Penelope Crowe's Blog, page 6
November 3, 2012
HOP WINNERS!
I am pleased to announce the winners of the 2012 Coffin Hop at As the Crow Flies! Beverly Preston chose Mouse as her prize, and Jolie du Pre chose Plague Mouse. I think I have to start drawing more mice :) See pics below. Thanks so much to everyone who stopped by to say hello--it is always great to chat.
Mouse for Beverly
Plague Mouse for Jolie
I hope you both enjoy the art.
Mouse for Beverly
Plague Mouse for Jolie
I hope you both enjoy the art.
October 23, 2012
Welcome to the 2012 COFFIN HOP!
It is that devilishly doom-filled time of year again--that chilly season of frights and dark night and bats and black cats--Halloween!
If you are here and hopping you are a kindred spirit, a lover of all that is shivery and bleak.
To thank you for stopping by I will be entering all the names of everyone who leaves a comment below into a drawing to win their choice of one piece of art from my Etsy store, As the Crowe Flies.
http://www.etsy.com/shop/AsTheCroweFlies
(Just a few samples--more in the Etsy store :)
To introduce you to my writing I have a short blurb from my new anthology The Daughter of Nostradamus, which will also contain my bestselling short story Absorbed. Enjoy--if you dare:
The sun turned black but for the burning red smile of a demon. Its ruby rays incinerated the unfortunate few who remained outdoors.
The wind blew cold from the east and hot from the west, and its howls caused deafness in the young and insanity in the old. The children slept too long in their beds, for to open their eyes now would mean the plague.
A dark haired woman screamed and threw back her head for she knew the child inside was killing her. It clawed and scratched and she feared for the lives of her kin. She was cursed with this, her thirteenth child. Her blood was weak and her husband left many years ago when the crops would no longer grow. She did not know how this child was growing inside her.
She knew the birth would be her end. The gods were angry and the earth was covered with loosed devils tonight. The baby ruptured forth in a spray of blood, and its mother bled to death as the eclipse ended.
The newborn spent its first night on earth in a pool of his dead mother’s still-warm blood, and slept peacefully there until morning, when he was found by Anna as she delivered her homemade bread. She picked up the bloody infant and ran home to her sister, screaming the signs from her dreams were all around, and the demons had left a son. That night she cut her palm with a spirit knife, and poured her blood onto the fire and prayed for the black ghosts to take back their child.
She bled for the first time that night, and in her dreams the wolves waited at the fringe of the forest, but they were not allowed in the clear.
Anna and her sister lived alone, for their mother was exiled from their village. Anna, with her piercing black eyes and raven hair was considered to be the daughter of the black-eyed magician who passed through town years before. Upsetting and intriguing the townspeople, he came before the drought and made disturbing predictions of the future while seeking herbs for his rogue medical practice. Her blonde haired, blue eyed mother and sister never argued the point.
The baby’s cries jarred her in the darkest part of the night, and she knew she would care not for this dark boy. Her wakefulness was burden enough, for her visions and nightmares often kept her sleepless for days. She knew he brought with him a stain, a faint grey mist that would settle and then spread.
When her sister Mina awoke in the morning and found the child gone, she would tell her his siblings came to find him in the night.
She listened to his cries for another moment then went to him.
She lifted him from his bed and picked up her knife before walking into the forest. Although her sister believed Anna’s thoughts about the child were muddled for an infant can be nothing but innocent, she knew she needed to snuff the black spirits in the evil boy.
The woods were quiet as a tomb, and she knew the ghosts were watching and waiting for the dark task to be complete. The animals burrowed deeper underground and the birds flew away as she entered.
It was kinder, she thought, to plunge the knife into his heart than to leave him alone and alive to be devoured slowly by the creatures that walk the dark. She placed him under the sad arch of a willow tree, and looked at him one last time. His eyes looked calmly back at her, and she pressed the knife into his heart, and once again in the other direction to form a cross so evil would have to avoid him and he would be taken by the angels.
He did not cry or whimper. He closed his eyes and the wind began to blow. Anna looked up at the moon and knew her soul was lost.
**************************************************
Visit the Daughter of Nostradamus page on Facebook--enjoy the fun and evil pix. Click here: https://www.facebook.com/#!/TheDaughterOfNostradamus
Please click on the Coffin Hop sign to the right to visit all the other horribly wonderful authors in the Hop. have fun!! XO >>>>>>>>
If you are here and hopping you are a kindred spirit, a lover of all that is shivery and bleak.
To thank you for stopping by I will be entering all the names of everyone who leaves a comment below into a drawing to win their choice of one piece of art from my Etsy store, As the Crowe Flies.
http://www.etsy.com/shop/AsTheCroweFlies
(Just a few samples--more in the Etsy store :)
To introduce you to my writing I have a short blurb from my new anthology The Daughter of Nostradamus, which will also contain my bestselling short story Absorbed. Enjoy--if you dare:
The sun turned black but for the burning red smile of a demon. Its ruby rays incinerated the unfortunate few who remained outdoors.
The wind blew cold from the east and hot from the west, and its howls caused deafness in the young and insanity in the old. The children slept too long in their beds, for to open their eyes now would mean the plague.
A dark haired woman screamed and threw back her head for she knew the child inside was killing her. It clawed and scratched and she feared for the lives of her kin. She was cursed with this, her thirteenth child. Her blood was weak and her husband left many years ago when the crops would no longer grow. She did not know how this child was growing inside her.
She knew the birth would be her end. The gods were angry and the earth was covered with loosed devils tonight. The baby ruptured forth in a spray of blood, and its mother bled to death as the eclipse ended.
The newborn spent its first night on earth in a pool of his dead mother’s still-warm blood, and slept peacefully there until morning, when he was found by Anna as she delivered her homemade bread. She picked up the bloody infant and ran home to her sister, screaming the signs from her dreams were all around, and the demons had left a son. That night she cut her palm with a spirit knife, and poured her blood onto the fire and prayed for the black ghosts to take back their child.
She bled for the first time that night, and in her dreams the wolves waited at the fringe of the forest, but they were not allowed in the clear.
Anna and her sister lived alone, for their mother was exiled from their village. Anna, with her piercing black eyes and raven hair was considered to be the daughter of the black-eyed magician who passed through town years before. Upsetting and intriguing the townspeople, he came before the drought and made disturbing predictions of the future while seeking herbs for his rogue medical practice. Her blonde haired, blue eyed mother and sister never argued the point.
The baby’s cries jarred her in the darkest part of the night, and she knew she would care not for this dark boy. Her wakefulness was burden enough, for her visions and nightmares often kept her sleepless for days. She knew he brought with him a stain, a faint grey mist that would settle and then spread.
When her sister Mina awoke in the morning and found the child gone, she would tell her his siblings came to find him in the night.
She listened to his cries for another moment then went to him.
She lifted him from his bed and picked up her knife before walking into the forest. Although her sister believed Anna’s thoughts about the child were muddled for an infant can be nothing but innocent, she knew she needed to snuff the black spirits in the evil boy.
The woods were quiet as a tomb, and she knew the ghosts were watching and waiting for the dark task to be complete. The animals burrowed deeper underground and the birds flew away as she entered.
