Private Writings: Chapter #61- “From Me To You”

private writings to a psychoanalyst (c) Jk 2013Private Writings: Chapter #61 – “From Me To You”
Written by Jennifer Kiley
Post Tuesday 13th May 2014

WARNING: ADULT LANGUAGE AND CONTENT.
Not Suitable For Children.
All Characters Are Fictitious.
Anyone Resembling Anyone Living or Dead
Is Purely Coincidental.

Crypticistic Synopsis

private writings to dr. annie haskell psychoanalyst

I am the storyteller using imagination fantasy feelings & thoughts to discover self soul eternal serenity & bliss but to most importantly tell the best tale ever after upon a time

see you down the rabbit hole.

Private Writings: Chapter #61 “From Me To You”

Tuesday 4th November 2008

Dear Annie,

The other night, while I was writing in “A Writer’s Diary” a most bizarre idea occurred to me. Actually, it was two ideas. The first is not so bad to talk about. I decided I wanted to create a scrapbook of photographs of an actress I have a deep & lasting crush on. We’ve never met. I want to write her a script she would love. My fantasy is she accepts & I get to work with her. Running lines. Having her over for drinks, non-alcoholic or not.

I prefer weed to drink. More a sense of control. Your mind doesn’t get muddled. It floods out like a dam broken on a roaring river. All is washed away & awareness becomes acutely sensitive to every stimuli within my reach. But back to my ideas.

The sordid idea that came to me felt so freeing. I decided to created “A Writer’s Diary” that really told & showed everything I was brave enough to release from being a prisoner in the darkest room in the back of my mind. Mostly unreachable. Only set off by triggers from the ghosts that traveled the road inside of my past.

And now they are slowly returning with their stories of what they did to me. More like their lies & denials of anything ever occurring. I am only seeking attention. No one ever touched me. I have such horrible, brutal details from my childhood abuse living inside my conscious mind. Some get pulled back down under.

But suddenly they will rush out at me when I might be biting into a sandwich & taking a sip from someone’s sweet milky coffee, the way my male birth parent took his coffee, lots of sugar & cream. My good grandfather liked it that way also. When we would ever have lunch together when I was a child, he would always offer me a sip. He knew I was too shy to ask. He also would give me bites of the sandwiches my grandmother would make for our outings together. He had his favorites & I had mine. But my grandfather knew I loved the taste of whatever he was eating more than my own food, even if it was the same exact ingredients. Made no difference, his food always tasted better than mine.

He loved to take me to the stables & let me ride one of the smaller horses. I was so drawn to horses. They were my fantasy escape. I would ride off on my horse with someone, a young, blue eyed, light brownish blond hair, wavy & touching her shoulders, girl. She would find her horse & I would lead her to the best secret sights to ride to. Places no one else knew about. They were well hidden behind walls of morning glory & raspberry bushes. I knew the silent entrances no one else was ever able to find. Those were my woods. No one knew them as well as I did. I could run through them as though I were in a race at the Olympics out for the win.

Today, it is all so overgrown, one would need a machete to whack our way into the fortress, my palace against the danger of the times when I was too small to fight back. And there was no one to rescue me. No one knew. I preferred they didn’t. How would I explain what men & father figures, real & imagined, had done to me & would continue doing until I was almost not a teenager any longer.

I was growing into an immature adult child that knew nothing about life except abuse, hunger, neglect & sex. Not real sex with love & tenderness involved. I am talking about force. Rape. Having someone, anyone, I might not even know them but my father did. He knew them all. And one was my oldest brother. They would all force themselves on an unaccepting target, aiming with their pricks to score their goals & leave their disgusting mess behind. I was punished if anyone was not satisfied. You don’t want to know who or what the punishment was.

My secret for now.

Until I am able to see you, I really do miss you terribly.

Fondly,

Madison

@>-;–

© Madison Taylor 2008

“I think writing really helps you heal yourself. I think if you write long enough, you will be a healthy person. That is, if you write what you need to write, as opposed to what will make money, or what will make fame.“ — Alice Walker

Somewhere In Time – Composer John Barry

Red Calla Lily Aranal Flower

Red Calla Lily Aranal Flower

“A Dream

The beginning always starts out

With a dream.

