Thursday, May 23, 2019

Black Sheep of the Family

8:29 PM 0 Comments
"The so-called 'Black Sheep' of the family are, in fact, seekers of liberation roads for the family tree. Those members of the tree who do not adapt to the rules or traditions of the family system, those who were constantly seeking to revolutionize beliefs, going in contrast to roads marked by family traditions, those criticized, tried and even rejected, those, by General, they are called to release the tree of repetitive stories that frustrate entire generations.

The 'Black Sheep', those who do not adapt, those who scream rebel, repair, detoxify and create a new and blooming branch... countless unfulfilled desires, unfulfilled dreams, frustrated talents of our ancestors manifest themselves in their rebellion looking to take place.

The family tree, by inertia, will want to continue to maintain the castrating and toxic course of its trunk, which makes its task difficult and conflicting... that no one makes you doubt, take care of your 'rarity' as the most precious flower of Your Tree. You are the dream of all your ancestors "
- Bert Hellinger

Art by Jeremy Enecio

Shared on Facebook by ShamanTube

Friday, May 17, 2019

I P.E.N. Thee: Wake Up Atom (Adam)

6:10 PM 0 Comments
Cosmic Artist By Alex Grey
♪ Row, row, row your atoms
Gently down the stream of consciousness
Merrily merrily, merrily, merrily
Life is but a dream ♪

Out of the skull of illusions comes the brain; and once that is gone, there is nothing; a mere void, a trifling pretense of something that was once there, something that occupied space and time and preoccupied time and space; but now neither exist except for then. Then when there was once a skull filled with a brain utilized in this thing called life that now no longer exist; but was once existent then; then whence attached to a body. And oh of the body, 'what was that'; a thing clothed in skin, wrapping the bones that encased the skull and trapped the heart in a cage. And what is this of the heart, given literary significance of painful sorrow and joy, when but the heart is just a organ, it beats neither for you nor me. Simply an instrument beating to the rhythm of the lungs. And what is it of lungs but repetitive cycles of filtered pollutants; perhaps even recycled atoms of once upon a 'what was that'. Oh but air, without such there'd be nothing; no gamma waves, no beats, nor sighs; just layers of lifeless flesh, once upon a body. Now a corpse slowly decomposing, awaiting for the dust to settle or burnt remnants of shattered ashes to clear the air. Merely, practical particles; atoms degeneratively converging toward another and yet another form, in a endless loop of looking back wondering,'what was that'; of the skull, of the thing the skull encased, of the flesh, of the caged heart, of the polluted lungs, of the circulating air. Until at long last; thought itself becomes but a thing once thought; unaware that any of this, 'what was that'; convoluted conversation perhaps once existed. Oblivious, forevermore; evaporated into the abyss of never ending nothingness. Having ever so
Creation of Atom by Natalie Doud
briefly emerged from a once upon a time; whence a pendulum jiggled beyond the realms of possibility, creating the greatest optical illusion ever.

Author: Jeane Michelle Culp (ndpthepoetress)
© #922-3-z6-118710-4

Tuesday, May 07, 2019

Rest In Peace

11:04 AM 0 Comments
There is a Graveyard on my way to and from work. It is plotted along a winding and twisting road, much like life. Across the road there is a ditch. Given any windy day, you will see the ditch filled with flowers,💐 wreathes... from the graveyard⛼. I understand that's how the gushing gusty winds blow. However; I can't help wonder if it could be ghosts,👻 spirits throwing the flowers....as if to say,🖐️Hey you didn't bring me flowers🌹 when I was alive, so don't bring me flowers now🥀 😢. So please, 'Don't wait until your loved ones are dead to give them flowers', shower people now with flowers.🌹 , kindness, affection, hugs🤗.....❤️ And if you can't afford flowers; there are plenty of free discarded flowers, in a ditch across from the graveyard near me.
*I would have liked to have shown the sad picture of this elongated flowery filled ditch, however; I didn't want to risk life and limb on this winding dangerous road and become another permanent resident⚰️ in that graveyard!😛   ~ndpthepoetress of BindingInk.org
Art by Gypsie Raleigh

Sunday, February 03, 2019

True Colors

12:30 AM 0 Comments
My 'personal action' is to continue to promote the IDEAS®: Inclusion Diversity Equality Acceptance Solidarity for ALL by saving Humanities 1 Human at a Time, 1 Book, 1 Poem, 1 Quote, 1 Song... at a Time. Join us on Facebook STOP and: S.ee T.he O.ther P.eople.