It was kinder, she thought, to plunge the knife into his heart than to leave him alone and alive to be devoured slowly by the creatures that walk the dark. She placed him under the sad arch of a willow tree, and looked at him one last time. His eyes looked calmly back at her, and she pressed the knife into his heart, and once again in the other direction to form a cross so evil would have to avoid him and he would be taken by the angels.
He did not cry or whimper. He closed his eyes and the wind began to blow. Anna looked up at the moon and knew her soul was lost.
**************************************************
Visit the Daughter of Nostradamus page on Facebook--enjoy the fun and evil pix. Click here: https://www.facebook.com/#!/TheDaughterOfNostradamus
Please click on the Coffin Hop sign to the right to visit all the other horribly wonderful authors in the Hop. have fun!! XO >>>>>>>>
October 17, 2012
Nostradamus--Are His Predictions Coming True? Did His Daughter Leave a Terrible Legacy?
Michel de Nostredame, better known by his Latin name Nostradamus, was an apothecary and seer of the 16th century. Although studying to be a doctor, he was expelled for his practice as an apothecary, but was still called "Doctor" my many contemporaries.
His later works turned to the occult after he wrote a popular Almanac and then his well-known predictions written in 4- lined quatrains based on astrological equations.
Many say that his past predictions have come true, and that 2012 will bring World War III and a World Religion. Some of his supposedly accurate past predictions are:
* The great fire of London in 1666
* World War II and the rise of Hitler
* September 11th
* The rise of Napoleon
* The death of the Kennedy brothers
* The creation and use of the atom bomb
Click here for a more detailed explanation: http://www.smashinglists.com/top-10-nostradamus-predictions-that-have-come-true/
Nostradamus lost two children and his wife to the plague, then married a widow and had six more children. Some say he fathered several illegitimate daughters, one that left a terrible legacy of evil and destruction in her wake.
Read here about Anna, from the soon to be released anthology, The Daughter of Nostradamus.
The sun turned black but for the burning red smile of a demon. Its ruby rays incinerated the unfortunate few who remained outdoors.
The wind blew cold from the east and hot from the west, and its howls caused deafness in the young and insanity in the old. The children slept too long in their beds, for to open their eyes now would mean the plague.
A dark haired woman screamed and threw back her head for she knew the child inside was killing her. It clawed and scratched and she feared for the lives of her kin. She was cursed with this, her thirteenth child. Her blood was weak and her husband left many years ago when the crops would no longer grow. She did not know how this child was growing inside her.
She knew the birth would be her end. The gods were angry and the earth was covered with loosed devils tonight. The baby ruptured forth in a spray of blood, and its mother bled to death as the eclipse ended.
The newborn spent its first night on earth in a pool of his dead mother’s still-warm blood, and slept peacefully there until morning, when he was found by Anna as she delivered her homemade bread. She picked up the bloody infant and ran home to her sister, screaming the signs from her dreams were all around, and the demons had left a son. That night she cut her palm with a spirit knife, and poured her blood onto the fire and prayed for the black ghosts to take back their child.
She bled for the first time that night, and in her dreams the wolves waited at the fringe of the forest, but they were not allowed in the clear.
Anna and her sister lived alone, for their mother was exiled from their village. Anna, with her piercing black eyes and raven hair was considered to be the daughter of the black-eyed magician who passed through town years before. Upsetting and intriguing the townspeople, he came before the drought and made disturbing predictions of the future while seeking herbs for his rogue medical practice. Her blonde haired, blue eyed mother and sister never argued the point.
The baby’s cries jarred her in the darkest part of the night, and she knew she would care not for this dark boy. Her wakefulness was burden enough, for her visions and nightmares often kept her sleepless for days. She knew he brought with him a stain, a faint grey mist that would settle and then spread.
When her sister Mina awoke in the morning and found the child gone, she would tell her his siblings came to find him in the night.
She listened to his cries for another moment then went to him.
She lifted him from his bed and picked up her knife before walking into the forest. Although her sister believed Anna’s thoughts about the child were muddled for an infant can be nothing but innocent, she knew she needed to snuff the black spirits in the evil boy.
The woods were quiet as a tomb, and she knew the ghosts were watching and waiting for the dark task to be complete. The animals burrowed deeper underground and the birds flew away as she entered.
It was kinder, she thought, to plunge the knife into his heart than to leave him alone and alive to be devoured slowly by the creatures that walk the dark. She placed him under the sad arch a willow tree, and looked at him one last time. His eyes looked calmly back at her, and she pressed the knife into his heart, and once again in the other direction to form a cross so evil would have to avoid him and he would be taken by the angels.
He did not cry or whimper. He closed his eyes and the wind began to blow. Anna looked up at the moon and knew her soul was lost.
**************************************************
Visit the Daughter of Nostradamus page on Facebook--enjoy the fun and evil pix. Click here: https://www.facebook.com/#!/TheDaughterOfNostradamus
His later works turned to the occult after he wrote a popular Almanac and then his well-known predictions written in 4- lined quatrains based on astrological equations.
Many say that his past predictions have come true, and that 2012 will bring World War III and a World Religion. Some of his supposedly accurate past predictions are:
* The great fire of London in 1666
* World War II and the rise of Hitler
* September 11th
* The rise of Napoleon
* The death of the Kennedy brothers
* The creation and use of the atom bomb
Click here for a more detailed explanation: http://www.smashinglists.com/top-10-nostradamus-predictions-that-have-come-true/
Nostradamus lost two children and his wife to the plague, then married a widow and had six more children. Some say he fathered several illegitimate daughters, one that left a terrible legacy of evil and destruction in her wake.
Read here about Anna, from the soon to be released anthology, The Daughter of Nostradamus.
The sun turned black but for the burning red smile of a demon. Its ruby rays incinerated the unfortunate few who remained outdoors.
The wind blew cold from the east and hot from the west, and its howls caused deafness in the young and insanity in the old. The children slept too long in their beds, for to open their eyes now would mean the plague.
A dark haired woman screamed and threw back her head for she knew the child inside was killing her. It clawed and scratched and she feared for the lives of her kin. She was cursed with this, her thirteenth child. Her blood was weak and her husband left many years ago when the crops would no longer grow. She did not know how this child was growing inside her.
She knew the birth would be her end. The gods were angry and the earth was covered with loosed devils tonight. The baby ruptured forth in a spray of blood, and its mother bled to death as the eclipse ended.
The newborn spent its first night on earth in a pool of his dead mother’s still-warm blood, and slept peacefully there until morning, when he was found by Anna as she delivered her homemade bread. She picked up the bloody infant and ran home to her sister, screaming the signs from her dreams were all around, and the demons had left a son. That night she cut her palm with a spirit knife, and poured her blood onto the fire and prayed for the black ghosts to take back their child.
She bled for the first time that night, and in her dreams the wolves waited at the fringe of the forest, but they were not allowed in the clear.
Anna and her sister lived alone, for their mother was exiled from their village. Anna, with her piercing black eyes and raven hair was considered to be the daughter of the black-eyed magician who passed through town years before. Upsetting and intriguing the townspeople, he came before the drought and made disturbing predictions of the future while seeking herbs for his rogue medical practice. Her blonde haired, blue eyed mother and sister never argued the point.
