Friday, March 27, 2009

Song of 7 Moons Vado Bujinka

ترس پرتاب امیددرزپوش روح روشن Vado مارادرسایه صرفه جویی بکنیدوبترسیدحالاشمشیر پائین به ) سوی ( گردوخاک خواهدخواندوبچه هاراباجراتتان صرفه جویی کنید

1st part of
folk song sung by children to celebrate fictional heroine Vado Bujinka...

In shadow and fear
now Vado's sword will sing
spirit bright flashing hope

throw down fear into the dust
and save the children with your courage!

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Somebody Special

These days, anything I finish, I work from the end, really; I'm trying to remember, separate what happened from any lie I might have tried to tell in my own, I think it was someone else who doodled this on the paper on my desk:

C ] D
S ] S

Let me think it over. I remember all the kids gathered around; it's Mrs. Lingerfelt's class, I'm in the row by the window. facing the chalkboard, furthest from the door. I was reminded that I was some kind of monster that wasn't supposed to, wasn't allowed to , like anybody.
What YOU said, when it was brought to your attention, though, realizing
I didn't want to discuss me liking anyone with anyone, you came over, looked at it, and said, "well, maybe it means 'someone special.' It didn't matter to you if I wrote it or not. It was kind and insightful.

Gosh, I wished right then, maybe now we could be friends. I thought, she’s smart, too! And kind. That helps you notice the cuteness.
And that’s the problem with not joining the mob to jeer the geek;
he’ll start entertaining the thought of liking you.
Well, I didn't feel like I had but a friend or two then, and I really didn't know how to change that.
I guess the words I was fortunate enough to exchange with people were more precious than I could ever say. I couldn't hold it against anyone if they limited their conversations with me; the hive made everyone's choices subject to criticism.
I mean, I’d go around claiming you as my friend, and if you were a girl, well, that only had ONE meaning, didn’t it? Woe be to the unwillingly linked. Woe be to the unwillingly romantically linked.
Meanwhile, you sit there some days feeling everyone's nervousness and restlessness, and you just wish you could use a little conversation to provide a steady place in it all.
I just agreed, I guess, it was not the nerd's place to come take the center of attention in each clique. It's the nerd's job to be weak, clumsy, sickly, weird looking, poor---just ridiculous necessities, to make up for being able to catch things in class, which was not superior smarts quantatively: it was simply an idealist interest in others, reaching out to the world of ideas for some way to serve and love them. Paradoxically, it's an urge avaliable abundantly to those least aware how to become popular.

Did anyone feel like they fit in? I imagined so. I prayed not to die of embarrassment every day. You find your way someday to the center of everything you understand.

So, in the end, this was about the only nice thing I remember in particular, from the girl whose birthday was the day before my parents’ anniversary. “Some one Special.” Well, Starla, you were right, and now we each have someone special. The end.

Now my next story is about my someone special, whose tale we pick up on the day of our own wedding, ending up, and beginning with, a surprise phone call we made to her parents from Goodland, Kansas...six weeks after we met. You know, that was something we definitely rushed into. That was something we definitely knew we should rush into.

But that story and where we begin is worth savoring, contemplating.
So let us just say, along the way in Kansas we bought a Fantastic Four Magazine, one of a limited run of reprints at the time, leading off with the Doom/ Puppetmaster story from John Byrne's run. Maybe in the course of telling my own story I can share how such a thing might captivate my imagination and provide a much needed rest from trying to worry through the world and maybe we could keep calm and pull this thing off. That was my new bride's first Fantastic Four comic book read, one of the first few ever of my no-less-than several collected varieties of titles.
They were what I found set my state of mind happily stimulated, like nothing else, save when this woman finally came to my life, to my utterly spontaneous surprise.

I'll tell you that one on April 22nd. I just need to enjoy that frame of reference for a while.

Sunday, March 15, 2009


I don't think it'd become the mainstream paparazzi vogue to combine
the names of the two individuals in a couple into one handy, if occasionally
annoying, moniker, representing how closely you identify the two people with one another. (I wonder if polygamist societies exist where people have really long names made of all the people that are married to them?) Yet it wasn't long before I met Eldon, right after meeting Kelli, in the humble settings of the Ryan's in Tuscaloosa, a thought that still leaves me wondering when did we decide to start calling them "Keldon."

