Broken, Battered and Beat Up 2017 has left the building
And We Danced. And We Danced. And We Danced. Until the Dream was over.
What we run away from is what may save us
That being Moxie and Mystery
Tapestry pulled into the murky underbelly of a concussion
Pain, sorrow and death are are bosom buddies Boon companions following your every step. I kissed a rose and bled deeply and profusely through the thorns.
Muddy Murdered Mannequins being dragged though slimy red clay
Bashed in heads semi-attached to conflicted torsos. Splattered blood pointillism across the magic carpets
There is a bird inside me pecking out my innards screeching release.
2018 is filled with Amplified Astronomical Moxie
Religion
“Absorb what is useful and discard what is useless.” ~ Bruce Lee
Yes I’m back. After a much-needed break during which time I gave myself the opportunity to reflect. My blog had taken off in a wrong direction. Basically I was caught up. Lots of frustration. Too many obligations and responsibilities. Trying to juggle this concept of balance and harmony neither of which I achieved. Therefore it was time to let go.
When you fly too close to the Sun like Icarus you burn or in these modern times burn out. A Fucked Up Life = A Fucked Up Blog. I’m not Wonder Woman. The older I get the more I’m willing to admit defeat. More people should pay attention to the expression Beating Your Head against a brick wall. Well I have a bloody head.
Every so often you need to say, “Fuck it All.’ Like in Gone Girl I’m tired of being the Amazing Amy. Sometimes you must walk away from certain aspects of your life. My body does not handle stress well. Finally around the time my laptop died I was having terrible headaches every day. Collapse. Nobody there to help me or pick me up. As always I was and still am on my own. My life had become a fucking circus of putting on acts of well-being. Now I begin to tell the truth of a life filled with failures and flaws. No perfection. No promises. No happy endings. We deserve or think we deserve happiness, peace, joy and prosperity but life does not owe you anything. In this life you get many unexpected “gifts.”
If God/Universe gave out report cards my would be filled with F’s. This is the truth I live with every day. Again I don’t sugarcoat anything. One can never go back. It’s like saying you’re still a Virgin after the hymen has been broken or a baby has passed through your womb. No returns.
I Am Not a Performance. I am Truth.
I don’t like to be typecast or put into a stereotype. That’s why I don’t take to so-called Life Coaches, Life Hacks, Therapists or sellers of happiness snake oils. I don’t do Affirmations or Memes. They are totally lost on me. You don’t need to be a happy person to have Happy Times. I’ve had many Happy Times and will continue to do so. Happiness itself is situational. Just like anyway else who is brave enough to admit it I Love certain aspects of my being, my personality, my looks but their are other secret areas that come to plague me at night. That allow me no sleep. Those are my demons and I welcome they. My demons are my closet companions. Reliable. Always there. Sometimes they even save me for where would they be without me. We are bound to each with an umbilical cord that stretches but never severed. To know me is to see a stubborn mass of contradictions. I’m a paradox wrapped inside an enigma.
Woman Deconstructed Renewed in Partial Forms
It is what it is. I follow my own mind and make my own decisions. I admit to being high strung, nervous, lacking patience and mercurial. Anxiety attacks are my normal.
Temperamental and sometimes ill tempered. Blunt. Straight. No Chaser. I’m not the Replacement Bitch. I AM THE BITCH. B.I.T.C.H. Being in Total Control of Herself.
Basically I wanted to trash this blog totally but I realized I needed the archives being that I lost many of my MS Word documents. Also I needed a break from this writing blog to focus on my Photography Blog Roaming Urban Gypsy. However after increased demand and support from my Subscribers I will once again serve up offerings of poetry, prose and opinion. On My Own Terms.
Bits and pieces of my Life were in the Pawn Shop. Set up life a Museum dedicated to my past. Slowly once located I went back whenever possible to redeem and rescue pieces of my past so I could reassemble it into the future. Remade and Renewed through my own efforts or at times lack of efforts.
When one world dies another is born. And most don’t care unless it affects them directly.
Let me take you on a Phonetic Poetic Photo journey via pictures and Verse.
Black is not something I do. It is who I am.
It is the place I inhabit and that which inhabits me.
Black is the space where ancestral spirits find place within my soul. It’s music inhabits my every thought and deed. From Be-Bop to Hip-Hop it’s all there never to be displaced no matter my current accommodations.
