Dove ~

01/09/2015

           
           This is the beginning and the end for me. I have great hopes myself. I feel that it is a newborn bird whose eyes are raised to the sky. It want only to look up, and then Heaven will surround me. I can almost feel the edge as it presses my soul- but then, something shifts within me. What I need now is only to open that door . . .  one of my great hopes is that I will someday become-  I know that I could carefully measure my words with precision- meter them out onto the page with a fine tool, if given the chance. More than anything else, I am in want that experience- I know that I can have it.

              

            I am a dove that was made to fly. I want of experience so that I can connect the dots, to make my work truly marvelous, to sketch it with life as it extends beyond the parapet- the plinth behind bars. I could no longer rest behind caged bars, any more than a fish was made to traverse on land. I need to be let loose into the world, so that I can spread my wings fully. I could no longer be the usage for one's pen, than I could learn to follow a belief I have no interest in. I need to fly so that I can take ownership: I need to be in control.

           

            I am a different breed than the rest. I was made to be aerodynamic, with a need to pick up, and fly, at any moment. I need to be set free . . . 

Passage From Jane Eyre: the Beauty of Love-

"Most true it is that 'beauty is in the eye of the gazer.' My master's colourless, olive face, square, massive broad and jetty eyebrows, deep eyes, strong features, firm grim mouth,- all energy, decision, will,- were not beautiful, according to rule; but they were more than beautiful to me; they were full of an interest, an influence that quite mastered me,- that took my feelings from my own power and fettered them in his. I had not intended to love him: the reader knows I have wrought hard to extirpate from my soul the germs of love there detected; and now, at the first renewed view of him, they spontaneously revived green and strong! He made me love him without looking at me" (258-259).

The Authentic Person- Is she a Bronze?

An authentic person is basically a bronze item without tarnish. A truly 'authentic' person knows their faults, and bears the marks on the front.

Therefore: a person who is not authentic has no faults. They exist without this tarnish . . . or do they?

I know a couple of people who know their personal 'defects.' They mistake the evidence of these faults for rude marks of their image. What they do not seem to know- is that understanding is their key- it unlocks the door that leads to authenticity. It serves, actually, as  the replacement for it.

How do they not realize that understanding yourself is the same thing? Those who do not realize that they have faults exist without tarnish. Yet, once you polish them, you must find a mark that has been covered for years, behind the layers-

And, did you know? Bronze does not actually exist without marks . . .
 

Collection

~ I feel as though I am on the brink of some great precipice- and I am afraid to fall. Yet, I know that I must fall, because if I do not, then I will forever be stuck on this ledge of unknowing- never jump into what it is that awaits me- dare I make that leap?

~ The art of being right- I think that this is an 'art' to which we are all attracted. Few people can resist a course of study in this topic.

~ Maybe life is not actually about 'learning' the next step-  maybe, it's about learning when you are ready to take it.

~ During the best part of the day- my heart beats in high merit- and, I begin to think that . . . my books must make my company the best kind.


~ Maybe life is not about mapping out a picture- maybe it's about seeing which line comes net- then, when you find this line, to move in that singular direction- and not to worry much over quality. I think that people are surprised, many times, to find that numerous lines exist in one section of the piece- and, that, to the overall portrait, it is not an impediment.
 

A Special Note to Music Lovers ~

The notes played by an exceptional musician touch you in a way that nothing can. Like a heavy oil, they pour from your soul with a deep, and heavy fragrance . . . one that you are not even aware of. It not until you hear these gentle notes,  perhaps, that you finally realize . . . it was something that was always in you-  and that music is not located in the beyond, but is a part of you . . .  like a well that can be tapped into, at any moment. It is then that we realize, that humans were actually born into music, and that predilection is inherent- it is part of the soul, and, perhaps, lives 'in' you-

Here's another fun fact! For the science enthusiasts: "Exposing your baby to music while in the womb helps to foster communication abilities."

Canon in D- Touched by The Force

Canon in D- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qVn2YGvIv0w

 

Touched by The Force ~

 

{Author's Note: I think that people are generally touched by the same experiences- but they never really give them a label. What if they were touched by something, and realized what it was- what if they realized they weren't afraid to fall? Or what if they found that blue blood was, contrary to what they'd always been told- actually green? What if they learned to extend beyond the matrix of how they had been raised, and realized that they were someone else than who they thought? I call this the force . . . something that we feel but we cannot name. Inspired by the above piece (and perhaps some holistic healing methods).}

. . .

This piece is magnetic. It offers up small glimpses of eternity. I could listen to this symphony fifty times over, and never run out at the end. It revolves through time like an encircling arc of light, lifts me through the stretch of space about me. I am passing through several different matrices as I hear this, living through a dream of the past- it embraces all of my lives-my past, present, and future all in one. If I believed in Nirvana, I think it would be my enlightenment. Each rendition strikes a new chord- and yet it is always the same one. I feel as though I am looking at several mirrors, in a stretch of midnight-blue. Some part of me reaches forward, an image that I cannot reflect in the dark- but it still lives. It is a bit frightening, really . . . like a second being I never knew I had, coming into the light, struggling against a sea of darkness.

 

Does this idea frighten you? Perhaps we can call it enlightenment. Alternatively, perhaps it is only a figment of the imagination, or if you like- a different way of thought. Perhaps the spiritual thinkers are correct: it is God reaching down to us through his hand, or maybe it resembles Nirvana . . . no matter how you view it, nothing can change its essence. There is an element in it, a magic, if you will, that mankind does not understand. It is the internal human struggling to cope with existence, to learn how to evolve to a greater being- to climb out of the intellectual abyss in which are we rut, and to reach something else . . . something wonderful. Something we do not understand. This is the human mind at its finest. This is moving out from the sectioned matrix; this is the force.

 

 

 

A Poet's Clippets ~

Dashing between a melee of different work dynamics. I've learned to take my lessons in stride at this moment; I know now 'application,' is worth its weight in gold, and I know- quite literally, lessons are not just the scholar's choice pick. It seems that my class lessons have become tangible things- my writer's life is a spectrum of different characters, styles, and personalities. Eight hours of technical, five hours creative, and then some things that cannot be categorized . . . O, but poetry, where art thou! How I miss your touches, your brightness- can you not light my path again this night!