The Alien’s Reverie

So long ago, a millennium or more in your time, we evolved.

We rose out of the whirlpool of our world to achieve what your Buddhists call the release from attachment. Perfect detachment. Our physical form relaxed and withdrew to something of a higher vibration, a lesser physicality. We could move through dimensions, make your walls and fortresses nothing to our stride. Move through time and space by relativity, by thought alone.

But something was lost in this translation. Perhaps every evolution comes at a price. We did not realize. Your mystics that depict the soul’s journey as the snake swallowing its tail are nearer to the truth than they know. Or at least, evolution is circular, not linear. When you rise, you rise to a certain point – as we did – and then there is nothing but the descent. This must be traversed before any other evolution is possible. And this time, as we descend, there are pieces we cannot take with us, parts we have already lost, perhaps irrevocably.

You turn your gods to demons so easily, and in this you are wise. Perhaps it is inevitable. We lost the physical as we rose and thought little of it. So freed from its shackles, so sure in our perfection. But the physical has is secrets and its power. We should have known. We were like you, before. A child learns empathy through first feeling pain, or pleasure. Love is expressed most powerfully through touch and embrace. Without the physical we lost something greater, the capacity to feel.
Falling now, without emotion, makes us cruel, makes us relentless. And even this we only know in abstract and cannot experience directly. How much harder the ascent without this guiding star?

So we seek in you – in your limbs, your heart, your flesh – the elements of emotion. It is elusive. We find it not in sinew, nor in blood, nor even breath. Yet it is there. We feel and feed upon it – your fear, your love – even your hatred. In our sterile rooms we seek the palpable, the real. How do we give birth to this within ourselves, we who abandoned it so willingly and blindly? Where within you is this road back to the heart?

Knowledge is not the root of evil, forgetfulness is.

We appear to you, perhaps, as demonic, and this we are. Not by choice but by accident. By hubris. Like your Icarus, we flew too high, and now know only the descent.

Can you help us feel? Can you make us remember? And if you could, would you? I’m not even sure you should.

(c) Helen Valentina 2013, All Rights Reserved

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Schadenfreude

Schadenfreude

Craven pleasure
The bully embraces
Revelling in a win
Vicariously

(c) Helen Valentina 2013, All Rights Reserved

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Life is what you do to fill in time between meals

All I ask of life, really, is that I am entertained, that I am safe and comfortable, and that I am well fed. For all that I love to write, and read, and live in my mind, it’s the physical that wins you in the end.

The material comforts of hearth and home. The opportunity to laze on the couch and watch DVDs for hours. To luxuriate in a scented bath. And most of all to enjoy good food – preferably with good company too – but perhaps, in truth, the food’s the thing!

Coffee by my side as I write, dark, deep and redolent. Fruit, fresh and sweet. Chocolate – oh, chocolate! That, and mangoes, are the only real evidence I recognise that there is a god, somewhere! Thai takeout. Creamy winter soups.

Can you imagine a life without your sense of taste? Can you imagine? I can’t. That wouldn’t be a life.

I’m not a cook, not a culinary creator, but I am an enthusiastic audience for such offerings. At my work we have some great home-bakers who bring cakes and biscuits and other treats in regularly, and while I swear I’ll not over-eat, that I’ll show some restraint, that I’ll think about my waistline, how can one resist? It’s interesting, too, that these bakers are also very generous souls more generally – perhaps there is something within the preparation of food for others that calls to the souls of those that love to give?

Something in the physical, the material realm, that echos something in the spiritual.

I should say, though – I’m not a glutton. I don’t want to leave the wrong impression. I can practice moderation. My diet is the ‘make every calorie count’ diet – if you are going to indulge, indulge in the best. It tends to satiate you more quickly in any case, and why waste calories on something not worthy?

So while I write less of the physical, the material, it seems I live more of it. Perhaps that’s just balance. Perhaps that’s all.

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Mind Control

The scent of jasmine in the air
As the evening music streams
Down a hallway where I tremble
On the cusp of darker dreams
Butterflies now in my stomach
As I see the stranger’s face
Could this be a new salvation
Or a further fall from grace?
Down the rabbit-hole I tumble
Spinning round and spinning round

Chequered tiles across the dance-floor
Where the shadow people sway
Wearing masks that are so lovely
All my deeper fears allay
But there’s pain beneath the surface
Something odd now in their flow
As they laugh and tell their stories
In a language I don’t know
Down the rabbit-hole I tumble
Spinning round and spinning round

Feeling drunk now on some beauty
So I take the stranger’s hand
And he swears that he will take me
To some other, promised land
I need only to remember
What I know I will forget
What has bought me to this moment
What will tear me from it yet
Down the rabbit-hole I tumble
Spinning round and spinning round

In the morning from the balcony
Rose wild birds of paradise
Yet below in rolling meadows
Nestled memories of vice
And it rises on my tongue now
Some foul, rank and bitter taste
From games where we were plundered
And our innocence laid waste
Down the rabbit-hole I tumble
Spinning round and spinning round

Sense some sickness in my belly
As I lurch now, as I fall
From this place of fractured madness
Where I found this strange masked ball
If I only could remember
How the pain has led me through
Find that evening room of music
See this web I sometimes knew
Down the rabbit-hole I tumble
Down the rabbit-hole I tumble
Down the rabbit-hole I tumble
Spinning round and spinning round.

