Imperfection = I'm perfection = I am perfection

Do I have flaws? Do you have flaws? Shall we use them to rise above! Flaws are tiny imperfections. Imperfections are chaos. Chaos is tiny bits of perfection. If you overlay chaos upon chaos, you will achieve harmonic order. Hence, perfection is chaos in order. So, we are perfect as we are. {{{Imperfection = I'm perfection = I am perfection}}} A perfect mathematical equation.

© Dec 25, 2012 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic

EVENING THOUGHTS OF M'LADY

As the evening breeze carries dreams into the ethereal, I am left thinking of you.
You are far away, and the thought of you is all I hold this evening. I cherish this as if this thought my last breath, as a king that has only his most valuable gem to represent his realm, as if a dancer lifted on high with the shout of “encore!” at final curtain.
The haunting memory of your kiss echoes thru my soul, and reminds me of the depth of our love. Its wisps reach throughout this great expanse in its entirety, and slowly ease into every crevasse of our existence as if a fog engulfing a valley. In doing so, it stirs the sacred rites and ancient ideals of the fires of passion. I relive caressing your beautiful face with my eyes closed to insure a memory and solidify your features in my mind and heart. Tonight the air is like canvass and my fingers a feather-brush that creates one memory at a time until all that is before me is your face. But this is not yet enough to quell my desire.
The tingle in my spirit, as I remember your touch, inspires me to reach deeper into the night. I step to the edge and prepare for the fall. I remember the first fall, the first kiss, the first dance. I remember each moment. My being was caressed with your breath as you quietly whispered *♪ ♫ *♪ ♫ *I love you*♪ ♫ *♪ ♫ *
The flutter of my heart, as I hear the words you softly spoke so long ago, grants me wings and lifts me into the night and carries me to our island of dance. We are together again.
I love gazing upon your ageless features, the reflection of starlight in your eyes, the way you fit perfectly into my arms, the beckoning of your parted lips, and the floral essence rising from your flawless skin. I'm in trance!
Do you realize how enchanting you truly are? Walk with me to the mirrored sea and gaze upon your beauty. Startling, is it not? Truly angelic. You are the center of all that is harmonic, ethereal, and lovely. Creation perfected nature within your existence. All exoticness flows from you.
I am now content with my thoughts of you. I have told you all within my heart. Shall we dance, m’lady?

© Dec 23, 2012 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic

NOTE: photo is a random internet find

MENTAL EXERCISE FOR WRITERS

MENTAL EXERCISE FOR WRITERS

Writers old and new: Search that horizon for new peaks to sit and rest upon as you gaze over humanity. Look deep into the valley of inspiration. Explore the shadows. Listen to the leaves. Expose the underside of stones. Embrace the wind. Absorb the warmth of the sunrise. Experience the cleansing of a storm. Look beyond the magnificent. See the glory and majesty in the minute! Detach yourself from thought. Just breathe and become. Feel your wings sprout. Now you are ready to begin the true journey into the skies of literary genius. Let us embark…

Looking at the accompanying photo, I am drawn to the fog. To understand the fog, I must become one with it. I close my eyes and feel the thin veil blanket the mountain and gently embrace each imperfection upon its surface. Like the kiss of a lover, the brush of one existence upon another is intimate. The wind is a lover and carries me to many exotic destinations where I explore the landscape and leave the residue of my visit upon any surface touched: a rock, a blade of grass, a flower, or tangled lovers beneath a tree. I can go where humanity cannot. I can rest easy upon the mirrored surface of a lake or crawl deep within the fractures of a stone. I am now nature. I might dissipate for a time, but I always return. In my absence, the masses gaze upon my existence and speak of my beauty. I am immortal.

With our thoughts, we create matter.  Each letter offers form and the words carve a distinct shape. The movement of our quill stirs the air and lends breath, as our ink fills each creation with blood. Our love gives it life. We are literary gods.

© Dec 22, 2012 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic

Your challenge, should you choose to accept it; find a photo and chose a subject, feel its surrounding, close you eyes, and imagine being that which you have chosen.

NOTE: photo is a random internet find. Valley of Flowers in the Himalayas, India.

THE MADNESS OF GENIUS - Religion (excerpt from chapter 6)

 “God Is My Copilot.” I never understood the title of this book. As I sit and listen to the church and state bicker over “rights of individuality,” I wonder where it all began and why. If one is to submit to the will of the Biblical God, why just allow Him the co-pilot chair? Should we not let this omnipotent being lead our life? Keeping God as a copilot is using the Divine as a safety net. Not good from any point of rational thinking.

