PURPLE LATCHES

Sanity versus Insanity

2012-02-03T15:59:00.000-08:00

On December 04, 2010 I wrote a blog titled Tidbits of Information. It dealt with my concerns or convictions of individuals being labeled with varied mental health diagnosis. The possibility was there for physical health issues being the culprit instead; things yet undiscovered in the 1700s-1900s. I collaborated with an out-of-town psychiatrist who would get back with me regarding the required information of this era. Regretfully, I was unable to obtain the info that I needed to continue my blog on that subject. I would welcome insight from anyone that could add to these thoughts.

Recently, I read an article on how mental illness possibly has an effect on an artist’s work. One of the artists in the article was William Blake. It seems most of his drawings and poetry was inspired by visions that he not only saw but with whom he spent time conversing. As in the case of William Blake, many have taken this train of thought to connect art with a form of madness.

Thinking of a close friendship of mine, I think of a person that has been asked to draw this thing or things which he sees. These drawings are horrendous to the point of causing concern to the psychiatrists’ involved in this case. This particular person has several mental health issues; but in many other areas of his life, he is quite intelligent.

Once more, I pick up the thought of labeling. Have we continued to label individuals
not based on their saneness, but their insaneness because we, as a people, have determined what is sane and what is not…..

I know there are areas where there are absolutely no questions that someone is perversely ill mentally. But, where do we draw the line in labeling or casting a shadow of negativity on someone that may not be as MAD as we have projected them to be?….

Footprints On The Rug

2011-11-17T06:37:00.000-08:00

I stare for a long time
At your strange white face
An eye that seems to ponder
Yet never blinks

I leave this silent place
And the face that stares
How did you get there;
But I knew from inside out

Others came and left the place
A small voice is calling
Is it the face with one eye?
Yet no mouth to beckon me

Inside this room of silence
You have vanished
Another takes your place
Distorted and angry

I wonder if you moved
Or blinked an eye
I wonder if you knew
That I saw you there… briefly
~ ~ ~

Do you Wish to SEE

2011-09-17T20:47:00.000-07:00

Everything that I retrieve comes from my past. I can see the shadows
waving around me like a wind blown summer. As I stop and think about it,
if it happened a minute ago, it's in the past. I have what we all have;
a cluttered memory box that's opened on all sides; to me of course.

Somewhere in the shadows will lie tomorrow's past. Do I wish to see
what that section looks like? No... Am I afraid of what the future holds? Maybe..
Aren't you? I would like to trail my fingers thru portions of the shadows and erase things. All of us are human beings. We all have shadows that swirl around
in the dark expanse of our memory box...Don't we?

2011-09-16T21:59:00.000-07:00

Like a blind man, he touched me gently. He touched the lips
of my smile as I felt his voice wrap around me like a fine silk
glove. He drank me like a summer's eve. The breeze brought forth
the murmuring of the leaves as he disappeared without a trace.
The white mist of loneliness settled over me

Can't You Hear My Echo

2011-09-16T21:31:00.000-07:00

A silence falls as if each part of creation is waiting. The trees
are reaching toward skies of blue while the sun yawns with its yellow
mouth. Somewhere in the distance a fire lives and breathes; I feel
the roar from its crackling conversation. Clearly, the garden
gate swings as a shadow on my garden wall. Can't you hear my echo
calling you? This echo without two voices.

A Torn Page

2011-09-16T20:43:00.000-07:00

I am not just a torn page from your book of phone numbers
Nor your shadow at the end of a winter's day. You can not
pencil me in because I am not your appointment; nor will I
ever be your torn page

Memory

2011-08-12T09:00:00.000-07:00

Forgiving does not erase the bitter past.... a healed memory is not a deleted memory.... Instead, forgiving what we cannot forget creates a new way to remember.... we change the memory of our past into a hope for our future

Just bring my son back

2011-08-09T12:21:00.000-07:00

Today, while doing my housework, I heard the saddest story. I thought about it and knew that I must post this for anyone that may need to think about their relationships, families or whatever the case may be...

This is a true story that happened a few years back. The talk show host was using it for an analogy of sorts.

It seems that a father had backed out of his driveway not knowing
his young son was behind the car. I am not sure of the age of the son.
The father backed over him and killed him on the spot.

The ambulance arrived and the father pleaded with them to save his son at any cost. They said he was pleading that whatever amount of money was needed didn't matter..... "Just bring my son back to life."

