“The purer the consciousness, the bluer and clearer the sky.”
Tantra Songs by Franke Andre Jamme
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Our best chance of getting what we need is to communicate
by converting our inner voice
to our outside voice.
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I was “Aunt Catherine” to my dear friends’ son
this past weekend.
Jack is 11 years old – an old soul;
owning an uncanny social wisdom- a sensitivity and skill
way, way beyond his chronological years;
full of energy and calculation;
leaves a trail of Jack behind his every step;
curious, shrewd and tender-hearted.
He is very agile, physical, competitive and stubborn!
He plays lacrosse and goes to a Spanish immersion school.
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Unfortunately, he was sick while I was tending him-
so our time together was a Jack/Catherine
improvisation, collaboration and cooperation time,
rather than cavorting with his neighborhood posse.
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Saturday was a snow blizzard.
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My friends called to check in:
Jack’s Dad was in Denver teaching a seminar in journalism
and
Jack’s Mom was in NYC going to art museums,
Broadway shows, supporting #OWS
and visiting my Little Italy with college friends.
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Jack and I had a TWILIGHT marathon!
The female protagonist did play out
the teenage angst and ennui
and her heart beat hard
for a vampire and a werewolf-
their true identities only sought out by her,
and, in turn,
revealed in secret to her.
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I could identify with her love choices:
vampires and werewolves.
Primal – with secret, internal battles-
not garden variety men who
live and breathe on the surface.
Yet, the love that was drawn in TWILIGHT
was barely/rarely
lifted with simple happiness and laughter!
The corners of her mouth were
barely/rarely
turned up, dialed up
even into a Mona Lisa
enigmatic smile.
Tons of gravity: drama and masks
of conflicting, submerged emotions
of I love you/I hate you mazes, cloaks veils and
miles and miles of confusion.
( A heavy dose of an Ingmar Bergman film-
which to Scandinavian Minnesotans
feel/look/sound like home movies.)
Yes,
I did understand the narrative of bewilderment,
the wonder of
uncoiling of one’s heart truth…not in straight lines,
not following a conventional dramatic arc.
Yet, the possessiveness of her beloveds
was a blood-letting and a howling for me-
and not Ginsberg’s HOWL
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I like directness.
I am direct and shy.
I have a sonar that resides in my solar plexus
that communicates my heart
with a forwardness that
surprises me-
no stealth, nor tease, nor manipulation.
( TWILIGHT’S Bella was direct only with her beloveds,
Edward, the vampire and Jacob, the werewolf-
asking, requesting, coaxing
clearly, firmly and with sweetness for their disclosure.)
A search and the capacity to be still, not knowing.
Mystery and mysterious.
A re-search.
A go ahead and let’s see improvisation.
A running partner with a resonate, roving and deep intellect
fused with a passionate heart.
Yes.
Not a blueprint, not a copy of myself-
but a personification of an
unrolling, rhythmic
vista of melody and counterpoint,
dissonance,
a syncopated rhythmic cadence,
and devotion
to the unseen and the invisible
wings and fields of delight
within one another.
And laughter… simple joy and simple happiness.
Not cause and effect.
But, is– a noun and a verb!
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I am not good with reindeer games;
chutes and ladders;
cloak and dagger;
smoke and mirrors;
carrot and stick;
tight wire acts when I thought
it was going to be lush candlelight;
and/or
passive-aggressive gaming behavior.
It scares me.
It wastes time.
I am too gullible.
I am not cynical.
I do looove banter and wit.
I can be a “gourmet meal” for those who practice the above-
a “snack” to the masters of the gaming.
I have to hone my senses for those games rather than shutting myself in.
I am learning to “smell out” those who love
and whose dope are
mind games, turn the tables, and sucker punches-
which, I believe, are shields, suspicions/distrust, a defense, a contempt for
kindness- but, secretly yearn for the wash
and long for the consistent nest
of true blue tenderness
and kindness.
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.Intimate connection:
the longing for the whisper and soft touch
of listening
the response of a barely audible call of your heartbeat.
“Please, please listen, bear witness,
hold me...”
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Shakespeare’s line from THE TEMPEST:
“What’s past is prologue”.
(Wikipedia: The phrase means that history influences,
and sets the context for, the present…
…this phrase might be better used in situations
where people are attempting
to rationalize wicked acts based on the past…
…everything up until now has merely set the stage
for one to make their own destinies;
in this context it does not indicate that
their future acts are fated,
but rather that everything up to that point
was merely like a prologue,
not the important story.)
