A Writer’s Diary: Virginia Woolf —Part #4

a writer's diary
Virginia Woolf – Part #4
Excerpts from Virginia Woolf
Created by Jennifer Kiley
Created 25th February 2014
Posted Sunday 23rd March 2014
A WRITER’S DIARY

Virginia Woolf 1

Virginia Woolf

A Writer’s Diary
Virginia Woolf – Part #4

January 20th, 1919,
Woolf at 36-years
9 days before
her 37th Birthday

If Virginia Woolf
at the age
of 50,

when she sits down
to build
her memoirs
out of
these books,

is unable
to make
a phrase
as it
should be
made,

I can
only condole
with her

and
remind her
of the existence
of the fireplace,

where she
has my leave
to burn
these pages

to so
many black
films
with red eyes
in them.

But how
I envy her
the task

I am
preparing
for her!

There is
none

I should
like

better.

Virginia Woolf's Monk's House Garden

Virginia Woolf’s Monk’s House Garden

virginia woolf 3

Virginia Woolf

Erik Satie: Gnossienne No. 1, 2, 3

A Writer’s Diary: Virginia Woolf — Part #1

a writer's diary
Virginia Woolf – Part #1
Excerpts from Virginia Woolf
Created by Jennifer Kiley
Created 8th February 2014
Posted Sunday 2nd March 2014
A WRITER’S DIARY

Virginia Woolf 1

Virginia Woolf

A Writer’s Diary
Virginia Woolf – Part #1

Explaining
in Virginia Woolf’s words,
the major reasons why
it is an essential means
to learn writing
by keeping a writer’s diary.

It exercises your mind,
no censorship,
and someday
you can use
to create
your own
autobiography.

In “The Writer’s Diary,”
Virginia Woolf, herself,
wrote unedited,
free flow,
stream of consciousness
and is
quite intelligent.

In the opening,
some words
from Leonard Woolf,
Virginia Woolf’s husband.

I find
a real
understanding
of
Virginia Woolf.

I feel
as if I can
hear her voice
speaking
through
her words.

The excerpts
will be
an ongoing
presentation
of
Virginia
Woolf.

Virginia Woolf's Monk's House Garden

Virginia Woolf’s Monk’s House Garden

virginia woolf 3

Virginia Woolf

Editor’s Corner 101.37: All Good Things….

shawn mackenzie's editor's corner day monday
Editor’s Corner 101.37
All Good Things….
Written by Shawn MacKenzie
Originally Posted on MacKenzie’s Dragonsnest in 2013

Reposted on ‘the secret keeper’
Monday 3rd February 2014

101.37

All Good Things….

There’s a trick to the ‘graceful exit.’
It begins with the vision to recognize when a job,
a life stage, or a relationship is over — and let it go.
…Ellen Goodman

Scribe smallStories, films, lives – all things come to a close. Sometimes neatly, sometimes not. And so, after nine months, I am bringing the Editor’s Corner to what I hope is a neat and graceful end.

Over the past thirty-seven weeks, we have covered topic both minute and sweeping, and yet, in the end, I find it fitting to return to the beginning. To our words.

I originally wrote the following back in March of this year as a guest piece for Karen Sanderson’s blog. I now amend, update, and present it to you as my parting thoughts. My thanks to Niamh and Plum Tree for this forum, and to all who have traveled with me on this writer’s journey. Enjoy.

P1010342

You Are Your Words

We humans are creatures of custom. It frames our existence and structures our lives. In the course of my daily custom, once I begin to feel the dream-webs lift from my mind, I brew a fresh pot of tea, play with the kittens, and allow my thoughts to mosey along paths both cosmological and mundane, reasoned and stochastic. The other day, I started thinking about words.

Magical, mystical, wickedly creative, oh, the glorious power of words and we who wield them.

“In the beginning was the Word…and the Word was God.”

This is not just a Judeo-Christian notion. The Popol Vuh – Mayan Book of Creation – speaks of how Sovereign Plumed Serpent (who later became Quetzlcoatl) and Heart of Sky came together at the beginning of time:

“…And then came his [Heart of Sky’s] word, he came to Sovereign Plumed Serpent, here in the blackness, in the early dawn…. they joined their words, their thoughts….And then the earth arose because of them, it was simply their word that brought it forth….”

Quetzlcoatl - Vampire Princess

Quetzlcoatl by Vampire Princess

Now this notion (naturally) draws me down a whimsically syllogistic rabbit hole: The Word is divine; the divine create with words. Writers create with words; writers are divine.

Hey, makes sense to me.