But You Were Never There

2011-05-21T20:18:00.000-07:00

Somehow, I found a trace of you
inside the entrance that protected you.

Through remnants, I walked in to find
unwritten letters, anger and emptiness

Layered strongly, is the scent of your habitation
yet I can only smell my own intrusion.

I wanted desperately to place you in my
garden of rainbow fantasies, amid bits of sky

Maybe oft times to speak in whispered vowels

But you were never there............

Where Will You End Up?

2011-05-13T20:56:00.000-07:00

Who has stopped briefly on a winter's hill?
Without a future or a past you stand there
in the moment; bare before
yourself……….

You wear a thought that no one sees…
The moon walks across the dark night sky.
You walk across inner moments
of yesterday,today and tomorrow..
Where will you end up…………….

Seashells In Sand

2011-05-13T18:59:00.000-07:00

My mind isn’t buried like seashells in sand
Ink spots of reflection become my pen in hand
A glimmer of light becomes my only command
A taste of life becomes my only stand

Truth

2011-05-12T08:22:00.000-07:00

Followed closely on the heels of dishonesty, you will find truth making its way
toward the door of home; and there is where it should be most comfortable.

Regarding Tidbits of Information

2010-12-18T18:47:00.000-08:00

In an opening statement regarding Tidbits of Information, I would like to clarify that I am writing of things that were not known to man years ago; as a result, people were mislabeled. I spoke with a psychiatrist this week in regards to these issues, and she readily relayed to me that so many things were mislabeled or misdiagnosed because of the lack of knowledge. Thank goodness we have advanced by leaps and bounds since the earlier days.

Tidbits of Information

2010-12-04T20:26:00.000-08:00

Since working in areas dealing with mental health, I have read several pieces of literature regarding mental illness; articles that left me with questions.

Over the years, when man began his documentation of things he learned, a voluminous amount of things were written. In college lectures and medical seminars we can find these things as part of the discussion.
Some of the professions discussed are novelists, poets, artists, and musicians; yes, there are other professions to discuss, but in mental health these are big subjects. Various lectures are open for individual opinions. Students are assigned poems to read, and then they must determine what the poet is actually saying.
Great poets, novelists, and artist are often picked apart. I am not sure this collaborative effort can do justice to the well known greats of yesteryear.
The saddest thoughts about the discussion are that the people being discussed have long ago passed away and can’t defend their own actions. They are judged by a group of men or women, labeled insane, and forever branded that way; and so it goes.
Some notables did some really unorthodox things. For instance, Salvador Dali delivered a course of lectures at the Sorbonne, in Paris, in the 1920s. He had his foot in a pail of goat’s milk. He was an eccentric artist and was quite sane (from all of my readings it seems so) but dubbed as having a predisposition to madness. I am sure being sane, he had his own valid reasons for doing this. But now, because of the opinions of others, we think of him as being predisposed to madness.
Jonathan Swift, author of Gulliver’s Travels is another example. Often times, throughout the annals of history, he has been labeled as being quite mad, but it was later discovered that he had a very painful problem with an ear issue. The treatments for medical issues back in that era were far different. Death rates were high due to lack of medical knowledge.
So, who can say that all of the notables were really mad or maybe they were medically challenged, leaving them to do strange things?
-To be continued-

BARREN

2010-12-03T16:59:00.000-08:00

Barren are the carpeted slopes on a faraway hill
Where reality and reflections were once surreal
The song of your stillness blows across the field
In a rehearsal of emptiness; now nothing is real

~~~~~~~~~~~*

Children lost in play amid the mounds of green
Spindled cribs of white; a simplistic kind of scene
A hollow by the pond; you and mom were seen
Listen to the lullaby; it’s peaceful and serene

~~~~~~~~~~~*

It’s almost time to go now; there’s nothing left to do
Everyone is leaving; the sun is even blue
I came here once more to hum a song for you
It’s only been a while; it seems a day or two
I miss you
Daddy

December 1, 2010

Emotional Statues

2010-11-29T18:18:00.000-08:00

Have you ever tried to paint an emotion for the things you recall from childhood: The television shows, cigarette commercials, cartoon characters, radio shows, and so much more? Those things take you back to days of hopefully happy times and security.

I recall my grandmother getting up to do the necessary little things before starting her daily routine of ironing. She would turn on the radio. I can picture it now… the sculpture that I have carved in my mind. His name was Arthur Godfrey. This was a talk show of sorts, and Mr. Godfrey had many things to say to his listeners along with his ongoing list of interesting visitors. There stood my grandmother just ironing away to these faceless characters.

