#SpreadMusicNotHate No.1

So I saw this challenge in the blogging community where you share a favorite song of yours each day, in no particular order, and as many days as you like (so we’ve got an eternity’s worth here in my “favorites” playlist 😂), and share why you love the song.

#dailymusicalinterlude

For day 1 of the #FavoriteSongsChallenge to #spreadmusicnothate, I give you one of my favorite film songs (and yeah, there’s a lot of scores in my favorites) – Vide cor Meum, from Ridley Scott’s adaptation of Thomas Harris’ book, “Hannibal.”

There’s no reason I love the song other than it’s incredibly moving to me and I am, behind closed doors, a hopeless romantic who loves Dante Alighieri, beautifully moving classical/orchestral pieces, and Hannibal (one of my favorite novel and film trilogies).

Vide cor meum (See my heart) is an aria composed by Irish composer Patrick Cassidy based on Dante Alighieri’s Vita Nova, specifically on the sonnet A ciascun’alma presa, third chapter.

The translation from the lyrics (and the Vita Nova) is:

While thinking of her
A sweet sleep came over me
I am your master
Here is your heart
And on this burning heart
Your heart
(she) obediently fed
Then I saw him (Amore) leaving in tears
Joy became bitterest lament
I am in peace
My heart
I am in peace
See my heart.

The music (not to mention Sir Anthony reciting Hannibal’s interpretation of the Vita Nova) of “The Burning Heart” (another song, from Hans Zimmer’s Hannibal score) is also fabulous.
WTH. I’ll share both for day 1. LOL 🥰❤️

From The Burning Heart:

“He woke her then,
And trembling and obedient
She ate that burning heart out of his hand.
Weeping, I saw him then depart from me.”
Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for her
And find nourishment in the very sight of her?
I think so. But would she see through the bars of his plight… and ache for him?

Fun related fact: Dante’s “Inferno” is one of my favorite books. Should we do a favorite books and favorite films tag, too? I say yes. I like seeing the things that make you who you are and having a bit of artistic culture in the mix. There’s more to the world than memes, politics and conspiracy theories. 😉

I love insomnia. 🙂

Thoughts from 1993

Ahhhhh memories. Snowmageddon in Alabama, this week in 1993.

I was 14, and I remember my dad yelling at me because I would not come inside once it started snowing. I had never in my life seen snow like this snow – I was completely fascinated. It was different snow. I swear it was physically different than any snow I’d ever experienced up until that moment in my life.

I remember being out there in the backyard, in the dark, at something like 11:30PM, bundled up and just sitting there letting the snow fall on my face and consciously feeling the snowflakes melt on my skin in a way that connected with my soul. I remember thinking about magic and all these ideas I had that were “sinful” according to the cult I was raised in but that were so beautiful to me and how it WAS magical, even if the biblical God created it.

Like, how could those two things not go together, in my mind? They believed in a “holy ghost” that they willingly allowed to possess them and speak in unknown languages through them that wasn’t supposed to be real unless someone in the immediate vicinity could interpret the message.

First of all, why couldn’t God just give it to them straight, and secondly WHY? That was me from about age 2 until the day I die. WHY? What? Constant curiosity. Constant trying of new things. Constant exploration of self and soul and consciousness and the physical earth. None of it ever made sense to me from a religious aspect. Why couldn’t it all just be signs and magic and the fates and wonder and beauty? I still want to know that – where do people go in their life experiences that makes them forget the magic? The spark? The music…?

And yet, here I am. Deep in the depression and what to others seem to be mere suicidal thoughts when those thoughts are really so much more than that. But, we will visit that notion a bit later on…

I remember the “good” things but I remember the “miserable” things, too. And in reality, they weren’t miserable things to me. No power? That’s fine. We had kerosene heaters and propane gas in a tank outside that I used to pretend was a horse and I couldn’t tell you how many cows I roped that were actually logs I’d stood on end or how many criminals I’d captured by shooting them in the leg with hip shots that were actually soda cans I was shooting with a BB gun. We were warm. It was fine.

I remember not having power because I remember the coolers on the back deck that were buried in the snow with all the cold stuff in them, and I remember my dad being a smart ass and using the BBQ grill with an iron skillet to cook eggs just because it was “a fun new way to grill chicken” even though we had a gas stove. Ha! But I remember being completely unbothered by the lack of power. Why? Because of the time I spent with my dad. I remember my dad building a snowman with me that he named Larry and making a tiny one with me that I named Mo.

