Finding Film Part 1: James Benning

Image from the film 13 Lakes by James Benning

Image from the film 13 Lakes by James Benning

Impressions and Lessons

“The old medicine man smiles through the face of nature. The old medicine man captures the face of nature within the eyes of his camera.”

Part of my compulsion to move to Austin had to do with a compulsion to understand and learn a new artistic medium of storytelling, film. Something that I never thought was part of my path, a strange and terrifying new direction that seemed to come from that place within the universe that pushes our actions toward our destiny. It cannot be denied, but takes some time to understand. This is not one of my spur of the moment new directions, I am taking my time and learning before acting upon the compulsion.

I have always been a movie lover, a devotee of fantasy and story. But film was at the periphery of my experience. A thing to be watched, observed, not to be made by my own hands. But there is this little voice in the wind whispering for me to tell my stories within a more visual format.

Before arriving in Texas, I became a member of the Austin Film Society. Mostly because I thought it was an opportunity to explore what this compulsion means in my world. I have no real definitions for what I’m drawn to do within this concept so foreign to me. I’ll admit, I am quite intimidated by this world.

I am finding myself surrounded by those who have been called to make films at an early age. They have been doing it for years, decades. Some of them are well known in the film industry. The feeling of intimidation is only heightened in the presence of such successful filmmakers. When they ask what I do, why I am there, how do I answer with anything definitive. I don’t even know what role I will play in this new world. And here I am face to face with directors of movies I’ve loved for years, being treated as one of the cool kids.

A Weekend with Filmmaker James Benning

james_benning_circlingI spent an entire weekend engulfed by the films of James Benning, a filmmaker that I have only recently become aware. I found myself enchanted by his simplicity, yet complex storytelling. In essence he removed some of the intimidation from my perspective of the film world. I had been approaching things from the standpoint of being an outsider peeking into someone else’s window like a secretive Peeping Tom. Inspiration struck while watching the last movie in the series, Stemple Pass. It’s not about being insider or an outsider of the film world. It’s about finding a voice in which to channel my own stories.

I see a lot of my own spiritual concepts reflected in the films of Mr. Benning. The love of nature, the silence of the mind, the communion with all while being in the moment then letting it go as the past. I felt a strong kinship with the man and his work.

The short time I’ve spent just observing films and observing conversations between Richard Linklater and others with the Austin Film Society has given me insight on the definitions I have been trying to formulate. I am learning the art of storytelling from all angles. I may never pick up a camera. I may pick one up tomorrow. Either way, I am finding that the compulsion to learn film from people who have been making films for decades is leading me to develop my own way. And there is no wrong way to do it. There is no need to feel intimidated by the experienced film people. Or even the idealistic youth of the film world that seem to be demanding my reason for being there with them.

Finding the drive to be something different than you have been for most of your adult life is a scary thing. I have basically hit the reset button on my life and am starting over like an 18 year old just leaving home for the first time. (Not that I ever want to be 18 again.) Doing what I’ve always wanted to do is extremely satisfying. For the first time in life that feeling of being perfectly inline with my purpose is all encompassing. I may only write things that end up on film. I may learn to do it all from concept to editing to shooting myself out of a cannon to promote my ideas. The future is unwritten, and mine to mold. But at least I will be entering the future with a new network of supportive film nerds that will understand all of my incessant movie quotes.

Pictures are Poetry

This film series has inspired me to write a series of stories and poetry based on the notes I jotted down while watching. These notes are like a journey into my personal meditations.

Possibly at the end of the series I will post snippets of the actual notes taken. They are surreal. But I will start with this one because it’s weird and funny, “Rick Linklater is wearing ugly socks, just like he is taunting me with memories of my [deceased] brother. The whole time I can hear Bryan laughing at me for trying to hold in my fart by concentrating on ugly socks.”

Here is the first poetic interpretation of one of James Benning’s films. I thought it fit with the National Poetry Month theme.

