Chase Them Away

It’s Sunday, I’m still working out a good opening here.

Prompt – Congregate

Music – Pink Floyd – Meddle

*Started writing, forgot to start timer, delete, start timer*



I don’t go to church.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise.

When I was 15 my parents moved from a city area to a much more rural area.

I went from a performing arts high school to an agricultural one

I didn’t even know that was a thing …

One day I was on the bus

I took my headphones out at the request of a boy who was wearing a fish hook on his hat and had a clump of dip in his lip

I can’t remember what he asked but the subject turned to religion

To which I responded “I don’t know, I’m not Christian, I don’t go to church.”

At the time, if I had to put a name to some idea of religious practices, then I’d say I was Pagan.

Poor guy was floored.

“I thought you were a good Christian girl!”

I congregate in a different way.

I go to concerts.

One time I went because I thought maybe the music would be loud enough to drown the bullshit in my head.

Now I can’t always understand what you’re saying in normal settings and I go to shows to drown myself under the sound.

Let it wash over me and take away all the self hate that can settle in my mind.

This morning I woke up and something just hit me, straight to my core.

I found myself thinking in terms of self hate, “pathetic piece of …”

I push those things away and congregate in big, or sometimes not big, raucous, sometimes not raucous, groups

To let loud melodies chase them away.

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Mnemonic Rhymes With Demonic

It’s Sunday again, stream of consciousness … free flow … there’s got to be a better title out there for this.

Prompt – Mnemonic (ok, wordpress. Ok.)

Music – God Is An Astronaut – The End of the Beginning

Mnemonic rhymes with demonic.

In school we went though a period where our teacher would have us memorize things and recite them in front of the class.

The preamble to the constitution.

Annabel Lee by Edgar Allen Poe

The Road Not Taken …

Everyone always rolled their eyes and groaned about it but I loved it.

For someone who has a bad memory I was really good at memorizing that stuff.

I didn’t use a mnemonic device so to speak.

Rather I memorized the piece in chunks instead of individual words.

In psychology it’s pretty well known that the human mind can only work with so much information at a time.

To maximize what you can remember you can memorize things in blocks

That’s what I did with poetry.

I would give the poems a rhythm as I read them

Then memorize them in chunks, blocks of words set to that rhythm.

It’s how I write now too,

With a rhythm in my head although I know that doesn’t necessarily translate.

I always found it easier to remember things when I set them to music.

On the off chance that I actually studied for something I had to have music playing

That way I could put the information to the music and words in the background.

When I needed to remember them all I had to do was remember the song that had been playing.

Much easier than trying to remember the periodic table alone.

Ironically when I went through a period of not listening to music I have a lot I don’t remember.

I was also drunk a lot.

Mental manipulation.

Mnemonic rhymes with demonic.

My sense of humor probably is not translating just like my poetry rhythms don’t.

I can’t really remember using mnemonic devices otherwise,

Although I know I was taught a couple.

There’s one about your hands and the days in a month

And ….


That’s all I got on those.

10 minutes up (good timing).

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Everybody’s Strange

Weekly Stream of Consciousness Writing – Prompt – Creature (oh wordpress, you get me).

Music: Samsara Blues Experiment – 2010 album Long Distance Trip

I’ve always been an odd creature.

When I was in middle school a boy in my class turned to me, moved really close and asked me if I turned into a cat in the middle of the night.

“Your eyes are cat eyes. Do you turn into a cat at night?”

“I don’t know, I’m asleep.”

That seemed reasonable enough for him.

I was always too kind, in elementary school it got me in trouble with bullies.

They needed someone to exploit. I was all too willing if it meant someone would be my friend.

I never quite felt like I fit in.

I still don’t although I’m more comfortable with it now.

I guess at a certain point you realize everyone is some form of odd.

We’re all strange.

Maybe that’s why I connected with “weird hippie music” so much.

Hendrix, Pink Floyd, The Doors … all artists that embraced the fact that people are weird.

I explored all kinds of alternative paths.

I abandoned the Christian religion I’d been raised in as a teenager and explored Pagan and Buddhist lifestyles instead.

That will throw people through a loop when your parents decide to relocate you from a diverse city area to a hick town at 15.

