Where the wind blows.

“I just go where the wind blows.” I've heard it said before by someone who happens to fall under the sign of Aquarius.

The wind goes where it blows, of course. But true Aquarians follow their visions that not even the wind can direct them. Neither anything nor anyone can derail these visionaries from their goals, if they can help it. They would ride the wind, if they have to, even against it for a different perspective, and when there is no sign of wind at all, they stir the air themselves. Sure, Aquarians listen to which way the wind blows, but never to give it total reign over them. They call on the wind, if needed, to use as tools for life’s work, with the other elements on earth.

Falling under a certain sign does not a character make. I don’t think one is necessarily bestowed inherent strengths by her stars, moon, planets, or other cosmic things. Rather, true aquarians are sustained by passionate spirits that enrich their souls before they even come to know their names, and, in time, they make their sign known. This is the mark of those who bear the sign and realize their true nature. It isn’t their style nor inclination to merely wait. Not even for the wind.

Sardines.

*****
Copyright, Amicatonic. All rights
reserved. All content of this blog
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writings, artworks, & photos,
unless otherwise noted.
Pls. be considerate & ask for
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Amica Paige.

*****

If you open a can of sardines, there are mothers and children there. But the phallic man is hungry and loves his fish and game. He forces his way through fame with his arms and jeans, and devours elephants and whales in his suit and tie. He sheds blood, except his, and lusts for the rush of adrenaline. His currency are folks and beasts dispensable and meek as fish. He craves the flesh of the young and the female, but her mind and heart are inseparable from her hips and much stronger than he could ever be—yet, she has suffered greatly. For if you look long enough in this ravaged land, half the children are men, and the other half—most of them are hunted, along with the unicorns and dolphins. Will the boys heed a mother’s call or only be sons to their Father? We wish all sons of earth would hear the cries of their daughters. But unlike dogs, most men are mere testosterones and phalli. Worse than the swine they savor, their savage hands slaughter lambs and bleed the land for glory. Still, we’d like to believe that the womb is later joined by her true lovers and reunited with her real sons and daughters at the sea beyond this. For now, she continues to fight for the fate of earth and weep for the rape of it.

Rose Garden.

by: a.paige

Go on. It's okay. You are well now, though you are the sixth child. You have been healed. For whatever reason, life didn't deliver the child before you.

Your mother is reborn; you meant every word you said. The weeding was tough, as though you gutted yourself..., yanking at your heart, which you held even tighter. Oh, the thorns! Still you trusted your mind and did not let it close..., letting it be guided by which you tried so hard to protect..., strengthening their bond, even as you began to release them... The mind and the heart in perfect union now, yet still allowed full independence. To think..., to act..., to feel..., to shed tears... To live again. You watered the barren ground and created a garden. And in offering your heart, your mother has revived hers. You gave her a garden, and a rose has grown there since.

Go on. It is all right now. Grow a rose garden. Write. Paint. Create. There is no one way. But act on it, as with anything else. Go ahead. Plant your seeds. Dig... Water... Prune... Then watch your garden grow.

***For her name is Rose, dedicated to my mother.

To IG or not to IG - that is the question...

..and the dilemma. We should have seen it coming. Of course, the usual course of things once they’ve grown from their humble beginnings is to protect their interests and keep a firm hold of their properties, even others’, in some cases, unfortunately, or not.

To illustrate, let’s say a toaster suddenly decides to merely warm a slice of bread without the bread owner’s permission. (For simplicity’s sake, let’s not ask if the owner is actually the baker, or we’d complicate the picture and mess up any allusion herein.) Or let’s say the same toaster suddenly starts burning all the bread that enters its slots without the owner’s permission, and the owner happens to be the same person who put the toaster to good use in the first place, which is really a sort of employment; and if that toaster could speak, I would highly suggest that it thank its person. Now the person finds himself/herself in a jam that should have never occurred in the first place, since it could actually have been helped, if only the toaster hadn’t entertained any wild ideas. Plus the person doesn’t even like jam in his/her sandwich.

So should the owner stick with its toaster and their shaky relationship due to the latter’s questionable reliability, and perhaps suffer even more severe burns in the future? Remember, anything is possible. Or should the person dump the toaster, which has become too big for its own good, and sever the bond they once shared. Now the toaster claims to have ownership of the owner’s bread, and God forbid it goes for the person’s head next. If it were your bread, what would your person do? Keep your head in mind as you figure this out.

One way to deal with this knotty situation is to take a different slant. Let’s take a look at creativity, for example. While thieves, impostors, and copycats continue their acts of thievery, forgery, and all manners of trickery, all the real creatives—the true owners of original artistic expressions, executed through various mediums and under the guidance of their creative visions—will have only been consumed by their own new projects. They’re always onto their next novel thing, innovating while trying to keep up with and stay true to their visions. True creatives are carried ever forward by this creative flow. There is no stopping this natural creative process. It is an endless overflow that only goes towards the direction of its own unadulterated, creative spirit; and that, my friends, can never be manufactured nor fabricated. ‘It is what it is’; creativity is, though you have to forgive me for the tired, old cliché.