13 Lakes

By Amy Moloney

Hello Grandmother

It has been too long since you’ve reflected upon our world

The ripples upon your brow reveal the worry you carry deep below your surface

Steadfast you nurture and move us to where life begins

And ends and begins again

The world is the distortion, the static, the chaotic mind

Silence is the picture, the image, the solitude of mind

Grandmother, the mother, consort to the sky

Wearing her gown of white

As she opens her earth to let the winged gohead inside

Explosion before the impact of hard into soft

Where the Earth becomes the sky

And the sky becomes the reflection of night

This moment of perfect union

Already a memory of what was then

This moment an illusion

Never to be visited again

 

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National Poetry Month: Emerald

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Emerald

By Amy Moloney

Crawling inside the forbidden, cups hold the hidden,

where secret knowledge dwells

Drinking from the pool, that hides from the fool,

the ancient doorway to your own hell

Somewhere croaks the raven, do not enter this haven,

follow you beyond the stone

Gathered beside the shade, the open evening glade,

Emerald sits upon his throne

He whispers to reap, crafty words from the deep,

they wrap themselves inside

Holding an ostentatious blade, you swipe them away,

afraid they’ll make you rise up with the tide

Never listening the grey, so this mage has to say,

banish your ego and your pride

Emerald walks turns himself away, denying your your claim,

casts a silent spell upon the night

The waters of hell, around you they swell,

sweep you up into a raging fire

The ways of the damned, have called you a man,

a thief, assassin, and a liar

Holding your blade, praying to names,

that rule your two-pronged tongue

Emerald appears enraged, you blaspheme his name,

like zealots blotting out the sun

You seek an unknown prize, with deceitful hungry eyes,

but refuse to play the seller’s game

Inside his hollowed lair, insulting the perfumed air,

again he denied this quest of empty fame

A knight of the other gods, whose fear you have wrought,

of a simple Emerald glow

Dwelling beneath the earth, holding no curse,

you vilify his shadowed place below

Now you become his, weeping into clenched fists,

a broken crusader of minds so old

Emerald frees your breath, saves you from death,

but still to lies you stubbornly hold

If a prize you do seek, look past the raven’s beak,

and knowledge will be yours

Just open your mind, leave old gods behind,

and kneel down at the shore

The green one awaits, holding open hidden gates,

take a sacred scroll from the pile

Drink from the cup, let it warm the body up,

and sit with Emerald a good long while

Emerald is not blind, his thoughts change your mind,

an enlightened one shares the bodhi seed

Sift through the sand, grasp it in your hand,

and allow the wisdom to feed

Again fear grips your throat, like a sinking boat,

you tumble through the waves

Somewhere you see, old archetypes make-believe,

a man himself he must save

Emerald is pleased, the green man on his knees,

to you he bows respect

It takes more than fear, to render man clear,

when he is his own shipwreck

You came here with pride, to slay what’s inside,

misguided prophecy upon your lips

You leave here with hope, new ways to cope,

your armor becomes your ship

Rising from deep, the knowledge you keep,

the raven will guide you across

Emerald you say, why show me this way,

our paths should never have crossed

He winks himself away, not before he said,

My son, we are one in the same

You called me him, then call it something grim,

but really it’s not what’s in the name

The wisdom is you, finding the truth,

on a quest to make pure the kingdom of what?

But this world is pure, it has been before,

and will always be what it must

The knight rides home, now never alone,

the emerald stone set into his ring

A new song begun, the honey bees hum,

and the kingdom of Emerald will sing

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National Poetry Month: Journey

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Journey

By Amy Moloney

Raised within a bible, taught my very nature was a sin

Confused by what they told me and what I knew within

They told me I was wrong, by nature, a freak

To hold inside the things they dare not speak

They were frightened of what they could not control

And the fact that I was the one they couldn’t pigeon hole

A vibrant creature with independent thought

Someone to dare disagree with intolerance they taught

Rebel, heathen, blasphemous witch

Free thinking must be some internal glitch

Sold myself as the devil’s wanton slave

At least, that’s how they perceived I would behave

Never once looking at the soul I did posses

Blinded to soul’s they themselves repress

Frightened of power that lies within themselves

Useless words upon their righteous shelves

Pious men sit in judgement of my wrongs

Took away my words and burned my songs

Silence the music it did not do

For strength in me is what it drew

I found a goddess within my mind

Who showed me how their sight was blind

She held me close against her breast

Assured me I had passed a bigger test

And through it all I escaped slightly scathed

Still, in the light of God I am bathed

My spirit they could crush or not take away

For I have found there is more than just one way

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National Poetry Month: Phantoms & Lovers

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Phantoms & Lovers

By Amy Moloney

Craving the connection to a phantom, of what once was and yet to be.

