Internal Cues of Approaching Storms

Fluctuations of mentality quiver the flesh.  Subtle tremors illuminate the core to its fundamental foundation.

An inward shift beckons, and from within we summon forth a siren’s song, one that will both infatuate and mesmerize all those parties indecently exposed to the inner workings of an assembly line that has yet to produce all that which it had previously promised.

Before a fever strikes, the initial beads of sweat begin their perspiration.  Prior to a sweeping illness, we take for granted what we have and how we utilize the blessings we’ve been bestowed.  But the sickness keys us into just how fortunate we truly are.  It contrasts daily life with a portrait of contrast that at first fills us completely with an embalming sense of fear.  Here, something as primitive as breath itself becomes a luxury, something that we swear to, something that we promise, if we are able to land on both feet, that we will never take such graces for granted again.

An itch upon the chin gives away the inner platitude of the

Sickness creeping, one that we swore in vain, an oath betrayed, a tapestry marred, by bitter triggers, sirens, smoking rings and gesticulations.  Here then, the twitches and tingeing tautness is overwrought yet well defined.

Introvert Solitaire

Claudia's tending all night long over at the D'Verse Poets Pub, where for Meeting the Bar tonight, she's opening the mike to any and all who would like to share their thoughts and reflections about the Beautiful Solitude.


This is a very interesting theme for me personally.  Growing up I was the epitome of what is defined as a social butterfly.  I had to always be on the go.  Even when I was at home, alone, I was on the phone, moving from one person to the next.  It seemed as if I had no choice but to keep myself connected.

Then, and I can't really pinpoint where or when it occurred, but things just grew to such a level of exhaustion, I found the slightest interactions would drain me of all I had.  Vitality would return but only after a nice period of relaxation, where a mindlessness took hold of me and take me to points unseen, sort of freezing me, in a state of nothingness, unaware of everything around, and yet, completely forgiving me for having ignored the introvert within.

Somehow, a shift had taken place, moving from extroversion to introversion, and I had no idea how it happened.  All I can say, is that alone time is something I cherish more than anything.  Whether it's spent watching television, reading a book, listening to music, writing or simply blanking out and staring deep into the walls, allowing the mind to completely take recess, or, where my imagination takes the opportunity to work through ideas the conscious mind had brought up earlier in the day.  This last notion, has a somewhat similar effect as when you think about something before going to sleep at night, allowing your unconscious mind, the opportunity in its dream-states, to sort it out, and oftentimes, finding that when you awoke the next morning, a possible answer to your question had been provided.

I could go on for a while discussing this odd paradigm shift, but truth be told, I have really no explanation for the shift.  I've mentioned this already, but repeat it only because of how baffling it is, and how important the notion is to me.

I could also go on and on about how that old self, while knowing it did exist, and many of the memories from such times are clearly available as they had occurred, I find myself, after reliving one of these moments, to be exhausted.  Yet, even thought I can remember some of the times when I was an extrovert, I have to admit, they feel like fiction, in almost every aspect, except, again, I cannot deny their one-time existence, because I know they did exist.

I think there's a place for being both an extrovert and an introvert, in fact i think we all hold each of these in us somehow, with one being more dominant, that's all.

So, all this backstory behind me know, I thought I would write a description of one of the things I find I do quite often.  I sit still facing an empty wall and allow myself to drift away, or more likely, I am found laying in bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling, permitting my mind to go wherever it chose to.  In such activities, I believe I find a sense of solitude, perhaps not the kind one gets when out and about in nature or in prayer, yet, it is a type of solitude nevertheless:

INTROVERT SOLITAIRE

listen to ‘Introvert Solitaire (Poem)’ on Audioboo

Introvert Solitaire

Standing in solitude

Is like a blissful sea, where the

Ragged weights

Atop the chest—

Limbs shake free

Each their now

Blackened leaves

To where you stop

Close the door

Behind and sigh…

Moving to the bed

Fully clothed as was,

Breathing in holistic

Rhythms…waiting for

The waves of paralysis

To lift their untimely

Shores…Focusing,

Intently upon the

Individualized minutia

Of the long crack that

Runs alongside the ceiling…

And in that crack, grow

Succumbed…transported

To the world of the imagined…

Where peace is simple, easy

And well-granted to any and

All who seek it out.  The stories

Are deeper, yet without prerequisites

Do its characters speak…instead

The only talk when spoken to, where

You realize, there is so much untapped

Potential in gesturing…where one could,

If so desired, effectively communicate

Detailed instructions, simply from the

Effective use of head movements…finally…

As the crack begins

                  To close

The   space         seems        to      separate

                           Allowing     the    air

It’s    chance       at      a       brand-new choice

Inhalation  of vitality    once  anew         grasped

         Where        it       will    stay

Open          and   free            until  some

         Unknowing          soul

Events to invent a reasoning         for harboring their expectations

         Upon my port…in a storm of unease

That prematurely stifles creativity….