It all returns to the popular, “I’ll keep Jesus hanging around my neck, in case of an emergency.”

In all my years of religious immersion, I have met a handful of TRULY pious individual. I am in awe when in there presence. They have truly touched the crown of our Creator. Not one of them follows any form of manmade religion, yet all have a thread to the Creator. On the other hand; most that I have had intimate conversation with that belong to a labeled ideology are quite deluded and set in their twisted ways. Their social-induced stupor is not their fault, but their refusal to awaken after a shake from sleep IS.

The fire, brimstone, and gnashing of teeth terrified me more than inspire me to become a saint. The Protestant sermons slowly evolved into Stephen King-like nightmares. As I gazed upon all creation, I saw “demons” running amok and destroying awe and innocence. All the while, they were informing me how to be righteous. Confusion brewed a hurricane in my cup of tea. My search for the eye of the storm began.

Some are so blinded by the miasmic curtain of Immaculate Conception and flashy display gold, frankincense, and myrrh that they truly believed in the divine right of the church over the true word of our Creator. I do not believe that one can buy their way into paradise. Indulgences have slowly morphed into the more elegant word; tithes. Both are beasts of evil that breathe the ravages of guilt in the souls of the masses. That is the madness of genius; the wolf in the sheep’s attire, leading the flock to an unknown destination that changes with each self-proclaimed ruling family.

The idea of predestination, as it has been twisted, is another dragon that scorches the landscape of the soul. John Calvin interpreted biblical predestination to mean that God willed eternal damnation for some people and salvation for others. How can a God of love knowingly create and condemn a portion to eternal damnation? In all that I have learned and filtered through the wisdom of the elders; that seems pretty psychotic to me. If this God was given a psychological evaluation, I believe heavy sedation would be the prescription for such sociopathic thoughts and all prophetic notions would be dissolved into the ethereal realm.

Prophesies are the “means” planted in the subconscious mind and lead the masses to an end. Religious and secular ideologies change with each ruling empire; not only to justify the actions of the church and state, but to also expand and redefine the evils of the times. The masses have had their eyes of reason poked out with the red-hot poker of subjugation. Obey or be ostracized. Graze in the field of ignorance, under the watchful eye of the Sheppard, or find the blade of deceit disguised as truth in the slaughterhouse. The choice is simple; give in and give up.

Decades of pilfering various thoughts from manuscripts of faith and religion have left me with one, and only one, thought. The foundation of existence can only be discovered, seeded, nurtured, and matured through LOVE. Trust is the make up of this perfect atmosphere of truth. They say “One can love without trust, but cannot trust without love.” I believe this to be another falsification of thought. Love IS trust and vice versa; complete unwavering symbiotic entities that compliment one another. 

The polluted minds and souls of the masses have destroyed far more in the name of religion than any other reason. Salvation and healing lay near death in the streets of religious ideologies. The genius of madness is to extract one’s tormented soul from this stage of misconceptions and rejoin the freedom of unthinking programmed thoughts and return to the great expanse of love.

Yes, there are a few ideologies that preach hate, but one must remember that hate is part of love. Hate is the corrupted offspring of love. Hate is not natural. Love is natural. Hate is chosen, desired, wanted out of despair. When one hates, it is because one feel unloved, less than ONE with the universe. I have been to the top of Corporate Amerika and lived in the streets (by choice). I have walked with and talked with the best of the best and the worst of the worst. The one thing that all mankind has in common is the need to feel needed, wanted, loved. If one does not feel this, the heart withers and hate fills the soul. Many use hate as a shield to push away love because someone or something has made them feel less than human. Love can return light to a heart. The Creator is everything. The Creator is the ocean. We, as mortals, are scattered drops of the ocean. Like rain we will find our way back to the ocean.

 © Dec 22, 2012 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic

Will the world end? Doubtful...