I was staying with my grandmother while my parents worked. In the evenings, when the stars were lined up and parading about the heavens, she would tread up the hill in back of her house and load her apron down with pieces of coal. It would be so cold in Tennessee; winter winds were harsh. I would walk with her, carrying my one little piece of coal. I was a little girl. I would chatter about everything as we made our way back down the hill. It was dark and somewhat scary to me. She put a few pieces on the grate. I would watch as she would poke at it with what she called a poker. She knew how to break the coal into smaller pieces. As I watched her, I thought she must have been the smartest person I knew because there wasn’t anything she couldn’t do.

She lived high on the side of the hill. At night she would open the curtains, and we would stand looking down across the city with its sparking lights.
I can see those beautiful lights now and hear the crackling in the fireplace. The only light in the room would be that of the warm fire. Oh, to go back to those moments in time…things that I have carved that bring special emotional auras for today.
I continue to carve these emotional statues. After all, I can look at them anytime I desire and only time can remove them from their place.

Words As Feathers

2010-11-17T18:56:00.000-08:00

Recently, I watched a portion of a movie that I found to be thought provoking. The movie was dealing with people that spread rumors about others. The woman involved was one of the parishioners; she had made confessions regarding her own problem with gossiping.

The priest told her to go back home, take a feather pillow and a knife up on the roof top of her building. He then told her to slash the pillow with the knife. She did as she was told; feathers went flying every direction as the wind carried them farther than the eye could see. The priest then told her to go back upon the roof top and retrieve every feather. She told him that would be impossible because the feathers were floating in the wind in all directions.

This reminded me of a recent trip to the gravesite to visit with my Daddy. A feather floated past me; it, too, was carried by the wind. I watched it stop a few feet in front of me. Suddenly, I found myself wondering where it originated and where would it end up. I watched it for a long time until it finally flew out of sight. Actually, I left the place where I was sitting and followed it until it flew beyond a point that was designated out of bounds to visitors. I was on the military base.

I thought about the movie and understood perfectly how this walked hand in hand with our lives. We tell someone about another person; it could be something with an interesting twist or something hurtful and malicious. From our mouths these words would fly; likened to the feathers in the wind, we could not retrieve the words.

How sad that we do this. Maybe the next time we stop for a conversation with someone, we should think of the pillow, the feathers, and the seriousness of what we are about to do. The old saying goes like this: If you can’t say something good about someone, say nothing at all. Let’s not send our words flying into countless ears and minds.

Arcane Writings

2010-11-03T15:54:00.000-07:00

We write arcanely, for the most part. Notice the careful segregation; truth
divided by fabrication.
Segregationism of one’s true self does not prevent others from fishing
without a license.

Too many times, we forget that homo sapiens enter into our thoughts
by way of the back door; known as our Achilles’ heel. Do you know
where your Achilles’ heel lies?
They, the homo sapiens, walk this tender path and proceed in raping
the mental synthesis of a person’s mind.

The Gulag Archipelago portrays horrendous dealings of what one can do
to another; if so inclined, via the mind.
This, too, depends on the ability to psych oneself out.
We must adapt as a circle; taking care to protect every aspect;
from beginning to end.

Well, how does all of this play a part in writing you ask? We must be careful
when sending out invitations to others, to view our thoughts lest
we are trampled by our own words.
The mind, an amazing work of art, should be cradled at all costs. After all,
that is where we dwell most of the time; is it not?

These Feelings

2010-09-05T13:00:00.001-07:00

Today was an unusually pretty day; the kind of day that anyone would wish for under most circumstances. The weather was perfect. I had driven to a near-by store for a few household items . I watched as others were shopping, as well. It was somewhat sad as I listened to a child, maybe six years of age, asking his mom to buy him a small chair. It was made of plastic and certainly suitable enough for his frail looking frame. His speech was garbled and that of a much younger child. His clothes were shabby and he seemed unkempt in general. At any rate, I watched briefly as she picked up the little green chair and told him," I will get this for you, but don't tell your daddy". He quickly agreed in his garbled speech while clearly expressing how elated he was. His smile was priceless.
I thought of the complexities the words held for this little one and the implications of growing up being taught to fabricate things. His basic foundation was being built for sure.