Never do I wish I was the one I was before…that person Is a stranger, I know, no longer, anymore…he barely shows in memory…in fact…despite the knowing of the factuality…. he feels like a figment of a made up wish fulfillment fantasy…yet it’s more like a nightmare

And I have to pause

Into solitude

Crystals and all

Never claiming

A fortress was behind me

Securing me deeply, but

Out, as super,

Will I one day crawl,

Is the question of it all,

Isn’t it?

Met-a-morpho-sis

listen to ‘Metamorphosis ’ on Audioboo

Met-a-morpho-sis,

her physical flavoring

and consistency

changed instantaneously

from one moment to the next

Met-a-morpho-sis,

color wheel spins through each tone

covets the rainbow

altering her hue and shade

impossible to define

Met-a-morpho-sis,

an attitude like none else,

of the air and sea

shuffling between Drama-mean

and a healthy sense of self

Met-a-morpho-sis,

impossible to predict

her conversations

switch from the incoherent

to the profoundly immersed

Met-a-morpho-sis,

sometimes she’ll crawl on all fours

then stand ten feet tall

she’ll have her ups and her downs

happy when there should be frowns

She’s unique always

she’s best friend and enemy

shifting all the time

forever incongruous

it’s a race just to keep up

Met-a-morpho-sis,

and I liked her everything

met-a-morpho-sis,

and I’ll forever be changed

I won’t see the same again

Met-a-morpho-sis,

and if you can, you should too

you won’t ever understand

but somehow, you’ll always know

Head on over to D'Verse, where Characterization is the theme for Meeting The bar.  Take a chance to read Victoria's wonderful write up as well, you'll be glad you did.  I took a bit of an abstract angle at character here, had this wordplay idea in my mind all morning, so, when i saw the topic I thought I'd see about applying it to character.

Strolling The Villages and The Shops, of Our Very Own Versions of Insanity

Sanction dropped before the fifth,

wholesome beasts silk ties and

violent fists, gently adjust the storm

of constriction, subtly strangulating

about the neck

and a few shark fins later, along

came a paisley parrot with a welsh

design, speaking slurred and lewd

vocabularies

Then to the painting that caught your eye,

Literally, some batty estrogen depraved one-time

Beauty queens, plucked it with a watermelon scoop,

And tossed it about as each took turns to stir their

Soup…I think it was lentil, but I can’t quite tell, for

My nose was plugged damn tight, probably a result

Of all the smog I breathe in day and night

But it seems the reflections were all but dirtied splotches

Dried to spider-webbed glass, and so they through my

Orb back to me, and along with a half-filled bottle of visine, they said go ahead, put it back…and somehow,

That’s exactly what I did

In continuing this stroll, the things I saw, kind of

Wish I forced those hags to keep hold my sight in their arms, cradling it till the break of dawn, then casting a party, with grog and spoils, where we’d all sit around and tell stories over soup, sticking around until the Moyle pulls the snippers from his kit, and said, “lets all play a game…”

 

And dominion falls for once and all, damning the air with it’s subtle unsettling sense of foul…and pilgrimages never will seem the same…

As from this point forward, I do, I must have to say, a day’s much longer when you stay awake, and the minutes drag when your in distress this great, but hey, whatcha know, there’s merit in leaving untold whispers by the broken homes of emancipated brats raised by themselves to live that way, anyhow, that’s a pearl I took to heart, minutes after this whole sojourn was impelled to start

Seconds before the brownstone could open it’s arms and wrap their familiar paws upon me there, a salve, a beacon of dissection stuttered down the concrete, he would’ve got to me, he probably should have, but lifting one’s leg at every tree, truly revises one’s definition of a dogged day,

But as my door was sealing shut, his voice was spurting through the sky, where words would mumble, jumble echo high, and I there heard him say, “ all we really need, is something warm to keep us safe, all we really need is a warm place to stay the night…” and then I swore I heard him crying…to which I’m always a sucker for…

So I opened up the door and offered him my couch, to which he spoke swift and fast, “thank you, thank you, thank you much…this’ll hurt me more than it’ll hurt you, this I’m most certain of…”