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Musings of Jazzy

The only thing constant is change

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Creative Sparks

Spectator

She is constantly present. Whether you see her or not, she observes, she translates. Quietly she stands, allowing the wind to wash over her. People pass by in fast motion, oblivious to her being. She can almost predict what will happen, based on a simple gesture, eye movement, or the brush of a hand. It is fascinating just to watch, examine, and calculate.

People are loud, predictable, thinking her naive. Too engrossed in their own thoughts, their own opinions. Nobody can just “be”,just exist. Everyone is out to prove something, be better than someone, have more than someone. She is amazed how much is learned in just being present, silent. Thoughts are acknowledged with a nod, and then make their retreat.

Sometimes it’s all that is needed, to be present, to listen.

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White T-Shirt

As a child, my backyard was more than just flowers and soil. My backyard was a never-ending landscape full of tall pines, candy colored fruit trees, abandoned fortresses, and fragrant petals. The hills existed only for me. Cardboard sleds were my only means of transportation. When those were scarce, then using myself as a human roly-poly just had to do. The earth beneath me left its art on the large white t-shirt that hung loosely over my tiny frame.

It wasn’t that I owned clothes that did not fit. This particular shirt belonged to my Grandfather.

His drawers were constantly lined with the neat squares of cotton. There was not one day that went by where he didn’t wear one. They were essential, an under armor. He had a physical job, a job that would leave its mark day after day.

Our two acres seemed to go on forever. The landscape was full of random patches of a variety of different flowers, all hand-picked and planted by my Grandmother. It was a getaway for not only myself but for my best friend. A getaway to a world only children can enter. Pine cones were ammunition against the “Boys Next Door”. They were our mortal enemies, and not even the thick brush and thorny bushes were enough protection from our eyes.

Getting dirty didn’t exist, especially when I wore his white t-shirt. This was now my armor, and my protection against the mud demons. It held up against water balloon fights, blackberry smears, and God only knows what else.

To anyone else, it may have just appeared to be a simple plain white t-shirt, but to me, it was my super-suit, my ability to do anything and be anyone I wanted to be.

 

Familiar Stranger

It is that time of night again. Religiously, she finds herself pacing the empty sidewalk. The air is crisp,cold and thick with fog. The sky is black and littered with stars. The beating of her heart, and the gentle inhale of air into her lungs are the only sounds audible.

She doesn’t mind walking in the fog. There is something safe and secure about the enfolding misty air. She can only see a few steps ahead, and each step is taken with anticipation. The mystery of what is behind the wispy veil brings promise. This is a place to regain her thoughts, contemplate her future, unravel and unwind.

It is her sanctuary.

It’s about a quarter till ten, and she squints through the fog and sees the same tall black figure pacing steadily across the street. His gentle footsteps creating an empty echo.

She wonders what aches him. What distresses him so, to where he and her stand parallel with nothing but the cold concrete dividing them. They have shared this corner in this quiet neighborhood for many nights, brought together only by a similar scramble of numbers on their houses. She can’t make out his face from the static blackness. She is surprised that his presence doesn’t threaten her, only surfaces new fascination.

It is so still, that it seems that the leaves will cascade down from their branches with every step of his foot. She is soundless as she glides towards the road that runs along an orchard of oranges. The breeze carries the intoxicating scent of citrus and the night over them.

He starts to cross the street, moving aimlessly in her direction. The moon light reflects its milky glow off of his masculine features. The combination of light and shadow almost makes her feel like she is watching a character in a classic film. He is still unaware of her presence and causally lights up a cigarette. He places his free hand in his pocket and tilts his head back, exhaling.

She leans against the chain link fence, the chill in the air causes her to fold her arms to her chest. This is the closest he has ever been to her, and she feels overly conscious of her own being. She usually ventures further down the gravel path, but tonight she is frozen in place, her eyes locked onto this familiar stranger. She hears the sharp grinding of gravel beneath his feet, and stiffens with each approaching step. Before he completely passes her by, he lifts his head and acknowledges her with a simple nod.

” There is something tranquil about the fog, isn’t there?”

Those are the only words he speaks before he makes his retreat. She watches him walking slowly down the street, appearing then disappearing underneath the street lamp lights.

She feels more connected to this stranger than the people in her closest circle.  During this observation, she uncovered a reflection of herself.

We end up in certain places at particular times to simply observe people. Undeniably, these small observations and interactions will have an impact one way or another. During this moment of realization, she is comforted in knowing that in this world of millions, there is one place of solitude two souls share together.

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Perception

We all view or lives through our own personal filter, or viewing glass. This filter is made up of all of our past beliefs, morals, and biases. What would you say if someone asked you to define truth?

