Archive for November, 2009

Go to sleep

November 30, 2009

There is a valley out there, in some world or another. It is a sunny place, full of growing things. The woods are dotted with meadows, spotted in turn with the bobbing blooms of tansy, poppy, daisy and more. The surrounding hills have gentle slopes, allowing the forest and its accompanying meadows to climb high up on them, some have even been completely engulfed by the trees. Odd things lurk in this place, hidden in the roots, in the branches, even in the hills themselves.

But none are stranger than the guardian and ruler of the valley, at least to our way of thinking in this time and place. In the center of the valley, at the heart of the largest and loveliest meadow, by the banks of the stream that wends its way out of the hills and on, there the guardian of dreams dwells. His duty is a strange one, and not as it seems, but he does as well as he may and cares very much for the valley and all within it.

Rarely does the Dream Guard venture forth from the valley, rarer yet does he sleep. For there is much to do, and always there are dreams in danger. His valley is a safe-house, a shelter from dangers unseen and unknown. Those who dwell in the valley, whether hooved, winged, scaled, clothed in air or cloth, have come here to seek asylum, or aid. Driven out of their birthplaces they seek his protection, and if their homes still exist, some will also seek his aid in returning to them.

It is because of these refugees and emigres the Guardian sleeps little.  He and they speak a common tongue, but it is not our own.  Unsurprising perhaps, as many of those who dwell in the bright and dark places of the valley do not speak as we do.  Nor do they hear as do you and I.  The whisper of fear, the brazen tooting of pride, the sweet chime of love, gentle murmur of adoration.  These are languages spoken in the valley, for the inhabitants of the valley are dwellers in dreams.

Born in dream, they live in the valley only when their dreams are lost, shattered, changed.  Some lucky few only visit, momentarily unneeded at home.  But these vacationers are the least of the population.  The guardian’s duty is not just to these disenfranchised beings.  His greatest burden, hardest duty to fulfill, is to maintain the dreams everywhenwhere, even perhaps to find new homes for some among his wards.

Mostly he simply seeks to prevent a drastic increase in their number.  Unfortunately for him, when minds awake, their dreams fade, and the valley is flooded with new visitors.  A carefully managed schedule of waking and dreaming is the only way to keep the valley livable, uncrowded and safe for those rare creatures born there.

So if you ever feel as though someone is whispering to you to sleep, to lie back and close your eyes, do not fear.  The guardian of dreams is simply hoping you will help him, that you will provide one more safe refuge for the people of the valley.

A Naming of Masks

November 29, 2009

The Dancer speaks in stanzas and rhyme, pictures of places a word at a time.

Tall Tale-Teller spins words a mile long, dreaming up places built out of song.

Like Puck is the Childe so merry and bright, wildly singing of chaotic delight.

Years drape the Dreamer like moss on a tree, her tongue shapes the world and brings destiny.

The scribe of the family hidden in nooks, Builder stores worlds in fantastic books.

Singer the shining, bringer of glee, dances in places that glorious be.

Masked in the open they bring forth their best, hiding in showing, acting in rest.
These faces are known to others than I, pray if you see them, bid them good day.

 

On regrets and their opposites

November 26, 2009

I have regrets, I’m sure everyone does.

Some of the ones I have are easily remedied, or so they seem.
I mean, there’s no reason to regret not telling someone something
if it is still possible to tell them. But I simply cannot seem to do it.

I write songs about feelings or dreams I have, and never share them.

Or if I do share them, I share them rarely. I’m
not sure why exactly, but I find it far more difficult to share information
about my thoughts and feelings, my internal life, than I find sharing
details about my physical life and activities.

I’ll freely admit to random embarrassing facts, and even to odd things I’ve
done well before sharing a song or poem I’ve written.

The only ones I have managed to share date from years ago, and they
have worn a comfortable spot in my mind, been polished smooth and clean
as perfect as obsession can make them. Perhaps that’s why I can share them–they simply don’t trigger that anxious quiver at the thought of sharing or performing because they are at the peak of possibility for their existence.

Or perhaps as they age over time the words and tunes ring less strongly in my heartscape. Maybe I can share them because their rhythm has gentled, slowed, lost the urgency of creation. The fierce flame of emotion that propels these odd things to life fades over time. So I suppose the soft glow they have left when I’ve held them close for a long time feels less… awkward, noticeable, to share.

Because as much as I may appear to act out or act up, I am terrified of attention. Nothing makes me break out in a cold sweat like the thought of many people, especially those I do not know, noticing me, looking at me. I hate to be the center of attention. I can think of nothing more terrifying than a loss of privacy, of the ability to fade into the background whensoever I should wish.

Yet, I also crave attention. I seek acknowledgment.
I wish for those around me to like me, and I enjoy time spent speaking with them. It’s so bizarre. I don’t know why this odd split exists within me, or how it might have begun. I wonder though.

I do regret not doing my best for fear of ‘showing off’ or being noticed.
I do not regret the things being a quiet person in the background have allowed me to experience. I love being called a good listener. I just hope some day I can also enjoy being called a good talker, perhaps

In the vein of sharing things before they are ‘just-so’ or ‘perfect’ here is a doodle of a song I began some time ago, that still echoes in my mind, waiting to be finished and polished.

Never will can a all questions queries be met
with a clearer answer
Nor can any every triolet minuet
meet play for every dancer

Busy, busy-bodies though they are be
never miss many flowers
And they can never visit many all the trees
no matter in their waking hours

then, just a line of a started stanza/verse/step, the rest crossed out, rejected:

Life is a journey, so they say
walking further each day
we a New paths or followed new day

Who knows if this song will ever properly be born, as songs ought to be–finished and performed. Oh well.

Writing in strikeout was struck either in the initial jotting or while adding it to this post. Writing in italics was added or altered while adding it in.

An odd dream becomes a reality

November 25, 2009

I admire blogs, journals, diaries, autobiographies, fictional accounts and real.

I enjoy the sound of my own voice, the feel of my thoughts.

Sharing these however, leaves me feeling bare, shivery, close-to-breaking-in-terror, so I’ve never had one, used one, done much more than lurk, and read.

I love to read, to roll the words on my tongue and dream of the voices that share them. I hope perhaps that things I may write, type, post will share some of this enjoyment with other beings.

To this purpose, I begin. Not with confidence, or anything clever to say, but a rambly litany of worries, hopes, dreams, toe-curling nervous delight. To share my thoughts, or at least the words that result from them, with anyone anywhere anywhen is a most disconcerting sensation.

I live in my masks, layers upon layers of them. I am not even sure where I begin and they end, or if there is an end to them.  Perhaps, like a pinata I am hollow under the layers of gaudy painted paper-mache, or like a bulbed root, my truest face lies curled and dormant waiting for inevitable bursting Spring? Likeliest perhaps, it lies at the end of a constantly growing, shifting stack of papers full of words and images, songs and scribbles, hidden from view by complicated plots and falsely witty repartee.

I fear I lie. To my kin. To my friends, family-by-choosing. To my self.
I don’t know what lies inside me, but I feel closest to plunging into those leering depths when i wear my masks, when for some time or another, I make it apparent I am not myself. I find freedom in playing obvious roles or characters, in taking a spot in a tale and feeling it twist the road beneath me.

Perhaps someday I’ll be brave enough to find whether it is in fact my own path that wriggles and dances to my uncertain steps.

For now, I’ll walk awhile here, the hidden trails in a strange land.