A space left wide open to be filled with unfolding fantasy.

Why can’t we start now even though we have yet to play?

When light hits your face, do you let it in or cower away?

If I were to ask you to be my lover would you say yes?

Or would the phantom of you be the only interest?

I opened the door to my soul for a moment last night

Just to see if you would invite yourself in for a bite

It seems our timing is not quite in sync with our dreams

Phantoms and lovers fall into the trap of crossing screams

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National Poetry Month: Don’t Let Go, But Please Don’t Hold On

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Don’t Let Go, But Please Don’t Hold On

By Amy Moloney

 

A slow dance in cadence with the night

My head on your shoulder

Your scent surrounding my senses

Burning me inside, a slow constant smolder

Knowing the time is short

And you will be gone before the morn

I feel my soul die a little at the thought

My mind in anticipation building a storm

Losing you, but holding on

I feel both relief and wrenching pain

Taking in the truth of our situation

A slow smoldering that will not change

….don’t let go, but please don’t hold on

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National Poetry Month: The Diner

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The Diner

By Amy Moloney

Kind of like a dream…

Coffee and a diner on the desert sand

He waits at a booth in the corner

The back, where the lights flicker and strobe

Pouring syrup over a stack of pancakes

He smiles and offers me syrup for my coffee

Laughter and stories fill the room

A native man holds a bone to the sky

Offers prayers to the ancients made of smoke

A child is a ballerina dancing circles by the jukebox

Upon her toes with glitter in her hair

To the tune of a man named Johnny

And a boy named Sue

She giggles at the man with syrup

He pours the little girl a cup of maple

The waitress is 9 months pregnant, barely able to stand

The man gets up and pours his own coffee

And some for me

The sun begins to set outside the window of the diner

The whole room fills with orange light

He reaches out to brush my hair away from my face

Says that the orange light makes my smile look like candy

Candy made from the tears of angels

They cry for their happiness, and the joy of love

He opens the door for me, we walk outside

The desert air is warm

He leans in close

Whispers in my ear

“We have work to do”

I smile

We walk into the desert

Toward the lowering sun

The air begins to chill

He places a blanket around my shoulders

We walk

A small fire is burning

We sit to take in its heat

We dance to the sound of the popping flames

He places the blanket on the sand and we sleep

Curled together by the fire

His breath in my hair

He inhales my scent

Then says to me with another whisper

“Now I can find you no matter where you roam. I will always find you.”

He closes his eyes

Pulls me closer

We drift into the dream world together

Having the same dream

Where the clouds roll in

Rain washes us of every lover past

We dance in the rain

Laughing and free

We wake

New

Ready

Together

We walk back to the diner for more pancakes

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National Poetry Month: Soul Lights in Time

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Soul Lights in Time

By Amy Moloney

Silencing the thundering drums keeping the time

Holding accountable the promise of resurrecting what was eternally mine

Doubting reality in favor of a forgotten fairy tale

Within two hearts where home still refuses to settle or set sail

Earth spins in directions it’s never spun before

An axis of space becomes an unattainable dream, an alien shore

Propelling bodies through spaces meant for those we call gods

Shaking the souls, giving them life, melting away their facades

Unable to resist a pull stronger than the urge to fight

The draw of two bodies split from one single stream of light

Resistance remains but fades away in a matter of time

As belief refuses to take shape in the mirror of two stubborn minds

Still pulling together in spite of their being afraid

Finding the light becomes electric when lit from a single flame

Circling in confusion desperate to touch, to connect

Always trying to fit another’s light into the stark emptiness

Barely coping in the mundane trials of life

Light fades in and out, strobes of potential for true flight

Electric collision, two worlds explode into one

Light finds light, the storm of passion strikes with a force of a sun

Entwined eternal dancing upon ribbons of stardust and fire

Never too old to find the light of perfect union of an ancient desire

Whole and secure in the light that is once again made

A light shining so bright under a million suns, know only shade

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National Poetry Month: I Eat Pickles