One person believes that the door is green, and another person believes that no, the door is red. When in fact the door is yellow. Both individuals are “color blind” and see the door through their own filter. The first person views the door as green because of their “filter” and the other views the door as red because of his or her “filter”. How do you determine the TRUE color of the door?

Through the facts. 

It makes me wonder just how many “truths” (perceptions) are out there considering the number of filters in the world. Everyone sees things, people, and the world through the filter that they choose. Some cannot change their views because they have yet to discover that they indeed have the control to do so. Once we realize that the way we perceive the world and the things which reside within it are just mere pieces of ourselves, we will have more control over its power over ourselves. It may be difficult at first to break away from your ego, and the definition of yourself and what makes you “YOU”. But once you have realized that our perceptions are merely a culmination of memories and thoughts, we may be able to better see… truth.

Destinations

 We all need a place to travel to when we get that feeling to just “ get away”. Whether this place is physical or not, it can still be considered…somewhere. I have a couple of places I venture to when my mind is feeling cluttered and a little overwhelmed. They are fictional places that they are made up from the fabric of my imagination; but, nevertheless they are still destinations…in my mind. I am still not too sure as to why I choose certain destinations over other’s, all I know is that It depends on my mood.  And while being on this new adventure called parenthood, I definitely need a place to go, with just…myself.
For example, when I feel like I desperately need to relax I find myself on the top of a hill during the twilight hours. This hill is always the tallest in comparison to its surrounding neighbors, it is always covered in wisps of emerald green grass. Grass that can only be made by the stroke of a paint brush. The air is crisp, jasmine and orange blossoms fill my senses. Majestic thin trees act as a partial fence between my safe place and the darkness beyond the horizon.The sky is always a shade lighter than sapphire blue, and it’s texture is a mixture of blue velvet and water colors. The sound of crickets always surround me, along with the gentle “ding” of a wind chime ever so often.
 When stress or anxiety starts to creep up on me I find myself usually in a forest surrounded by fragrant vibrant flowers accompanied by the sounds of nature.  Running water is close, and the wind always has just the right amount of chill. The trees act as a canopy of entangled branches; they take on the appearance of soft willows. The stems and leafs are always glistening as if they are made up of hundreds of tiny diamonds.
 These snapshots, these “places” are calming and beautiful to me. To some they may seem to be only colorful paintings or elaborate settings in a fantasy novel; but to me, they are just simple destinations. Where are your destinations?

Dark Wonder

She paces steadily with grace and vigor

With polished amber eyes

A blazing inferno amid the darkness

Under the dark shifting sky

A captivating spirit

Fearless yet entrancing

Her stride renders the air to churn

Enduring and outlasting

The winds sweep beneath the soil

Through the leaves and brush

The water stays still, only to ripple

With just her simplest touch

She is the feared, the unknown

A timeless marvel

Her shadow is brilliant,

Stunning,statuesque, and tall

The night is silent, all just stay away

In fear of a creature

Who is mischievously just at play

Light gleams through the beads of water

Trickling down her faux veneer

Blending so effortlessly among the blindness

Remains only her piercing stare

Dandelions

Do you remember spotting those random dandelions among the reeds of grass in a field? And for just a moment, you get a tiny whisk of excitement? It still amazes me to this day how a simple flower (or weed) could have such an effect on people. Folklore says that” blowing the seeds off a dandelion is said to carry your thoughts and dreams to your loved one”.  It is also said that if you wished to know where your “love” is, the direction to which the seeds flow to will show you. The path of the seeds will be East, West, North, or South.

I remember people telling me as a child to make a wish before I blew, and to try to get all of the seeds off of the head of the flower. Once spotted, I would eagerly pluck one from the soil, close my eyes, and mumble a desired wish. With eyes squinted shut, and fingers gently wrapped around its green stem, I would inhale deeply; taking in the pure air around me. Once the wish was complete I exhaled as hard as I could, making sure to free every feather-like seed. I would then toss the stem aside and chase the direction of the seeds. The wind waltzed with them, carrying them in an effortless swirl of airy freedom. I would abruptly stop my chase when I realized that they have now traveled way too high for me to reach, and their route was now a mystery. A sudden yet brief sense of sadness would take over as if I have just lost a part of me, my wish.

With a little faith and imagination stepping in I was reminded that just because I could not see the route of the seeds did not mean that they would not make it to their destination. It is little moments and memories like these that we need to carry on into our adulthood. The dandelion should act as a subtle reminder that every wish, every prayer, every hope travels somewhere; whether it be a distance that is near or far, and the only action necessary from ourselves is just one thing, to make that wish, and have faith that it will come true.

