Archive for December, 2009

Storm Front

December 18, 2009

It’s raining in the Sunshine State, the sky is weeping
The droplets do not wish to wait, the Time ain’t keeping
Itself for any who linger back, fearing leaping
Down off the clouds’ wooly back where they’ve been sleeping

Too long the Sky has held its tears, the Ground was dying
Hidden truths of many years had seemed like lying
Now down the lifeblood streams at last, speeding, flying
Earth and Sky as in the past, together vying

Tumultuous, wild, the joining comes, Flowing Over
With rushing sweeps sounding like drums, they bruise the clover
And all about are overcome as then together
Sky and Ground joining as one
become
Another.

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Wibble Wobble

December 17, 2009

Sometimes when I write I start with a title. A sparking, burning bit of thought that springs easily to the tips of my fingers and onto, into the ‘net.
Other times I start with a snippet of thought, a topic. Mostly I start just like I began this.

Fingers on keyboard, a hesitant pause, a momentary lull in motion when even breathing pauses. And then I write. Sensibly, nonsensically, whatever springs to mind I let flow.

And when I can’t seem to start a flow I tease myself with words until I’m giggling inside and fit to burst with silliness or whimsy.

I always wonder how stories came to be when I read them. Do their authors simply release the floodgates and allow the tale to flow free? Is it more an effort to keep it in than out? Is it hard to tell the story? Do the characters and places snarl and resist extraction from their cozy corners in their creators’ brain?

I don’t suppose I’ll ever know. Any more than I really know where my own stories or prattling come from. Mostly it’s just stream of consciousness, with slight editing to avoid Victorian-style capitalization issues, and strange run-on dilly-dallying sentences. When I write, like when I paint, or draw, or do anything really, I have a tendency to overdo, to embroider too much, to overload things. When I don’t keep them deliciously simple, nearly stark.

What a silly contrast.

Future-extemporanea

December 16, 2009

Just a non-sensical ramble as to the effect that, whensoever this should become visible to the eyes of a perceiving entity other than the author, said author will, mostly indubitably and probably should no outside extraneous occurence interfere, be rather occupied with brain-wracking thought extrusions with which the hope is to compel the reader of said extrusions into a favorable mental state.

Said state will hopefully result in pleasant tidings for the author, who will  then have one less thing clouding up the waters in the answering globule known as her 8-ball like noggin.

In other news, earrings make excellent ornaments for any solstice tree of sufficient scale.

Brain Cloudy, Try Again Later

December 15, 2009

Ever feel like you have so many trains of thought, or attempts at things to try to do going on in your head that you reach a stall-out point, like an over-shaken 8-ball?

I do.

Wishy washy ooey gooey

December 11, 2009

Cold days make me drowsy. Lassitude wraps about me, and I want nothing more than to curl up in a warm place and doze.
It’s odd, because at the same time I am full of energy and ideas. They burst into my mind like hyperactive techni-color popcorn, and as swiftly are crowded out.
Perhaps a notepad would help mitigate this psychic leakage, and perhaps not. I admit there is a certain entertainment value in waiting out the ideas, seeing which stick it out, and which fade to uninteresting goo.

I suppose it is hard on where ever inspiration comes from to keep pumping ideas out only to have them seep back, but really, pumping a sieve full of any sort of fluid is a bad plan. Except maybe for some sort of glue or epoxy? Perhaps it might fill the holes… Of course, then the sieve would be useless for its original purpose, having morphed into a bowl of sorts.

…Not going to see if epoxy helps with brain-leaks. I don’t think they make metaphysical caulking or gap-filler. Or if such things do exist, I doubt they’ll be at the local hardware store.

Ah well.

Blah blah blah

December 11, 2009

I love reading, but sometimes it feels like I’m drowning out my own thoughts.

It can take awhile for stories and songs to reemerge from the mess in my head after taking in an engrossing story. But it’s so fun to read the tales, to wander the pages, forgetting yourself in the images and words therein.
Hopefully I’ll eventually find a balance for this, or it’s going to be awfully hard to do as I wish with this blog project as well as others.

Also, I need to get the hang of setting up posts ahead of time. Because when inspiration hits, I’m ridiculously prolific. Other times I’m simply rambly and a bit non-sensical, or even whiny.

Unsure.

Ah well.
I’ll hope for a tale to tell tonight or tomorrow.
In the meantime, enjoy the clear skies that have appeared after the storm.

Little Bear and the Stream

December 10, 2009

Little Bear’s Mama told him to stay away from the stream near the cave until she or Papa taught him how to swim.  The stream could be deep sometimes, even if Little Bear had played in the shallow part while his parents watched. Mostly Little Bear listened to Mama, but not always.