As I sit here, on the eve of the end of the world, and reflect on the actual meaning of life, I return to the same question no matter which rabbit hole I venture into. “What is the key of understanding?” The end is simple, but the means continue to confound mankind. The old adage is not always right.
Love is the answer. Love is all there is. It is the source of light and peace. Being immortal or in the presence of our Creator is easy; we have no choice but to be engulfed in love. But we choose to separate ourselves from the source and try of produce our own raging bonfire of love from the cinder placed in our hands by our Creator. Humanity/mortality offers a test that many do not realize, and fewer accept the challenge. If you fail to learn to love as a mortal, how can you be allowed to roam the eternal halls of light with no internal love source? Light must come from within.
If you wish to be a star you must shine. If you wish to be a beacon, you must burn bright in the darkness. If you wish to know love, you must be love. You must burn with a fiery passion like never before imagined. Let love consume your heart, but maintain vigilance with your mind. Be aware and trust. Listen to your heart.
The key of understanding life and love is TRUTH. Without absolute truth, there can be no trust. Without trust, there can be no love. Without love, there can be light. And without light, there is only darkness. A cold and desolate expanse of eternal nothingness.

©Dec 20, 2012 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic

Is She...?

Is she crying?
A silken river of sorrow for humanity?
Warm rains from yesterday’s memory?
A trail of tears to lead me home?

Is she laughing?
A magic moment slipping from her soul?
Faeries dancing within her golden heart?
Butterflies gently kissing her neck?

Is she sleeping?
Falling into dreams of what could be?
Slipping into the in-between?
Perhaps a journey to join hands?

I pray I am there when she raises her head,
To seal the moment with a kiss
and a dancing of her fingers and mine
as they seek to find a melding into one.

© Dec 19, 2012 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic

 NOTE: photo courtesy of PL

FALLING INTO TONIGHT

Sitting here in the dark, only the ghostly hum of household life pollutes the harmonic textures of Mozart that waif through the air like tendrils of smoke longing to cross the auditory threshold and lift me into a melodic state of heaven.
The multicolored mood lighting emanates from a seasonally dressed tree awaiting tinsel to grant it a silver headdress. Marching soldiers and ballerinas dance among the strands.
How peaceful. The cool draft from the chilly outside night slithers across the marble tiles: reaches and grabs my feet for a moment and then vanishes to reappear again in moments for another strike. I believe hot tea is in the cue. Could a cup of chamomile be the serum that removes the toxin of bitter cold from my toes? Ha ha! Comfort would only arrive with tilt of a hand. Focus on ink.
I settle in to write. My inkwells are moist, my quills stand ready, and my parchment beckons. Let us begin the journey into the moment.
As the violins caress my soul, I am reminded of your gentle laugh. The flutes turn to whispers of “I love you,” as the brass cries out in passion. I found you in the music, elements of you beauty reside in such classics.
I gaze into the kaleidoscope pin-picks of light that seep through the darkness and enter my consciousness. The blues reminds me of the sky that offers the oldest of love stories. Luna and Sol in the endless game of seek. The red becomes the tail-lights of so many cars I followed and fell into their trance; wondering if you’d ever be beside me as I slipped into the night. White dots become the stars under which I long to hold you close. The green and orange light the stage for the soldier and ballerina that waltz around the tree; trapped within their own existence longing to be freed A kiss from their counterpart would grant them a life together. Forever dancing arm in arm around the tree or laying side by side in a mostly forgotten dark box.
The ice vipers that strike my feet remind me I am alive and vulnerable to many things. The elements, stampeding elephants, and emotions. All are bearable and capable of being fended off for ages except emotions. The empty ache of solitude snaps me back to the present.
The longer my senses are teased and heightened; my thoughts of you become clearer.  Why are we worlds apart? To offer the glimmer of hope to a life of love that is seldom seen? To set before us the mystery of language long lost? To send us seeking the missing piece of the puzzle of ethereal love? Yes! Yes! Yes! To quell to beast of passion’s urgent roar and dull it to a sensuous whisper that trusts and tames the soul.
Yessssssssssssss. I love you.

© Dec 11, 2012 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic

You and I

The Elysian Fields shall be our arena this eve. A heaven, an earth, a field of harmony. The soft zephyr winds will sing of the old gods, interpret our dance, and whisper the forgotten notes of love. We will sway with the flowers and fly with the Fae. We will leave a trace of our love in our wake and give the immortals something new to contemplate. They will rewrite the books when they discover a new tenderness. They will shed tears and cleanse the wicked. Sages of old will reach for their wither and cracked quills to start anew chapter in the story of love. Mankind will be given redemption. We will offer a new meaning of love.
We will sit at the edge of the stream of Okeanos, and tempt Zeus with peddles as we disturb the pure waters. The mirror will quiver and sparkle in rhythm as we laugh and love in the flowers of truth.
Rhadamanthus will come seeking your beauty and I will rush him away. My queen is my love, my life, and my soul. We are one forever more. I shall be intoxicated and write of our love upon the rings of Saturn, and chisel my oath in the ice rings of Neptune. Sol himself fails to burn as hot as my soul since your touch.