The baby’s cries jarred her in the darkest part of the night, and she knew she would care not for this dark boy. Her wakefulness was burden enough, for her visions and nightmares often kept her sleepless for days. She knew he brought with him a stain, a faint grey mist that would settle and then spread.
When her sister Mina awoke in the morning and found the child gone, she would tell her his siblings came to find him in the night.
She listened to his cries for another moment then went to him.
She lifted him from his bed and picked up her knife before walking into the forest. Although her sister believed Anna’s thoughts about the child were muddled for an infant can be nothing but innocent, she knew she needed to snuff the black spirits in the evil boy.
The woods were quiet as a tomb, and she knew the ghosts were watching and waiting for the dark task to be complete. The animals burrowed deeper underground and the birds flew away as she entered.
It was kinder, she thought, to plunge the knife into his heart than to leave him alone and alive to be devoured slowly by the creatures that walk the dark. She placed him under the sad arch a willow tree, and looked at him one last time. His eyes looked calmly back at her, and she pressed the knife into his heart, and once again in the other direction to form a cross so evil would have to avoid him and he would be taken by the angels.
He did not cry or whimper. He closed his eyes and the wind began to blow. Anna looked up at the moon and knew her soul was lost.
**************************************************
Visit the Daughter of Nostradamus page on Facebook--enjoy the fun and evil pix. Click here: https://www.facebook.com/#!/TheDaughterOfNostradamus
October 12, 2012
Terror by Red Death--My First Horror
Edgar Allan Poe was a brilliant and possibly mad poet and writer.
The genre of horror cannot be mentioned without including him in the conversation. He may have been depressed, alcoholic, and lovelorn--all of which provide fertile ground for all sorts of terrors. He also happened to be a master of words, and the combination makes for gorgeous and horrible tales.
When I was in third grade our teacher told us we were going read Masque of the Red Death in her class, and I was ecstatic, not because I was a fan of Poe and that young age, but because we were going to read something that had the word 'death' in it.
I considered myself a ghost story and horror fan at that age, but my interest leaned more to Tales from the Crypt comics from Oh! Johnnies, a store that sold everything from magazines to fountain sodas, and Dracula with Bella Lugosi. But then Mrs. Walsh, my third grade teacher that had a plastic peace sign on the chimney
of her house, gave us a thin books of Poe's stories right before lunch on an overcast spring day.
I read the first page and was astounded there was this kind of writing in the world. It resonated with something dark in me, even at eight years old. I walked home for lunch with my nose in the book, and told my mother all about it over a bowl of macaroni and cheese. She listened carefully as I told her of the colored rooms and how the matching glass windows infused the rooms with gorgeous light. I told her of the black room with the blood red window, and she told me she did not like that, and wrinkled her nose. This tickled me.
By the weekend I had enlisted my poor five year old sister to be a victim in my Off-Broadway edition off the book. Being the director, I had to tell her a little bit about the plot, but she was not old enough to process the details, and heard only--blood, death, and monsters. She basically had a fit and cried for the next hour, and I got into a bit of trouble. All this drama somehow made the whole scenario more delectable to me, and I have never been the same. I ponder why I love the fear, the nerve-wracking tension, and the constant search for a book or movie that will actually scare me.
I read the story at least three more times before the teacher made us turn in the books. I went to the library to look up other stories from Poe, and although I liked others, especially The Black Cat, none affected me like dark tale of Prince Prospero, his opulent surroundings, and eventual demise because of the Red Death.
I considered doing a similar color theme as the chambers of Prince Prospero's castle to the bedrooms in my previous home, but there was something just a tick too dark for even me to live with, and the stained glass windows would certainly be tough to recreate.
Although I have read endless horror books, poems, and stories, The Red Death was my first love, and remains one on my favorite pieces of literature--and a clock chiming at the midnight hour will forever send a chill down my spine.
I wonder if it has anything to do with my love of short stories--and germ-phobia...
Please read the short but terrifying tale below.
http://www.online-literature.com/poe/36/
My short and bloody tale Absorbed on Amazon.
http://www.amazon.com/Absorbed-ebook/dp/B005SUBYYI
The genre of horror cannot be mentioned without including him in the conversation. He may have been depressed, alcoholic, and lovelorn--all of which provide fertile ground for all sorts of terrors. He also happened to be a master of words, and the combination makes for gorgeous and horrible tales.
When I was in third grade our teacher told us we were going read Masque of the Red Death in her class, and I was ecstatic, not because I was a fan of Poe and that young age, but because we were going to read something that had the word 'death' in it.
I considered myself a ghost story and horror fan at that age, but my interest leaned more to Tales from the Crypt comics from Oh! Johnnies, a store that sold everything from magazines to fountain sodas, and Dracula with Bella Lugosi. But then Mrs. Walsh, my third grade teacher that had a plastic peace sign on the chimney
of her house, gave us a thin books of Poe's stories right before lunch on an overcast spring day.
I read the first page and was astounded there was this kind of writing in the world. It resonated with something dark in me, even at eight years old. I walked home for lunch with my nose in the book, and told my mother all about it over a bowl of macaroni and cheese. She listened carefully as I told her of the colored rooms and how the matching glass windows infused the rooms with gorgeous light. I told her of the black room with the blood red window, and she told me she did not like that, and wrinkled her nose. This tickled me.
By the weekend I had enlisted my poor five year old sister to be a victim in my Off-Broadway edition off the book. Being the director, I had to tell her a little bit about the plot, but she was not old enough to process the details, and heard only--blood, death, and monsters. She basically had a fit and cried for the next hour, and I got into a bit of trouble. All this drama somehow made the whole scenario more delectable to me, and I have never been the same. I ponder why I love the fear, the nerve-wracking tension, and the constant search for a book or movie that will actually scare me.
I read the story at least three more times before the teacher made us turn in the books. I went to the library to look up other stories from Poe, and although I liked others, especially The Black Cat, none affected me like dark tale of Prince Prospero, his opulent surroundings, and eventual demise because of the Red Death.
I considered doing a similar color theme as the chambers of Prince Prospero's castle to the bedrooms in my previous home, but there was something just a tick too dark for even me to live with, and the stained glass windows would certainly be tough to recreate.
Although I have read endless horror books, poems, and stories, The Red Death was my first love, and remains one on my favorite pieces of literature--and a clock chiming at the midnight hour will forever send a chill down my spine.
I wonder if it has anything to do with my love of short stories--and germ-phobia...
Please read the short but terrifying tale below.
http://www.online-literature.com/poe/36/
My short and bloody tale Absorbed on Amazon.
http://www.amazon.com/Absorbed-ebook/dp/B005SUBYYI
October 1, 2012
Jack White at Radio City--More Than Music
Although the Lincoln Tunnel was closed due to an accident and getting into NYC and Radio City was murder last night, Jack White made it worth my time and suffering.
He started his set at 9:00PM with Missing Pieces, a song that seems to be about losing more body parts than just your heart in a bad affair, then burned through his songs like devil was on his ass. He seemed angry and moody, but his dark vibe and almost frenetic pace made for a hot and riveting concert.
