Loneliness
Befriendin’ Loneliness
And – it creates Emptiness
Growin’ the Hole
When you summon up your Soul,
Yet – Loneliness is not Heartless
Because Heartless is emotionless
And – when you’re not Heartless
It’s not yet hopeless,
Like a Tyrant – it enslaves
Cloudin’ you with Boredom
Freezin’ your Souls
Puttin’ away your Freedom,
But – that’s not emotionless
Since it’s not yet hopeless,
And – it squeezes your Mind
Takin’ away your Kind
And – it stirs your Art
Deceivin’ your Heart,
That’s Loneliness
And – it’s not yet hopeless
Since it’s not emotionless
Because it’s not yet Heartless,
But – Loneliness is the Night
Your Heart tries to hide
Helpin’ your Mind to grow
And then – you can know,
That – Loneliness is not Heartless
Because Heartless is emotionless
And – when there is no Emptiness
It’s not yet hopeless.
©DominicCouture2015

Dear Readers,

As a writer, editor, researcher, and hopeless bibliophile I get the opportunity to interact  with people from all over the world.  This is the part of the bardic tradition I love most; to hear new stories.  Each person I come to know has a unique human experience to share.

Today I’d like to introduce you to a brilliant young linguist named Dominic.  We met through a Facebook page dedicated to students taking a Coursera linguistics class.  I was in geekgirl heaven, I was there exchanging pleasantries with people from countries around the world.  We were all discussing our strengths and goals in multilingual fluency, when I offered to assist any of the ones who were asking for help in becoming more fluent in American English.

Dominic instantly took me up on my offer, and we began conversing.  I was at first completely blown away by his fluency.  A native French speaker, Dom is a university student from Quebec.  He’s incredibly fluent in English, and part of that is thanks to a gift from an unexpected source: Asperger’s syndrome, a neurological condition on the Autism Spectrum.

Dom’s disease has often made him feel isolated, and that is reflected in the poem above.  He’s often told me that he feels a little less lonely since we’ve become friends.  I truly enjoy getting to know this vivacious young man via instant messaging.  He is fascinated by all things linguistic, and in that we have a common interest.

I hope that by sharing his poem and our random meeting through a shared interest you might be inspired to reach out to someone in turn.  It costs you absolutely nothing to be kind, and the reward is great.  A candle’s light is never diminished when it’s flame is shared.  Be a light.

 

Thanks for reading!

the groovyone

 

Advertisements

 

maskIt’s just window dressing, you know.

All the makeup, your perfect hair.

The photos of you smiling brightly.

Yours is a damaged soul, twisted and bent.

In the name of love you destroy what is sacred.

Vicious lies drip from your forked tongue.

Does your reflection deceive you?

Does your mirror show decency, and goodness?

Pride and envy; poisons coursing through your veins.

Don’t mistake money for worth, dear.

You think you create beauty, but it’s only skin deep.

An illusion to hide the ugliness within.

The facade will fade and crumble with time,

And you will be left with glitter that was never gold.


First of all, I’d like to apologize for my hiatus.  I’ve been in something of a funk, and my words and my thoughts haven’t wanted to match up at all.  Rather irritating, really, but what can ya do? So, today I decided to just try to get what’s been on my mind out, and forget about whether it’s good or bad; just write.  So let me lay it on ya.

I’m disgusted, confused, and worried about the world around me.  I truly do feel like The Fool on the Hill.  Maybe I’m just seeing the world through new eyes, and what I see saddens me.  As a mom, I want the best future possible for my children, and like almost every other mom I know, I teach my kids to eat healthy, obey the law, be free thinkers, self sufficient, intelligent, caring, and responsible human beings.  Then I find out that the food I feed them contains GMO’s that are slowly killing them, the country I love is now allowing the arrest of CHILDREN for insanely inane offenses, murderers go free, and women defending themselves from attack go to jail.  I am not religious, as I’ve stated before, but I am spiritual, and let me tell ya, this is wearing on my soul.

My kids pick up other people’s litter, gladly, I might add, because as I’ve often told them: “Mother Nature and I had a talk, and she doesn’t like that at all!”  So, they do their part, we recycle, we conserve energy, the whole shebang.  How can I look them in the eyes and tell them that it will honestly help save our planet from certain destruction?  It makes me angry, honestly, to think that no matter what morals I try to instill in them, they will still grow up in a place that allows, no, ENCOURAGES, selfishness, hate and greed!

