Now I’m no sissy and I have sat through some pretty painful tattoos like a fucking rock… but this spot takes the cake! (Or in this case, the cupcake!) I was getting zapped on my side ribs, next to the boob and under the armpit. I have no idea how Niffy was able to get her armpit and nipple tattooed! This was fucking murder. Plus it doesn’t help that my artist has “Man Hands”, meaning she has a very heavy hand. If it wasn’t for all the breaks she kept taking or the over wiping down my skin, I might have been able to finish it. I tried every way but drugs to get through this, but not even trying to meditate to trance out listening to some serious drum and bass worked. I ended up starting to show signs of trauma/shock (IE: the chills and trembling)so we had to stop. Next week I’ll go back and get it finished up. If I’m healed enough I might have her add some sprinkles. Vomiting cupcake. I think I might be a mad genius.

Current and in progress as of this morning.

9×12

Acrylic

Unfinished as yet. But are not all our lives unfinished at journey's end? Isn't there always something more we wish we had done? Anyway, I am just working on values (in more ways than one), blending and overall composition

Couple of years back this season, I had a shelter in the eye of the cyclone. A place that was almost always empty. And it had nothing to do with the time and space. It was memory and projection of another life. With thoughts, writings, and books. Cut out of everyone and everything. There, time would freeze. Or rather, it would mess with different dimensions and measures. It would become whatever I would need it to become.

There, I had first listened to this. I had noted down in one of my war moleskins a few random phrases: “half of me is still here, the other half’s with you” “I wish I could rewind now, I swear I thought this through” “I don’t like this damn thing, what I need is closure.”

I bumped onto one of them randomly today searching through my old laptop bag for something else. I looked it up on YouTube, and here it is.

Couple of years later. So many things have changed. Yet:

“Half of me is still here”

“I wish I could rewind now”

and

“What I need is closure”

still…

I’m listening to the Pickering brothers’ interview on Project Camelot and it must be one of the most fascinating exchanges I’ve heard.

They describe three races of extraterrestrials that their “Source A,” a mid-ranking U.S. Naval officer, has spoken to as a member of one or more working groups trying to move disclosure ahead. One of the three races is a reptilian species which they describe as resembling an 8-foot tall T-Rex. You’ll have to listen to the interview for more details.

In Matthew’s recent message, Hatonn discussed some of the complexities that the galactics were having to deal with in approaching the initial disclosure interview scheduled, Hatonn says, for “one to two months from now, at the latest.” The Pickering brothers interview shows just how complex the situation may in fact be.

One quote from that interview. The people inside the secret government who are pushing for disclosure are doing so because “there have been too many ruined careers, too many bodies, too many destroyed lives. Enough is enough. They’re tired of it.”

Interesting.

I don’t think we’ll agree on all the questions that the interview raises – such as the fact that a global working group on disclosure is negotiating with two races who do not look humanoid. The prevailing wisdom in the 2012 community, as far as I was aware, was that the Galactic Federation was only letting galactic humans negotiate with terrestrial humans.

Here is SaLuSa on the matter:

“Mankind has a long held fear of the unknown, and so often explains it away as the work of some evil entities. It is for this reason that our initial contact with you will be through civilisations like our own, who are very human looking.

“We understand your feelings, and have gone to great lengths to ensure that we approach you in an acceptable way. First Contact will largely comprise of civilisations that have been closely linked to you for eons of time.” (1)

The question below our fear of non-humans is whether we will be dominated or destroyed by them; i.e., are they “good” or “evil”? Matthew Ward tells us what kinds of beings are allowed to approach the Earth today:

“The light grid around Earth permits entry by light beings only; even if dark entities wanted to enter, they cannot approach the brilliance of that grid.” (2)

So all the Pickerings’ information about the “Hot Rocks” and the “T-Rexes,” as two of the three species were dubbed, is not the reason I recommend this interview.

Rather, it’s because of the incredible attention the Pickerings place on clearly and accurately establishing the status or basis of their knowlegde.

On occasion, we’ve discussed how important it is to be clear about the status of one’s knowledge. Are we saying that we know something to be true? Feel it to be true? Have heard it described as true? Are guessing about it?

Most arguments arise because someone questions the status of our knowledge. “How do you know that?” they say and an argument arises over credibility.

If you listen to the way the Pickering brothers establish what the status of their knowledge is, you’ll hear two people being exceptionally careful and precise.

I know, for myself, that any nuance of “unfinished business” will interfere with this “clarity.” The Pickering brothers are so clear that they are practically transparent.

In other words, when you hear them speak, it is as if you are hearing Source A himself. The Pickering brothers “get out of the way” of their source.

I’m convinced that the more we can be like the Pickering brothers, as they presented themselves in that interview, the more useful we can be to the world in the events that lie ahead.

In everyday terms, that means being clear about the status of our knowledge, but at a deeper level it means completing our unfinished business, what stands in the way of our being transparent, what calls the ego into being in this moment.

So whether you like what you hear about the ETs involved, if you want to hear two people who are what I consider to be pretty advanced representatives of the type of Lightworker who will make a difference in the New Era, you may want to listen to Shawn and Clay Pickering.

Their interview is at http://projectcamelot.org/audio_interviews.html.

Footnotes

(1) SaLuSa, Mar. 27, 2009 at http://www.treeofthegoldenlight.com/First_Contact/Channeled_Messages_by_Mike_Quinsey.htm. For readers who are interested in a detailed account of a friendly reptilian civilization, see Suzy Ward’s interview with Horiss of Lacone, in First Contact,  at http://www.angelfire.com/space2/light11/fc/life1.html#reptiles1.

(2) Matthew’s Message, June 24, 2009, at http://www.matthewbooks.com/mattsmessage.htm.

Well, can you?

Just as the title suggests.
This is the first attempt at a saying, can you perhaps conclude as to which?
I suppose if I said plainly ‘can you tell what it is yet’ it might be a wee bit of copyright infringement.
Oopsies.

So yes, if you didn’t get it, silly you, and for those who did, you’re quite right!
This is trying to represent the saying ‘You can’t teach an old dog new tricks’.

How, might you ask?
Well Jimmy, it’s portraying it, rather crudely, with a grown dog on one side, with a pup on the other.
With me so far? It gets heady from here on in!

Sorry, I’ll stop taking the mick soon.

Basically the circle with tangents spraying off represent the amount of tricks known by the animal, and the pup clearly have a lot more of them.
Perhaps a little over the top with the puppy being able to cook intricate puddings while calculating how much annual income you are pulling in, sure!
But hey, this is my work, so nyaaaah!

Peace out, bra’.

442

“The only justification for war is the danger of a pre-emptive strike. I do not see that at all. This is about unfinished business.” – Professor Sir Bernard Crick on the invasion of Iraq

The great voyages need waiting at the port – to think them through – and determination – if you think them through –. They need you to forget about everything else; to make painful savings for the tickets and the hypothetical course plans. They need a favourable wind in seas ominous and inhospitable. They need to emphasise on the antithesis. They need a Captain lost in his own world; and they need his own world. Oh, and fellow passengers. About a thousand and more waves to take you there and to bring you back. They definitely need a heating source, even an artificial one, and the alfresco stocktaking of a closed room. They need a thousand and more loves of a lifetime in a nodal assignation of one night. Finally, they need one dark and wet comeback without any luggage. And an impalpable “because..”

The great voyages need you to never be the same again..

..Even if you return home as if you never left.

Charles Beaudlaire – Le Voyage

Crop circle researcher Colin Andrews revealed an incident that happened in his early childhood at the Rio Rica conference in October 2009. Although the website does not reveal, as far as I’m aware, what that incident was, Mel Fabregas interviewed Colin on what motivated him to make the revelation now.

It’s Andrews’ response to the question that I found so interesting.

Eventually all of us will need to drop our reticence to being honest about ourselves and begin a process of deep and total disclosure. Only this process will release us from the grip of the past and allow us to “get present.”

Here is Colin Andrews going over the necessity to be transparent as part of the “new paradigm.”

http://www.colinandrews.net/UFO-CSETI-Greer-ObamaBriefingPapers.html

“I’ve been motivated by an inner sense, an inner feeling that if one’s expecting others to reveal truths, those that are unpalatable perhaps, that we also have our own secrets that are useful in the general public domain.

“In the past I feared credibility problems, reactions of the engineered social scene that has been set for us by just the term “UFO.” Immediately you are filtered out of society.

“I felt this was the time to lay it all on the line because I think the little piece that we often withhold of ourselves, and that I did, and have now stated, not only makes me feel better but it is part of the new paradigm.
“
To embrace it all. Steven [Greer] has done the same thing. Lynne [Kitei] here just yesterday revealed something she had neither ever talked about before. So I think perhaps you might say that it’s just like timing.

“This is the time. We have to be brave, always. This is a time not to sit on the fence. This is a time to hold firm, to have true representation, to step forward, and to help us with the knowledge that we need to save our planet, save our species, all other life forms on the Earth.

“We have reached a very important, critical point and we need the cooperation of all levels of structure, and institutions, and government. There is no more time. No more lies, no more spin. It cannot work. It simply cannot work in the new paradigm. So there’s where we’re headed. So I felt it was the time to state my truth.”

Namaste,

Steve

Guest Post

Today, I am honored to publish a guest post written by Evan Hadkins. Evan lives in Canberra, Australia, where he works in the mental health arena. He writes a fabulous blog, Wellbeing and Health, which deals with all aspects of health (physical, emotional, mental, spiritual and social), with an emphasis on psychology and personal development. His current post discusses how he is becoming comfortable in his own skin — which is a topic that is very relevant to the subject matter discussed on this blog.

Evan has written this article specifically in response to my previous post (Can’t stop talking about it). In this article, he provides us with a better understanding of why a person commonly thinks and talks obsessively about the abuse during the “emergency stage” of the healing process.

—————————————————–

Learning from Our Obsessions

I think we humans have a need for meaning – to draw conclusions about what we’ve experienced, to reflect on what has happened to us, to learn from past mistakes and successes. I think this is a big part of developing our sense of who we are.

We may leave a tradition that we grew up in and decide to do things differently to the way we were taught; nevertheless, we are usually shaped in some way by the tradition or our up-bringing. It often affects the meaning we attach to our history – and it can have consequences that, in some ways, can look quite funny. For example, because I decided early on that “I am unacceptable because I’m incompetent”, I wanted to do everything well.

Selflessness Forest by Martin Chen

Just like I decided I was incompetent, we all make decisions about who we are based upon the meaning we give our history. If you find that one of your decisions is a problem for you – that it seems inaccurate – you will want to re-decide. When I realized I had a problem with the idea I was incompetent, I decided again.

My temptation is to show that I have done this re-decision well – to show that I know the steps and understand them thoroughly – in short, to show that I did the re-decision competently. Likewise, a perfectionist may learn that perfectionism leads to misery and will try to undo the impact of perfectionism – systematically, thoroughly, and completely (in short, perfectly).

Sometimes we struggle to find meaning in a situation and it affects our ability to make accurate decisions about ourselves. The need to find meaning in that situation is strong. Sometimes we become frustrated with our inability to meet that need; then, our focus turns to our inability to meet the need.

