Monday, January 26, 2015

From G.G. (Luminous’ grandmother) to the Writer’s Wicked Darlings

Salutations Witchy Writer’s Wicked Darlings,

First things first: are you so marvelous that your stupendousness must be preceded by a qualifier that makes your collective name even grander? Or are you wicked in the pull wings off flies and “talk at the theater” sense? If the latter is true, then I have an embalming ointment that can take care of that. I shall assume you are an amazing group; a storyteller who pens my grandchildren’s adventures would have better sense than to mingle with hooligans.

Hm… I dived right into a tangent, didn’t I? Oh well, I’m old, talkative and very wise. I know that when the soul has something to say, it must say it while the saying feels right. For you see, Wicked Darlings, the meanings of words morph, twist, grow and feed on the essence of our bones, the longer we stew them inside; sometimes words turn into perspicacity treats. Other times…

I’m Luminous’ grandmother, but you can call me G.G. You read of me in Luminous Changes with the Moon and All Dressed Up in Heels and with No One to Kill. Where does the Writer find these titles! Never mind… never mind… I didn’t hack her Blogger account to discuss my thoughts on how my grandson’s stories should have more dignifying titles; of course not. I wouldn’t waste Moon Fire Spirits on that.

I bribed her Muse with my best bottle of Moon Fire Spirits, in order to give the Writer enough time to notice that she was missing something important in the last tale she wrote about my grandson’s escapades. All right, so the something in question was yet to exist when she first wrote the story: I had enough gold, some emeralds and a small ruby, but I still needed black tourmaline to provide light in the dark, for inner and outer grounding, for clarity of expression, to redirect negative energies…

What was needed has been crafted, repurposed with clear intent, and sent to the proper hands. Now, we just need to wait for the Writer to incorporate it into the story. With Winter Storm Juno currently raging over New York City, all of the Writer’s medical appointments have been rescheduled. She will have extra writing time.

No, Wicked Darling ones, I did not send Juno. I would do almost anything to ensure the safety and happiness of my grandchildren; however, a storm that will certainly hurt the homeless and the most helpless would be mental, and the only simply mad one in this family is my grandchildren’s mother. The rest of us take pride in our sophisticated insanity.

Raw Black Tourmaline
by Aloha Gaia

Friday, January 23, 2015

Baring My Teeth while Growling Motivational Curses

Tomorrow, I start to exercise regularly… after the longest hiatus I’ve ever taken.

I know I will have to take it very, very, very slowly; my body won’t be forgiving if I don’t. I just hope my mind (and my ego) can remember that little detail when the Marine no-pain-no-gain attitude that lives in my flesh and bones insists on yelling, “One more, dammit! I know you have one more in you!! Don’t give the prick the satisfaction!!!”

“Don’t give the prick the satisfaction” was my favorite boosting mantra for a very long time. I needed those words back then *so thank you, Gunnery Sergeant Highway*. But no more; I’m old enough to know that I’m the only person I need to satisfy, and being a prick to my own delicious self sounds painful and uncomfortable.

I will start with modified versions of my Daily Thirteen. My physical therapists and I have been working on techniques to protect my shoulder, my hip, my lower back and the damaged nerve in my left flank, which has been driving me half-mad for almost two years. There has been a lot of trial and error: some of the modifications work wonderfully… others make me cry auntie in under less than 6 seconds. The latter are placed in the to-be forgotten (for now) box of exorcised exercise demons.  

In the past, when I took a mildly lengthy break, my body would regain its familiar shape and strength after 13 or so weeks of regular exercise—muscle memory and all. After almost 24 months, I’m sure my muscles can barely remember why we used to growl and scream motivational curses while doing flutter kicks and monkey f*ckers.

My legs are soft. My core needs a map to find strong, defined muscles. I haven’t seen my endurance in ages. But that’s okay; I have the same will and a wiser soul. The three of us can do this. Because we have to: I need my tummy and upper back strong again, so that they can help support my lower back and shoulder. And because we want to: I enjoy the feeling of shapely legs supporting my ginormous head, almost as much as I delight in a challenge that makes me bare my teeth while growling self-encouraging curses.

So… my Wicked Luvs, what have you and your sexy-self been up to? 

Thursday, January 22, 2015

I Love Doing It with Other Artists

When artists born of different creative trees get together, magic happens. It happens in words, colors, shapes, sounds… It happens as a sensual feast that dances in the soul.

I’m grinning like a lunatic as I write this short post. “Why are you flashing your happy teeth, witchy writer woman?” you might be asking.

Well, my Luvs, almost a year ago I wrote a story titled “A Date for the Vampire’s Day Soirée”. The tale was inspired by Drusilla, a creepily cute button-eyed dolly created by Emma Yardis, the mistress of Little Gothic Horrors. This morning, Rommy Driks, from Kestril’s Rhythms and Groove, shared her narration of my tale. 

I love Drusilla’s voice. Her tone is just like I hear it in my head: a bit outraged, very sweet, rather inquisitive, a tad mad and absolutely adorable.

Here is Rommy’s reading of the story:

I love doing it with other artists because creativity is contagious and it feeds on sundry thinking.

And say hello to Drusilla Amarantha Tepes, the Only … 

Fly over to my fiction page to read more tales about Drusilla. They are listed under the heading, Camp Cute, Creepy (and Quite Conveniently) Remote.

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Nightmares Can’t Fly, but Vultures…

It’s official. My blackout poetry writing skills suck mildly rotten toes. And I’m pretty sure that I’m suffering of SOBC (Severe Over-Blacking Compulsion). You see, my Wicked Luvs, the poem I meant to write was supposed to read:
A nightmare crashed
into a vulture,
was carried off
into a broken window
of dark clouds

adrift and furious,
in a light boat

the bird is
waiting to dream 

Nevertheless, I can’t be trusted with a black marker… I’m not sure how it happened; not really. I mean, I had circled all the words. There I was, at my neurologist’s waiting room—reading (rather loudly) about nightmares, vultures, dark clouds and adrift fury (and perhaps grinning a lot at the twitchy looks I was getting from the reception nurse). Anyhoo… somehow, the gluttonous marker devoured some of the words I needed for my first EVER blackout poem. Here is the post-marker-chomping result:
A nightmare
into a vulture

adrift and furious

waiting to dream

I was a bit annoyed. I liked the first poem, and my SOBC robbed me of it. But after a while, I said: “It’s your first one, witchy woman. Give yourself a break or three.” That lifted my mood high enough to read the poem with fresh eyes (and without glaring at it). 

The second, third, fifth… readings showed me something new: the missing words give the salvaged poem an air of ambiguity, which I find quite delightful. Without the words consumed by the marker, it is impossible to tell who is “adrift and furious” and “waiting to dream”. I like that. I like it a lot. The thought of a nightmare waiting to dream brings all sorts of interesting images, questions and story ideas to my Muse’s head.

Also, I didn’t miss the fact that this situation is a bit of a Freudian mirror when compared to my current health issues. I remember what my body was capable of doing before my bones and muscles began to weaken. The recalling saddens me, at times… But I’ve never fallen so deep into the dumps of blackness to miss the gifts: being in pain sucks fully rotten toes, but my troubles remind me of just how strong my witchy soul and I can be when we must be. And that, my Wicked Luvs, is worth a lot.

my first EVER black out poem
yep, there is room for improvement 
a whole lot of room *cough*