Ringtones, Podcasts & Cupcakes

Today my phone chimed in with the famous ringtone I used to assign to men worthy of the term, ‘lover‘,  Let’s Get it On. Yes, I’ve a twisted sense of humour and I’m a phone screener extraordinaire. This ringtone used to either inspire my laughter or disgust, and based on my reaction, I knew whether I wanted to pick up or not.

 

What are old lovers if not opportunistic? Having known my preferences for well over a decade, he was fulfilling his annual happy-new-year-can-I-get-up-your-skirt-check-in-requirement, that quite frankly, had served him  well throughout the years.

Despite my hands-off status, it was interesting to hear from him. You see, besides his jack-of-all-boudoir-trades skills, he was quite a companion of intellect as well.

Which got me to thinking about thinking.

plato-s-symposium-anselm-feuerbach-1873Intellect and thoughtful conversation have always been a huge turn on for me. In our fast-paced lives of distracted-attention-deficit-afflicted-engagement with our loved ones and contemporaries, who has time to think? Like, really take time to put an idea on its’ axis and examine it from all sides? More importantly, who even realizes that we don’t do that? Most importantly, who takes time to set aside a few hours to have meandering discussions about ideas or the creative process, or how we found ourselves at the bottom of the political wheel again? Very few people even have the time, attention or inclination to actually read books (yes, plural) with fully expounded upon ideas, let alone form any original thoughts all on their own. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not scolding anyone, I’m as guilty as the next cog.

Tonight, the noise from the television was right up with there with the noise from a leaf blower (a contraption I believe proves our culture has lost it’s collective fucking mind). With dramatic music playing in the background, and a black and neon blue-lit set to match, celebrity couples were  being pimped on one of those disgustingly pretentious cooking shows.  Le sigh….

Has the world seriously come down to this? Really? We’re judging other people’s fondant and cupcakes with more earnest than our national leaders? Buh. Arf. Do something worthwhile for crying out loud! Sit at the table and eat wieners and beans, but for the love of all that’s holy, try to have an intelligent, engaged conversation.

The poop on the television was in direct contrast to the entertainment I chose on a short road-trip this afternoon. A phone call from a previous lover inspired me to take  time to indulge in some exercise for my intellect. It was refreshing to step away from the madness and listen to someone who has taken the time to do some thinking for us.

 

In a world filled with entertainment that at best can be a terrific study in dramatic background music (queue the chocolate cupcakes ), podcasts can offer us  something more substantial.

Trust me, I understand the value of small talk to safely test the waters of new acquaintances. For every discussion about philosophy, spirituality, art, or global justice, there is also a place for sports and fashion, but now, more than ever, we need to nurture our collective spirituality in order to hang on to not-so-long-ago-hard-won-social-justice.

Set the table and I’ll bring the cupcakes.

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Bawl, Bath, Bed…

bathcryingSometimes you don’t realize how much you’ve been carrying until you stop to take a rest.

And sometimes when you realize the toll it’s taken, it makes you miss who you used to be. It makes you miss feeling adored, safe and cared for.

If you too are feeling unloved, untouched and alone, remember, a good bawl, bath and early to bed sometimes does the trick.

If not, repeat as often as needed.

Good night. Sweetest of dreams…xo

CPR: Creativity Promise Reboot

domoreOh my gawd!!!

Sometimes pithy little sayings are the eyeroll that I need. Yes, I hate to admit it, but it’s true.

This morning I read something about how many people succeed at what they dream of doing and how many don’t. Basically the gist of it was most people won’t do the hard work so they fail.

 

 

 

I prefer something a little more gentle;

successandfailure

 

I have yet to self-publish my thousand-year-old novel, and I have a head full of characters clawing at my brain to communicate with my fingertips to get it all down on paper. It’s time to get this second book out of my mind and onto the page.

…and so it is time to breath some life into my creativity. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again.

It’s time.

A little reminder to every creative artist out there; just breathe.

Turn Your Lights Down Low: Healing Your Heart

Love, it’s a flighty bird, but a beautiful one nonetheless.

May your love be greater than your fear. May you want it more than your ego needs to be seen. May you be brave enough to mend it after it’s been broken.

Artist’s Spiritual Revival

creative mindsWith a machine gun pointed at me, I suddenly realized that my idea of art was akin to the local authority’s idea of a great place to smuggle cocaine. And so ended my love affair with foreign sculpture as souvenir

I switched to anything on paper or canvas that I could roll into a small cardboard tube and carry in my suitcase.

Art is the expression of the human spirit, so I try to support that. The more oppressed the person, the more vibrant the art; or at least that’s the way it seems to me.

Admittedly I haven’t even joined the ranks of amateur visual artists. Unless you count how creative I can get with lingerie and feathers.

I’ve tried my hand at watercolour, acrylic, and yes, even coffee stains. I stitch, I write poetry and novels and essays. Music mystifies me, but I am going to get my hands on a ukulele as soon as humanly possible. After all, how sad can you be strumming away on one of those little creatures? Creativity has always seeped through my pores and when I don’t have time for it, it tangles up my patience and wrings out  frustration.

Thus I have invited the wonderful weirdos in my life to a night of creative sharing meant to ignite that spark of brilliant madness we poo-poo as fodder for preschoolers and the institutionalized insane.

