The Actor
By C.K.Armistead
March 29, 2014
Playing pretend
For a living
Giving face and form
Voice and movement
To Characters
Who exist
Only in dreams
Or imagination
Written on a page
Making them live
Giving them a reality
That touches others
With its truth,
That strikes a chord within
Helping them see
They are NOT alone,
Truly not ALL alone.
Beyond that gift of
Talent shared,
The gift of your
Own smile is
A pearl beyond price
To those of us
Who value your talent,
Who have been fortunate
To be granted a glimpse
Of your great heart.
The Artist
By C.K.Armistead
March 29,2014
Telling truths
Some do not wish to see
With anything
That will serve your will.
Veiling the truths
With beguiling
Colors
With pleasing form
But always,
ALWAYS
Letting the truth
However bitter,
However lovely
Out.
Letting it tell itself
To the world
To those who will hear
To those who will see
How it IS
Beyond
The obvious
The easy.
Art is difficult,
But so very worth
The effort.
For Ron Perlman and Michael Ornstein
For obvious reasons.
Love, Katie
Saturday, March 29, 2014
On Being Different
Once again, a friend's tweet has set my mind spinning. This time, not with verse, but with memories, and with reasons I'd forgotten. About childhood, and knowing one is different, SO very different, in ways that are unexplainable.
I was a VERY imaginative child. I had imaginary friends, yes, and I could DESCRIBE them to you, consistently, completely, what they looked like, what they wore, what they said, their names. (Though my versions of their names were not exactly what they told me, I know that now.). My parents and my siblings more than once were scolded for rudely closing a car door or the house door on one of my "friends". They rolled their eyes, exasperated, but for awhile anyway, willing to play along with an imaginative child.
My peers, it seems, had no such patience with me. They refused my imaginative games, my castle ramparts, my spaceships, my haunted woods complete with fairies both friendly and not. They couldn't SEE, and I, to my great frustration could not SHOW them, couldn't MAKE them see. Then, the voice of one friend said, "They cannot see who WILL not see. You cannot force it." This voice, I think, may have belonged to an aunt who died long before I was born. Mom always said I was so very like her, like Lorene, who wrote poems, had dramatic moods, SAW things. When I was little, I claimed to have a "pet ghost" who came to watch over me in the dark I was so frightened of. My family would leave the light on, until I fell asleep, but if I woke in the night, frightened by what I alone saw in the dark, "Georgie" would be there. Georgie would watch over me, keep me safe. The voice I later attributed to my late aunt telling me so. Georgie would remind me of the verse on my wall that "He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways." He'll not leave you alone. He sent me, and others, to keep watch. I knew I could never tell my so very practically minded family these truths, for they would send me off to be analyzed, afraid for my sanity, my stability in their oh, so practical black and white world. So, I kept the magic to myself, hoarded, guarded, shared with NO ONE.
Except Grandpa. Only when he visited, could I speak of these things. Grandpa was a real seanachie , a storyteller, with a true gift. HE would hear my tales, and not disbelieve me. And he would tell no one. He visited only a couple of times, but it was enough. He helped me keep the magic, even if I could find no good way to share it yet.
He didn't know the old names, but he did believe in the sidhe, the fairies, the hobgoblins, the spirits that do populate the thin places in this world. Our family does have Irish, Welsh, and Scottish roots. There had been too many generations of hardshell Baptists and practical Presbyterians in my family for anyone to remember ALL they should, but Grandpa remembered enough, and I suspect he learned from his mother, who could tell quite a tale herself, I've been told, for all her practicality.
I did have Nelda, too, who lived next door, and was Irish and playful and old, a surrogate for the grandmother who died before I was born. She knew old songs, and old stories and shared these with her small rapt audience of one. Me. I do not recall if I told her about my protectors, but perhaps I did. Nelda would have understood, and she wouldn't have told anyone.
For years, I gave in, I took the PRACTICAL courses, no Gaelic, no Irish literature, no poetry classes, no MUSIC, other than the piano lessons they provided "because you have such long, thin fingers, surely good for playing." NOT. I lacked the will to practice, though I DID learn to read music and enough theory to be useful. I wanted to SING, not play. Playing required too much concentration, too much MIND. Singing let me float, weightless, between the worlds. It fed my spirit. It still does. I go some other place when I truly let myself SING. Matters not if the music isn't of the 'Old Country', it still speaks true to my spirit. It soars, and takes me along for the ride.
My ever practical father, who quashed my "far fetched" dreams of music, who told me I MUST toe the line and take steps toward a PRACTICAL degree at college (or find a man who would 'go places') if he was paying for my time there. Oh, not in so many words, but it could be read between the lines plainly enough. I was too scatter-brained, not focused enough, didn't have the DRIVE to succeed at music as a career. ) (Or writing, for that matter.) I don't see being a commercial success to be the overarching goal of life. Being of service to people, healing their spirit in some way, THAT is success, I now know. Riches beyond any of my security seeking family's dreams. Mom never truly understood. She doesn't have the gift of sight. I think that may have been a rift between her and her older sister, that inability to SEE. Grandpa could SEE, Grandpa shared the vision, in his own way.
As I grew older, and I found old stories and legends and books and pictures of Ireland and Scotland, the familiarity, the sense of HOME was overwhelming. The stories opened locked doors in my soul, let me dream again, let me hope that somehow, someway, I could get around the practical and let the magic out.
So, for my Pop's sake, and to keep Mom from worrying, I pursued a teaching credential. A tidy compromise that let me keep the magic of Children's Literature in my coursework, and more music theory, and also all kinds of history and science, as well as give me a "practical" degree in the end. I both loved and hated my chosen vocation. I loved the children, the chances to help set THEIR imaginations free, to validate THEIR dreams as much as I could, I loathed the slog through paperwork and requirements that left so precious little time for the NECESSARY dreaming. Yes, dreaming is NECESSARY. Especially for children. I like to think I helped a few kindred spirits find a way to keep their particular magic alive. The library has been a Godsend. This job lets me breathe, surrounds me with the thoughts, dreams, wishes, poetry and legends of ages, lets me share them, lets me help others when things press upon them too much. Gives me a chance to help change a worried frown to a smile. I LOVE that place, and I love its ghosts, friendly, playful spirits, that have yet to show themselves to me, but I know they're there. They don't scare me, or vex me, so they don't quite know what to make of me, I'm sure.
Now, I know many of my oh, so practical and steeped in the very conservative Christian faith of our childhood will say I risk too much, saying I see spirits, saying I speak with them. They forget. "TEST a spirit, to know if it is good." The spirits that have surrounded me have been, in large part good. Sent from God, I believe, because He knew I would hear them. They PROTECTED me from the evil ones, drove them AWAY. Scared them off with fierce, invincible love from God Himself. I know that invincible love more on my own now, know that it is ALWAYS there, don't necessarily need the friendly spirits to tell me. He sent them when I was too young to understand otherwise. They always pointed me back to Him, to His Love, His very essence. Love.
Still I have doubts, I doubt my ability to ever communicate what I KNOW in a way ANYONE will understand, but I try. For the sake of the gift I've been given, for Love of the One who gives it, I sing, I write, I try and fail to explain. But I keep trying.
At times, even my oh, so practical Pop, who would NEVER believe in such things, has come to me. Has laid a reassuring hand on my shoulder, told me to keep going, has visited in joyful times, too, to help me decorate the Christmas tree again, as we used to do when I was younger. The year that Matt was deployed for Desert Shield when it was time to set up the Christmas tree, and I alone, in a tiny apartment in a German farmhouse, was decorating the tree, Pop was there. Making suggestions, telling me it would be all right, making me believe it. And it WAS all right, because by some miracle of happenstance, Matt got to come HOME to Rhein-Main for a few days, including Christmas, and my hope in my existence was restored. I could see Pop smiling over Peter's shoulder when we got home to the farm. Peter, our landlord, was a German version of Pop, right down to his love for bologna and cheese, and cigarettes and beer. Limped on the same leg, had startling blue eyes like Pop, and even groused about the same things, even if in a different language. Always made me feel I was truly being looked after, especially when Matt was gone.
I thought once my sister, too, could SEE, but over the years, she has hardened toward that imaginative world, clings to the conservative faith, that says such as I risk consorting with demons and losing our souls. She doesn't understand, though I think for awhile, once, she did, for she took me to the old bookstores where I first met some of the books that have kindled my imagination back to life, to hope.
One reason I love the Episcopal Church so much is that the mystical, the impossible to understand is IMPORTANT. It is part of how we worship, how we relate to God. Our God is greater than all the mysteries in this or any other world, not afraid of them, welcoming to them; vigilant for His children against those who would do us harm. A truly Good and Wise Shepherd. Here I can be the person God created me to be, here I CANNOT deny my gift, here I USE it. Here I sing, and share what I write, and know that it will not be cast up for ridicule. Here I also struggle with my own intolerance, my own lack of love, the many ways I fall short, and here I am comforted with the knowledge that I am forgiven, and I can forgive others.
I found some of this acceptance first among the members of Fandom. Fans are by nature imaginative, people who can see the truths of fictional characters, people for whom the old stories resonate, and live. Among fans I first learned that I was not crazy, just different. I found Matthew among such fans. Through him, I found the Episcopal Church, and an understanding of my faith, and a way to relate to God that has truly been my salvation.
Being different is NOT a sin. God made us all different, so show the many different aspects of life, to teach us the importance of acceptance, of LOVE. Those who discount Love, who crowd it out with intolerance and too many rules, miss the point, and miss God. After all, in IJohn, the Christian Scripture says "...he that loveth not, knoweth not God, for God is Love." It seems to me far too many who spread hate in the name of Christ forget that verse exists. I pity them what awaits if they continue in the way of intolerance and hate. I pray for them.
I pray for all who cannot see, all who WILL not see. There IS magic in the world, there IS. God made it, God uses it, it is NOT necessarily evil.
And those of us who are different are not always crazy. Most of us are pretty good at conforming. We have to be. But do, please, cut us some slack when we seem to "space out" for a moment, or when we don't WANT to enter a certain building or room. Believe us, trust our instincts, please. Just because YOU can't (or won't) see it, doesn't mean it isn't REAL. (Insert winking smiley face here!)
I was a VERY imaginative child. I had imaginary friends, yes, and I could DESCRIBE them to you, consistently, completely, what they looked like, what they wore, what they said, their names. (Though my versions of their names were not exactly what they told me, I know that now.). My parents and my siblings more than once were scolded for rudely closing a car door or the house door on one of my "friends". They rolled their eyes, exasperated, but for awhile anyway, willing to play along with an imaginative child.
My peers, it seems, had no such patience with me. They refused my imaginative games, my castle ramparts, my spaceships, my haunted woods complete with fairies both friendly and not. They couldn't SEE, and I, to my great frustration could not SHOW them, couldn't MAKE them see. Then, the voice of one friend said, "They cannot see who WILL not see. You cannot force it." This voice, I think, may have belonged to an aunt who died long before I was born. Mom always said I was so very like her, like Lorene, who wrote poems, had dramatic moods, SAW things. When I was little, I claimed to have a "pet ghost" who came to watch over me in the dark I was so frightened of. My family would leave the light on, until I fell asleep, but if I woke in the night, frightened by what I alone saw in the dark, "Georgie" would be there. Georgie would watch over me, keep me safe. The voice I later attributed to my late aunt telling me so. Georgie would remind me of the verse on my wall that "He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways." He'll not leave you alone. He sent me, and others, to keep watch. I knew I could never tell my so very practically minded family these truths, for they would send me off to be analyzed, afraid for my sanity, my stability in their oh, so practical black and white world. So, I kept the magic to myself, hoarded, guarded, shared with NO ONE.