Ok, we writers may not be divine, but we do cloak ourselves in Creator’s motley as comfortably as jeans and broadcloth. Mind blowing for gods to shape the universe in the round of a word, yet that’s what we do every day. Out of the chaos of random thought, the void of the blank page, we create whole worlds and the beings who live in them. Earthsea, Darkover, Yoknapatawpha County, OZ and East Egg, Wonderland and Wessex – the list of literary terrae nova are legion. Even places we think we know, like Richard Wright’s Chicago or Edith Wharton’s New York, are, in authorial hands, transformed into alien landscapes ripe for exploration.

Wizard of Earthsea - Torture Device

Wizard of Earthsea by Torture Device

And so we string one word after another, counting our hours from phrase to sentence to paragraph to tome. We weave tales of myth and wonder and supernal genesis. For words are creative. With them we name things and by naming them bring them into being. They are active, breathing life into those named things, making them romp and fly and do handsprings through the treetops. They are descriptive, coloring and shaping the world that it might be recognized and marveled at in all its beauty and strangeness. And that is without even touching upon the mind and heart, the emotional power of words. The power that reaches out across our inherent aloneness and makes people feel and think and remember, even change their lives. For words are lash and cradle, warming spark and unholy conflagration. They heal and nurture, wound and kill.

Complex stuff. God stuff.

Sue Blackwell book sculpture

Sue Blackwell book sculpture

Which brings me to a story. More memoir than fancy (though there are tangential Dragons); just a little something I thought I’d share.

Two years ago, my book, The Dragon Keeper’s Handbook, was making its way into print. In anticipation of this event, my publisher invited me to the Book Expo of America in New York. Sign some ARCs (Advanced Reader Copies), generate book buzz, and spend two days in Gotham with all stripe of book folk – authors, publishers, agents, librarians. Commercialism be damned, for a writer, what could be more delicious?

Not to mention the swag!

A convention neophyte, I was quite unprepared for the booty laid out like Smaug’s hoard, just there for the taking. From simple promotional bookmarks and house totes, to signed copies of the year’s (hopefully) hottest titles, one was limited only by one’s interests, greed, and in the case of acquiring a major author’s John (or Jane) Hancock, no small amount of stamina. Even though I was hobbling about on a broken leg at the time, I returned home with several bags – now weekly filled with groceries – and a far from shabby passel of books. For all that, my favorite BEA keepsake was from the folks at the American Heritage Dictionary of English Language: a modest white 6” x 4” oval magnet, adorned in black Arial with the deceptively simple gnome: You Are Your Words.

URYourWords

Every morning since, I rub the sleep from my eyes and focus on this reminder of how I am defined by the words in my life. They are my tools, my paint and canvas, soil and seeds. I shape them, play with them, with luck make them croon like an armadillo and pirouette on the wings of a damselfly. They represent me to the world, my ideas and dreams. Whether tripping across page or tongue, they have consequences, so I must choose them with care. They are my children sent into the world, and I am responsible for them, in all their beauty or ugliness.

I am my words; my words are me.

As logophile, whimsical scribe, exacting editor, wielder of words.

As a writer.

I give you my word.

1219782482yLCfpg

Happy Holidays, my friends.
Write well.

The Last Edition of the Editor’s Corner To Go To the Archives Click On the Highlighted “Editor’s Corner”

The Major Difference Between Professional And Amateur Writers

tell me a story
The Major Difference Between Professional And Amateur Writers
Speaker: John Truby
Notations by Jennifer Kiley
Created 17th December 2013
Posted Thursday 30th January 2014
TELL ME A STORY

The Major Difference Between Professional And Amateur Writers by John Truby

Not fearing the voices inside of you, you won’t fear the criticism outside of you.
That is being professional.

Fear of criticism is the biggest mark of an amateur. Amateurs do not want to take
criticism.

What you have in your script is laying yourself bare. So when someone is critical,
it feels the same as if they were telling you they don’t like you.

To become a great writer you have to listen to criticism.

“Not even a great writer can write the perfect script.”

Most people are not capable of giving constructive criticism. Giving your writing
to a family member is not a great idea. They will have trouble being honest. And
may not know what they are talking about.

Be open to outside criticism and that you are getting criticism from those who know
what they are talking about. They will tell you what is not working. This is helpful.
Then you know what to work on to make your writing better.

Writers should want to get constructive criticism which will improve their craft.

Highly recommend forming a writers group with some of the best writers you know.
Getting feedback from other writers, you know you are getting more accurate feedback
from under the surface because they know more about what you are doing than the
average person.

Notations by Jennifer Kiley

Private Writings: Chapter #45/#46 Trauma With Drama/Double the Trouble

private writings to a psychoanalyst (c) Jk 2013

Private Writings: Chapter #45/#46 – Trauma With Drama/Double the Trouble

Written by Jennifer Kiley
Painting by Jk McCormack
Introduction & Chapter #1
Published on March 19th 2013
Published Early Tuesday AM
Posted On Tuesday 28th 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 #45 — Trauma With Drama

Tuesday 22nd July 2008

Dear Annie,

I never finished going over my letter from last week. So much more to tell you. It’s a conflict. Talking about the new Trauma Group is important. Knowing a few of the women was a surprise. But it’s more important to talk to you about when I thought I had DID. The Trauma Group, I’ll save for other letters.