It is all a dream

In our own nightmares”

— Madison Taylor

negative of le chateau de rocher by j. kiley (c) jennifer kiley 2013Le Chateau de Rocher [Home to Madison & Scottie – their Cats & daughter Alison. She has her own place on the estate

play is not just play meryl streep“Pretending is not just play. Pretending is imagined possibility” — Meryl Streep

Medicalmarijuana red cross marijuana leaf black bgMedical Marijuana

Private Moments #60 — “Ain’t Gonna Make No Noise On That”

private moments in paintings & poetry
Private Moments #60: “Ain’t Gonna Make No Noise On That”

Poem by Jennifer Kiley

Painting by Jk McCormack

Post Monday 5th May 2014

Private Writings: Chapter #60 — “Black Book Screaming In The Dead of Night

Peace of My Heart (c) jkm 2008

“Peace of My Heart” (c) jkm 2008

“For that fine madness still he did retain,
Which rightly should possess a poet’s brain.”
~Michael Drayton~
(1563-1631)

hands reaching out into rain

“Ain’t Gonna Make No Noise On That”
Poem by Madison Taylor
28th October 2008

Ain’t gonna make no noise on that
Relief when they leave
Before it would mean
I would have to go

Makes continuing lighter
Painful to the center
But if a knife crosses my flesh
What have I gained

If I lose my life
I still will maintain
My soul will remain
Needing confession

Finding someone understanding
Getting love goes beyond sex
Friendship is essential
It should be long lasting

The soul’s energy transcends
A renewed life cleanses
Breaking away from distractions
Of evil whisperings

Confusions in communications
Where Truth’s are lies
To mask the face
In blurred lines disguise

Not blowing up value
Attractions coming at me
Breaking my boundary field
Out of their necessity

But what do they want
I am not trained
In giving blessings
To those who drain my blood

They are quenched
I am dying from thirst
My love has been taken from me
Leaving an essence of shock

Having not seen the deception
Why would assumptions
Raise the doubts of sincerity
When others’ lies deceive me

Honesty awakens vulnerability
If I feel what is real
Coming from my reaction
Treachery was exacting

Starting over looking at stars
Their existence over a million times
Since I viewed their rainbow connections
Time is relative to my speed of life

Until life is over
The body I live in
Borrowed to use its benefit
To guide my length of life

The experiences are free choice
Unless I am murdered
Before I assume it’s time
The ending comes in its moment

What happens when meeting death?
My mind soul & heart leaves
May travel may rest until a sign
Presents to me my new adventure

It seems creation is someone’s adventure
Heightens my senses til next assignment
So go with the flow listen for the muse
Making Her efforts to give great guidance

Around & around I go
Recycling old thoughts
Creating an original observation
While continuing my journey toward Immortality

Pursuing my dreams symbolic meanings
Working on transcribing blazing enigmas
Assuming answers are what I think I need
When the secret is our pursuit of the union in One

© Madison Taylor 2008

candle flame flickering gif

“Love Takes Over” - Kelly Rowland – Created by David Guetta

garden waterfall private gazebo overgrown 4pmip&p “Doorway to a Place of Enchantment”

*    *    *    *    *    *    *

“Creating is having the courage
to allow the seer into the private
moments of our imaginative lives.”
— JkM the secret keeper
aka Jennifer Kiley McCormack

*    *    *    *    *    *    *

lights out!!! – a short film

close encounters of the creative kind
lights out!!!
Post Created by Jennifer Kiley
Created 25th March 2014
Posted Friday 18th April 2014
CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF A CREATIVE KIND

WARNINGS!!! ALERT!!! BE CAREFUL!!!
scary
be prepared
don’t drink while watching this film
mj license for a hit
i would highly suggest leaving the lights on
otherwise enjoy ;-)

lights out - David F. Sandberg

Private Writings: Chapter #44 — Secrets and Signs

private writings to a psychoanalyst (c) Jk 2013

Private Writings: Chapter #44 — Secrets and Signs

Written by Jennifer Kiley
Illustrated by j. kiley
Introduction & Chapter #1
Published on March 19th 2013
Published Early Tuesday AM
Posted 21st January 2014

WARNING: ADULT LANGUAGE AND CONTENT.

NOT SUITABLE FOR CHILDREN.
ALL CHARACTERS ARE FICTITIOUS.

ANYONE RESEMBLING ANYONE LIVING OR DEAD
IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.