We don’t watch the news in our house, in fact, my children are very strictly moderated on what I will let them view.  It has to be something that will build their characters, and they won’t find that on regular TV.  We don’t even have cable *GASP!!!*  I monitor their reading material, encouraging them to read classics over many modern children’s books.  I will joyfully give them the original Grimm’s Fairy Tales and reject current popular series.  If my kids want to read Greek mythologies, I infinitely prefer Homer to Percy Jackson.

Sometimes it feels as if I’m fighting a losing battle, but I continue to push history over current fads.  I often wish I could time warp back to pre-Industrial Age life.  It seems as we progress technologically, we regress in humanity.  Political correctness runs amuck, cruelty abounds, and we humans have forgotten how to live in harmony with the Earth that sustains us.  We’ve poisoned her waters, and land.  The air is so polluted we have smog level alerts!  What is wrong with this picture?

Does anyone else feel that Gaia will erase the human race from the face of the Earth sooner than later?  We eradicate pests from our homes, why wouldn’t She?  The Old Gods are gone, and with them, man’s responsibility and fear of what is greater than us.  I’ve rejected religion as a whole, having read enough “sacred texts” to dizzy me.  In my eyes, they are simply stories, like any other books.  I feel like I can be closer to a Higher Power of any kind in my own heart than by following rote and dogma.  All I have to do is be outside, and I am closer to zen than I ever was in any church.  Nature isn’t hypocritical, nor is it biased.  The Earth doesn’t care what color I am, nor where I shop, eat, what I read, what I believe; Nature just IS.

Maybe that’s where my funk comes from.  As a Cancer, I’m finely tuned to emotions, the moon, the stars, and the world around me.  I feel Gaia’s pain physically at times.  When I drive through the countryside I grew up and instead of seeing fields of green and gold, unbroken and flourishing, I see derricks, “fracking” in every other plot of earth.  Where I used to be proud of my dietary choices, I now fear them, never knowing what’s truly in the food I’m serving my kids.  Even water is suspect anymore.

I could go on and on about the things that worry my heart lately, but I won’t.  I just needed to get some of it out of my head, because the tumbling around of ideas and thoughts has gotten me down.  If I’ve offended anyone with this post, I am sorry, but I am earnest in my feelings.  It seems as if the answers I’m looking for are just out of reach, the more I research, study, and think the greater my dismay becomes.  I’m almost there, this groovychick will never be satisfied with the easy answer, as my insatiable thirst for truth grows greater by the moment.  Being an Oracle isn’t as easy as it sounds, ya know.

Until next time,

groovy


What did you think you’d be when you grew up?  Did it change over time?  Did you achieve that dream?  Are you still working on it?  These are simple questions we all face in life.  Here are my answers.  A famous Author.  No, I’ve always yearned to tell stories.  Yes, actually, I think I have.  Yes, I am still working on it, I’ve not published any great work yet, but I’m getting there. All of my life, I’ve been captivated by stories.  Words draw me, like a moth to the flame.  I wonder very often, if every writer sees random strangers and makes up entire scenarios in their heads about these people they will possibly never even interact with?  Am I the only one who has several conversations with people in their head while talking to that person?  My kids find it amusing when I turn and expect them to know exactly what I am talking about, because in my mind, we’d already discussed it.  They just smirk and say, “Mom, you never said that.  You probably just thought it.” It can be rather embarrassing at times, I can assure you. I like to think that I’m fairly mentally competent, though I’d hardly call me “normal” or even “sane”.  I crave information like a junkie needs a hit.  I’m scatterbrained and distracted to an extent that my kids also have a quip for that.  My oldest calls it “Shiny Rock Syndrome”.  The Clones also have a great time trying to outsmart me.   They know that I’m only distracted because I’m actually thinking or doing a half a dozen other things in that same moment.

Lately, I’ve noticed how many things in this life are connected, and I’m virtually exploding with ideas.  Novellas scratch out in my brain, faster than I can even write them down.  Others have suggested that I record myself, as the plots formulate.  Frustrating as hell.  Unless I have an audience, I can’t simply speak my thoughts.  I keep my laptop with me at all times, because only by typing can I actually get the words up there to a page somewhere.  I’m struck by inspiration, but it’s fleeting.  Only if I sacrifice myself upon the altar of the Muses; my greatest sacrifice being total devotion to the act of expression, am I able to think clearly again and attend my daily activities with a somewhat regular routine.