His six piece, all female band is painfully talented. They looked beautiful and made me wonder if they all sold their souls. His Grammy nominated back-up singer Ruby Amanfu swayed and shook her tambourines, and her ringing yet soulful voice was a perfect match to Jack's jagged vocal hammerings.
But as I watched I knew something more was taking place here. Jack White is more than a musician.
During the song Cannon I was taken somewhere else. The hard, heavy, and unrelenting guitar riff was menacing, the stage simply lit in black and white shadows, and Jack's raw vocals transformed the venue into a haunted house, a place of evil and monsters, and it was glorious. The simmering anger you felt in the earlier songs was transformed into a diabolical thing here, and whatever shadowed alley he was going to scurry down--I was going with him.
That was way better than drugs.
He interacted with all six women on stage in an intimate and connected way--his contact seeming to fuel their intensity and dedication to the songs. They watched his every move and the set was flawless. Ball and Biscuit took the blues to the deepest shade of indigo, and the frenzy of its culmination was a lost-in-space, nerve blasting experience.
That was way better than....you get the picture.
Everyone in the audience was on their feet from the moment Jack White stepped on stage, until we shuffled out a bit sad that he only played for an hour and a half. He uttered only two words to the audience during the entire show, 'thank you', as he and the band stood close, linked arms, and bowed.
There were no pyrotechnics, flashing images, or opening acts to dilute the music, yet the stark atmosphere induced some type of hypnotic time warp and an almost southern modern-Gothic feel.
Having an eighth row seat gave me the delicious illusion that Mr. White and I made eye contact several times, although I am sure it was my then beat-addled brain sending cosmic wishes to my rapidly pounding heart.
I have a weakness for talent: an extraordinary ability to draw, paint, play guitar, articulate, create mood, write, or influence people. The ultimate is a mind-blowing combination of two or more of these talents, and that is what I experienced last night.
I wanted him to talk to us, his audience, to give us a hint of his humor, thought process, or just for him to speak to let us know he was human. But then the odd, blurry feeling may have been lost, and the night would have taken on an entirely different feel. In a blustery, pissed-off way, it was perfect.
Too short? Yes. But, oh, so sweet...
His set from last night:
Missing Pieces
Weep Themselves to Sleep
Love Interruption
Hotel Yorba (White Stripes)
Top Yourself/Maggie's Farm (Raconteurs)
Cannon/John the Revelator (White Stripes)
Screwdriver (White Stripes)
Rock Island Line
Blue Blood Blues (The Dead Weather)
Trash Tongue Talker
Papa Was a Rascal (James Booker cover)
Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground (White Stripes)
I'm Slowly Turning Into You (White Stripes)
We're Going to Be Friends (White Stripes)
Hip (Eponymous) Poor Boy
Hypocritical Kiss
Ball and Biscuit (White Stripes)
Encore
Freedom At 21
Sixteen Saltines
Seven Nation Army (White Stripes)
Goodnight, Irene (Lead Belly cover)
Page from 100 Unfortunate Days that shows my soft-spot for guitar players:
Day 93
I was born in Venice on the Fourth of July—which means nothing to anyone in Venice. I had with jet-black hair and very light blue eyes. Then all my hair fell out and grew in very light blonde. My eyes have remained light blue. I was left on a ferry boat when I was three months old—I don’t know if it was on purpose or not—but I was raised covertly by the Queen of England until I was five, then she could not keep me under wraps anymore because I moved around too much and she felt I should be going to school.
I was sent to stay with the Queen’s illegitimate sister who lived in France. She taught me how to play the guitar and wear makeup. I stayed there until I was eight and then I worked in a coffee shop and slept there at night next to the picture window that had a toile cushion beneath it. No one minded. I ate small sugary biscuits with tea or coffee every day for breakfast and wrote sad love songs until I kissed a boy. I got a tattoo of his initial on the underside of my middle finger and never told him. I left the lyrics to a song on a table outside the coffee shop one afternoon and could not find them later that afternoon. I heard a song on the radio a year later that used my lyrics. I never told anyone.
I took a train to Germany and dyed my hair jet-black again. I had five children in five years and gave them all away to charity. I worked in a guitar shop and met Jimmy Page and we spent the night together. I got a tattoo of his initials on the underside of my middle finger of my other hand and swore my love to him eternally. He said he would love me forever too.
I stayed awake once for three days because I was sad. I moved to Spain because I needed to be warm and painted my front door a different color every day. My skin loved the sun and the black faded from my hair. I wore jewelry with diamonds and flowers in my hair. When I looked at the sky at night I could see the face of my true love who I knew I would never meet. Sometimes I see children with light blue eyes and jet-black or light blonde hair and I know they are mine. I never say anything.
He started his set at 9:00PM with Missing Pieces, a song that seems to be about losing more body parts than just your heart in a bad affair, then burned through his songs like devil was on his ass. He seemed angry and moody, but his dark vibe and almost frenetic pace made for a hot and riveting concert.
His six piece, all female band is painfully talented. They looked beautiful and made me wonder if they all sold their souls. His Grammy nominated back-up singer Ruby Amanfu swayed and shook her tambourines, and her ringing yet soulful voice was a perfect match to Jack's jagged vocal hammerings.
But as I watched I knew something more was taking place here. Jack White is more than a musician.
During the song Cannon I was taken somewhere else. The hard, heavy, and unrelenting guitar riff was menacing, the stage simply lit in black and white shadows, and Jack's raw vocals transformed the venue into a haunted house, a place of evil and monsters, and it was glorious. The simmering anger you felt in the earlier songs was transformed into a diabolical thing here, and whatever shadowed alley he was going to scurry down--I was going with him.
That was way better than drugs.
He interacted with all six women on stage in an intimate and connected way--his contact seeming to fuel their intensity and dedication to the songs. They watched his every move and the set was flawless. Ball and Biscuit took the blues to the deepest shade of indigo, and the frenzy of its culmination was a lost-in-space, nerve blasting experience.
That was way better than....you get the picture.
Everyone in the audience was on their feet from the moment Jack White stepped on stage, until we shuffled out a bit sad that he only played for an hour and a half. He uttered only two words to the audience during the entire show, 'thank you', as he and the band stood close, linked arms, and bowed.
There were no pyrotechnics, flashing images, or opening acts to dilute the music, yet the stark atmosphere induced some type of hypnotic time warp and an almost southern modern-Gothic feel.
Having an eighth row seat gave me the delicious illusion that Mr. White and I made eye contact several times, although I am sure it was my then beat-addled brain sending cosmic wishes to my rapidly pounding heart.
I have a weakness for talent: an extraordinary ability to draw, paint, play guitar, articulate, create mood, write, or influence people. The ultimate is a mind-blowing combination of two or more of these talents, and that is what I experienced last night.
I wanted him to talk to us, his audience, to give us a hint of his humor, thought process, or just for him to speak to let us know he was human. But then the odd, blurry feeling may have been lost, and the night would have taken on an entirely different feel. In a blustery, pissed-off way, it was perfect.
Too short? Yes. But, oh, so sweet...
