Spiritual Algorithm: A Prescription For What Ails In 8 Steps

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If algorithm means a procedure or set of operations for solving a problem in a finite number of steps, then consider the following eight to be a kind of spiritual algorithm that I’ve recently devised for myself, and which is changing my life.

Though, even as I’m writing this, I must pause to tell you I am experiencing an emotional tug-of-war over the idea of sharing this “prescription” forward.  Because on the one hand, I am genuinely excited by some new, and some merely renewed, experiences happening in my life recently, and the reality that actual tangible results of their impact are before my very eyes, and that those results are almost touching mastery, and this, mind you, from someone who tends to be gravely self-critical, and has come from a long, long arc of nuanced depression and irascibility and disappointment, built up over years and easily masked by a generally friendly disposition, and I am turning corners left and right, and I wanna wanna wanna share so badly, because I’m feeling extraordinary.  On the other hand, in any piece that serves as a how-to (think MindBodyGreen, which I love and read regularly, and yet . . .), there is an assumed authority on said subject, and the implied self-importance of owning that you have something to show someone else.  I have never fancied myself in the role of teacher to anyone; never been especially in touch with my Inner Deepak.  Plus, as always seems to be my thinking, what if I fall?  Here I’ve made this public pronouncement of some wisdom to impart, and now I’ve dared to go on with my life and be imperfect.  Nothing pleases some people more than to catch you in your failures: “I thought you were giving up sugar?” smugly coming from that friend when you’ve been caught eating your See’s butterscotch square is always fun.  So, I’m usually uncomfortable in this area.  Even this blog, my beloved Bindi Girl Chronicles, is rife with pieces that are really tapestries of discord and imperfection and stumbles and growing pains and learning curves, as I navigate the turbid waters of self-discovery.  Sometimes I have answers.  Most times I’m just posing questions.

But something’s happening, something, as I said, nearly resembling mastery.  There are more and more exquisite little grace notes in my life these days that have me in the perpetual state of wow and wonder than ever before.  And I can only credit eight little rituals that I call my spiritual algorithm, or my prescription for what ails, and that I have only just recently put into daily practice.  Visionary teacher Eckhart Tolle has often said that there are three words that encompass the secret to the art of living:  One. With. Life.   One with life.  He is quite stunning in illustrating the importance of recognizing that we are all interconnected, of being here now, of having experiences for their own sake, and of seeing beauty in everything.  The predicament for me, in truly meditating on this, is always, “of course, but how?”

Well, I have found it. At least for me.  And I am champing at the bit to share. Without making assumptions that we’re all ailing, I simply offer that if you’re anything like me there’s always a spiritual nip and tuck and tweak that can be had in order to be more present and to maximize your experience here, to be truly one with life.  I came up with my eight without even thinking of the eightfold path or the eight limbs (these are Buddhist and yogic references, for those of you not in the dharma know). That was purely a matter of coincidence. And so now, I like to think of this spiritual algorithm, this prescription for the art of living, as sort of my own personal eightfold path.  It’s working for me, which doesn’t necessarily mean it’s meant for you.  I tend to believe that everyone benefits best from a custom-made chariot for that road to enlightenment. But the chances are at least 50-50 that my prescription could indeed resonate with you.  So here it is.
 

1. Turn away from the anxiety-fueling news programs that litter television and the internet.

Just refuse them.   They are designed for one agenda only: to whip us into a distracted frenzy, and by virtue weaken us and our pocketbooks at the seams, because having an entire culture in panic mode is profitable, and is never about being in the public’s interest.  Find your current events through more legitimate sources.  Do the homework needed to figure out who and what those are.
 

2. Read for pleasure.

As a writer I want to encourage books. I want to encourage good books.  I want to encourage literature.  But hey, read a magazine, just read . . . for pure enjoyment and expansion.   And try as often as possible to do it outside of the digital and electronic universe.  Kindles and iPads are fun and convenient, but don’t let them be your exclusive source for reading.  The brain needs a good chunk of quality time every day to be removed from electromagnetic energy.
 

3. Meditate.  OR . . .

. . . at the very least find a way to simply be in silence and stillness for a few minutes every day.  The more minutes a day you can find in that quiet, the better able you will be to heed the inner voice, and the better everything will be.  Guaranteed.   (Yes, I am actually being brazen enough to say guaranteed).   I recently read the memoir of Sara Maitland on her experiment of withdrawing from the world, in pursuit of silence.  There is a whole world of discussion to be had on the topic, and its impact on a society, and which is utterly fascinating.  For now, for this, however, just allow yourself a few minutes each day to power everything down.  And listen.
 

4. Connect with Higher Power.

This term is as wide a berth as the ocean, so even the most ardent atheist can find his or hers. Something that is greater than your pedestrian self, and that has something to teach you, offer you, feed you.  Maybe it’s the collective unconscious.  Maybe it’s art.  Maybe it’s nature.  Maybe it’s the source within.  Maybe it is a source out there.   Maybe it’s simply goodness. It will ring differently and show up differently for every individual on the planet, but it is that unquantifiable something that maneuvers us around the land mines and connects us to each other.  There is no need to affix a label; simply be with it.  Find yours, and plug in regularly.
 

5. Create, even if you’re not an artist.

Artist is only a label.   We all have creativity and imagination in us, and it can show up in the most unexpected cloak, which is usually how it works anyway.   Feed that.  Promote that.
 

6. Be a child again (closely linked to the above).

And which is not the same as being childish.

There is so much obligation and commitment and management and planning and fortune-making that governs our adult lives that we can easily allow it to bog us down and collapse our spirits.  Easy to get so caught up in building the life of our dreams that we kind of forget to actually live the life of our dreams.   So, let it all go once in a while, regularly, and do what children do.   Play fiercely and with joyous abandon.
 

7. Create a daily gratitude ritual. 

It can be a prayer, a journal log, a mantra, a meditation.  Even in the various spells of my life of not feeling especially spiritual or connected, I always found such beauty in the tradition of blessing one’s food.  What a lovely idea to express out loud, in a ritual, our thankfulness for the bounty on our plates, and not taking a meal for granted, but cherishing it for what it gives us.  Especially considering how many don’t have that luxury.  Now imagine employing that gratitude practice with everything.  Just imagine.

And finally . . .
 