For example, if we are a little thirsty, we get up and get a drink. If we are somewhere where this isn’t possible (a desert or a formal occasion, for instance), we will likely find that more and more of our attention is devoted to our inability to get a drink.

The more important it is to us to have the need met, the more our focus will be on finding a way to meet that need – and the more our focus will be on our frustration at our inability to meet the need. This is illustrated during an emergency when our attention will often focus intensely on doing just one thing – and, if we don’t know what to do during the emergency, our attention will focus on this not knowing.

However, when I am able to find meaning in a situation and my need for meaning is satisfied, a new need emerges: I may need to find ways to deal with the issue – if the issue is important enough to me to require further attention.

Let’s look at a practical application of this concept: Sometimes we struggle to find a cause for our exaggerated reactions to commonplace events. We need to understand the meaning behind the strong emotions that we feel as we are overreacting. If the meaning is not obvious to us, we can become frustrated by our inability to meet our need to understand.

For instance, sometimes I’m surprised or puzzled as to why I react so strongly to something. I have found that it can be helpful to remember what happened just before I had this feeling. It may be a stray remark from someone that I didn’t pay much attention to at the time, or it may be that what happened reminded me of some past trauma (for me, the issue triggered is usually competence).

If it was a stray remark, I may think the other person was just in a bad mood and didn’t mean to upset me – this realization may be enough to resolve the entire issue for me. If I am more upset, it may mean I need to find ways to remind myself that I don’t have to be competent to be acceptable. It may also mean finding ways to nurture myself.

It may also mean that I need to examine the decisions about who I am that I made based upon the historical events in my life. It may mean I need to revisit the meaning I have assigned to that history. Once I arrive at a better understanding of my decisions, I may find I need to re-decide.

Sometimes the process of finding the meaning in reactions, decisions or historical events can be very challenging and very frustrating. When the need for meaning is not being met and our frustration increases, then more and more of our attention may focus on this need. In psychotherapy, this is sometimes called “unfinished business”.

Unfinished business is the collection of events in our past that we find ourselves going back to again and again. We may feel we should have done or said something, anything – or we should have said or done something differently. It might also be that we don’t understand why someone did something. We turn this event over and over in our minds.

The way to finish the unfinished business is to find its meaning for us. This is usually far more than just intellectual understanding. When, through therapy with a very skilled psychotherapist, I discovered that my decision had been, “I’m unacceptable because I’m incompetent”, I went into a kind of shock or hibernation; I barely spoke for three days. (I was fortunate that the situation I was in allowed this, and the people around me were understanding enough to not try to ‘fix me’.)

Gradually, over the following weeks and months, I understood more and more what this decision had meant for me and how I lived my life. (This occurred two decades ago now; to appreciate fully what this decision had meant for me took a couple of years or so.) With this new understanding, I could begin exploring other ways to live, and to find out what interested me and how I really wanted to live. My obsession with competence decreased and rarely bothers me anymore.

The months following the discovery of my early decision were a time of suffering for me – especially the days immediately after the discovery when I was in shock. It was a difficult time. However, the suffering was worthwhile because I came out on the other side with my need for meaning having been met.

This need for meaning is important, I think, even if suffering is part of the process of finding it. Friedrich Nietzsche said that, “If we know the why, we can bear with almost any how”. Viktor Frankl explored the more positive side – noting that what helped prisoners survive prisoner of war camps wasn’t so much youth and fitness as having a meaning to live for. (Frankl wrote a wonderful book about this called “Man’s Search for Meaning”.)

When we have something very traumatic in our past, it can be very difficult to finish that unfinished business. Often, the hardest situations to bring to completeness are those situations in which people who were close to us have hurt us – especially if we were young at the time. In those instances, we often have very intense feelings all mixed up together.

Remembering these events can bring the feelings flooding back – and this is awful. (We learned how to ignore or suppress these feelings for good reason – they were so awful to feel.) We may well feel like a child again, and like a child experiencing trauma (and who wants to feel like that?!)

Because we are not able to find the meaning behind these historical events, and because we are having trouble making decisions about who we are based upon the meaning of our history, we become frustrated. Our focus on our inability to find meaning and to make decisions becomes obsessive.

However, there is hope. We can gradually understand what this child needed and meet these needs now. We can come to understand what the past trauma meant. If we don’t have supportive and understanding people around us then we may need to do this in small steps. Allowing ourselves to feel the full impact of the emotion can feel very scary. It has helped me to know that I can feel a little of the emotion, become comfortable with it, and then feel a little more of it.

Our obsessions give us good information on where our needs aren’t being met. In this sense, our obsessions are entirely healthy. Over time, our need for meaning is met and our obsessive thinking and talking about the abuse will diminish. This allows us to move on to a new way of living.

Do you feel obsessive about some things? Have obsessions been a part of your life? Has your focus been on a person or subject or some area of interest? Was it a happy time? Difficult? Mixed? I’d like to hear about your experience with obsessions.

Unfinished Business is… Finished!!!
Skyline Motion Pictures and 307 Pictures is proud to present to you…

The Premiere of Unfinished Business , A Red Carpet Event with a Halloween Twist!!

