman/child with dark blue eyes and dishwater brown hair.
I wondered if I should talk to her.
Her fierce stance and cocked foot hinted at her ability to take quick
flight. Her shaggy long hair fell across her eyes giving her the appearance
of an untamed mustang.
I stepped forward toward her...
Her head swivel like a tank turret fixing me in her sights. She snirked
under her breath and for a second fought with her face to keep from laughing
aloud.
I walked up to her and stopped. She drew up her shoulders and fixed a cold
sqwinted eyed gaze on me.
My head tilts as I feel my eyes softening into pools of empathy and concern.
"Your arms must be so tired" I say fighting the tears.
She stares me down, and then laughs raising her scarred and scabbed and
bruised arms upwards...as if the sight of them will drive me away. "tired of
this? It don't hurt"
"I know it doesn't hurt," I replied twisting my own so that the light
illuminated the numerous white scars. "I said your arms must be so tired"
Again the fight with her face as she wrested for control. I wonder who with
in her is busting a gut to speak to me.
"tired of what?" she sneers at last.
"tired of carring all that emotional baggage, the bags must really be heavy,
look at how your shoulders droop and ache...its twisting your body into a
slump."
She squirmed and figited like a worm on a hook.
"Tired of playing tug-a-war and pulling so hard on the rope..."
She is quick to interupt, "I'm not playing tug-a-war with anyone" she spits
with a venomous slur.
"Your playing with yourself...and you are playing both sides...you are
pulling and trying to drag yourself over the line towards being normal and
living a happy life and you are also trying to drag yourself backwards and
stay safe with in your personal madness."
I notice her face pales, giving away that she is gone dissociating beyond reach. She
has fled inside.
I continue knowing she is hiding near the surface listening just behind
her own shoulder for safety.
"Little one, put down the bags, drop the rope, remove the thick heavy rusty
shackles from your spirit, stop pushing everyone and everything away. Lower
your arms the danger has passed you dont need to walk around in a defensive
stance any more. Relax your hands and open your fists..." I falter my words
sound forced and no longer flow.
She is still. Her only movement the flaring of her nostrels as her breathing
quickens. She is preparing to take flight.
I try again, "your arms must be so tired"
Her head tilts upwards just a fraction indicating the primal flee urge has bubbled to
the surface of her conciousness and joined her.
I have only seconds before she will be gone and unreachable.
"your arms must be so tired...so tired of telling your story over and over
and over. Tired of crying silent red tears that no one hears. Tired of being
all that stands between you and insanity, tired of holding onto the ledge so
that you don't fall into the abyss, tired of holding onto the last grain of
dignity and sanity that hasn't been stipped from you by the skin knife that
sliced your soul. Tired of both keeping your secrets and shouting them with
tiny red mouths cut into them." I am crying now. Hoping my words are
reaching past the bricks she surounds herself with.
She is gone. She moves so swiftly that in the time it took to blink she has
vanished.
I stand defeated. My eyes closed as I remember her pain and how it was so
hard to be alive and function at that time in my life. I wish I could have
eased her pain. I sigh. maybe it isnt' time for her yet. Maybe her arms
arn't tired yet.
I shuffle my feet and the resulting scuffing noise causes me to look down.
The tears return as I squat down and run my fingers through the red grit on
the ground where she had stood. I may not have reached her, but I has sure
as hell scatched the surface of her walls!
Some walls come down brick by brick...others must be sanded down slowly and
painstakingly with sand paper.
I smile.
I was right her arms were tired. Now they have less to carry, she has left
behind a sliver of her wall.
I silently call out to her..."peace be the journey."
thend
(c) 01-02-2007 all rights reserved
This is dedicated to Missy and Spiral_girl
****************************
I have often wondered what I would say to me if I could go back in time and
talk to the me of the past.
Gawd I was such a mess, filled with rage and hatred and venoumous eyes that
shot barbs of steel at anyone who dared to make eye contact.
I was like a homemade explosive that was made by a madman, wrapped up in
duct tape with filthy rags and bare wires poking out here an there in a
chaotic disaray. If you messed with me the single tilt of my head would trip
the mercery switch and I would go supernova.