Crypticistic Synopsis:

private writings to dr. annie haskell,
psychoanalyst extraordinaire,
storytelling using letters, dreams, thoughts, poems, images,
music, art, scripts, psychotherapy, psychoanalysis,
inspirations, reflective comments, inner/outer workings
mind, soul, body, emotions, bipolar, mentally creative, interesting,
brain misfiring; abuse, crashes, near drownings,
hallucinations, heightened sexuality, time warps,
finding answers, unsolved mysteries, infatuations,
imagination, fantasy, discover self, soul, eternal serenity, bliss

see you down the rabbit hole.
namaste! madison taylor

Private Writings: Chapter #44 — Secrets and Signs

Tuesday 15th July 2008

Dear Annie,

I want to talk about my feelings for you. It never seems convenient for me to be open with you. What I feel, is something I don’t understand. No one ever taught me what love is. Love has been mixed up inside my head. It makes me feel I am bad for feeling love.

The truth. I was abused growing up. My family’s incest was sexual, sadistic and emotional abuse. Their white painted mansion was the playground for their sinder girl. Don’t know respect. She needs to learn she is nothing. A place I was the center of the abuse. That’s what I called home. I didn’t think of it that way. Not a place of love and nurturing for me. Every horrible experience I felt as a child happened in that place of horror. It wasn’t safe anywhere inside that house. Taking walks in the woods was dangerous. Our grounds were extensive. Someone seemed always to be watching me. Eventually they always found me. And I would be alone and vulnerable.

My father used me to get his friends to do him favors. I was their reward. They just took me away. One man, I remember someone calling him something official. Held a government position, and he was a child molester and rapist. That was dangerous. One of the times I was alone with him. He had started touching me. His hand felt like needles were piercing my skin. I wanted him to stop. My hand pushed his away. We even spoke out loud. “Please don’t touch me or I will tell.” A thought I had tried before without the threat of telling. Telling made it more dangerous. This brought on convincing threats of, “I’ll kill your family if you say a word.” His words were not a lie. He showed me by trying to kill me in that very moment. He stopped himself before he went to far but his eyes told me, he would kill them, and probably me too. No, he would definitely have me killed.

What could I do. Keep silent. No one ever talked about it. It felt like I was alone. No one else. It wasn’t happening to anyone else. They would feel I was worthless and contaminated. No one would care about me. No one does now. I will just leave everyone out of this. I am too embarrassed to say a word. Too ashamed.

I am living surrounded by abusers or the abused? Yes, I had another sibling who did not escape. He is locked up and catatonic now. The only time he is not catatonic is when all he can do is scream my name out that he wants to kill me. I am his betrayer. No idea why he thinks I betrayed him. All my life I have tried to protect him. It was all a secret. One day he blurted out, our oldest brother fucked him when he was little. I was fragile when he told me this. It made me freak out.

I turned to a female friend I had a crush on. She tried to help. But she had depressing news, to me it was. Why in that moment? Her boyfriend proposed to her. They were going to get married right away. It meant her moving away. I was struck by the deepest depression. She did move away after the wedding. Gone. I lost her. She was my first friend. She was the first person I told about the abuse. Not the whole nightmare. Just I had been abused. No one can handle the while thing. I can’t even handle it. Overload.

My friend was gone. I had no more focus. She kept me alive by being my friend. I loved her. She was the only person I could love. I thought she loved me enough to want to stay in my life. But she didn’t. My depression made me believe everything was over. I was despondent. I lost all reason to live. There was no one left to love. It was when I thought about my bottle of pills.

I sat on the edge of my bed. Taking the open bottle of pills, I poured out the content, a handful at a time. The darkness was pulling me deeper inside of it. The music was playing softly. Soon I would be asleep forever. Would my friend miss me if I were dead. The letter I wrote to her was about love. In the letter I wrote to my mother, I told her she finally got what she wanted. Me. Dead.

My head felt heavy as I lay down at the foot of my bed. All the pills were gone. Sleep felt like it was pulling me in. My mind was filled with the friend I loved. We were only teenagers. Who ends their life so early? Life was destroying me. Being alive without her was unthinkable, to painful, impossible. It was almost over. I was nearing the end of pain.

