Focus Stall Ranting

I enjoyed your article, as I also find myself in the unenviable position, of freezing my life due to heart breaks, to reflect on the patterns in the pain of the past. As you said, my symptoms are flight, fight, and freeze.

On my blogging adventure, I’m fighting by writing for the growth of my well-being, and yesterday I watched an interesting video on the study of perspective in time, that helps build my serenity for that purpose.

In the flight from emotional pain over the last year, I’ve become fascinated by how time relates to my spirituality and identity. It has a harsh impact on the judgements of others for who I am(an emotional trigger you shared too),so you I hope this video helps you too. Food for thought in The Secret Powers of Time.  The only criticism I would give, is that I wouldn’t choose to represent the present tense derogatorily as “Present Hedonist”, as I find the spiritual practice of “Mindfullness”, and living in the moment, bring me contentment.

I used my desire to comment on your article, as a motivator to edit my long list of backlogged drafts, so thanks for sharing your struggle, it inspired me to improve this article from 2012:

Why am I doubting the darkness, and interrogating the sun? Why does the cold make me angry, and the heat make me sad? What is this thing that makes me look up, expecting to see the ceiling, and finding the closet floor? What is the combination of the lock to the cellar door?

Why am I so tired, with rest evading me like a bouncing deer? Staring at one of my biggest fears, shaking my head and grinning, a mantra uttered to survive. Turning on the music, taking a shower, shaving, turning up the music, dancing, singing, drinking water….

Taking on something simple while physically demanding, as a challenge that will exhaust me to complete. A work that takes all of it away, and leaves me trembling for a different reason, than the one that motivated me to write this.

It’s a precipice, a focus stall, a pit. The scattering fragmentation and suffering of doubts, popping up like bubbles in a boil.

Putting my ear muffs on to cancel out the noise of the chain saws hitting rock, in my head, and again, turning up the music. Dancing to feeling it, loving it as a moment in time. Always as my salvation, the double safeties with end knots, rescuing my lost soul.

A place of absorption with mind whipping like a snake rattle…I’m barely alive. Outside the door lying under the floor, lurks my passions, perseverance, drive, resilience, sanctuary, art, and focus. Play that makes me tall, a work that fixes all.

It’s the decision that’s already been made, and a willingness to pursue it with dogged focus. Getting it done for me, means learning to transcend the focus stalls with grace.

So if you see me with bloodshot eyes and grinning, sweating while lifting, moving at high-speed, know that what you see is glee, buried in an uncontrollable passion to finish.

I have no choice to make at this point. My life has become make or die, and I love being an Artist Builder. Thanks again for inspiring me to lift this back up, by writing about the dynamics of your mental health, and the scientific study of it. Be well.

This is little blue man.  He glows in the dark.  My third puppet.  Made from reclaimed Douglas Fir, Yew wood, and an assortment of semi precious stone beads.

This is little blue man. He glows in the dark, and is my third puppet. Made from reclaimed Douglas Fir, Yew wood, and an assortment of semiprecious stone beads.  His strings are cut, because making him was my passion, and controlling him didn’t bring me happiness.



Is poetry a refuge in the storm of a mind’s eyes?

With pros the words are transparent and reading a defined meaning in the lines is paramount. With poetry it is felt as images in the mind, with meanings that expand and open into perception. I can do both, but why does it feel like the prose are worth more monetarily, while the poems are worth more in my heart?

Maybe I’m somewhere in between a student poet, and a prose teacher. Sure wish it felt like I was a pro teacher and a graduated poet. Thank goodness that will never be the case. I will ever aspire to wire a line into a piece of bait so great, that eating it will bring a wet naughty soiled feeling in drawers. Setting the hook with a yank of the finery, and reeling it in to the point of the tale. If it’s written with a prism keyboard, the letters rainbows on the cleaned slate, words become what I hope for and the dreams are set free.

I have every intention of manipulating the ever-living daylights out of my readers, and teaching them a lesson they won’t feel the need to unlearn. Standing in the alley way with a guy named “Davy Jones”, who’d just returned in a run and thanked me being who I am on the street at night, I felt that it was okay to be myself.

He said there are listeners, talkers, and controllers in a reference to our previous conversation about a book. We both loved the book, and writing this I’m realizing that maybe I should have been intimidated by him. He’s a controller too as I see what he did. He outweighed me by a hundred pounds of street muscle, and was taller by ten inches. Huh, that’s verbal Aikido for you.

Manipulation is a word our culture uses like a curse. As if! It’s the person behind it, the actions they take, and the spoils they make or unmake in the hearts and minds of others. I guess my nature is different. I’m odd. I’m magnanimous as a goal from childhood…..to a point, and then some people out of fear will assume the worst by trusting in their fears, projecting onto me a taint. This is a breakdown of something that keeps happening to me. I’m weary of intimidating people with my words. It’s not my goal. Maybe I say too much. Maybe poetry is the only refuge I have.