Calling me Journey. Sojourning for Truth. Ain’t I a Woman strong and fierce.
Calling me Traveler for I have inhabited many shores. I strode forth without ever leaving my home.
Home is the place that inhabits me. Every cut corner ragged edge begs to be filled. Silence inhabits uncharted symphonies of mindless cacophonies. Symphonic Blasts inhabit the Universe.
Museum paintings and sculptures inhabit three planes: Past, Present and Future. Transformation begins via viewers lending voices to long forgotten pasts. Silent Interiors speak Volumes but only the selected of the masses can hear its voice.
The butterfly leaps from Chrysalis thrust into Arboreal fields. In tune with Eternal Firefly beings.
Street Urban Art Inhabits dreary dry brutalist streetscapes revamping the atmosphere paying Silent Verbal Homage to fallen heroes kept from whited sepulchral one-sided gallery spaces.
The past inhabits the future while dullards look askance on those not like them. The past inhabits the present whilst clinging to a more hopeful future.
Past and current inhabitants on a collision course with destiny. Destiny inhabits the storm.
The Great Soul inhabits All Souls at birth yet flees from the wicked. Let Grace Abound.
Yes We Inhabit a strange land mystically inhabiting three spheres. Counterclockwise orbits inhabiting galaxies.
A Love Supreme in Search of Me.
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Aunt Carrie ~~ George Gordon’s Sister
This is a Tin Type photo of an unknown unnamed Ancestor
My Grandmother Eva Sophronia Gordon Palmer
My Aunt Thelma Palmer Varner
Me and the Borg at my old office job where I made more money and had a better life.
When the smoke clears the Conflagration will arise
She an Elliptical Orbit floating on Clouds
Enter the Meat Grinder
Play me some Sleep Dance music an Ode to the Great Cathedral Mausoleum
Building those Great Cathedrals in the Sky
Red Lips. Cloudy Eyes.
Watch the Closing Doors
Shouting Out the Kewl Breeze Shysty fiesty One
Two pages stuck together with Lust Juice
Hairy Arms and Bare Legs Tussle
And Then a relaxation of bed covers
All is Finished. All is silent except silent snores piercing blustery night breezes
Whilst TaiQuai watched him sputter and gasp his way into eternity. Her sardonic smile belied the Trickster Elixir that sent him into permanent exile. Away from his many serial wives he wooed and lost.
The masses follow false prophets/profits and naked Emperors bearing gifts of fools gold. Yet the one who has stood the test of time silently stands awaiting with faded hope for the tides to change. Emperors oozing pus and blood leaving contamination desecrating sacred lands. Lavishly framed lies adorn a corpulent corpse.
Whilst distending belly’s cry out hunger pangs. EcleTrick forms of strangulation. Minefields populated by moronic maws spouting soiled vile sewer filth. Regurgitating carnage for breakfast.
Smudge. Sweep house. Sanctified Sweet Sage Do Your Work. Seer Circles unbroken.
Ancient ones shall have the last say. Those who have an ear. Let them hear. Listen as the forest, woods, rocks and stones whisper cosmos secrets.
Pulling verses from the Akashic tribal scrolls. Weaving braille dots upon stalwart stone.
The rocks cry out but who is listening. Caught up in nondescript fluff. Know you not that even a found feather has a message to share? Pulling dreams and visions from limited senses. The Forest Speaks. The Forest yields. Ever sensitive to the clamber and clatter of hiking feet. Not tuned in but turned by external quests.
Once it was marching boots. Till Johnny came home. Till Custer had his day. Here is where the Blue and The Gray gave utterance. So many maimed, gutted and left by the roadside.
Oak, Fir, Spruce, Evergreen We have seen the dead from many a bloody battle and buried the fallen with our leaves and moss. Their blood coursing through multiple root systems transmitting nourishment and stories. The Griot speaks.
There will be no medals given here my friend. There will be No Medals given here. Only a few stones to mark the spot.
War. Riches man’s Fake bluster. False pride. Poor man’s duty.
Cassandra My Raven haired Fiery Sepia toned beauty. Who will believe your report?
There was wailing and weeping across the land Rachel sobbing for her children because they are nought. The time of mourning is now at hand.
Espiritu en Fuego/A Fiery Spirit 