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I Eat Pickles

By Amy Moloney

Sometimes I eat the wrong pickles

But you know, I really like them sweet

The looks of disdain from my friends

Shows how poorly I have chosen

But the pickles I eat are mine and mine alone

Go eat your own pickles if you feel so strongly

Furthermore, I like a lot of things sweet

There is no crime in sugar coating this world

I am not a bum for eating dessert first

Sweetness makes this thing called reality easier to swallow

And why wouldn’t anyone want to sweeten life

It’s filled with the bitterness of anger, denial, greed

The foul taste of jealousy permeates the air

So much so that people judge you for eating pickles

The news reads like a horror movie gone wrong

With images of murder, abduction, and rape

Served up by plastic smiles on barbie dolls

The sound of music becoming trite

As memorable as bubblegum on the bottom of my shoe

With themes so trivial that the size of my ass

Is the only real issue for the world to contemplate

By the way, the size of my ass is perfect

But you didn’t notice because you were watching me eat the wrong pickle

Did you notice that the government has removed your right to speak

While you were giving me shit for eating pickles

Somewhere there is a billionaire dictating the rest of your life

There is a prison cell being padded for your breakdown

An army of our brothers are coming to capture your freedom

Taking citizenship away from you

But you didn’t see the uprising of corporations

Distracted by a my jar of pickles

I may eat the wrong pickles

But I do not judge others for the pickles they eat

You may not find zesty and sweet to your preference

But do you know who won the Nobel Prize for peace

Not that any award is more than a popularity contest

Congratulations, you’re the prom queen of peace

And thanks for not blowing shit up this year

Is there a place safe from pedophiles and cyber-stalkers

And if there were such a safe place would anyone be there

But the pedophiles and cyber-stalkers looking for new prey

Will the media report about the cure for cancer

would such a cure be allowed to survive

Because there is no profit in a cure, only in suppressing the disease

Or do the designer shoes of a cracked out actor make the front page

Where does priority start and where does vanity stop?

But don’t mind me, I’m eating pickles

Are you fucking serious?

They are only pickles for fuck’s sake

So here we are, a world at war for things

As non-tangible as the name of God

And who’s getting to heaven first

Here I am eating the wrong fucking pickle

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Kim Boekbinder, Impossible goes BOOM BOOM BOOM

My Impossible Week:

1-SXSW 002Some people leave an indelible mark upon your soul. And you are a better person for having had the chance to get to know them, no matter how long the interaction. Such is the case of my week with The Impossible Girl, Kim Boekbinder. A truly Impossible Girl, space alien, and sister soul.

I was one of the crowdsourced minions for Kim. And this was a lesson in answering my own soul phone when someone asks. There is power in answering, when asked. Saying yes to the little nudges in your heart, even if they don’t always make sense, will lead you to miracles and wonder. They are telling you where you were meant to go. And because I answered her request for help I was given the gift of friendship, the beauty of being true to one’s inner self, and of course Neil Gaiman (see this post about chocolate).

It seemed impractical for me to agree to help her the same week I moved to Austin, as her driver and Galactic Glitter Minion. I knew nothing of the city other than I was compelled to live here. I knew nothing of SXSW other than what I had read on twitter the year before. It terrified me. I am terrified of crowds, unsure of the roads, and have absolutely no sense of direction. Yet I managed to make every part of this adventure work for both myself and Kim. I wanted the opportunity to meet new people and learn my new city. And that worked out better than either of us anticipated.

1-SXSW 007Impossible is a state of Fabulous

Our first night together was kind of a last minute invite to the Texas Film Hall of Fame Awards after party. We hadn’t actually met in person before I picked her up. So we spent dinner sizing each other up. From her perspective, she was probably wondering who this strange exhausted woman sitting across from her was. From my perspective, I was trying to figure out how to form words through the layers of travel exhaustion. We managed to communicate perfectly in the form of Crème Brule.