When: Monday October 26th 2009
Time : 7:00pm ( Red Carpet will start at 6:30pm)
Where: Garneau Theatre 8712 – 109 St NW
Dress : Red Carpet Formal with a Halloween Twist ( formal attire with halloween accessories )
Seating is General Admission by ticket only
To get tickets email carafilms@hotmail.com
5$ Donations per ticket are being accepted to help cover the cost of this event as the entire project has been a volunteer/student effort.

http://www.facebook.com/home.php#/event.php?eid=149670593164&index=1

Ok it’s late and you’re with your significant other, its pre or post sex and you’re curled up listening to the late night radio… or after just having some big ass fight with your mate, for who knows what and your down and upset….and the local station is playing oldies. Then Lenny Williams comes on and one thing is for certain, Lenny Williams is no stranger to slow jam rotation. Everyone knows the now classic/ghetto hit “Cause I Love You”. Yes the one where the singing stops and you get the long drawn out almost stalker confession of Lenny hanging outside of his girl’s house, knocking and when he gets no answer goes home. Upset he plays records until he’s tired of that shit and well you know the rest. Since that song way been when, Lenny has dropped a few albums. Actually he has come out with 3 this decade alone, but his latest is a nice breezy surprise.

 First off let’s put it out there in the open, say it loud so it’s not a mole with hair sticking out from it. Most old school artists tend to try to grab the younger audience and make not baby making music but music for the babies who were made from older music. Now to be fair I haven’t heard any of Lenny’s 90’s stuff or the shit from this decade but I have peeped Unfinished Business and it’s a lot better than I was willing to give it credit for off first glance. Let me start by saying he knows his claim to fame, it’s all over this album. I think he’s giving a monologue on every song, not counting his ‘”Ooh I… I… I.. I” shit. With that said, no song tries to out right recreate “Cause I Love You” or even tip toe towards it, I think that in itself makes this a good output.

 Unfinished Business starts with an intro/interlude that is just a re- introduction to him, in case you were thinking “another Lenny Williams?” Once the first song “Sunny Afternoon” kicks in you know this is truly a breath of fresh air. There are no samples or urban radio bandwagon-hopping songs present, however there are two contemporary blues tracks, “Sorry I Didn’t Know It Was Yo Momma” and “Cheatin On the Cheatin”. You know those blues songs you hear on the oldie stations that tend to all sound alike melody and beats wise? Those two songs fit in the lane. There also is one song that completely is west coasty and you get the feeling this was one of the first if not the first song recorded for this album. The song is totally out of place and if feels dated to me. Overall this truly sounds very Neo Soul-ish, like Dwele or Raheem DeVaughn gave Lenny the tracks they couldn’t fit on their albums. The song writing is like R Kelly in his non-Mr. Big shit, which is a good thing by all means. There is nothing fake about this album at all, but there are some “my momma warned me about you” lines which are odd since he is more than old enough to have better judgment of women and life in general.

 Is this a great album? It’s flawed, but only slightly. Again Lenny is older and his music is a reflection of that but he didn’t need to have all the young guns on here to make it appeal to music lovers. Trust me you won’t be pissed you got your hands on this at all.

Hey guys!

Another week, another book.

Don’t ya just love it?

Now lets dive in!

The book I read this week was Going Home by Nora Roberts.

I started it last year this time and because of an unfortunate incident with a leaky cole slaw bowl from KFC it was put away to dry and recuperate….poor book.

Going home is a compilation of three books with one theme in common.

You guessed it, going home. Lol!

I finished the first story Unfinished Business a year ago and unfortunately don’t remember much about it.

I remember liking the story, and the characters but I can’t remember the specifics on why.

What I do know is, it’s about a talented pianist separated from her mother, her love and her hometown when her parents’ marriage crumbled.

After her father’s death she returns home to a mother she never knew to reconnect as well as to get answers.

One thing she didn’t bargain for was seeing the only man she’d ever loved and falling for him all over again.

They made a great couple and made me smile.

From what I can remember I give this story a 3 out of 5 stars.

The second story in Going Home is Island of Flowers.

This specific story is a little over a hundred pages long and to me was the weakest story of all.

Its storyline is somewhat similar to Unfinished Business except the love interest is not an old friend but a new acquaintance.

Laine Simmons returns to Hawaii after 15 years to reunite with her father but instead crashes into the protective wall of Mr. Dillon O’Brian her father’s business partner and unofficial son.

The entire book is taken from Laine’s perspective which annoyed me as I’m use to the seamless transition between the character’s thoughts so you’re always aware of how everyone feels about a certain situation.

I suppose it reflects relationships as you never know how your crush feels unless he/she tells you.

The whole spontaneity of the romance didn’t sit well with me either.

They’re on his plane arguing and he just switches the plane to autopilot and kisses her…really?

Someone he met all of two minutes ago?

I somehow find that hard to believe.

I liked Dillon immensely when he was sweet and protective which was hardly ever.

All the other times I just thought he was a pompous jerk.

On the other hand, Liane to me was too pliant, too willing to just go with the flow but then again the book is just over 100 pages, what else could I expect.

Did I mention there is no copulation in this story at all…ya none.

They come close but….well I’ll just let you find out for yourself.

All I have to say is that the “incident” for a lack of a better word before the ending was terrible.

I kept thinking are you serious?

Not one of Nora’s better work at all.

For it’s efforts and amusing me occasionally I give it a 2.5 out of 5.

The final story in this compilation is  Mind Over Matter.

This story weaves the romance between a psychic’s daughter and a documentary producer doing a piece on the paranormal.

I have yet to see the “Going Home” theme in this story.

Maybe it’s being used metaphorically in this book, I have no idea.

The story itself was okay.

The paranormal storyline weaved in was both relevant and interesting.

The romance hot and steamy.

The characters however I found a bit iffy.

I adored Clarissa and embraced Alex.

I enjoyed David and Aurora but they also annoyed the hell out of me.

Aurora more than David.

Every time David would take a step closer to what she wanted she would shut him out and take a step backwards claiming all she wanted was his body.

Poor guy, I don’t even blame him for hiding his love. He was afraid if he said anything she would just run away.

She also has a problem accepting herself as a “sensitive” yet she’s upset when others don’t accept her.

