Transmission

THE WANDERER

The path I have taken has gone to many places and challenged a lot of my thinking and I suppose that can be frightening for some individuals but I don't see things like that. I was born a wanderer. I have always had a deep inner desire for travel and adventure and I've always set my own pace in life without being governed by tradition, though tradition surely seems to wanna govern me. I'm not saying that I'm not founded with deep roots that grow up nor am I saying that there aren't drawbacks to being true to yourself when you're a wanderer. There can be many complications that go hand and hand with this path. Being a seeker, a wanderer is plagued with uphill climbs but it can also mean many great things; poetic sensibility, self-reflection, empathy, it can mean a hedonism and a libertarianism and also a lack of judgement in the best of ways. What I think is frightening is when you don't push through to your own limits, and then to know when to limit yourself when you reach that point. Then again there are no real limits, or are there? When you don't go the miles in your lifes work, listen inside and fine tune your calling no matter how hard it is or how much time it takes you may find yourself in the half life. Purgatory. And by the way that is part of the natural process. Its not estranged, at least for me. Your own projections of what is and is not acceptable for you might become unclear. This is the great challenge. The challenge to break on through. This is the other side. To even know this is profound, especially when you're on the road and defining things, finding your clear. I've found that when you don't know when to close or open the door you get stuck in the half world and that's just no good, then again that place is there to teach you something about yourself so you're not through learning and that is good. That place can be one of the coldest times in hell, one of those times when the life spray cools in the thrust of the strand, with flicks of the tongues, blinks of the eye and touch of hands but you will come through and you wont always be there. You will, if your spirit is strong enough get back up and go at it again and again and again and again. There is no promise of anything though, outside of truly knowing yourself. Your limits and your deep love and you will have incredible respect for yourself for setting your sails North even if you end up somewhere faintly familiar but also very unrecognizable in the deep South or just in an ocean of thought, which may be the case for me right now and by the way, and for a wanderer is a very sensual and moving place to be.

THANK YOU FOR SEEING ME

I just need to say that it has been an incredibly moving experience to come to the place in my life where my first book is almost complete - I am also finding myself freezing in the final process due to a lot of anxiety as the process is really becoming so real and personal for me, not that it wasn't always that way when I was writing over the years, but because I'm just now digesting that I actually do have a book to birth and that all of my personal entires are going to come alive on those pages -- That my soul is going to be exposed to the public and that is somewhat terrifying, so terrifying that I tried to talk myself out of publishing today and then I came to this thought; That no matter how much I try to escape this troubled world there is no way out, there is however a way in...a way back to self and a way to a deeper purpose on this planet. It is through this love of creating that I find some comfort. The whole process helped me in some way sort out some of my struggles and make a little more sense outta this world I live in and in some way I am hoping that in turn my book of poetry/prose/shorts might be able to help someone else. I'm sure I'll move past this anxiety soon and my book will come out in Feb/March as planned. This whole process in general,current anxiety included, has been beyond heartbreaking, beautiful,challenging and freakishly humorous so I really appreciate you support wherever you are be it in the past, the present or the future. Your kindness has meant and continues to mean SO very much to me. ~ Wendy Rose Watson

The last 24 hours

Pulled the last 24 hours through with some Lousiana Chicory Coffee that my publisher sent me back to Georgia with so I'm not so terribly exhausted from a long day/night on the lash--A writing/REsearch lash, that is- working on several things to come including the design and look for my book. I know exactly what I want. I'm ambitious. I don't let others do my thinking, talking or naming. I know who I am and I'm never going to live through someone else to complete myself or my mission, not that I'm being asked to but felt it settled in me to say that. No there's no more nights of apprehension and hot weeping over some tangled illusion that I cannot break through and yeah, I've certainly been there - I was once swallowed whole. Engulfed. Willingly. Now, as the present is in focus there are only days and nights of explosive joy...you know the kinda joy I mean... these days we still refer to as 'now' these days of what may still be illusion when looking back to the past. These days it seems there's a ghost walking along side of me guiding every step of the way.... because 'these days' I'm certainly not 'one' for the keeping and certainly not 'one' right now.

