He is baaaaaaaack!!!!!

•August 24, 2009 • 4 Comments

5.15am and the alarm rips me from my sleep. My new morning routine isn’t habit yet, which means I am actually still asleep when the beeping starts. I roll over, slap my hand onto the disturber, and knowing that I have my cell alarm set for 5.45am, collapse back onto my mattress.

But the mind also got the wake up call. And so the internal dialogue of what I could get done, if I got up, starts. I open my eyes and look outside into the dark night sky. Still rather sleepy, I see a set of three stars perfectly aligned. They start to register in my head…… ‘just like….. na….. it’s too early…… couldn’t be….. but still….. maybe…’

I turn my head a little to give me a wider angle, and there I see him, in full, magestic beauty watching over my sleep.

Orion. Is. Back.

With full vengeance and as he jerks me to my feet, I can’t hide my excitement at an old, old friend returning. Yesterday I prayed for one, and I got two. This morning there’s a third. Tears of Gratitude roll down my cheeks.

‘Summer is coming to an end’ rushes through my mind but vanishes quickly. Instead I say:
“I can’t believe you are here already. I remember being a little sad seeing you hardly rise above the night’s horizon, knowing you wouldn’t rise again for many moons. It seems like yesterday. I missed you.  I am so glad to have you back, the timing is perfect. So much has happened while you were gone. The path was difficult and often lonely. But I got here, and now for the next 6 months, I’ll have you to walk beside me. Thank you.”

I think of other friends who will appreciate Orion’s return. And I think of friends who may discover him for the first time. Then I expand my circle of awareness out further, further than ‘friends’.

“Orion is back”, I whisper gently as I share the news.

What the heart builds naturally

•August 22, 2009 • 2 Comments

I am but I am not.
Both.
None.

And yet it’s a beautiful morning. One that I have had many of in the last months. One that reaches out and gently touches my face, wrapping me up in a calm that through the day I’ll have a hard time hanging on to. I look at my last blog post, I study the date, read the comments (Thank you).

Am I still the same person who wrote those lines? How would I even tell? Yes, they do seem familiar, more so, they seem mine, feel mine. So do the comments, seem for me, move me, trigger questions like ‘wonder how they are doing / what he has been up to / what she is working on / when I get to see her again’.

I had a Skype conversation with one of the commenters the other night. It felt so good. And it goes to show that time can’t kill what hearts build naturally. It goes to show how little a step it takes, to reconnect, to laugh, to thank God for having been blessed.

“Are you still writing?”, was a question.

“I cannot Not write”, I responded. Some things don’t change. And it goes to show that time can’t kill what the heart builds naturally.

Yes.

It’s been a long journey and there’s still a long way to go. But it’s time to open the doors again, gently, and peek out into the virtual world. It’s time to start sharing again.

Anybody there?

With eyes closed

•April 5, 2009 • 20 Comments

angel

You don’t need to lay your ears on the ground
Nor let your hand glide over the brown earth
to feel life’s heartbeat beat within you.
Just close your eyes and listen,
Without expectation, without need
Just quietly as if there is only this one thing to do
Until the chains of time crumble to dust and
Are picked up by the winds and forever dispersed,
Leaving a burning sun to rise within you
Flooding your body with the brightest light.

@spaz
 
 
 

 

Gathering dust

•March 10, 2009 • 9 Comments

26704476

(photo @spasmicallyperfect)

 

Hi everybody.

Although below post isn’t a true account of events, it’s not really fiction either.

Over the last few months I’ve noticed that Spasmically Perfect doesn’t quite feel write ( 😉 ) anymore and what has been so many things to me over the last few years, somehow no longer seems to fit.

I was considering shutting it down completely but I can’t. Too many treasured souls have left their virtual footsteps on these grounds and too many treasured moments are forever captured. Not to mention that it will always serve as a reminder of friendship in its purest and most inspirational form.

And just like a guitar that gathers dust in a corner, who knows, someday I’ll fall over it and feel – once more – inspired to play.

Until then, you know where to find me, should you wish to. And for those of you who wonder whether I’ll still come visit once in a while: stop wondering and write something so that I have a piece or two to read when I show up!

🙂

To all of you who have read and commented, THANK YOU for contributing in your all so individual ways, and for being such wonderful company along the way.

Until we meet again, take care’
and don’t forget how beautiful you are,
because you are,

LOVE, Spaz

Wild horses

•March 8, 2009 • 1 Comment

horse1
“It’s time to write”, she said quietly, almost absent-mindedly, while her lower head was hiding behind a steaming cup of close to overflowing tea.
She wasn’t finished, and so he waited patiently, nibbling on a brownie crumb.
“Not like before. Not the dashes of thoughts, feelings, documentations of life or what I see life to be. Not the little prayers of gratitude, the longing for hope, asking to be seen, heard, and maybe remembered. Not the trying to figure out why I’m here, we are here. It’s useless. It’s a waste of time. A cruel trickery making myself believe that I actually have something to say, know something, love something.”
She still wasn’t looking at him. She never did in these moments. Her world was too busy to handle without having to deal with his, or anybody else’s for that matter.
He didn’t mind. He knew one word, gesture of need and she’d snap out of it, she’d come running forgetting all about her world, just so that she could rescue another’s.
That’s what made her beautiful. That’s what made her beauty a high price to pay.
“Something new. And I don’t care whether it’s new to the world, or has been done a million times before. That’s not important anymore. It will be new to me. And it will be my own. Fully. Untainted, uncensored, unread. It won’t matter how it comes out. Just that it does, like a wild horse. Then, maybe, someday, a story will emerge, a story that needs telling. But how can one tell a story, before one has mastered it, tamed it? And maybe, maybe letting it run free is what really makes one happy.”
She took another sip of the top of her cup, her eyes locked in the distance.
He could see tears filling up, but she didn’t let them fall, instead she forced a smile.
And so they sat there, quietly.

Stories

•March 7, 2009 • 4 Comments


It’s a zoo.
Not a story about a zoo, but a zoo of stories,
actually not even stories,
just story lines,
tens, hundreds of them,
small, big,
beautiful, shocking,
odd, true,
fictions based on an ego,
or lack thereof,
toppling over each other,
and every time I breathe,
think of nothing,
there’s another one,
wanting to be heard,
heard in a herd of a zoo of story lines,
good luck.

first instinct to capture them,
organise them, categories them,
lock them up,
who knows breed them,
raise them, feed them,
into at least one good story,
the kind one buys a book for,
not online,
no,
walks to a book store
and pays in cash for.
good luck.

So I sit,
in the middle of the zoo,
watching them race
through the grounds,
some circle or halt,
some mate,
some grow,
but none stays,
why would they,
they’re just random lines,
created in a head,
creating a zoo,
which I now observe,
unable to make more of it.
Just my luck.

Refusing

•March 6, 2009 • Leave a Comment

inner-garden
(photo @spasmicallyperfect)

Beautiful stories told
Set in wondrous landscapes
Where hair shines golden
And the grass is green and soft
The sound of bees
And smell of countless flower heads,
Oh how I wish I could find that place
Within myself again.

I know it’s there,
And as I stumble through time
Pathetically clinging
To all that isn’t mine to hold
Deceiving myself into believing
That this night will end by itself
While I get high on emotions
I no longer can trigger myself.

Hidden away on a quiet street
Behind closed blinds
The sun still finds me and refuses
To entertain my darkness,
For the garden within me
Needs the light
to be able to grow and bloom
and be ready, for the moment I arrive.