Should I talk in riddles? Ask only questions? I don’t know how to fix this. I’d better give poetry a try:

The man walked into the room full of wary stares, saw the gangsters and veered to the back corner to keep watch. Sitting there with his jacket and pen, the sight of the ceiling brought comfort as the chair next to him was filled with nervous shifting. He just wanted a meal and had behaved more politely than maybe was necessary. The waitress wasn’t smiling. She could see the dark circles, the need for water and sustenance painted across his everything.

With shaky hands he sipped, the ice against his teeth reminding him to look for the back door. In the mirror the sign was easy to see, and shifting his gaze, he caught the eyes of the bigger biker who had noticed where his went.

Fuck! That was not poetry. I’ll try again:

After the accusation, with fury and in his hand a crumpled ID. Where are you from is asked as if it was socially acceptable. What part of welcome to the wild west did they miss in their education, all of it? Wipe the frigging horses nose out with a damp cloth in the desert, or die.

No! Shit! Again:

A steak burnt on both sides and wary of the white-toothed grin, a yawn of irrelevance released as a gift. Under the surface of a mean veneer making the light shine in the dark, is kindness. An antidote for the dis ease of fear resides in a pocket, and it’s ready. Loaded with batteries it shines from a coat of silver love. Beside it nuzzled tight, the black notebooks full of things cared to dare of details, numbers to call, places, a thing to write, designs to repair a world, in a dream of letters running.

As the predawn trouble approaches shifting wicked in the shadowed street, footsteps become stomps and not afraid in the actions they see. Like a moment lost forever, they hope to forget the site while bending away, as a team. It’s plain as the taste in mouth of disgust, and the loneliness that wouldn’t go away.

With the rising of the dawn, miles of dark wisdom and targets to poke, the rocks are tossed aside. Sitting against the slowly warming foundation of the bridge, a sigh released for the underbelly of mankind is going to sleep. With the perfect brightness for photographs spent on tips of ink and paper, lamenting the bird taking off, and the water droplets crystals missed in the sky.

Brushing the face of the dew wet print against cloth, a hope resides in the dial of a number. A shit shower and shave, this is how gentlemen behave.

That’s better. Yes! There is relief from the storm of perceptions…in poetry…..:)

Songs I love that fix me

I wish to share, a little piece of me, for a mate that reminds me to KISS it.

The last time I took a vow of song sound, this was on repeat, and loudly I sing;

For You—–Tracy Chapman:


Meeting the fails of epic proportions, with striving for the greatest of ideals, to tears;

First Try—–Tracy :


This song fills my rebel soul right up, gives me chills, and I find the place of serenity for my frustrations;

Mountains of Things—-Tracy:


To balance the equation of the mountains;

All That You Have Is Your Soul—-Tracy:


One of my faiths;

Heaven’s Here On Earth:


Roots love;

Bonnie Rait/John Prine—-Angel From Montgomerey:


For the feelings to jell in me;

It’s a Big Old Goofy World—-John Prine


At my wake, make it a big party, started off with these:

Satisfy my Soul—-Bob Marley;


Stir it Up—-Bob Marley;


Get up Stand up—-Bob Marley;


For all the women that are so mad at me, and yes, as you wish, Happy Valentines Week!!!;

Positive Vibration—-Bob Marley:


What a Wonderful World—-Louis Armstrong:


A kiss to build a dream on—-Louis Armstrong:


Into the mystic—-Van Morrison:


Your supposed to turn it up for this one, and grab any guy, close by, so he can agree;

Bonnie Rait/John Lee Hooker—-I’m in the Mood:


And to further satisfy our anticipatory valentine hearts;

Willie Nelson/Cheryl Crow—-If I Were a Carpenter:


Willie Nelson—-Crazy:


Merle Haggard—-Worried, Unhappy, Lonesome, and Sorry:


Now with some of the best medicine for my ears, I feel better.

Prosperity in a cave.

I will have prosperity rain down from the sky, winking in the moonlight, silver droplets, molten forming art, a wallet of metal, a glisten of sparkle, wrapped around me, in a jacket of wealth. Let my hems be sewn with rubies, my belts be laced with emeralds. I see a mountain of wealth in the lair that is my mind. By this time tomorrow, the mountain will go again, trembling shakes beneath my feet, rattling cutlery and china on the tabletops of the heartland, spewing large chunks of melting gold across the garden. I will be as the sleeping dragon, smoke billowing from my ears, atop the pile of filigreed books, when the slightest disturbance is heard, I will be anticipating, another nap, and another meal.
-the dragons lair-