“On the Pulse of the Morning” Written by Maya Angelou Spoken at President Clinton’s First Inauguration 1993
A Rock, A River, A Tree Hosts to species long since departed, Marked the mastodon. The dinosaur, who left dry tokens Of their sojourn here On our planet floor, Any broad alarm of their hastening doom Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully, Come, you may stand upon my Back and face your distant destiny, But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no more hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than The angels, have crouched too long in The bruising darkness, Have lain too long Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spilling words Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me, But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world, A River sings a beautiful song, Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country, Delicate and strangely made proud, Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit Have left collars of waste upon My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside, If you will study war no more. Come,
Clad in peace and I will sing the songs The Creator gave to me when I and the Tree and the stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your Brow and when you yet knew you still Knew nothing.
The River sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew The African and Native American, the Sioux, The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh, The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher, The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher. They hear. They all hear The speaking of the Tree.
Today, the first and last of every Tree Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.
Each of you, descendant of some passed On traveler, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of Other seekers- desperate for gain, Starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot… You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the Tree planted by the River, Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree I am yours- your Passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain, Cannot be unlived, and if faced With courage, need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon The day breaking for you.
Give birth again To the dream.
Women, children, men, Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most Private need. Sculpt it into The image of your most public self. Lift up your hearts Each new hour holds new chances For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever To fear, yoked eternally To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward, Offering you space to place new steps of change. Here, on the pulse of this fine day You may have the courage To look up and out upon me, the Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day You may have the grace to look up and out And into your sister’s eyes, into Your brother’s face, your country And say simply Very simply With hope Good morning.
Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day Shakespeare – Sonnet XVIII Video Discovered by j. kiley Post Created on Saturday 16th November 2013 Posted On Saturday 23rd November Happy Birthday Gran Emily 133 yrs b. 23rd November 1880 POETRY OUT LOUD
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm’d; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d; But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
Private Writings — Chapter #33: They Shoot Movies, Don’t They?
Written by Jennifer Kiley
Illustrated by j. kiley
Introduction & Chapter #1
Published on March 19th 2013
Published Early Tuesday AM
Posted 5th November 2013
WARNING: ADULT LANGUAGE AND CONTENT.
NOT SUITABLE FOR CHILDREN.
ALL CHARACTERS ARE FICTITIOUS.
ANYONE RESEMBLING ANYONE LIVING OR DEAD
IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.
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
Private Writings — Chapter #33: They Shoot Movies, Don’t They?
Tuesday, 29th April 2008
You want to know how I met Hunter Marx. It was one of Scottie’s wild industry parties. Anyone who was anyone was invited. And our casting director was asked to invite potential actors of both sexes, who might be right for the roles in my new screenplay. This was back on 2000. I wasn’t wary of this party. In fact, I welcomed it.
It was when I first saw Hunter. She was sitting motionless across the room. I watched her for a while. She was strikingly sensual. Her mystique resonated with me. My feelings told me she was different. I believed in my first impression, which I felt was positive. I trusted it. I was greatly mistaken. Now she haunts me. She gets inside my mind. What once I thought was the beginning, of something special turned into a nightmare. The feelings of closeness we shared disappeared. She was a mirage. What I felt existed was smoke and mirrors, signifying nothing.
I was working on the script tonight and now, the pages are filled with memories of times spent with Hunter. If she could only know what she did to my life, what she made me feel. I cannot believe she wanted me to be so tortured. Coming back into our lives, knowing how she ended it. When I listen to what was our song “Come What May,” from Moulin Rouge. The line that kills me, “I will love you til my dying day.” I still feel her arms holding me. Her eyes looking into mine, mine searching deeper into hers. I missed her so much, simply because I loved her, even after she deserted me.
I was nearly destroyed until I realized exactly what she had done. I was used by her and what I felt meant nothing to her. Her desires were to get close to Scottie and I gave her my blessing to steal everything that was mine. From the beginning, her mind was set on the role. Seducing me, the gullible writer, would convince Scottie to give Hunter Marx the part. Scottie was the wise one, she didn’t want Hunter. Because of me, she did get the lead in our film, anyway. That was her goal, at any cost, She never wanted me, my friendship, my love, but a role I created and the bitch is it made her. Now she gets anything she wants. She fucked with me to get my character that I created. It made her famous and what she is today. A bitch who gets what’s coming to her.
And now she is back. Scottie cast her in my new screenplay, “Touch of the Spirit.” I begged Scottie not to cast Hunter. She just didn’t understand back then or now, why I didn’t want her near either one of us, then or now. Poison, not blood ran in her veins, and a touch of evil lingered around her soul.