You tend not to forget a friend who pretends to gore you to shatter the tedium one Sunday morning by the drink station; to make one's fingers horns and punctuate your friend's remark with an impression of a charging bull should be enough to endear any soul who should, one day outside of childhood, meet you at your place of work and carry your joke back to you in a way that lands your memories at about nine years old? You tend not to forget, if you remember to be young.

We somehow managed to keep the moments interesting, and with not a little intelligent discussion, as if to belie the serious cast of our minds in reflection of the times.

I hope you search with interest for your moments as they come.
Be chill, Cease ill

future where you dream

Time flies, people change, miles to the wind
And the dust b comes stars
As the stars become dust
By your cool lighted face, you inspire my trust

That stone bridge is so old
And the mountains, so deep
As you stand by the city
On my night without sleep

You have daylight in your world---all is possible, it seems
Pass the darkness hours away---in the future, where you dream

How you travelled to find that place long and well,
(As close as your shoulder, yet so far above)
As a Georgia Girl, Love, living stories to tell

On a house of cameras show/Dolphins you swam in the water

Then you grow as the one/Who can raise your daughter

And the dust b comes stars
As the stars become dust
By your cool lighted face, you inspire my trust

That stone bridge is so old
And the mountains, so deep
As you stand by the city
On my night without sleep

You have daylight in your world---all is possible, it seems
Pass the darkness hours away---in the future, where you dream.

Lue Lyron, 3/15/09

Thursday, March 12, 2009

The Thread of Heaven: in memory of the Domies

I was excited we've found each other via the Internet. This is to my friend, Heaven:

your bountiful homemade yarn supply is going to the service of generosity in the coming week. This is how we can be close: let me tell you about the Journey of the Thread of Heaven (which is TOTALLY what the name "Vado Bujinka"'s name means in her culture; see, the person who inspired Vado and her novella most directly & originally is going to receive the first purse made from this dormant thread you share with us. This bit about the name could not have occured without a person who helped create that character in the dormant recesses in my adolescent mind: smart, strong, rebellious, yet with a bohemian austerity and something undeniable as class. A very attractive package.

Now flash forward so many years later, when my unorthodox friends introduced me to their lives openly, in a way dignified, earthy, and enormously stimulative to the imagination. The Dome was a place romantic in character, secreted in the woods, the casual brain child of my friend C. J., who saw it for what it was: the perfect place to create a flesh and blood facebook for anyone cool enough simply not to squeal. It was a nexus to every hip idealized American scene: early 60s New York City, late 60s San Fransisco. Rock and roll---but indeed every kind of music, poem or film, interesting book or personal experience related in the unforgettable sense of his breath and body wash---never had a better friend than "C.J.", who passed on What It's All About, as likely to hit you with a question as a diabtribe there beside San Fransisco concert organizer Bill Graham's larger than life poster, there beside the workstation where he did his jobs and his labors of love with passions that seemed to dictate to him as much as he seriously pursued their scheduling. He was annoyed with the bullshitters who just didn't get how well this world could easily run, but he never believed the world had no place for we the dreamers of the dreams.

His amors throughout life carried on as friends, some living there, others knowing it as a place of safe haven. It was also home to the most earth friendly, spirit-balancing parties I ever found, a more manageable Woodstock of sorts on special days and a quiet place to cycle souls or take in a movie or everyone cook, draw, read, play instruments, whatever the several acres could do to accomodate. No one I often found myself out there, in a place that was the road map of Cool Itself, a place I wanted to live, many times, and my spirit will touch forever. I see why only a few could ever live there at a time: keeping everyone out there spread in homes and lives and opportunities kept an anarchic spirit alive, free from ego trips and cult seige mentality.

I never saw someone
so wounded explore the possibilities of love with greater abandon; I was privileged to have been befriend by so free a spirit. I met science & language students, musicians, travellers, jewelry crafters, activists, babies, families and freethinkers, all blending beyond labels, with conversations full of exploration, punctuated with laughs, windows to the yards where played other ways of life.

One summer a Domie left to explore the language of native Arubans, and I took the occasion of her trip to begin creating for her the first draft of my fantasy, featuring Vado Bujinka, about whose name much could be related, involving Italian and Ninjitsu, and my gentle student experiences engrossing myself with a version of first hand knowledge of both.