As you can see I am writing to you now. It was difficult but somehow I stopped the process from concluding. No one helped me back from that edge. I saved myself alone. No one ever knew. Just one more secret. My suicide attempt gave me the courage to seek out professional help. It was right after that night. I live with the thoughts of suicide too frequently. It runs through my mind and my life like a shadow of temptation. More the thinking about it then the doing now.

Lets change this up and take it to a totally different place. Back to my feelings about love. I know you know what love is. You make me feel it whenever I am around you. The words you say to me. I feel your love. No one has ever been as kind to me as you. What is important is I don’t know what I would do without you if you ever disappeared. It would crush me inside. I would want to die.

I see the words I use and wonder whether I can trust you not to be afraid of my feelings of love. If I told you I love you, would it make you want to run away? I fear the worse.

If you really knew what goes on inside of me, it’s the sound of confusion. Being bipolar for a long time has messed with my life. Awhile ago, I had a therapist and psychiatrist diagnose me with DID. It was a fucked up diagnosis I lived with for years. She even wanted me to name my alters and describe their characteristics. It was a curious perspective from which to think about myself. I really did split apart with the diagnosis. Was it thinking I had DID that caused the transformation? Or did I always have alters and worked through the phases and went through integration. I am not at all sure.

Sybill, the film with Sally Fields and Joanne Woodward, made me want her doctor. Being held and believed. To feel her arms around me and her eyes comforting me. This leads me to the truth. Truth is important to me. I don’t lie. There’s no sense to it. Simply put, I want you, Annie. To be like her doctor. If I could return to being a little girl again, with you. You could be the person who cared for me. It would feel more perfect then I could expect. It would make the world right for me. Is it possible for you to love me?

I better stop now. There is much more but I will save it for the next letter. Right now I am worried what I have already asked you in this letter. Is it going to make you feel angry or uncomfortable, or is it going to make you go away? Will you go away? Please don’t. I’m feeling a strong urge not to show you this letter. Maybe if I express myself in a poem and paint what I feel instead. It is more abstract. It may make more sense. Being understood is an obsession.

“Time for time and traveling with circuses must end. It is time to soar through the time barrier into all moments in the Universe.”

So, until I see you, I end with my favorite quote from the film Brief Sacrifice.

“Time can be folded and joined with all elements in all places as the one ultimate moment when time is all at once. In this place everything happens on a continual loop following into a continuum of time forever into infinity. In the “Silver Box,” there is contained the ability to draw time into itself and create the perfect infinite moment.”

I end this letter in “the moment between seconds.”

Loving You Fondly,

Madison

@-;—

© madison taylor 2008

Bejin - Artist David Agenjo

Bejin – Artist David Agenjo

Somewhere In Time – John Barry

Bouquet of Roses and other Flowers - Artist Henri Fantin Latour

Bouquet of Roses and other Flowers – Artist Henri Fantin Latour

rain in garden gif

Shattered Love
By Madison Taylor
8th July 2008
Narrative Haiku

Shattered love breaks hearts
Are bleeding out on the ground
Why do I not cry?

Feelings have been crushed
Inside pain reflects harming
Take your hands off me

Skin feels bruises swell
Carving time on flesh burning
Memories remain

Giving birth no love
Start with hate never caring
Nurture not given

Meet an attraction
Is it love or sexual
Healing the inside

Touching with lightness
Need a gentle hand soothing
Trust is taming wild

One stroke of the hand
Is enough to begin love
Learning soft teaching

© madison taylor 2008

Illuminating Shadows - Artist Jk McCormack (c) JkM 2008

Illuminating Shadows – Artist Jk McCormack (c) JkM 2007

“A Dream
The beginning always starts out
With a dream.
It is all a dream
In our own nightmares”
— Madison Taylor

Le Chateau de Rocher

Le Chateau de Rocher

play is not just play meryl streep“Pretending is not just play. Pretending is imagined possibility” — Meryl Streep

Medicalmarijuana red cross marijuana leaf black bgMedical Marijuana

Editor’s Corner 101.32 — Swarms of Fears and Monsters

shawn mackenzie's editor's corner day monday
Editor’s Corner 101.32
Swarms of Fears and Monsters
Originally Posted by Shawn MacKenzie
On MacKenzie’s Dragonsnest 15th October 2013

View Past Issues at MacKenzie’s Dragonsnest Archive

Reposted on ‘the secret keeper
Monday 30th December 2013

Swarms of Fears and Monsters

Fear tastes like a rusty knife and do not let her into your house.
…John Cheever

Scribe smallHalloween lurks in the shadows and the Great Pumpkin is prepping for his rounds. When better to wander through the mare’s nest of monstrous fears that haunt us writers at every stroke of the pen.