I finished my shopping and started back home. I passed a bag lady with a grocery cart full of items; probably collected from the dumpsters close by. She was walking slowly as if the world had forsaken her.
Further down the road sat two men in the shade of an old tree; they had small suit cases beside them. I recognized their faces as those that stand on the streets with signs. You offer them work but they quickly refuse and ask for money for food. Yes, you tell yourself they will buy whiskey or beer or drugs. They are, for the most part, bums. I can't help but wonder about their heritage. What happens to bring someone to this life of begging; one where you no longer care of your appearance or personal issues, including being homeless.

As I drove along in my car, to my home and my life of comfort, I felt a sudden sadness wash over me. I felt empty for some reason. I questioned why these feelings of melancholy all of a sudden. Maybe the little boy that loved the little green chair. His eyes lit up like a Christmas tree; but he must remember not to tell his daddy about it. Maybe it was the little bag lady; or the men that allowed themselves to be imprisoned in another world; one that we do not have to live in. No, there are no physical bars holding them but something kept them in this strange world. Something in their minds that left them without the desire to escape. They no longer cared.

I thought of the people in my life that had passed away; my children that had moved on in life. So many things washed over me leaving me to feel like a tree branch standing barren and alone. Suddenly, I felt cold and bare.
I placed my thoughts inside another compartment as I unloaded my grocery items. What would happen to the little boy, the bag lady, and the haggard looking men sitting on the ground with their suitcases?

I walked into my home with all of its comforts and realized how thankful I was of my own life; but how sad I felt about so many things.....

Food For Thought

2010-07-28T19:04:00.000-07:00

The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n.............. From Paradise Lost ~~~~ ~~~~

I contemplate the above quote (a very profound statement with abstruse meaning) of the well-known poet John Milton. If you’ll take the time to digest each word carefully,you can assimilate your own feelings. Do you have a good foundation of the environment of your own mind? Sounds absolutely absurd, you say. Does it? This revelation could turn us away from the mirror of our own mind if we dare to look closely.

We are indeed the keeper of our own minds. If we hold the key that controls our mind, what do we do when outside forces unlock our mind without permission? I believe we invite things in by our own mere ramblings or via osmosis. "Out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaketh."

We prioritize our thoughts. They must fit the situation at hand, so chaotic situations will be placed accordingly. Our brain becomes emotionally charged up. Is this where we are supposed to put calming thoughts into action? In other words, is it what we have created for ourselves, or can we alter heaven and hell when we wish? How we react takes place in the mind or the brain. That’s pretty much a fact.

John Milton speaks in reference to the mind being its own place and that it can make a heav’n of hell or visa versa. Norman Vincent Peale believes in the power of positive thinking. I think this concurs with the quote from Mr. Milton.

We have long heard the saying "Mind over matter." So ask yourselves this…Is it reality that causes the "hell or heaven" that tangles up our mind or is it that which rambles around in our mind at will, simply waiting to be disciplined?

Can we really control our limbic systems somewhat? I wonder if the above can be practiced to our advantage.

Welcome to 2012

2010-07-19T17:49:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the year of 2012. You say,"Why that year?"

The prediction is that time won't exist after 2012.

The earth will be a mass of destruction and desolation.

Will anyone be walking around? Who will be left, anyone?

I have carefully listened to the Mayan Indian predictions and just recently

was introduced to the Hopi Indian predictions which seem to have a good

foot-hold along the same lines. It seems that many of Mayan predictions

have managed to take place. I wonder how this happens? How do they do this?

Do we live our lives, for the next two years, based on what they say is

going to take place? If so, how do we do that? Personally, I believe in

the book called the Bible and in the Godhead. No man will know the day

or the hour. Okay, having said that, I must say that the Bible says we will

know the signs of the times. I see those signs everywhere.

Well, back to the earlier predictions of the Indian tribes. They did not

have microwave technology that modern man has today. They had to

base their world around the stars, winds, magic potions, visions and witch

doctors. I think they managed to do pretty well considering, much like a

doctor back in those days who didn't work with fancy equipment and walk

through the halls of sterile hospitals after years and years of schooling.

He used tools much like the Indians used: Eyes, ears, hands and touch.

Think about it......is it really so, or could it be?

THE OIL SPILL TRAGEDY

2010-06-25T14:12:00.000-07:00

It’s not just another day along the beach.
Ceilings of blue rest high above poisoned
waters, swirling.
Senseless loss of life snarled amid the dark
murky liquid called monetary gain.
Miles of orange booms trace our headlines.