His set from last night:
Missing Pieces
Weep Themselves to Sleep
Love Interruption
Hotel Yorba (White Stripes)
Top Yourself/Maggie's Farm (Raconteurs)
Cannon/John the Revelator (White Stripes)
Screwdriver (White Stripes)
Rock Island Line
Blue Blood Blues (The Dead Weather)
Trash Tongue Talker
Papa Was a Rascal (James Booker cover)
Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground (White Stripes)
I'm Slowly Turning Into You (White Stripes)
We're Going to Be Friends (White Stripes)
Hip (Eponymous) Poor Boy
Hypocritical Kiss
Ball and Biscuit (White Stripes)
Encore
Freedom At 21
Sixteen Saltines
Seven Nation Army (White Stripes)
Goodnight, Irene (Lead Belly cover)
Page from 100 Unfortunate Days that shows my soft-spot for guitar players:
Day 93
I was born in Venice on the Fourth of July—which means nothing to anyone in Venice. I had with jet-black hair and very light blue eyes. Then all my hair fell out and grew in very light blonde. My eyes have remained light blue. I was left on a ferry boat when I was three months old—I don’t know if it was on purpose or not—but I was raised covertly by the Queen of England until I was five, then she could not keep me under wraps anymore because I moved around too much and she felt I should be going to school.
I was sent to stay with the Queen’s illegitimate sister who lived in France. She taught me how to play the guitar and wear makeup. I stayed there until I was eight and then I worked in a coffee shop and slept there at night next to the picture window that had a toile cushion beneath it. No one minded. I ate small sugary biscuits with tea or coffee every day for breakfast and wrote sad love songs until I kissed a boy. I got a tattoo of his initial on the underside of my middle finger and never told him. I left the lyrics to a song on a table outside the coffee shop one afternoon and could not find them later that afternoon. I heard a song on the radio a year later that used my lyrics. I never told anyone.
I took a train to Germany and dyed my hair jet-black again. I had five children in five years and gave them all away to charity. I worked in a guitar shop and met Jimmy Page and we spent the night together. I got a tattoo of his initials on the underside of my middle finger of my other hand and swore my love to him eternally. He said he would love me forever too.
I stayed awake once for three days because I was sad. I moved to Spain because I needed to be warm and painted my front door a different color every day. My skin loved the sun and the black faded from my hair. I wore jewelry with diamonds and flowers in my hair. When I looked at the sky at night I could see the face of my true love who I knew I would never meet. Sometimes I see children with light blue eyes and jet-black or light blonde hair and I know they are mine. I never say anything.
September 24, 2012
Total LOVE or Total HATE--My Reviews.
My short story Absorbed has been on Amazon for almost a year.
It is only 16 pages long and listed under horror, and has always sold at a decent clip. It is listed as a short story and states that along with the number of pages three times on the Amazon lising.
Amazon listed it as free for several months because they saw it several other places for free. Then MANY people got the story and started to review it. Thankfully it has received many (31 five star) good reviews, including a five star Amazon Vine review.
It has also received five ONE star reviews.
These reveiwers hated the story so much that it inspired them to create Amazon profiles for the sole purpose of telling everyone how much they disliked the story. The one star reviewers called the story anti-men, too violent, too short, morbid, unsettling and disturbing. One of them said a horror reader would probably love it.
That is why I wrote it. Because I love horror, and I know there are plenty of horror readers out there.
One wrote that although the story was well-written, it was not their type of book.
Another wrote that she thought the book was great and full of surprises, but the story took a dark turn. She would have preferred it stayed on it's original path.
The story is for people who like the dark, the macabre, and the shivery feeling of fear. It is for that slightly off-center group who want to wonder what is around that next shadowy corner, and revel in chill as they wait. It is not for the weak-of-heart. That is why it is listed in the horror catagory.
If you like happy endings, my books are not for you--unless you would put bloody revenge, evil, and psycological mind-twists in the happy ending catagory.
Absorbed is a short intro to my writing--it is not a long and winding epic novel. Although I do not write to specifically offend, I will NOT avoid writing something if it is true to a character or will enhance the story. I do not think horror is a catagory that is concerned with political correctness. My characters will not say "Oh foo when another F word is more appropriate--and more real. This is not for everyone! And that is fine with me. There are certain genres I do not like, and I usually do not look for books in this catagory.
I do not expect everyone to like my stories. On the contrary, I think it will be a mixed bag. But I would hope that our stories will be reviewed for what they are, and not what the reviewer expected or did not like because they were reading in the wrong catagory.
And if you are reading horror, keep that light on. :)
Absorbed is currently free on Amazon. http://www.amazon.com/Absorbed-ebook/dp/B005SUBYYI
It is only 16 pages long and listed under horror, and has always sold at a decent clip. It is listed as a short story and states that along with the number of pages three times on the Amazon lising.
Amazon listed it as free for several months because they saw it several other places for free. Then MANY people got the story and started to review it. Thankfully it has received many (31 five star) good reviews, including a five star Amazon Vine review.
It has also received five ONE star reviews.
These reveiwers hated the story so much that it inspired them to create Amazon profiles for the sole purpose of telling everyone how much they disliked the story. The one star reviewers called the story anti-men, too violent, too short, morbid, unsettling and disturbing. One of them said a horror reader would probably love it.
That is why I wrote it. Because I love horror, and I know there are plenty of horror readers out there.
One wrote that although the story was well-written, it was not their type of book.
Another wrote that she thought the book was great and full of surprises, but the story took a dark turn. She would have preferred it stayed on it's original path.
The story is for people who like the dark, the macabre, and the shivery feeling of fear. It is for that slightly off-center group who want to wonder what is around that next shadowy corner, and revel in chill as they wait. It is not for the weak-of-heart. That is why it is listed in the horror catagory.
If you like happy endings, my books are not for you--unless you would put bloody revenge, evil, and psycological mind-twists in the happy ending catagory.
Absorbed is a short intro to my writing--it is not a long and winding epic novel. Although I do not write to specifically offend, I will NOT avoid writing something if it is true to a character or will enhance the story. I do not think horror is a catagory that is concerned with political correctness. My characters will not say "Oh foo when another F word is more appropriate--and more real. This is not for everyone! And that is fine with me. There are certain genres I do not like, and I usually do not look for books in this catagory.
I do not expect everyone to like my stories. On the contrary, I think it will be a mixed bag. But I would hope that our stories will be reviewed for what they are, and not what the reviewer expected or did not like because they were reading in the wrong catagory.
And if you are reading horror, keep that light on. :)
Absorbed is currently free on Amazon. http://www.amazon.com/Absorbed-ebook/dp/B005SUBYYI
September 14, 2012
Who the Hell ARE YOU ??--Personality Testing
Modern personality test were originally developed to reveal aspects of an individual's personality. In 1919 they were further developed to help with the screening process for personnel selection into the armed forces.
(Please feel free to tell me what you see in the comment below--I would love to know :)
We are all familiar with the Rorschach ink blot pictures, and many of us have taken the Myers-Briggs_Type_Indicator_(MBTI) test when applying for a job. Many other forms also exist, and each have weaknesses. Test-taker bias is a problem because the subject can only respond to the topics that are presented to him and relate to him. Test results rely on truthful answers, and there is no way to truly know if the subject is being honest. In some cases the subject HIMSELF is not aware of his untruths.
