A sad time for Oklahoma.

This isn't a political Blog at all whatsoever.

But this IS a blog written by an Oklahoman about creativity.

Things like this seek to squash creativity, freedom of expression,

and appreciation of other cultures.

Well, silence hasn't always been my strong suit,

and I guess sometimes that isn't such a bad thing.

-Angela

Reminder.

Sometimes it's good to leave reminders for yourself

around the house.

What I found in my mailbox.

(Morocco is next.)

-Angela

Compassion.

“Most people have come to prefer certain life experiences and deny and reject others, unaware of the value of the hidden things that may come wrapped in plain and even ugly paper. In avoiding all pain and seeking comfort at all costs, we may be left without intimacy or compassion; in rejecting change and risk we often cheat ourselves of the quest; in denying our suffering we may never know our strength or our greatness."

Rachel Naomi Remen

Ginsberg.

SONG

The weight of the world

is love.

Under the burden

of solitude,

under the burden

of dissatisfaction

the weight,

the weight we carry

is love.

Who can deny?

In dreams

it touches

the body,

in thought

constructs

a miracle,

in imagination

anguishes

till born

in human--

looks out of the heart

burning with purity--

for the burden of life

is love,

but we carry the weight

wearily,

and so must rest

in the arms of love

at last,

must rest in the arms

of love.

No rest

without love,

no sleep

without dreams

of love--

be mad or chill

obsessed with angels

or machines,

the final wish

is love

--cannot be bitter,

cannot deny,

cannot withhold

if denied:

the weight is too heavy

--must give

for no return

as thought

is given

in solitude

in all the excellence

of its excess.

The warm bodies

shine together

in the darkness,

the hand moves

to the center

of the flesh,

the skin trembles

in happiness

and the soul comes

joyful to the eye--

yes, yes,

that's what

I wanted,

I always wanted,

I always wanted,

to return

to the body

where I was born.

Bukowski Kick...

How Is Your Heart? by Charles Bukowski

during my worst times
on the park benches
in the jails
or living with
whores
I always had this certain
contentment-
I wouldn't call it
happiness-
it was more of an inner
balance 
that settled for
whatever was occuring
and it helped in the
factories
and when relationships 
went wrong
with the 
girls. 
it helped 
through the
wars and the
hangovers
the backalley fights
the 
hospitals. 
to awaken in a cheap room
in a strange city and
pull up the shade-
this was the craziest kind of
contentment

and to walk across the floor
to an old dresser with a 
cracked mirror- 
see myself, ugly,
grinning at it all. 
what matters most is
how well you 
walk through the
fire.

"While the survivor becomes more adventurous in her own world during this period, her life at the same time becomes more ordinary. As she reconnects with herself, she feels calmer and better able to face her life with equanimity. At times, this peaceable day-to-day existence may feel strange, especially to survivors who have been raised in a traumatic environment and are experiencing normality for the first time. Whereas in the past survivors often imagined that ordinary life would be boring, now they are bored with the life of a victim and ready to find ordinary life interesting."

"At this point also the survivor can sometimes identify positive aspects of the self that were forged in the traumatic experience, even while recognizing that any gain was achieved at far too great a price."