Arguments, pointed fingers, decisions,
black death spewing at will…untamed…

As we drive along the deserted beach road we
see pastel-colored homes that once housed
paper doll families on vacation…..
Sounds of laughter will soon lie as ink stains
in tomorrow’s diary.
The scent of deficiency meets our nostrils
amid every porcelain stare throughout our state.

Arguments, pointed fingers, decisions,
black death spewing at will…untamed…

Yellow metal caravans fill parking lots
along the way.
Now, tainted sands wear the footprints
of unknowns, here to salvage our frailness.
They, too, walk amid our heart prints of pain.

Arguments, pointed fingers, decisions,
black death spewing at will…untamed…

Condominiums stand vacant along
an asphalt trail that curls up
inside my mind…..
Strands of color rippling thru
the blackness, coursing thru veins of
dark oily waters of doom…
Orange-colored misery to remind us of
someone’s mistakes…or poor planning.

Arguments, pointed fingers, decisions,
black death spewing at will…untamed…

Thru the hourglass of time
sifts the sheen of our tomorrows…

June 25, 2010

CHANGES

2010-06-19T10:34:00.000-07:00

We are told that our bodies carry seeds of death from birth, cancer cells that hibernate like a bear in the winter time, changes before we even begin. Do we question this medical fact when presented to us for the first time? So, we are changing all the time. Who, or what, determines if change is merciful, just, or necessary? Why are we placed on this earth? Where does our faith lie?

I once read that Leonardo da Vinci put his faith in his paintings, yet most of his art was left to lie beneath the dust of time. What would drive this talented man to do such a thing, forsake that for which he was so well known? Was it pressure from others or was it his desire to study the human body? He studied for hours upon hours, dissecting and pondering his findings, his abstract moods mixed in a myriad of colors and shapes, thoughts and paintings.

Do human beings hunger for change or is change brought about by societal dictates? Must we succumb to pressure from others to succeed?

We set out to look for our own songs in this world. We all have a song to sing whether it’s about love, life, climbing up the proverbial ladder, loss of another, or whatever. Often times we find our songs frozen on the icy roads of change. These roads are called ‘life’ with its many detours, the external pressures, pushing internal buttons, challenging finite minds to step beyond their limits while facing a change…….

MOTHER

2010-05-09T12:07:00.001-07:00

Across the sky a few thoughts ago appeared a beautiful rainbow. Today, I found the memorable image of the rainbow amid my thoughts of you and everything you mean to me.

You see, time and circumstances have brought about a transition in our roles. You have stepped across the threshold into a new beginning as you wait for your creator to take you home.

So long ago, or was it only yesterday, you took my hand and led me through life with words of wisdom, grace, and much more. I always knew best, didn’t I? You never said, “I told you how things would be,” when I became tangled up in life’s downside.

Today, I take your hand as it rests softly inside mine. You trust that I will keep you safe, and everyday I pray that God will allow me to know how to keep this promise to you, as I diligently seek to honor you.

You are a gentle soul and will surely reap your just rewards. I know all too well that this will be soon, but until that time comes, I will remember you as I remember the beautiful colors of God’s rainbow. You are the rainbow in my life.

The Cylindrical Cycle

2010-05-06T21:57:00.000-07:00

I stand outside and watch as the wind moves across my yard blowing leaves into a frenzy of swirls. Suddenly, they fall into a heap of shapes that mean nothing more to me than raking.
The house on the corner isn’t deserted but looks that way; it might as well be for the care it receives. The leaves and grass have taken over on the outside while visions of what drugs offer reign freely on the inside.
The aroma of marijuana often finds its way into my nostrils.
I wonder about reality and what drives anyone to elude life for a trip into a world of fantasy by wrapping their minds around a white cylindrical piece of paper. We can glide into fantasy without such things...give rise to the wonders of our mind.
I realize they are young...some in their early 20’s. They come and go all through the day and night. The windows are kept blocked to the outside world, yet the outside world can mentally see in.
I often think of the family that lived there not so long ago; loving care always given to their family, home,yard, and all things that we deem proper.
Working for a number of years as a nurse in a drug rehab facility, I heard many stories of childhood abuse, and some were despicable. But there were many cases where drug use was not the result of being from abusive homes. How things can change from year to year and from life to death.

