CIGARETTE MOMENTS

…And as the outcasts in dark corners shutter in pain, the world keeps spinning
I will never glamorize the things that are dark and unhealthy.

The underbelly of society is nasty place to dwell; it is a rebellious, an anti-social and a destructive life that exists out there, yet few have witnessed at its core.

Smokey enclosures, tapping the vein, white and black powder, just a few ways to escape. Erratic movements, calculated words, and the slyness of deceit to get a fix, a smoke, or to find solace in a soulless body…it’s all there. Insane fantasies, corrupted thinking and skipping a meal to keep flies off as a myriad misfits embrace the wee hours of night. Daylight is just too hard to deal with.

The lost priorities, denied hope and fallen angels surround the mind and make it bitter. The friends of the friendless go in packs, because howling at the moon is more than an outlet; it’s an intense plea for warmth.

The hatred of all things normal burns inside. Normal is a distant cry, a tattered rag, and an uncomfortable and nasty space that was left long ago in a world of hurt. The underworld is an exclusive club. It laughs at lilies, caresses thorns and utilizes vulnerability as a dance partner. The lowest of the low dwell there with an elitist attitude yet could care less about it (or anything else for that matter unless it is an altered state).

I caught you knockin’ at my cellar door
I love you, baby, can I have some more
Ooh, ooh, the damage done

I hit the city and I lost my band
I watched the needle take another man
Gone, gone, the damage done

I sing the song because I love the man
I know that some of you don’t understand
Milk-blood to keep from running out

I’ve seen the needle and the damage done
A little part of it in everyone
But every junkie’s like a settin’ sun

Songwriters: Neil Young

The Needle And The Damage Done lyrics © O/B/O Apra Amcos

Salvation in waste land is timid, tired and raw. It is impossible to fathom and coming up, coming out and coming clean is the hardest thing to do, but if you have the will to survive, perhaps it can be done. I found that will in mediation but didn’t know I was mediating.

Because courage can be elusive, much of it is found when we bend our mind. Yet rock bottom sometimes doesn’t have a bottom unless you have crossed over. And it was there, looking at the light, I fought for freedom. I decided life was truly a dream state and I held it, held it close, held it lightly, and there was so much more to do than be wasted.

Sitting still I could easily recover a feeling of bliss (like being high) yet completely sober. There is such contentment in being empty. Empty doesn’t mean not thinking or feeling, it is quite the opposite. It is full, it is personal, it is clear. It is exploring the pulse of your heart, hugging your thoughts, and huge intakes of oxygen. It is gratitude.

And one day you realize, the things that matter are as simple as a blade of grass, the whisper of the wind, the endless stars. And you can become them, just as you did when you were high. But high has a new relevance; it doesn’t come in the form of smoke, pill or liquid. It is mind/body/soul, and it is peace.

So when things are looking like a “cigarette moment” with a little pill and or a cocktail, please remember how that smell clings to the soul. It stains the clothing and ruins a smile. It is ugly, addictive, and kills hopes and dreams. There is nothing romantic, or chic about swirling smoke.

Swirl in your mind, it is a healthier alternative and we need you.

Editor: Dana Gornall

http://thetattooedbuddha.com/2018/04/11/cigarette-moments-glamorizing-the-culture-of-use/

THE REMAINS OF LOVE

"Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, 

and this is both an art and a fortunate accident”.

** Louis de Bernières **

Love: it has so many meanings and so many faces it is very difficult to pin down - but it really doesn't need to be categorized or measured; and trying make one size fits all is dangerous.

When we try to make love something other than it is, it becomes riddled with expectations. Then it is blamed for the let down and the inner pain when in fact; it is our own distortion and comparisons that tear it apart. This is when a relationship becomes a 'thing' based on a memory or a fairy tale or both - everything about it gets wrapped up in delusion.

And if the fire has died and the thighs don’t quiver in lust anymore, it is very hard to rekindle the flame. It takes skill and artistry to keep a spark alive and quite frankly, most of us don’t have the wisdom or the energy.

So when it is over, love often gets lost in the blame and a mess which remains in the heat of the memory. That memory is usually comprised of how it was, compared to how it is and it hurts.
It all becomes so empty – and that emptiness is a hole left in the core of the soul viewed as nothing.

But being empty is what we really need; it's a good thing and it and how real people are brought together. It is the “art and a fortunate accident” the beautiful meeting, and the electricity of bodies colliding to make one. This is an important thing to embrace. Out of nothing, something is born.