Except Grandpa. Only when he visited, could I speak of these things. Grandpa was a real seanachie , a storyteller, with a true gift. HE would hear my tales, and not disbelieve me. And he would tell no one. He visited only a couple of times, but it was enough. He helped me keep the magic, even if I could find no good way to share it yet.
He didn't know the old names, but he did believe in the sidhe, the fairies, the hobgoblins, the spirits that do populate the thin places in this world. Our family does have Irish, Welsh, and Scottish roots. There had been too many generations of hardshell Baptists and practical Presbyterians in my family for anyone to remember ALL they should, but Grandpa remembered enough, and I suspect he learned from his mother, who could tell quite a tale herself, I've been told, for all her practicality.
I did have Nelda, too, who lived next door, and was Irish and playful and old, a surrogate for the grandmother who died before I was born. She knew old songs, and old stories and shared these with her small rapt audience of one. Me. I do not recall if I told her about my protectors, but perhaps I did. Nelda would have understood, and she wouldn't have told anyone.
For years, I gave in, I took the PRACTICAL courses, no Gaelic, no Irish literature, no poetry classes, no MUSIC, other than the piano lessons they provided "because you have such long, thin fingers, surely good for playing." NOT. I lacked the will to practice, though I DID learn to read music and enough theory to be useful. I wanted to SING, not play. Playing required too much concentration, too much MIND. Singing let me float, weightless, between the worlds. It fed my spirit. It still does. I go some other place when I truly let myself SING. Matters not if the music isn't of the 'Old Country', it still speaks true to my spirit. It soars, and takes me along for the ride.
My ever practical father, who quashed my "far fetched" dreams of music, who told me I MUST toe the line and take steps toward a PRACTICAL degree at college (or find a man who would 'go places') if he was paying for my time there. Oh, not in so many words, but it could be read between the lines plainly enough. I was too scatter-brained, not focused enough, didn't have the DRIVE to succeed at music as a career. ) (Or writing, for that matter.) I don't see being a commercial success to be the overarching goal of life. Being of service to people, healing their spirit in some way, THAT is success, I now know. Riches beyond any of my security seeking family's dreams. Mom never truly understood. She doesn't have the gift of sight. I think that may have been a rift between her and her older sister, that inability to SEE. Grandpa could SEE, Grandpa shared the vision, in his own way.
As I grew older, and I found old stories and legends and books and pictures of Ireland and Scotland, the familiarity, the sense of HOME was overwhelming. The stories opened locked doors in my soul, let me dream again, let me hope that somehow, someway, I could get around the practical and let the magic out.
So, for my Pop's sake, and to keep Mom from worrying, I pursued a teaching credential. A tidy compromise that let me keep the magic of Children's Literature in my coursework, and more music theory, and also all kinds of history and science, as well as give me a "practical" degree in the end. I both loved and hated my chosen vocation. I loved the children, the chances to help set THEIR imaginations free, to validate THEIR dreams as much as I could, I loathed the slog through paperwork and requirements that left so precious little time for the NECESSARY dreaming. Yes, dreaming is NECESSARY. Especially for children. I like to think I helped a few kindred spirits find a way to keep their particular magic alive. The library has been a Godsend. This job lets me breathe, surrounds me with the thoughts, dreams, wishes, poetry and legends of ages, lets me share them, lets me help others when things press upon them too much. Gives me a chance to help change a worried frown to a smile. I LOVE that place, and I love its ghosts, friendly, playful spirits, that have yet to show themselves to me, but I know they're there. They don't scare me, or vex me, so they don't quite know what to make of me, I'm sure.
Now, I know many of my oh, so practical and steeped in the very conservative Christian faith of our childhood will say I risk too much, saying I see spirits, saying I speak with them. They forget. "TEST a spirit, to know if it is good." The spirits that have surrounded me have been, in large part good. Sent from God, I believe, because He knew I would hear them. They PROTECTED me from the evil ones, drove them AWAY. Scared them off with fierce, invincible love from God Himself. I know that invincible love more on my own now, know that it is ALWAYS there, don't necessarily need the friendly spirits to tell me. He sent them when I was too young to understand otherwise. They always pointed me back to Him, to His Love, His very essence. Love.
Still I have doubts, I doubt my ability to ever communicate what I KNOW in a way ANYONE will understand, but I try. For the sake of the gift I've been given, for Love of the One who gives it, I sing, I write, I try and fail to explain. But I keep trying.
At times, even my oh, so practical Pop, who would NEVER believe in such things, has come to me. Has laid a reassuring hand on my shoulder, told me to keep going, has visited in joyful times, too, to help me decorate the Christmas tree again, as we used to do when I was younger. The year that Matt was deployed for Desert Shield when it was time to set up the Christmas tree, and I alone, in a tiny apartment in a German farmhouse, was decorating the tree, Pop was there. Making suggestions, telling me it would be all right, making me believe it. And it WAS all right, because by some miracle of happenstance, Matt got to come HOME to Rhein-Main for a few days, including Christmas, and my hope in my existence was restored. I could see Pop smiling over Peter's shoulder when we got home to the farm. Peter, our landlord, was a German version of Pop, right down to his love for bologna and cheese, and cigarettes and beer. Limped on the same leg, had startling blue eyes like Pop, and even groused about the same things, even if in a different language. Always made me feel I was truly being looked after, especially when Matt was gone.
