Archive for the ‘ Literal ’ Category

Love Hard & Live Strong

Thursday, September 8th, 2011

Just because it’s Facebook, doesn’t mean it’s trite.  Without it, I would have never found out about my old co-worker passing away earlier this year.  His wife had posted a photo of his gravestone and it stared at me with a starkness that made my heart ache.  Adrianne was his name but he spelled it Adrian back then.  His nickname was Zenmaster.  He was wise beyond his years and although he was younger than me and technically I was his supervisor, I endearingly called him Kuya which means brother in my native language, Tagalog.  He was silly and funny, thoughtful and serious at times.  He held a presence that was so endearing, I couldn’t help but think of him as my brother, albeit only a work one.  I remember when he told me about his wife.  I was heading towards a divorce then, and although I was so alone,  I wasn’t too bitter to be so happy for other people falling in Love.  Even though they had known each other for years, because he was at the doorway of a very grand Love, he was excited and nervous.  So much so that he actually asked me for advise – where to take his lovely Trixy or what to get her.  His excitement and nervousness it reminded me that Love is like that.  It can shake you to the core.  It SHOULD shake you to the core if you are open and vulnerable enough which Kuya seemed to always be.  That’s the thing about vulnerability and openness, it actually takes strength.  If you are really strong, you have nothing to hide.

I’m so grateful to have known such a beautiful soul. May you rest in peace, Kuya.

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What Makes Me Feel Most Alive

Thursday, July 21st, 2011

I had a great conversation with a newish but close friend today and like all conversations with her, it jumped started my creative muscle and instantly ideas spawned ideas and old ideas were happily welcomed as they resurfaced like some long ago pair of beloved shoes forgotten in the back of the closet.  I love that feeling – of connection, synergy, the energy of creativity and desire of something to be born.  I also realized how long it had been since I had written or done something creative on a regular basis since my 365 project.

I also told her about something that most people don’t know about me which seems to have gotten stronger.  I cry when I feel a connection with another human being and their love for something, anything – their family, their kids, their passions.  When I talk to people and they are openly honest, something happens that I cannot seem to control.  My heart opens and the tear duct floodgates open.  This usually comes with feelings of embarrassment.  I try to hide it and am grateful when I have a pair of sunnies on or are turned away from that person.  It even happens on the phone!  Seriously.  There isn’t even an emotional or mental connection about it.  I don’t have recollections of anything.  It kind of … just. happens.  Am I alone in this?

Then I thought about why I haven’t written on any of my numerous blogs.  Why I haven’t unmasked myself by letting the zeros and ones fling themselves out into the ether to make it known to particularly no one: We are all alone, together and to me, this is so beautiful, it makes me cry.

Consider this my way of resurrect (on this blog) the way I used to write in my old blog, LaughingRhoda- a journal of sorts, musings and tidbits of things that remind me of how incredibly amazing it is to be alive and to *feel* something, anything.

This piece certainly made my heart sing and so grateful to be alive:

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364/365 Days: Dream on

Friday, January 7th, 2011

Dreams
by Langston Hughes

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

210/365 Days: Strange fruit

Friday, August 6th, 2010

I paid for a speeding ticket today and took this shot in front of the courthouse.  I then got into the car and heard a very disturbing account of the famous lynching in Marion, Indiana and the photograph that was taken of it.  The photograph later inspired the following poem, a book and a song most famously sung by Billie Holiday.

The story drew me in because I happen to be using the book, Strange Fruit, to create some of my book flowers.  I didn’t even really know what it was about – it was just an old vintage book falling apart that I picked up at a bookstore and thought it could be upcycled.  The story made me cringe and when I got home to write this, I looked at this photo and it made me feel so many mixed things – about the U.S., inequality, the dream, the opportunities, the opinions, human nature – all the grays of it, and all at once.

Red, white and blue.  A piece of cloth with so much meaning sewn into it over the years.  To me, it looks like a faraway unreachable dream high above a cold steel “tree” in this photo.  There’s also a graspable rope with which we are responsible for.  What will we do with it?  Will we hang ourselves or bring the dream of what we all want closer?

"I like to see a man proud of the place in which he lives. I like to see a man live so that his place will be proud of him." ~Abraham Lincoln

Strange Fruit by Abel Meeropol

Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black body swinging in the Southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
Pastoral scene of the gallant South,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolia sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh!
Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.

Strange Fruit by Billie Holiday

209/365 Days: Poker face

Thursday, August 5th, 2010

Card Game by A.D. Hope

Club, diamond, heart and spade,
Under these the game is played.
Warfare, wealth, love and death
Dominate our every breath.

Players are not free to choose
Suit assigned nor hand refuse
Dealt them, careless of their skill
Shuffled blindly, well or ill.

Wealth I had no talent for;
Lacked all aptitude for war;
Death at most might set me free;
Hearts were always trumps for me.

"Life consists not in holding good cards but in playing those you hold well." ~Josh Billings

"Life consists not in holding good cards but in playing those you hold well." ~Josh Billings

124/365 Days: Flashy whites

Tuesday, May 11th, 2010

I was feeling romantic and poetic listening to the rain. It’s very cold here. Winter turned it’s black horse around and crept back in for one last kiss.