Then again, reality hits and gravity holds our feet to keep us from our lofty ideas and ideals. Maybe I should sleep on this one after I create a few more images over milk and cookies, and a pot of Joe. Then I can decide if I should stay, or I should go. What do you plan to do with your Instagram account, knowing that it is now Facebook's property?

A Bright New Day...Aneurysm.

by amica paige

This day was going to be his last. If he only knew some twilights ago, he would have tried harder to preserve on canvas the moments lavender kissed the evening sky. Next, he would have looked for artistic venues with more intent. What a delight this sudden change of air in him would bring to his family and friends, but he'd have to put off the news until later. An early morning run at the park, free of any encumbrance, his cell phone included, was exactly what he needed to mark this new beginning. His thoughts flitted past his dimming mind as he lay on the track by the river, his bright eyes reflecting the blue expanse above as his heartbeat slowed to a stop.

Decrepitate.

Decrepitate. Define it, you say, being a person of youth. Well, may I say that I've trodden the sands of time, marching through my childhood years-hopping, skipping, dashing, involving some fists at times, sometimes sobbing...all the way to manhood, braving its tides, to taste and savor all of life's nectars, including matters of the heart, which can prick one's soul with a thousand needles, and that's just for starters, an endless appetizer, if you will. Because should you delve into the heart's affairs more deeply, you'd soon find out that the heart has swords for teeth; it cuts and grinds as sharply as it exalts in exceeding and inexplicable ways one can hardly believe sometimes. And if you fear a thing called love, as others may call it, which I rather refer to by its very act—of care, compassion, or affection—you might not want to go there, that is if you expect your beneficiaries to reciprocate all that you extend. But you might miss something so simple, yet so profoundly significant at once, should you skip over it.

I, however, am in my third act, traipsing on this stage called life. I've seen a thousand moons and witnessed stars shine and recede into oblivion, if not first immediately ushered out by the depths of time, which spares no one, like stars that merely fizzle right after birth. I've climbed the highest peaks, each attempt maims so severely at times, one falls in the deepest valleys with such dismemberments unheard of in still callow, incubated minds, and you ask me to define decrepitate. I've bathed in the sun's radiance and roasted in it all the same; its luminance stings, like salt to a worm in a slow burn. If I crackle when I roast in fire, I can't possibly hear the sound of my anguish, as I languish inside, can I? So, you tell me—do I crackle and pop when you see me roast in fire? I've seen and heard of unnumbered souls, both young and old, suffer unspeakable torment. Deprived of any means of protection, they are powerless, and their lives are all they have until their blood is shed by savages. By the way, did you see it too—the endangered species on the news last week? The harmless rhinos do naught but roam the fields in peace, unsuspecting of predators, and still, they're poached and bled to death for their quaint horns. Such horror reminds me of the pink dolphins and human nature, and makes me wonder which animal is the real beast on earth.

You ask a decrepit man to define 'decrepitate'. I say, stop searching too hard for meaning in mere words. Look and observe around you instead. Perhaps you'd discover something, if there be any road worth traversing, a wave worth riding, or a meaning to derive from life at all. Then tell me what you find. Hear me now, go on. Live.

Wonder...wander... What's your story?

I'm a not a fatalist. I do believe in willpower and magic and hope...for a better place and justice. I just can't smile with happy people all the time and think positive away the demons at play...while we try to survive the best way we can—some of us in yachts and castles, and others beneath bridges...in tunnels...or on benches, and still others stuck between walls in the middle. And still others...the helpless ones imprisoned in silent rooms...who are silenced by those who are drunk and deluded with power, like God...

Hunger...

I just cannot think positive away the demons at play. But I can help keep human garbage at bay and pick up my share the best way I can, and maybe tune in and lend an ear to see the inaudible, invisible cries...that I, too, might understand their pain...that I might extend a hand or walk a mile...perhaps. And when that still isn't enough, I hope for a better place.

Will power's persistence in this befuddling existence—that is magic. And only because of love, without which what other means must we employ our ultimate will? Where did we get it from—this love?—who instilled it in us humans? I used to think I knew so well, but the wind changes course... Now I only think about it too, sometimes. But I, like you, won't know the end of the story until I get there. Until then, I must keep going and live this thing...this role...this play...on this stage, and not waste so much time thinking about the director...since the time given us is short.

Yet I just can't smile with happy people all the time and think positive away the demons at play. But don't hate me. I'm just a realist, not an enemy. I am not against you, just maybe your ideals sometimes. Meanwhile, I still smile and look up at the sky, whenever I'm not tripping on and picking up garbage.