I thought once my sister, too, could SEE, but over the years, she has hardened toward that imaginative world, clings to the conservative faith, that says such as I risk consorting with demons and losing our souls. She doesn't understand, though I think for awhile, once, she did, for she took me to the old bookstores where I first met some of the books that have kindled my imagination back to life, to hope.
One reason I love the Episcopal Church so much is that the mystical, the impossible to understand is IMPORTANT. It is part of how we worship, how we relate to God. Our God is greater than all the mysteries in this or any other world, not afraid of them, welcoming to them; vigilant for His children against those who would do us harm. A truly Good and Wise Shepherd. Here I can be the person God created me to be, here I CANNOT deny my gift, here I USE it. Here I sing, and share what I write, and know that it will not be cast up for ridicule. Here I also struggle with my own intolerance, my own lack of love, the many ways I fall short, and here I am comforted with the knowledge that I am forgiven, and I can forgive others.
I found some of this acceptance first among the members of Fandom. Fans are by nature imaginative, people who can see the truths of fictional characters, people for whom the old stories resonate, and live. Among fans I first learned that I was not crazy, just different. I found Matthew among such fans. Through him, I found the Episcopal Church, and an understanding of my faith, and a way to relate to God that has truly been my salvation.
Being different is NOT a sin. God made us all different, so show the many different aspects of life, to teach us the importance of acceptance, of LOVE. Those who discount Love, who crowd it out with intolerance and too many rules, miss the point, and miss God. After all, in IJohn, the Christian Scripture says "...he that loveth not, knoweth not God, for God is Love." It seems to me far too many who spread hate in the name of Christ forget that verse exists. I pity them what awaits if they continue in the way of intolerance and hate. I pray for them.
I pray for all who cannot see, all who WILL not see. There IS magic in the world, there IS. God made it, God uses it, it is NOT necessarily evil.
And those of us who are different are not always crazy. Most of us are pretty good at conforming. We have to be. But do, please, cut us some slack when we seem to "space out" for a moment, or when we don't WANT to enter a certain building or room. Believe us, trust our instincts, please. Just because YOU can't (or won't) see it, doesn't mean it isn't REAL. (Insert winking smiley face here!)
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Thursday Thrashings - Or: Stumbling Through Some Verse
Been feeling a bit worthless and invisible today. Had a pity party. Wrote a poem about it. Thought I'd share, which is REALLY self-indulgent of me. However, some of you may have been to this place, too. Maybe you recognize it, and the way out, as well.
Self Pity
By C.K. Armistead
March 27, 2014
Dark foreboding
Ugly, untrue
Self doubting
Discounting what I do.
Feeling irrelevant
Feeling ignored
Afraid to be irreverent
Afraid my friends are bored.
But still stubborn hope
Looks for sun behing the cloud
Helps my weary heart to cope
Waits to laugh aloud.
Craving for acknowledgement
A sign that I am real
Beyond the ordinary limits
Of what I think and feel
To know you look for me,
To know I made you smile
Would be enough for me
To know the effort is worthwhile.
And then comes the sun
My friends tell me true
With laughter and fun
They appreciate what I do.
Later, I stopped feeling sorry for myself, packed up the pity party, and reflected on what had happened today. I went to the salon and had my hair cut and dyed as usual, and the wind promptly messed up what my stylist had spent about ten minutes working on with my bangs. (She just wants to make sure they'll work right, lay right as they grow, so she fusses with them.) Didn't really bother me. My hair is so short now, all I do after I wash it is comb it and go. No blow drying, no styling products, nothing. Unless it is in need of a trim, in which case a blow dryer and spray are used. Sometimes. This is a stark contrast to say, 10 years ago, before I cut off all my hair. It was down to my waist. It was very thick, and if I braided it while it was damp, it never got really dry. It was HEAVY. And very inconvenient.
Today's bout with the wind brought back many memories, so I wrote this:
Memories Blown In
By C.K. Armistead
March 27, 2014
So many memories
On the wind today
Missing not my flying hair
When long it used to be
How it would whip around
My head in the wind
And wrap around my neck
Still the wind pulls
At my very short hair
And cries frustration
At not being able to fling it.
Scents and airs of warm
Summer days
Are on the wind today
Carrying gulls' cries
Though the ocean is far, far away.
Moisture in the air
And clouds flying in
Remind me of storms
I'd rather not see again.
Like pirate ships
Come to raid our town,
To scare us all
And wear us down.
With Pirate Jenny's laughter
In the streaming breeze
Calling vengeance about her
Ignoring all our pleas.
It has been an odd day. Not quite as cheerful as yesterday. I guess you can tell that.
Poetry is good for exorcising a bad mood, though if it doesn't flow well, it can make a bad mood even WORSE. It seemed to work for me today, though.
If you made it this far, thanks for reading!
Peace.
Self Pity
By C.K. Armistead
March 27, 2014
Dark foreboding
Ugly, untrue
Self doubting
Discounting what I do.
Feeling irrelevant
Feeling ignored
Afraid to be irreverent
Afraid my friends are bored.
But still stubborn hope
Looks for sun behing the cloud
Helps my weary heart to cope
Waits to laugh aloud.
Craving for acknowledgement
A sign that I am real
Beyond the ordinary limits
Of what I think and feel
To know you look for me,
To know I made you smile
Would be enough for me
To know the effort is worthwhile.
And then comes the sun
My friends tell me true
With laughter and fun
They appreciate what I do.