Curly never got made (built) because that was my mom’s choice but she never came outside and my dad said that if Curly was being built she had to make him with us or her snowman wouldn’t be magical (without her energy in him), so there was no point building a snowman with no magic in him. My dad was an evangelical deacon and that was the first time I ever heard him mention magic from the perspective a kid would and not from the perspective of evil. My mom said to my dad, “oh, fiddlesticks. Magic is not reality.” I will never forget that. It crushed my soul in some way. What happened to the “magic” that had brought me into her life? Did that not exist anymore, or had it ever existed for her at all? That was heartbreaking to me.

My mom did play the piano, though. And instead of being filled with the sounds of Andy Griffith and Lucille Ball and Perry Mason, I was surrounded by the comforting sounds of old (what I thought at the time were just) Southern hymns like, “It Is Well,” How Great Thou Art,” and “I Surrender All,” and classical “hits” from Pachelbel’s “Canon” and beautiful Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” I adored Beethoven. I adored romantic era classical music. I adored music washing over me. I adored my dad’s voice. I adored singing with him. There was that…and laughter. Not so much my mom because she was busy with needlework and knitting and incessant organizing, but my dad and I were having a ball.

I remember walking in the woods behind where my grandmother’s giant garden always lived in a path he cut out for me in this deep ass snow – we walked to this specific place that he would often visit just to sit and reflect on life in the quiet (and magic) of nature, crossing the frozen and snow filled wet weather stream and climbing over mounds of snow on fallen limbs and logs on the way and me being glad the fae that lived in the holes in the bank had “moved away,” as my grandmother had told me, so that they weren’t blocked inside their little fairy houses and if they were ok (the fae in the holes turned out to be snakes, I later learned when I tried to catch a fairy at the age of 7 and ended up pulling out one of those little grey ring neck snakes that I tried to keep as a pet but that went suspiciously missing overnight, only later to learn that my father had let it go – I was so distraught and depressed by this reality that my grandmother literally told me they’d just moved away or gone on vacation and the snake was protecting their homes…ha!).

I digress – as usual… Anyway, we got to this specific place and my dad and I sat there on a log he had cleared of snow. He proceeded to have this talk with me about my religious beliefs and the difference between that and spirituality. He didn’t yell at me for being a sinner or for not believing in or for questioning the cult (obviously, he never thought of it that way but I always did – even before I understood cultism – it NEVER made sense to me how this was love and freedom). He simply quoted to me for the first time in context two scriptures that have always stuck with me (hey, the literature of the Bible is really rather brilliantly written – it has everything good and terrifying in it).

He explained his thoughts on death and salvation to me and I remember very specifically and vividly him saying to me that it didn’t matter WHAT I believed, really, about religion. What mattered was that there was, in his perception, absolutely life after death because how could there not be? Our souls had to exist before we were born in order for them to enter our bodies, he said, and so we must logically still exist once our bodies died. That made sense to me.

That was the day – maybe two days after the snow had fallen – that he told me that the only real truth was the truth in my heart, and that was always the truth I should follow – and seek out, and sometimes chase in times of great despair. “Wherefore, my beloved, as ye have always obeyed, not as in my presence only, but now much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling.” It’s Philippians. Chapter two I think (I’m not looking it up, I’m lazy right now).

And then he told me – at 14 and a fourth years old – something that I remember very clearly but am struggling with since he (since they all) died. “We all die, but we never leave the ones we love. I will always be with you. Our Gods may not have the same name but they are one and the same being – love (which I questioned deeply and still do because the God of the Bible is only rarely ever what I would call “loving” – he has to invent a son before he becomes that, which to me is kind of this whole personification of the experience of growing and learning and becoming better and letting go of who you thought you had to be in order for life and your world to work).

Then he quoted another scripture to me that has been my north node for the past five and half years since his death. “And Ruth said: “Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”

I want to believe that they are still here. I used to be so faithful to the idea of spirit and energy that it didn’t matter whether I could see the energy with my eyes in a physical manifestation of itself – it was just there, even if it wasn’t, in some form. Now? I don’t know what I believe anymore. Do I still believe that? Absolutely. Scientifically. I mean, hello, gasses that can’t be seen or smelled but can still kill you. Energetic, invisible death.

But in that sense of spirituality and magic? How does that energy put pennies in my bathtub or place heart shaped rocks and leaves directly in my oath where there should not be rocks or random fallen leaves (like in paved parking lots or on concrete pathways in well manicured city parks? I don’t know. Where do the random smells of bacon cooking or the paper mill or even jasmine and smoke when no one is smoking (Dorie) come from? Where does the audible sound of the piano or a typewriter come from when there are no working typewriters in my house (a couple of broken ones, though) and no one is there but me and I’m not playing the piano?