I will be working on a piece about storytelling. After all, I have always believed that we exist as the stories we tell ourselves.

wildthingLately I have been wrestling with the dark side, for no apparent reason other than everything is ok. Seriously. I have a healthy kiddo, a stable job, a roof over my head, and a man just as sweet and sexy as they come. He could use a lesson in romance, shiny things and dirty talk, but over all, he’s more than wonderful.

The only thing that doesn’t add up is the time that I need to write, to paint, to walk around half cut on champagne listening to Janis or Willie or Bob or Leonard, wearing nothing but a kurta and smile.Perhaps I feel my creative side stifled as my friends and I age; tempered by life,  less willing to play and be playful. My creative friends are as close to the silliness that I crave in relationship as possible

My only hope right now is  sunshine, someone to do all of the menial shit that I get caught up in, and an endless supply of Fruli.

Later this month I will be spending an evening with the wild, gentle and secret parts of the souls of my creative mentors. This, I hope, will help inspire me to let the laundry and the cooking sink further into hell and let my creative pursuits rise. Let there be lightness, let there be dark, let there be an artist’s spiritual revival.

The Smoke From Old Flames

Smoking-man.jpgSmoke billowed from a chimney

coughed up from an old flame

twisted and shape-shifting

it disappeared

mist transformed into the sky

first it was vapour

and then it was as a dog

fluffy tail-wagging white

a wizard’s cap

dissolved into the ether

like you; everything and nothing

never clear

Like the reasons we go back

a wizard’s cap

vapour caught again

compulsively seeking release.

Monday Meditation: Mastering the Art Of

romantic_couple_vintage_french_postcard-r792d7aa37d8c48428098e51999afbeb3_vgbaq_8byvr_512I love watching someone who has mastered whatever particular thing it is that they’re doing. It’s reassuring when you must depend on them, and it can be sexy as hell.

It’s like watching  Mark Knopfler sing. It’s like the music and meaning move effortlessly through his voice and the way her connects with the guitar.

When we master who we are, when it doesn’t have to be a conscious thought, it just flows, I believe we touch paradise, Shangri-La if you will. A little bit of nirvana right here on earth;

During a lunch date with an old flame (who still manages to keep my girlie bits warm and excitable), we talked about how easy it is to be together.

We talked as only old lovers can, with ease, candor, humour, and intimacy. It’s the kind of conversation that reminds us that we are sensual beings. A conversation with a  touch of  alchemical magic which inspires a healthy hunger for living.

It doesn’t hurt that man knows how to kiss me in a way that still makes my knees go just weak enough to remind me that I am a desirable woman. God bless him.

As artists, parents, and professionals in our respective fields, we’ve come to a comfortable stage of life. We’ve had time and experience to get to know ourselves. With the same grace and ease that Mr. Knopfler sings, we manage to carry ourselves through our work-a-day lives. At least we do a heck of a better job than we used to. Most of the time anyway.

He’s a perfectionist. I have come to embody his ‘dudeness’, and come to the world every day, giving my best, and feeling that it is, indeed, good enough. As he criticized his inability to be perfect, I boldly pointed out that life doesn’t have to be such hard work.

He countered with, “But you’ve found it. You’re one of the lucky ones who gets to go to work and live a life of purpose every day. You don’t feel like you’re just out there making a buck for someone else.”

He was bang on. But all good men are…

I’m skilled at my work and I love it. It’s part of who I am. No longer do I have to put on a mask or an act. My wants, needs, and purpose are integrated.

I’ve mastered the art of being me, of living, of balancing my sense of self with that of the material world around me. I’ve mastered the Art Of…

We create or keep ourselves from creating our own Shangri-La, happiness, and security in our sense of ever-changing self.

I’m one of the lucky ones, and I have every intention of enjoying every, single,  moment.

Tonight your beauty burns
Into my memory
The wheel of heaven turns
Above us endlessly

This is all the heaven we’ve got
Right here where we are
In our Shangri-La, oh

Sunday Meditation: Every Day Ritual

takecomfortI wake up this morning of my own accord. There is no alarm clock, just time to be me.

But there is ritual in this nothingness, this casual waking and being.

I pad to the kitchen, stumble over my own feet, turn the patio blinds, come back to the enveloping embrace of my still-warm, duvet mountain of a bed and send up a prayer that I’ve come to realize I’ve been saying, in my own way, at my own speed, for many years. It is a prayer of gratitude.

And then my mind turns to wonder…this morning it’s about a lunch date with a an old flame, the pros and cons of moving, how much I’m looking forward to sprucing up my little corner of the world….

Wonder, the butler to her majesty; Curiosity.

Eventually I pour  coffee, a lot of coffee,  into one of my  oversized mugs that was gifted from friends, open the window over my writing desk, and sit down at the keyboard. My feline mentor scrambles onto the desk,past the plant that I barely manage to keep alive, and paws at the lace curtain until I lift it up, and place it over his head like a wedding veil. We both look out to the painting mother nature has created over night and breathe in the cool, fresh, morning air. .

This is my ritual. Every writer has one, and this is mine.

This morning, as I clock-watch and know that my time in front of the keyboard at my little window is short, I am grateful for my simple ritual. It grounds me just enough for inspiration to take root.

It grounds me just enough to turn anxiety into excitement, fear into courage, and sadness into a fading memory.