Month: February 2022

My grandfather, the band leader and humanity proponent, refused to bridge into the coming age.

He grieved over loss of the musical movement days he’d come through, and worried that true performance art values and morals were being corrupted.

Though he would not help me become part of his living legacy, I was held up close to it all, snuggled warm for as long as I could be.

I absorbed nuance of the process of artistic adaptability as his music evolved and movies and musicals filled the big screen and TV.

And as my life suffered patterns of disruption time and again, I learned to instinctively identify patterns of continuity – no longer bound by rules of conformity because these precepts would not welcome me.

My grandfather’s presence was the scent of love, endless cocktail hours, and burned cigarettes left filling his closet of countless professional jackets and outfits.

I still remember the lingering smell of leather shoes after feet recently vacated where I would hide in his closet, and the adoration for each other in my grandparents’ eyes when they would dress up and go out for an evening together

I listened to his piano composing process and wondered why it could not easily transfer on to me when I would sit right there next to him on the bench (I was very, very young, then).

I used to think it was because of the trauma and my being closed off, held away from the world.

But now, as wild magic finally comes forward from me into making new songs all my own, I begin to understand.

What I am meant to be now was not reflected then.

I am meant to be a bridge between generations.

She wanted him like she’d wanted no one ever before. It wasn’t thoughts being eratic, but her body’s instinct affecting them. As if she’d always known him and had to get to him. She didn’t understand what was going on – just tried to manage the intensity of insides churning.

Tension knots from overexcitement’s pressure to push to new levels – added to by a heavy baking dish falling and breaking; a mirror in frame sliding and blocking the door/later falling hard against and into top of my right thigh; and a cat getting almost fatally ill from eating most of a thin, plastic food handling glove.

I begin to suspect that God is not dead, but that pieces of “Him” are trapped inside each and every one of us.

Like wild magic.

We must remanifest it into the world by good thoughts, action, and deeds – and as we do this, pain and suffering leave our bodies.

This life force grows inside of us and must be released. The tension we feel is our holding it in and stagnating.

Through how we are being – by how we cultivate nourishment and honor truth in what we are seeing – matters in everything.

God’s form and definition changes – “Living in the Light” is a way we are meant to be, in order to be “Free.”

“Free Will” = free the will to just “BE.”

Through love’s light and joy’s laughter given forth from us to one another, we renew sense of humanity’s purpose.

When I try to remember past history lessons learned, and times when my mind swam happily absorbed in knowledge, pressure builds in my head and begins aching.

I had to block myself away from this accessing because it was when I was experiencing abuse, in personal life, and from social society.

I dislike that I must allow this barrier to remain in order to retain conscious identity. I must continue growing creative expression so someday self confidence can reopen.

Not being able to physically vocalize my cultivated intelligence by didactic recitation makes me feel that others can easily judge me as vapid and stupid – when, in fact, it is due to a vital coping mechanism.

Show me anyone else whose gone through what I have to level of such absorptive experience, whose managed to come out intact from it!

Yeah…very few of us have made it – if any.

I have not found anyone like me.

There are tradeoffs for survival – and a “shit ton” of needed ingenuity.

People give up their selves to attain “belonging.”

I learned long ago that in the streets I walked, “belonging” meant sacrificing the soul: having this energy being used as a tool by others – and not even for a great cause.

Just Waste – no matter how you framed or labeled it.

So, instead, I learned how to briefly phase in and out of roles and scenes so I could pass forward Good Will and outmaneuver targeting by others.

But, I have always been searching for where I belong – for a partner and “life” to call my own.

And when I find these, our lives will not be stagnant.

My youngest was forced to be around someone whose close friend turned up positive.

I won’t say where this was or who pushed this, but when I found out about it the second time he was exposed to this person that all of this was happening, I went right back to where I had taken him and gave him an immediate out.

My youngling is not negotiable – no matter other losses.

Now, I am responsible and having to cancel near everything I was trying to progress on because others were selfish and permissive, without care of how it could affect people around them.

I must choose to pause my own line’s progress to preserve public safety.

It would be nice if the courtesy was returned.

Perhaps then, COVID would no longer keep circulating.

In the short time we have been here, and in addition to a new shampoo/conditioner combo I have been using, suddenly all of this silver in my hair is appearing and entertwining with hues of red and gold.

I guess I would rather have this cascade through my hair than cast on my face, where the worry and stress has made me seem to myself prematurely old.

So go out that way, you old crone.

Leave me be – I will own my throne.

“Love of fate : the welcoming of all life’s experiences as good.”

https://www.merriam-webster.com

Well, you know…within reason!

Like when you go to warm up a butter cube because there is no butter in the butter tray…

And you plan to stop the microwave at 20 seconds but forget and it goes to 30…

Then, you pick up the wrapper still in cube form and briefly gain false confidence that it is still solid –

Whereupon, it bursts open as you pull it out and spurts molten liquid butter all over and down the refrigerator door, gushing out all over the floor to settle in pools of slickery goop…

Wiping it up with a towel merely ensures extra slippage, so you begin randomly squirting streams of dish soap at the mess to try to cut it before hastily damp mopping and drying because YOU NEEDED TO HAVE LEFT FOR YOUR APPOINTMENT 5 MINUTES AGO!

Don’t get mad or vexed…

Hey – Amor Fati!