Later, I stopped feeling sorry for myself, packed up the pity party, and reflected on what had happened today. I went to the salon and had my hair cut and dyed as usual, and the wind promptly messed up what my stylist had spent about ten minutes working on with my bangs. (She just wants to make sure they'll work right, lay right as they grow, so she fusses with them.) Didn't really bother me. My hair is so short now, all I do after I wash it is comb it and go. No blow drying, no styling products, nothing. Unless it is in need of a trim, in which case a blow dryer and spray are used. Sometimes. This is a stark contrast to say, 10 years ago, before I cut off all my hair. It was down to my waist. It was very thick, and if I braided it while it was damp, it never got really dry. It was HEAVY. And very inconvenient.
Today's bout with the wind brought back many memories, so I wrote this:
Memories Blown In
By C.K. Armistead
March 27, 2014
So many memories
On the wind today
Missing not my flying hair
When long it used to be
How it would whip around
My head in the wind
And wrap around my neck
Still the wind pulls
At my very short hair
And cries frustration
At not being able to fling it.
Scents and airs of warm
Summer days
Are on the wind today
Carrying gulls' cries
Though the ocean is far, far away.
Moisture in the air
And clouds flying in
Remind me of storms
I'd rather not see again.
Like pirate ships
Come to raid our town,
To scare us all
And wear us down.
With Pirate Jenny's laughter
In the streaming breeze
Calling vengeance about her
Ignoring all our pleas.
It has been an odd day. Not quite as cheerful as yesterday. I guess you can tell that.
Poetry is good for exorcising a bad mood, though if it doesn't flow well, it can make a bad mood even WORSE. It seemed to work for me today, though.
If you made it this far, thanks for reading!
Peace.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
A Poem For Michael
This is one I wrote for Michael Ornstein, an artist and actor who interacts with me on Twitter from time to time. His work and his comments on it have caused me to ponder art of all sorts and its relationship to life. Art is necessary to our existence, no matter what some may say or think.
This poem to me especially speaks of how Michael's art speaks to me.
Thanks, Michael, for all the points to ponder, and for making me look at my own art, that of painting with words.
Ruminations On Art
By C.K. Armistead
March 2014
Art is like life
You can't erase
You can only add
A layer to cover
To keep hidden the sad,
To smooth the rough over.
But still
It shows through
Just like in life
Truth finds
Its way out
Past the façade
We choose
To try
To hide it.
And here are my thoughts on my own art, not always practiced as much as it should be.
Ruminations on Poetry
By C.K. Armistead
March 2014
Words written or spoken
Cannot be taken back
Once said, once read,
They go on
Leaving hearts healed
Or broken
In their wake.
Like any art,
You can only add
Never take away
You can try to cover
The ugliness you say
Or perceive
But truth will out
Under the ugly
The beauty
Behind the hurt
The healing
If we're lucky.
I hope you enjoy these ruminations of mine. I felt today to be a good day to write, even though I am at work this morning. This IS a library, after all, a place of words and ideas, where they are sheltered, stored, shared. If I cannot write here, where CAN I write?
It is raining out this morning, and cool, and dreary enough to cause reflection and ruminations. There is also an odd energy about the library today, cheerfulness and activity, people here and happy to see one another, children playing and reading and growing. A good morning. I hope it is where you are, too.
This poem to me especially speaks of how Michael's art speaks to me.
Thanks, Michael, for all the points to ponder, and for making me look at my own art, that of painting with words.
Ruminations On Art
By C.K. Armistead
March 2014
Art is like life
You can't erase
You can only add
A layer to cover
To keep hidden the sad,
To smooth the rough over.
But still
It shows through
Just like in life
Truth finds
Its way out
Past the façade
We choose
To try
To hide it.
And here are my thoughts on my own art, not always practiced as much as it should be.
Ruminations on Poetry
By C.K. Armistead
March 2014
Words written or spoken
Cannot be taken back
Once said, once read,
They go on
Leaving hearts healed
Or broken
In their wake.
Like any art,
You can only add
Never take away
You can try to cover
The ugliness you say
Or perceive
But truth will out
Under the ugly
The beauty
Behind the hurt
The healing
If we're lucky.
I hope you enjoy these ruminations of mine. I felt today to be a good day to write, even though I am at work this morning. This IS a library, after all, a place of words and ideas, where they are sheltered, stored, shared. If I cannot write here, where CAN I write?
It is raining out this morning, and cool, and dreary enough to cause reflection and ruminations. There is also an odd energy about the library today, cheerfulness and activity, people here and happy to see one another, children playing and reading and growing. A good morning. I hope it is where you are, too.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
The Magical Qualities of Life
Not an ordinary post, but one about the way poetry intrudes when you least expect it. Sometimes my own words, sometimes the words of others, but always images, sounds, feelings, colors, light, darkness, always working their way around my perceptions. Like an artist working a canvas because something just isn't yet right, my words can be the same way. The words of others sometimes inspire, sometimes scold, sometimes goad me.
Sometimes a friend will say something that brings many wonderful, enticing images to mind.
For instance, a tweet from friend earlier asking if dead leaves really HAVE to make that awful scratchy, scuttling sound when they blow down the street.
I say they do, for they speak of the memories of Spring now lost, of the ravages of Winter still here, of the glorious ghosts of Autumn color.
Dead Leaves
By C.K. Armistead
March 2014
Down the street,
The wind accompanies
The army of small victims
Scuttling and scraping their way
Beside us,
Following behind us,
Making us look over our shoulders
To see WHAT is following,
Though we really don't WANT to know.
It's the ghosts of Spring's broken promises
The melancholy memories of Summer sun,
The lost glory of Autumn's colors,
The ghostly garments of trees
Shed, and taken up by who knows what,
Whispering to us on the wind,
To taunt us even now, at Winter's end
With the knowledge of mortality.