8. Be in nature.

Now, I honestly don’t think any more expounding on this one is necessary, except that I am compelled to share what’s happened to me with this one because this one seems to be the mother lode.  I never truly got that phrase, “be in nature,” that spiritual directive, as I now view it, until I began the recent ritual for myself.  Out of the blue, it seems, I began hankering for nature.  And I think, at least in part, it’s because I’ve been a meditator for a good many years already, yet have been growing intermittently flustered (as business for me has gotten busier . . . knock on wood!) by the struggle to truly burrow deep, and my belief that it has had to do with the inability to remove myself from the world’s distractions.  One truth about meditation is that doing it is possible even if the sky is falling all around us, but that’s a pretty hardcore level of meditation bad-assery that I have never achieved.  I need an environment that promotes moving out of the world for a few chunks of time each day.  Enter nature.  Fortunately I live in a community that smacks right up against a set of mountain ranges, the ever sprawling Angeles National Forest, and its various canyons and parks.  Although, I don’t believe there exists a community that has zero access to some brand of nature.  We can all find some.

I’ve been hiking Aliso Canyon at the very north end of the San Fernando Valley, and which is nearly in my back yard.  It’s part crest, overlooking wide sweeps of mountain, part enchanted forest, taking one into the bowels of nature with trees bridging overheard and creating a canopy.  What I never saw coming was the way in which this daily ritual would become something I would crave, the way one craves coffee.  Runners talk about the runner’s high.  I even know gym nuts who are antsy if they miss a day of working out.  That has never been me.  But I crave this.  And I have found that not only has it been working as a meditative pursuit, but it has begun to shift my whole health & wellness, it has brought literally more oxygen into my lungs and life, and it has, most profoundly, most surprisingly, opened my heart chakra in ways I couldn’t have predicted.  Communing with creatures beyond our pets and other humans, listening to their concert, moving among the wise old trees (read  Herman Hesse some time on trees….whew!…), recognizing the cruciality of taking care of the earth, and understanding the dire consequences of continuing as we are, in promoting carbon footprinting and the decimation of the ozone.  This daily experience has inadvertently made me live in and practice gratitude for what I have and where I am in life and what is precious. It has brought me to a manageable, even peaceful, mental place when life is challenging me or throwing roadblocks in my way. It has actually shifted my receptor paradigm, meaning that I feel myself being more open to receiving, or perhaps, and more pointedly, feeling worthy of, blessings; as well as the ability to see that blessings are flying all around us like gnats, and are in everything that happens to us.  Not only in the stuff that feels good, and is about comfort, and is easy to see as a blessing. But even the stuff (or people) we consider bad news, because these are what serve as lessons and opportunities and teachers, and may actually be where the real gold lies. And it’s ours to either choose to recognize, or not. But why wouldn’t we? And this whole shift for me has been a direct result (I could be wrong, but the timing’s too uncanny) of my daily communing with nature.

It takes a great deal of courage to keep our hearts open.  So much easier to clamp them down, and to bear the armor of hurt, and to be the suffering martyr, and to garner the quiet awe of others, which IS a component and an attraction, because maybe we have no real clue who we are without our wounds.  But keeping our hearts open is the greatest kind of surgery our bodies can undergo.  And being in nature has been remarkable at opening up that vessel within me, for my access.

Additionally, I can’t help but find that people are kinder on the trail. When we pass each other out there, as compared to passing each other on a busy street, we all seem less apt to be closed off, wearing that city armor we tend to put on in order to go out into the world. It’s as if we all share the common understanding about the sacred nature of….well, nature. And there is, for the most part, a code of benevolent behavior when engaging in something sacred.
 
 
 

So, there you have it.  My eight. The prescription for what has been ailing me. The spiritual algorithm that has shifted me just ever so subtly, yet indelibly.

Navigating the murky waters of life is a job with tenure.  All the enlightenment in this world, and for that matter all the prosperity in this world, won’t reprieve us of the task.  But navigated with the right tools (and I offer this eightfold prescription as one tool of many), life becomes not merely a road to endure, but an experience of riches beyond measure.  Maybe my eight can offer you something as well.  Or, hey, if you’re way ahead of me, please share your own discoveries back.  I would love to hear of them.  Remember, I get MindBodyGreen in my daily inbox.  I’m THAT gal.

But for any who are searching, or feel lost, or even just looking for a top off, I encourage you to try it.

Costs nothing.

Big Pharma has no equity in this medicine.
 
 

Dedicated to my lovely friend Kelly Phillips,
who illustrates the prescription simply by living her beautiful life,
and allowing me the honor of observing it.

 

Photograph of ACB is by Holli Rae

 

Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, is a recipient of the Heritage/Soulword Magazine Award in poetry, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD.   Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog. Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.

Of His Many Legacies

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January 19, 2015.   Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

I woke up this morning and hastened to the computer to post my father’s portrait of Martin Luther King Jr. on all of my various social media accounts. It’s a portrait that became sort of famous in the 1970’s.   The only one of my father’s paintings that he ever made reproductions of, so that it could be owned by many. The portrait could be found, in the years that followed its creation, in several city halls throughout the country, other civic buildings, schools, private homes.  I even once opened an Ebony Magazine (I was a teen at the time) to an article about an Atlanta attorney.  I don’t even remember who the attorney was, as what happened next is the only part of the story that was important to me.  There, under the byline, but before the title of the article, was a photograph of the attorney in his Atlanta offices.  And there in the background of the photo, hanging on a wall, was my father’s King.   It counted as the only example of that kind of experience I’ve ever had regarding my father’s work, since he was an artist who never exhibited, never had reproductions made of his work, save the King, and almost never offered his works for sale. He was a peculiar artist in that way.   He’d made his living as a graphic artist for the aerospace industry for his entire life, and so the fine art pieces he did were purely for love and personal reward, or sometimes on commission.  All of his children have his works, and many other family members and friends.  But otherwise, the King remains the only of his work that circulated the country a bit in its day.  Sorry about the tangent.   This post is not about “the King,” as we have always called his painting, but I’m a proud daughter, so there you go.  And here it is, in its entirety.

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Anyway, I posted my father’s painting on Facebook, Twitter, et al., along with one of my favorite quotations of Dr. King’s, as my contribution to paying tribute to this national holiday of the birth of the Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King, Jr.

The quotation was: “Let us truly, deeply, authentically occupy the dream, the dream of a world that works for all life, where each and every one of us is a shining star in a constellation of love.  Everybody can be great . . . because anybody can serve.  You don’t have to have a college degree to serve.  You don’t have to make your subject and verb agree to serve.  You only need a heart full of grace.  A soul generated by love.” 

There are so many of his wonderful quotations that it was hard to choose the one that resonated the most with my heart today.  As all great men and women tend to inspire, on any given day a different aspect of Dr. King’s lifework might ring in my heart and the accompanying quotation in my ears.  Because the many avenues of his life’s work extend far beyond civil rights and racial equality, as a friend of mine reminded in an email he sent out this morning to a handful of friends.  Dr. King also fought for unions, supported labor strikes and better economic realities for the poor of all races, and lastly, but hardly least, he was passionately outspoken against the Viet Nam War, and against war period.

I made the post, and then went about the rest of my day, periodically checking back to see if any comments had been made.  Isn’t that what we do?   The rest of my day consisted of meeting up with friends for lunch and a bit of business, then working on some graphic jobs for clients, and then taking the afternoon to go see a movie, as this is the time of year that I and my ilk (a small circle of us) log in the requisite Oscar nominees.  It’s our favorite time of year.  I’ve seen some pretty wonderful movies this season, and today’s was going to be American Sniper.

As I sat through this well-crafted Clint Eastwood film, I found myself physically uncomfortable and fidgety in my seat.   I am a movie buff (I guess there’s a range of buffness; so perhaps I’m just a semi-buff).  I love movies for their honesty, their irony, their in-depth character study, and their unsentimentality.  Just tell a story, and let the story, itself, do its job to move us, or anger us, or teach us, or make our hearts soar, or make us laugh, or confound us, or take us to the couch.

I honestly don’t know what I thought of this movie (I’m sure I’ll have a firmer grasp of my feelings on it a week from now, or a year from now).  It yanked me in many ways.  In the final frame, it was clearly making a statement about what war does to soldiers, and yet it also intended to lionize the protagonist, who is based on a real-life person.  And from what I understand, the real-life person, whose autobiography the movie is based upon, was quite unrepentant about his killing credits.  So, is he a hero?  Or if the movie is not about heroes but about men, do we need for him to be depicted as remorseful?  Or simply as someone indelibly changed by the circumstances of war, even if he is in denial of it?   These are just questions.  I have no answers to them.   But what clearly made me restless in this movie experience was the juxtaposition of having chosen to see this film on a day that has been nationally designated as commemoration of the man who once said, “Wars are poor chisels for carving out peaceful tomorrows.”

I woke up this morning with Dr. King firstly on my mind.  I woke up with his many, many words of great inspiration swimming in my head, because I am on his side in these matters.  I do not believe in war.  I’m sure my politically conservative friends and my military friends will have their issue with me on that.  That’s for us to work out.   But I can appreciate a depiction of war, which is why I was sitting in a movie theater this afternoon, seeing this film.

It’s the juxtaposition of having chosen this day to go, which didn’t even dawn on me until I was in it and committed, and which was most definitely the source of my restlessness, that puzzles me.  What I found most poignant and most troublesome wasn’t even in the film itself (though I did find the film itself gravely problematic), but the audience’s various reactions throughout.   There was hearty laughter when killings happened.  Silly, immature laughter.  There was universal jingoistic applause when a tension-moment in the movie ended in enemy-slaughter at its most brutal.  This was the audience from a Rocky movie or a soccer game.  Did the filmmakers have that kind of whipped up lust as their intention? Because propaganda, after all, was at the heart of this film, and that’s what propaganda is designed to do.  Eastwood’s direct trajectory in the film from 911 to our invasion of Iraq, as though one had anything to do with the other, is why I charge him with propaganda.  And yet, before I go any further down the rabbit hole of political polarities, that is not even the component of the film that left me in turmoil.   That component I simply, disappointingly, chalked up to the Big Lie.

What left me divided, and it’s finally hitting me even as I write this, is that Eastwood, himself, was divided.  I don’t believe he really knew what story he wanted to tell.  Because while he most assuredly directed a very deliberate go-get-em piece of patriotic frenzy-whipping, Eastwood also depicted a man wrecked by his experience over there, even as that man lived in denial of his distress. And those were the moments that had a human, thoughtful, nuanced, insightful element to it.  Those were the moments that reminded me why I have always championed Eastwood as a director.  But while I didn’t need for Chris Kyle to be a redeemed man, or to have some kind of awakening about his actions, it was extremely important for that to be inherent in the narrative, and it just wasn’t.  It brought to mind, for me, the powerful and chilling Taxi Driver.  Here is a character who is deeply troubled, and is unredeemed in his behavior even to the very end.  And I ask myself the question: If Travis Bickle were based on a true life person, as is the case with American Sniper, would I feel the same way that I do about the film’s power? Or would I be angry that the filmmakers chose to portray such a man who neither seeks nor finds any redemption? And ultimately my answer is yes, I would still find the movie powerful and meaningful, because though Travis Bickle is not a redeemed man, his story, his narrative, as unveiled by Paul Schrader and Martin Scorsese, IS, through its making a comment about society.  American Sniper had every opportunity to do just that.  And ultimately, because propaganda was allowed to prevail instead, it failed.

As I filed out of the theater with an audience that was more revved up than contemplative, my heart truly broke to see the fruits of a culture and a generation that I believe has largely fallen from grace, and grown numbed and desensitized.  I don’t know if the blame belongs to movies like this, or to social media, or to the blitzkrieg-&-hysteria-style TV programming that calls itself news today, or to technology, which disconnects us far more than it connects us, or to a generation of parents and schools dropping the ball on guidance, or what.  They’re all easy targets, and they’re probably all complicit.  WE are probably all complicit.  But whatever is the source, it’s happening.  The deadening of the collective heart.  Now, I’m not a dark and gloomy doomsayer.  There’s always hope.  I think that’s part and parcel to what this day stands for.  But it requires action.  I’m not always an action person.  I can tend to be very insular in my life, and in my beliefs that being a creative artist, and putting thoughtful content out into the world, is enough.  But maybe it isn’t enough.  And so, this collective deadening of the heart was a pretty sobering bit of business to witness, and to be in the midst of, and to conclude, on this day, the national commemoration of a genuine peacemaker in our history.  A man who said these many words:

“We must learn to live together as brothers, or perish together as fools.”

“Let no man pull you so low as to hate him.”

“I have decided to stick with love.  Hate is too great a burden to bear.”

“Forgiveness is not an occasional act.  It is a constant attitude.”

“Love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into friend.”