What If

2010-05-06T21:13:00.001-07:00

I sat and watched a rather plump lady taking her dogs for a walk along the edge of the beach yesterday. Both dogs were eager to explore. One dog in particular, a wiener dog, wanted to dive right in the water...and stay. The other dog, a more classy lady, wanted nothing to do with getting near the water. What if she was afraid? The thought 'What if' came to my mind about our life as it has so many times in the past. Yes, our lives vary in many ways. We are a diverse people of race, creed, and color. We have fears, likes, and dislikes and may not wish to participate in some things; however, we are often dragged into the water, too, in a manner of speaking, by our upbringing, conscience, inhibitions, and judgement to name a few. Are we all in a 'what if' situation? What if you didn't want to wear a suit and tie to work? What if you didn't want to treat the neighbor next door with kindness?.. after all, maybe he has cursed at you more than once. There are many thoughts about life as a whole; I watched the lady pulling her reluctant pup into the water...by this time the pup was pulling back with all of her might...tongue hanging out from the scuffle along with the tightening up of the leash... Why was this necessary? Life is oft times crazy... some things aren't necessary...are they? What if we didn't do some of those things we really didn't want to do....Just WHAT IF!!

ALONE

2010-04-26T11:42:00.000-07:00

Somewhere along the way, things turned from a sunny yellow to a cluster of verbs, adjectives and facts.
The smooth edges of childhood became a tear drop of maturity.
Gone, were the echoes of hear-says, murmurings, and words of wisdom that came from the both of you.
One voice lies silent; a place of sleep inside a world of cement.
Oh yes, I hear the other voice. It seems to be locked inside the lacelike sleep of lost minds.
What did you say?
Oh, that's what I thought you said.
No, I was not prepared to stand upon the stage alone.

Hello Friends

2010-02-19T13:25:00.001-08:00

Hello to all of my friends and fellow bloggers. I've finally started the sequel to my first novel, which has kept me busy in thought, for sure. Life moves quickly these days taking me to unknown places. I've had my mom in the hospital three times in the last few weeks. I find myself looking for the path that takes me to the land of placidness. I long for some time for myself; time where I might happen upon a stream of running water; could this be possible to find a place where giant trees would shade me from the world in general; where birds are singing happily; nature can bring both pleasure and pain. I would love to wrap myself in the arms of a quiet evening under the stars for some much needed alone time...My life has become tangled within the destinies. We all have them. I must go now. I just wanted to stop and take a moment to whisper a special hello to all..

2010-01-04T06:56:00.001-08:00

I wish to speak greetings to each and every one of you..I have missed you all and missed your smiling voices. So much going on in my life lately.

I have sold almost 600 books. I am so pleased at the response from all that have read it. I hope to share more good news regarding it, soon....very soon.

Please know that I sincerely hope all is well with all of you. I shall return soon with my postings which are just my feelings more than actual blogging on factual things of life.

Take care all,

From Purple Latches,

Love, Sandy

MY NOVEL, 'ON CALL'

2009-09-16T18:44:00.000-07:00

I am delighted to bring this update to you on my book. ON CALL can now be purchased at my website:

Please visit WWW.SANDRAHOYNACKI.COM, and move into the realm of hardcover mysteries">

You will find it exciting from beginning to end. It is a mystery and will certainly keep you spellbound from page to page as you find yourself wondering who is watching you........

Circles

2009-08-05T15:12:00.001-07:00

Life is not a book but a performance. Dreams are glamorous realities filled with gossamer thoughts. Wishes dance inside our minds as reality becomes the braided channel of life. Those things which run deep inside our veins. Embrace each moment that you dare to dream. Time began and it will end. We spin through the circle of life upon the axis of destiny.

le cercle rapproché

Who I am

2009-08-01T19:15:00.001-07:00

Being specific about who I am is a difficult thing to do. I wear many hats in reality. From the inside out, I am a romantic whisper, a scintillating dreamer, a writer, singer, and a perfectionist. There is nothing common about me and I like it like that. My motto is, Love me for who I am or love me not at all.

Once Upon A Time

2009-07-26T14:20:00.000-07:00

Nebulous symbols of romanticism lead us to a mountain top. We may never trace the reality of its true meaning, nor take the hand of its magic wand, but we hear the whispering words gently pass our way.

