Considering the theme, Lucifer and the fate of souls it should be Wagnerian themes perhaps on classical guitar - or Gabor Szabo doing duets with Stanley Jordan on guitar might be fun.
I'm not sure what sense you are using 'challenged' in...I enjoy feeling challenged in the sense of stretching my mind outside its usual zone using it more fully.
Occasional perfection is within my experience, sustainable excellence is what i seek.
It is not a walk in the park surrounding oneself with people of that calibre, and people who don't give credit to the team once it is assembled and working are heading for a crash.
A really good manager lets the higher-ups know that the shine is reflected from the stars working for her.
Of course higher ups worth their salt already know that.
Fits perfectly to my taste. I have never read Norman McClean and will move to rectify that.
<On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.>
Gods, if I could write like that I might actually send stuff to a publisher!
Now in the spirit of the thread I'm going to bounce off this...
Drink from the well of souls and make them your immortals through rich memories of how and what and who they were let knowledge light your candle in the doorway that calls them home to snug within your heart, to feed the winding river that we follow to the source where light begins illumines us with antique gold across the parchment of the lives we hold so cheaply till the end when suddenly the sum we spend has left an empty pocket that a universe could hide in. Come, walk the path that counts the cost and holds the footprints of our passing then on the water's edge, dip bleeding feet in heaven know paradise is real, is always lost and found when eyes, ears, heart are open to the world.
As i started the thread and it is just the two of us playing we are not actually hijacking someone else's entertainment, and it is a single thread not multiple posts swamping the whole forum....
It is pleasant to get a chance to stretch some metaphysical muscles..then there is the book angle...
That said: you are really raising the bar here, each icon clamours for recognition!
Rebirth
Earth powers through the roots to feed the thoughts that shape the thin morality of life as natural gives way to structure asking for a tithe, a tax on worship as old gods die aghast at the impossible, eternity removed with promises of afterlife rewards not here and now a richness to be bathed in, relished in the sun. Frail dark clad humans intercede, they bargain for a truth unknown, uncounted in the tenfold law which always pays its debts. The mask is iron on my face sheer custom weighting it in place for ever as my soul wails for the freedom of the green, the scent of water, rough of bark, cathedral in the woods that holds more spirit than the stone that captures saints in torment relegating cats to witches instead of kings; a pale reality that claims flesh makes us weak ignoring that the flesh is just a vessel for the soul and so cannot be less than powerful to channel the true fire of existence there is no self but all self in the moment fails unless it burns to ashes, is consumed and hell is where it happens making heaven just the obverse of the coin.
She writes or dies, the perfect sacrifice all spread beneath the sun so filled with drugs the obsidian touch that spills the eternal blood is welcomed, love drinking at the heart untouched by time that scoured the faces of the others down to bone, the skull behind the beauty foreshadowing the death that future brings to bloom, a blossom holding palaces of pain between its petals glowing in the matchless light that blushes on the walls cast from a fallen angel's soulless eyes that see outside the box, twisting nature, thought and dreamtime to his cause designing an illusion of damnation that pretends to be the end and rends her final thought with claws that write eternity across her brow.
There is indeed a difference between the occasional grammatical error or lack of initial capitals and wholesale recreation of the language. We do write quickly in the forum and it is easy to misstype or omit the space bar in our rush to publication.
I skip over posts that don't read like English because of contractions so severe the poor thing should be giving birth.
Profiles, in my opinion, are more appealing when I can understand what is written. And while I am dyslexic, I am usually pretty good at comprehension and communication, so care taken gives me information about the writer.
and impulse is the master of us all, except the dalai lama, even he may have a moment where duality shudders into out of, into light schroedinger's dead cat come alive, or living, dead inside its box does it still purr? Am I writing or is this bleeding on the page that circumscribes the border of my life while knowledge makes the picture dance on screens across the world. Reality undone, the passion frozen in the moment is a crime, un marked and uncommitted flicker of matchlight on a wall.
No horns, no tail, no fiery eyes just beauty without feeling, immaculate, near perfect with just one fatal flaw for lucifer could see himself reflected in the angels' eyes as beautiful, and pride became a cancer in his soul and questions raised about the weight of value given man flawed monkey unperfected, left to grow to overtake the angels in importance the morningstar would dim against the glory of man's spirit at its best; with just one step, he chose to fall to darkness where he became the only light amid dark burning of damnation a match to strike against the walls of all desire without heart or love, devoid of feeling that can make the beauty live.