Brother Hawk's spirit watches over and communicates mind-to-mind with Vado, particularly as featured in the first five chapters, written as themed by the chakras. His role occurs more on the spiritual plane, encountering more nebulous, analogous types of malevolent beings, as she enters the crystal bearing cave beneath the earth in the sixth and seventh parts. I was inspired by Homer, Conan comic books, and the ecletic music handed to me by Brother Hawk himself for the sake of passing along its sacred power to set a background of joy in our existence.

Strangely, there was an instant of Vado's prayer for her grandmother, which was too painful for my muse; in fact, such a great many of our friends had the story at the disposal, she was at some point convinced her pain had been exploited. (My own maternal grandmother died the November before). There were complexities at work beyond me and my intentions, yet we found some way to talk about it. She encouraged me to keep the story alive anyway, and I believe we may have stayed friends yet another summer. We'd learned so much about giving and how good, the feeling brought by its unattached form.

For seven months recently, my creativity went from a flurry to a slowly grinding, sporadically brilliant performance of less daily consistency. I was happy, but something was very out of tune after August, 2008: I thought we'd come out of Comic Con strong, still creating from completed issues and songs. For me, this gaze into the viscitudes of fortunes in the material world was something to be broken: I tried by putting my stalled interests on hold to become the assistant of Joe Phillips, whom I'd met at Comic Con.

That experience, while yielding some shared meals but no pay and some discouragement, would've been different perhaps if I'd found facebook a week or two earlier; but eventually, that empowered me to great effect. But some ill mystery haunted me when I was alone and not feeling inspired (chalk it up to trying to do it straight all the time). Try as I might, I could not create a comic book, record an album, or write an actual story!

Seven months after the fact, I received the news that the man who'd introduced me to the concept of building a World Access radio channel of brilliant Americana and world music and independent voices, who'd taught me about polyamory, Heinlein, commercial mediocrities and wicked centralization schemes circa 2000 had died without pain of a heart attack in the arms of Vado's mother.

She shares Vado's keen insight and search for lost language (a lost language was the "maguffin' at stake in her solo journey), someone who stuck out grad school and made time to help Brother Hawk grow organic gardens in their new little earthship made by their own endeavors, in the years after the geodesic domicile fell into other hands.

Angela cycled souls with her, loved her as did I, and thanks her for opening the world by her side in a beautiful time. She will make a new purse, after we heard in our reunion with the inspiration for the figure who roamed the Time of Timeless Time with the onomatapeia tongue of Dinkadoo present in the sounds as she climbed and explored the flesh of the Living Land. The purse is meant to carry whatever needs to be remembered.

to d'n'a:

I really hope we can collaborate on the Spanish chapters of my sequel (of sorts; it diverges from ch. 58 on, but incorporates themes that finished the 13 final chapters of Cervantes' original sequel.

I just found our girl S_______ again; that magnificent friend and quasi-adopted family member was wife, in custom, to the one man i considered my older brother, the man that carried the spirit of the 1960s in his life till it ended on a magnificent date, 8-11-08, a beautiful palindrome that spoke volumes about a man who loved to observe dates,who had a heart attack in her arms and left this plane without pain, save for that in wake of his passing.

On 3-11-09 word finally arrives at the Apartment of Ideas, via a facebook "re-friending", to paraphrase my pal Grant. heaven's thread is not only part of a comforting gift, but inspiration to revisit the novella they inspired in 2000, and see the lead character's name, in her own culture, as "Journey of Heaven's Thread", perhaps a more fitting title, even, than the original "The Remote Chance," as in, perhaps, "The Remote Chance she'd end up our girlfriend!

Well, as I've never quite said before, intention, especially while intoxicated with muses and mysteries, plays a lot of tricks like the Coyote Spirit, yet I've never failed to live to see a day when it again all makes sense. you only need look at your daughter to see that proposition take flesh and blood, amen? Things result in our amazement, and life reveals itself to be a happy surprise. But that, is another lead character.

Chivalrously Yours, Cecilbered, and through it will be weaved the Thread of heaven.

Finally, to Vado:

Thank you for letting me see into your world! Thank you for telling me to be bold and open up! Thank you for sharing with me the Dome Tribe.