Awhile ago, I was told I had Dissociative Identity Disorder.  The therapist who told me, encouraged me to give the alters names and develop each one’s identity, their responsibilities and characteristics. I want you to know who lived with me for many years. The first one, I feel is the most outrageous. Her name is Laura. She was the one who was conscious when the abuse happened. It happened to her. They are her memories. Ever since, what she experienced during the sexual abuse, it ingrained inside of her a learning code. It causes her to sexualize every person we get close to. Not easy to admit.

What I am about to admit to you, may sound crazy coming from me, but she is aroused by you, Annie. And that isn’t all. Laura feels obsessed with you. It isn’t her fault though.

I need to clarify further.  My saying Laura is attracted and obsessed with you, doesn’t mean anyone else is. In fact, we aren’t, obsessed with you, that is. It is Laura’s thing. Not ours. We like you and feel close to you but it goes no further.

I’ve said too much. I can feel Laura feeling upset. She’s always gotten us into way too many situations.

Keep in mind, this story, I’ve been telling it to myself all these years that I feel I am or was once DID. And believing it. So did Scottie, and our closed friends thought I was just more eccentric than I already was.

Now, Meggie, she is so different. She just wants you to be her mother. Just needs love and hugs. She gets those from you in a very unobtrusive way.

Lets flip to the male side of our inner family.  There’s Brad. Warning. Watch out for him. Gets extremely intense, rageful, and add anger. Why, you may ask? No trust in grown ups at all. He feels you all betray us. No offense.

Ginny is sad. What I mean is, she is removed from feelings. All she experiences is depression and deep thoughts of suicide. What sets her off the most right now is the thought of you not loving her. She is younger than all of us but she feels older.

We believed our alters were real. When we believed completely in their existence, they felt real. Not so sure anymore. They felt like they existed. We felt their presence. They always felt to me to be very young. Don’t know anymore what to believe. Except the bipolar. I know I get manic, depressed and suicidal. All the DSM IV and 5 symptoms they have well written out.

We only use the word “we” now because it’s familiar. And we, also, feel like we are shattered.

We don’t entirely feel safe with you, Annie. That’s why we don’t want to let our guard down. Testing comes first.  But most of the time, we have a strong urge and need for you to know our story. For some reason it is necessary. We want someone we trust to know the complete truth. What really happened. Not just what I remember in my head.

I think we do love you. But those feelings make us feel confused about you, Annie, and about ourself.

Ask Brad if it is okay if we love you. We would like it if you would love us, too. Maybe it will help our shattered parts come together. If we were really loved by you.

Being a lesbian, we know telling you this may frighten you away. When a woman who is a lesbian loves another woman, someone who is married to a man, it can feel suspicious. But truthfully, our feeling of love is not sexual, not really. We just want to feel love. I want to believe that it isn’t bad or wrong to love and be loved by you.

Brad protects us, even against you, Annie. Women can hurt us just as much as a man.

I forgot to tell you, Meggie is too young for sex, but she knows about it.

Also, I forgot someone very important. Her name is Nessa, Ginny’s twin. Nessa lives with the heaviest depression but Ginny carries the dangerous one. She holds the suicidal feelings in her heart and it keeps breaking her.

And then there is Sandy. Our flamboyant gay male. He feels it’s a redundancy. Sandy likes the recognition and parties. Especially, likes getting high and dancing. He has no idea how he feels about you. He’s very likeable. Use to get everyone high when he would go bar hopping in NYC.

It’s a consensus. We decided you are kind, intelligent, beautiful and you have the softest, gentlest and most soothing voice we have ever heard.

We just want to get close to you. We’d like you to get close to us, too. For us, it will take a great deal of bravery. Getting close to anyone is scary as hell. So with you, it matters so much, so it makes it even scarier. We have more to lose.

You are inside our mind now. But we are still haunted with so many questions. I know you will ask what kind of questions. Simple. Is what we feel okay? Is it okay to love you? Our feelings are filled with pain. Fear is building up. Too much pressure. Love is dangerous or painful. When I love someone and trust them, two things have happened. They betray me by abusing me or they die. Either way I am hurt and abandoned.

Talking about what I feel is important. I want you to understand me. I don’t want to hold back.

What does love really feel like? How do I recognize it? Do you feel anything like love for me? I would really like the answer to that question.

No bullshit. No saying it’s transference. That is lame. Therapists cop out using that shit. What I feel is real. Don’t understand what it means. I need you to tell me it’s okay, the way I feel for you.