There are so many hindrances – both mystical and mundane – to our process, yet a handful rise to the surface like apples waiting to be bobbed. They tangle together, crossing my mind in no particular order, so I offer them, simply, as the spirit moves.

Fear - Luckywolf 13

Fear – Luckywolf 13

Anideophobia – the fear of being bereft of ideas. What if the well has run dry and there is no rain in sight? This hits me every Monday as I ponder where to go with the week’s Editor’s Corner. Today, for example, I was all set to discuss writers’ groups, but then I discovered I’d done that already. Panic! What to do? Of course, elementally, every story has already been told; that’s just a given. And often with such blinding brilliance that there seems little point in even trying anew. Life, death, love, loss – what else is there? But if we think about it, it’s not the “what,” it’s the “how.” After all, Shakespeare had nary an original plot to his name, relying on Boccaccio and Plutarch, recent history and ancient legend. Thankfully, that didn’t stop him.

no ideas

If you fear you’ve run out of ideas, go for a walk or sit in a café (or look at the calendar); be around other people, watch and listen to them. Glean a passing interaction or a snippet of conversation (eavesdropping has its place in a writer’s life). Then remember that you have your own voice – your own “how” to telling. From such kernels all sorts of tales can grow, and you will be never run out of ideas.

Fear Vacansopapurosophobia – fear of the blank page. There it is, all crisp and clean, just staring at us, laughing, taunting us to fill it with scintillating prose. For how can we hope to match the existential power of the pristine page? Each word changes the void, shapes it to our will, but are they worthy? And if they’re not, can we go back or have we destroyed the unsullied surface beyond repair? Round and round we go, until the very thought of starting feels as profane as pissing on virgin snow. Best put it off for another day, right?

Help

No, no, no. No! It is the emptiness which terrifies. Break the silence of the page! Forge ahead – put anything down, even nonsense – and the monster is sent packing.

Personally, I thank the computer for helping me over this fear. Light and pixels you can wipe away with a keystroke are less intimidating than actual physical paper marked with physical ink. (It also appeals to the Scot in me who frets over pennies and waste.)

Atelophophobia – fear of imperfection. What if our words are not the right words, or if, among a hundred diamonds, we let slip a simple chunk of coal. It could happen – it does happen. Always. On a certain level, we all strive for perfection, to write that flawless piece of prose or poetry. A lofty goal, perhaps, but totally unrealistic. Even brilliant ideas and well-honed craft all backed by a battalion of editors and proofreaders, there simply is no such thing as the perfect story. You make yourself crazy trying to achieve the impossible.

salvador-dali-famous-quote-perfection-art-creativity1

According to legend, the great artists of antiquity would put a deliberate flaw in each of their creations, lest they invoke the jealousy of the Gods. It might not be noticeable to the casual eye, but it’s there nonetheless. (Arachne forgot this bit of wisdom and it got her into a real web of trouble!) So don’t let the idea of perfection paralyze. A little coal does not necessarily spoil the luster of our gems; it can, make them dazzle the more brightly.

Atychiphobia/Epitychiphobia – the twin fears of success and failure. What if I can’t do it, what if I can? Beginning, middle, end, these fears raise their grisly heads at will along our writer’s progress, and just when we’ve conquered them for one book, they rise up again like necromantic hordes for the next. They stop us from starting, from finishing, from sending our literary children out into the world.

fear-is-in-your-head1

Worrying we’re not good enough – that one’s easy. While anyone can write, getting published is another matter entirely. The competition is fierce, rejects outweighing acceptances thousands to one. True, for better and worse, e-books and self-publishing open up new avenues and encouragements. But what happens if we put our e-book out there and no one buys it – or, worse yet, no one reads it even when we give it away? Such potential scenarios feed our fears of rejection. As thick skinned as we think ourselves, failure or the prospect of failure, can be devastating. It becomes particularly thorny as the rejection letters from agents and publishers start to pile up. We tinker and rewrite and send our MS out again – and again – and again. But, if we’re not careful, zombie fears can keep coming back until we toss our work into a draw and take that correspondence course in accounting we were holding in reserve.