The darkness and madness were tangable in and around me. I was untouchable,
unaproachable, and bordering on unhuman.
What could you say to reach someone so far intrenched and barracaded behind
brick walls and rolls and rolls of barbedwire?
......how would I speak to her? Could my words make a difference and ease
the pain in her heart?
lets see...
Once upon a time when I was wandering in time I came across me. This
woman/child with dark blue eyes and dishwater brown hair.
I wondered if I should talk to her.
Her fierce stance and cocked foot hinted at her ability to take quick
flight. Her shaggy long hair fell across her eyes giving her the appearance
of an untamed mustang.
I stepped forward toward her...
Her head swivel like a tank turret fixing me in her sights. She snirked
under her breath and for a second fought with her face to keep from laughing
aloud.
I walked up to her and stopped. She drew up her shoulders and fixed a cold
sqwinted eyed gaze on me.
My head tilts as I feel my eyes softening into pools of empathy and concern.
"Your arms must be so tired" I say fighting the tears.
She stares me down, and then laughs raising her scarred and scabbed and
bruised arms upwards...as if the sight of them will drive me away. "tired of
this? It don't hurt"
"I know it doesn't hurt," I replied twisting my own so that the light
illuminated the numerous white scars. "I said your arms must be so tired"
Again the fight with her face as she wrested for control. I wonder who with
in her is busting a gut to speak to me.
"tired of what?" she sneers at last.
"tired of carring all that emotional baggage, the bags must really be heavy,
look at how your shoulders droop and ache...its twisting your body into a
slump."
She squirmed and figited like a worm on a hook.
"Tired of playing tug-a-war and pulling so hard on the rope..."
She is quick to interupt, "I'm not playing tug-a-war with anyone" she spits
with a venomous slur.
"Your playing with yourself...and you are playing both sides...you are
pulling and trying to drag yourself over the line towards being normal and
living a happy life and you are also trying to drag yourself backwards and
stay safe with in your personal madness."
I notice her face pales, giving away that she is gone dissociating beyond reach. She
has fled inside.
I continue knowing she is hiding near the surface listening just behind
her own shoulder for safety.
"Little one, put down the bags, drop the rope, remove the thick heavy rusty
shackles from your spirit, stop pushing everyone and everything away. Lower
your arms the danger has passed you dont need to walk around in a defensive
stance any more. Relax your hands and open your fists..." I falter my words
sound forced and no longer flow.
She is still. Her only movement the flaring of her nostrels as her breathing
quickens. She is preparing to take flight.
I try again, "your arms must be so tired"
Her head tilts upwards just a fraction indicating the primal flee urge has bubbled to
the surface of her conciousness and joined her.
I have only seconds before she will be gone and unreachable.
"your arms must be so tired...so tired of telling your story over and over
and over. Tired of crying silent red tears that no one hears. Tired of being
all that stands between you and insanity, tired of holding onto the ledge so
that you don't fall into the abyss, tired of holding onto the last grain of
dignity and sanity that hasn't been stipped from you by the skin knife that
sliced your soul. Tired of both keeping your secrets and shouting them with
tiny red mouths cut into them." I am crying now. Hoping my words are
reaching past the bricks she surounds herself with.
She is gone. She moves so swiftly that in the time it took to blink she has
vanished.
I stand defeated. My eyes closed as I remember her pain and how it was so
hard to be alive and function at that time in my life. I wish I could have
eased her pain. I sigh. maybe it isnt' time for her yet. Maybe her arms
arn't tired yet.
I shuffle my feet and the resulting scuffing noise causes me to look down.
The tears return as I squat down and run my fingers through the red grit on
the ground where she had stood. I may not have reached her, but I has sure
as hell scatched the surface of her walls!
Some walls come down brick by brick...others must be sanded down slowly and
painstakingly with sand paper.
I smile.
I was right her arms were tired. Now they have less to carry, she has left
behind a sliver of her wall.
I silently call out to her..."peace be the journey."
thend
(c) 01-02-2007 all rights reserved
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