Honestly, I think I am in love with you. I am in love with another woman. And it hasn’t a thing to do with sex.  Being “in love” to me is feeling intense feelings of love. It’s not sexual. Will I ever understand? Does anyone know what love means? Do you, Annie?

It causes so much bloody confusion.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

I’m slipping in Scottie’s letter next. Following is a second letter from me.

Dear Annie,

I see you have drawn me into Madison’s therapy. If I understand, you just want some feedback on her behavior.

Certain points I feel are important. One, she forgets she needs to sleep. It doesn’t feel important to her. She escapes to her study, always writing, but rarely leaves. If not their, she’s in her studio painting.

When I get home after being away for a shoot, she follows me around as if to watch me. To see if I will magically disappear again. Sometimes she speaks to me like we have never spoken before. She has been in a fairly constant manic state recently. She is producing, which is good. Great scrips to turn into a film. Something for me to direct. Paintings to hang in our Art Gallery. But all this energy she’s using, I feel she is heading for a major crash.

I am afraid when her depression hits, it will be bleak. The darkness surrounds her, literally. I can feel it and see it. She won’t wake until after it’s dark out. She goes to sleep as soon as dawn hits the edge of the horizon. Her vampire comes out into the darkness. That’s what she’s doing.

Her mind is filled with one wish. She wants to die. It’s in her poetry and her scripts. They may be great and would make David Lynch want to do a meditation with her. She doesn’t speak, so that would be perfect. She actually throws herself into her work more when she’s in the darkness. A melancholia absorbed inside creativity.

Something is needed to shock her, to turn her around. Her body is suffering. Her Cancer treatment only stopped recently. Remember it almost killed her. Death was paying her regular visits then. It’s enough to traumatize anyone.

Let me not forget her abominable family. They want to kill her. It’s a matter of inheritance. So, they don’t leave her alone. Always finding ways to contact her. All of them scare the hell out of her except one brother and his daughter. She loves those two intensely. But the others, no way. We have people to keep them from her. It’s too complicated to get into now. But she has them crawling around in the spider webs in her mind. They creep through her brain and barge into her nightmares.

Is this enough, I hope? If she needs anyone right now, Annie, it’s you. Take the time to care for her. Gentleness and consistency, that’s what she needs. I do care deeply and I attempt to show it. But she is so damned difficult. Trying to push me away. She thinks that will work. But I won’t let her. We’re stuck in this life together, no matter what.

I have a strong suggestion. She needs to be placed on Medical Marijuana. With the Cancer Treatment she was given THC. What a change. Even though she was too weak to show signs of difference, I could tell her mood changed. She relaxed. Drank some liquids. I worry she is going to get really sick, if something doesn’t change.

Find a way for her to create but stay healthy. She’s divorced herself from her body. It is all out rejection. What happened to her body is too hard for her. And I am not talking about the Cancer.

Just help her. Please.

Yours,
Scottie Andrews

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

Private Writings: Chapter #46 — Double the Trouble

Tuesday 24th July 2008

Dear Annie,

Having time with you three times a week is fantastic. Seeing you Tuesday after the first Trauma Group on Monday, is a bit heady to process. Intense and overwhelming. Those words come to me. A mental rush. Being close to you. Having more time with you. It seems we finally have time to work. More time. I’m always wishing for more time. The effects you have on me will be more powerful. All is so good. Something in your power infuses me. I feel filled with super energy.

This letter is going to be short.

First Trauma Group. Meeting a new person I like. Her name, gone from my memory. I felt she was really drawn to you. I like her but she is too possessive of you. After group, I wanted to talk to you but she was there first and wasn’t going to share. I felt jealous. It set off a chain reaction, of the negative feelings, the confusion, and the irrational thoughts. Primary one being, feeling rejected. It isn’t rational but I felt rejected by you. You didn’t care any longer. It sent me off on an emotional roller coaster after I left. The feelings lasted until I saw you on Tuesday.

It’s okay now. She, actually, feels like someone I want to be friends with. But I don’t want her monopolizing you. What the fuck was her name. Blocked it. You will have to tell me on Monday in Trauma Group. Until then, thank you for listening.

One last thought. I wanted you to know what a great group I feel you put together. Thought I’d never be in a group again. Wrong. My Tarot reading was right. It is what I need to do now. Feelings were high, some scary, some strong, and some intensely powerful. What will be exposed in the Group is going to knock us all over, isn’t it?

Now I have to find a way to be brave enough to face my shadows and to go into the darkness. If you will figuratively hold my hand, it might help.

That’s all for now.

“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.”