My words on Lou Reed / A Tribute

It's been a week and 2 days since Lou Reeds passing and because I'm back home from my trip I'm just having the opportunity to catch up and read all the thoughtful entries online that everyone has posted. I remember waking up seeing the ocean that day and within the first 5 minutes of taking in the day my publisher told me that Lou had passed on. I had so much more work to do but the thought of pausing seemed right inside so I did and we changed the flight back home.I was having trouble thinking straight. So here I am feeling a bit shaken again as it's all sinking in. I am not the kind of person who can write the lines all the time, sometimes the words get caught up inside and come later but today I do want to say that Lou Reeds work taught me a lot about writing and also taught me about staying true to myself. I posted an entry in my Church of the Victorian Cult blog just last year on his birthday as to honor him and just really can't get past his passing. I'm sentimental like that and though I never met Lou Reed his work will continue to impact my life, he left us with some real gems and for that I will be forever thankful and touched -- It's my belief that we are here to leave things behind and the things we leave, even if they speak to only one person are precious. Lou spoke to many and he will be and is deeply missed. I know most of you have probably already read Laurie Andersons heartbreaking obituary and if not you should as it shook me deep inside as I just had the opportunity to read it. I know her grieving must go so beyond right now as I cannot imagine living without your great love by your side. I'm choosing to post this poetic and touching memorial tribute from Mother of two. Widow. Student of religious imagery. Author. Poet and performer Patti Smith. Patti knew what it was like to lose her great love Fred 'Sonic' Smith and then also be able to somehow recapture that love and magnify his strengths and gifts after a long mourning period. Thank you Patti & my condolences to Laurie Anderson during her grieving process. I too am weary, we all are. Sorrow breaks the heart open. Sorrow is a precious Spring. You have to treasure it, honor it and then move on and begin again to celebrate this thing called living... `Wendy Rose Watson WORDS FROM PATTI SMITH - MOURING FOR LOU REED On Sunday morning, I rose early. I had decided the night before to go to the ocean, so I slipped a book and a bottle of water into a sack and caught a ride to Rockaway Beach. It felt like a significant date, but I failed to conjure anything specific. The beach was empty, and, with the anniversary of Hurricane Sandy looming, the quiet sea seemed to embody the contradictory truth of nature. I stood there for a while, tracing the path of a low-flying plane, when I received a text message from my daughter, Jesse. Lou Reed was dead. I flinched and took a deep breath. I had seen him with his wife, Laurie, in the city recently, and I’d sensed that he was ill. A weariness shadowed her customary brightness. When Lou said goodbye, his dark eyes seemed to contain an infinite and benevolent sadness. I met Lou at Max’s Kansas City in 1970. The Velvet Underground played two sets a night for several weeks that summer. The critic and scholar Donald Lyons was shocked that I had never seen them, and he escorted me upstairs for the second set of their first night. I loved to dance, and you could dance for hours to the music of the Velvet Underground. A dissonant surf doo-wop drone allowing you to move very fast or very slow. It was my late and revelatory introduction to “Sister Ray.” Within a few years, in that same room upstairs at Max’s, Lenny Kaye, Richard Sohl, and I presented our own land of a thousand dances. Lou would often stop by to see what we were up to. A complicated man, he encouraged our efforts, then turned and provoked me like a Machiavellian schoolboy. I would try to steer clear of him, but, catlike, he would suddenly reappear, and disarm me with some Delmore Schwartz line about love or courage. I didn’t understand his erratic behavior or the intensity of his moods, which shifted, like his speech patterns, from speedy to laconic. But I understood his devotion to poetry and the transporting quality of his performances. He had black eyes, black T-shirt, pale skin. He was curious, sometimes suspicious, a voracious reader, and a sonic explorer. An obscure guitar pedal was for him another kind of poem. He was our connection to the infamous air of the Factory. He had made Edie Sedgwick dance. Andy Warhol whispered in his ear. Lou brought the sensibilities of art and literature into his music. He was our generation’s New York poet, championing its misfits as Whitman had championed its workingman and Lorca its persecuted. As my band evolved and covered his songs, Lou bestowed his blessings. Toward the end of the seventies, I was preparing to leave the city for Detroit when I bumped into him by the elevator in the old Gramercy Park Hotel. I was carrying a book of poems by Rupert Brooke. He took the book out of my hand and we looked at the poet’s photograph together. So beautiful, he said, so sad. It was a moment of complete peace. As news of Lou’s death spread, a rippling sensation mounted, then burst, filling the atmosphere with hyperkinetic energy. Scores of messages found their way to me. A call from Sam Shepard, driving a truck through Kentucky. A modest Japanese photographer sending a text from Tokyo—“I am crying.” As I mourned by the sea, two images came to mind, watermarking the paper- colored sky. The first was the face of his wife, Laurie. She was his mirror; in her eyes you can see his kindness, sincerity, and empathy. The second was the “great big clipper ship” that he longed to board, from the lyrics of his masterpiece, “Heroin.” I envisioned it waiting for him beneath the constellation formed by the souls of the poets he so wished to join. Before I slept, I searched for the significance of the date—October 27th—and found it to be the birthday of both Dylan Thomas and Sylvia Plath. Lou had chosen the perfect day to set sail—the day of poets, on Sunday morning, the world behind him. ♦