Are these experiences a mere wishful figment of my imagination? Or are they my people, who are still in some way my people, that have not left me? DO THEY still dwell where I dwell, just in a different dimension?

I want to believe that. I choose to believe that. But sometimes that belief hurts…because when I “feel them there,” it’s not enough. I want to hug them and hold them and say the things I didn’t say to them and apologize for things I did say that I wish I hadn’t said. I want to feel their warmth and hear their breath and their voices. I long to just sit with them for a moment and hold their hands in mine. To sing with them. To laugh with them. To feel the safety and the gratitude of their physical presence. But none of our bodies are safe. They will die. They are literally dying now – and have been from the moment we were born. But what about our souls?

I want to go there. I want to know. So when I say I’m ready for that trip? It’s curiosity and it’s existentialism and it’s wonder and in all of my thoughts about it, that place is so much better than this one. It’s not that I don’t deeply love and want to be around the people I love and call friends and family now. It’s missing the soul connections with those people because the physical gets in the way of that in this society and in this world today. It’s not as magical as it used to be.

Things are no longer filled with so much color and shine – although for a moment they were again, for a recent moment…a moment I sometimes wish I’d never had now because the taste of that and then seeing the mirage that it was…that hurts almost worse than losing my people to death, because maybe, just maybe, they still exist where that never did.

These are the thoughts in my mind tonight – or this morning – at 3:33AM. I know they may sound a little delirious and maybe they are. Are my thoughts any more or less real than my soul? Or are they one and the same? This is why I studied and continue to study human behavior and human cognition and spirituality and philosophy. Because I NEED to know. And one day, I will. But not today – because today things need to be cleaned and washed and taught to the boy. So not today…and I should try again to sleep.

F*** It.

Today someone asked me a whole lot of questions about different things. The one that stuck out the most for me was about how I felt about dealing with the situation with my mother, and if I felt like a bad daughter. It didn’t take more than a nano second for me to yell, “HELL NO I don’t feel like I’m being a bad daughter – I think what’s going on is that I’m sick and tired of being treated like one.”

It’s triggering many things, from depression and hurt in general, to bad dreams and weird memories from my childhood… Not that life isn’t difficult for all of us at some point in time, and all the time for some people, but that’s the thing I’m feeling the most. It’s just all so difficult. I told my mother’s doctor just last week I no longer wanted to be her guardian (something I’ve been fighting to be named as for over a year) and that I was willing to lose the land and even my horses at this point if it meant that she was cared for. I feel like I just can’t deal with it anymore.

As far as drinking – I shared a while back that I was concerned about how much I was drinking. Truth be told I’ve been using alcohol as a sort of escape for a long time, just not to this level. I had quit for a while but I just picked it right back up because, well, in the simplest of terms, fuck it. I know it’s not the answer and I know it’s not healthy (at a number of levels) but right now I really just don’t care.

I really don’t care about anything right now… I feel very much like I could hide away and stay gone for a very long time and be perfectly OK with that. I really can’t even find my words today – which is also unusual.

I’m angry. I’m depressed. I’m not well. And honestly, I don’t care. I’m ok with not being ok. And right now I’m ok with drinking myself to death. I don’t care if that sounds selfish to some, or if it’s something others can’t understand. Raw me here. I don’t want to walk in these shoes anymore. I don’t really want to walk at all. And I’m not even writing this under the influence of alcohol. I’m also not writing it for attention. I write. That’s it.

New Year, Not a New Me

Hey y’all. What’s going on in the world of WP?

I’m just gonna put it all out there like it is. I have not been very good at keeping up with this site. I’ve been struggling to keep up with ANYTHING. But clearly, with the new year, it’s societally correct to “start over.” I’m not doing that – I’m just gonna work on the “continuing” of things.

My idea is to simply post.  I have NO plan as to scheduling, post content, or anything else (although I would like to share more of my music here, thanks to the inspiration and advice of my incredibly talented and successful friends Vincent Corver and Andrew Huang).

The best I can do is try to give myself the time and the space I deserve to express myself – that’s been a huge part of what’s been holding me back in the past year. I got back on Facebook for a minute but I just can’t deal with Facebook. There’s no point in trying to share artistically there, and everything else (personal page related) is a great big political downer. I finally just deactivated because I’m so sick of Trump just the mention of his name makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit and almost go into a panic attack.

