Vennieisms 1.10.2022

Welcome to the New Year!

When I was in the thick of 2021, it felt long and laborious. Now that it is over, it feels like it went by in a blink. I’m breaking through and soaring beyond that year; the 7th Veil; that film laying over my eyes, clouding up my vision and my way forward. I vow to value myself more, to know my worth and never sell myself short.


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Processing Abandonment Emotions

My brother was my best friend. He was my dude. This morning I woke up with a deep ache. I miss him. It’s been ten months since he passed on. Grief is an ornery little cuss. This workbook: “Processing Through Grief” has been helpful.

Today, I felt abandoned and even a little angry, because I am about to release a new book that my brother was a large part of.

During the process of writing I was traveling and talking with scientists I met through dear friends.

My brother was the one I shared this excitement with. He held my secrets like a trustworthy stead. He left before it was finished. I feel so sad. I wish he could hold this book in his hands, my first work of science fiction. We were so excited together.

“Knowing Maude Seven” will be available in hardback on Amazon, and in e-stories, which will only be available at The Thriving Nook. Sign up for a free membership if you’d like to read it. Also sign up for The Thriving Nook Newsletter to be notified of this book’s launch.

Because I was struggling emotionally, I decided to head into nature and see how many other abandoned things I could find. As I walked inside the trees letting some needed tears flow, I spotted these abandoned things.

This book, beat up by rain that is slowly erasing the ink holding its purpose in life.
This lonely wrapper, left empty in the cold.
These two solitary lamp posts who can’t even touch one another or hug.
This bear, abandoned on a rock, it’s eyes dark blank stares beneath an upside down smile.
This plastic bag, torn and tattered, yet still holding onto its smile.
These two headless ducks.
A pile of leaf bodies just thrown on dead sticks.
This bridge to nowhere.
This graffiti on an old sign.

I remember once in 2012, my brother, nephew and some of our friends were in Olympia, WA at Tugboat Annie’s. I was singing at an open mic night.

I looked over at the wall on the booth we were in as we waited for our turn to go up, and on the wall was a quote.

I am nobody. Nobody is perfect. Therefore I am perfect.

I have never forgotten that quote and how it stuck me. As I walked off the stinging in my throat, I embraced the truth that I have not been abandoned. My older brother is still here with me. I hear him in the smart ass way I say things and the hollow underbelly of my laughter.

He’s floating in his home dimension where he can always be the dungeon master; the best DND dungeon master I have ever met, just for the record.

Nature Tells Stories

Nature tells stories. It is alive with the history and human conversations which pass through it. Nature is its own sculptor. As I walked today, we fell into a deep conversation.

This beautiful woman, so playful and happy, held a wreath on her wrist as she danced with the wind.

Gleeful children frolicked around the pond reminding me to pay attention to my inner child.

The water dancer held inside of her the power of the streams, moving her hips with their flow and always in perfectly synced movement.

Mr. Mallard and I talked for a while. His wife was off picking up the fish for dinner. He’s been around for 7 years now, he shares. An older gentlemen, he had quite the charm. He was even flirting a bit. I went on my way before Mrs. Mallard returned. I certainly didn’t want to deal with a duck kerfuffle.

I gathered maple leaves as an idea emerged for a page in my current art WIP. Their colors blend beautifully.

This tree told me he has been there for 124 years. He spoke of friends who had died during the clearing process. He still speaks with them telepathically still today. One, he said, is having a wondrous life cycle as a whale, and has many tales to tell. I thought how endearing they remained in contact, thanked him for sharing and walked on.

I asked this tree why he looks so sad. He said he’s been living in the park for 70 years, and in the latter ones had seen too much. Once, right at his feet, a woman’s mouth was covered while a man took from her without her consent, violently and brutally.

If you knew what we see at night when all the joggers and walkers are safe at home, you would know,” he said as he hung his head.

I do know the period of time when this park was called Rape Park, and no woman dared walk through it at night. Wright Park is still shrouded with the many violations which have left a permanent shadow on its history.

As I listened to the tree’s lamentations, I glanced down to find a little squirrel right there at my feet gazing up at me. I said hello and he replied with a hind quarter scratch as he scampered off to gather more bits.

As I was ready to wrap up my walk, I was stopped by a tree horse. I’d never met one before, and I found it to be peaceful.

You have kind eyes,” I complimented.

Mr. Tree Horse is 115. He said he has heard it all, even miles beyond the park. He spoke of night dream travel, how he falls into deep slumber for days, visiting his home dimensions.

It must be difficult being a tree, standing there day after day, weathering the seasons and changing wind,” I said.

Mr. Tree Horse smiled.

It isn’t difficult. It’s cyclical. We choose to be here, providing life and breath. It is an honor we trees take seriously. We know we may be expired, then used for fires and homes, things that have nothing to do with us, after all, even our roots, left headless in the ground, become a continuing part of life. So, sister, we never really die.”.”

I was humbled by the nonchalant way he gave of himself, understanding dream cycles and inner dimensional travel. I finished my walk pondering the wisdom of the trees, the crisp coldness of the breeze and a mind full of their stories.

Red

“Red is the color of anger,” she said. “orange, the hues of the lows in you.”

Since when had she become the expert of my colors? Red is the blood dancing through me and orange is my sunset. Blue is my melancholy and violet my severance of free. My color has its own definition, and my rainbows don’t arch. They have edges, sharp and wordless, like the green of trees when I am nature bathing.

I’ve Got Your Number, Lonely

When fall arrives, I get a bit excited. The rainy season means I get long days of hibernation, and being the pluviophile I am, the raindrops inspire my creativity.

I have been listening to Black Pumas on repeat. Especially their song, Oct 33. It crawls all up into my cellular system, hugging my emotions and titillating my brain.

“I’ve got your number, lonely
October 33

I wear it on my soul’s back
Like, fair, fair, fair
A
nd, I can hear the brass ring, I hear it in the nosebleeds
Where you once felt a cold breeze
Think it was Halloween…”

Black Pumas “Oct 33”

This album is worth an add into your collection. The lyrics of these songs tell stories of intimate relationships and observations of societal connections. I fall into Black Pumas as I paint. Eric Burton’s voice is a mixture of Brandy and a tear in your beer. NuJazz mixed with NuFolk, R&B rhythms and a unique style of their own, I promise that you will feel with this music.

Where Is Nowhere?

New world
New order
New priority
New lenses
Aloneness
Is pertinent

That was the day I went nowhere for a very long time.

Where is nowhere? On the edge of sanity, where all the color and magic resides?

I fall asleep at moonrise and awaken at thrice night where everything goes quiet. So quiet.

I can walk away any day. I can turn my face toward the places I seek out light, information and truth about this existence.

So I go. I go to listen. Sweet harmonics. Otherworldly style.

I’m only here to leave scrolls as I grow old. I’m stepping through the hues of you.

This shit ain’t brand new.

It’s the aftermath of infinity, being no one, and nothing for too long.

Send the bell. Bang the gong. Follow along if you dare; should you care to stand in the footsteps of thriving in as many weird ways as possible.

You gonna let ‘em see in, kid?

Probably not. Used to be so raw. Not feeling interested. I’m gonna be a cliff away from absence by the time they notice I’m gone.

We always hung there, you know, in the gray with the grays.

I’m about to tell the stories. I used to sing the blues to avoid it. But time is ticking, I’m getting fickle so I gotta go finish.

Eh, Mr. Mahoney. I remember the project.

New commander.
New understanding.
New handling.
New vibrations.
Contradictions.
Release them.

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