This is the artistry in the lesson, and can paint your heart a new color when you feel it has faded to black. Just understanding that our love changes, will change everything - and it does.
Love grows up, it rises, it falls and it is a lifetime of stories.

Don't be fooled by a dwindling emotion, emotion is not solely love. Love is that gift in a fleeting moment. We, you and I can never hold it. If we try, just like water, it only slips away. Like magic, yes, the love has changed again.

To salvage the pride and recapture the misplaced moments, a simple “Thank You” to that relationship is the key. Say thank you for their time, their presence, and all that you (as a couple) went through together. Say "Thank you" so you can move on. This can ignite a big beautiful sigh and perhaps some inner peace. Once you arrive here, it will shed a lot of light on whom you love and how you love. Remember, forgiveness reigns in gratitude.

The best way to love is to let it be. With that, there is freedom. With freedom, there is acceptance and in acceptance there is pure love. It rises from the ashes and is ready to bring us to another time and place.

There are no coincidences – ever  - just a fortunate accident.

-debbie lynn
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https://www.facebook.com/360degreesofinspiration/

Lavender Moments - The Death of a Ballerina

As I took the last curtsy, my head held high in grace, the curtain closed and the applause was bittersweet.

It was the last few minutes of perfectly choreographed movement. The spotlight bathing my body and the sweat trickling down the nape of my neck was overriding the pain of my heart. This pain was trying to escape through my chest and in the blink of an eye, it was over.

I paused in my glory and thought “I was fluid tonight.”

Backstage, unraveling my elegance, the satin brushes my skin. What softness, what shimmer, and what a fucking lie it all is. Every toe on my foot is bleeding, every nail is cracked, my legs ache, and I am parched and so tired—so very, very tired.

Tonight, I am done.

The last performance, the last pas de duex, and the last time I would ever smell the resin on my toe shoes. The last time breathing in the stank of the musty theater or the overbearing odor of elitism coming from an audience—an audience that could never understand the angst, my pain and the darker side of ballet (The Black Swan has nothing on me).

We, (the dancers of the night) weave. We bend, turn out, and we ask our bodies to do unthinkable things; it is torture laced in delicate pink. The lightness, the refinement and the lavender moments eventually give way to mutilated feet, a beaten down ego and a body that has been denied some very simple pleasures, like food. Drug abuse, eating disorders and all kinds of sexual preferences flit around the starved and deranged egos. Almost all have of us have huge arrogance of our craft in monstrous proportions. It is like being in a silk laden loony bin and yet they are my closest of friends.

Creatures of the night, lost in classical music and taking direct hits of adrenaline just to get to class in the morning and do it all over, day after day. And as the realization takes my hand (that I will never be here ever again) I am seized with sorrow. I loved my movements, I loved to dance; it was all I knew for so long but time plays no favorites when we use and abuse our bodies to the edge.

Very few know and understand this tainted grace; it is so well hidden and denied as it stays in its’ crinoline veiled mystique. And those of us who know how much that crinoline itches, know we don’t really like to talk about it. We have an unsung pact to keep it as simple and pure as it appears to be: an accepted practice of silence in honor of the art, and to keep it preserved inside; it’s just what we do.

Like any other feat that surpasses good and moves into excellence, we train to be the best. We forfeit our normal routine, normal life, but what the hell is normal anyway? Our teachers become parents, our peers become our siblings and our home is under the fluorescent lights with a wooden floor. Seems normal.

We are disciplined, we are void, and we are always seeking betterment. We live with pain knowing the payoff is only a few moments of applause and appreciation, but it goes deeper than a curtain call. It’s a lifestyle of perfection, striving to become one with the music, to be the ethereal abstraction floating effortlessly note by note. It’s learning perseverance and the reward is only felt when ice is applied to the torn-up body-mind and soul.

It’s lingering in a cast of thousands and being singled out by one (or more) as special (but no one really is). It’s a dancer’s bane… one day special, the next day, not. Then body gives up, gives in and suddenly, years of training and practice are over.

My two worlds colliding (real and surreal) and then ending with a deep curtsy—my love, my art, and my life.

So, what is next? I surrender to the bow, wipe the tear from my eyes, put my street clothes on and shut the back door. I know it was a good run. I was lucky. I know I gained so much knowledge from living in a world only a handful get to see. I know I was blessed, had some bliss and nothing lasts forever.

The death of the Ballerina: I am no longer performing, but I can take it with me in my mind, forever a dancer in my heart.

http://thetattooedbuddha.com/2018/01/04/the-death-of-a-ballerina/