Sometimes words aren’t easy to come by. I power up my brain, thinking of what I want to write of, but I get all trance like as if in a sleepwalk. Today is no exception. Reflection is not just a mirror image; it’s reconsideration—careful thought of previous actions, events or decisions. But the words do come.
Many of you who read me know I incorporate the song that’s currently playing on iTunes as I put thoughts to word. Is it a universal presence singing to me? Ask Lucinda Williams as she laments [Everything Has Changed] via broadband and speakers.
Faces look familiar,
but they don’t have names
towns I used to live in
have been rearranged
Highways I once traveled down
don’t look the same
Everything has changed
Open Salon is that highway. Change? Yes! Is it good? For me, it’s inevitable. I read two posts over the weekend that tapped my emotions—hurt my soul deeply. Tears cleansed my eyes. A woman I very much respect is in pain; her husband is not well. Two writers I’ve been blessed to read introduced me to their grandmother’s wisdom—finality: not only in word, but also in pictures and video. Again… tears do cleanse.
My own tragedy resurfaces, but I continue to share it only with the emptiness of my loneliness. A woman who is slowly creeping into my heart listens to my craziness; I think she knows…. A magnificent artist captures my unconscious emotions on canvas; I know she doesn’t know, as does an Illinois philosopher whose kinetic sculpture soothes me in my darkest of moments. Oh dark moments… a teacher reminds me of a life I once lived; her social conscience prods me to think deeper than I’m used to. And there are many others… I can’t mention them all, but my thoughts honor you.
Yes, honor is something I learned to do: my mentor was Edmund Kealoha Parker (March 19, 1931–December 15, 1990), an American martial artist, promoter, teacher, and author. I was his student. Through his art of Kenpo, I taught others. When teaching I wore the black gi [uniform] of an instructor; when in the presence of Mr. Parker I wore the white gi of a student, knowing all I knew was nothing. Now my gi is in my closet; my martial art is writing.
Free is sing Fire and Water:
Every single day I got a heartache coming my way
but look at the tears in my eyes
I don't wanna say goodbye mama
but look at the way you made me cry
every way that's nice you show
you've got a heart that's made of ice...
Relevance? Perhaps the heart of ice is mine? Sometimes I am jaded—furious over nothing. Ratings… comments… views… it is isn’t important. Life is short; death more than a sweet black angel. Perhaps I should retreat to where the water tastes like wine, or to a distant constellation that's dying in a corner of the sky. No… here I’ll stay. And if you want to be alone or be with someone to share a laugh, do whatever you want to do within this community—Open Salon.
Now I release Mr. Mustard to your memory. I'm coming out from my avatar’s mask. Chuck A. Stetson will still create conscious craziness as he [I] use Open Salon to experiment… to grow artistically. I need to do this because I’m a writer—an author, a thinker who also peddles his thoughts for .01¢ to .05¢ a word—hopefully more.
But I am a dreamer…. I live down to the line, so….
"I can't go back to yesterday—because I was a different person then."