This all means my entire focus in life is shifting.  My greatest nemesis is my own guilty conscience.  As a Mama, my children are my only reason for being.  As a writer, the tale is all important.  Until recently, I’ve short-ended my innate talent, repressing myself at every turn.  So, I’ve decided to shake things up a bit.  No one, least of all me, really imagined I would ever actually DO that which makes me happiest.  Not seriously, anyway.  Over the past year, I’ve gone from being a housekeeper/factory worker to a book dealer/freelance author.  In my heart, I’m already a success.  I get to share my love of all things literary with the world, I get to read to my heart’s content, and get paid to invite  others step into my alternate reality.  Pretty groovy, isn’t it?

I am currently researching the incomparable Charles Dickens.  He has inspired so much of the literature I’ve read, as well as being a genius in the arena.  I’ve immersed myself in all things Dickensesque.  It seems that he has always been one of those great connections in my life.  As a young reader, I tore through the pages of Oliver Twist and David Copperfield.  I logically, at least in my mind, followed Dickens with Poe, Longfellow, the Bard of Avalon, Hugo, Chaucer, and so on.  Each of these, turned me on to others.  Like I said, for me, the alphabet was like a gateway drug.  Successively, my Ma grew tired of monitoring my bibliomania.  I always kept it harmless, never acting on anything negative that I read.  Therefore, she allowed me to delve into any subject my greedy mind desired.

I always come home to my personal favorites, however, and my bookcase is rather eclectic.  On it you will find everything from Classic Greek Mythology to serial killer true crime stories.  I generally stay away from what I consider smut books, but have a guilty pleasure section that includes Anne Rice in all of her incarnations, including erotica.  That woman can make the word “mud” sound sexy if she applies herself to the task, I am convinced.

Mr. Dickens changed the world, one story at a time, and I pray that someday, someone will feel the same way about me.  I don’t deny that I wish, like every other poet, novelist, etc., that my name will go down in infamy; but I’ll settle with knowing that I am using my talent to follow in Charles’ footsteps,  and trying to make life a little better for those who can’t help themselves, but keep trying anyway.

So, as I’ve said before, I’ll change the world, one book at a time, and I’m going to love every single second of this completely awesome opportunity to test my mettle. Hopefully, I’ll have what it takes, if not, as Daddy always said, “I’ll always have thought I should’ve.”

Until we meet again,

groovychick

My Dear John Letter, Part 1:  Meet the Beatles

 

English: John Lennon and Yoko Ono
English: John Lennon and Yoko Ono (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

English: John Lennon Deutsch: John Lennon
English: John Lennon Deutsch: John Lennon (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

When I was three years old, John Lennon died.  That day is forever etched in my mind an imprint that has lasted a lifetime.  Let me set the scene for you.  Picture a little girl, with long brown hair. chocolate brown eyes, and cheeks just chubby enough to need to be pinched by every female over the age of forty.  She sits before a console television, watching Sesame Street.  Suddenly, a very stern looking man flickers before her eyes; he is very grave.  She cocks her head in interest.  This is new.  This is important.  Big Bird was important, and so was learning to read.  And counting.  And singing.  Kassie loved Sesame Street.  She loved the Muppets.

 

This very sad looking man was announcing that someone had died.  A man named John Winston Lennon.  Kassie was a great reader, Mama said so, even at three years old, she has learned to observe so many things around her and absorbs those observations like a sponge, for later need.  I never questioned my inquisitiveness, Mama never saw it as anything other than a gift from the goddess her daughter was named after.  I truly believe that, Mama.  Thank you.

 

John’s picture appeared next and then grew into a smaller box inside the box Kassie was learning from.  Through the innovation of PBS, this little girl was allowed to learn as much as she wanted to, and by the kindness of a mother who wanted to see what happened if you simply let a child teach herself if she knew how already. Kassie turns to her Mama, who is changing her baby sister, and asks why all those people are crying; only to see tears streaking down the eyes of her own Mama.  THIS MUST BE HUGE!  WHAT COULD POSSIBLY BE SO AWFUL?:

 

Kassie runs to her Mama and wipes at tears she doesn’t understand as music pours out of the television speakers again, and Kassie turns, and she KNOWS this man, she’s heard his voice on her Mama’s records.  He’s the Fool On the Hill.  He’s part of that band that Mama hums now and then.  He is part of THEM, The Beatles, Mama had shown her the record covers.  Her Bubby liked to play the records too, so this was very cool to little Kassie.  Kassie liked the places they took her, when she couldn’t read the words yet.  She could hear them.  They told stories, and Kassie really liked stories.  So what did this mean?  She again turns to her Mama, who kneels down to her as if she about to say a VERY IMPORTANT THING.

