Lots of my ramblings are inspired by song. This is one of my favorite stories, the song inspiring it by one of my favorite stylists. Is a tad long for the average Proser ;), so don’t go there if your attention span lags.
There is good reason to prefer my body over my mind.
My body is mine to do with what I please. I can decorate it, mold it, pamper it… even kill it if so inclined. My body is free to wander wherever it is strong enough to roam right up until it isn’t.
My mind, though; that thing belongs to others. My mind has been filled by others, trained by others, and must behave itself on account of others. Whenever my mind ventures outside of it’s box it is quickly pushed back inside by those who witness, lest I am found to be odd, or wicked, or plain Jane insane. And worse about the mind? I fear I may never be free of it.
Yet, despite that I do not prefer the physical me. I remain equally partial to body and mind, and could not choose one over the other, nor would I trade either for another. I am satisfied. Mine are good partners, body and mind, partners which together stand alone through this life, while also working diligently to face whatever lies ahead.
They lived under the ruins, in a labyrinth of connected cellars and tunnels and, when necessary, in the sewers, surviving on whatever they could catch and kill, and any other scraps they could scavenge, only daring to go above while the dark of night, Piotr said, restrained their shadows, because, to be caught would mean the train to Neverland: the camp from where no one had ever returned, with its barbed-wire fences coiled between guard-towers, the searchlights, the soldiers with their rifles, and the gas chambers.
Gazing downward at we cast in his image loosed a tear, wetting this realm in blue.
Instead of Waiting To Be Loved
It’s not the person you miss
it is how they made you feel about yourself
when you were with them
those moments of ecstasy
It’s not the person you miss
it is the fear you’ll never ever love again
that haunts you laying alone
in cold sheets tangled from sleeplessness.
Two opposing pressures
push aside memories of negatives
to build a monument to what was lost
standing so much higher than it ever was.
To move on
blow up the falsehoods
tear down the monuments
stop wallowing in the meager pleasure of pain
then love again.
Loving no magic
given to chosen others to grant
like genies in lamps you must rub the right way.
the power to love
activated by simply deciding to give it away
thereby feeling it fully again
you taking back charge
by loving first
instead of waiting to be loved.
Above It All
There but not present
watching as a spectator
tight rope with no net.
I'm every bit the nutrient-rich, slightly fatty, humble, suet-like cake of my native American ancestors. I am not for everyone and definitely not designed for every day consumption. I'm a little too substantial for that.
While I can admittedly be somewhat dense and boring (especially to more refined palates), I can also save your life when things go wrong. I have the ability to encourage, sustain, and bridge you over to better times. I am dependable that way.
Unfortunately, I'm not something you'd probably ever look forward to having. Not when there is an entire world of fancy, laboratory-derived, “power” bar type snacks in shiny packages available. However, will you ever be glad to find simple me at the bottom of your daypack in a survival situation.
Take me along. I make a decent companion for life's journey.
Talent. Tantalizing, too tall to reach, and yet
Ceases to be itself when you climb for it
The envy of the average, the drug of the exceptional
A gift from God grasped by the fingers of Want
Want although we do not know its meaning
Want although we question its mattering
It lies deep within us
Tangled up in our obsessions and drives
The minotaur in the maze, the string that we follow, and the bride who waits with held breath
Its size does not matter, it fills us the same as it leaves us empty
The talent to sing is not the talent to smile
The talent of mind is not the talent of hands
But these talents, living in our bodies like a spirit of their own
Are nothing more than the insatiability for skill
And a raw hope that we may one day see what our Want already does
Death Begs No.
A palm is put up, that no pity could make it through
“How can you console her knowing death is afraid of you?”
I did not compose these words, yet they are mine
Uttered in a dream, one echoing line
Spoken by Death herself, while she holds a girl’s hand
She looks only twelve, and the child smaller stands
An audience watches, a statement, a show
To a pit at the bottom the children all go
The sand does not sort them by age or by name
They fall, listless, down, to be buried the same
Death never asked us for these bodies, so small
What she asks is a question, overworked and appalled
“I am but a reaper, a guideman, a door
What terrors are you who keep sending me more?”
So her palm is an army that will not make way for you
“How can you console her knowing Death is afraid of you?”
How can we console her, us watching the news
With our guns in the closet we’ve never had to use?
It was not our bullets that broke through her chest
But we fought for the weapon that laid her to rest
How can you console her, you preachers who pray
When you say that the young must retrieve those astray?
How can you tell a child, while wishing them well
That their weakness and fear sends their playmates to hell?
Were none of us sacred before we were grown?
Are none of them sacred now, not on their own?
Is innocence meaningless, the perfect white page
That we write on and fight on, turn black as our rage?
Are they pawns? Are they dough? To be molded and used,
Or abused, until like us they grow? Death begs no.
What’s Wrong With Cerulean, Anyway?
Iris was the daughter of the gods, Thaumas of the blue sea and Thaumas' ocean-nymph wife, Electra. She chose as her mission, color, because the sky was black and, of all the emergencies the other gods addressed, she felt the dark sky was the most critical.
She tried to paint the sky, jumping so high that when she came back down, she had left a streak in that dark night, a multicolored band--an arc of variegated ribbon.
Thus she became known as the goddess of the rainbow.
But even a thousand rainbows could not prevent the black from bleeding through. So she jumped so high that she found a green star in the night and pushed it to the world. But the sky turned green, which made all of the lush gardens invisible. She jumped again, so high, that she found a red star in the night and pushed it together with the green star.
"Oh, no," she lamented, for the sky was yellow, and when she jumped along it the streaks of her rainbows were only brown. "A yellow sky just won't do, nor will brown rainbows!" she complained. She jumped yet again, so high, and was able to locate a blue star and tether it, pulling it into the star that was the combined red and green.
The sky became bright, blinding white. She made another arc, but the colors of its rainbow were completely overwhelmed by the brightness of the white. "Who wants to live their lives with eyes closed?" she grumbled.
She had an idea. She looked about the blinding landscape and removed everything brown she could see. She removed the bark of the trees, the stink from the shit, and the mush from all mushrooms. The sky darkened somewhat, but was now gray.
She looked about the bland, dull, muted landscape and removed everything red she could see. She ate all of the apples, picked all of the roses, and coagulated any blood there was into dark scabs. She looked up at the sky and saw it was cerulean. "Almost," she huffed.
She wondered about the green now. She wondered about removing the chlorophyll from the grass, the emeralds from the black shale and from ladies, and the hate from envy. But surely if she removed all the green, she calculated, she would be left with only a pure blue, which would wash out the blue in her rainbow, making each look like two--one of red, orange, yellow, and green, and another of indigo and violet.
"That not the way I will have my rainbows," she said. "Cerulean will have to do."
And she rested, for she saw that it was good.
MORAL OF THE STORY: If you live by the color wheel, don't look for complements when you're searching for rainbows.