A friend of mine called one day and stated in a matter of fact tone, “you have to read this book; it will change your life”. The book was ‘The Power of Myth, by someone named Joseph Campbell. I was just divorced and trying to find my way in a strange new world after 13 years of marriage, a world in which I felt as one of the lost boys in Peter Pan. I was ready for something of substance but had doubts as to my friends implied assertion that this one book would open a new world of meaning to me. I was familiar with the works of Thomas Moore and M. Scott Peak so I wasn’t completely unacquainted with the idea of mythology as a psychological tool. But little did I know I was about to submerge into uncharted waters, pushing me intrinsically through the door into the abyss. Continue reading Hey Joe
In the city of my birth,
On the third floor of Beckham’s Book Shop,
Surrounded by stacks of books I can only dream of reading every title,
Falling asleep on this worn out couch,
The musty smell making me dizzy.
They call it ‘the city that time forgot’ and continues to forget as we saw with Katrina,
Or the ‘crescent city’ for the bend in the river which Bienville saw as strategic,
Many nights I walked that same bend along the railroad tracks by the river’s edge,
Drinking hot beer procured from the abandoned Jax Brewery,
Oblivious to the rich history I was born into.
Wandering these streets of the French Quarters,
Past the painters, fortune tellers and street musicians trying to make a dollar,
I find myself in St. Louis Cathedral staring at the stained glass,
The pipe organ playing Bach while someone is blowing a horn in Pirates Alley,
Both melding into a complexed whole, as candles from the altar, burn our sins away.
So many nights strolling down Bourbon Street in a haze,
How many ghosts have crossed my path this night,
Dripping in the humid air of summer is like breathing thru syrup,
Or the damp cold of winter cutting you to the bone.
Growing up we’d take the Algiers Ferry across the river to the West Bank,
When night falls on a full moon you can see the city’s horizon shimmering on the water,
I think we only leave home so we can love it all the more.
It is then I understand this longing I feel for my city by the river,
You never really get over it, just strike an uneven peace between the heart
*Photo courtesy of Pixabay
“If you get the inside right, the outside will fall into place.”
When I wrote ‘Private Tremors of the Frozen Man’, I introduced a litany of symptoms prevalent to Parkinson’s disease that most people didn’t know or realized were just as prominent as a tremor in the hand. As time goes on, I discover new symptoms, some I experience and other I may or may not ever play host to. All in all, it’s an education for me and a vicarious one for you, the reader. As I’ve often said, when I was diagnosed back in October of 2012, I didn’t know anything about Parkinson’s except for the handshakes. Now I can see someone on the street and pretty much can tell if they have Parkinson’s or not. Continue reading The Frozen Man- Go to the Mirror
“The fire is lit, a sacred long pipe is passed around connecting us to our forebearers, while the flickering light of the campfire creates shadows that dance onto the trees and stars.”
We happen upon a cabin from antiquity next to a pond, nestled deep within a thicket made to specifications out of fallen trees. Sitting upon its rustic porch at night amidst the visual of fireflies, we listen intently to all it has witnessed, as this rustic castle dispels all thoughts of the mundane with stories of fairy circles, dryads (tree spirits) and haunted groves, awakening our imaginations. Continue reading Thoreau’s Ghost
“You live that you may learn love. You love that you may learn to live. No other lesson is required of man.”
One soul connects to another. But the longing which the cerebral mind intended may end up being completely different from what it originally sought, for the soul requires and demands something more, so our longing evolves laced with these core request. Love born just of passion will fade. As love born to reconnect to the image of a life long dead may resurrect the past, but not create the bridge to our true self, thus depriving the soul of its initial search. Continue reading Charting The Rainbow
“The thing you sacrificed comes back years later, knife in hand, demanding to sacrifice that which it was sacrificed for.”
In Plato’s Myth of Er, each soul returns from a previous life and chooses its attributes for the next return to Earth. These qualities make up the daimon or acorn which is representative of the unique character of that soul. It’s chosen in order to fulfill this soul’s purpose in its next life, as related to its previous incarnation. Continue reading Myth of Er- Plato and Jung
“And the raft is cast aside on the shore of destination only replaced by a new raft which in time will discard itself, inasmuch as knowledge begets wisdom.” -JC
I had a dream that I lived on an island, a faraway island where I was completely ignorant of the world and my place in it. And one day I awoke from a deep sleep only to see a Dragonfly who bid me follow. I suddenly found Continue reading Of Words, a Raft, & a Dragonfly
Artistic expression is an undertaking of reverence toward the soul; of hidden things in the night which will simultaneously expand and unlock its secrets to the advantage of one’s art. But where do these epiphanies come from… esoterically without or within?
Comfort in Your Own Skin
Soul is anything you do for yourself that feels comfortable to you; it centers you, completes you. It could be the clothes you wear, the music you hear, a morning cup of coffee. The soul requires this comfort. What is offbeat to one is soulful to another. Continue reading Consider… The Soul, Vol. 2
My nature is light, nothing but light. When the world arises, I alone am shining.
-Ashtavakra Gita 2:8
I stand transfixed; my mind’s eye takes in everything before my brain has time to confuse it with reasoning. As this subtle untarnished revelation unfolds, I search my coat pockets for a pen and paper and transcribe into words what I’ve witnessed.
A mysterious orb has exploded while still retaining the contour of its original shape. It reminds me of an eye, dark and luminous rotating in its socket. An Continue reading The Lamp and the Abyss
Anyone who has read Edgar Allan Poe can attest to his use of the English language to convey beauty as poignant and surreal to whatever situation life may reveal. His sense of the macabre is elegant and alluring, so much so that we see ourselves as the very target of ethereal forces at work.
The story of ‘Ligeia’ represents Poe’s fascination with love and the occult, the hidden side of life not often visited but which can unexpectedly manifest itself into the realm of the living. Love is enchanting at first and then assembles a castle of obsession. This theme is well represented in the very name of ‘Ligeia’, which borrows heavily from its origins as one of the Sirens in Greek mythology enticing sailors with alluring melodies and enchanted singing, causing blind obsession for the hypnotic sounds as the victims sail closer and closer, only to fall off the cliffs and drown. Continue reading Poe’s Ligeia- A Short Discourse