DoubtFear

Don’t.

Fight through. Write, heed critiques, write better, persevere. And remember that the rules of publishing are often not directly related to the quality of writing. If you doubt this, just meander through your local bookstore for an afternoon. Publishing is a business, and timing, trends, and luck, have a lot to do with catching a publisher’s eye.

As for epitychiphobia, or the fear of success, this is trickier. It afflicts some of us, but not all, speaking to the individual states of our individual egos. True, laboring in isolation for years writing the next “Satanic Verses” or “Interview with a Vampire,” only to have fame, fortune, even opprobrium come one’s way, can give the most extroverted narcissist pause. Then of course, there is the follow up, which, if not as good will only show what an absolute fraud one is! A nasty cycle.

Fear of success -Stephanie McMillan

Fear of success -Stephanie McMillan

For most of us, I say go for it. Be bold and brave and embrace whatever good fortune lands in your lap. It is a rare gift not to be shunned.

As ghouls and goblins roam the world and fears become manifest, remember that the ones that stop us writing are “what ifs” at best. “What if” is a pedant’s sport that distracts and mires us in inertia with its Medusa stare. This Halloween, don’t let the “what ifs” win.

We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?
…Christina Rossetti

247795_10152178844815504_1949566387_n

Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen.
Don’t be afraid.

… Frederick Buechner

Private Writings: Chapter #37 — Raindrops Falling from My Eyes

private writings to a psychoanalyst (c) Jk 2013

Private Writings: Chapter #37 — Raindrops Falling from My Eyes
Written by Jennifer Kiley
Illustrated by j. kiley
Introduction & Chapter #1
Published on March 19th 2013
Published Early Tuesday AM
Posted 3rd December 2013

WARNING: ADULT LANGUAGE AND CONTENT.
NOT SUITABLE FOR CHILDREN.
ALL CHARACTERS ARE FICTITIOUS.
ANYONE RESEMBLING ANYONE LIVING OR DEAD
IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.

Crypticistic Synopsis:

private writings to dr. annie haskell, psychoanalyst extraordinaire,
my choice in form of storytelling is using letters with dreams, thoughts, poems, images,
music, art, describing my scripts, recent one ‘brief sacrifice,’ film is waiting for release,
psychotherapy, psychoanalysis, inspirations, reflective comments, the inner & outer workings
of the mind, soul, body, emotions, and bipolar—prefer mentally creative, or interesting,
or a brain misfiring; in the mix are abuse, crashes, near drownings, illegal drugs presently,
hallucinations, hypersexuality, time warps, finding answers to unsolved mysteries, infatuations,
imagination, fantasy, the never ending need to discover my self, my soul, my eternal serenity, my bliss
see you down the rabbit hole.
namaste! madison taylor

paris amazing lightning striking eiffel towerParis – Amazing Lightning Striking Eiffel Tower

paris view from notre dame at night eiffel towerParis – View from Notre Dame at Night of Eiffel Tower

paris Fontaine des mers reflection Place de la ConcordeParis Fontaine des mers Reflection Place de la Concorde

Private Writings: Chapter #37 — Raindrops Falling from My Eyes

Tuesday 27th May 2008

Dear Annie,

It was a warm Spring night in Paris. A slight mist in the air, weaving through a light rain, was touching the naked flesh our clothes hadn’t covered. We walked over the golden, glistening bridge, lit by the antique lamp posts, which crossed over the Seine. Lovers & romance come to life out of dreams & faery tales on this particular kind of night. The setting was that of pure perfection.

Scottie held my hand so gently in hers, as our arms touched while we walked. We weren’t alone on the bridge or in that night, but everyone else had escaped into their own fantasies, playing out in their own dreams.

My dream was to be with Scottie. Close. Moments alone. Celebrating our last night in Paris, the city created for decadence but, also, for love, true love. I love her. I confess. In the first moments, looking through my eyes into hers, my soul recognized her. She was the person for whom I had been waiting.

Who came before, were lessons of life. Crushing blows. Smashing hearts. Painful endurance. Touches of love. All passing through time, heading in different directions & for a few moments, they crossed into my time & stayed a short while. Just as suddenly as they were before me, oh, so quickly, they disappeared. Their time pulled away & vanished from mine.