© Dec 10, 2012 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic

ANOTHER MEMORY OF MY WW II GIRL FROM THE HILLSIDE CHATEAU

The drone of the jeep engine was easily as lulling as the purring of my Grumman F8F Bearcat, affectionately referred to as “Papa Bear.” This borrowed mechanical monstrosity was as drafty as my bird, and each pothole I seem to find (I think I found every stinking one) was the equivalent of a quake from an aerial bombardment blast. When would it end? This quest of mankind to rule the world as it slowly killed one country at a time. Never, I supposed.
I let my thoughts drift back in time to a day between the Great Wars. Every American boy dreamed of joining the military, traveling to an exotic country, and falling in love with the most beautiful woman on some beach under the light of the silvery moon. Didn't every land of exotic beauties have a beach? Well, at least that is what my buds and I fantasized about day in and out. After school we would get our nickel Cokes and run to the orchard. Laughing as we ran and staging mock dog-fights in our jet fighters! “Vroom! Pft! Pft! Pft!” Arriving in our sanctuary, we would collapse under a giant apple tree and await a Newtonian moment to fall upon us as we discussed our understanding of world politics. Taking turns we would surmise when and where the next Great War would occur. We would offer our heroic tactics and plan to save the world; and of course, the beautiful damsel in distress. I always chose France, because I had forever wanted to kiss a woman atop the Eiffel Tower. The guys always laughed at me and called me “Romeo.” Those Spring days were some of the best days of my life. I miss Russ, Jeff, and the others. Where are they now?
{{{screech}}} Whoa! I had almost passed the place as I swam in the warm mental waters of yesteryear. There it was! The most well kept secret in all of war-torn France, the infamous “La porte du Ciel!” I had paid a pretty penny to get directions to this “Gateway to Heaven” getaway. It's story better be prettier than the cover! This place looked like a dive. But what should I expect in a country ravaged by the evils of mankind’s aggression. Rumors in the wind had it that this was the last place in France one could get a good shot of single malt Scotch to warm the belly while listening to a true siren melt your heart with her songs of love. I had seen a lot of dames and ogled twice as many gams, and had yet to near internal combustion. We shall see.
The blue smoke drift upward in spirals and fought for existence in the same space occupied by the airy musical notes that drifted through the room from the band hidden in the jukebox. My Zippo erupted light into the shadows and I saw the house was full tonight. As I gazed around, I saw German officers, Italian soldiers, French, English, and fellow Americans; all under the same roof, at the same time. Had there been a world truce? Was the war over? I should be so lucky. Wait! I think the day is Thursday! Was she going to be there? I had heard that a woman with the voice of and angel and the body of Betty Grable performed here on Thursdays. Was this my lucky day?
As an eerie hush fell over the unlikely calm mix of cultural diversity, one of the German officers locked eyes with me for a moment. What was it I saw in his gaze? Was it a tear of humanity shadowed and hidden behind secular and religious ideologies? Yes, I believe I saw…
*♪ ♫ *♪ ♫ * Je t'aime *♪ ♫ *♪ ♫ *…My thoughts and life itself were interrupted by the most ethereal voice I had ever experienced. I turned my gaze from the stranger in the SS uniform to the swaying figure upon the dimly lit stage. It was as if her voice had permeated my being and was caressing my heart. The song slowly moved deeper into my essence and left a blanket of love’s residue covering my soul. All the wounds of war were forgotten in that moment, both psychological and physical. After her number was over, our specter of light disappeared behind the side-curtain of the stage. A strange din arose that was not too unlike having my aircraft strafed with bullets. I looked around to see the crowd banging steins and glasses on the tabletops, chanting “encore!” She was gone...
Glancing around, I wondered, “How many of these patrons were here creating memories vs those reliving them?” A whispered voice from behind me answered, “Votre choix commence maintenant.” I felt a hand come to rest upon my shoulder at the same time I realized that I had spoke my question aloud. I started to quiver. It couldn’t be her. I closed my eyes and tried to shake the scotch-created phantom from my mind. Wait! Phantoms don’t speak French. I slowly opened my eyes and turned to see it was her. I fumbled my only French, “Parlez-vous Anglais? Je suis désolé. Je ne peux pas parler Français.” A tiny sigh escaped her lips that lit up the entire room. “Very good French for an American,” she laughed. “Shall we dance, or do you plan to continue drowning yesterday in your Scotch?”