Love Fondly,

Madison

@-;—

© madison taylor 2008

150th Birthday of Gustav  Klimt - The Virgin (Maiden)

150th Birthday of Gustav Klimt – The Virgin (Maiden)

Somewhere In Time – Composer John Barry

Pierre Auguste Renoir - Roses and Jasmine  in a Delft Vase

Pierre Auguste Renoir – Roses and Jasmine in a Delft Vase

rain in garden gif

The Virgin
By Madison Taylor
23rd July 2008

Untouched entry blocked
Protected by innocence
Perversion invades

Nightmares being hell
Flames explode calling back pain
Feelings awakened

Youth is time for growth
Lightning follows path of thief
Regains what was lost

Time erases past
Memories rewritten now
Never recall the lies

Truth happens in light
Darkness takes hero returns
Bless the blind their eyes can see

© Madison Taylor 2008

innocence return - artist jk mccormack (c) JkM 2014

Innocence Return – 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 101.36: Slouching Towards Authordom – Writer, Know Thyself!

shawn mackenzie's editor's corner day monday
Editor’s Corner 101.36
Slouching Towards Authordom – Writer, Know Thyself!
Written by Shawn MacKenzie
Originally Posted on MacKenzie’s Dragonsnest in 2013

Reposted on ‘the secret keeper’
Monday 27th January 2014

101.36

Slouching Towards Authordom – Writer, Know Thyself!

Put down everything that comes into your head and then you’re a writer.

But an author is one who can judge his own stuff’s worth,

without pity, and destroy most of it.

…Colette

Scribe smallI am not going to talk about editing today, not in a usual sense. Today, I want to talk about much more difficult subjects: personal standards and honest self-appraisal.

We live in a world teeming with blogs and tweets, self-published e-books and vanity presses eager to capitalize on the desire for authorial recognition – for seeing one’s name in print.

inUse

When I was a kid, we had the phone book to assuage that overwhelming urge, now it’s the wilds of Cyberia!

Cyberia

This is nothing short of remarkable. In a generation, we writers have entered a technological paradise, in which every person with a computer can not only write, but be read by legions of total strangers. Kudos are just a keystroke away, and beyond that the brass ring of potential discovery. It is when in the midst of more adulation than one gets at Christmas dinner that we must be most unsentimental with our own critical faculties. For, while new Cyberian paradigms let us flirt shamelessly with fame and fortune, they also entice us into slow-dancing with rampant self-indulgence.

(A diary, as Oscar Wilde said, is sensational train reading, but it is still a private thing, not shouted from the rooftops. Personally, I think we could use a little Victorian decorum back in our public lives.)

diary

The fact is, just as not every tablecloth scrawl Picasso did over a bottle of vin ordinaire is fit for the Louvre, not every thought that flits through our heads is fit for print. That doesn’t mean it’s not delightful and worthy in its own way. It might, like this Editor’s Corner, be well suited to a blog, but not rise to the standards of something for which you’re comfortable asking someone to lay out their hard-earned cash.

Picasso-Dachshund

And that’s ok. In the 21st century, the idea of a writer living a hermitic existence is passé at best. Unless you’re Stephen King or Thomas Pynchon, you have to be out there, a visible presence on Facebook and blogging, selling yourself as much as your books. And while we all need to have fun or rant or brag about our new kittens, what we put out there, in whatever form, shapes our public persona and – right or wrong – how people think about our work.

Thus, discrimination becomes the hallmark of our existence. Even before we look for an outside editor or an agent, we must look at our work, clear-eyed and with rigorous honesty, not only as to quality but also as to fit. Remember: while there is room for all sorts of expression in this brave new world, just because something can be sold on Kindle, doesn’t necessarily mean it should be. So know your standards and don’t be discouraged. Good work finds its niche; sometimes that niche is free. And that’s ok, too.

blogging-balancing-niche

In the midst of it all, we balance our at times paralyzing penchant for self-doubt, with an unquestionable need to be realistic about our abilities, creations, and audience. We learn to trust our inner voices, building strength to strength. Then, in our way, we will not have to lament, as Leonardo did, that we “have offended God and mankind because [our] work didn’t reach the quality it should have.”

Leo

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 101.35: In Remembrance of a Writer Past

shawn mackenzie's editor's corner day monday
Editor’s Corner 101.35
In Remembrance of a Writer Past
Written by Shawn MacKenzie
Originally Posted on MacKenzie’s Dragonsnest in 2013

Reposted on ‘the secret keeper’
Monday 20th January 2014

101.35

In Remembrance of a Writer Past…

Words. Words. I play with words, hoping that some combination, even a chance combination, will say what I want.
…Doris Lessing

Scribe smallThere come times when events beyond our control interfere with life and cause us to change plans. It is such a time here at the Editor’s Corner, where the stuff of life must take precedence over the stuff of blogs.

Rather than leave the space empty, though, I give you the words of one far wiser than I, an extraordinary author who died this past weekend: Doris Lessing.