Although the last time I interviewed for a job was many years ago and I cannot tell you what was discussed, I DO remember getting a lengthy personality test.
I was told it was par for the course for the interview process, and quite accurate and revealing.
The questions were what you would expect: Do you like parties? Do you like to help people even if they cannot help you in return? Do you like new experiences?
I found it interesting the test would ask the same question several times throughout, sometimes thinly veiled by different wording, and sometimes just an outright repeat. So that began to distract me, and I wondered what other types of patterns and signals they were looking for. I became a bit paranoid that I would answer differently based on where the question was in the test. Did this mean I was a liar? Was there a mysterious IQ revealer hidden within a test of my personality?
And it did not help that there were about 500 questions on the test.
I do NOT have a good attention span, unless it is something I am currently interested in, and I could feel myself starting to fade.
I finished quickly and handed the test to my potential future employer. She told me the test would be scored in a matter of minutes, and we could discuss the results. That was great, because I am also extremely impatient.
My tests showed, along with many other things, that I am easily distracted, creative, and have a propensity for artistic endeavours. Hmmm. I would have told her all those things if she asked me. She also told me, even though the test showed that I am disorganized and easily distracted, that I would someday make a terrific manager and would fit well in a corporate workplace.
Nooooooo.
Wrong. Terribly wrong.
I have almost no motivation or excitement when doing a job for another person, and I hate babysitting more than ANYTHING in the world, whether it be for kids or adults in the workplace. And being told what to do is not at the top of my list either. Or a dress code. You understand.
While I think that tests might be good for certain situations, and for possibly pointing to some serious personality disorders, I think they can be manipulated, or worse, a wonderful person could take a test and be misinterpreted because the questions are very black and white and as we know, personalities come in a million colors.
I have included a personality test here for fun:
http://www.outofservice.com/bigfive/
And another one from 100 Unfortunate Days with a more-then-slightly mad twist. Have fun!
Day 43
Pick the symbol you like the most:
1. *
2. #
3. @
4. &
5. ?
6. %
7.
8. !
9. {
10. }
This is what the symbols mean:
1. If you picked the * you have the ability to read minds sometimes. Sometimes you can tell when the phone is about the ring, and sometimes you can even tell who is on the other end of the phone. Sometimes women find you confusing. You say you are going to do something but you really don’t mean it.
2. If you chose # then you are smarter than you think you are. You also have a really big secret that you want to tell people but if you actually told them they would think you were weird. You love iced tea and you had a really odd nickname in school.
3. Choosing this symbol @ means you love to drive and fly in planes. You have also contemplated cutting yourself with a knife or burning yourself with matches—not a lot, but just enough to see what it feels like. Maybe one or two of you have actually done it. You like the Beatles and have them on your iPod.
4. The & symbol means you are more spiritual or religious than you will openly admit. There is a part of you that wants to tell everyone how much you love your god, but you are afraid they will think you are freaky. You like to swim in the ocean and you like the smell of burning punks in the summer. You hate mosquitoes.
5. Liking the ? is not as obvious as you thought. You are not necessarily confused but you do want a lot of things that you can’t have right now…like a new car. You also wish you could be in better shape. You love jelly beans, especially the red ones, and you like to gamble.
6. The % sign is evil. You pretend you like people when you really don’t. You talk behind people’s backs. You like hamburgers and shellfish. You really are bad though.
7. The sign means you are very organized and keep all your perfectly cut coupons in a neat little folder that you carry with you at all times. Dinner is always on the table on time, or you want it to be. You are very mean to people who are not as organized as you. The wildest you ever get is being on top.
8. Anyone that likes the ! pretends to be more optimistic than they actually are. They have contemplated suicide or at least moving away from their current life. They have some artistic ability or they like sports. If you like sports the circumference of your head is very large. You have buck teeth a little.
9. If you like the { sign you are very sentimental and live in the past. You keep stuff in little jars in your garage that normal people would throw away. You like the taste of alcohol and are allergic to something that blooms in the spring but cannot figure what it is. Old people like you.
10.If your sign is } you like to invent things—even if it is just in your head. You do not care about houseplants and would probably prefer them to die. You like toasted Wonder Bread with butter and love the smell of suntan lotion—especially Coppertone.
(Please feel free to tell me what you see in the comment below--I would love to know :)
We are all familiar with the Rorschach ink blot pictures, and many of us have taken the Myers-Briggs_Type_Indicator_(MBTI) test when applying for a job. Many other forms also exist, and each have weaknesses. Test-taker bias is a problem because the subject can only respond to the topics that are presented to him and relate to him. Test results rely on truthful answers, and there is no way to truly know if the subject is being honest. In some cases the subject HIMSELF is not aware of his untruths.
Although the last time I interviewed for a job was many years ago and I cannot tell you what was discussed, I DO remember getting a lengthy personality test.
I was told it was par for the course for the interview process, and quite accurate and revealing.
The questions were what you would expect: Do you like parties? Do you like to help people even if they cannot help you in return? Do you like new experiences?
I found it interesting the test would ask the same question several times throughout, sometimes thinly veiled by different wording, and sometimes just an outright repeat. So that began to distract me, and I wondered what other types of patterns and signals they were looking for. I became a bit paranoid that I would answer differently based on where the question was in the test. Did this mean I was a liar? Was there a mysterious IQ revealer hidden within a test of my personality?
And it did not help that there were about 500 questions on the test.
I do NOT have a good attention span, unless it is something I am currently interested in, and I could feel myself starting to fade.
I finished quickly and handed the test to my potential future employer. She told me the test would be scored in a matter of minutes, and we could discuss the results. That was great, because I am also extremely impatient.
My tests showed, along with many other things, that I am easily distracted, creative, and have a propensity for artistic endeavours. Hmmm. I would have told her all those things if she asked me. She also told me, even though the test showed that I am disorganized and easily distracted, that I would someday make a terrific manager and would fit well in a corporate workplace.
Nooooooo.
Wrong. Terribly wrong.
I have almost no motivation or excitement when doing a job for another person, and I hate babysitting more than ANYTHING in the world, whether it be for kids or adults in the workplace. And being told what to do is not at the top of my list either. Or a dress code. You understand.
While I think that tests might be good for certain situations, and for possibly pointing to some serious personality disorders, I think they can be manipulated, or worse, a wonderful person could take a test and be misinterpreted because the questions are very black and white and as we know, personalities come in a million colors.
I have included a personality test here for fun:
http://www.outofservice.com/bigfive/
And another one from 100 Unfortunate Days with a more-then-slightly mad twist. Have fun!
Day 43
Pick the symbol you like the most:
1. *
2. #
3. @
4. &
5. ?
6. %
7.
8. !
9. {
10. }
This is what the symbols mean:
1. If you picked the * you have the ability to read minds sometimes. Sometimes you can tell when the phone is about the ring, and sometimes you can even tell who is on the other end of the phone. Sometimes women find you confusing. You say you are going to do something but you really don’t mean it.
2. If you chose # then you are smarter than you think you are. You also have a really big secret that you want to tell people but if you actually told them they would think you were weird. You love iced tea and you had a really odd nickname in school.