Seriously?!

If you can’t even accept yourself how in God’s name can you expect someone else to?

Her main problem is that she over thinks everything.

And because of this insane obsession of hers she almost ruined the best thing that’s ever happened to her.

Her constant attitude of anticipating the end of the relationship from the beginning is also VERY annoying.

How does she expect it to work when she’s already doomed it from the start?

However in the end they sorted it out and all was well.

This story made me wonder what it would be like to be a “sensitive” and be able to read people’s emotions and such.

Can you imagine always knowing the raw truth of how someone felt about you?

Think you could handle it?

I suppose it would be both a gift and a curse.

Since I can’t become a sensitive however I’ll just hone my observation skills like the characters in Lie to Me to be able to tell when someone is lying to me.

Different route but same effect.

So anyway I give this story a 3.5 out of 5.

This is due to the fact that not much is wrong except the main character’s stupidity.

The entire book was not up to Nora’s standards to me but then this was old Nora.

Long haired, 80s Nora.

It’s nice to see that’s she’s grown from books like these which are okay reads to books like Rising Tides which is just awesome.

She’s honed her skills and it makes me proud of her.

I give the entire compilation a 3 out of 5.

Please comment and subscribe.

I’d love to hear from you.

What are you reading?

Tell me, I’ll see if I can find it and give it a try.

Thanks for stopping by.

Check back next week for a new post.

~Shiney~

Having another one of those writer’s blocks thingies.

Got heaps of posts at about 70-90% readiness, yet… it’s like extracting fingernails, getting them over the line. It’s a little bit like a WWF smackdown, but neither side is winning.

This time though, I know what the blockade is called. Definitely not a shortage of ideas or words. Nor time – ha! Got plenty of that in a job that calls for me to come in for certain hours, but actually do very little. That in itself, can be somewhat paralysing, and draws up my tendencies to indulge in laziness.

But actually, I am writing. This current working file in Word (I group them by the month) sees me on page 10 of 24. I am writing post number 7 for the month, but ahead of this one, there’s many, many pages of unfinished business.

And here’s why.

I’ve been pondering the nature of my writings, and worrying if they are just a little too self-involved/narcissistic/painting myself as the heroine or victim/not honest enough/rambling/telling stories for the sake of the telling/without a point… and so on.

Am I just writing to feed my ego?

Presently on the go, are three strands of story. Two of them have remained loose ends for most of this year. I’ve yet to sew them up and make neat seams as my mother does when she knits sweaters for my nieces.

If that’s even possible! But at least some semblance of finished. Finished for now, would be close enough…

And I fear that I’ve perhaps presented MySpace angles of my stories instead of representing things more neutrally.

Some stories I’ve written purely out of raw, hardcore, seething, ragged, painful need. The kinds of stories that, if not written and released, eventually work to implode your vital organs or make you desperately ill.

But the ones I’m writing now, they aren’t like that.

For example, the stories from earlier in my life. At the time they were very traumatic and painful and I know they inform my relationships with men and many other important decisions in how my samskaras operate.

BUT they don’t eat at me like acid. Not like the stories of assault, PTSD and depression did (and heck, who knows, there might even be more of them in there somewhere?).

And the stories I’ve humourously titled my ‘spiritual quest’ – I know they’re related somehow too, but they’re not urgent.

And I wonder if that lack of urgency makes the pointy end of truth, the poke you in the ribs and soft tissues of your body kind of truth, harder to uncover?

I’m almost finished writing the next part – sort of – but I look at all the details and it’s like I can’t see the fool’s gold from the real stuff. So much going on, what’s important? What’s not? What’s just me rambling for the sake of it?

So I edit with my slash and burn tactics. I am after all, one of Kali’s own and I wield my spurious (perhaps) red pen with detached abandon. But then, do I remove too much? That bit I thought was a little goofy or unrelated, is it really related and if so, how can I write about it in a way that counts?

Then I say to heck with it! And I write some more, letting floodgates fall away and the polluted garbage flow back to source, atop the waterways that support the real stories.

But real stories aren’t the waterways. Instead they are pearls inside the carelessly scattered clamshells littering the sandy waterway floors. I dive time and again, and fumble with my diver’s knife, prising one open and then the next to find many that are seemingly empty.

And just maybe, another fragment of the story is revealed. Or I miss it all together and I write about other things that don’t ring with truth. And I fail to notice the shining gem that will undoubtedly sing brightly once liberated and polished.

Dimmed by a shoddy post-PTSD memory (which is still not that fantastic) and also with time, they all look alike.

After all, these are clamshells I’ve allowed to close and accumulate, never thinking til now I’d have to open them ever again. They seemed unimportant at the time. Are they unimportant still?

Perhaps…

But then, what would I know? I don’t have a bird’s eye view. I can only tell my story from what I think I understand, and even then, that’s surely not the full picture.

More than anything though, I hope I do not write with a kind of avarice, feeding that part of me that, as a yogini I seek to dismantle. For that would just be folly, right?

Correct reflection I fear, is what’s missing right now…

~Svasti

Henry had promised himself this wouldn’t happen.  Now his earlier concerns seemed a verifiable premonition, a proof of sixth sense or a self-fulfilling prophecy. He rolled over in the dirt and stared up into the dark cloud overhead.  The field was eerily silent, as if everyone on both teams and the umpire too were frozen in time, staring at this crumpled man on the ground.  Then he heard someone on his bench mutter “jeez,” and someone else, possibly his wife, ask “what happened?”  The clock started ticking again. 