He got bored on a sunny day when Mama was digging up roots for supper.  He decided to go play on the banks of the stream.  He did not tell Mama Bear, and went all by himself.  The grass by the stream was bright bright green, and it waved in the breeze and glittered a little.  Little Bear went to lay down on it, tummy first.  The grass was a little wet, and a little slippery, but Little Bear did not care. He could see a fish! It was silvery and quick, but sometimes it stayed still for five of Little Bear’s breaths.  Maybe he could catch it, like Papa Bear did.  Little Bear really wanted to try.  So he scootched forward on the grass, his nose barely above the water.  Little Bear held his breath so the water would not ripple and scare the fish.

He could sort of hear his Mama calling him, but he wanted to catch the fish. Carefully Little Bear reached out his paws, holding them above the fish on either side.  Then SPLASH! In went Little Bear’s paws! SPLASH! Little Bear fell in!

Little Bear yelled when he fell in, but then he was under the water. Little Bear was scared, so he kicked and splashed as hard as he could.  He couldn’t hear, his ears were full of water! He couldn’t smell, his nose was full of water! He couldn’t see either, but he could yell whenever he felt air, and sometimes when he didn’t.

Suddenly, big strong paws grabbed his small splashing ones.
Little Bear was still trying to splash and yell when his Mama lifted him up out of the stream. She bear hugged him tight, her fur warming him up as he shivered.

Little Bear learned how to swim after that.

Placeholder

December 9, 2009

This is a post that is indecisive, lonely in its life, lacking companions such as Direction or Inspiration.

It doesn’t know what to do, or how to speak its mind.
It wishes for some path to open up, easily apparent, that it might walk on to find itself. Perhaps someday the path will appear.

…For now, this is still an indecisive, lonely post.

Two Small Bears

December 9, 2009

Pink Bear and Little Bear are the best of friends, even though they live very far from one another. Pink Bear lives in a house in a town near a city and Little Bear lives in a cave in the woods near a stream. Pink Bear lives with humans, and her other best friend, who is a little girl. Little Bear lives with Papa Bear and Mama Bear, and they teach him all the secrets of the woods.

It has been a long time since Pink Bear and Little Bear saw each other, at least in the fur. But every night, when the two sleep, they meet and play together in the meadow near the night king’s castle. They play all kinds of games, and tell each other about each day’s adventures. When the time comes for them to wake up, the give each other bear hugs and then wave to each other as they fade from the meadow.

Sometimes Pink Bear wishes she could go and live in the forest with Little Bear, but she knows she would miss her human family if she left the house in the town near the city. Still, sometimes she daydreams about spending days in the woods, especially when her other best friend is busy doing human things.

Sometimes Little Bear wishes he could go and live in the house in the town near the city, but he knows he would miss Mama Bear and Papa Bear and their cave in the woods by the stream. Little Bear wonders what it is like to live crowded together, all rushing about and busy, with roads and sidewalks instead of grass and dirt. Occasionally he plans a visit to Pink Bear, the way she and the little girl visit him. But usually he is too busy in the woods to think much about the city. There is the stream to play in, fish to catch, butterflies to chase, and berries to pick. And when Little Bear gets lonely there is Moose, or Raccoon, or Hare, or some other friend of his.

When summer comes, they will play together again, they know. That is how it has always been. In Summer and Spring the two bears, accompanied occasionally by the little girl, play in the woods, and Little Bear shows the new places and tells his new stories to Pink Bear. In Fall Little Bear and his Mama and Papa eat as much as they can, and Pink Bear and the Little girl go back to their house in the town near the city. In Winter, they all dream of Spring.

Jabberwocky Jazz

December 5, 2009

Walk down the street at night. Is it dark? Is it really? What shadows can hide the monster you fear? Look around with your cats’ eyes, your dreaming vision set free, and then tell me.

Tell me how the Moon sings, sang, sung that day so long ago. How the Sun wept, and thrummed a tune so soft. What clouds dared leap with their sweeping steps when the night fell?

How can mystery remain when the shadows fade? Where the monsters lurked there is nothing but refuse and sorrow, all hope of glory fled and broken. What use a light when darkness ceases? When all fades in a sea of soft gloaming times why blaze and burn out–the lurking ones have gone, so now the heroes follow.

To the dark places that yet remain, light rushes, seeking for reason.
Why light a candle if the dark is not to be feared? No caution left in the night, no hint of the natural worry to be taken when vision is veiled and softened.
Despite the lack of shadows, there are monsters still. Can you see them?