A few people do stay. They are meant to be part of our travels. Hold them dear & let the rest be on their way. We all have things to do & lives to lead.

I want to separate those few people & shine the light on only one tonight. The lover of my life. My guardian angel on Earth, we protect one another. Yes, we have those we are close to, our special friends, they are precious to us. But tonight, I want to write about Scottie. My life comes into focus with her in my life. The crazy world in which we are surrounded, is only possible to survive with our true love. My demons fear her. She frightens them away. Her love & tenderness stop time in her presence. Hours may pass without our awareness. Too short is time then, it feels stolen away.

Let us return to the bridge taking us gliding on a cloud over the Seine. The rain touching our heads, floating down, making our eyes fill with tears & fall from our lashes. Happiness is within our hearts & the drops are are filled with our love & inner laughter.

Feeling Scottie stop & turn to face me, I repeat the same motion & our eyes fill the space between us. Her hands find their way to my face & hold my head softly. I look deeply into her eyes as they look down at my lips, saying “I love you.” Her lips touch my cheek as she starts kissing me. I am hypnotized. The feeling of heat flushes over my face. Her mouth finds my lips & the sensation of her lips touching mine are that of the light touch of a fluttering butterfly bearly landing on the petals of a budding rose.

I am breathless & floating on the mist as the power of her kiss sinks inside of me. Her lips softly melt into mine. One sensation of depth inside of me growing. I wrap my arms around Scottie’s body, feeling her warmth entering through my skin. I feel naked with her nakedness falling through my skin entering my body, becoming one person. We are above Paris. Floating over the city. All the beauty being absorbed in one infinite moment between the seconds.

When I returned to consciousness, Scottie & I are lying together naked, under the covers of the Coco Chanel bed in our Suite at the Ritz of Paris. Levitation, mysticism & magical whimsey carried us intertwined in our lovers embrace to our place of privacy. Making love without boundaries. No sensations stopped in mid-air. A continual motion of love making the way it originated with free flow & stream of consciousness responses through spontaneity & freedom of creation to make love with a fullness of intensity. No darkness. No interfering nightmares. No interruptions from the past flashing forward or flashbacks setting limits or slamming doors. Just pure sexual freedom. Sensations like molten lava, spilling forth & over the top, pouring down, smoothing the edges, heating up the liquids, while rolling with the golden waves of the sea at dawn.

Are you blushing Annie? I tried to be poetic as much as possible. Feeling so innermost touched by sensations I thought had been stolen. Ones I thought I would never have the chance to feel. Being in Paris. Spending time with Scottie in the late nights. Meeting Jonathan & having a great time with him. Being able to talk honestly & openly in the same place. And Paris is beyond anything one can imagine. It is a dream inside a dream.

Now that we are on the plane flying home, I miss it but I want to be home with Scottie there. See our wonderful babies, Toker, Mikey & Patrick. I want to sleep all together in the same bed all night & all day until we stop missing each other. And just to be in our own home.

I want to see you, too, Annie. I missed you. Yes, I know we talked & could see each other on our laptops. But I couldn’t feel our hugs. I need one of your hugs so badly. They nurture me. You nurture me. I miss hearing your voice while sitting near you.

I didn’t get much writing done except my letters to you. I miss James & Carter, my “Brief Encounter” gang. I love my characters in that screenplay. It will be on the screen really soon. I hadn’t thought of this before, but would you like to come to the premiere? Your whole clan would be invited. It would be fun. Just think about it. I will make sure Celia gets good seats for you. You could all come to the party at our home, Chateau de Rocher, afterwards. I told you Scottie gives great parties. You’d meet some very fun & famous actors. You never know who. Think about it. No pressure. Just let me know.

Now for my closing line from “Brief Sacrifice.”

“Time can be folded and joined with all elements in all places as the one ultimate moment when time is all at once. In this place everything happens on a continual loop following into a continuum of time forever into infinity. In the “Silver Box,” there is contained the ability to draw time into itself and create the perfect infinite moment.”

“The moment between seconds.”

For you, I will end this letter in “the moment between seconds.”