I don’t know why I chose to see this movie today of all days.  It felt wrong, as soon as I was in it.  Even though I think Mr. Eastwood did a skillful (if dishonest) bit of directing, and Mr. Cooper did a remarkable turn as Kyle.  But I think that if I’d seen the movie on any other day, I might’ve had a very different experience, a different level of sensitivity, a different outlook on humanity.  And so perhaps today was exactly as it should be.  To force me inward.  To contemplate.  Not only King’s legacy, but how we citizens have been shaped (or not) by it.  How I  have been shaped by it.  And what to do about that, if the answer turns out to be a less-than-proud one.  Because, really, that’s what today’s movie experience was about for me –– a mirror.  Which brings me to my favorite of all of Dr. King’s words: “The greatest sign of maturity is self-inquiry.”

I am chasing that maturity every single day.   On rare days, I even catch the little fucker.

Portrait of Martin Luther King Jr. by Ted Brown

Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, is a recipient of the Heritage/Soulword Magazine Award in poetry, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD.   Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog.   Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.

Our Senses Whispering . . . Or Is It the Dead? (A Year-End Thought)

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Certain laws of the universe just seem to never fail:

That if we’re looking for something we’ll never find it;

then suddenly when all effort is abandoned, there it is.

The guarantee that if the appointment is conveniently close to home,

we WILL be late to it.

And the absolute assurance, when someone we love dies, that themes of living, truly living,

not just sleepwalking,

are suddenly as loud as sirens.

 

They say to be devil-may-care when you’re young, and cautious when you’re older,

but I have begun to maintain the exact opposite.

Young is when you should organize and plan,

so that effective longevity stands a greater chance.

It’s when you’re older, and with fewer days ahead than behind,

that the attitude of “what do I have to lose?” makes more sense.

The older I get, the bolder I get.

It didn’t used to be that way.

I used to grow increasingly conservative as the years went by

and the hairs on my head began to lose their color.

A little more cautious,

a little more nervous,

the sense of consequences ever larger and clanging in my head.

But in this past year, a shift of some sort has happened.

And, yes, I am indeed growing more into the “what do I have to lose?” category.

 

I believe the reason is that a personal record number of people in my life passed on this year,

and the sheer volume of it has dizzied me.

And perhaps with how untimely so many of them have been,

I’m simply being nudged to move with more deliberateness in my gait.

Because, after all, tomorrow could be my last,

as it was (too young!) for so many I knew.

And then what would’ve been the point in my hesitation?

 

This isn’t a gloomy thought.

On the contrary; it is fresh with hope.

Ripe and rife with possibility.

Inspiration to be gleaned from the seeming senselessness of death.

It IS senseless, that death,

unless we, the ones left behind in life, choose,

through it and because of it,

to be awakened.

 

“Be nobody’s darling:
Be an outcast;

Be pleased to walk alone
(Uncool)
Or line the crowded
River beds
With other impetuous
Fools . . .
Be nobody’s darling;
Be an outcast.
Qualified to live
Among your dead.”
― Alice Walker

 

“And when great souls die, after a period peace blooms, slowly and always irregularly.
Spaces fill with a kind of soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed.  They existed.  We can be.  Be and be better.  For they existed.”
― Maya Angelou

 

We are not born only once,

but every time someone dies

we are born many times over to a better level of ourselves,

climbing rung by rung,

to reach a self worthy of that death.

. . . At least we should be.

 

The Scottish song Auld Lang Syne by Robert Burns

translates roughly to “times gone by,”

and was originally a commemoration song about loved ones past,

and never letting them be forgotten.

According to modern legend, Guy Lombardo popularized the song

when his band used it as a segue between two radio programs

during a live performance on New Year’s Eve in 1929.

Purely by coincidence, the song happened to play just as the clock struck midnight,

and a New Year’s tradition was born.

 

2014 ― a rough year by just about all accounts of everyone I know,

and much of it having to do with death ― might as well not be in vain.

 

That’s up to us.

 

http://youtu.be/i341hJ22jek

 

 

 

 

Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, is a recipient of the Heritage/Soulword Magazine Award in poetry, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD.   Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog.   Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.

Teasers From the ACB Canon (In A World Run By Twitter)

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Hello book lovers!  Below are a few random snippets from my various literary releases.   And if you’ve a mind to help spread the love, please click on the tweets below, connected to each excerpt, and share it with your tweet peeps.   You can also help in the old-fashioned way — falling in love with these books so much (or at least willing to lend your support for indie writers) that you just can’t stop talking about them to your friends.   And then they tell two friends.   And they tell two friends.  You get where I’m going with this.  Though honestly, I am humbled and blessed just to have you tune in, at all, and give my words some of your valuable time.

One of my favorite recent quotations comes from a tweet by author Teju Cole:  Writing as writing.  Writing as rioting.  Writing as righting.  On the best days, all three.   That just hits me in the sweet spot.  And if you haven’t yet picked up The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, Trading Fours, or The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, I encourage you to do so, for yourself or as a holiday gift.   Happy reading, my friends!

 

 

From The Assassination of Gabriel Champion

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Goddamn, he was drunk.  And when he got drunk he got slightly Baroque.  He wanted to get mugged.  He wanted to be carried away to some chamber of horrors and have them beat it out of him.  It?  Whatever IT was that he couldn’t seem to get out whenever he stood in front of a canvas.  Maybe it was the ghosts of all the brilliant madmen who painted with a bloody gust, and who jeered at him that he would never be as great as they were.

Oh, he might become rich and famous, though.  The critics loved him.  He was their little darling.  This week.

All you need’s a gimmick and a hook, and you too can get a big, fat grant and a Vanity Fair cover.

It had become a culture so desensitized, so lacking in the keen recognition of nuance, that what was required any longer to stir someone’s soul was movement, noise, clangs and bangs, where news outlets were consigned to showing actual video footage of head-on collisions in order for the viewer to be impacted by the pronouncement of tragedy.  And where art had to stun (stir just wasn’t good enough anymore) by feats and stunts and concussion in order to be considered the legitimate New Art.  Bob Flanagan hammering a nail into his penis before a live audience at a “happening” was considered art by those for whom the criteria was, singularly, that the deed be undared by anyone else.

Flanagan had been a performance artist battling cystic fibrosis and exploring themes of pain threshold, and there was certainly validity in the idea of a coping mechanism being raised to an art by the very involvement of an audience, a reaction, an impact, and a relationship.  But the bottom line for Daniel was:  How do you sell that?