Once upon a time, while walking barefoot in the rain, I dreamed of wearing satin slippers as you twirled me beneath your silver stars. Once upon a time, I stood by the window and waited for you to dazzle me beneath the pale light of the waiting moon. A time came, once, when the symbols disappeared with the morrow's dawning.

Listen as I speak to you of a place where I once danced without inhibitions. I closed my eyes and ran with you.......in time
ONCE

Il etait une fois

July 25, 2009

SOMEWHERE

2009-07-10T13:45:00.000-07:00

In a far off place, one can see the sun peeping from a lazuline canopy. Strips of light are seen walking across the beginning of summer’s first performance.

Yoshino trees blush as red as the cheeks of Kathy’s clown. Out in the country, the cattle gather around a bale of hay like politicians on the senate floor.

Somewhere a woman becomes a thin slip of sound
As she watches the meadowlark in his crisscrossed wanderings; in the distance a singer belts out an old country song.

An artist draws an image in his mind as his hands comply with palette and easel. Somewhere in Paris, it is morning as lovers sit beside the La Fontaine de Medicis and sip strawberry frappachinos.

'quelque part'

Nostalgic-Reality

2009-06-26T18:22:00.000-07:00

As night descends, I sit under the light of the moon. A face circles inside twilight's greeting. Words whisper as they are swept away into the silken waterfall of illusion. A pause in the gap of time becomes nostalgic dust.

Below, the dark night pond will immerse every phrase letter by letter as they fall away into the unknown. The wind is compassionate as I drift to the tip of the earth to observe their meaning. It whispers of tomorrow’s kiss.

Life is not a book but a performance. Dreams are glamorous realities filled with gossamer thoughts. Wishes dance inside our minds as reality becomes the braided channel of life that runs deep inside our veins. Embrace each moment that you dare to dream.

nostalgique réalité

June 26, 2009

REFLECTIONS

2009-06-20T20:42:00.000-07:00

I feel inward tears as I reflect upon the lasting memories. I purpose to understand the black and white finality involved in death.

There's a map that directs us to a place of acceptance, understanding, and peace while taking away the painted darkness that lingers

Believing with my whole being that God would heal you, I diligently prayed. I had no doubt in my mind or did I?

I became a child with mustard seed faith. I stood strong every waking hour while my insides crumbled at the wasting away of your physical body not to mention your mind. I felt winter’s chill grip my heart as I stood by your bed watching decay consume you slowly and painfully.

Yet, I believed with all my heart, soul, and mind that you would be healed. It’s been almost a year since you closed your eyes, and I said goodbye. I've found the map that has allowed me to accept that you’re gone.

I've found understanding from the one that created you. I continually seek peace within this valley of the shadow of death as I find myself amid this place.

You see, Daddy, I know that you are healed, the cancer is gone, the broken bones are restored, and you are happy beside your Creator, but I miss you still.

God is a loving God … You taught me that…

God is my map and I have the Precious Memories

I love you, Daddy

June 20, 2009

Bayview Park

2009-05-15T06:11:00.000-07:00

I draw in a breath and hold it. The smell of the ocean permeates every cell. Overhead, the seagulls circle in unique patterns. Down the way one can see him sitting there on the sea wall....a man in ragged clothes. He stares out into many worlds.....worlds within himself.

As the drawbridge raises, the sound of a tugboat takes predominance over the lull of traffic behind me. The horn sounds harsh against the stillness.

Patches of whitecaps slide across the sugar white sand. Seashells cover the sandbar as far as the eye can see. A young couple walks out on the fishing pier. I wonder of their world.

The sand clings to my bare feet as I stroll toward the man that stares into his own ragged spots. I draw in another deep breath of sea air as the seagulls swoop down for their hunt. I, too, keep hunting.......

The Mountain Cabin

2009-05-13T18:59:00.000-07:00

We drove along the narrow roads which still caused me concern. The residents on the mountain were familiar with the drive and its curves and jutting rocks. The fear of falling or running off the road kept me from seeing the beauty of things around me. I noticed as I became older that trees were beautiful in the fall; The yellows, oranges, golds and greens. Down as far as one could see, when looking over the cliffs, stood nature in her finest array.

Although I was born in the hills of Tennessee, we had moved to what is called the bikini state when I was a tender age. Daddy and Mama would travel back and forth to visit their mothers at least once a year. It's funny how as a child everything isn't black or white. It can be whatever we think we see. It can be what we are told or what we are happy with.