So. I’ve been focusing on sharing creative links (my own and those of others) via Twitter and Instagram the past couple of days, with a lot more interaction and a lot more friendliness. And now, here I am. Just ready to dump some music and photos and words on ya. Kind of like the old me used to do. I like the old me pretty much the way she was. 😉

With that, I’m gonna shout out my friend Andrew Huang here by sharing one of his recent releases with you and ask you to check it out, and stay tuned for more of my own creative outbursts, as they come.

Thanks for sticking around. Happy new year, y’all. Wishing the best of everything to and for everyone.

Much love,

C.

Thoughts in Flight

It’s been a weird several days. Aside from life being life, I am basically at a loss for what I want to share as far as subject matter of images, or how I want to share them – especially on my photography blog and on my social media platform of choice (Instagram). I mean, I don’t like the random. It feels too chaotic. I like things to sort of “match” and to blend and flow. I’m into themes (you can probably decipher that if you look at my Instagram profile as a whole for the past several weeks of posts). It’s got something to do with symbolically maintaining a bit of control of myself and my life.

I feel a lot of panic lately. I feel a lot of panic in general but my death panic is the worst part of it. My death panic is BAD lately. Not just my death panic for myself (I’m not afraid of death, but of leaving my son without a mother), but also my death panic about my mom (who, even though we are…not the best of friends, is my only living relative left), death panic about friends, death panic about my son’s family and him facing grief. It’s like all the loss has caught up with my mind and the CPTSD stuff is not helping.

I’m oversharing again, as I do. This is why I have a blog. Sigh.

I’m trying to think and exist in a positive space. I’m focused a lot on my illness and restoring my physical health (new probiotics in the mail!!). I’m also spending a lot of time planning the food I’ll grow this season and preparing my raised beds and backyard for all those grand ideas. That helps. It’s good to hang out in the outdoors in shorts and tshirt and get dirty and sweat already. I like that a lot. I didn’t think I was ready for winter to end this year. I WAS WRONG. Nope, still not a winter person.

I digress (as usual). Here’s where I was going to begin with:  Sometimes my thoughts feel like they are (almost) literally flying around in my head. It’s like this very demanding, exhausting experience of what feels like mental gymnastics to try to flip and bend, leap and stretch, desperately trying to both understand what all these thoughts mean and how they entertwine, and to somehow make something graceful out of it because otherwise it’s just going to be an extremely tangled and not very asthetically pleasing mess. Nobody likes a tangled, un-asthetically pleasing mess, especially if it is one inside their mind that they have to carry around all day, every day.

Sometimes there are so many thoughts, encompassing such a vast expanse of ideas and issues, that they seem to crash into each other and meld into a fleeting fusion of momentary wonder and I really have no full idea what they have actually become before they disintegrate into the mental exhaustion that envelopes me from trying to sort and understand them. It’s a bit depressing, really. When that happens I feel so…unintelligent, incapable, and silently swallowed. If I can’t express my thoughts – my words – then I am silent, and when I am silent I feel like I can’t breathe.

It’s not a need to express myself and be read or heard, necessarily. It’s just expressing in general, whether it is in a private journal I keep or the notepad on my phone that nobody ever sees, or a blip of an Instablog on Instagram or a full blog post here. It doesn’t matter if anyone sees it (much less understands it). It’s just getting it out. What matters is that I am understanding myself. That’s what this entire blogging/instablogging/online conversation is about for me – that, which is where my writing comes from: the depths of my being; and, it is about hoping someone else finds inspiration or support of some kind as I make my way through my now.

So, when I find myself left in silence, it’s because I am not understanding myself and I can not find or even create the words necessary to do so. In a general sense, that has never bothered me; recently, it has become unacceptable for me. In the last few years this experience has come to create a choas and a discomfort within me. I hate it. But what I have found in the last few years is that in those times the words are not what are important. It’s the feelings – and sometimes there just aren’t any words that are appropriate. Feelings are a language all their own, and I am reconnecting with that, within myself.

It’s especially complicated on the days after nights when I haven’t been able to sleep. It’s a consistent – perhaps chronic – theme for me lately, this not being able to sleep. Not being able to sleep means that a) I have this plethora of constantly running ideas and thoughts and feelings overwhelming me and b) I’m forever exhausted and being exhausted does NOT help me to cope with the mind noise that is always there. I always try to write it away, and for years and years (most of my life) that has worked. It works better than music, better than meditation, better than escaping into a book…writing is what works best for me. So why can’t I write now, when I so desperately need my writing and to break my silence? I don’t know.