Love Fondly,
Madison
@>-;—

© madison taylor 2008

paris louvre statue closeup QUESTION WHO ARE THEYParis – Louvre Statue Closeup of Cupid & Psyche

Somewhere In Time – John Barry

paris springtime eiffel tower CUT OFF WORDS BOTTOM

rain in garden gif

“Reflections”
By Madison Taylor
27th May 2008

Images reflections
Out of dreams sight
Symbols imagined
Explosions
Death’s awakening
Slipping away
Into time backwards
Moving ahead
Melting mountains
Running away
Danger
Hiding

Wanted to harm the flesh
Take away feelings
Never know what was lost
Once taken never returned
Difference changes
Sensations empty
Where heart would be

Love follows journey
Begin new
Remember nothing
Far away inside a nightmare
Held in time’s past

Other dimensions
Taken dark away
Now it burns
Within a volcano
Absorbed by fire
Poured in lava
Out to sea

What does the sea swallow?
Shadow memories
Darkness created
Happened in the mist
Imagined pain
Devoured by the deep

Nothing ever goes there
Except creatures
Eating demons from dreams

Life is respun
Feelings restored
Numbness be gone
Let Go
Let senses start again

© madison taylor 2008

Seeing Out of the Dark by J. McCormack (c)McCormack 2007 [created 11.26.07 by J. McCormack - a pseudonym for Madison Taylor]

Rising Out of the Darkness by Jk McCormack ©J.McCormack 2007 [created 11.26.07 by Jk  McCormack – a pseudonym for Madison Taylor]

Warm Winds [Theme for Madison & Scottie]

“A Dream
The beginning always starts out
With a dream.
It is all a dream
In our own nightmares”
— Madison Taylor

paris louvre at sunset pyramid w reflectionParis – Louvre at Sunset Pyramid Reflection in Water

paris louvre palace at night water in foregroundParis – Louvre Palace at Night Reflection in Water

paris louvre pyramid at night goldenLouvre Pyramid at Night Golden Reflection – Paris

paris Louvre reflectionLouvre Reflection – Paris

paris Versailles - Marie Antoinette's FarmMarie Antoinette’s Farm – Paris Versailles

jonathan stephens imaginary framedJonathan Stephens is Madison Taylor’s friend in Paris, France

actresses-with-long-hair-hairstyle frenchHunter Marx [ 7 years ago in 2001 year Hunter & Madison met]

play is not just play meryl streep

Songs of Innocence and Experience “The Tyger”

Songs of Innocence and Experience “The Tyger”
Written William Blake
Post Created by Jk the secret keeper
Illustrated by j. kiley
Post Created Friday 23rd August 2013
Posted On Saturday 24th August 2013
POETRY OUT LOUD

David-White painting of tiger touch abstract give to diana work onPainting of a Tiger Face — Artist David White

Songs of Innocence and Experience
William Blake

“The Tyger”

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

Tiger Face  Artist Alex Fitch

Tiger Face — Artist Alex Fitch

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spears
And water’d heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

cute-little-lamb

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Tiger in a Tropical Storm  Artist Rousseau   968x775

Tiger in a Tropical Storm — Artist Rousseau

The Tyger by William Blake — Adagio with Strings Op 11a — Created by Jennifer Kiley

A brief analysis I thought I would add after writing the following to my niece about the William Blake poem ‘The Tyger.’ “It’s the poem by William Blake ‘The Tyger’…It has great paintings of tigers and an innocent photo of a sleeping lamb. When you read the poem it will make sense. But briefly, whoever created the tyger, came up with the concept, what was going on, to create such a creature filled with fire, so fierce and majestic but feared. Then you turn around and think, was it the same thinker who created the Lamb, such an innocent and delicate creature. Something the Tyger would think nothing about taking the life from her beautiful, soft, sweet being.

An interesting concept to create such a tendency of evil versus something conceived with such uncompromising good. I am not saying the Tyger is evil but the violence contained in his nature and the peacefulness of the Lamb. Remember, she is the one always sacrificed. Something intensely profound to think about and feel. There is something profoundly unbalanced in the nature of these two creatures. The sacrificial Lamb, so sweet, yet always the one destroyed by all Powers Great and Evil. Is the Tyger the Power of the Great? What is the Power reverting to Evil and destroys the Beautiful and Innocent? Is the only answer: ‘Because Power Can?'”  Written by Jennifer Kiley