He suddenly realized that in this drunken instant he was thinking more like an art dealer than an artist, and he surprised himself that he had, in one swift indictment, reduced his entire impetus to paint to his ability to make a living from it. Never mind the idea of art that was authentically experiential, completely stripped of the possibility of the repeat generation of dollars dealt from one collector’s hands to another’s.  Commerce had always been the farthest down on Daniel’s list of reasons to create, yet today it seemed to be the first, instinctive weapon he drew in this invisible battle with an invisible foe, for his (a mere painter’s) rightful place.

The art world had been stricken with a bad case of the emperor’s new clothes, and the rest of the world was guileless and gullible, including Daniel, who had started to believe the buzz about his own work.  Maybe being just a painter was the gimmick assigned to Daniel by the critical circle.  And maybe in the end, he actually was starting to feel unworthy of the attention because, after all –– all he did was paint.

 

 

 

From The Assassination of Gabriel Champion

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Her head rang with the Yeats.  The one her college professor had turned her onto just before he attempted his seduction.  For the purpose, she supposed, of giving it all a poetic credence just in case she resisted.  It turns out she didn’t resist.  She could always be counted on to fall for the brooding intellectuals, and so proceeded to carry on an affair with him throughout the entirety of her junior year.  But she also remembered being vaguely disconcerted by his psycho-sexual instincts to manipulate her with words as breathtaking as ––  The great wings beating still Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill…How can those terrified vague fingers push The feathered glory from her loosening thighs? –– just to buttress any potential case.

How was it that this theme would repeat itself so insidiously throughout her life?  Or maybe the epiphany was that all of life rang with themes of rape.  That it was, in the larger, symbolic context, the very definition.  A reprehensible negation of everything she’d ever believed in, it did nonetheless seem that the most basic modality of life was far more Darwinian than Chopraesque.

It was not one of those epiphanies that parted the gates of Heaven.  It was the other kind.

 

 

 

From Trading Fours

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He sits at the bar of the downtown Orchid Club on Eighth Street near San Pedro, nursing his fifth (sixth?) scotch rocks, and weeping over the singer on stage. He weeps a lot when he drinks. Not the kind of weeping that slobbers kisses and expressions of drooly love your way. But angry, achy weeping. Every wound is exposed when Nick Brandt drinks, and this day is no exception. Except that there is no singer on the stage at 2:30 this afternoon. The place has a few diehard regulars, but is otherwise quiet. He stares at the stage, the grand piano that is covered with a tarp, the microphone on its stand. And the empty space behind it.

He managed to finish his gig at the Ritz Huntington without getting fired for the four scotches he had sneaked in on his breaks, and was on his way into Hollywood for Hayes’ benefit (he’ll still make it in time), when he suddenly had an overwhelming urge.

“Where’s Dorothy?” he slurs to bartender Otto. “I came to hear a great singer, cuz they are just a rare fucking breed in this town.”

“Dorothy doesn’t come in till later. It’s two in the afternoon, mate. There’s no music till tonight. And you know you’re not supposed to be here, anyway.”

“Man, jus’ wait, jus’ hold on. I’m not here to make trouble.”

“Nick––“

“Naw, really, Nick…I mean, Otto––” he starts laughing.  “I’m Nick.  You’re Otto.”

“Want me to call you a cab, Nick?”

“Naw, man, I’m fine. I got a thing later. I jus’, I’m just stoppin’ in. I won’t be here when she shows up. I promise. I never am, am I?”

“Nick––“

“Naw, man, I’m serious. I got this thing I gotta be at. Benefit for an old friend.”

“Well, you’re gonna sober up before I let you drive out o’ here.”

“Tha’s fair. I’m jus’ gonna sit for a minute.”

But Nick can see her up there. His imagination can conjure just about any old needed vision if he’s drunk enough. There she is, singing her Ellington, for which she was always signature.

Nick wishes he could be in her piano player’s shoes, instead of the ones he is presently wearing. Not because the guy on stage (who looks an awful lot like him) isn’t doing her justice. The guy fucking is!  In the best sense of the word. But because it would be so much less painful backing this amazing singer, who would be, with him and the rest of the trio, traveling to heaven; instead of hanging, in a stupor, off the bar rail, with an overwhelming need to purge gut and sins. Maybe. Maybe not.

Too many singers, in this day and age, are about bullshit. Too many of them about shouting the roof off, about showing everything they’ve got in a single cadence, which is usually some gaudy circus of vocally acrobatic, over-wrought, elaborate, melismatic crap. Usually a case of being too afraid to sustain a single, exposed, beautiful note, because someone may just discover there’s no actual voice there, just this thin, reedy gimmick. Nick can spot a fraud at twenty paces. But it is even more achesome to spot the real thing.

“Goddamn, she’s good,” he mutters.

Otto looks in the direction of Nick’s stares, the empty stage, and shakes his head.

“Yeah, she’s good, mate.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

From The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver


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We drive through the dark hours of morning, which always gives me a feeling of being slightly hypnotized.  The 405 South is sparse, a smattering of red brake lights ahead of and around us.  I wonder where they’re all going.  Is anyone else on this stretch of highway on their way to something really large?

As a singer, I’ve done a bit of world travel in my life.  And like war medals and Purple Hearts and old faded newspaper clippings, I hold mine as trophies, hoard the memories, and revisit them often.  Yes, I will be THAT old lady.  I think about them now, as we drive: Meditating at a Buddhist temple in Tokyo.  Skinny-dipping in the Mediterranean.  Being chased out of a strip joint in Montmartre’s Red Light District by a couple of bouncer goons.  Witnessing clandestine barters for snake’s blood take place in Tapei’s Snake Alley.  I cherish every one of those wild and marvelous adventures.  Huge by anyone’s account.  Yet none will live in a league with today’s.  And this adventure is only about twenty miles from my one-bedroom San Fernando Valley apartment.

I find myself shaking, but not from nervousness.  Well, yes, nervousness, but not about surgery.  Not about whether we’ll be turned away at the eleventh hour because of the last battery of blood tests telling them something new.  And not even about whether there will be rejection.  Somehow I feel snug (and, I guess, smug) in the notion that we can’t possibly have come this far for fate to screw us at this point.  I guess the nervousness, which won’t let my hands stand still, or stop my mouth from running (poor Irma), is at the notion of this thing that is too large for me to attach to myself.  I just don’t do large things.  And I don’t do things that aren’t inherently about advancing myself in some way.  Yet here I am.  What will this all mean in that greater meaning-of-life kind of way?  Will it make me walk taller?  Will it compel me to move just ever so subtly out of my self and into the world of service?  Even as we drive, I can only reel with thoughts of how this might change me.  Either I already feel secure in what it will do for Hans … or I am even more self-absorbed than originally assessed.

