I recently began writing what will be a sequel to the book I am currently trying to get published. I had always assumed that the next part wouldn't come to mind until I had the solid knowledge that the first would be picked up, but like a lot of things, it had a mind of its own. So now I find myself waking in the morning and (stubbornly) falling asleep at night, once again caught in a whirlwind of images and dialogue. 

I can be sitting in my kitchen, having a cup of tea and minding my own business, when all of a sudden there were be a character's voice ringing out, demanding to be recorded, or a scene played out before my eyes as though on a mental reel. The only way I can really describe the process of writing these stories is to compare it to a field journalist following around a group of people, scrambling to record everything seen and heard as fast as possible before they wander off again. These stories are theirs, and I'm merely around as record keeper. 

It's been almost eight years since I first sat down to my computer and felt the beginnings of a story spark from my fingertips. I had just had my son and found myself finally being able to bridge the gap between imagination and expression. I'd always wanted to write, and did so here and there since I was eight years old, but never before had I been able to sit myself down and allow a world to unfold at the stroke of a key to this degree. 

The first story poured from me, and then, nothing. I wrote it, I got it out. Then I set it aside and life continued. Over the years I'd edit here and there, share it with beta readers, and gather what I could in terms of response and feedback. I'm one of those terribly odd people who absolutely thrives on constructive criticism and actively seeks out (genuine) critique so that I can spot areas in need of improvement and growth. It's the critique that opens discussion, encourages dialogue, and that's always been a significant part of why I love to write. I love to communicate and to explore different elements of thought and life, and a great source of this type of dimension is through varied perspective. 

So now I once again find myself sitting before the laptop, stumbling after the characters that have been a part of my life for nearly a decade. As this new part of the story will continue to manifest, I welcome the added color it shall bring to the long and exciting (if not outright daunting) process of venturing into the world of publishing. 

Diremption

Hello everyone! Very exciting news to share!

I was very kindly given a spot in the Creative Writing section of Elan Vital Magazine where they have published my short story, "Diremption" (a dreamscape).

It is a wonderful magazine that offers a platform for a variety of artistic endeavors, so please check them out! 

Of Value

Of all the elements of my childhood to survive into adulthood, my imagination has easily been one of, if not the most, valuable. 

The ability to see something before your eyes, and then see through it, even beyond it, is a precious gift. There were many days as a child that I sought refuge in the ability to watch the physical world around me melt away. Like shedding a skin that no longer fit, each time I ventured further into my mind and found myself physically walking a path that did not exist to another, I found not only freedom but solace and knowledge of the self. 

To discover a new world before me was to discover a new world within me. I found new facets of myself and was able to find platforms with which to explore those facets. 

Exposure to books, music, and nature was like taking a whetstone to my mind, and like casting light through a prism, each source brought forth a multitude of experiences and opportunities to learn and understand not only myself, but also the world as it appeared to be. 

Through these exercises in escape and exploration, I found myself appreciating the varying shades of life around me. The way a simple shift in perspective can greatly differentiate between hues, and in turn know that no matter how brilliant or dull one may appear to me, there is no way to see the same color through another's eyes. 

Imagination was a means of pulling me through time and space, through the worlds and words of others, and bursting through boundaries set by those who would rather confine and control than venture to step on new ground. 

To imagine is to travel, to journey, and like all other aspects of the mind, the ability to do so is unique to the individual. Imagination is inherently incomparable, that is what makes it so precious. One may imagine through vision, others through words, even through means yet to be conveyed by human communication. One is not superior to another, nor is it inferior. It is simply what it is needed to be, not by direction or description of another, but by necessity of the individual and the mind which seeks to use it as the tool that it is. 

Ember and Ash

Today I remembered dance. I felt the movements echo within my muscles, reawakening energy that has laid dormant, even afraid. 

It's been nearly half a year since I felt myself begin to disintegrate. Like watching the embers of a dying fire drift out into the air, I saw the remnants of who I had been rise and vanish before my eyes. Something hidden had been punctured through the actions of another, releasing the agony of the ghosts of my former selves out into the blistering light. 

It has not been a swift purge. No sudden flash igniting the remains of a long dead past, but a slow and steady burn. Charring me from the inside out and scorching against the ragged marks of nails scratched from within, desperately seeking liberation from the entombment of my darkest memories. 

Though the initial cremation is ending, I now face the healing of the raw and new self coming into being. The time for mourning the old has passed, gone away in the ashes and tears that littered the path behind me. 

I may remain dormant for some time still; safely encased as I am reintroduced to my world as it is now, and not as it was then. Likewise, this time granted to me by the very virtue of having survived this transformation offers the space to reacquaint myself with who I am now, out from under the shadow of who I was then. 

Memories can echo from bone just as easily as they can from sight or smell. As they rise like smoke from a fire long gone, it is only natural to acknowledge the beauty as well as the despair that may emerge in these final breaths. Like smoke, it does not do to inhale these spectres, and so as they rise I watch them go. The wonderful, and the ghastly. 