My brother and I enjoyed going to the little cabin on the hillside. A rather stately woman with demands to make on everyone was introduced to us as our great grandmother. She was less than pleasant in looks and mannerisms. I remember thinking her bark was every bit as dangerous as her bite.

We ran through the fields of tall grass exploring every animal that caught our attention. We sat high on the tractor as though we were the most important girl and boy in all those parts. We found pieces and parts of what became our special treasures.

The most intriquing part of our day was drawing water from the well. It looked ominous inside. As far down as we could see, the lower portion was jet black. We would drop the bucket down for water by turning the handle until it landed in the water with a loud echo. We were facinated. You could bring it up or drop it down quickly for a really big splash. We later learned, the hard way, that you were not to throw rocks in the well water to hear tinkling sounds. Oh no, that was not the thing to do.

Book Writing

2009-05-09T10:34:00.000-07:00

An update on the progress of my book. I am totally pleased with things. I hope to be finished with the written portion within the next two weeks. Of course there will be editing, maybe a few changes, followed by uploading to lulu.com for publish. My advice to anyone would be that if you are not serious about this endeavor, do not start such a trip. It takes much work, dedication, thought, forbearance and the ability to be flexible with outside interruptions.

IN PEACE

2009-05-02T20:11:00.000-07:00

The air is alight with angels. They float as mist across the outer edges of my eye. I blink to sweep them into veiled places. They trace my cheek with whispers. They line my soul from the inside out with images of love. My dreams are filled with mirrors. I gaze into the deepest colors of my soul. Somewhere in the distance, I feel the invisible arms of God's Son.
I slumber......................

Things About Things

2009-04-29T19:35:00.000-07:00

What can I say about nature? I walk outside to become acquainted with the night sky. The clouds are lazy gray. They're scattered with splotches of dark, irregular-shaped pillows.

The air is thick with the smell of rain. The night hovers as a blanket over a vast meadow. The glow of the moon walks across the sky toward secret places. I wonder where it sits among the waking hours just before first light.

I wonder where God places the next day's paintings.

How many times I have wished to become a sleeping flower in my grandmother's garden. I lost count long ago.
She was as gentle as the summer rain. Her tulips always had a smile for her... as she had for me.
She was akin to nature, it seemed....

CHURCH

2009-04-27T19:47:00.000-07:00

I remember well when Daddy became what he called ‘saved’. I didn’t know what that meant, and I really didn’t care. Saved from what, I thought? Due to this new saving thing, we were all going to put on new clothes and shoes and go to church.
Church—what was church?

It sits boxed up in my memory bank as though it just happened. We went to a little white church down the street from our house. I didn’t find a thing of interest. Strange looking men in funny looking clothes were playing music. Things called guitars, Daddy said. They looked like wood with strings tied too tight to me.

Church lasted way too long for my brother and me. We were glad when the preacher dismissed us. We had heard the sirens close by but I thought nothing of it. I just wanted out of there.

We walked outside and one look down the block told me that something bad had happened. Yes, during our first-time to visit God’s house, our house burned down. My brother reminded me tonight, May 1,2009, that our house had burned on Christmas Eve. We were indeed children that believed in Santa Clause. We lost everything that night. We were very sad. So very very sad.....

I remember thinking God must not have wanted us there. How angry he was to do this. I would vow to never go again. I was too afraid.

Life

2009-04-22T18:19:00.000-07:00

I write out my life hour by hour, word by word, and thought by thought. I try to speak of something meaningful before falling into a corner of my own creation. Growing up, my life was happy for the most part. I grew like a wild flower in ground of strange soil. We were transplanted from place to place. My Father was a minister which had its own shortcomings. I oft times felt like a piece of thread trying to make it through the eye of change. I learned quickly that the spotlight was for my dad but not for me. Everything I did reflected on what he was and what he was... reflected on my being.

Emotions

2009-04-20T16:03:00.000-07:00

If I talk until my words trickle like rain inside your emotions will the maze of tomorrow's greeting find me alone? Are we just an illusion against the backdrop of time? Long ago, my thoughts were wrapped in deep sleep. The rains came without warning. I can't chance waking... The rain will keep on falling, but I will only talk of you..in my sleep....

THE JOURNEY

2009-04-20T13:03:00.000-07:00

The journey is filled with twists and turns. Few keys unlock doors that mirror the stranger inside this reflection. Purple represents the crosswalk between yesterday and today. Detailed perceptions flee from the corridors of my memory leaving only that which I allow to enter.