“Are you all right?” It was the young woman, the one playing first base. She had played it like a catcher covering home on a short sac fly, blocking the plate, bracing herself for the impact. Henry had placed a perfect kick between the shortstop and third base. He sprinted up the base path, so focused on watching his opponents field the ball that he neglected to notice her standing there over the first base bag until the instant before collision. He tripped as he tried to avoid her, lost his balance and fell face first to the ground. Only now did he notice how big she was, broad shouldered and muscular, a real athlete. 

“Yeah,” he said, rolling over and pushing himself up. His knees and his elbows were scraped, and the skin on his left wrist too.  Kid’s stuff, no worse than falling off a bicycle.  But his left thigh.  The pain was intense, like nothing he’d ever experienced.  He lifted the leg of his dusty khaki shorts and looked down to discover a nasty cut and badly abraded skin, red and raw. 

 “Was I safe?” he asked. Down the first base line, behind home plate, the game’s sole umpire spread his arms wide, and his team gave a cheer.  Henry lifted his sore arms, a gesture of mock victory.  He had promised himself he wouldn’t do this; he wouldn’t get hurt playing this stupid game. He was always making promises in the morning that by evening he’d forgotten or chosen not to keep. 

He called for time and tried to walk off the pain.  His wife was already at the plate, next to kick.  His leg wasn’t right. It burned as if on fire, and the muscles felt tight and torn. But he was able to stand, he could bear weight, so it couldn’t be that bad, right? 

“No leading, no leading,” someone shouted at him from his bench.  “Get back to the base!”  He hobbled back and tried to focus; the fall had rattled his body and his concentration.  On the other team, the pitcher set and delivered, a yellow rubber ball slowly rolling to the plate.  His wife’s first kick rolled foul by the third base bag, and Henry, off at contact, limped back across the base path between second and first.  He was eager to score a run, anything to save some face, to put the embarrassment behind him; he’d done enough already to humiliate himself before the opposing team, a group of twenty-somethings, some of them young enough to be his kid. Spastic.  Feeble, he thought.  That’s what they think of me. 

It didn’t help matters when on the next pitch she kicked a soft pop-fly to the infield, easiest catch of all, and Henry, his mind no longer in the game but dwelling instead on a grim future of ACL surgery and physical therapy and premature disability and wheelchairs, was doubled up having taken off toward second; a stupid base running gaffe that ended the inning and the game.  No run would score. His injury was for naught. There would be no joy in Mudville. 

That they lost by seven runs did nothing to dampen his teammates’ enthusiasm for post-game libations. When the other team had gone they opened their coolers, poured their beers into plastic cups, drank and took turns inspecting Henry’s grisly wound.  Many were impressed, and a few mildly nauseated, by the carnage on display: a deep gash and clotted blood, an enormous welt and a formidable bruise that had already started to form. 

After much head scratching and drunken speculation over the severity of the injury, the experts in the group concluded that Henry’s keychain was the cause of the damage. An imposing cluster of brass and silver worthy of a tenement super, his keys had been in his front left pocket. When he tripped he must have fallen on his keys, impaling himself in the process. “I think I heard your car doors open when you hit the ground,” someone joked. Henry shuddered thinking what might have been, the pocket being proximal to some pretty essential anatomy. 

A trip to the hospital didn’t seem necessary. He treated himself at home instead, cleansing the scrapes and lacerations with soap and water, liberally dousing his leg with hydrogen peroxide, and downing a handful of ibuprofen. Most of the bleeding had been internal. Good thing, too, for had he bled the other way it would have been a horrific scene, exsanguination right there on the diamond. He could just see the headlines. Man Dies From Massive Kickball Injury. There would be a lot of suppressed laughter at his funeral. 

Henry’s leg soon became a monstrous thing to behold, so graphic and sensational that people seeing it had to ask for further clarification: “You got that playing kickball?” There was a cut in the shape of a large question mark, mocking him whenever he looked down, as if to say “what in the world were you thinking?” The bruise covered his entire thigh; over the coming weeks it proved to have its own agenda, a bruise on the move, spreading down toward his knee, then his lower leg and foot. He wondered whether it would stop there or just keep on spreading, leaking out from beneath his toenails, leaving a deep purple-black stain upon the floor.  As a complement to the cut and the bruise, his leg from hip to knee had swollen to twice its normal size. So stiff was Henry that for days he walked like Frankenstein’s Monster, and sounded like it too, grunting with every step, “Ogh. Urg. Aghh!” 

No one could grasp how a simple kids’ game could exact such punishing trauma. The severity of the damage set a whole new precedent for the potential of toy-inflicted bodily harm: if horsing around with a kickball could lead to possible amputation, it wasn’t a stretch to imagine decapitation by yo-yo, or evisceration by Lincoln Log. 

Needless to say, he was placed on the kickball team’s disabled list indefinitely.

Written July 5th, 2008. Unfinished.

The second in my Papoose series.  For a mini bio and general preamble to this series, click here.  Otherwise, get to clicking below:

A MOMENT OF SILENCE (CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD)

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THE UNDERGROUND KING (CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD)

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SHARADES (CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD)

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MIXTAPE MURDER (CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD)

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A BOOTLEGGER’S NIGHTMARE (CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD)

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BEDSTUY DO OR DIE (CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD)

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UNFINISHED BUSINESS (CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD)

Jack had created a somewhat workable solution on the sofa in the front living room, where he could sit with his laptop and two stacks, one of books, the other legal pads and assorted scraps of paper, on the coffee table before him.  His writing time was limited to the hours before dawn, before the house awoke and perpetual disruption ensued. Children came downstairs from their bedrooms to crawl on him and make their demands for milk and juice and fruit and cereal. There he was exposed, sitting on the sofa attempting to write while all around him family laughed and argued, sang and complained.  Conditions were not ideal for working. But he made due, since this was really the only solution he could devise.  