Flashy Whites by Rhoda Lazo
Your smile is brighter than a flash of budding blooms
Fragile petals quivering in the cold rain of an early Spring
Stubbornly proud it screams, “I am here. What now?”

It slows the steps of many passing by
Taken in with the scent of resilient joy.
I’ve witnessed it bring stupefied silence, even to those with noisy heads.

On dark days, the light of it spreads across the whole city
Like a shock of colour in the cheeks of those that are surprised.
A bolt of sudden beauty I endure all Winter for.

365 Days – Day 056 “When Darkness Comes”

Friday, March 5th, 2010

This is one of my favorite poems of all time and I read it whenever I feel dark and sad.

Darkness by Lord Byron

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went -and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light;
And they did live by watchfires -and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings -the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed,
And men were gathered round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other’s face;
Happy were those which dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanoes, and their mountain-torch;
A fearful hope was all the world contained;
Forests were set on fire -but hour by hour
They fell and faded -and the crackling trunks
Extinguished with a crash -and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them: some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnashed their teeth and howled; the wild birds shrieked,
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawled
And twined themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless -they were slain for food;
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again; -a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought -and that was death,
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails -men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devoured,
Even dogs assailed their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famished men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the drooping dead
Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answered not with a caress -he died.
The crowd was famished by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heaped a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage: they raked up,
And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other’s aspects -saw, and shrieked, and died -
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless -
A lump of death -a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirred within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropped
They slept on the abyss without a surge -
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The Moon, their mistress, had expired before;
The winds were withered in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perished! Darkness had no need
Of aid from them -She was the Universe!

And this is something I wrote just now to honor this time and space that makes me human:

When Darkness Comes by Rhoda Lazo

On dark heavy days, when I feel the weight of humanity,
I wear it.
I don’t like to turn towards the light and pretend that darkness doesn’t exist.
If it wasn’t for the dark, we wouldn’t know light.  And so,
I hold it.
As if it were a baby that has no mother or father,
Crying to be carried and loved.
I welcome it.
And it embraces me to choking tears, enveloping my world until morning.
But while it is here revealing all that I need to feel,
I make it mine.
Because it is and everyone’s too.

"The soul would have no rainbows if the eyes had no tears." ~Native American proverb

"The soul would have no rainbows if the eyes had no tears." ~Native American proverb

365 Days – Day 030 “Frida? Hmm… Today”

Sunday, February 7th, 2010

“i miss painting. i will paint again. i love the reckless abandon of it – time lost and color gained. i love the feel of paint on my fingers, the greasy liquid film that binds me to the canvas. i love the quiet music, late nights, early morning who knows. i love just going with where things go because they are already there. i love poetry too. the words emerge like a painting does. like pulling something you lost long ago in some shallow river. i love the recognition of it coming together. old friends, now new.”
~ Rhoda Lazo, 5 February 2010

I wrote this the other day during my daily one page free writing exercise. I miss painting so I played around with some colors today. I also finally hung up this painting of Frida I’ve had for a very long time. She stares at me every day waiting for me to paint. Every day she invites me to be lost in time and color to the place that is beyond sorrow and beyond thought. A place one would imagine Freedom to be.  I tell her I’m afraid of blankness – it’s too many possibilities for one human heart to fathom.  But she stares knowing that it’s a silly excuse. We have more strength, more desire, more indescribable drippy stuff to pour out than fear. I promise her I will visit her in that special place more and more, starting today.

“I tried to drown my sorrows, but the bastards learned how to swim, and now I am overwhelmed by this decent and good feeling.” ~ Frida Kahlo

365 Days – Day 24 “These Hands Of Mine”

Monday, February 1st, 2010

Today’s post is an ode to my hands, as they are right now, the things they have done and have yet to do.  And they are also an ode to my love’s hands who held my face 20 years ago when he kissed me for the very first time. I wrote this poem just before we reconnected last year.  I found it today as I was preparing for the Pecha Kucha talk I’m doing next week on Little and LOUD International which explains the rest of the photos of my day (I also made dinner which was more than roasted seeds!).  My talk is about following your passion, the universe supporting your commitment, trust in timing and having fun connecting the dots when looking back.  When I found the poem, like a never-ending mirror effect, everything about the day, my talk, my life thus far came together to mirror each other.

This poem was in one of my journals and the page directly after the poem was an entry written in the skies en route to SE Asia where I traveled last year for Little and LOUD.  It was the day after the weekend we fell in love again.  I remember crying on the plane while I was writing my journal entry because I was getting farther and farther away from my love and his beautiful strong hands that have grown and been strengthened by life in the 20 years we were not together.  He is by far my favorite story the lines of my hands can tell.

i'm grateful for the possibilites at the end of my fingertips

Princess Mia and the Gallant Dragon, Mister

Monday, September 21st, 2009

I wrote this story for my niece Mia. I am working on illustrations to make it a complete storybook.

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