Sisters Delphi

Sisters Delphi round their backs at the table

called here time and again in seasons of woe

Clarity their mastery, despite clouded eyes.

Here we seat again

A time of great despair and ruin

Not since the fall of Rome in the hands of Nero have we witnessed such disgrace!

My third eye weeps at the pools of Red

of Fire

bubbling at the mouth of Plato’s Cave.

The three-headed dog sounds a growl to

Brigid, Hecate and Persephone.

“Sisters, sisters!” they chirp

as they rush about the barque:

“The Skeleton Woman

RIses!

“Who will bear her weight?”

Ella se dice:

Dame los huezos.

Kali joins Ix Chel on the collection.

Temple doors shatter against Black Obsidian.

3.29.17..4.9.17

 

 

Poems From the MHU

Welp. Had a psychotic break again.

If you follow me on Facebook, I let you know as much details needed. The good news is, I’m home now and enjoying being in touch with the spirits of the home, as Jung encourages us to do soon after separation.

Here’s some poems I crafted during my descent from psychosis. Please critique in the Comments section. Love you all.

 

I am. My Own. Percussion. Instrument!


A skeleton woman

does not need music.

She needs laughter.

Then,

Music.


I you miss pianos,

look for Dragonflies.


The sound

of a piano’s keys

is like

playing a beat in my heart,

wishing

it was a piano.


3.28-29.2017

Ivonne Simeon

Inanna

White Lotus

White Feather

Mother of Dance


2017

The Freedom to Write

I have a writer’s callous.

Very few people in the 21st century maintain a writer’s callous, the telltale indentation on your dominant hand where you normally rest a pen.  Composition after composition, frustrated hand and head viciously working together against time, all the answers having to come out of your tired phalanges. And yet, even as I type on Chappie with my tablet and my smartphone both in range, I still freewrite by hand. Zealot for abuse? Nah. Just a sign I’m still alive.

And free to write.

 

 

We do take advantage of that free-om, us Americans. We put all kinds of nonsense out in the 0s and 1s and it is protected (for the most part) by our Bill of Rights. But I know not every person with Internet access has the free-om to type their authentic opinions. We know from following international news that simply voicing an opinion can shut down a digital nation. Look at what all occurred with Twitter during the Arab Spring. Jobs and lives were lost simply by Tweeting. Tweeting!

I celebrate a personal free-om today: the ability to write what I feel, in the comfort of jim jams, folded legs on the couch. This was not my position last year. I was not allotted a journal. I was on a strict schedule. I was not allowed to leave a building for seven days. The absence of a pen and paper was much more disabling than the locked doors.

To those who write despite despair, I honor you. May you continue wielding words as weapons. 

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Pride 2016: Art For All

I had an absolutely wonderful weekend! The City of St Petersburg, Florida hosted its annual Pride Parade last Saturday evening. Once again I gave my time to the fine folks with NOMADStudio…you remember them from last year? Well this year they got renowned artist John Gascot to paint the Art Bus with messages of Love, Hope, Peace and Action. What am I proud of? Being alive! Being able to live my life free! Being able to love exactly who I want!

What are you proud of?

See Me Wednesday

NOTE: EVENT WAS CANCELED DUE TO TROPICAL STORM COLIN DAMAGE. THANKS ALWAYS FOR YOUR SUPPORT!

1st gig since the back-to-back hospital stays. Admittedly a bit nervous, but the Bull in me says, ‘uh uh sister, time to get back on that saddle!’
So join me and my friends in merry Gulfport!

Continuing The Search For Divine Inspiration

BF went through my purse and discovered my collage intentions. But that’s alright, I’ve come up with an alternate, artistic plan!
While the fine folks at Davidson put it together, I’m back to my slender slab of wall.

The wall theme is “Divine Inspiration.” I want to display a mix of my personal art during moments of mania, intertwined with iconography and archetypes whom either visited me in my manic form, or channeled with me during intense meditation. This area of my home will serve as a cosmic altar! ‘Thank you for keeping me alive, and here’s who gets to be on my Wall of Fame…’;)

Earlier this week, I gave you some goddess candidates. This time I give you the warrior goddess options. Many are beautiful representations from existing tarot decks, but I think ordering individual prints instead of box upon boxes of tarot would be most economical, right?

More I’ve stolen from Pin. Let me know which one is your favorites (more than one is fine)!

Fred is Dead

(I wrote this in reflection of my former neighbor’s shocking and untimely death. At first I wasn’t going to post, but I have to honor the guy who, as complicated our relationship was, inspired my artistry on several occasions. I pour one out for you, buddy.)

“I bet you got that tattoo long time ago, huh…”
I don’t even turn my head, but instead offer my building neighbor a tight smile. He’s showing off again, I internalized, as i hurriedly stuff another bushel of laundry in the back of my truck. Fred, and his parking lot company, whom I refer to as “the hens”, tone down their chortles and clucks to a watchful silence, either romancing their curiosity or fantasy, whatever. After living on my own in that building for the past few years, I’d gotten used to these men gathering in our lot simply to watch the world go by. Proving no threat, I doubled back to my apartment for the next bushel. The hens return to their clucking. I hear Fred let out a loud guffaw then an extended Ha Haaa as I turned away. I roll my eyes.
He’s showing off again.

