Mute Monday ~ Summer

[NB: this one is wallpaper-sized ... feel free to click on the image to see the full size & then grab it]

** FYI ~ all of these photos taken by frizzy **
i shot all pics [except the grafitti pic]
at the Dr. Sun Yat-Sen Chinese Garden,
located in Vancouver's Chinatown.
to see more of these pics,
visit my Flickr site
[link in sidebar].

4664

Nelson Mandela celebrates 90 years of age!

Many Happy Returns of the Day, Mr. Mandela.
You fight so hard for freedom
because you suffered its removal for so many years.
We have no idea. We think we do, but we don't.
You inspire us to learn, grow, and know.

Are You Kidding Me?

NOTE: forgive me, my dear American friends
but this issue really gets me.

|Supreme Court Affirms America's Right to Bear Arms|

Q: Why does any individual NEED a handgun?
A: To kill another individual.

Q: Is a handgun REALLY the best conflict resolution tool?
A: America seems to think so.

Q: How's that working for them Americans?
A: Not too well.

Dear Readers, need I say more?

Remember this bit of wisdom? "He who lives by the sword, dies by the sword." (replace "sword" with the weapon of your choice.) When will we, as humanity, ever learn that violence only begets violence? America, you are a violent nation!

Ivy Grows in the Window Sill

inside-ivy by frizzyscissorhands on Zooomr


inside-ivy-aeriel view by frizzyscissorhands on Zooomr


inside-ivy-close-up by frizzyscissorhands on Zooomr

Life finds a way, doesn't it?

Of course it does. Still, it never ceases to amaze me, that life perseveres, survives and even thrives in the most unlikely, impossible and/or inhospitable environments. The wild ivy in these photos currently grows right outside our house, beneath our lounge (living room) window. Somehow, the ivy picked a path that weaves it between the siding and the actual wall of the house, through the window sill of the lounge, into the house. As you can see, its spread itself across the sill and then begun trailing down the wall.

We take care now, when opening that window, against injuring our new wild and green friend. Most humans fail to realize the fact that life travels such a complex and circuitous path to survive and thrive ... constantly. That makes life a cherished and fragile treasure ~ something which we treat with love and great care. Including, and perhaps especially, the ivy growing in my window sill.

The Chrysalis

The transformation from caterpillar though to the chrysalis and emergence as a butterfly represents the greatest metamorphosis in the animal world. In particular, the chrysalis has come to symbolize change ~ of the spiritually visceral kind, the sort of change that prompts the individual retreat into herself. When I think of chrysalis, I think of the trinity of experiences that, together, make up life: desire, loss, regeneration.

So .... what is chrysalis? 1. a soul trapped inside in a body. 2. an enchanted chamber where an amazing transformation will occur. 3. a protective covering ~ a refuge ~ for the changeling. 4. a symbol for metamorphosis which occurs from the inside, out. Inside the hard, golden-coloured shell of chrysalis the organism has dissolved itself into fluid. Final emergence from the silent, fluid-filled solitude breaks the chrysalis from inside. The metamorphosed individual bares herself to the world.

I feel like that soul, trapped inside that brittle husk of a body. At present, it feels nothing like an enchanted chamber ... but in my heart, I know an amazing transformation lies around the corner. And, that brittle shell, protective? Yes, most of the time it feels like a refuge. Other times it feels more like an incarceration. A painful change has seeded itself inside me ... inside of the Pilot. It's called growth. Growing hurts .... oh so much. I wonder if it distresses the caterpillar to liquify and then transform into a winged creature. Its a sort of birth, isn't it?

another post: here ~ a letter to the pilot

20 days left inside this chrysalis.

The Veil

darling Pilot,
we two -
distant, brooding spires
as we lower the delicate
veil of sulking silence.
darling --
do you read these words?

thoughts of you
tumble in my heart:
languid, dainty - cherry
blossom petals
that cast a fragrant hue
across my lonely depths.

carnal passion flares and
gaping pyschic crevices glow
like smoldering embers
in my inky, murky depths.
will this silence, like a fortress,
protect us?
or will it imprison us?

stranded hope ~ written 4.08.06

sterile and empty
this feeling here -
without you -
inspire me, you do
my precious lotus

demonic --
my longing for you
to touch your incandescent flesh
to taste your velvet lips
to feel the effervescence
of your fingertips

i crave you, lotus - my drug
to see you, my flower --
burning dark eyes and
that face ... startling grace, and
so alive, it consumes itself
demonic longing ...


ps ~ i have no clue who lotus is .... just some character i made up.

Dreams

My darling Pilot;

It's a lovely and quiet Sunday evening and I am sitting here, in front of my screen, listening to a song called Dreams, by a group called The Cranberries. Dreams ~ Pilot, did you know that you lurk about in my dreams? Yes, Beloved. You do. When I feel weightless with longing for you ~ that violent sort of longing that causes my heart to burn ~ I retreat to that dusky spot inside myself ... my inner soul ... and I find you there, waiting for me. Waiting for me ... and watching.

Like I watch you, my Beloved. The method and grace of your movements, the scent of your pillow, the soft texture of your hair, your gentle voice, your golden green eyes ... they have all penetrated my consciousness, imprinted themselves upon the retina of my soul. My existence in your absence feels oppressive, like a vacuum. And wanting you, like I do, Pilot, makes me feel so restless, so fickle. I live outside of my Self, searching, waiting, for my Pilot.

Pilot ~ my body and beloved, my pain and my passion, my mystery and master ~ I yearn for you. It's wonderful. And it hurts. I long to feel near enough to you to taste the flavour of your pulse. And then, darling, in the still of the night, I will ask you if you can feel my thoughts on your skin. Can you, Pilot? Feel them ~ light as the seed cases from dandelions, and moist as only a tongue could feel.

mute monday ~ old man

Inspiration and its Source

Inspiration ~ breathed upon. As in, words, lines or curves breathed onto the page, screen or canvas. The expression breathed upon has divine connotations. It conjures up the imagery of the divine being breathing the creative source into the heart, mind and soul of the inspired one. This implies, then, aura of openness. In order to receive breath, one must relax and open oneself to the experience. Think about the fact that we do have awareness of the fact that our lungs expand approximately 12 times per minute. What happens at those rare, unfortunate moments when we do have such awareness? The Eisenberg principle takes effect ~ manifested as A-N-X-I-E-T-Y, a force which blinds us to the simple and sublime.

Inspiration seems much like a grace ~ unsought (though desired), uncontrolled, and irresistible. The artist's performance involves her body and mind, yet it remains a cherished gift. Inspiration exists prior to consciousness and outside of the realm of skill. It defies comprehension. It embodies the sort of poetic madness that comes from having glimpsed at the empyrean and the ninth sphere of paradise. Inspiration provokes a compulsion to create. Through creation, the artist reaches revelation. The struggle becomes striking a balance between divine impulse and the artist's own human consciousness. Art ~ defined as the product of inspired creation ~ promotes conscious revelation. Does this increase self-awareness? Does it enhance the well-being of one's inner self?

At the core of inspiration lies madness and irrationality, as sourced by genius. What is genius? I think it's an innate ability to channel the frightening beauty of the divine winds. A quick foray into the etymology of the word tells us that, in Ancient Rome, genius described the guiding or guardian spirit of an ancestor who guarded his descendants. Genius ~ guiding spirit. Kant saw genius as 'the ability to independently arrive at and understand concepts that would normally have to be taught by another person.' Focus lies upon the concept of originality ~ a talent for producing ideas which can be described as non-imitative.

Do you know, dear Reader, what are the three characteristics shared by geniuses?

1. Systematic and orderly approaches to problem solving.
2. Sense of wonder, ability to look at things in a fresh, almost childlike way. Keeping an open mind and a flexible attitude on all subjects.
3. Ability to concentrate with greater depth and intensity than the average person.

So ... genius lies within the grasp of us all. Neither excellence achieved at skill performance nor some culturally-biased quantification of intellectual strength embodies the true spirit of genius. Genius refers to the way in which one sees and processes one's surroundings; it requires self tolerance and patience. And of course ... some good, old-fashioned perspiration.

mute monday ~ beauty

The Circle

The story, our story so rich in detail and drizzled with passion, sits in my heart's bosom. It's raw, like an angry wound that silently screams for attention. It's embedded in my viscera. You, Pilot, live in the most visceral and primal of my planes of existence. Beloved, something so visceral, so deeply intertwined within my being ~ I cannot so easily retrieve.

Our story ~ it's like a circle, Pilot. No beginning, no end. Just a [deceivingly] simple-looking euclidean shape. There's a touch of divinity, a touch of perfection, in a circle, isn't there, Pilot? I think so ... I think so. Still ... how do I tell such a story? Where does an entity with no beginning, begin?