Yesterday. I once played this song continuously on the guitar I bought myself in high school. As a teen, my summer days were spent babysitting for a divorced mom who worked for The Braille School in Milwaukee WI. The family came from New Zealand and had sheep rugs scattered throughout the house and ate lots of vegemite. The kids had a cat named Erasmus and a pet goldfish, whose name eludes me. The dad was a small-engine pilot and flew planes out of Oshkosh WI. I wonder where they are now?
Doyou wanna be an angel Do you wanna be a star Do you wanna play some magic on my guitar Do you wanna be a poet Do you wanna be my string You could be anything
Do you wanna be the lover of another Undercover you could even be the man on the moon
Do you wanna be the player Do you wanna be the string Let me tell you something It just don’t mean a thing
You see it really doesn’t matter When you’re buried in disguise By the dark glass on your eyes Though your flesh has crystallised
Still… you turn me on Still… you turn me on Mmmm… you turn me on
Do you wanna be the pillow where I lay my head Do you wanna be the feathers lying in my bed Do you wanna be the cover of a magazine Create a scene
Every day a little sadder A little madder Someone get me a ladder
Do you wanna be the singer Do you wanna be the song Let me tell you something You just couldn’t be more wrong
You see I really have to tell you That it all gets so intense From my experience It just doesn’t seem to make sense
Still… you turn me on Mmmm… you turn me on, yeah Mmmm… you turn me on.
A new experience presented itself within a community to celebrate positive energy. This was most of the group’s first time being together. The hour started with rhythmic drum beats mimicking the heart’s life force.
There were 15 of us, each with a drum and another percussion instrument. This video is the third of four sets, each naturally lasting between 12-13 minutes. The group leaders did little to manipulate each interval of creative expression. They flowed as swiftly and gently, or vigorously and bountifully, as the Nashua River, deep in the Valley of Oxbow.
As the hour progressed, a golden hue encompassed us. We said farewell to the sun. Then to each other. Look forward to another drum circle September 12.
Only way to survive the insanity is to turn up the volume. Dance! See you on the other side of the Moon…
“Little Red Corvette” Prince
“She’s Strange” Cameo
“She Works Hard for Her Money” Donna Summer
“Whip It” Devo
“Nasty Girl” Vanity 6
“Maniac” Michael Sembello
“Love is a Stranger” Eurythmics
“Sunglasses at Night” Corey Hart
“She Blinded Me with Science” Thomas Dolby
“Love is a Battlefield” Pat Benator
If these songs can’t dissipate the fog? What gives?
Training to walk 18 miles for American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP) on June 16, 2018 in Philadelphia PA. Brotherly love John!
Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.
House of Blues Entrance (Gospel Brunch)
The house was hopping
Souls set free
The world woken
The Lord spoken to me.
These toes were tappin’
chairs set aside
no sittin’ lookin’ pretty
church is alive…
I would go to church everyday if the Lord spoke to me as He clearly had the house rocking in Orlando… The Brotherhood sung us to heaven and God’s glory shone like the lighthouse these men are. To live their lives for others a gift to humanity and they brought joyful sounds along with them to Orlando.
Enter the gates and bring a joyful sound.
Praise the creation as a soul unbound.
No earthly worries allowed here,
just lay them at the Lord’s feet.
A long time ago, 1992, I was invited to a co-worker’s church. I accepted. I brought my then two year old daughter along and I sat in the farthest pew from the front. I certainly felt unworthy to be in the crowd of rollicking, holy rollers, speaking in the Lord’s temple. I was fallen to the soil in a heap of ash, barely breathing, wanting all breath to cease. But there was an existing spark, buried, and my co-worker recognized and ignited it… well, sort of.
Toward the end of the service people were invited to the alter to be blessed by the Word and she encouraged me to go forward. I took my daughter with me. The Deacons prophesied over us Psalm 91. For those not familiar with the Bible, Psalm 91 concerns angels and their watch over His children.
At the time, I was unfamiliar with the verse and left church feeling no different. About a year later we moved to New York City, my husband obtaining a postdoctoral fellowship with Prof. Danishevsky at Sloan-Kettering Memorial Hospital as a cancer researcher. The Lord knew I needed plenty of help raising a toddler in New York City. He sent His angels to surround my daughter as I navigated the city streets with a two year old who refused to hold my hand. She had two near-death experiences, but an unseen hand saved her from perishing.
New York City was a wake up call. I am quite naive about the earth’s perils. The world is a dangerous place to exist. New York City turned me into an angelic mother. I declared there would be no more messing around. I had to become serious in the plight of motherhood.
Now, where are the angels I need for this last daughter? Send them, quickly!!!
No longer
do I sit at my desk
ponder
what he is thinking of me.
The coffee cold
I put away the linen paper
with gold border
just my initials
scrawled at the bottom.
He will know
who I am
yet I search
for the girl inside,
my desires for a man
I cannot have.
I am
nothing
but the stars
in his eyes
the ocean of my heart.
Does she know
my secret
as I sweep past her
in the kitchen
where we meet?
He sees me
and only I
can wish
to see him
again.
The whispered winds
scent of pine trees
the hands of the clock
draw sands of time
blur the image
left behind.
I wrote this poem, not to demean, which some may find, but rather a reality of what sells and how many won’t admit to the true reality. Others may see something else in this poem. I am curious.
I had a “friend”, if you could call her that, who lived this life. This is her poem.
sister cuts her hair
wisps of waves float in the sink
someone plugs the drain
mascara eye paint
blasted evening torched the bar
girls heavy handed
nail clippings puddled
wrinkles outline the shadows
shake my god-damn hand
garage Jazz band plays
greasy hands under the hood
Flash Mob gets lucky…
My son is a senior studying Material Science at IU, Bloomington IN and his girlfriend studies opera at Jacob’s School of Music. Tiffany has a beautiful voice and here are a few clips:
She will be singing chorus as a junior undergraduate student in Madama Butterfly, November 4, 5, 6 at Musical Arts Center, Bloomington IN.
One of the grandest performance venues in the United States, the Musical Arts Center (MAC) seats 1,460. The MAC features acoustical design and technical capabilities that are among the best in the country. Regularly compared to the Metropolitan Opera in New York City, the main stage is 90 feet wide by 60 feet deep.
Yes, I am a proud momma, for my son will be attending graduate school next fall, tbd, and for Tiffany as a rising star.