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I do not believe one’s past imprisons one.
I am not a fatalist.
My own life is a testament how my past
both shaped me, blocked me and incited me,
and how my wide panoramic imagination,
belief from certain beloveds,
faith in grace, the energy of discovery
and
love propels me, sustained me.
and
brought/brings me across thresholds
of stories and adventure
I could never imagine!
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It is about living love with wonder
and accepting your wounds as openings- not flaws.
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A relational dynamic that seems to always draw out an
one-sided apology
for stumbles is not about loving humanity.
Constant criticism, fault-finding,
turning about caressing intentions
indicates a shortness of breath,
suspecting every intentions and each motivations,
hearing one’s and biding one’s own internal fear
and blaming the other for your own
discontent and impatience.
That is a trap,
a slippery come hither
into the hole in the ice, into
a wired box- which you can see through
but are unable to be released from.
Fear v Love/ Love v Fear
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Imagine an alternate dance:
you pick up the one who stumbles
who you once kicked to the floor
because you know, know, know they care-
and you know, know, know you care.
But, it is overwhelming- so push him/her away
and box their ears for not listening
when really they listened keenly
to your every breath, pause and cadence.
You pick them up with grace and water.
Flow begins and the life force moves forward.
The Divine will enters the arena-
not your control or fear.
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Opportunities of renewal once the mask falls
and the wounds emerge and are kissed
with kindness and joy
of one’s/their truth.
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I believe in epiphanies, rejuvenation,
Red Sea crossings,
personal exodus into
the lands of milk and honey.
Not by always if ever easy sails.
The awe-mazing creative breakthroughs-
divine moments of revelations.
Wide open fields of possibility.
I do believe love is a transforming agent
an invincible energy that is released
from the forge and crucible of trust and respect.
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TWILIGHT-
hovering between light and darkness.
What happens to one exposed to light
and/or
under a full moon.
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Acceptance of another’s core, true and unbound identity.
Not flaws, but acceptance of another’s core,
true and unbound identity…
and feeling protected and loved
for one’s vulnerability/strength.
Calling out the hidden, the true, the blessing.
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I believe in courage and wonder in reckoning with one’s past-
an ancient voyage of self-awareness
that breaks through slowly or suddenly
into unforeseen dawns of:
Redemption.
Resurrection.
Revival.
Renaissance.
Re-birth.
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I know this story- over and over- but, never, never the same.
As scales from my eyes fall, a crossroad moment occurs
that can live for a moment or for years.
A new internal GPS map of an unknown wilderness
is developed
at each breakthrough.
I welcome it- increasing my capacity for ambiguity and fear-
and moving forward unburdened and freed.
The practice and the discipline of being still and staying within the dawning,
demands courage and faith and fortitude.
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Artists know this voyage- the discipline and the freedom
and the requisite flow of active meditation-
conscious and subconscious.
Moving forward- not as an avoidance,
not running away in fear and dread,
but as an exploration.
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Jacob wrestling with the Angel.
Daniel in the belly of the whale.
Miles Davis breaking his drug addiction at his parent’s home.
Hildegard of Bingen.
Emily Dickinson dressed in white in her self-imposed solitude.
The life and offerings of Joseph Campbell
Martin Luther King, Jr.
Gandhi
Mohammed
Buddha
Jesus Christ
the bus driver
the cabbie
the waitress
the cashier
vampires
werewolves
teenage girls
an English Springer Spaniel named Jaspar Obi
an 11-year-old boy named Jack
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This afternoon,
I drove Jack and Jaspar from the suburb
into downtown St. Paul
where I live in a loft
where a suspended golden chandelier glistens,
where Persian rugs with green, burgundy and
gold peacocks fly and lie,
where buckets of paint wait
and
where halogen lamps make crystal light.
We picked up more art material, more dog food,
took down an art installation and then went to
the YMCA for a 45 minute cardio workout.
Jack was on the age approved treadmill and watched the MinnesotaVikings.
I was on the elliptical watched “Fred Claus” on TNT.
An interval cardio workout at 145 heartbeats per minute
and
I laughed
and
laughed,
simply
laughed!
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Debussy’s Clair de Lune
Debussy- Arabesque No.1 – Aldo Ciccolini ( I love his sound)
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Jamme says this painting is a meditation on “the endless dance of energy.”
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