Now as I feel a new energy striking a spark somewhere within the confines of my sanctuary, my muscles reawaken in memory. My steps may not be what they had been, and my dance may form from the reverberation of those that came before it, but I can feel music coursing through me again, and like ashes to a wind, I must move with it. 

Caught in the Echo Chamber

Why is it that so many find it such a great task to find validation in their own worth, existence, or production? Granted, there are also those who never seem to cease in finding reason to call to attention to each and every success, but even in those instances, are they truly celebrating their self worth or simply using a louder projection in order to seek validation of their efforts?

Humans are naturally multifaceted beings, which in turn brings out the natural curiosity as to how others may perceive the many sides and faces that produce an individual. Though we may be multifaceted, however, we're not all reflective, and to treat one another as a mirror not only permeates a wrongful truth about yourself, but also about them as well. To regard one another as true independent beings is to also regard yourself as one. It is understandable as an action in regards to needing to meet on a common ground, but in terms of seeking reflection, why look for your own face in someone else?

With today's seemingly never-ending platforms at hand, we have a much larger expanse within which to explore not only ourselves but also our world as a whole. Producing our own projections of reality as well as being (theoretically) receptive of others'. This is a wonderful opportunity to learn, grow, and communicate with those who may never have had a voice or ear before. But often instead of allowing for this truly symbiotic exchange to occur, it would seem the relative safety and pseudo-comfort of merely projecting in the hopes of receiving a response solely related to said projection takes precedence. 

Perhaps in these instances, we're not seeking actual reflection, but an echo of our own voice carried on the wind, reverberating and coming back as though from an outside source. In doing this, are we waiting for the echo of our own perception or merely hoping to hear the resonating proof of others beyond our own range? 

Whereas in the past the only means of receiving such an echo came from a vicinity likened to that of a small hill at best, today our carrying range is akin to standing atop a mountain and calling out into the clouds. The echos and voices which may return are inherently scattered, nameless, and of unknown origin. If in seeking validation we cannot fully trust our own voice, how can we put so much trust into those who have never seen the actual ground we stand upon? 

Floating

It's amazing what a release of strain it can be to move with the undercurrent of life. Not being swept away by it, not being tossed in opposition to it, but genuinely moving with it.

This is not to say the undercurrent holds only hues of negativity. Strain can follow in the wake of the positive just as well, but often people can become so caught up in the sense of difference from the more easily recognizable negative that they cling to it. Though a relief, this mental and emotional intoxication can also blind and numb the perception of reality that may be necessary for the placement of the next sure step.

The positive and the negative should be able to move in and out of life with the same ease as inhaling and then exhaling. Like breath, these moments are necessary to move forward, to think, to feel, to live. However, if you held onto any of these beyond their necessary purpose, like holding a breath, it can become toxic. 

It's natural to experience each moment, even savor it. The good and the bad offer lessons, reprieve, joy, pain, acknowledgement and reinforcement of existing as a being. So why cling to one for any longer than is necessary? To do so would be to hold it for longer than it may be effective, essentially depriving it as well as you of that initial nourishment. It may also delay or hinder the ability to recognize or  even appreciate the next moment. At its worse, it may even breed fear of its potential loss, when in reality it has already gone. 

There is nothing wrong with loving a moment which brings joy just as there is nothing wrong with surviving through a moment of anguish. But these moments are here and then they are not, and to cling to something beautiful or to something ugly is nothing more than grasping for something solid in an endless sea of emptiness. 

There is understandable fear in letting go of the notion of the need for something for support, for connection, and for stability. Like clinging to the wall of a pool or a floating support in the middle of the water. The fear to sink, to be forgotten, to be overcome by the open expanse around you can bring you to dig your fingernails deeper into anything that offers the ability to float. 

By clinging to these objects, these moments, good or bad, you seek confirmation in the idea of needing something to stay above the water. 

But if all attention and fear is dedicated to these distractions, how will you ever remember that you can swim?

A Vision Dream

I emerge from the mouth of a snake. I see the eyes of a corpse roll to the back of its head, its skin and flesh pulled upwards from its feet and skull. I sit on a rock in prostration where the snake had been and feel my own skin and flesh pulled from me like a cloth over my head. A beaked entity stretches my skin like a hide across a frame and scrapes it raw with its talons.

I sit as a skeleton on the rock, then fall backwards out of myself as a new body. I make jewelry from the fingers and hands and wear them across my breasts and place the skull atop my own head. I gather the bones and throw them into a fire before the rock, lighting up the cave that I now stand within.