Last week, Fred was murdered in his apartment, his throat slit by his nephew, Willy, who’d recently come to live with him. Fred was like that, letting family and acquaintances stay with him for stretches at a time. While these arrangements helped him with covering food and shelter expenses, it caused me to elevate my guard. Once, after running errands I came home to find Fred and his company smoking weed from a hookah on my staircase! Had he offered a puff I may have been less stringent, but since he lorded over our common space when no one was around, I had to remain defiant.
This is the part where my uncouth self should apologize for talking ill of the dead, but I find that’s a social reaction to an uncomfortable awareness of mortality. I, acutely aware of the finality of life, celebrate Fred a different way. You could count on Fred to be Fred, either using his key to open our main door for complete strangers, or banging on the old lady’s door to exploit her generosity, or his complete indifference towards health and safety as he fileted a freshly caught tilapia from the retention pond.

Was Fred my friend? He was certainly a constant figure in my life, either through Southern cordials or my observations of him from my balcony, either pulling his fishing gear towards the lake or strolling alongside the property, hands clasped figuratively behind his back, his gangly arms merging in such a way that he sported a lean – a lean so distinct I borrowed it for a characterization in an unpublished novella. He frustrated me, in that he was drawn to accommodate any female in our vicinity, including the young prostitute in Apt G. He disappointed me, serving as a look out on many drug exchanges, and possibly having a role in the robbery of the unit below mine. As a reader, you must be thinking this is a foul representation of an such an unfortunate soul, but it is our truth.

The way he was executed was heinous, but not so unbelievable. Ours was a quiet community, relatively: of everyone who lived in that building Fred was around the longest. I wouldn’t say Fred was harmless, but he was… manageable. We acknowledged each other on the daily; he with the “hey lady” and me with the “hey Fred” in return. That translated to, ‘you do you, I’ll do me’ and we both understood. Fred could count on me being enigmatic and reclusive and I could count on him to introduce someone to wonder about, even write about.
Willy didn’t show up til last year, as I was transitioning from that place to my current home. He worried my friendly neighbors, pissed off the astute ones, and gave Fred a difficult time. I completely blame the apartment management as well as the security company for his murder, but I also have to blame Fred’s generosity for making a very bad call. The fact that Willy’s related to Fred makes it all the worse. Of all situations I monitored Fred participating in, never would I have guessed his own blood would take him out. For that, I’m sad for Fred. He was doing what many of us with limited incomes do – sacrifice personal safety for social compliance. I couldn’t improve my situation while all my money was tied into book publishing. He was clamoring to keep his shelter. We shared despair but celebrated it uniquely. In that sense, our trappings made us unlikely kin.

I am truly sad Fred is dead. I believe his time here was cut short because his contributions were too desperate. His soul has departed, but he’ll live on as challenger and champion of the 1600 block of Lake Lynn Drive.

FULL ARTICLE: http://baynews9.com/content/news/baynews9/news/article.html/content/news/articles/bn9/2016/5/11/police_investigating.html

Return of The Dancing Machine

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Happy 2016 to you! Have you started off right? I sure have! Let’s catch up:

☆ I am blissfully in love and loved in return. February 1st our two houses become one!

♤ Mental health treatment is going well; a slow, careful journey up a steep hill requiring patience. Working on ‘patience’ too.

♡ Authenticity is the name of the game. I’ve scrapped the bent cards from my life deck. Working on solidifying my inner circle (invite only). Nice to have physical friends again.

The biggest update is:
I am expanding my artistic base to dance! Pinellas County Florida is home to the Second Time Arounders Marching Band. Yours truly was a flag, sabre, and rifle-tossing member of Excalibur Color Guard in high school, and I still count those performance moments as the happiest of my turbulent childhood. So, the Universe provided me essentially a second chance at childhood – authentic, healing fun. You have no idea how great it felt to pick up a flag again!

Wanna see me in action? Check out the band’s website for the official 2016 schedule. If you’re in Tampa Bay for Gasparilla, the parade will be my 1st flag performance in 22 years! Come cheer me on!!

Here’s a 1994 video of my last winter guard performance. Look for the backboard with Cupid holding a heart; the girl with the puffy hair in set position is me…

Von And The Fixer-Uppers

I did tell a long distance friend once that if my blog goes more than 3 weeks without a post, it’s a sure sign I’m dead. 😀

Haven’t been able to keep my regular writing schedule due to my laptop failing. I have enough motherboard life to collect my master files.  Pics I don’t worry about; aren’t they already in WordPress? So to keep up with my proof of life promise, I’m using the tablet today; apologies in advance on formatting. The laptop issue I saw a’comin’, but what comes next, completely thrown off!

Labor Day Cimmi Red took a Hulk Smash! to the roof and the windshield by a large tree branch. My insurance company gave me a Toyota Corolla to drive for five days. As I cruised about, I left the radio low so I could listen to the whoosh! of the wind sliding over its aerodynamic curves. Pretty and fuel-economical as it was, the Corolla’s pick-up was laughable! Meeeeeeeeeee…

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Have truck, will travel!

Cimmi and her growl is back, new roofed and windshielded, and I’m pleased with the repair, although the deductible could have paid for a new laptop. And then I could migrate my work files. Then I could install Scrivener. Then I could update my website. And then and then and then…

I can’t dwell on what I have no control over. So I’m reading Lisa L. Kirchner’s novel, blazing trails with long walks, and planning my next life-adjusting chapter..

Co-habitation.

We’ll save that for another blog… 😉