What started out as a business arrangement turned into a friendship, a mutual appreciation for the people we are. And I think we were both thrilled in finding another member of our strange and colorful tribe. To my delight, Kim introduced me to some other wonderful tribe members: Molly Crabapple, Najva Sol, Angeliska, and many other beautiful souls that have made my soul soar.

1-20130313_001653 (2)I had planned on going into detail about the whole week and a half we spent dodging traffic, eating hotdogs, fish tacos, and drinking coffee. But I think my heart just wants to fill this page with the love I felt being in the presence of so many creative and inspiring people. I may have stayed at the periphery of most of the goings on, that doesn’t mean it didn’t expand my senses like an incandescent alien muse.

I had also planned on writing a long winded interpretation of People of Letters, an event in which Kim was featured. I didn’t get around to doing it because of life happening around me. I started a letter to my Little Red Record Player as an amalgamation of the letters read at the event.

This event struck me right in the brain of my heart. Made me think, feel, and reminisce about many things long past. Kim in particular struck a chord with her letter to the word ‘Love’. In a way it opened up how much some of us take for granted that we have an abundance of love in our lives. Only we keep searching for the one definition of love that continues to elude us. Love is so much more than one word, one meaning, one feeling.

Thank you, Kim, for that insight. This has been a prominent subject on my journey, one that only I can reconcile. And your letter has become a valuable tool in which to do that.

1-20130317_170439 (1)Our last adventure together, which I will share a brief interpretation, was an event that happened after SXSW called Gaybigaygay. It was glorious. We passed the glitter like vials of Technicolor cocaine, junkies needing their shimmering fix while listening to the thumping sound ensorseling us from the stage. (In all honesty, the glitter high had been happening the entire week.) And where else can you have gay porn to look at while using a port-a-potty after watching Kim, the silver caped space alien, parkour her way through a sea of jeweled half-naked bodies in the dwindling sun?

If you would like to see some beautiful photographs from the event, look here for some pics by Najva Sol. She pretty much rocks the camera.

And so that you too can enjoy the gorgeous sounds of Kim Boekbinder, my Impossible Girl, here is her latest. Stellar Alchemist.

Be inspired, be creative, and don’t forget to say YES when your heart compels you.

Enjoy Kim’s music from the sky, my pretties.

Posted in All the World is a Stage, Artistically Inclined, Music Is The Best, The Life And Times Of Fuzzy Lizzard | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

National Poetry Month: The Crayon Kings

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The Crayon Kings

By Amy Moloney

They ride upon the backs of dragons

High above their misty mountain peaks

They dive below hidden murky waters

To swim with wild beasts of the sea

They hold worlds clenched in chubby little hands

A million watercolor galaxies made of entirely dreams

They fly through the rainclouds holding new worlds

As between the pink raindrops they come into being

A swirling sky of grey and blue and green

Rises from the place where magic worlds take shape

Somewhere inside a purple cardboard box

A child paints the future in ribbons and scotch tape

Golden dragons fly with dreams sewn upon his flesh

As dewdrops settle upon jagged gossamer wings

Whispers of children singing imaginary worlds awake

Fragile paper heroes of our crayon wielding kings

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National Poetry Month: Destruction of the Gods

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Destruction of the Gods

By Amy Moloney

The Gods know a truth they refuse to reveal

The beyond is just a shadow of the world

That so long ago stood

On the mountains of the globe

            And the Valleys of the Kings

We grasp at ancient traditions

That no longer holds truth

Finding solace in empty vessels

            of empty egos

The Gods, once proud

Guiding masses to think

to pray

And now they lay in retirement

With ashen bones and paper skin

Aged and wrinkled

Memories of them dissolve into smoke

A mere few chant their names

            Hold their vigil

            Light their candles

Most forget their very existence

            Curse their legacies

            Mock their ritual

These Gods, so powerful

In fear we dwelt beneath seeing eyes

Service to these beings, invisible

            Whose benevolence has given to the light

With their own life and breath

they brought our mothers and fathers into being

As now we service only the almighty self

            with digital monuments to our egos

Lost are we to endure life’s trials

            encompass the tragedy of existence

As a solitary endeavour

            the exclusion of deities of old, of new

Building altars to vanity

            worshiping at the feet of the media

            a flooding of gilded reality

Our reward for zealous devotion is self-loathing

            forever failing the machine

As we burn out keeping up with the pipers of fickle fortune

Dog’s who eat their own

then vomit rainbows of misfortune

            for the cameras to capture

Spectacle for spectacles sake reign supreme in an imaginary world

Gods die willingly to escape empty rites of pixilated Valkyries.

Gone

To be Gods no more

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National Poetry Month: If I Were Made of Paper

In honor of National Poetry Month, I will be posting some of my older works over the next few weeks. Some will be poetry that I’ve posted previously. I hope you all enjoy.

If I Were Made Of Paper

By Amy Moloney

If I were made of paper

I’d let you fold me, carry me within your pocket, a safe hidden place

Unfold me and read the messages written upon my delicate face

An origami swan I could become, to tuck beside the pillow upon your bed

When you wake you could write your dreams inside of my head

Unfold the swan, you smile to find a tattered tale upon my flesh

Memories of our brief time in each others world still fresh

A tear falls upon my parchment skin, wetting the pulpy grain

Smudging the words of someplace we’ll never be again

A crumpled ball thrown to the floor, careless of where I land

Lying beside the bin, alone with the dust, forgotten where I am

If I were made of paper

You could burn our memory away leaving nothing but ash and smoke

Erased from the world like childhood toys you forgot that you broke

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Push the Sky Away

Push the Sky Away

By Amy Moloney

If you push the sky away

The ground does not grow closer

When the unattainable is held within your hand

That does not mean the dream is over

Light the fuse on your rocketship

Pull the sky down around your world

Hold open your hand filled with impossible

The stars engulf you in their welcoming swirl

If you push the sky away

The expanse of blues and blacks still remain

No matter how tightly you close your eyes

That thing you think futile will find its way

If you’re afraid to hold a pulsing star

Letting it go will only raise you higher

Boarding began before you gave it any thought

Fate reaches beyond what your fear may aspire

If you push the sky into the sun

The fire does not swallow the night

If you push the sky into the unknown

That does not remove it from your sight

Lay still beneath the sky

Caress you with possibility on the breeze

Feel the ground beneath your back

The sky is yours to do as you please

 

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My Butterfly Friend

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My Butterfly Friend

By Amy Moloney

For my best friend, the other Amy

You are beautiful butterfly with tattered wings

You must cocoon again before you can sing

The world seems distorted when moving so fast

More strength inside you than seasons past

Colors bloom brighter than your focus can hold

But that doesn’t mean you are broken or cold

It just means the worn-out old skin is ready to shed

And when you emerge those fears truly have fled

So hold tight to my hand and gather your strength

Because friendship is stronger than what you fear is your fate

Like so many great stories that begin with an end

You will rise like the phoenix because I am your friend

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Sweet Honey

Sweet Honey

By Amy Moloney

I sat at the edge of paradise

Holding a string in my hand

Someone called my name

            “Sweet honey of mine”

I pulled on my string, no resistance

Until a balloon carried me high into the sky

Above my paradise I flew, eyes wide open

Until my balloon began to fall

            “Sweet honey of mine”

I heard the call again, such a familiar sound

A mountain rose high before my sinking flight

And my feet touched down on an icy slope

A young man caught my body

Carefully placed me into his sled

Pulled into a snow covered village

Where aged men sat in circles

Smoking from a pipe carved from red stone

“Sit with us” they offered my weary body

            “Sweet honey of mine”

The call continued to beckon me… home?

Broken smiles upon parchment skin

The men greeted

A knowing spark in their ancient eyes

“Why do you not answer him” the men asked of me

“Why do you only sit at the edge?”

I lowered my head, body still weary, paradise feels far away

I sat in their circle, string still tight in my grasp

An airless balloon, flaccid, on the end it withered

            “Sweet honey of mine”

Above the snowy hill where ancient men gathered

A colorless bird found my shoulder, a perch

The night sky upon his feathers

            Stars reflected in his midnight eyes

The string in his talon, he pulled me again into flight

Until my feet met sandy ground

A desert of red

Cold in the night air, barren of life, for miles upon miles

The bird stayed upon my shoulder

Cawing its song

            “Sweet honey of mine”

The bird cawed

The bird begged of me

            “Answer him child, he calls to you”

With the beat of his wing a sand storm began to blow

Standing in the center of the funnel, sand slashing my skin

I lay, fetal and broken,

            “Sweet honey of mine”

I cry, I chant to myself

At the edge of paradise, again I sat, holding my string

Wading into a lake bursting with life below the surface

            “Sweet honey of mine”

He calls to me one more time.

Do I answer? Do I dare?

From the lake a light appears, bright, silver

“Look into me” he seduces me

“Look deep into the light, Sweet honey of mine.”

I look

I search the water for him, the source of his voice

I see no other but myself, reflected in the cool water

I call to him, where are you?

Where do I look?

Please show yourself, Sweet honey of mine.

The water begins to swirl at my feet

A wave made of silver liquid, before me

His eyes an emerald green within the liquid

“I am here, Sweet honey of mine. I wait patiently for you.”

I reach my hand into the wall of rushing water

I feel his warmth, a caress of promise

The silver envelopes me, I melt inside its glow

The man calling to me, devouring me completely

I feel one last thought, before the nothing takes me

Paradise, the illusion,

I am ravaged by my own desire, to be no more, me

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Feed Your Sunshine

sunI haven’t posted much in my public dream journal in a while. I have still been having dreams. But I’ve only had enough time to jot down notes so I can explore them later. Here is one of my recent favorites. It is a reappearance of the little girl from previous dreams. She is so beautiful and full of joy. I love it when she visits my dreamscape.

The Dream:

I am in a non-specific public place watching some sort of show. The girl is there with her mother and father. It is clear that the mother and father are no longer married. They do seem to have a close relationship that revolves around the child with them. I feel instantly at home in their presence, as a whole. Their spirits wind around me like a fluffy blanket of being invited into the family.

Little Girl: I like your smile. What’s your name?

Me: Amy. What’s your name?

Little Girl: Princess Rainbow.

Me: Is that your real name?

Little Girl: No. It’s what I want you to call me.

Me: Then, Princess Rainbow, I am honored to meet you.

The mother approaches and introduces herself. She is full of smiles and warmth.

Me: I’d like to give you a special gift, Princess Rainbow.

Little Girl: A present for me? What is it?

I pull on my right ear a little and pretend to hold something very precious in my hand. I offer her the precious gift from my hand.

The little girl holds the pretend gift in her hand very delicately with wonder in her eyes.

Little Girl: What is it? Is it magic?

Me: Yes. It is a little piece of sunshine. Put it someplace special. And feed it every day.

Little Girl: What do I feed it?

Me: Love, happy thoughts, and kind words.

Little Girl: How do I feed it?

Me: Well, once you have put the sunshine inside your special place, stand in front of the mirror and tell yourself beautiful things. Before you know it the sunshine will grow so bright that everyone you meet will see it. They will feel how bright you shine.

Little Girl: What do I do when it’s all grown up?

Me: You give pieces of sunshine to people you love. You give pieces of sunshine to people you meet. You share your sunshine.

Little Girl: I will share my sunshine with you when I meet you in real life.

Me: I will be honored, my little rainbow.

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Stardreaming

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Stardreaming

By Amy Moloney

How do you keep your feet on the ground

When your head is in the stars

When everything you touch

Is eventually collected into jars

The world holds less wonder

Than the emptiness above

And somewhere in the ether

Is the only thing you’ll love

How do you keep your balance

When the world is built to tilt

When everything you reach for

Is buried beneath the silt

Eventually it will grow

To heights that reach the stars

But until that day becomes today

The only way up is through these scars

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Let Me Offend You

El Rey Pulpo Wisdom

El Rey Pulpo Wisdom

Let Me Offend You

By Amy Moloney

I hope I offend you

I hope I make you squirm inside your skin

I hope my words and actions

Shake you up again and again

I hope you’re uncomfortable

Inside your tight mental bonds

And you begin to see what is before you and beyond

I wish for nothing more

Than for enough friction to open your eyes

If my words penetrate through your eyes now open

The next step is to open your mind

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How to meet your idols and eat their chocolate: Part 1

Taken at People of LettersProof that Neil Gaiman is God or possibly Gozer. And Kim Boekbinder is at the very least Zuul.