Scottie knew I had a crush on Hunter. I was always flirting with the women in our films. Nothing meant to go anywhere. It fed my muse. But with Hunter, the strength of the feelings she brought up inside me, I never expected her to have such a magnetic draw on me. I think I became a touch obsessed, which scared the shit out of me. My attractions didn’t bother Scottie. She knew I was innocent. Scottie always worried I would be hurt but she knew they were an inspiration for my muse. My muse loved the feelings the flirtations created, even if they were innocent with no intent on action. Hunter didn’t understand the rules. She was relentless with her intentions and they were not honest.
A strong physical attraction developed with Hunter. Stronger than anything I had felt in a long time. It was in early 2001, when Scottie finally decided she was going to cast Hunter Marx for their first film together. Hunter’s first major film as the lead. It was still an innocent enough time in the world before the impending insanity that descended and overwhelmed the world.
I did have someone to turn to when I needed to talk outside of therapy. Jonathan Stephens was my long-distance friend. We started chatting years before that time. It was primitive compared to having Skype now, which we both converted to. Chat rooms were weird and I never felt really comfortable using them. But after finding Jonathan, it became okay. With Skype, though, we can hear each other’s voice. Jonathan lives in Paris and has a flat in London. An artist by trade, doing mostly painting, but occasionally, enjoys writing, jumping around in various areas, from poetry to prose, to opinion commentary. It all supplements his income, to that of being an internationally known artist with a strong following. Exhibitions, selling his work on both sides of the Atlantic, Collectors follow him around the world. And then those who buy his art because they love his work and to have the pure pleasure of hanging a painting of Jonathan Stephens on their walls. Those are the people he absolutely adores. Yes, he makes a good living from the collectors, but to them he is not an artist but an investment. If he could, he would refuse them any pieces of his work.
I love what Jonathan paints. His art is predominantly in Abstract, which is my favorite style. My favorite artists after Jonathan are Jackson Pollock, Kandinsky, Vincent van Gogh and a great Monet. Claude, of course. I must say I use to get Monet mixed up with Manet, not because of their art but their names being so similar. I was young and more naive then.
Jonathan knows every detail about Hunter. All the excruciating pain she caused me to feel and the whys. I even told him how she seduced me and made me hide my feelings for her in front of other people. Also, my hidden pleasure, mixed together with confusion, huge amounts of emotional anguish, and her convincing me I was delusional. That I had imagined everything that went on between us. She denied we ever had a relationship. That is why Scottie thought I made the whole thing up about Hunter using me.
Jonathan was the only person who knew the truth. How my soul was filled with joy from the kindness and love Hunter showed me. I felt it was real. It only demonstrated to me the evil content of Hunter’s soul. The treachery and manipulation that surfaced after it was over. Her coldness set in and froze me out. All I could feel was total loss and abandonment. I told every minute detail to Jonathan. My witness to what Hunter did and how it made me feel crazy. The Bipolar mood swings flying me higher and lower. Her presence in my life practically destroyed everything inside of me.
This was the beginning, when the agoraphobia made its strategic hit and thoroughly immobilized my life. Between Scottie, Jonathan and a therapist I saw for a short time. A long story, but the short version, she couldn’t handle the combination of pot and lesbians and a gay man all at one time. She had some kind of cleansing conversions during the therapy sessions. Plus she had to make house calls. It freaked her out being in a lesbian couple’s house all alone. She may have thought or felt being around us lesbians and Jonathan’s gay image on a computer screen was far too contagious. We paid her a small fortune, so it wasn’t the money. Well, after her, there entered Dr. George. We all know how that turned out. Of course, at first, I thought he had an open mind and was a relatively good Psychotherapist. He got me out of the house again, sort of, I would, at least, go to his office.
Tomorrow is Scottie’s wild cast party, before heading over the France. I am still really nervous about the flying. But, at least, I got some of my anxiety out on paper about Hunter. Our first head to head will be at the party. Oh, give me strength. I don’t ever watch her films. I would close my eyes during her scenes in my screenplay. I, so, did not want to see her. I don’t know what I am going to do if I react badly to seeing her near Scottie. And what if she tries to say anything to me? What then?
I promise I will behave and bring this letter to you next week, our last session before flying to Paris. It is going to be hard to go, more because I’ll miss you. I know we are going to be doing Skype sessions and you will make sure I have all the scheduled appointment times for the whole month I am away. That is a really long time. I will write to you. It will center me. And I finally will be in the same city as Jonathan. You may wonder why we have never met in person before now. I will explain that when I see you next week.
I am exhausted and need to stop, Writing about Hunter has really messed with my brain.
Thank you for listening and being there. I already miss you.
I will keep you in the loop in the new film and I promise to catch you up more on “Brief Sacrifice” in my next letter. Too much is going on right now to think about it. I will leave you a quote from my last letter to hold you.
“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.”