No Halloween tale could ever be complete without the atmospheric scuttling of dry leaves underfoot and along the street. Their sound so evocative of fall and desolation, and reminding us of the wind's mercurial and teasing presence.
The daily verses are still being written. Often they are drivel, just for fun. Now and then one I really like shows up, and there has been a couple that are even related to each other.
This is short, but it is what was begging to be written tonight.
Peace.
Sometimes a friend will say something that brings many wonderful, enticing images to mind.
For instance, a tweet from friend earlier asking if dead leaves really HAVE to make that awful scratchy, scuttling sound when they blow down the street.
I say they do, for they speak of the memories of Spring now lost, of the ravages of Winter still here, of the glorious ghosts of Autumn color.
Dead Leaves
By C.K. Armistead
March 2014
Down the street,
The wind accompanies
The army of small victims
Scuttling and scraping their way
Beside us,
Following behind us,
Making us look over our shoulders
To see WHAT is following,
Though we really don't WANT to know.
It's the ghosts of Spring's broken promises
The melancholy memories of Summer sun,
The lost glory of Autumn's colors,
The ghostly garments of trees
Shed, and taken up by who knows what,
Whispering to us on the wind,
To taunt us even now, at Winter's end
With the knowledge of mortality.
No Halloween tale could ever be complete without the atmospheric scuttling of dry leaves underfoot and along the street. Their sound so evocative of fall and desolation, and reminding us of the wind's mercurial and teasing presence.
The daily verses are still being written. Often they are drivel, just for fun. Now and then one I really like shows up, and there has been a couple that are even related to each other.
This is short, but it is what was begging to be written tonight.
Peace.
Friday, March 14, 2014
On The Pursuit of Poetry
I have taken on the challenge of writing a poem a day throughout Lent. Usually just a short verse, not necessarily pithy, but something that communicates feeling.
I have found that on some days, the poetry bubbles out in places and at times I would not have expected. It is as if I have given my creative side permission to play, and it is happily doing so. There have been many spontaneous verses these last few days. Here are the "Lenten Poems" so far:
I have found that on some days, the poetry bubbles out in places and at times I would not have expected. It is as if I have given my creative side permission to play, and it is happily doing so. There have been many spontaneous verses these last few days. Here are the "Lenten Poems" so far:
The hour is late
And I must go
But I hesitate
Because I know
I have not spoken
My truth to you
My heart unbroken
For loving you
And I must go
But I hesitate
Because I know
I have not spoken
My truth to you
My heart unbroken
For loving you
How appropriately bent
Seems our weather toward Lent
With skies ashen grey
And dreary all day.
Seems our weather toward Lent
With skies ashen grey
And dreary all day.
The peekaboo sun
Is having fun
Teasing us today.
Appearing to say
Spring is near
But not quite here
Is having fun
Teasing us today.
Appearing to say
Spring is near
But not quite here
My soul feels grey
Just like the sky today,
Tired and weary
Just short of teary.
But I shall rest in You
And be renewed
Just like the sky today,
Tired and weary
Just short of teary.
But I shall rest in You
And be renewed
Today my spirit may soar
The sun is shining
The sun is shining
The clouds are no more.
Let us sing joyfully and bright
For the gift of light.
Let us sing joyfully and bright
For the gift of light.
How is it
That I can sit
Idly here
When so much
Calls me
With such
Urgency?
Light on water
Shifting color
Beauty
Stays me
Bids me to wonder
And to ponder.
That I can sit
Idly here
When so much
Calls me
With such
Urgency?
Light on water
Shifting color
Beauty
Stays me
Bids me to wonder
And to ponder.
Time is short I must fly
A verse before work I
must try
Day is fair My senses
sing
On the air The breath
of Spring.
Today in the midst of busy life
Confronted with angst and strife
I remembered your smile
And for awhile
Things were all right
In your light.
Confronted with angst and strife
I remembered your smile
And for awhile
Things were all right
In your light.
Slow start today
Not much to say
Feeling a bit hazy
Decided to be lazy.
Not much to say
Feeling a bit hazy
Decided to be lazy.
Gone the night
Day is bright
Miles to go
But I know
You will be
Here with me.
Day is bright
Miles to go
But I know
You will be
Here with me.
These are the short daily poems I write to satisfy the requirement I set for myself. Here are the ones that have happened along on their own:
Circulation Song
By C.K. Armistead 2014
Circulation is a
circle
Books in and books
out
Novels coming in
again
Picture books checking
out.
Circulation is a circle,
Still I stop and sigh
Dvds too many to sort
Audiobooks rolling
by.
Circulation is a circle
Still I would not
trade
One hour of my little
job
For diamonds or jade.
We help close that circle
That fills a human need
We make sure the books are there
When you need
something to read!
Song of Thankfulness
By C.K.Armistead
2014
For the sunshine
Of a child's smile
Thanks be to God
For healing love
And shared joy
Thanks be to God
For relief from stress
And answered prayer
Thanks be to God
For dear friends
The whole world around
Thanks be to God.
Some less formal verses have found their way into my Twitter feed.
Holy cats!
I'm going to flip my lid
This place is packed
With bunches of kids!
In case you are in any doubt
We're busy today 'cause school is out
Summer will be no vacation
If today is any indication.
Good morning, says my tweet
Except I'm talking in somebody's sleep.
Though here the day is bright,
On the other side of Earth,
it's night!
Midnight's tones have been rung,
The gauntlet of sleep has been flung
Time has fled, and so must I
Goodnight, my friends, I fly!
It seems that once the possibility is open for the words to play, they waste no time. I have always liked to play with words, and sometimes just for the joy of the way they sound. When they also have a deeper meaning, that's a bonus!