In my opinion, whether because of ones health, accent, lifestyle, color of skin… whether rejected or ridiculed or some other means of communal castration, no matter how small or large any difference or the bullying or any consequence thereof be; the complete eradication of prejudice will remain a centuries old vicarious plague spurred from societal statistical stigmatic stigma, hysterically injected into the ill-reputed frail failing intellect of the majority who damningly dare to declare what differentiates from the norm. For example; I recently read about a son spurned by his own flesh and blood, “a vicious parent shaming still its child”1. ‘*Revolted by his father’s injustice’, the son left home at an all to early age, set upon a journey to prove or find his roots. Regrettably; during his mission, he was essentially met with a series of harsh condemnations. Ultimately; the son becomes consumed with self-delusion and an insatiable appetite for revenge to be inflicted upon those who once dared to flaunt their popularity, while others refused to embrace his uniqueness cloaked in natural flaws.

Fortunately "2the pen is mightier than the sword", so he merely immerses himself into his literary work. At last the world is his stage and he could not have chosen a better place. For whom among us has not been psychologically moved or entertained by words upon a page. Or our attention drawn to a character in a play, opera, movie, or a mere sit-com? And so with pen and paper the son makes his plight known for others to read then mourn, scorn, ponder, or wonder. Except to him, his anguish was the worse of anyone. Nonetheless; in due course the son grew into his own isolated culture rejected existence. After some time; a Woman professed, “*Evidently God has made us for each another! I am like you…” Soon afterwards the son married her, asserting; “*Blessed be the sorrows I have borne… Heaven was keeping such unhoped consolation in reserve! Until today I feared myself doomed to eternal singleness and to tell you the truth it was a heavy burden to bear”. Though; had he truly loved her for herself and not out of a seemingly Narcissist reflection of himself; then when her true colors came beautifully shining through, he would not have (for shame or other matters) discarded her much as he had been cast off by the population. Yet he did flee from her side; “*to abandon the career of literature, to escape into the desert and if possible shun for ever after the sight of living creatures. To seek, indeed, like Alceste”. Oh but as fate or merely an ill-fated wind would have it; the son landed not far from where as a child he had begun his journey away from his parents home. I surmise that perhaps feeling like the odd man out, surrounded once again by the publicly accepted; here in this familiar place is where he may have learnt the greatest lesson of all, which is; nothing in life is ever as it seems.

Every part I read about the spurned son seemed a humanistic enough story plot, the emotional afflict of discrimination, a temporary successive solution, love, loss, lessons learnt… except this is a tale of the feather type. Written in 1842 by Alfred de Musset; whence combining a vast array of birds with a stylish flare, a story takes flight. Amid the author’s intertwined unraveling assemblage of vividly artistically painted printed words, emerges a subtle view about a struggle with the centuries old trials and tribulations of the societal injected statistical stigmatic stigma, known as prejudice. “^How glorious it is and also how painful to be an exception”.

And so begins:

*The Story of A White Blackbird by Alfred de Musset (Histoire d'un merle blanc)


1. George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans), O May I Join the Choir Invisible!
2. Edward Bulwer-Lytton, Richelieu Act II Scene II

Related Links:

Stop Bullying

Not In Our Town 'highlights communities working together to stop hate'.

Friday, January 04, 2019

The Art of Healing

1:34 PM 0 Comments
*Music: Waiting Arms (2017) by..

This is the art of healing. Drawings by Tina Walker. Her continued journey out of the past and into the present. She is more than a survivor of bullying and other emotional scars; she is a successful woman, a champion of weight loss... She is a nurturer of her faith upon which she is building a foundation for the todays and her future. May you find some comfort in her art; knowing whatever you are going through, you are not alone. There is healing with time, faith, hope, and a lot of work. Find your constructive outlet; express yourself, let the healing begin!

#art #healing #journey #survivor #bullying #emotionalScars #emotions #weightloss #faith #YouAreNotAlone #YouGotThis #expressYourself