And so the big question really is: Am I doing this magnanimous thing for Hans … or for me?  And if it is for me, that somehow I am begging God, Karma, the Universe, whomever, to save my life, but it also just happens to save Hans’ life too, is it okay then?  These have been my God questions in the months, weeks, days, and now hours leading up to the deed.  I am about to do something that can not be taken back.  That might actually affect my health from now on.  That will certainly be a badge of courage (careful not to wear that badge 24/7).  It will make me an instrument in extending someone’s life and quality of life.  A someone whom I will get to watch grow, and live, and be happy, and get his heart broken, and become this creative being, and laugh, and end up feeling so comfortable around me, so familial, that he will feel no qualms about ribbing me the way he would a sister.  Am I looking for a family?

I have a family.  A wonderful oddball of a family.  But it still doesn’t stop a person from looking for more, when there’s a hole somewhere.  So, do I have a hole?  In my family?  In my heart?  In my life?  I have certainly, at times, felt outside of my family, looking in.  I’m the odd one.  Not the Black Sheep, in that I didn’t disobey the rules or run rogue.  I’m more the Clowny Rainbow Sheep, who is just too loopy to be cool.  My family loves that about me most times.  At other times, though, I think it’s made them wonder if they’d been given the wrong baby at the hospital, not seeming to share DNA.  Makes me wonder, too, sometimes.

So, maybe this gesture is that?

I over-think things.  I’ve been told that a lot.  Sometimes to my detriment, and to others’ great exhaustion.  And sometimes to my greatest insights, which is everything I’ve ever truly searched for.  In this case, it is being allowed to run rampant, because this is large.

I don’t throw these thoughts at Irma.  She’s much too tired from having had to awaken at 3am to get up, get dressed, pack her minivan, and come pick me up for a very, very long day.  Instead, I burden her ears with checklists.

An overnight bag for a two-night stay at Cedars-Sinai, filled with a good book, my purse, my phone, my toiletries.  I’ll wear the same thing that I’m wearing to the hospital to leave in, which is just a pair of sweatpants, a tank top, a sweatshirt over it, and my slip-on leather sandals.  Then there’s the extra luggage, filled with all the little jersey, stretchy sun dresses I recently purchased for recuperating in, and which will take me through ten days at Irma’s house, after release from the hospital.

I’ve prepared for general anesthesia before.  I know the drill. No food or water past midnight.  But I haven’t been hospitalized since childhood.  A tonsillectomy at nine years old, a hernia operation at five, and a few out-patient procedures in adulthood that required general anesthesia.  I’ve certainly never been hospitalized at such a prestigious hospital as Cedars-Sinai Medical Center.  Hospital to the stars!  And I’ve, for sure, never prepared for having a major organ removed from my body.  I feel incredibly special.  As in, how many people can claim this?  Until I realize that a uterus counts as a major organ, and women have those removed all the time, my own sister being one of them.  Appendixes.  Gallbladders.  But then, still trying to grab some kind of “special” tag, I think, well, but how many people can claim that they’re having an organ removed in order for someone else to use it?  It seems to be crucial that I assign importance to this, as if it isn’t already important without any mental processing from me at all.

And therein lays the key to where I am in life, and probably the primary engine behind this day happening at all.  The need to assign importance.  The need to be important.  It isn’t a proud moment.  Oh, yes, indeed, this day will be filled with many proud moments.  Probably the proudest of my life.  But this moment, this thought, this reality, is not one of them.

 

 

 

Scribo Ergo Sum

 

 

 

 

Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, is a recipient of the Heritage/Soulword Magazine Award in poetry, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD.   Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog.    Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.

A Glimpse of Grace

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Last year at Thanksgiving I published an article about the song Amazing Grace, which seemed fitting for a holiday meant to honor gratitude.   This year, as we prepare our tables, I offer you a remembrance from one of my own Thanksgivings past.   A consummate illustration of grace.  And which, in whatever form, is always amazing.

Autumn, 1978.  The Jonestown massacre had just splashed across the nation’s newspapers, and my mother protectively drew her family into her bosom in an almost hysterical way.  She was due to be the keynote speaker at a conference in Atlanta just a few days after the coming Thanksgiving.  She often traveled for business, leaving us to hold down the fort, but this time decided that the whole family would go with her, take off early, and make a little vacation out of it.  On Thanksgiving morning, we piled into a roomy, rented twenty-six-footer RV mobile home, and headed east on Interstate 10.  I had just gotten my driver’s license, and my stepfather promised that I could have a try behind the wheel of the behemoth, probably somewhere out in the desert, where there would be fewer other cars for me to endanger.

My mother and her best friend Dolores (whose kids were with their father for the holiday, so she was joining) had packed the RV with all that would be needed to prepare a turkey feast, and with Dad at the wheel the women immediately commenced to cooking in the small kitchenette of the RV.  The plan was that wherever we were by the time dinner was ready was where we’d stop and have our Thanksgiving dinner.  The two of them took up the whole middle section, which included the kitchenette on one side of the RV and a large table for eating on the other, against a huge picture window, and which immediately got covered with all the food preparation.  My sister Pam, brother Mike, and I were mainly relegated to the back, an area that was much like a large restaurant booth and table, around which we sat with our many board games, and stared out of the large back window onto the vista of road behind us.  Above us were pull-out bunks for sleeping.  Mike ran back and forth between the stern to riding shotgun with Dad.  The women kept begging him find a spot and sit still.  Yeah, good luck with that.

The whole way across California, and by the time we hit the Colorado River, Mike and I had just about exhausted the adults with our impressions of bits from our favorite TV shows and hit songs, and I even shared some of my teen-angst poetry with Dolores, who seemed genuinely interested in it, though I’m pretty sure none of it was very good.  She was just great that way.  Pam had her head buried in a book, a constant place for my bookworm sister.

My stepdad was a bit of a video recording fanatic, so from the moment he invested in his new camera our family wasn’t given much peace or privacy.  On this trip Mike was in charge of the camera whenever Dad was doing the driving.  And while Dolores would shy away any time Mike aimed the camera her way, my mother was in her Norma Desmond element, always ready for her close-up.  Pam and I hammed it up whenever Mike aimed the lens our way, and Dad couldn’t help micro-managing Mike’s shooting technique from the driver’s seat.