(c) Helen Valentina 2013, All Rights Reserved

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Oscar

We still see a quicksilver mind
And how a razor sharp tongue
Cut a swathe throughout society
Just to reach the depths within

Deepest horror in the soul
Lightest brushwork on the page
All the humour of humanity
Both its virtues and its sin

I despair that you were hunted
For just how you chose to live
In an age so harsh, intolerant
Of the love it would not name

Come back now to us, dear Oscar
For your wit and for your art
Be an inspiration once more
And let history take the blame

(c) Helen Valentina 2013, All Rights Reserved

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Prophetic Writing?

Do you ever feel your writing is telling you something, or even foretelling something?

This is the first time in many years that I’ve dived into writing. More than fifteen years ago I took some extended time off work and wrote, wrote, wrote, producing the drafts of a number of novels and a lot of poetry. Back then, the internet was only just in its birth stages and blogging was non-existent. The only way to be published was to run the gauntlet of publishing firms, a daunting prospect at the best of times. I loved to write, but wasn’t sufficiently ambitious to run that particular road.

Then I went back to work, forgot for the moment about writing, and creatively returned to sleep. Which isn’t really the point of this post – it’s just a background introduction.

I’m on holidays at the moment (will soon be back at work) but during this time something prompted me to dust off the old manuscripts and re-consider them in this age of publishing on line. It’s amazing how much life has changed during this time – before I can even think about such ambitions I have to update them. And from beginning that piece of work I was inspired to create this blog, and to make a commitment to not let the writing die when I return to work next week.

But the interesting thing I found was that the themes of the novels and prose, though entirely fictional, often reflected experiences, emotions and lessons that my life would lead me to over the following years. Nothing exactly the same, of course – my fictional, literary characters did not spring fully formed out of the pages into my real life, but the types of people and types of issues did. It read like some odd prescience, and that made me wonder.

Was it prescience? Was the writing prophetic? And if so, what does this say about the nature of reality? The nature of choice? Was I fated to go through certain types of experiences or emotions which my muse foresaw in some strange way? If so, given the infinite number and interdependency of small decisions and choices that lead to the larger sweep of one’s life experience, is any choice really a choice?

Or was it some other odd form of creation – where, by writing of certain thoughts and feelings, writers can draw them to themselves in some strange, energetic, mystical way? If so, do we need to be careful where the muse takes us, and is this even possible? I know if I want to write on a theme but don’t have an ‘idea’ it doesn’t happen; alternatively once I have an ‘idea’ the theme is almost irrelevant to the words flowing.

Or further still, is it some form of unconscious self-fulfilling prophecy – that in writing in the abstract I then unknowingly went out to seek something like the experiences of which I wrote? Completely unaware I was doing it. Writing a real narrative for my life in some unknowing sense even where I thought I was completely dealing with fiction. Did the writing express, then, something I felt I lacked and wanted, and then did it compel me to go out and find it? And if so, can you ever be guaranteed to find what you are seeking?

I’d love to hear from other writers – or creative people from all areas – about whether they have experienced something like this? There are other interesting synchronicities that seem to arise with writing – such as where a theme seems to take off across the globe without any conscious collaboration – as described in the theory of morphic resonance. All in all I find the creative process an exceedingly mysterious one on many levels.

How about you?

Do you ever look back at what you’ve created and feel, in some strange way, it has also created you?

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Winged Creatures

A gargoyle nestles on cathedral walls
An Angel over-reaches before the Fall
Out of its cocoon a butterfly crawls
Winged creatures, all

A hawk that evades the archer’s bow
A dragon that stirs in the deep below
An eagle that soars where few dare go
Winged creatures know

I have no wings, earthbound am I
And yet within I yearn to fly
My body unwilling, but my soul may try
Winged creature, I?

(c) Helen Valentina 2013, All Rights Reserved

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The Breath

A breath against my cheek
on waking alone
Was that your ghost?

Yet how could it be that one who lives
reaches across the ether
to touch with nothingness?

Were you a dream in that moment,
striving for more,
reaching to be real?

Or just a memory of mine,
touching one last time
before you go?

(c) Helen Valentina 2013, All Rights Reserved

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Confidences

Do you recall the secrets that we told
In wine-lit moments as the day would end?
I wonder at our courage then so bold
To bare such precious thoughts to just a friend
The weight of such a confidence is great
So that may be the wisdom that we used
To break the silence and such views relate
Would make a friend a foe, justly accused
Yet other loyalties these words may test
And other virtues we could claim as dear
To choose the good, the true, the wise, the best
Is never quite so simple nor so clear
I have no right to judge and yet I find
I’m cruelest when attempting to be kind

(c) Helen Valentina 2013, All Rights Reserved

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Exercise for the Non-Exerciser

I feel the lethargy of limbs
The sweat of brow and skin
I push beyond the pain to find
Some essence from within

I am not made for athletic style
I am not groomed to run
My competition is internal
And has barely just begun

I see the others who with ease
And energy and grace
Can stride towards their personal goals
And each new step embrace

This is not me, I never will
Be truly of their kind
I only hope that should I run
I fall not far behind.

(c) Helen Valentina 2013, All Rights Reserved

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