I shall share more of what turns up, unless it is completely awful. Then it will only live in the poetry notebook.
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Poetry Yet Again
Signs
By Carolyn kay Armistead
March 2014
On Ash Wednesday
Our mark can
Be seen
That isn't to say
That it goes away
It is always
There
The cross,
Signed on our
Foreheads,
A reminder
We are sealed
Forever
As Christ's own.
That though
We are but dust
To which we
Shall return,
We shall yet
Live on.
For Michael
By Carolyn Kay Armistead
March 2014
I feel privileged
To watch you
Paint the music
That you hear
Inside.
The colors and shapes
Fantastic
Beautiful
Coalesce
And Collide
Reality
And dreams
Truth
And illusion
All there
In fluid
Fusion.
A Portrait
By Carolyn Kay Armistead
March 2014
Though you've never
Met her
You see her
Her beauty
Her depth
The compelling blue
of her eyes.
Your painting
Has struck all of us
Who know
This lovely
Young woman;
A child I've known
Since she was two,
Now grown
And far from home.
By Carolyn kay Armistead
March 2014
On Ash Wednesday
Our mark can
Be seen
That isn't to say
That it goes away
It is always
There
The cross,
Signed on our
Foreheads,
A reminder
We are sealed
Forever
As Christ's own.
That though
We are but dust
To which we
Shall return,
We shall yet
Live on.
For Michael
By Carolyn Kay Armistead
March 2014
I feel privileged
To watch you
Paint the music
That you hear
Inside.
The colors and shapes
Fantastic
Beautiful
Coalesce
And Collide
Reality
And dreams
Truth
And illusion
All there
In fluid
Fusion.
A Portrait
By Carolyn Kay Armistead
March 2014
Though you've never
Met her
You see her
Her beauty
Her depth
The compelling blue
of her eyes.
Your painting
Has struck all of us
Who know
This lovely
Young woman;
A child I've known
Since she was two,
Now grown
And far from home.
Saturday, March 8, 2014
Stumbling Around on a Saturday Night
Some random, rambling observations:
1) It is odd that you can be jealous of a friend's good fortune, and yet genuinely happy for them,too. It DOES happen. I am jealous that two of my friends got to chat in person with Ron Perlman in Austin last night, but I am very happy for them too! He was very sweet to them, and it is nice to know that he does remember us.
Here Mary delivers a smooch from Fiona (and the rest of us #Perlgirls, of course.)
And here he sends one back.
He really does care about us. Astounding as it seems sometimes.
2) Laundry you are waiting for will never get dry, no matter what the autodry setting on your oh-so-smart dryer says.
3) A properly made Tequila Sunrise will give you a buzz without you realizing it has done so. They taste SO good, and they sneak right up on ya!
4) You can instantly identify a movie as being made in the 1980s just by hearing the music, if it is a contemporary setting.
5) Some silly, cheesy 1980s action/comedies are still fun to watch all these years later.
6) Music really does bring back memories. Listening to a Greatest 80s Hits album today, and remembering college and my first year teaching, and dates Matt and I went on both before and after we got married...
7) Cold, dreary weather makes me want to hole up in my office and read. No serious reading, but light mysteries, fan fiction, anything light and fun. Guess I'm trying to counter the gloom.
This weather, only wetter, is plaguing SXSW in Austin. South By Soaking Wet is it's new nickname.
8) Voice practice may go very well. Then the snot will fall in. And you will sound like a bullfrog, even if you ARE a lyric soprano.
10) Husbands who cook and then do dishes are the sexiest men on the planet. I mean it. Wow.
11) Wearing mostly black tomorrow. First Sunday in Lent. Guess black is appropriate.
12) I keep finding fellow Episcopalians in odd places. Found another one on Twitter. Robert Patrick. Always fun to find another person who answers "And also with you." when someone in the Star Wars movie says "May the Force be with you."
13) Watching my husband watch me, and sometimes I can almost hear him thinking "God, I love it when she stretches." Nice to know I still get to him after all these MANY years! (We met in '83.)
14) Just because some idiot decided we have to lose an hour tonight, it does not mean my internal clock will willingly reset. Hence, I am sitting here at what will feel like 00:20 later on, but feels like 23:20 to me!
Time to shut this down. I do have to finish a few things and then get ready for bed. Gotta sleep so I can look at least mostly human tomorrow.
Thanks for reading. Sometimes feel like I'm talking to myself here, but the stats say the pages get hits. One never knows.
1) It is odd that you can be jealous of a friend's good fortune, and yet genuinely happy for them,too. It DOES happen. I am jealous that two of my friends got to chat in person with Ron Perlman in Austin last night, but I am very happy for them too! He was very sweet to them, and it is nice to know that he does remember us.
Here Mary delivers a smooch from Fiona (and the rest of us #Perlgirls, of course.)
And here he sends one back.
He really does care about us. Astounding as it seems sometimes.
2) Laundry you are waiting for will never get dry, no matter what the autodry setting on your oh-so-smart dryer says.
3) A properly made Tequila Sunrise will give you a buzz without you realizing it has done so. They taste SO good, and they sneak right up on ya!
4) You can instantly identify a movie as being made in the 1980s just by hearing the music, if it is a contemporary setting.
5) Some silly, cheesy 1980s action/comedies are still fun to watch all these years later.
6) Music really does bring back memories. Listening to a Greatest 80s Hits album today, and remembering college and my first year teaching, and dates Matt and I went on both before and after we got married...
7) Cold, dreary weather makes me want to hole up in my office and read. No serious reading, but light mysteries, fan fiction, anything light and fun. Guess I'm trying to counter the gloom.
This weather, only wetter, is plaguing SXSW in Austin. South By Soaking Wet is it's new nickname.