What’s changed? What’s happening? Most of my followers/people I actually have gotten to know and have followed ANYWHERE online have long since wandered away from the different sites and forums. So have I. I’m no longer on Facebook, post on deviantART about once every six years, blog about once a month (except for this blog, which I started this year for the precise reason of thinking that a fresh, new slate would open new possibilities for my inspirations and my creative drive), and I am even getting really sparse with my posts on Instagram, which is a complete shock to even me.

I don’t know what changed, really. It’s been a very slow decline for YEARS – after having my son in 2009 I just kind of…fell away from the world in general. I was too busy for anything else. Then, I got myself involved in a whole bunch of exquisitely beautiful crazy that brought me back to my creativity and desire to be expressive (gotta be grateful for having a muse cross your path), but then my dad died in July 2015. At that point, I was foundering… When my best friend Dorie died of cancer in March of last year (March 22, 2016), I just kind of died along with her in a lot of ways.

There’s been SO MUCH DEATH and loss and destruction of me over the years – especially throughout Dorie’s cancer, because of the cancer and because of the things that were going on my life during that time. I am STILL trying to comprehend that period of my life. My creative side has always remained, and always continued to be my sanity, but lately I find myself in a desperate struggle to express it. It’s not even that I fail because I try to force it. I don’t even have the oompf  to do that.

I tried to start over on dA and created a new account and everything, but I never use it. No one really connected to it – no one was really left there that I knew anyway… I have taken up with the Instagram community, and that’s mostly where I share my photos at this point, and has been my hub for about two years now. It’s really easy to share my photos with my mobile devices there, and I rarely touch my computer anymore except to blog. Instagram is convenient. There are also a lot of friends there who help me through the ups and downs of grief, cptsd, anxiety, panic, and my celiac diagnosis… I appreciate them, but I haven’t even been active there for the last week and my activity for the last few months there has been sparse, to say the least. I don’t know what’s going on, really.

I’m not in a creative slump. I just feel like there’s too much whirling around in my head. I can’t sort it. I can’t see any of it clearly enough to do anything useful with it. Dorie used to say,  “You’ve got to step outside the tornado.” It was kind of our little process, together. Step outside of the tornado, and start identifying and picking up the pieces, even as they still fell. That always worked amazingly, because we would help each other through that process. We both understood the process and how it worked so we didn’t even really have to talk to do it. It just happened. Now, she’s not here and I can’t seem to do it on my own. Not effectively or efficiently, anyway. My last post, where I shared about deleting my past, was the most effective way that I could step outside the tornado. I managed that part. But even though the mind noise has become quieter, I don’t know what to do with what I’m observing about myself.

I feel like I’m stuck in this weird, empty limbo. I don’t even know why I’m choosing to share this because I know that the likelihood is that it makes little to no sense. I suppose the point is that I’m grasping for straws and just hoping for something useful and solid to grab onto. I think it’s safe to say that in a very general sense the year 2016 sucked for EVERYONE. I feel like that’s carried over into 2017 with my newest life situation – my mother has begun the fall into dementia and that’s very hard to deal with. Caring for her is the hardest thing I’ve ever done because we don’t even like each other. That cptsd thing I mentioned before is rooted in my childhood with my mother.

It’s all very stressful and emotional and I think the truth is that I’m just exhausted. I’m exhausted from figuring out and dealing with life without my Dad or Dorie here to be my guides. But, we all eventually face that time where “we’re it.” You know what I mean? It’s hard. It’s doable though – we’ve been doing this for thousands and thousands of years, right? The cycles, the whole “life” thing. Life on life’s terms – I cringe to say that phrase but it’s the truth…

Alas, I hope YOU are all doing much better than I feel like I am doing with my life in 2017. I hope 2017 is treating you kindly. I hope you are still feeling inspired and driven and still making art, whether with words or paints or cameras or your hands…whatever medium you’re into. I’m not feeling very present today, so I admittedly have no idea who is doing what, where, or how – especially not those I have lost touch with online or in real life… But I do think of everyone I “know” every so often, and I find myself thinking, “I miss the ‘old days…'”

I will end my “catchup post” here, as my cat’s snoring is taunting me to rest (and my tired muscles, after having worked in the gardens all morning and early afternoon – I’m so unfit since winter, but working on it!). Hope you’re all doing well and having a lovely start to your week! Much love and happy arting…

C.