I dance, and as I dance, bone-deep cuts appear on my upper arms and ankles, like bands so cleanly cut that no blood pours out. I feel my flesh once again be pulled from myself, this time not as a singular piece, but in solid chunks, like one pulling meat from a bone. First my arms, then my legs, then my torso, and finally my skull. Standing as a bare skeleton, I step into the fire and sit in the embers, allowing the fire to consume my bones, turning them black and crushing them into ash.

The fire dies and I emerge from the ashes crawling toward the mouth of the cave. I pull myself through into a mist covered charnel ground. I have been here before. It is flanked by two mountain peaks; the ground is cold and made of ash and bone.

I stumble like a newborn animal across the stretch of the grounds to the edge of the cliff where a man in plain brown robes stands. He turns to face me and I see a face that I recognize but cannot name. He has black hair that pulls backward and down his neck, he has a mustache which falls on either side of his mouth, with a small bristled beard beneath. His forehead slopes slightly forward, giving his features an overall mask-like form. He pulls me forward and throws me through the air.

I soar through the mist and into a dense and green forest. I sail through it as though it is merely a passageway, emerging into open air on the other side. I fly through the clouds high in the mountains, everything is grey, cold, and crisp.

I see the clouds part, revealing a sanctuary built into the side of a peak with gravel and rock just beneath it. I land and stare up at what appears to be a deserted place. It is well decorated, but faded, empty and yet echoing a life that once lived within its walls.

I turn to find the man in the brown robe behind me grinning that mask-like grin. He holds his arm out to the sanctuary, closes his fist and pulls his arm down through the air, subsequently demolishing the building off the face of the mountain.

I stare at him as though in asking why. He sits on the gravel and I sit across from him. Without his lips moving, he explains that a building, no matter how holy, is like a body. And that a body, no matter its existence, is holy. But the two are alike most in that they house, they are containers, and therefore are subsequently empty in their nature. Without the light within, a building is nothing more than a shell. Without the essence within, a body is nothing more than a shell.

He removes his face to reveal a red, gold, and black wrathful one beneath, continuing to grin. Then removes this to reveal a tangled and writhing creature of pain, disease, and suffering, its bright green eyes rolling in agony. I reach forward to help, asking what I can do to relieve its pain. The tentacles writhe and fly toward me as though to attach themselves. A voice from within says that I must learn to act in compassion without becoming part of the suffering itself. It will attach like a leech, feeding the internal agony of the one, while feasting upon and depleting the other.

I straighten my back and return to the writhing creature, mindful of presenting compassion without opening myself as a vessel to be ingested, or to ingest in turn. The tentacles writhe manically across my chest and shoulders, seeking to latch on but to no avail.

I lean back into a seated position and the creature is pulled out of the robes, vanishing in the air and revealing the first face once again. This one does not seem like a mask, but like skin and bones.

He smiles at me, no longer grinning.

Emptiness, he says, is an existence. It, like air, can be contained, but does not have to become the container. Like the sanctuary had once been a grand display of accomplishment, it was nothing more than a container for something of a formless nature. Life and purpose moved through the building like air through the lungs. Always present, yet always changing and in constant movement. It is not stagnant, and to become stagnant is to become contained. With containment comes comfort, and in this comfort you can rot without knowing.

It is natural to be in one form, and then to not. It does not mean there is no existence, only that existence in and of itself is boundless. To be free to move in and out, one must understand the nature of the shackles which bind them and hold them enclosed. Existence is not meant to be sealed, but it gains great benefit from being formed, and it is in these forms that action, benefit, and compassion can be transmitted. Without form, you are existence.

He reaches to the top of his head which the skull meets, and in one swift motion splits his body into two, each side falling away like the shells of an egg, revealing nothingness. The robes pile before me and the body becomes ash, spreading itself across the ground. The wind pulls me to my feet and sends me flying back through the clouds and I awake in bed. 

Turning with the Wheel

With my birthday weekend upon me, I find myself once again looking within to feel what changes have occurred over the years as well as to consider those yet to come. 

My personal nature has always held a strong connection with the notion of impermanence; the chaotic, yet guaranteed reality of change, and welcomes it like a comforting embrace. Like water, I thrive on movement, change, and seeking new pathways yet to be forged. When caught in pockets of my own life where I find stagnation has taken hold, I tend toward introspective suspension or thrash about in desperation (quiet or otherwise) in the hopes of regaining or creating that inherent sense of mobility. Whether crashing through and over, or slowly but surely wearing away, barriers are temporary to water, and it is usually in these moments, whether in patience or action, that water exhibits its true natural strength. 

With another year come and gone, and one new looming on the horizon, I continue to move with the wheel, changing with the seasons and finding rebirth in the sweetest or most trying of times. Some shifts are easier than others, but all remind me of the endurance of impermanence, and so with every barrier, every change, every fall, I reemerge once again whole, renewed, and bearing the knowledge and strength of my previous forms. 

Whether coursing through the earth, rising as steam pulled from a heated source, or falling from the sky, water continues, and so shall I.