Remember
Remember, remember the 5th of November.
To most people outside the UK when I say that there is no recognition of the meaning of what I am saying.
To us Brits, it’s the start of an old nursery rhyme commemorating the capture and subsequent death of a person named Guy Fawkes.
Guy Fawkes was a member of a group of English Catholics who in 1605 tried to blow up the House of Lords by hiding many barrels of gunpowder underneath said house to dethrone the current King.
King James the 1st of England (also King James the 6th of Scotland) was a protestant and English Catholics wanted to replace him with a Catholic ruler by essentially blowing up everybody including the King in the House of Lords.
The ‘Gunpowder Plot’ as it is commonly referred to was foiled on November the 5th when good ol’ Guy was apprehended because of an anonymous letter as he was leaving the cellar where the gunpowder was stored.
He was later tried and convicted of high treason. The sentence was to be hung, drawn and quartered. However when the day came to be executed he threw himself of the scaffold where he was to be hung and died of a broken neck. His body was cut up and sent to different areas to be shown on display.
The celebrations commemorating the foiled attempt are on November the 5th, fireworks and bonfires with effigies of Guy Fawkes are burned and everybody has a good time.
It is kind of like the UK version of July 4th without the pomp and loud cheering of ‘USA, USA’.
It has come under attack throughout the years as being traditionally anti-Catholic for the historical connection, but most people nowadays just accept it for what it is. A chance to burn shit up and see fireworks and eat and drink.
-TDB.
Do You Copy?
I can let a crowd of strangers know exactly what I felt, but become a blank slate when someone ask me what I feel. Even worse, when I finally find words to express them, they're not taken as truth or even sincere. Some people want to communicate, others, just want you to say what they want to hear. Dance around their fears, twist every sentence so they look like the victim of your conviction, but all of this is just a symptom. A cure in their eyes. Watch the birdie, pay not attention to the defense mechanisms behind the iron curtain. Despite being a writer, I'm often at a loss for words. Searching for meaning. I feel like I'm sending dead letters to illiterate feelings and it weighs on me because I let it. My heart will never let me forget it. Even now my writing hand fails me. My words won't reach the one I send them to until they choose to want to hear anything outside of their own mental faculties.
-DCR
Smiling is Universal
In elementary school,
There was a big sign in our
Auditorium that read:
We all smile in the same language.
I never forgot that quote,
As my childhood drifted
To adolescence.
Now, I attend a college where
1/4th of the school population
Consists of international students.
We learn different languages in school,
And I sit next to a Greek and an Indian girl
In my English class.
We are all very different individuals,
And even the poets that I write with
Are from across the United States.
From Los Angeles to Texas
To Connecticut to New York
To new home in Massachusetts,
We connected.
I like to think
Facebook, Twitter,
The Internet,
Are all giant games of
Connect the Dots.
Zigzags are alright,
And writing messages
To friends in India,
Germany, England, France
Is a daily routine.
I don’t believe in language barriers
I only believe in what’s left
To learn, to study, to embrace.
I’ve been fortunate enough
To go to Europe 3 times,
See all 50 states,
Go to Canada and Mexico,
Have friends spread out
From coast to coast.
I have an iPhone that
Can map my current location
And tell me that I’m 2,050 miles
Away from my home base.
Even my cat and I occasionally
FaceTime because I miss my furry friend.
Life is no longer bound
By state lines,
Or post cards or emails.
Life has become instant.
And nothing works as a cure
For homesickness like
Hearing friendly voices
Over invisible phone lines.
Regardless of where I am,
Or who I meet,
Somehow I’ve never forgotten
That we all smile in the same language.
It’s universal for happiness,
So share a smile today.
It may just change the way
We all see the bright, sunshiny day.
-Seraphine The Poet
November 7th, 2013
XXVI
Connections build vibrations, and they travel. I live because I have so many wonderful connections with fantastic people. The power of our speech and that rattle of sound or gesture is amazing. I have always loved anthropology, and I remember learning about the development of the hyoid bone during the process of our evolution--and this changed everything. Symbols transformed into meaning beyond us. Having the power of words is what I think the magic of education and the opportunity that comes with it. Good communication skills can take you to higher hights and empower an individual. Also, stripping someone of their 'voice' does the opposite'--it severs- it takes away, so much. I know when I felt like I did not have a voice-I was empty & lost-especially hurt.
When someone reaches out to me & we travel on the same vibration my spirit ignites. Sometimes we forget how life feels like on fire--and I have been reminded of that lately. To connect: breaks boundaries & forms life lines.
Love will never leave us alone. I like to think of Hercules and his 'lifeline' that shines. We have those, and the brighter we burn the more fulfilled we can all be. The ripple effect of binding of spirits only gets bigger, bigger, and bigger.
One Love
Sunny
“Music can stop time”
-?uest Love
While perusing Facebook this week, I came across a comment from a former acquaintance that read “music sucks. Find something else to fill your days. Go to work, write a book, make your own damn music.” Finding this statement extremely saddening, and more than a little vapid, my first response was to simply block further offerings from this person, as i do not have time for such simplistic and pointless nonsense in my life. However as the day passed, the comment just made me more and more depressed for this person. While i think the point he was trying to make was that people should avoid surviving on the passive observance of others activities , and work on creating more, a point i can support 100%, all i heard was static, and overwhelming sadness.
For me, and so many of the people that i know, music is a large part of what gets us through each day. To the hours stuck in traffic, to working all day for a thankless job, to writing books, stories, articles, and original works, to finding the inspiration to create, and find our own voice, music has been the one constant in all of those situations. Sure, the melodies, rhythm, and timbre change from time to time, but the power to connect people, to bridge gaps in geography and dialect, to bring thousands of strangers together for a brief moment where they all move, feel, and are, as one, is and will always be there.
A life long student, i have, as long as i can remember, searched for a way to better understand the world , and people around me. The grandchild of a doctor, and the child of two brilliant people who devoted their lives to helping others and trying to understanding the brain and what happens to it in different traumatic situations, for me it was poetry and painting that flipped the switch, but it was music that really set me free, and it was music that had been there all along, beating along quietly just like my first drum machine. My Heart.
-Joshua Genius
Material
He had been staring at the “234” next to her name on the list of recent correspondence in his phone when Sarah opened the bathroom door, naked and clean, vigorously working a towel against her wet hair. Oh good, you’re already dressed, she said and moved lightly across the carpet to touch the top of head as she made her way to the bed where her dress lay as if its previous owner had dematerialized. He pressed the screen on the phone and the most recent of the 234 messages from the young French waitress appeared. He didn’t read them. He had them memorized, imprinted in his mind as indelible as their digital impressions. Je te desire... baiser… une caresse… embrasse moi… au poil… permettez-moi de vous… I hope we’re not too late meet the Daniels, Sarah told him, the red silk and spaghetti string enveloping her like paint. He smiled at her and closed his phone. I’m sure they’ll wait, he said and tightened his tie against the button on his shirt. They better if Bobby wants this promotion, she spoke into the mirror where she was applying eyeliner. He’s already got the job, he told her. Does he know? Nope. You just want to watch him squirm. I want him to know I take these things seriously. Sarah gave him a glance under the bristle. You’ve been far too serious lately. You think? I’m not completely incredulous, babe. As the ramifications of her statement seeped into the gray folds of his brain, the phone rattled the surface of the table behind him, the 235th message sent seconds ago by a barely legal bob-haired French girl curled on a divan in a shitty flat some 5,000 miles across a dark ocean. One of the many reasons I love you, Sarah.
-Skitz O’Fuel