“You’re not doing it right. Here, let me show you.”

Mike ended up being responsible for lots of accidental vérité-like shots, but then, frankly, so did my stepfather, who often forgot that the camera was still on when he’d lay it on its side to go do something else.  The shot would be a thrilling twenty-minute study of an ant crawling across the sideways table.  Andy Warhol would’ve been proud.

And all the while, the women cooked.

Cooking was a calling for my mother.  If she was in the kitchen, we knew an old-fashioned jubilee was about to happen.  At home I had often watched her when she’d make her monkey bread.  And sometimes she’d even try to teach me a few things.  It would be an all-day affair.  Learning to scald milk, which is a delicate procedure that requires precise timing and a hands-on skill.  Feeling the yeast between my fingers and dipping it in the lukewarm water.  Adding just a pinch of sugar to the softened paste, then watching it dissolve.  Separating the egg whites from their yokes, and adding them to the yeast paste.  Watching the miraculous alchemy of flour and milk and yeast and eggs become dough, dusted then kneaded.  The sensual nature of my mother’s hands to the sticky white mixture, and the way she’d dip her fingers into the velvety flour in order to handle the doughy mound, was artful.  She never rushed it.

The soft mound was then left in a glass bowl to rise.  She would always declare the watched pot never boils edict to me whenever I wanted to stare at it while it rose, but all I wanted to do was stare at it while it rose.  And once it was ready to be brought back out to the wooden block, perhaps an hour later, she would knead it some more.  A rolling pin would lay it out large and flat, and the flick of her wrist was something to see.

Next would come that part of the ritual in which the whole family was encouraged to participate.  We’d each take a diamond-shaped cookie cutter, several of which she’d collected over the years, and carve out squares that we would then dip individually into a pot of melted butter, and place in a Bundt pan.

Layer upon layer of little buttered squares would fill up the pan, which would then be placed in the oven, until some forty-five minutes later the bubbling brown masterpiece, with the molten jigsaw puzzle resemblance, would be a most aromatic table centerpiece quickly devoured.

This age-old Southern-tradition side dish is called monkey bread because when it’s turned over and released from the Bundt pan onto a bread platter it merely needs to be pulled apart with one’s fingers, not cut with a knife, and that was an especially enticing notion for us kids.  My mother made a pretty spectacular monkey bread.

I loved watching her stand back and enjoy satisfying her family’s bellies, and I knew that this, for her, was a kind of sacred meditation.

So, though we were all having a ball driving through town after town, on this holiday mobile-home odyssey, singing songs, telling jokes, and either ducking or mugging for the video camera, my mother never lost her stride or focus in preparing our food.  Dolores was equal to the task with her revered soul-food pigs feet and hot-water cornbread, but it was my mother whom I’d watched and studied for more years than I’d ever put into homework, so her talent was palpable for me.

Before long, the RV cabin started to fill up with the aroma of turkey and oyster stuffing, and yams laden with marshmallows and brown sugar, and sweet potato pie, and collard greens and cabbage, and macaroni and cheese, and lima bean casserole, and the famous monkey bread (which was actually prepared at home, and brought with).  It was insane and inexplicable how Martha and Dolores had managed to accomplish all of this culinary breadth in the tiny kitchen of this moving tin-can.  And that fact was only a testament to their cooking prowess.

It was still daylight but inching toward dusk by the time dinner was called, and we were in the middle of the desert somewhere in Arizona.  I’d finally been given my turn to do the driving.  I hadn’t killed us, or anyone else, but I had made a few precarious lane changes that had my mother and Dolores yelling at me, for almost losing a bowl or a dish to the ground.

“Sorry!” I would yell, while secretly giggling and feeling my oats.

Dad filmed the whole thing, laughing at my cowgirl driving and Martha and Dolores trying to hold onto the pots and pans.

I continued to drive only until we spotted a rest stop with a cluster of picnic tables off the highway.  I parked.  We all stepped outside.  The air was cold and crisp.  Colder than we Angelenos were accustomed to.  We bundled up in our various parkas.   There was no one in sight.   Because who plans picnics at the threshold of winter?  In the middle of the desert?  On Thanksgiving?

We all unloaded the many suitcases that my mother had packed into the undercarriage of the RV, and dragged the heavy things out to one of the picnic tables.  While Mike and I immediately commenced to chasing jackrabbits, and while my stepfather found his challenge in keeping up with a camera perpetually glued to his eye, my mother, with Pam’s and Dolores’ assistance, began to unearth from the suitcases her prized Dutch linen table cloth, the eight matching napkins, her silk Damask table runner, crystal water goblets that had been carefully bubble-wrapped, silver place-settings and napkin rings, china, candles, and an ornate candelabrum.  I mean, this thing could rival anything that ever sat on Liberace’s grand piano.  It was like watching a magician pull the kitchen sink out of his top hat.  And she proceeded to transform the prickly, cactus-surrounded dust bowl of rough and tumble nature that we’d claimed as ours for the afternoon into a dining experience for kings.  And thought nothing of the peculiarity in the whole affair.

My stepfather managed to capture all of her nutty splendor on tape (though it is fairly heartbreaking that some nearly 40 years later that cherished video footage has been lost).

She then yelled for Mike and me to stop chasing rabbits unless we intended on capturing one to go with dinner, which had us screaming in mock horror, and she bade us help her unload the RV of the many hot platters and fragrant casserole dishes and steaming pots and containers, and we took them, in several trips, over to the finely dressed table.

And right there in the middle of endless Arizona horizon and desert stillness, save for the periodic lizard or tumbleweed that might scamper by, and as the sun began to set, leaving us with only a dusted dusk and my mother’s candlelight, we bundled up in our coats, we sat to a king’s spread, we bowed our heads, and we held hands as Martha prayed, “Thank you for blessing this food that we are about to receive, for the nourishment of our bodies, and for the love and communing of family.  Amen.”  We raised our glasses to toast the feast, dug in to ridiculously mouthwatering fare, and absolutely loved the crazy novelty of it all.

Grace was not a word often associated with my audacious mother.  But like catching a shooting star in one’s periphery, I would see, just here and there in my growing up, brilliant evidence of it.  Sometimes in only tiny, fleeting swatches.  At other times still, as with our never-to-be-forgotten wilderness Thanksgiving, it would scream out in bold strokes of wild color, like a magnificent comet.

