Gathered


A small semi-rural town graced, because of its remoteness with its own schools. Two small buildings clustered together where on this weekend there will be a celebration. There are water, and mountains, and expansive forest nearby and the daylight festival will be off of the grounds. The numbers attending are tiny and the setting is romantic in a way that 18th and 19th pastoral landscape painters well understood. There are sun and food and blankets spread near each other on a grassed field some of which has gone to wild flowerings. There are trails in the forests, almost as well swept and tended as hallways in some holy fairy story. The blue of the sky curves in a bowl overhead with thin white clouds in the stratosphere above. The monarchs are spun in swarms of orange and black in the air.

The numbers who attend these two small schools are small, growing fewer each year; and this celebrating past graduated class can be counted on the fingers of two hands. Some have remained in the embrace of this small village, raising families, having chi'ldren, tending the tillage. Others will have traveled distances to revisit their origin homes like the salmon of the oceans and rivers swimming nearby to spawn. They greet each other with warmth and embraces while their few chi'ldren run in circles and races. At the invitation's appointed hour they gather together, their name tags fastened on breasts; these years have made changes.


All the names that had been whispered quietly in tears and rage are here; the names that came with smiles of love and kindness, along with dishonor's herself are not in attendance. These are the ones that had been coarse, unkind, envious and brutal at times; these are the ones that the sun speckled shadow on the forest edge will harvest. The small blonde woman dressed in blue jeans and sleeveless floral print cotton shirt moves across the field to the function's picnic lunch. Only she is solitary, and she is taken note of; a few wonder at who might have changed so completely, who had been so petite, who had been so pretty. The whispered words of "No, too small" "Plastic surgery" "Dye job for sure" are exchanged between old competitive and unkind friends. This stranger fits no pattern in the recollections of this particular mur'der of crows.

The name tags glimmer like jewels in the sun, the cheap plastic of the obscured mirror surfaces reflecting what it is that is coming toward them. The small woman, with her long blonde braid has dropped the grey canvas shoulder case in her rapidly increasing bare-footed pace to where her hungered anger will be fed. The two katanas are held wide with her arms extended as decapitated yellow blue and red petals dance and float in the air blending in a shower of love/love-me-not as she rushes in her approach. Her scarlet inked forearm display draws little attention but for one small girl who points and says "Mommy, she is hurt!"

Now, in their midst the glorious display of blood begins; drawn kiru are the morae as each name that had been her dishonor's source in this the remembrance of their pride in youth; 'Bob' echoes as 'one who touched un-permitted', 'Joan' as 'she who cannot be forgiven', 'Kim' as 'she who lied at all times'. They move in slow motion evading their consumption, some bravely to shield the small chi'ldren; she had planned and thought 'What of the genetic trail?' but could not, would not harm future viciousness.

One, the worst perhaps, struggles to dial his cell-phone and 'Leon who had fucked dishonor's face into the shit' stands hand-less for a moment before his morae is writ. There is an end of this. No adult remains, all had played at harm and given pain. The small ones only, stand shocked, crying, stained. 'They will survive, as scarred as I' the blonde angel decides.

The lovely day surrounds this scene of chaos, this long line of seven morae; this middle phrase of sorrow is perfect beneath the hollow sunlight of the inverted blue bowl sky. She walks exhausted her katana cuddled against her shoulders with beams of sharp edged silver shining cleanly back toward the forest edge. Only five more moments of exhalation, where tongue and lips will shape what a life has created, remain for her steeled pens to touch and draw upon silk parchments. The poetry on her arm is dipped deep in red that drips as she leaves our sight from where we sit high on a hill; we are witness.



_______________________________ . ________________________

I tell stories in words and music and pictures; I am a cinematographer for those who read.
- Amanda Graham -

Woven story here - http://fav.me/d57y0iw Quote

The sound of rain beating a melodic tattoo against the window with a percussion of thunder courtesy of Mother Nature.
Light show accompaniment of lighting as well. Quote

The Woman

The woman from whom dishonor birthed is proud and strong, of middle years yet still attractive. She stands in her well-appointed, lovely apartment still in her business suit from her work filled life. She stands at her polished clean shining granite kitchen counter's surface with her day�s mail spread before her unopened. Her polished nails dance a rapid rhythm, and then stop as she looks out the nearby window. There is something in the air that sets her nerves on edge and her perfectly painted face shifts into a frown. She pulls the cream white vase of flowers to her and leans her nose close to take a breath and to see which of these must go. The vase is returned to its proper place and she lifts her chin a bit, to sample more carefully what scent it is. She turns and walks to her living space, where guests sometimes rest and chatter politics over drinks; her nose is her concentration now and she�s following a trail. Her usual expression of composure and control has surrendered to her worry of what might have gone wrong. The strength of this intruding smell is growing with each step; it�s floral in its nature and familiar in its note. Slow steps taken down the dark hallway and to her bedroom door. She reaches to the subtle light set on the wooden dresser, flips the switch and steps within and suddenly she knows.


The petite blonde steps, unclothed amidst a cloud of butterflies, from the shadows and kisses her upon a painted cheek.







Woven story here - http://fav.me/d582pgm

I tell stories in words and music and pictures; I am a cinematographer for those who read.
- Amanda Graham -
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Honor�s End

Words tumble from lips and fingers; morae, kiru, kireji the sharpness and registration of the parting of flesh. Our short story of movements, written in blood and retribution�s loss of lives, travels in the cycle of beginnings and endings. As in that real world surrounding these many morae of our own patterned breaths all is repeats, and places us with dishonor herself.