 

“The voice of the people has been taken away from us.”  Mama whispers through her sobs.

 

Kassie was forever instilled with the epicness of this moment in time.  The tv showed picture after picture of John and the Boys.  The Beatles separately, together, their music blending with collages of acres of people mourning.  This is forever burned into her soul.  Their words became a form of self inflicted prophecy for this chubby little brunette.  A bonding is formed between her soul and John’s.  Eternally they are linked.

 

Today, I sit at my laptop, embarking on another chapter in my own story.  That story has of course theme music, mine just happens to be orchestrated by the GREATEST BAND OF ALL TIME.  If you ask anyone who knows anything about me, I am a BeatleManiac.  I love all things related to the topic of the band as a whole.  Please don’t ever mistake that I don’t respect each and every step the group took collectively, and as solo artists.  The guys understand, you see, this is between John and I.  I never held them in any disregard in my blatant worship of him.

 

I believe I have read more information on this particular figure in history than anyone has a right to.  If he were alive, I would absolutely be in prison for stalking him, or married to him, which I would infinitely prefer.   I do not feel my words are sacrilege to a monument of personage such as he.  Nor do I feel that I am even worthy of this notice, so tortured a soul was he, trying to be a guiding light for his fellow man, in his own crooked way.

 

John’s smile can light up my face, and his voice calm the most aching need in my deepest heart.  He is singing to me as I type this.  That often happens with music and me, I don’t know why, but I accept it.  At this moment, he is humming “Mother Nature’s Child”.  I’ll provide links at the end of this epic declaration of faith.  One thing no one could ever accuse the man of was duplicity.  I respect that.  John’s eyes pull me in, and his words describe every emotion and thought I have sometimes.  Now he’s singing “I’m So Tired” and he’s right, I am.  But He’s amusing me.

 

The greatest story I’ve ever told is of my love for this quirky Quarryman.  I’ve listened to interviews, I’ve read books by him, He narrates my entire existence in an encompassing fashion, he guides me to be a better me, and I am ok with following his lead.  This may seem insane to some, but I can honestly say with a clear and clean conscience that I have never willing acted to do harm against another person unprovoked.  I have only ever fought with words, unless in acts of self preservation.  Now the Beatles are singing the Anthology version of Rocky Raccoon.  The subtle undertones of teaching are in every second of my life when I’m tuned in, turned on, and taking notes.  See, that’s the link.  I’m think I’m supposed to decipher this whole thing somehow to lead at least my own family into what I pray is a better tomorrow, or I am afraid we are ALL doomed.  *Paul’s asides and quips during a jam session are always refreshing when John becomes too intense.*

 

“Gideon checked out and left it no doubt, to help with Good Rocky’s Revival.”

 

All the people I love are connected to a singular Beatles or Lennon song.  Including myself….. Sometimes, I am the Walrus. goo goo ca choo.  I understand what he’s saying in each and every note, because an amazing man who also loved John as I did taught me to hear every layer of the music.  He actually taught this as an entire quarter of our 6th grade music class in a tiny little town in the middle of corn country.  The effects of this hippie on me were astounding.  Mr. Joe Foss, you were such a crucial key in the translation, and you’ll always be in my heart.  I miss you very much, but am sure you’re chilling somewhere listening to or playing the most incredible music I’ve ever heard.  You should be very proud of your legacy.  Both as a teacher and as a man with a family who loved music.  You’ve done a fine job in all aspects, though I’m sure someone somewhere would differ.  I am aware you were a human, and that meant you may be flawed, but you were my perfect music teacher.

 

I have a rather extended family, with modern marriages and whatnot.  Family is a word I use in a very gypsy like manner.  Life has taught each and every one of us that little is permanent, and we should treasure every second we are given because we are all born dying, that is a simple fact.  “You and I have memories that stretch far beyond the road ahead”.. That’s from “On Our Way Home”.  Youtube it.  How do you stop something that seems to be able to control the auditory sensations your receive?  And should I?  It brings me comfort to be caressed by the awesomeness that is my passion for a dead man.  Now the Lads from Liverpool are telling me “Good Night, Sleep Tight”. There’s even a symphony behind Paul wishing me sweet dreams for him and me.

 

 

 

Until next time.

 

groovychick