He’d tried the basement: too dank, too uncomfortable, and the maze of asbestos wrapped pipes that crisscrossed overhead didn’t help his concentration, causing him to obsess about airborne toxins and cancer and dying.  He liked to work from bed, but Rachel was typically asleep at that hour of the morning and he couldn’t concentrate beside her, never mind the darkness in the room, the lights off and shades drawn.  Jack needed privacy and light and good air quality in order to work.  His demands did not seem to him to be unusual or unreasonable.  But in this house, their current place of residence, those three things were nearly impossible to come by all at once.

He was afraid to give the go-ahead though, the green light to move.  These were gears that, once set in motion, would grind their way to inevitable conclusion, disrupting everyone’s lives in the process, chewing up their summer with scheduled showings, contract negotiations, the packing of cardboard boxes.  At the end, the machine would spit them out in a foreign place, an alien environment, another old house with its own peculiar inefficiencies, its loose door knobs and drafty windows, wet cellar and dribbling shower head.  There would be no manual, no helpful “how to” books left behind.  They would have to make a new life, sort it all out for themselves. 

In situations like this, when he was torn between two choices, opportunity beckoning with one hand and fear holding him back with the other, he would climb into bed and hope for a dream to guide him.  And he did dream that night. Though his dreams were plagued by a characteristic lack of clarity, he awoke fairly certain that his unconscious had registered its vote; the answer was slurry, inarticulate and illogical, but at least it had feeling.  The feeling of Jack’s dream was unmistakeable; wrapped up in some activity, a hybrid of chores and party preparations and casual entertaining, he felt alive and engaged and happy, and though he couldn’t precisely describe his dream location, he could assert with confidence that he’d dreamt it somewhere new and different, somewhere he had never been before.  His unconscious had voted for a move.

From notebook dated June 29, 2008.  To be continued, eventually. Maybe. I could write a novel about moving. With my eyes closed. There would be a lot of typos, but I could do it. I’m a professional. Mover, that is.  Not writer.

well..i think it’s safe to say it’s here.

…i’ve been making music long enough to notice a pattern or two in my periods of creative fertility. usually, it goes a lil somthing like this: after the completion of any project- my “victory” high fades within a few short weeks and immediately after, the fear and uncertainty sets in. i begin pulling my hair out (not literally, thank god), and question everything from my importance to my ability- regardless of how “successful” or how “well-received” my most recent project may’ve been. this period usually lasts for at least 6 months, and no matter how many times i go through it, it feels like waking up to discover you’ve been buried alive.

…eventually, and seemingly- out of the blue, ideas’ll seem to leak out of my head (if i dont forcefully attempt to pick them out) and these short “releases” are rarely seen through to the end. while they appease me some, these unfinished exercises ultimately serve to further frustrate things. By this point ‘good ole sister fear’ kicks back in and attempts to convince me i’ve lost all understanding- and that my last project, was namely that. and as foolish as it sounds …i believe her…

…after awhile, i find myself completing an initial thought or two, and before i know it- titles/covers/and themes(concepts) start to spring to mind. confidence returns, and though the fear never really leaves- i find myself with a renewed sense of purpose and direction.

i’m glad to say, i am currently at that moment- once again.

i‘m (at least) three full songs “in” -tho to be fair, there’s no guarantee i will include any of these in the final mix- and one of which is posted at the head of this blog.(^)

i’ve decided to add another installment to what is now the “Back Where the Pain Is” series. this one being: volume 3 -entitled: “Art, Fear, & Loathing” (i can thank my friend sammi for that title, an obvious homage to the book i blogged about not too long ago: “Art & Fear”)

the concept- in it’s current incarnation- is another (confessional) stab at my honest nature, contradictions included. i hope to have the CD be a perfect balance of my more traditional hip hop musings, mixed with my experimental/alternative urges (exemplified on “last year’s” WET.PLUG.TRIP)..

i’m getting the feeling this album will be full of dedications (to whom [and how many] i’ll never tell..), but as it currently stands- i like to think of these “crushes” as ghosts {due to their haunting nature of course}..and the titles (or at least the track-listing) on the CD may be presented as such (ie: Ghost#1, Ghost#2). —i’ve also decided to attempt for a CD full of “one takes”. wet.plug.trip. was pulled together painstakingly, with numerous over-dos and overdubs, and i’m begining to believe: when recording in such a way, one robs the idea of its initial urgency- and maybe even the magic that is “the song”.

this project, also, will most likely introduce a new alias i’ve conceived: andre patrone ( bonus points to whoever peeps the reference). dre would be better understood as sah with absolutely no humility at all (lol). sort of an ego-maniacal “jim morrison-esque” character who believes himself to be more important than he is… i may even do promo skits in character, and as you can see- he’s already “claimed” a song as his own.

but ..(like i mentioned before)…all of this is subject to change in what will most likely be the next 6-9 months…still, i thought i’d share the new idea with you guys, and i really couldn’t see why i wouldn’t dedicate a blog to what will most likely be my first fully documented artistic venture.

whatever arises in the next coming months, i hope you guys enjoy and find my “markings” worth while.

til then- enjoy this song and (for the first time ever) a video of my putting the beat together: (a much longer, much more tedious version can be found here)

-sah

Prim-vicepreşedintele PNL, Ludovic Orban, prezent la Parlament, a cerut sesizarea Parchetului în cazul înregistrării ilegale a parlamentarilor din Comisia Duduia şi a decis să-i trimită o adresă premierului Boc, pentru a-i cere ministrei Turismului să se prezinte la audieri. Iniţiativa, însă, s-a fâsâit rapid. Membrii comisiei au fost de părere ca mai întâi să ancheteze ei cazul înregistrării ilegale şi pe urmă să decidă. Mi se pare un pic de circ. Lipsă de autoritate.