The figure sits on her bedside, lit only by the glow and flicker cast from the computer used to reach and touch the world, to convince them she is generous and obtain their adoration. It has been weeks now since this horror had begun; she has not slept, she has not fled; the remnants of partial feedings lay shrouded in their commercial packaging on her floor and bed. The night is full upon this city known for its sense of relaxation and appreciation of physical nature. She has remained hidden within this small wooden house in this city that for months she has yearned to escape. Today she had showered, and shaved herself, and tried her long brown hair in many shifting shapes; painted her face in one, and then another, and later the final presentation she would perhaps show to her now many lovers. The purple sleepless shadows beneath her eyes carefully concealed and her lips a bright raspberry to hide the nervousness that the many lies have placed beneath. Outside, on the darkened street men in uniform and street clothes lay hidden and wait; she is bait now for a trap that has been laid, and cautiously set wide, to contain the one that surely comes. She sighs aloud and shifts her shoulders in exhaustion. �Over� is her prayer, �one way certainly, perhaps another.� The sound of the front door alerts her and she rises carefully, restraining the trembling in her legs and the nausea in her stomach. She takes the two steps to her bedroom door and opens it until it bounces softly against the brass stop. She steps into the opening. She sees the beauty of her ending, clad in black with sharpened blades distended. Her once beloved and then surrendered floats in the air in her approach of desire. She kneels then to await, and lowers her chin in submission.


The petite blond halts her charge and stands in preparation. She speaks the five syllables, the final words of this poetry of endings. Beloved dishonor�s name sounds in two buttered tones, followed by the three of clarity, of surrender of forgiveness. �I love you.� There is the gesture, the crossed movement of honor�s way of maneuver, demonstrating this warrior�s final act of reclamation and victory.






Outside of this quiet leaf treed trap the lights are bright, red blue and white. Outside the hunters wait with weapons dark and impersonal. The small black clothed figure with her face bright appears in the doorway and steps forward into night. She drops her shirt where red flowers flow loose. Fireflies burst forth in aching burning beautiful flight to touch and push this small blonde�s wish. �Honor� on her lips.


http://youtu.be/K7IJ15kNVqo

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Woven story here - http://fav.me/d587l8f

I tell stories in words and music and pictures; I am a cinematographer for those who read.
- Amanda Graham -
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let's pretend - Life Of Agony

Lyrics:

In the stillness of the night
My eyes are closed
My mouth is wide
I could see her face
Her beautiful hair
I could recognize
She looks at me cold
She probably don't know who I am
Mommy it's me
It's Keith
You had me back when
But sometimes I like to pretend
That she knows me
That she holds me
I quess I can't
Because she doesn't know who I am
My mind it's dreaming
God it's so misleading
Do you think it's 'cause I've grown old
Is it true what I was told
You cried to leave me
You know I know it's not your fault
You had a husband who was selfish and cold
Believe me I know
Now I hear you used to treat me cold
You dissappeared and left me all alone
I'm sure you didn't know right from wrong
'cause both of you were always getting stoned
Lalala...

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*cavorts around town while enjoying coktail hour... with flaming cocktails*

Otep - Rise Rebel Resist
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*cavorts around town while enjoying coktail hour... with flaming cocktails*

Otep - Rise Rebel Resist



(grins) great pick Doll - *joins in with a Nordic Flaming BoatDrink* http://youtu.be/mCQhxUEnzwo
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"Asleep At The Wheel" by Working For A Nuclear Free City

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Hummm Johny Cash, Hank Williams, Pistol Annies, Sunny Sweeney, a few fav. artist right now Quote

Hill Where the Lord Hides - Chuck Mangione

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Peaches....Boys wanna be her Quote

'The Blowers Daughter' - Damien Rice

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'The Blowers Daughter' - Damien Rice




I quite like Damien Rice, for a whining male he's got a nice poetic voice; it's his accompanist Lisa though that speeds my pulse. Hell, she's an inspiration to burn a Forum down.


http://youtu.be/vSic9tseaCU - Elysian Fields - Star [welcome to an Elysian playlist]

Yes, I KNOW that's not Lisa Hannigan, silly commentators all; this girl's mouth, my sweet Jennifer Charles, is something well worth all the flames in falling for. Quote

Norah Jones "My Blueberry Nights" Quote

I quite like Damien Rice, for a whining male he's got a nice poetic voice; it's his accompanist Lisa though that speeds my pulse. Hell, she's an inspiration to burn a Forum down.




Yes, I KNOW that's not Lisa Hannigan, silly commentators all; this girl's mouth, my sweet Jennifer Charles, is something well worth all the flames in falling for.



Ahhh, indeed! He is certainly one of the more tolerable ones of his counterparts. As for Lisa? She really makes the song, perhaps even the album. Stunningly beautiful voice.

As for Ms. Charles....I am a sucker for the French ;) Quote

And truth be told I miss you - And truth be told I'm lying

All American Rejects - Gives you Hell

http://www.myspace.com/video/the-all-american-rejects/gives-you-hell/100365250 Quote

The Cult....Fire Woman
Passion Pit....Sleepyhead Quote

The Cult....Fire Woman
Passion Pit....Sleepyhead





I shouldn't do it, I shouldn't do it ... Quote

Compay Segundo,Eliades Ochoa and Ibrahim Ferrer:
Chan Chan


and Gipsy Kings Version of Hotel California
http://www.myspace.com/video/pelajos/hotel-california-gipsy-kings/37134385

Holidays where are ya ? Quote

*hushed**silenced**quieted**confused*



*lost**sleeps**dreams* Quote