My First Love

It is five minutes until I take center stage. Heart pounding, hands sweating, mouth dry. I can’t seem to stand still. I’ve waited for this moment for so long. There is organized chaos behind me. A group of soloists crowd around each other giving  words of empty encouragement.

It’s my time. I stand on stage, microphone in hand. The lights are blinding, and all I see is a mysterious crowd of faceless people. I wait for the music to start. Breathe in, breathe out. It is a small confined room; the air is thick with cigarette smoke and mindless chatter.

  I snake the microphone cord around my finger, and finally lift my head. The music starts, and the words flow out of me. It feels so natural in this state. I am but a single person, alone in this room. My voice carries across the stage, so strong and steady, it  passes over the mysterious strangers.

How great this feeling is. To be so free, to share this outlet of passion with others. I am no longer nervous, I smile, and after my eyes adjust to the hot lights, I finally start to see the masked people. They are so captivated.  It is as if I have hypnotized them. With wine glasses down, and so alert. They are actually listening to me. Listening to MY poetry. Then…blackness.  My time is up. It is a natural high to be standing here. I walk off stage with a feeling of accomplishment, and confidence. I can’t get enough of this feeling. All I want is more

The Gateway

She starts to feel her body slowly slipping into the cool cotton beneath her. She struggles to get more comfortable under her sheets; the air feels cold and damp. Each rhythmic breath she takes sends her into a deep relaxation; they are in sync with the oceans gentle fury. The moon spills a milky beam of light through her window; particles of dust can be seen dancing among one another. It is getting later and later, and she is puzzled by her inability to fall asleep.
It has been years since she has retreated back to the cottage. A cottage that looks as it did 50 years earlier. The antique white and blue rocking chair is still in the corner of the porch, rocking once in a while to the frequent salty breezes. The creaking in the floor boards and the lack installation never mattered to her. She thought it gave the place character. It is nice to feel the wind come in through the windows unexpectedly, and having to steadily scamper towards the wood framed glass in attempts to close it quickly.
This post card of a place was her sanctuary. A place for her to slowly gather her thoughts, and de clutter the chaos that sporadically appears; uninvited. She always had a mental template of how her life should be, all neatly categorized in sections ranging from; work, school, family, miscellaneous, and of course love. She should already know by now that planning does not fit into every aspect of any individual’s life. Nevertheless, she strives onward in attempts to achieve the impossible.
Her body is starting to feel heavier now, and it becomes hard to resist the seduction of sleep. All is silent now, the ocean becomes muffled air, and her breathing deepens even more.
The heat almost feels unbearable, and the air is thick and humid. By the time her eyes adjust to the light she realizes that she is standing barefoot. The earth is warm and soft beneath her. An overwhelming sense of calm fills her body as she starts to follow the dirt path before her. She passes lush greenery, lightly brushing her hands against the leafs. They are wet with dew, and feel of satin. Clusters of blood orange and yellow flowers line this dirt path. Every tree seems to admit a glow of some sort, fire flies, birds, and butterflies dance together in slow motion. She walks towards them with curiosity. Wings flap and flutter with one another gently, the array of their colors and patterns can be clearly seen with each gust of air. A mixed sweet aroma fills her senses, she closes her eyes, tilts her head back and breathes in. A faint sound of a waterfall can be heard somewhere down the path.  Intrigued, she makes her way down , occasionally looking up at the sky that is torn down the middle. One side is day, and the other is night. The light side is a combination of turquoise and emerald-green. The dark side is nothing but ribbons of deep purple and sapphire. The stars look as if they were created by the tip of a needle a jabbing needle.
She steadily makes her way down the path, searching for this musical waterfall. The sound seems to be getting further and further. Suddenly, the earth beneath her begins to shake, the rocks along the path begin to levitate, and the wings of the fluttering creatures freeze.  Thunder crashes, and what looks like a far end of tunnel starts to roll towards her. Its blackness is over whelming, it starts to swallow everything in its path. She tries to yell, but her voice is no more; just a swollen ball of silence in her throat. Her feet become paralyzed, and as she looks down to release them she sees her reflection in the glittering earth. She knows it is her, but something is off, the face staring back at her is of an old woman. A loud siren blares, then blackness.
The clock set neatly on the nightstand flashes back the almost too familiar numbers; 3:15. She sits up promptly, and sloppily throws her hair into a pony tail. The bedroom window had opened again, as if just to irritate her. The oceans air heavily leaked in, creating a salty film over her skin. The orange and jasmine candle she lit before she fell asleep was still dimly lit, everything was in place. This recurring dream is starting to become another puzzle, another something to add to her chaotic mental template.

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