Taken at People of Letters
Proof that Neil Gaiman is God or possibly Gozer.
And Kim Boekbinder is at the very least Zuul.

A few nights ago I attended a wonderful event here at SXSW. It was called People of Letters, a travelling letter writing brigade from Australia. The panel of letter writers was impressive, from my writing guru Neil Gaiman and his wife Amanda Palmer to my newest, beautiful friend Kim Boekbinder. There were many interesting folks in-between. The theme of the letters was for each panel member to write a letter to the artistic endeavor that they wish they had created. The letters were amazing, some right on the theme and others an abstract interpretation of the theme. Every single participant read a letter that somehow resonated with my personal experience in a profound way, no matter how ridiculous it seemed. I was moved, amused, tortured, and uplifted all at once. As such, I have decided to write my own letter that is sort of an amalgamation of the themes that the panelists chose. (The letter will be a separate post because of reasons, many reasons.) It isn’t exactly an artistic endeavor, but it is the thing that inspired me to rebel and eventually create my own artistic life.

Neil Gaiman, as stated on many occasions on this blog, is my invisible writing mentor, my guru. He is now no longer invisible in my world. Although, I did not regale him with how much I am inspired by him when given the chance to mingle with him in the Green Room after the show. I did eat melted chocolate out of his pocket and discuss the awkwardness of Englishmen and orgies. Specifically orgies instigated via twitter. So in essence, I was able to reveal my strange imagination habits without making an ass of myself. (I can only assume he did not think I was an ass.) I even refrained from telling him that he was the very first person I followed when I joined twitter all those years ago. I was cool, almost as if in shock or face to face with Yeti. In actuality, I was just really tired. But Neil did not need to know that inside I was a total meltdown of exhaustion and writing guru overload bordering on Beatles fan fainting. I do think I mentioned bees and tea, probably incoherently. So he may have suspected that I was seeing him as a possible undercover Yeti.

He asked me to take pictures of him and friends with his phone. I did because I’m a dutiful minion. I’m sure I made terrible jokes all night, because that’s what I do. I make awful jokes when I’m nervous. Thankfully, my vagina did not get mentioned. As that is another nervous habit, mentioning my vagina when things are going too well and I need to prove to the world that I am a completely without social grace.

And by the end of the night I was fighting off giant ceiling bees with my new friend Neil. Ok, my new acquaintance, Neil fucking Gaiman.

P.s. We tweeted the next day. Short little tweets of love. Fine, short little tweets of Neil tolerating a strange little woman who promised to start a band called Neil Gaiman’s Pocket Chocolate. Did I mention that his melted pocket chocolate was delicious? It was.

P.s.s. In case I forgot to mention it, Neil Gaiman is the nicest, most lovely man on the planet. I’ll take on any arch nemesis for him. Including giant ceiling bees. All inference to Doctor Who’s giant Agatha Christie wasps is completely coincidental. And awesome. 

No, I did not take a picture with him. Because of that tired, seeing Yeti thing, I forgot I had a camera with me.

To be continued with a letter to my record player and shit…

Posted in Absurdity Is The Only Reality, Artistically Inclined, The Life And Times Of Fuzzy Lizzard | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Middle Bloomers

1-bird of paradise .1

Middle Bloomers

By Amy Moloney

We are the middle bloomers

Heeding the call of ancestral souls

Pioneers of an unknown internal jungle

Forging highways from the bricks of forgotten dreams

We’ve begun to take life by its core

Throw out what we’ve been told

“You can’t do that, it’s too hard”

“You are not enough, be someone else”

We are the middle bloomers

Reshaping what once we discarded as misconceptions of youth

No longer do we need to conform, to mold

A long journey home from the doubt programmed into the herd

Picking up faith from only ourselves, the visions that dance inside

Blood has been offered as sacrifice to the sacred cow

To the ancients that guide us back into their arms

From the ashes the bird of paradise begins to grow

From our paradise the middle bloomers take their power back

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