 

 

From the upcoming “Fiercely Sweetly”
© 2014 angela carole brown

 

 

 

 

 

Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, is a recipient of the Heritage/Soulword Magazine Award in poetry, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD.   Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog.   Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.

The Book of She

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The air is moist and hot.  Dark too, and the fleshy ground on which She walks is pliant and giving.  She traverses slowly, peacefully; doing Her rounds for the day, making certain all is well in the Motherhouse, and preparing Her armor for the challenges that lie ahead.

A peaceful valley spreads out before Her, no longer the inconstant gulf of its youth, but the firm terra of years and wisdom.  She inspects the wall of the Motherhouse, analyzing the crust that has been built upon it over years, trophies from its many hard-won triumphs.  Every day the crust grows denser, and begins to crystallize and gleam like a brilliant, shimmering, blinding crystal mine.  And with each new battle the outside forces have heaped up the Motherhouse, it has become a mighty fortress, and She, the mightiest of all warriors.

She walks about, making certain every bit of armor is ready for the pouncing of the Enemy.  And Her soldiers are readied.  Roll call.

The Heart is a vessel of love, vibrantly red and pumping.  Alive and unravaged, despite its many struggles to be broken.

The Stomach is a cavity of steely strength and power, fueling itself against weakness and the menace of ulcerated stress.

Millions of Blood Cells divide and multiply, to double and triple and quadruple the power of the army, so great is the number.

The Lungs are a lusty pair, who expand and constrict greedily, to stock up on vigorous oxygen, which gives them brawn and vitality and sway.  And too much is never enough for the omnivorous duo.

The Brain is a pulsating, gyrating, exploding, imploding, dazzle of a soldier, whose most potent vitamin is the threat of harm by outside forces.  It welcomes harm, for through its sagacity does it twist and bend and break harm and send it back to the Enemy in a ribboned box.

Even the Muscles, Fibers, Sinews, and Ligaments offer their humble share to ward off the enemy, and are hailed at the Mount along with their mightier counterparts.

And the soldiers are ready for battle, led by their Illustrious Leader, the Infinite Soul, Who readies Her own Self for the coming crusade.

Thus, war begins.  As war always will.

The Enemy approaches, and strikes tremendous blows.  It strikes again and again, stronger and stronger.  Its force is colossal, and It, of course, and artlessly, has tradition on Its side.  Its objective is to take command of the Motherhouse, and to usurp the crown.  Power.  Always.

Damage is being done to the outside wall, though it fights back with the help of Muscle and Mind.  Still, it begins to crumble, as the soldiers inside strap on their best weapons and prepare for tactical maneuvers.

She runs throughout the Motherhouse, shouting orders to the troops to brace themselves, and they all shake from their foundation under the weight of the Enemy’s battering ram, violently wielded against the Motherhouse doors, but regain their footing quickly, so remarkably prepared are they for the invasion.

Might is the Enemy’s.  And might usually wins the battle outside.  And to give a sign to the soldiers inside that the wall is crumbling, that the battle is being lost, the mouth of the Motherhouse opens wide, like an all-engulfing tidal wave, and screams and curses and warns.

And She, the Commander, the Soul of the Motherhouse, straps on Her own weapon, which is spirit, and stands at the door that is being violently done in by the Enemy’s battering ram.  And as it breaks forth and tries to enter the House, She speaks in great volume, directing Her promise as much to the Motherhouse, itself, as to the Enemy.

“Fear not for us, but fear us.  We are unmoved.”

And all who stand behind the Soul of the Motherhouse, who are Her devoted battalion, bring forth their own weapons and echo in support:

“Fear not for us, but fear us.  We are unmoved.”

Might may be the Enemy’s, but will is the Soul’s.  And though the Enemy has violated the army’s blessed temple, though the Motherhouse has suffered injury to its fortress wall, the battering ram, which is the Enemy’s only weapon, can get no farther than merely beyond the doorstep.  It cannot enter the House, cannot traverse its ground any deeper than the gateway.  For She stands in its path, magnificent warrior that She is, and stands it down, dares it to come closer, farther inside.  But it only recoils, as its operatives, in fear, abandon it and let it crash to the ground, running back to their Leader, claiming defeat.

She looks upon the shattered ram, and with Her great breath, blows its dust to the winds.

And she turns to the Motherhouse, which has been sorely bested and crushed from the battle, and gently soothes its crown with Her touch.  Calms its ear with Her offering.

“Walls can be rebuilt.  Bricks, mortar, wood, and stone are easy to come by.  But within, you have a strong army.  We will always keep you standing and vigilant.”

She carefully examines the wall, and though it has been bested, She smiles, for its ramparts have indeed grown denser and stronger with the shimmering crust, which has already begun to multiply itself, as it does after every battle.

So, the Soul remains unbudged, and ultimately triumphant.  And the Heart and Mind are Her greatest allies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, is a recipient of the Heritage/Soulword Magazine Award in poetry, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD.   Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog.

 

Van Gogh’s Ear

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he stared at his blank canvas for hours.

frustrated.

couldn’t get a thing done.

finally he just doused his naked body with flat green house paint

and in a magic-mushroomed fog

threw himself against the elevator lift.

he picked himself up off the floor.

stepped back.  stared.  hmmm.

it was this perfectly contoured jade silhouette of his body

divided in sublime harmony and symmetry

right between two testicles by the parting of the

double steel doors.

from that day forth every time he yanked on the ropes and opened that thing to leave

he’d flash on the excruciating image of his

right nut soaring one way and his

left nut soaring the other.

was there a symbolic message somewhere in that image, he wondered?

that maybe castration was the true doorway to freedom?

as many women as there were who had messed with his head and therefore his art

he had to at least consider the possibility.

he got the hell outta there for the night and went to a neighborhood bar.

walked in and saw the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

kinda like an angel.

reminded him o’ that old joke :

 

man walks into a bar.  sees the beautiful woman.

tells her he wants to make sweet love to her.

Sorry i can’t, she quips, i’m on my blue period!

 

he downed a couple of quick shots of Old Forester.

slapped his money on the bar like a cowboy.

decided against approaching his beautiful woman.

and sulked on back home.

thought to himself :

 

why’d that damned Vincent have to go and cut his ear off,

and raise the bar of brilliant suffering for all the rest of us?

 

 

 

 

 

Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD.   Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog.   Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.