3. Choosing this symbol @ means you love to drive and fly in planes. You have also contemplated cutting yourself with a knife or burning yourself with matches—not a lot, but just enough to see what it feels like. Maybe one or two of you have actually done it. You like the Beatles and have them on your iPod.
4. The & symbol means you are more spiritual or religious than you will openly admit. There is a part of you that wants to tell everyone how much you love your god, but you are afraid they will think you are freaky. You like to swim in the ocean and you like the smell of burning punks in the summer. You hate mosquitoes.
5. Liking the ? is not as obvious as you thought. You are not necessarily confused but you do want a lot of things that you can’t have right now…like a new car. You also wish you could be in better shape. You love jelly beans, especially the red ones, and you like to gamble.
6. The % sign is evil. You pretend you like people when you really don’t. You talk behind people’s backs. You like hamburgers and shellfish. You really are bad though.
7. The sign means you are very organized and keep all your perfectly cut coupons in a neat little folder that you carry with you at all times. Dinner is always on the table on time, or you want it to be. You are very mean to people who are not as organized as you. The wildest you ever get is being on top.
8. Anyone that likes the ! pretends to be more optimistic than they actually are. They have contemplated suicide or at least moving away from their current life. They have some artistic ability or they like sports. If you like sports the circumference of your head is very large. You have buck teeth a little.
9. If you like the { sign you are very sentimental and live in the past. You keep stuff in little jars in your garage that normal people would throw away. You like the taste of alcohol and are allergic to something that blooms in the spring but cannot figure what it is. Old people like you.
10.If your sign is } you like to invent things—even if it is just in your head. You do not care about houseplants and would probably prefer them to die. You like toasted Wonder Bread with butter and love the smell of suntan lotion—especially Coppertone.
September 1, 2012
A Welcome to the Dark
This was the first post for As the Crowe Flies last September. I had no followers, and I'm pretty sure no one saw it. But it is September 1st and I'm again looking forward to the coming of the dark~~
As summer comes to an end each year some dread the coming of the cold. The sun will no longer be bright gold and yellow...it will now contain a shade of blue, and it won't keep us warm. The dark creeps in earlier, and our minds somehow become darker, too.
But as the flowers wilt, something in us comes to life. We can let the dark, whithered sides of ourselves out again. We realize that the dread is not for the summer's end, but for the shadows that we all hide.
Although most of us would never admit to our underground thoughts, we all remember wonderfully shivery nights when we told our deepest, darkest secrets to one another. Things we would do if we could never get caught, thoughts of revenge plotted on an enemy, or boyfriends we would steal, and possibly give back.
Thankfully, most of us don't kill our enemies, or steal our neighbor's beautiful diamond necklace, or do anything to get ourselves in very much trouble. We need to keep up appearances, after all. How would they feel about all those nasty actions at the country club? But if we were put in jail for our thoughts, many of us would be put away for a very long time.
Here comes the dark, put out the welcome mat.
Below is a page from 100 Unfortunate Days:
Day 4
Did you know that all the best people belong to country clubs? If you can afford the $75,000 fee to get in and if you don’t mind people coming to check out your house and if you think it’s okay to post your name in the clubhouse for approval from all the other members and you feel it is obscene to show your shoulders, you will definitely get in and be surrounded by the best people in town. Of course you want your children to rub elbows with other children of wealthy parents, because it is a sign that you are a much better person than all the other people in town who are not in the club. They have a pool and a golf course that you have to pay extra for every time you want to play. All members are expected to eat there at least four times a month—and pay for that too. Because having lots and lots of money is a sign that God loves you. He wants you to live and prosper. But don’t act like a big shot—and don’t do TOO well for yourself because then you will be considered conceited and no one will like you. And why, for God’s sake, if you have so much money, would you live in that tiny house? It doesn’t even have the nicest decorations or a dark red dining room! By the way, your taste is not at all classic, is it? You have a tendency toward the eclectic, don’t you? And you really are such a handful you know. What do you mean you are going to a Junior League function? That does not seem like something you would do at ALL. It sounds like something I would do. See? You’re confusing and hard to handle. Wait—you could have gotten married at the country club and you CHOSE not to? Hmmmm. Really—who was going to sponsor you? And you don’t like to cook? Oh, that is too bad. I went through nine rugs before I finally settled on this one. Oh,—I forgot to tell you—we are redoing the kitchen—again!! I’m so excited! Do you want to come with me and pick out custom made tile?
As summer comes to an end each year some dread the coming of the cold. The sun will no longer be bright gold and yellow...it will now contain a shade of blue, and it won't keep us warm. The dark creeps in earlier, and our minds somehow become darker, too.
But as the flowers wilt, something in us comes to life. We can let the dark, whithered sides of ourselves out again. We realize that the dread is not for the summer's end, but for the shadows that we all hide.
Although most of us would never admit to our underground thoughts, we all remember wonderfully shivery nights when we told our deepest, darkest secrets to one another. Things we would do if we could never get caught, thoughts of revenge plotted on an enemy, or boyfriends we would steal, and possibly give back.
Thankfully, most of us don't kill our enemies, or steal our neighbor's beautiful diamond necklace, or do anything to get ourselves in very much trouble. We need to keep up appearances, after all. How would they feel about all those nasty actions at the country club? But if we were put in jail for our thoughts, many of us would be put away for a very long time.
Here comes the dark, put out the welcome mat.
Below is a page from 100 Unfortunate Days:
Day 4
Did you know that all the best people belong to country clubs? If you can afford the $75,000 fee to get in and if you don’t mind people coming to check out your house and if you think it’s okay to post your name in the clubhouse for approval from all the other members and you feel it is obscene to show your shoulders, you will definitely get in and be surrounded by the best people in town. Of course you want your children to rub elbows with other children of wealthy parents, because it is a sign that you are a much better person than all the other people in town who are not in the club. They have a pool and a golf course that you have to pay extra for every time you want to play. All members are expected to eat there at least four times a month—and pay for that too. Because having lots and lots of money is a sign that God loves you. He wants you to live and prosper. But don’t act like a big shot—and don’t do TOO well for yourself because then you will be considered conceited and no one will like you. And why, for God’s sake, if you have so much money, would you live in that tiny house? It doesn’t even have the nicest decorations or a dark red dining room! By the way, your taste is not at all classic, is it? You have a tendency toward the eclectic, don’t you? And you really are such a handful you know. What do you mean you are going to a Junior League function? That does not seem like something you would do at ALL. It sounds like something I would do. See? You’re confusing and hard to handle. Wait—you could have gotten married at the country club and you CHOSE not to? Hmmmm. Really—who was going to sponsor you? And you don’t like to cook? Oh, that is too bad. I went through nine rugs before I finally settled on this one. Oh,—I forgot to tell you—we are redoing the kitchen—again!! I’m so excited! Do you want to come with me and pick out custom made tile?
August 27, 2012
The Return of the Adrenaline Supergirl
As I was breezing through Facebook a few days ago I came across this picture:
After laughing at the intense look on the little girl's face and the quote, it struck a chord. A really big, two-handed, stretch-your-fingers-as-far-as-they-can-reach chord.