8) Voice practice may go very well. Then the snot will fall in. And you will sound like a bullfrog, even if you ARE a lyric soprano.
10) Husbands who cook and then do dishes are the sexiest men on the planet. I mean it. Wow.
11) Wearing mostly black tomorrow. First Sunday in Lent. Guess black is appropriate.
12) I keep finding fellow Episcopalians in odd places. Found another one on Twitter. Robert Patrick. Always fun to find another person who answers "And also with you." when someone in the Star Wars movie says "May the Force be with you."
13) Watching my husband watch me, and sometimes I can almost hear him thinking "God, I love it when she stretches." Nice to know I still get to him after all these MANY years! (We met in '83.)
14) Just because some idiot decided we have to lose an hour tonight, it does not mean my internal clock will willingly reset. Hence, I am sitting here at what will feel like 00:20 later on, but feels like 23:20 to me!
Time to shut this down. I do have to finish a few things and then get ready for bed. Gotta sleep so I can look at least mostly human tomorrow.
Thanks for reading. Sometimes feel like I'm talking to myself here, but the stats say the pages get hits. One never knows.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Birthday Week Part III: The Rest Of The Story
Wednesday was the day after my birthday, and I had to go in to work for a short meeting. I didn't mind, after all, it was a short, productive meeting, and I got to see my fabulous coworkers!
I also bragged to a select few about my birthday tweet from Ron Perlman!
Before my meeting, I stopped at Lowe's to get a new doorbell. Seems the reason we didn't know when my flowers arrived on Tuesday was that the doorbell was broken. Our friend Mike discovered that when he arrived. I did all the things I could think of, and it didn't resurrect the doorbell, so I bought a new one. It was an easy replacement job, as both this one and the old one are wireless doorbells. No electricity involved!
Took me just a few minutes, and the doorbell was back in working order. Doesn't sound like real bells like the old one did, but it's a doorbell. Plays Westminster Chimes.
After the meeting, I went to Kohl's to check out the sales. I found a black pencil skirt in a size that I can wear now, as opposed to the ones I have that I pray stay up when I wear them. I also found a very nice pair of black Levis in the cut and size that I really like. Nice to have enough pairs of decent jeans to wear. I also found some really nice fleece thermal tops. They are thin enough to layer under a sweater, and they are WARM. I may exchange the shirt I'm wearing now for one of them.
For dinner that night, we had leftover corned beef and toast. Just the good things. Of course, there was cake for dessert...
That was excellent corned beef, and a very good cake, if I do say so myself!
We also actually managed to make it to choir practice Wednesday night! It was a relief to be there again!
On to THURSDAY:
On Thursday morning, I had an appointment with my hairdresser. Time for a trim and to re do the color. (The older I get, the more often this must be done. Not ready to let the gray out yet. I wanna wait until it's a little better distributed than it is right now...) After my haircut, I came home and took another shower (itchy cut bits of hair all over the place) but of course, didn't wash my hair. (Can't wash until after the color's had 24 hours to settle in.) I got dressed, and though I had wanted to go out shopping again, I just didn't feel like it. I lazed around and read a lot. (Hey, what else is a vacation for?)
On Friday, I got up, did my walk, and got myself out to the stores. I got a frame for the one autographed picture of Ron that was not already hanging in my office, and I got cartridges for the ink jet printer, and I stopped at Penney's, where I found a lovely silver grey top on sale, and a little black dress on clearance for $9.99!! I could totally not believe that the dress was only $10, but it was. Fits beautifully, and will be very versatile, as any little black dress should be.
The rest of Friday was a lazy lovely day.
Saturday I did laundry and read and played on Twitter. Watched Quest For Fire last night, and when we were done, picked up Twitter to find the #Perlgirls all upset that Ron had apparently injured his hand. He tweeted us eventually that he was OK, just had a little accident. He knows we worry. Well, I feel kinda like I have an extra brother these days. I do worry about him, like I worry about my brothers and my sister. God knows, I even used the family admonition on him when we said goodbye in Dallas. Yup. I told him to behave himself. (Like THAT'S going to happen!) ;)
So, after all the excitement last night, I went back to my reading and finished folding my last load of clothes. Then I took my Nook to bed and read there for awhile until Matt was ready to go to sleep. Still working on too many books at once and not finishing any. (At least I didn't finish one this week. I have to update my Goodreads, because I have finished a couple since the last update.)
This morning, I got up, got myself organized and got showered and dressed, and then looked at the road conditions. No way were we going to make it safely to church. Well, we might have gotten there, but we would not have made it home, given what the weather has been doing since about noon. It was already icy and snowing a little, but since noon we have had thunder sleet and snow. Roads are REALLY awful now. So, even though I have a great haircut and had a great outfit, I had to stay home. But I made pictures.
Here's the new silver grey blouse and the new skirt. I know this will be comfy even under choir vestments, and I did have a jacket to wear over it for the rest of the time. (Plus I would have worn one of my hooded capes) The outfit with jacket is shown below:
I also was playing around with the camera and came up with this self portrait:
That wraps up the birthday week pretty much. I discovered while eating my cereal this morning that one of my molars has a problem. Perhaps a broken filling, perhaps time for another crown. Much as it hurts, I suspect a crown in my future. Doesn't help that the sinus issues have already got all the nerves in the area unhappy. Going to be fun trying to get to the dentist tomorrow too, always assuming he can see me.
So Birthday Week ends not with a bang, but with a whimper. At least it'll be easy to stick to my diet until I get the tooth fixed. Eating can get painful. Still at 139 pounds right now, but I'll take it. Better than 168, which is where I started out last year.
Here's hoping I'll be down to 130 or 125 by next Birthday Week, 'cause that's my goal weight.
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