This is a tough one to follow, but words are the building blocks of worlds and mysteries.
so break me, fragile on the wheel of ego, striving for the summit as I become a falling morning star and lucifer my master, all beauty shielded in the images of prideful hell that stretches an eternal conversation into babble that fish sup upon as clouds streamer into fragments, tossing veils across the screen of life. we speak in measured tones of law and probity while faces smile, a child's forgotten laughter dying echoes in the chambers of our thought.
I saw a painting once of a rough sea and the edges of the waves were magnificent prancing horses, and sometimes watching the sea on the East Coast here, where it is very rough and not safe to swim, it is easy to imagine the waves are horses racing to the beach.
Well, I rode a horse once, after knee surgery, and it had blown itself up so once we all got going the saddle slipped to one side and as my sisters started galloping the horse I was on galloped too.
I have never been on a horse since, not the horses' fault, just i never need to have quite that large a dose of adrenaline again all at once!
Wind those sheets about your form and delve the depth of fiction, seeking truth that splits reality asunder; heartthunder pulsing underneath the lies, sweet social stink of passionless emotions playing out the empty drama of a broken soul, foreshadowing of what we run from every day; ah to be as truthful as a cat. A purr for pleasure and a claw to make you right sized when you trespass in the garden of the law.
I lay against your skin all stretched and sweating, heart pumping, chest heaving in a search for air, flesh aquiver all along your flank, as muscles cool perhaps, or ache from our wild ride through space and time; my fingers, tangled in your mane, are sore, near bleeding, wind has dragged my tears all salty, down my cheeks onto your shoulder to mingle with your sweat and mine, while the furnace of your breath blows back the hot sweet scent of grass across my face as we slow our pace from headlong to an amble that lets me look at all the wonder that you are, sleek hide all dark, just steaming with exertion, the rounded barrel of your chest so unaffected by the terror-stricken crush of thighs made strong by dancing; your shoulder and your neck supporting all of me like thistledown that wants to slide to earth but cannot stand on muscles made of water, unlike yours still full of power all thrumming with the urge to run, again.
Wild white horses of the sea turn to foam when I plunge between them, yet from the beach I see them clear as the water that they move in full of power, muscling through the waves, heads tossing, manes aflowing, rearing back with flashing hoofs throwing rainbows all across the bay. They race, they gallop, coming closer, bearing down on me, then disappear just leaving bubbles wrapped around my ankles where wonder used to be.
BTW I am not sad or depressed right now despite the sombre notes underlying my morning song. I just had a moment when I could see all the layers, and had to try to capture them.
This morning’s palette brims with green turning to yellow, touched with gold, backed by blue all interspersed with white, a single swatch of grey on the horizon waving flags of rain to come unless the wind is swift enough to take it out to drown the sea with bounty; dogs bark, birds harp upon their problems as the cats surround the mango tree stillness belied by twitching tails and the stutter of a hunting call that counterpoints the birdsong with a darker note, a shade of grey that croons of blood and meat, a Christmas colour scheme against the grass if birds are slow; the scents of sunlight warming earth, of bacon on the move from pan to table, trace of coffee in the distance carried gently on the wind that strokes my face as the morning shifts its dance around me, leaning here, observer open wide to light, to sound, to scent, to anything that might dilute the grey, a tiny seed inside that grows to lonely when all I do is watch the world and life at play.
Magnetizing and riveting gave me an idea of what to expect!
Actually, the modifications are visually reminiscent of tribal scarification.
This is one of those interesting conundrums. Certainly one should not be discriminated against for any reason, but one cannot compare self-modification with naturally occurring differences, a very specious argument.
Also, when fighting for the right to look as one wishes, one must then grant the right to others (a corporation, for example) to look as it wishes and if it wishes to be seen in all its buttoned down, suited, conservative blandness...well so be it.
The word 'discrimination' is a handy tool to manipulate circumstances and people because of the guilt factor. When misused to satisfy personal agendas it dilutes the impact of those efforts to fight discrimination that causes much deeper harm in the greater scheme of things than being unacceptable in a particular job because you will bring extreme and sudden unbalance into the existing culture.
bajanblue Forum Posts (3,724)
Challenging!
Shadowplay
Considering the theme, Lucifer and the fate of souls it should be Wagnerian themes perhaps on classical guitar - or Gabor Szabo doing duets with Stanley Jordan on guitar might be fun.