Doris Lessing said once, “I’m just a story teller.” ‘Just’ implies a meager endeavor, and yet what higher calling is there? We should all aspire to be ‘just story tellers’ like she. She’s a difficult writer and, by many accounts, was a sometime-difficult woman, but her prose is clear and provocative, and her advice on reading, writing, and living are nuggets as golden as her Notebook.

Doris

Enjoy.

“A public library is the most democratic thing in the world. What can be found there has undone dictators and tyrants: demagogues can persecute writers and tell them what to write as much as they like, but they cannot vanish what has been written in the past, though they try often enough…People who love literature have at least part of their minds immune from indoctrination. If you read, you can learn to think for yourself.”

“There is only one way to read, which is to browse in libraries and bookshops, picking up books that attract you, reading only those, dropping them when they bore you, skipping the parts that drag-and never, never reading anything because you feel you ought, or because it is part of a trend or a movement. Remember that the book which bores you when you are twenty or thirty will open doors for you when you are forty or fifty-and vise versa. Don’t read a book out of its right time for you.”

“A writer falls in love with an idea and gets carried away.”

11lessing3_600

“You should write, first of all, to please yourself. You shouldn’t care a damn about anybody else at all. But writing can’t be a way of life – the important part of writing is living. You have to live in such a way that your writing emerges from it.”

“A story is how we construct our experiences.”

“You can only learn to be a better writer by actually writing. I don’t know much about creative writing programs. But they’re not telling the truth if they don’t teach, one, that writing is hard work and, two, that you have to give up a great deal of life, your personal life, to be a writer.”

“In the writing process, the more the story cooks, the better. The brain works for you even when you are at rest. I find dreams particularly useful. I myself think a great deal before I go to sleep and the details sometimes unfold in the dream.”

“That is what learning is. You suddenly understand something you’ve understood all your life, but in a new way.”

2D9697990-131117-doris-lessing-hmed-1030a-1_blocks_desktop_tease

“What’s terrible is to pretend that second-rate is first-rate. To pretend that you don’t need love when you do; or you like your work when you know quite well you’re capable of better.”

Private Writings: Chapter #43 — They Say It’s Your Birthday

private writings to a psychoanalyst (c) Jk 2013

Private Writings: Chapter #43 — They Say It’s Your Birthday

Written by Jennifer Kiley
Illustrated by j. kiley
Introduction & Chapter #1
Published on March 19th 2013
Published Early Tuesday AM
Posted On Tuesday 14th 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 #43 — They Say It’s Your Birthday

Tuesday 8th July 2008

Dear Annie,

I want to teach Alison what love is. Safe, protective love, from women who are not abusers of any kind. We love Alison. Scottie as much as I do. It is so equal. Scottie may never have wanted children. When she met Alison, then thirteen, her heart opened. A teenager, whose history was sad and filled with pain. Being abandoned by a father who overdosed in her presence. Tried to get her to shot up with him. Alison’s mother died the same way, but earlier. Pure horse. Not cut properly. Way too rich and potent. The authorities were going to through her in a home overflowing with violence. The children of the damned whose souls were crushed out. Alison still has her’s. That is one fortunate gift not taken away or ever given.

Everyone needs and deserves to feel love surround them, to feel whole. When I was a kid I didn’t know love. It’s why I understand Alison as well as I do. I do not profess to say I even come close to understanding what’s really inside of her but I want to know if she ever wants to share. Learning about love is almost as fresh with me as it is with Alison. She will teach me more than I will ever be able to teach her, but it will be good for all of us to be a family, safe and secure for Alison, Scottie and me. It will feel good to be family in a legal sense.

We never adopted her before now. The laws prevented the adoption. Now Scottie, pulled strings and got a judge on her side. The three of us met privately in Judge Severin’s chamber. The paperwork had been filed. It was a matter of tidying up all loopholes. No one would be able to challenge the adoption on appeal or out of malicious homophobic prejudice.

Did I ever tell you Alison met me first. I was doing research in the Family Court for a script. Alison’s case was called before Judge Severin. It was a tragic situation about to become worse. No family came forward to claim her. No foster home wanted her. She was a runaway. Too young to be on her own, she was coaxed, more like forced, by a pimp to be his young protégé. He kidnapped her and was forcing her to take on this brutal John. Alison was trapped but intelligent. When she was alone with the brute in a hotel room, she set off such an alarm, every public servant seemed to show up. The police were among them. Everyone was arrested, including the pimp and the brute he was going to force upon Alison.

Here she was now, being arraigned on charges of prostitution. She pleaded not guilty. The Judge ordered her to be held until trial in the L.A. County Juvenile Facility. I had heard terrible stories about that place. I stood up and asked to speak. Judge Severin recognized me and gave me permission to state my case.

“I don’t think it is necessary to remand her to being imprisoned in such a cruel setting as the L.A.J.F.. Is there any alternative you would accept?”