Because it made me realize this is exactly the feeling we are missing as we get older. THIS is the way we felt every single day as kids. We would never consider NOT feeling this way. We got an idea and we acted on it because we knew it would make us feel amazing.
My mother's aunt baby-sat us one weekend, and found us with every cushion from her patio furniture all over the yard and under the porch. The Olympics had nothing on us. Jumping from the deck, running and doing flips in the air, and perfecting twists and mid-air gyrations was extremely important so we could get high scores from the judges. Although I don't think she liked the idea of seven year old kids jumping off the side of her house...
There were no parents there, no one to buy us $200 uniforms, and more importantly, we were doing our own thing. Because, as my son said when he was eight, grown-ups ruin everything. He was talking about playing sports on the school team at that moment, but I knew what he meant. We take our lives and unfortunately the lives of our kids so seriously at such a young age that we take away their fun. We are controlling and feel the need to impart our wishes on our children. They feel too much stress far too early. They need time to be kids, to figure out their OWN ferocious games, and "get good" at something just because THEY love it--not because of something we want from them. We were superheros that day at my aunt's house, and each of us was completely exhilarated and exhausted at the end of the day. I'm pretty sure we went to sleep happy.
Another day we took every scarf, pillow case, sheet and towel from the linen closet and made a house on the weeping willow tree in the back yard by hanging everything from the drooping branches with clothes pins. We came in for dinner starving and not realizing we had been outside for hours. It was like magic--we created our own world.
This post also made me realize that we let our fears stop us from doing so many things. "I would love to write a book but.... I would love to try out for a commercial but... I would love to mountain bike or belly dance or play guitar..." You get the idea.
Of course money is an issue. Time also. But there is still that part of me that wants to do Leap-a-Letics in front of my friend Michael's house in the winter because his sidewalk still freezes perfectly in January. Everything was a competition then, and it felt great. No one was worried that too much competition was going to ruin our self esteem. If we did a bad leap--we were given a bad score. Nobody cried. It felt great to practice something and get better at it just because we wanted to do it. Not because school said to to do it or our parents. But because we LOVED to do it.
I want to be excited and terrified again. I want to do cartwheels in my backyard just because it is sunny and learn how to do a backwards dive into my pool. And I want to give my son the space to create his own world too. But for now I have to go...my people need me. :)
P.S. My short story ABSORBED is currently #1 in free Amazon.
http://www.amazon.com/Absorbed-ebook/dp/B005SUBYYI
August 16, 2012
Madness and Art
Van Gogh cut off his ear.
Sylvia Plath committed suicide.
Numerous entertainers have overdosed on drugs--accidentally or otherwise.
Shakespeare wrote of madness in Macbeth, and hinted about it elsewhere.
Edgar Allen Poe was questionably depressed or bipolar.
Some scientists believe the connection is clear--where there is creativity, there is the potential for madness. One European study linked the same genetic mutation that insights creativity to schizophrenia.
http://io9.com/5316544/has-science-proven-that-all-artists-are-crazy
It certainly seems that the creators of beautiful musical masterpieces like Mozart or Beethoven or breathtaking art like Picasso or Monet have a special vision or a different type of connection to another world. Some say it is because God is always speaking, and they are taking the time or have the ability to listen.
And of course there is the drug connection too. Do true creatives try and self-medicate with alcohol, heroin, or cocaine? Does their propensity toward drugs stem from wanting to expand their already wider ability to see the world in a different way--or a need to quiet the "voices" telling them what to write, paint, or sing.
Or do artists simply remove more of the social restraints that we and society have put in place from a very young age. We are a civilized nation, each of us fitting neatly into our roles and polite mores that have been dictated since our births.
Freud used "talking therapy" to get to what he considered to be the root of people's problems. He asked that the filters be removed, even if it was momentarily, and to free associate, and say the first things that pop into our heads--even if they seemed crazy or frightening. Wild things were said! New discoveries were made about deep and mysterious problems. We would never say these things in normal everyday conversation--people would think we are....
What if we all tried to keep the filters down a bit. I'm not talking about the ones that keep us out of jail, but the ones that keep us from being embarrassed, or saying what we really feel, or doing what we honest-to-God want to do without the worry of hurting someone, disappointing someone, or being afraid and doing it anyway. Maybe that is the only difference from the creative geniuses and everyone else.
Is creativity merely the ability to keep these filters down? Maybe those who can control them are lucky. They can write or draw or make music--or in some cases, all these things, and put the filters back in place when they need to function in a social or familial situation. Are the poor souls who are locked away and forever confused between reality and another world simply lacking the filters at all?
At this point the jury is still out. Not all schizophrenics are artistic or creative, in fact some are simply and sadly paralyzed by what they experience. Not all madness is schizophrenia, and certainly not all artists are mad.
Some days I wonder if we are not all mad, but not properly categorized yet.
Sylvia Plath committed suicide.
Numerous entertainers have overdosed on drugs--accidentally or otherwise.
Shakespeare wrote of madness in Macbeth, and hinted about it elsewhere.
Edgar Allen Poe was questionably depressed or bipolar.
Some scientists believe the connection is clear--where there is creativity, there is the potential for madness. One European study linked the same genetic mutation that insights creativity to schizophrenia.
http://io9.com/5316544/has-science-proven-that-all-artists-are-crazy
It certainly seems that the creators of beautiful musical masterpieces like Mozart or Beethoven or breathtaking art like Picasso or Monet have a special vision or a different type of connection to another world. Some say it is because God is always speaking, and they are taking the time or have the ability to listen.
And of course there is the drug connection too. Do true creatives try and self-medicate with alcohol, heroin, or cocaine? Does their propensity toward drugs stem from wanting to expand their already wider ability to see the world in a different way--or a need to quiet the "voices" telling them what to write, paint, or sing.
Or do artists simply remove more of the social restraints that we and society have put in place from a very young age. We are a civilized nation, each of us fitting neatly into our roles and polite mores that have been dictated since our births.
Freud used "talking therapy" to get to what he considered to be the root of people's problems. He asked that the filters be removed, even if it was momentarily, and to free associate, and say the first things that pop into our heads--even if they seemed crazy or frightening. Wild things were said! New discoveries were made about deep and mysterious problems. We would never say these things in normal everyday conversation--people would think we are....
What if we all tried to keep the filters down a bit. I'm not talking about the ones that keep us out of jail, but the ones that keep us from being embarrassed, or saying what we really feel, or doing what we honest-to-God want to do without the worry of hurting someone, disappointing someone, or being afraid and doing it anyway. Maybe that is the only difference from the creative geniuses and everyone else.
Is creativity merely the ability to keep these filters down? Maybe those who can control them are lucky. They can write or draw or make music--or in some cases, all these things, and put the filters back in place when they need to function in a social or familial situation. Are the poor souls who are locked away and forever confused between reality and another world simply lacking the filters at all?
At this point the jury is still out. Not all schizophrenics are artistic or creative, in fact some are simply and sadly paralyzed by what they experience. Not all madness is schizophrenia, and certainly not all artists are mad.
Some days I wonder if we are not all mad, but not properly categorized yet.
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