© Dec 5, 2012 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic

Dark vs light

There was a time when I thought darkness would overtake light. Each day I sat in dread and knew the night would eventually quell the light. I gave in and accepted the dark as being prevalent. I grew morose and melancholy. I lost hope.

Each day I would sit and watch the darkness hide under my bed and in corners. I would…wait! The darkness was hiding from the light! The day I noticed this I stated watching and wondering. Could I have been wrong? Could it be the opposite? Could the light of day come and vanquish the darkness of night?

During the night, I saw no light hiding anywhere! I saw the tiniest of light screaming and tearing through the darkness! A million stars poking holes in the fabric of the night sky! A flashlight stabbing through the veil of night! A television hissing its light through the quietness of a room full of night. I was wrong!

Light is triumphant! There are no dark spots in the days sky called “srats.” A beam of light can temporarily be blocked, but a shadow is permanently silenced by light!

I had found hope again! I began to understand that I had been allowing the illusion to win the mind games. No more! The light will always make the dark hide under a bed, behind a bookcase, or in an abandoned corner! Darkness falls, the light rises!

Dreams of life

As a little boy, I was read "1001 Arabian Nights" time and again. The girls that danced in silk for the sultans were always a fascination. They were always described as swaying exotic goddesses dancing in silk that played like tendrils of smoke upon their lithe figures. Bejeweled, they glittered in the torch-light like diamonds offering brilliant flashes under the sun. The music slithered up your body like a snake and teased your ears as if the serpent was lovingly flicking your desire to join the dance.
Now I have the honor and pleasure of knowing and writing for one such lady. She is not Scheherezade and dances not upon sand for Sultans or tell stories to please. My dancer is a princess that dances within the majesty of marble halls for Kings and Queens and tells stories with her fluid body. She alone is the treasure of the Arabian Desert.
She does not dance with empty eyes like a puppet without strings. Each movement is full of passion and emotion is the night in which she elegantly sways. Each sway turns dreams to ash and set reality ablaze with the fires of truth. Sands from forgotten times fill the hourglass with virtuous thoughts and a love lost to the ages as the granules of modern torment slip through the cracks in space.
I stand under the moon and slowly close my eyes, shutting out the visions of the day. In my mind, the stories of the past whirl in the wind like a dervish, dancing with the realities of today. All at once they become one and lift me within their shimmering eddy on leave me floating on midnight clouds of silvery light, surrounded by twinkling pin-pricks of starlight. Whispers of "I love you," carried in the wind, now caress my ears where the flickering tongues of snakes once teased. I feel her reaching for my soul. There! There! There in my heart! I see her under a evening sun! Smiling, waiting, wanting me to be within the dancer’s embrace and melt with her into the legendary melodies lost with a lamp not yet rubbed.

 © Dec 4, 2012 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic
NOTE: photo courtesy of PL

The little things

The secret of all the little things; when one gets taken or forgotten, there are plenty more to reflect on and enjoy. If all you have is a big moment to focus on; when it is gone, there is nothing but a void.
The little things are the important things in life. Be happy with many little victories, they soften the heart and add colors to love. The big thing hardens the heart and shadows love.
A nightly thought from little ol' me.

NOTE: photo is a random internet find

THE DANCE

There is a whisper of something in the air,
a hint of magic from a time long forgotten.
Was it sultan girls swaying with zills?
Or could it have been my imagination?

It's so nice when the wheel spins,
and shows what hides behind the shadow!
Was it a light reflection in the evening?
Or was it really your soul in the window?

The endless love of Luna and Sol
turn day to night and back again.
Was it a promise of eternal love?
Or was it our mortal misconception?

Hearts of ice warmed with fire
discover old ways replaced by new.
Bleeding souls merge to a sea
flying free and flowing true. 

I offer my soul and hand in dance,
let us seek the sacred truth.
Was it a kiss ‘tween wind and flame?
Or a misunderstood swaying of two? 

Let us seek this dance…

© Dec 3, 2012 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic

NOTE: photo is a random internet find