J.R.R. Tolkien said: "Those who wander are not always lost".

And so, I wonder sometimes.

Organic nocturne: Cool world.

by: amica paige

She heard the radio play Spacehog's 'Space is the place', which took her down the memory lane of her underground days. Cool World was the place to be then.
At least if you chose not to jiggy with it elsewhere or retire early at home with the remote control or a tome, or hang out at a friend's rat hole after the last coffee shop had closed past ten, and should you have chosen to delay your trip at a 7-eleven beside the gas station for warm nachos yellowed by melted cheese from the pump. It was where you danced the remainder of the night away freely and someone else began to sway beside you without smug imposition, and you two ended up organic...dancing together through dawn's wee hours, with neither a strategy nor an agenda. It was where you met both cool and ugly people, and those that made you want to sleep with the bears, if they let you, rather than suffer another drab company; and those that perpetually slumbered, literally, on the stained couches leaning against the adjacent walls in the corner: perhaps the last three characters slept with each other there, though she couldn't say for sure. She never even saw their true colors—the couches—since the only source of light in the scant place were the few moody spotlights in the ceiling that casted shades onto its nocturnal floor and occasionally flashed hints of the fetid, sullied sofas defiled by butts, smokes, beer, puke, armpits, and sweat.

coffee, spaces, ellipsis. now what--lowercase?

blah. nothing. ellipsis...lots of it...to fill up space...instead of uhs. now what? what now? still nothing. more ellipsis...tons of it...to fill up space...instead of uhs. what now? now what? still nothing. this could go on and on. ellipsis...more of it...or is it them?--more of them...to fill up space...instead of uhs. and blanks. but you know, uhs might actually be better than blanks, or spaces. blanks or spaces...what to call the void... blanks, spaces, void... empty. nothing. what now? now what? coffee. good idea! why didn't i think of it first? you did. but you wanted to do this stream of consciousness writing thing. you've even forsaken the bathroom. okay. i cannot hurt my kidneys anymore than i might already have. so, i am now going to get up and step away from this, first to use the bathroom, next to get coffee. shouldn't it be the other way around?--coffee, then bathroom. everyone knows it's a diuretic. oh for cyring out loud!--bathroom, coffee, coffee, bathroom. what now, now what. really? tell you what--ellipsis. bathroom, coffee...coffee, bathroom, and so on and so forth... it will go on and on and on... happy now? good. it's all good. blahs, spaces, and ellipsis...bathroom and coffee...to fill the void. and lowercase. yes, and lowercase. it's all good.

Click. Clack. QUERTY.

This was my entry for Writer's Digest Prose Poetry contest.



Click, click, click. Clickety click. Fingers fast slipping across the keys. Click, clack. Clack, click. Back and forth, forward and backward. Up, down, and all around. This is actually fun--Ding! Onomatopoeia, she whispers, smiling. Left to right, and right to left. Fingers pushing and pulling. QUERTY, her mind utters. Why that now? whispers she again. Like you should still be sighing. This happens all the time--Ding! Fact is, she and her mind are forever talking. Talk about being engaged! Click, clack. Deep in her subconscious too, no doubt. Even when heavily submerged in her REM. Click, clack. Call it constant communication on auto-pilot, while still getting some zzz's--Ding! This endless conversation, this often mindless, mental stream, she's used to it by now. She should be. Clack, clack. Unlike those days when she'd pound herself for what she thought was a self-imposed ADD. Self-diagnosed it was really and entirely not her fault. Click, clack. You wouldn't blame a mind that simply goes on overdrive, would you? Clack, clack. Actually, she deserves a pat on the shoulder. And coffee. Starbucks would be nice. Or chocolate, or both. Sweet caffeine for a hyperactive mind. Or a new book. Even a finely bound classic. Would a tap do?--I'm kidding, her mind teases, more often now, it seems. How in the world did she manage college? I helped you, her mind...clacks, for lack of a better word. But even then, she knew better. She started over--Ding! An AA this time. Click. It was a tough decision, but she took it anyway and did not back out. Even with a BBA--heck, after a BBA!--for crying out loud. Back and forth, forward and backward. Clack. How scary was that, to feel so left behind, as spates of new grads flood the gates, all hoping to till the ground, year after year after year. Clack, clack. To have gone back is to have seriously lagged behind those who stayed, those who were now way ahead. But to have continued in a new direction presented great uncertainties and intimidation. Could one expect anything less than fierce competition? In a creative arena, you've got to be kidding. I warned you, chides her mind. I told you to stay in the path, keep your emotions in check, and watch that passion. Your heart would get you in trouble. Clack. I'm just saying...clack, clack.