Ludovic Orban putea profita de refuzul colegilor lui, pentru a se retrage onorabil din comisie, de mână cu Adriana Săftoiu – afirmaţia ei cu moral, nu penal – de unde ştie ea? – a fost mingea la fileu pentru Duduia. Sunt destui colegi liberali cărora le pot lăsa locul. Pentru o prestaţie profesionistă.

De exemplu,vicepreşedinta Mariana Câmpeanu, care, într-o conferinţă de presă a PNL, a spus că înregistrarea ilegală e un fapt extrem de grav şi care nu a generat reacţia adecvată.

Doamna Câmpeanu a mai afirmat că ministra Turismului trebuie demisă, iar premierul Boc ar fi trebuit să o demită din momentul în care ea a declarat că nu respectă legile, adică nu se prezintă la audieri în comisia parlamentară, aşa cum prevede legea.

În plus, sinistra Turismului îşi instigă subordonaţii la încălcarea legii, declarând că le interzice să răspundă la apelul de audiere în comisie.

Dar comisia parlamentară se bâlbâie. Crin Antonescu ce mai face, mai e preşedintele PNL? Probabil e ocupat, n-am auzit de la el vreo reacţie referitoare la ascultările ilegale.  Poate merge în concediu împreună cu Ludovic Orban. Şi le lasă locul altora. Eficienţi.

I don’t know if I could ever count love, because love as well is one of the thousand mind games we give ourselves the chance to play. In the past I wanted to play with you because I found it was leading me to new paths, tempting, and provocative. I discovered life through colours and scents, I built images and acquainted the microcosmi of people around me…and I left, and you were gone.

I returned to nature. The mother of everything, to look for you, to research. I hid in it, slipped in her miracles, enjoyed the life she gave me. I got lost smiling under the sun, looked for the moon but your eyes had stolen it. I forgot myself in distant beaches, I travelled to high mountain tops, where human touch is unobtainable and I took you with me as a thought, to carry, to grow up next to, to search for new depths, new skies. To run next to the waves, to risk again, to challenge my luck, to reach my edge. I am not looking for limits, I am creating ways to cross them, I search myself, I learn myself, I lose myself, I accept myself, I swear at it and find it all over again; and I am convinced that I haven’t seen nearly enough, the best are yet to come.

Moves need be quicker, more adroit, better aimed, more courageous. Survival strategies in a new world. I want you, if you still remember that. I am sure you do. I never asked you what you were waiting for; I just acted on my own instead, as I understood it and as I felt it. I never got over you, I just got used to your absence. I never forgot you; I just snubbed myself and never forgave me. I still trust my acts on the basis of an instant rationalistic thought, but what a fucking theory that is…

I remember a friend’s line warning me that when the wind of change blows, some built shelters and others windmills. I am here, but not there. I don’t want to turn back time, I want to live everything from the beginning in a game when not only is there no injury time but in which along with the rules we also stroke out the referee. There is never a need for foul or/and last whistle between us.

I hate the night. It emits a melancholy. I am starring all this time at a tiny moon from my window trying to understand why we have connected it with the dark. It emits such brightness that the human soul never will. I escape one trap and I fall in the next one, the bigger one, I am thinking. We will never say any of what we wanted to say, of what we should say. How can you talk about what you understood and did these years; about having lost your sleep and stayed behind? About how there were dawns when you were alone, shattered, on the street, while all your mates slept early? What is the point of saying you kissed a stray dog in the mouth on the day when you loved the whole world? Or that you have seen the water of your soul pouring though your worn out knees? That you had seen your dreams with your bare eyes and you have yet to overcome the shock?

To the mutilitation of the body when the bed orphans and the presence of someone else haunts your sadness with ghosts – images that have remained. They always come unanticipated and obstinate playing games with my own dreams. In periods of a catholic anorexia, I found a shelter on the way and within the abasement of my lonely dinner.

I was longing for what I desired but didn’t manage to have due to my idleness or the circumstances. That is why I like aimless wandering, writing, lack of conversant. Everything was outside of me. Then I stopped seeing. It wasn’t exactly dark; it was a peculiar light I had never seen before. My body’s quanta released.

This coterie doesn’t seem that terrifying after all. I felt I still had some distance to cover, some ford dragging me to something new. The old got lost; I was a bird, a fish without memory. I found myself in salty waters, transparent to the bone, a gulf and a sea, same salinity, same expanse. Unabashed, calm, eudemon, the field of the strong had depleted. This time was different from the rest and the fires of love blind. A war may look like a game when you’re a kid but love is the last barrier without rules before maturing.

In reality, you never came as many times as I passed through your haunts, you never picked up as many times as I pretended I called. Shame.

Love and death have the same anticipation. It’s just that they are not equally reliable.

There was a strange sun today that burnt my eyes. I was hoping for a rain, a flurry nothing more, just like the one inside me, barely to keep me quiet; a rain to wipe out what I feel, to wash out my sorrow, to clean me, to sanctify me. But mostly I wished for you, to always have a tailwind against your mast when outside of my world.

Some nights are without dawn and not even in this infinite time did we manage to meet with our truths and our wants yet again.

When will luck smile at me again, our life paths cross and find each other in the same dream opening the door wide to gaze at all this that we knavishly peek through a chink?

Some other nights are also without dawn and some dreams remain half to torture, hiding truths inside them, desires and passions that we try to exorcise via logic and ‘’musts,’’ not even letting them live in the same dream.

Surviving in ones own terms is a luxury, and lucky are the ones who can afford it.