stream of consciousness..

(prose-like, stream of consciousness in the raw unedited breaths of thought)

09.07.11

This is life as life is meant when you remove the plastic; rid of the flavoured icing and taste the marrow that pulses within each of us. Some of us received our blessings early, some of us are still vying for grace, but as the song goes, “what if God is one of us” or as I say, what if we are God, it is all within us.

Stop! Don’t close the page just yet. Hold your finger there for a moment; curse me if you must; I shall not be selling snake oil, or turn water into wine. Plenty of whine in these pages, but the type that is reserved for a bit of snarky retort. No, I realize that I am blessed as I type these words. I’m not some deluded white girl who thinks her life has been hell because no on loved her just so, or she didn’t get to be the star of the show. No, I’m blessed because I’ve kissed death more than once and found the strength to stop it from kissing back.

Our darkest hours oft are our greatest gifts. I’ve watched the candle burn out time and time again trying to find a bit of light in the gloaming. In my roaming, I found out that it isn’t not seeing to fear, but not believing… in one’s self.

Dive into the deep with me. I promise you a life raft, but there may be holes. No worries, I guarantee you’ll float you believe in dreams, in themes. Boot strapping, fastening waders up to get through when you’re hip stuck in shit. Figting to lift yourself up; to rise from the east after a midnight rain so you can dance home in the sun.

I shall offer you my theme songs. I shall try to make your feet tap. I shall hum slightly to inspire a new rhythm. I’m hoping you’ll come along, catch my song and at least laugh. If there was ever anything won from this life that has been my past, it is my lessons through other’s eyes that has blessed me with another chance.

Shall we dance ~

*********************************************************************

04.23.11

Nossack called it The End but as I read I realize as he realized that it could also be called The Begin, not unlike the death upon us as we are told it means to rebirth, to be those flowers that were given root in season only to be wiped away by the breath of winter and her frozen ways. but come spring, the dampness digs deep into the very veins of a cellular level to push the phloem toward new heights to reach the warmer lights of a sun ready to shine again.
Hamburg was burnt out and burnt out again but the silence of the city as she quaked within the rubble didn’t speak, dared not to trespass against the sin as she, and its people, turned their cheek to the sky and prayed for something beyond what had been left them. but the prayers were silent without even a utter of god, or amen, or to their neighbor who was just one of them. beyond the lies of the State telling them that soon they could begin, again.
Nossack returned from a far again and again with his ladder and his pen, unable to let go of what had happened within his city. where time stood still as he photographed the bell tower that stopped at a quarter til one and they were one, all of them, as they stared at the burnt out scene trying to reckon the loss of everything. that photograph of the beloved aunt or the china collected long ago as they stepped upon the path to the upright chimney that blew its dust into the wind. no longer the wood smoke echo, but a layer of what covered all of them and those that had already been, recovered to another place their bodies carbonized with an echo of a face. How could one complain not knowing if their neighbor went back in and became one of them, laying on the street with parts of limbs loss to the power of the heat, the fire, singed them into a visual disbelief.
Noassack contemplated the lack of complaint with the detachment of one who saw his own world burn away and knew as many knew there was so much more than that night, than the following day. To begin, again, to not reckon too much lament, the detachment of sins for was it among all of them, the bombers the bombers the bombers, a circle fueled by fuel not unlike today’s war sins. Only one had it in his power to prevent the cries of anguish that haunted the dark night of all of them, and the cries grew silent as they rocked themselves to sleep until they met their final end for who can sleep the dreams of heath fields alight with blue violets and grey scattered wings when they’ve seen their light filled with red smoke, carbonized blood and flesh scattered heavenward, grasping for a freedom gone with one sweep. No, the pleasant dreams become fairy tales for the children that shall never see the rubbled street navigated with shoeless feet, the hunched shouldered grime swept faces still looking, still wondering where their place is before winter comes, before the season changes, before their life ends, or begins, again, beyond their street.

***********************************

4.20.11
you better hope that heaven is real, my friend
and that they let me in quick for if my time quickly ends
with time enough to lag around, I’m certain to find my
way back to you. I gave up revenge for lent twenty years
or so ago, check my facebook, even the ex is called friend
despite the crap he did and did again, but that is his sin and
we shall begin again as we do with our kin choosing karma instead
of that leaded bag called revenge. I learned of karma by its
fist first hand, I trespassed my sins only to have them
trespass my cheek, my eye, my lips burned bright
but that, my friend, is the beauty of the end. now I’m living right
call it AUM, call it zen, actually, not even close, not even as the
dawn sets in pink and glows until the rows of roses start to
gain hold of their necks straining softly for the soft kiss of
heat upon their silky lips that waft notes of prose to my nose,
but I digress, I dig holes and deposit corpse pose, but yours is
already full with the crap that you’ve dolled your epitaph reads
a holograph soul flashing a crony a crazy a jack a crone who lost her crown I can tell ya why Jack has dumped you underground
my honesty, my badge my smile, my banner
but my memory is your worst nightmare. as I lay me down
to sleep tonight you better pray a ditty with all your might
that the gate stays open until my peace, or you might just
reckon with an ugly beast, call her karma and she’s hip
to feast all day and night on those that don’t tell the truth.
*****************************************************************************

Leave a comment

6 Comments

  1. keertalk

     /  2011/05/25

    And those that run with no end, who wake to die in the end, an end that had no beginning within.

    Reply
  2. I love thought streams – like a box of chocolates that always open on the underside, presenting the reader with an assortment of snake eyed training shoe )eyelits) so as to thread a lace thru a line, like poetry but with an alternate ending; like poetry but with an ending which alternates; in two seperate shades of cool. 1 2 – did you see what i did there hahahah
    i’m a bore – but you have offered some real inspiration here and 2nite i needed some so thanks. Love the snow blog…ACE

    Reply
  3. Deep stuff!!!

    Reply
  4. I love to start the day with a good bit of stream of conciousness free-writing. Nice work.

    Reply
    • Many thanks…it isn’t everyone’s cuppa, but I find it a rather freeing exercise. ~ a

      Reply
      • It is great to look back at some times. It might only be a nice line here and there which I find – but sometimes they can be wonderful. I found a line in some freewriting the other day in which I described myself as ‘a bowl of over-thinking’ which I am sure will be used in a poem or piece of prose.

what's brewing ~

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    Words are my own unless otherwise noted. Creativity is something to be shared, but that decision should always be left to the creator.
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