But she has long since passed that crossroad and traveled a new road. Click. Her consciousness switches. Click, click. Where did you store that information anyway? Her mind shifts. Typical mental random access mode. Speaking of RAM, as in computer-speak, it's such a common term nowadays. Kind of like Jobs. No, not the workplace stuff. Steve's surname. The apple guy. Besides, workplace jobs are fast becoming extinct these days. But poor Steve... He isn't poor, what are you on? Clack. He's recently rested in peace--honestly, don't you read? Oh...sorry. RIP Steve. Still, such a shame, with all the apple stuff now orphaned...QUERTY. What now? Clack. Wait, she's remembering--Ding!--the convention salesmen used to efficiently type the word, "typewriter", of course! The keys were all conveniently located on the same line. Click. Hence, the potential buyers were impressed--Ding! Thank goodness for Google and Wikipedia for their ever-growing presence to ensure that our source materials are just clicks away. Clack. And to Steve. But I helped too--her mind chimes in--Ding! In fact, I've always helped you. Clack, clack. See, you've written this much already. Wow, sure glad that Writer's Digest has posted this challenge. Or was it Robert Lee Brewer? Remind me to give him a shout-out later on Twitter. Oh, now you need my help?--her mind chatters, as she shifts in her chair. She doesn't mean to ignore it, this integral part of her life. Click, clack. Yet, every now and then, she yearns to call the shots. It must learn to live with her. Her art. Her passion. Her heart. She'd do the same. She's been. I'm really liking this, she says with a grin. Click, click. Same here, if it is indeed prose poetry, her mind yaks. Clack, clack. But there isn't any typewriter in sight. Tap, tap. What's that tapping noise now? What happened to the clicks and the clacks? The ding's gone too. Onomatopoeia. Must have all just been inside her head, and none of it real, she reckons. Of course it is happening inside your head...but why on earth should that mean it is not real?--recalls her mind. Apparently, it's what the greatest wizard who ever lived told the boy who lived at King's Crossing, according to J.K. Rowling. By the way, Rowling initially wrote her stories by hand. With a pen. Burning your eyebrows writing stories with ink on your hands makes you a real deal. Just saying, while tapping on the iPAD.

Happy is he...

***Written in June 2010
by amica paige







Somebody once said that the happiest man is the saddest man; just take away what he is happy about.
And that the saddest man is the happiest man, if you give him just the thing he asks for.
But from the angry man, stay away. He’d either kill you or die trying.
Don’t ask me who said them.

Coherence (poeTry)

***Written in 08.09.07
by amica paige



I fish them out
Of my head, you see
Still words elude me
They swim away
In the bottomless waters
Of the abyss
Where thoughts abound

I fish for words
Inside my head, you know
And what you read now
Is all that I’ve caught
From the bottomless waters
Of the abyss
Where thoughts abound

Write (poeTry)

by amica page



Write, write
What to write?
Think, think
What to think?
Go beyond
What is already there

Open your mind
When your eyes don’t see
Hear with your heart
What your ears don't heed
Then your hand will write
What is already there

Why do you strain
For something not there
When here all along
Is your train of thought?
So hear with your heart
That your mind will see

A Well-seasoned Life?

a short story

by amicatonic

In the end, she finds herself with virtually nothing much to do—much, I say, because all that’s left for her to engage in at the moment and most moments, actually, is breathing, blinking, scratching, eating, drinking, sleeping, and, perhaps, showering if and when she feels like it—since she has spent most of her well-seasoned life growing, learning, working, and extending her heart out to others. She has also managed to search, observe, research, learn and re-learn, as well as laugh with her dear ones over coffee or tea, which is often accompanied by dainty little desserts, and take walks at the park, even with her dog when he was still alive, to smell the flowers and enjoy the sun in the comfort of the shade cast by a tree over a bench with a good book or just keen eyes for people-watching, that she might return home with splendid subjects to draw or paint or write about; and, of course, she has also traveled extensively to some of the wonders that the world has offered—some, I say, because they’re just too numerous for one life to take in, much less for one sweet and stable lady.

Hence, she has practically exhausted all the possible engagements people typically take on during their lifetime. So, at this very moment, she is left with nothing, at least within the bounds of reason, but a very conscious but quite bewildered mind, with eyes and ears that are failing her senses, wrinkles all over her frail body worn out by time and overcome by gravity, and a confounded heart—breathing and anticipating what’s to come next, if there’s even anything at all to come but her union with earth.

She contemplates. What is it all for?—to grow from sacred innocence into abundant wisdom only to find your end in a silent, decaying life. What’s it all for? Is this what I’ve persevered and eventually prevailed for? Is this it—this moment enveloping me, me with my peppered hair and a plate of bland life? She turns her head towards the kitchen window and gets a glimpse of the sun which casts its light over anything it could. But just not on her, while she sits here alone. She thinks...just one more sip of this green tea...it's an antioxidant and supposed to do wonders for the body...and this tea cake is just exquisite, made by a renowned baker...