“Short of finding a home, where someone will look after her and be sure she appears before this court for her hearing. No, I see no other recourse.” Judge Severin banged her gavel.

“One moment, please. Let me state for this court, I am willing to offer the home you suggest. And I will take the responsibility of seeing she appears before you when her next court date is set. Is that fair enough, your honour.”

I must have been pretty persuasive or the Judge was in a generous mood.

“You may take her home with you on the following conditions. You see she is safe. You take it upon yourself to promise to take good care of Ms. Alison Porter. You promise to read a brief I am going to share with you. I want you to know what kind of responsibility you are bringing into your life. If that is acceptable and after you read her history, you still want to take her home, then I will not stand in your way with any objections.”

Sure enough, I sat in the courtroom and read the material from the Judge. Alison was led away to a waiting area. Food and drink were provided her while she waited. It didn’t take long. I am a speed reader. Nothing in the brief scared me, as I suspected the Judge thought it would.

“I agree with all your demands, your honour. Please have someone take me to Alison and let me tell her the news. From there, if she is willing, I would like to get the girl home, in a safe environment for the first time in her life. And make her feel welcome in my home, which will be her home.”

The officer of the court led me to the room where Alison was waiting. She jumped up when she saw me enter. She wasn’t exactly hostile but she wasn’t trusting either at my offer. I tried talking to Alison, as we road to our home in Matthew, my black Honda CRV. Always named my cars. It makes me feel much safer if they have names.

“Alison, I think you will like where I live. It’s very large. You will have your own rooms. They will be in your control. If you don’t want someone in any of them, just say the magic words, ‘Go away, I want to be left alone.’ You are going to be living there, so you should treat it like home.”

“It isn’t going to be my home, so why should I act like it is?”

“Why don’t we wait to talk about this? Once we arrive, you may feel different. After you get settled and have a good meal, you may start to relax and see everything differently. No pressure, though. I can’t wait until you meet Scottie. We live together. Scottie is a woman, just in case the name might have made you think otherwise.”

“You’re lesbians?”

“Yes, actually. Quite the lesbians, we are.”

“Will that be a problem?” I asked.

“No, not at all.”

Alison’s voice sounded relieved. I thought, Annie, when I answered yes to the lesbian question, I wasn’t too sure how she was going to react. I was relieved by Alison’s reaction myself. It felt like the tension had escaped from inside of us both. But I hadn’t told Scottie yet, what had I done? I treat Alison like a puppy dog and now I am going to seek Scottie’s permission to keep her. There wasn’t anything else I could do. Yes, I could have texted her but not the same thing. With Scottie, it had to be in person. There was no time to think, I just knew I had to reach out to this innocent girl. Her life had been a tragedy up to this point. I read the Judge’s brief. It was enough to know I couldn’t walk away and I knew, somehow, Scottie would understand and feel the same.

With my childhood, Scottie learned how some children bearly survive their nightmares, especially when they are so real. She will understand my wanting to protect Alison. I felt so strong a need to rescue her, whether she wanted to be or knew she needed to be.

As I drove over the bridge to our drive, I saw Scottie out by the stream across from+ the side of the Chateau. She saw Matthew approaching and me driving but I don’t think she noticed the passenger. I pulled up to park in my usual place near the front door. Scottie ran up to greet me. After I got out, I hugged Scottie. As we held each other, the passenger door opened. Out came Alison, starring at the two of us. Scottie turned when she heard the car door close.

Alison stared at us both. It was not a stare of contempt but just the opposite. She broke out a small smile and in a low voice said, “Hi,” to Scottie.

“Hello back.” Scottie broke our hug and went to the other side of the car to greet this new young girl in our driveway. “Welcome.” Scottie took Alison’s hand and gave it a warm, firm shake. “Would anyone like to introduce us?”

I did the introductions and we all walked over to the front door and entered our home together. Alison didn’t know that then, nor did any of us. But it did happen. That was the first day of Alison coming to stay forever. Now we are officially able to adopt her. Already, she is our daughter in all the right ways and in other ways.

It is a good thing that we all officially become family. It will give Alison as well as myself a safer sense of security. I think Scottie loves the idea as much as the rest of us. We are going to be Alison’s mothers in writing, in all legalize. Happy Mother’s Day, Scottie, and a Happy Mother’s Day to myself.

I always wished when I was a kid that someone like me would come along and rescue me from my nightmare. Never did happen. But now I have Scottie and Alison. Our wonderful loving family. All ours. No one can pull us apart. We are all safe together. And the adoption happened on a very special day for Alison. It’s her birthday. Happy Birthday to you, Alison. Welcome to our whole family now.

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 will 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.”