It is nice to realize clarity comes with age

To realize that maybe we’re all wrong

But if we’re all wrong I guess I really don’t want to be right.

I can be odd all day, nobodies going to change that.

Embrace it, it’s ok.

We’re wrong, we’re right, we’re strange.

Everybody’s strange.

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Here We Are

Stream of thought writing, I guess this is going to be a weekly thing now –

Prompt – Inkling

Music – Steve Reich – Works 1965-1995


It starts with a drop, a spot of ink infecting, spreading in the water.

It was all so clear


You loosed the ink composed of your fear.

Now it’s here, spreading, floating, clouding

A situation we thought was through.

Tied up and tossed aside

Like a neatly composed pile of trash.

But here we are

Lost in each others eyes.

At least I am.

I have a feeling

You are too but we can’t, can we?

Inklings aren’t enough

They don’t spread through the veins,

Becoming all we are.

Do they?

Be still, they say, let it be.

Let it disperse, the way ink should

Eventually the floods will carry it away.

Except I’ve been waiting

And it’s still here

Floating and spreading

Infecting all we’re becoming.

But of course

They say

There was never another way.

The inkling was always there

Just hidden away by fear.

You’re not scared

And I’m no longer afraid …

So what is this inkling that remains?

Time inches by

Sand through the hole we’ll never hold again.

Spread by the wind like the ink in water.

How many seconds has it been?

How long until this dam breaks

And our infested waters overflow

Carrying away everything we know,

Our fears?

Our belief?

Time’s up.

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I Gave My Soul to a New Religion … 16 – 21/365

Pictures to catch me up on “picture a day”. I should start calling it picture dump to catch me up. We all know I love music. I’ve been feeling down and having a hard time lately so this weekend I hopped around to a couple of cities to visit my favorite soul surgeons.

Leah Shapiro , drummer for Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

Robert Levon Been, bass (and all the instruments also) of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

Peter Hayes, guitar (and all kinds of other instruments) of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

These guys were the opening band, The Night Beats. Lovely way to open the shows. In Houston the bassist’s mom came up and got on the rail with us. She couldn’t stop gushing about how adorable her son was on stage. That’s support man

I went to two cities, Houston and New Orleans. Other than my pictures of the show in Houston I didn’t really take many others. I just didn’t find as much that captivated me.

New Orleans … that’s going to be it’s own post because it’s one of my favorite US cities (with the exception of the band pictures, BRMC pics above are the New Orleans show).


Smudged Charcoal Memories

Stream of Consciousness Writing Attempt – Wordpress Daily Prompt – Candid

Music: Alberto Giurioli – once again I’ve found myself just shuffling on Spotify, no specific  songs or albums


I have photos in my mind, candid pictures, frozen in time.

Of you, me, the world as it wishes it could be … the way it is and the way it could.

Like rough charcoal sketches, outlining your jaw

Tracing your lips and infecting everything we’ve become.

Conversations are easy, expressions in stars and beauty …

Total comfort we take for granted.

And yet here we are, with candid pictures but nothing solid.

Smudged charcoal memories

Scenes were there, we know, but we’re always just missing the point.

Always just grasping the cusp of the greater things

Only to find ….

We were never meant for the better side

So we cling to something more, hoping, praying, waiting …

We hide beneath silence and sideways glances

While we dangle from the precipice

Fuzzy charcoal portraits and blurry night walking pictures

With broken smiles and tear stained eyes

Are all we left behind but not all that’s left to find?

How long can you hold on? Hold out?

Close your eyes

10 minutes up.


Threads of Gold

I want to lie between the lines.
To feel the words moving and sinking,
Gnashing and gnawing at the chains binding them so.
I want to sink into the crevices between the melodies,
The breaths between the chords.
To feel the rhythms beating and crashing,
Tearing and thrashing at the ropes holding them down.
I would inhale every heartbroken word.
Let it sink into my skin,
A permanent tattoo of something
Too strong to break yet too fragile to hold.
Something nurtured in the dark
Until it becomes too bold.
Let the waves crash over me,
Stripping my spirit clean.
Sew my pieces with your song,
Delicate threads of gold.

The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch