%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |    Online journal capturing the moment and the memory of moments. A meadow meditation. |
SPRING: 2 Bahá 163 (March 22) Weather where I am: 30 degrees and cloudy out the window. Weather in San Francisco where my cousin Judith is: 48 and fine. What about being open? On line, various people have been open about their personal illnesses, family problems, community issues. At what cost and for what gain? We all seek to communicate. Writers perhaps even more so. We wish to connect with others, express our innermost being. Somehow understand ourselves and others. Here at WDC, we learn through stories, poems, blogs, essays and other writings how people think and feel, whether based on 'reality' or fantasy. At times, it is easier to share with strangers than with family and friends. Especially family  . We hang our laundry out in the rain and sun to cleanse and bleach away whatever stains we perceive they have. So what is gained? A sense of self? An unburdened heart? A voice SCREAMING? Perhaps that and more. We find that others share our issues, the problems we face, that there is compassion out there ... somewhere. But at what cost? We expose ourselves to ridicule, to vicious wolves that feed among us. Once googled, truth-and-lies (they are the same) can be spread like manure around the world to fertilize or destroy. So what about me? Since I am a complex person, I do not wish to be labeled. My writings and ranting are diverse. A journal of over 900 pages, notepads with over 3,000 sketches, thousands of emails would only begin to explain who I am and how I interface with the Universe. Much I keep private. Call me paranoid, but I no longer trust people to have my best interests as their own. Not trusting the government is obvious to most, but I do not trust this society. The basic right to define oneself is being eroded. To speak is to take great risks. To be 'safe' someone must be sacrificed. I do not wish to be a martyr-without-a-cause, mere blood and guts, a ritual to satisfy fears. Yes, we live in a Time of Fear. It is part of the reaction to the change the global culture is undergoing. So, if I choose not to bare my soul it may be because I'm saving my hide. This is my reality. I've been hurt before by those who poked there nose in where it should've been punched. I remember what Esfan and I went through just to be friends, over the objections of others. It has been that way many times in my life. I face this with some friends now. To express my feelings in a public forum could cause them real harm. Not from folks here at WDC, but from their friends and family. One pays a price by associating with someone that others have deemed necessary to shun (reasons do not matter). To not observe the shunning is considered a crime in itself. It undermines the control of the community, whether it be family, church, ethnic group, gang, neighborhood, workplace, and so on. Openness, like many attributes is easiest when there is backing from some significant source, be it family, friends, a boss, a lawyer ... etc. Without that it is best to take cover and live another day or go outside and face the bullets. 'Nuff said. SENSED Robin sitting on a pile of brush on one leg; Robin answering the door half-awake; bits of snow where the sun hasn't hit; sunshine for 5 minutes; trees being cut down, including two beautiful birches; muddy tracks of the campus clean-up crews; the bite of Altoids wintergreen. Ruth West, a friend of many years, emailed me that she prefers my poems based on people! Others have expressed just the opposite. Now, Ruth is brilliant and other folks ain't stupid, so I guess I'll just have to keep on writing both  . And let the reader choose.Sketched yesterday: March Thirteenth Tornado It blew away the day, swept clean the alley, lifted roofs and killed a cow. It even lifted Hubbard's scowl. Then all was calm. We held the old orange bricks; we gawked at blown out windows; we gently stepped between the glass, the crunch, around downed lines. Alas, it had left the misery behind: the rags that sleep by doorways, the ten-drink drunk, the hurt disguised by drugs. Gone on its way, it left without a hug. Just a swoop of wind, a blast of hail and torn-up trees that sadly mark its trail. [163.3] |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