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

Love Fondly,

Madison

@-;—

© madison taylor 2008

happy-birthday-pw

Somewhere In Time – John Barry

Early Purple Orchids

Early Purple Orchids

rain in garden gif

Dreaming Memories
By Madison Taylor
8th July 2008
Dedicated to C.D.
A Very Special Friend
Touched with Words of Inspiration

Dreaming memories
Sweet sadness talking
Tears falling
Clouds darkening
Night approaching

Dreaming memories
Ones I want
Grass beneath us
Warm breeze
Sounds fading

Dreaming memories
Glowing flowers
Blue green yellow
Thorns vanished
Horns blasting

Dreaming memories
Wishing you were there
Haunted thoughts
Vanished shadows
Danger surrounded

Dreaming memories
Carousel horse
Uplifted to meet it
Alone riding
Stoned writing

Dreaming memories
Honesty revealed
Shadows dancing
Always younger
Going back there

Dreaming memories
Connection made
Distance possible
Stopping nothing
Waves crashing

Dreaming memories
Spying lying
Touching taking
Save a soul
Makes a Savior

© madison taylor 2008

Faces - by Jk McCormack (c) JkM 2014

Faces – by Jk McCormack (c) JkM 2014

“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 101.34 — Brass Tacks in a Box of Paper Clips

shawn mackenzie's editor's corner day monday
Editor’s Corner 101.34 — Brass Tacks in a Box of Paper Clips
Written by Shawn MacKenzie
Originally Posted on MacKenzie’s Dragonsnest

Reposted on ‘the secret keeper’
Reposted on Monday 13th January 2014

101.34
Brass Tacks in a Box of Paper Clips

Trifles make perfection, and perfection is no trifle.
― Michelangelo Buonarroti

Scribe smallA 14th-century traveler parks his camel on the banks of the Euphrates. The water is wide and easy and teeming with fish. But what sort? Would our traveler use a line or a net – perhaps his bare hands? How would he cook his catch? Does it matter?

The short answer is, “Yes!”

Euphrates

Euphrates

As storytellers, we laud our ability to build worlds whole and breathe life into pen-and-ink characters. We ask our readers to believe at times the most extraordinary things. For this to work, we have to remember that stranger our tales, the more they must be grounded in something familiar.

I write fantasy. I dance around dragons and unicorns, kitsune and mystical yeti crabs. I explore unknown planets and long-forgotten civilizations. Nothing pleases me more than when people say they believe my Dragons are real, when they can imagine walking through Dragon Country and being surprised and delighted by the scaly habitants. While some of this comes from my personal conviction about Dragons, that alone would fall flat if not backed up by plausible science, history, and cultural anthropology.

River time

In other words, even our most imaginative fictions – especially our most imaginative fictions – must have an intimate relationship with facts. And establishing that relationship demands research.

This is not always easy. Even in the Internet age, when libraries and museums from every corner of the world are literally at our fingertips, getting details about time and place, costume and manner, spot on can be harder than one might think. Right now, I have been pulling my hair trying to solve the question of that 14th-century angler. As an editor of crossword puzzles, I pride myself on being able to research anything, but this has been giving me fits.

r_01_____________________________________________t400

True, I can always go generic. A nice fish grilled over an open fire whets the appetite regardless of species. And, for a while, I was so discouraged about the lack of available information, I seriously thought about going that route. Then, this afternoon (Monday afternoon), I had one of those marvelous “Eureka!” moments that elicited an audible sigh of relief from my near-tonsured pate.

050302

In the midst of lists of species names (in Latin, of course), cultural and environmental histories, and free-association googling, I came across a wonderful story about the sacred carp of the Euphrates, a barbel fish not only revered but also known to grant wishes! I had discovered an indigenous fish both tasty and full of fanciful possibilities. For my purposes it was perfect.

As helpful as this was to me, carp or bluegill, the point I am trying to make in my round about way, is that you don’t have polar bears chasing Robert Falcon Scott across the Ross Ice Shelf or have your heroine catch a train from Kings Cross to St. Ives. Eros – Anteros, to some – looks down on Piccadilly Circus,

eros

and, as Bohemian as Montmartre is, it’s actually on the Right Bank of the Seine, not the Left. (The stepped hills are a dead giveaway.)

Terrace-of-a-Cafe-on-Montmartre-(La-Guinguette)

Little things in a story’s bigger picture, but the sort of things which give veracity, especially when dealing with actual places, events, and/or people. And veracity makes people believe. The last thing you want is to ruin the spell of your story by a nagging error of fact. It would be as bad as if a Rolex flashed from Chuck Heston’s wrist as he chased Stephen Boyd around the hippodrome.

BEN HUR

So, put in the time, do the research, and double check Wikipedia with an independent source. In the end, even if you have such a superfluity of information that you bury most of it in your personal notes, it will still infuse your prose. It will still matter.

Dissection