Thank You Cherry Red Records/359/ Alan McGee

Just returned from a very inspiring trip to the Ghost Beach in the Gulf Shores of Alabama. Lots to do to settle back in but I just checked my post and found a package addressed to me filled with new full lengths accompanied with a thoughtful hand written message. Thank You (Cherry Red Records /359 & Alan McGee) for this highly anticipated jeweled envelope of sound and vision -- A treasure that guarantees to make the unpacking of my very tattered black weathered suitcase a bright new chapter in the book of life and the month of November. Just like 100 years in the past or 100 years in the future the stories are all there. They can often be found in the sound and vision of music and writing...

The Veil Is Thin. The Voice Is Within.

Happy Hallow's Eve and blessed Samhain to all!
The veil is thin. The voice is within.

I am shimmering with delight to be alive right now. Alive and with the gift of being able to cast my eyes like nets over a majestic and powerful, green ocean. Truly moved to be able to see my book through in Alabama, the place where my beloved Grandmother Sibyl grew up. The place where she also met my grandfather. I can almost feel their essence surrounding me as I type this -- The mysteries of love are greater than the mysteries of death and yet they are both one in the same. Today, I am drawn into meditations of the past...somewhere between descent and shadows - knowing that the spiral is evermore inward and evermore spinning like dark birds and that it is through that swirling and shapeshifting of past as well as my ancestors great spirit that I have been brought into these dreams of now...brought into this time with a deeper sense of wholeness, holiness and understanding. I will be leaving this magical place tomorrow so there is a great presence settling into my bones today and I remain in awe that I will be able to carry my visions and writings from this trip with me on the pages of my first book.

Sweet Home Alabama!

Woke up this morning to a sugary white beach that had the perfect deep blue green ocean backing and first email of the day was one from a friend who offered kind words and a projection that some of my writing reminded them of Kathy Acker. Thanks pal. That's a cool compliment. Thanks Alabama. I couldn't ask for a better Southern backdrop. You aide me beyond words deep into the land of visualization and more creation. Think I have the visual mapped out on how I want the cover of my book to look. YES!

In Dark Places

My bones ached a lot. When I was just a little girl my Mother thought I had a 'growing problem' so she took me to see the doctor to see if she could prevent me from growth. I remember her being very afraid - Afraid that I'd be too tall, that I'd be unlike the other kids in my class you know that I'd be 'different' and I also remember that in my mind she was afraid of my magic...or rather the things I knew and how I'd tell them because I wasn't afraid. I liked shining light in dark places and she was terrified of that. I was a curious little girl, curious about life and the food of the great spirit and always remember having such a quest for vision and I wanted to, without knowing what I was doing, to cultivate and strengthen that. 
I knew that that everything was just an illusion then again I didn't know how to know that back then but I knew something and at all cost, even if it mean my life I was going to stay on that quest to at least uncover my own eyes as they were always thirsty. I remember being told NO. I remember saying YES then going against that NO be cause I knew something, something deep down inside so I decided to set my sails and go out to sea. In my mind it was me on a boat with some cats and poetry, I was just a child so that's how I envisioned it. I was gonna take a few talismans with me, carry them in my in my pocket using my inner compass as a guide so that there would be no chance of getting lost but that's another story cause I got lost and I got lost even worse than a Chet Baker song cause that ain't so bad. Keeping illusion in mind , nothing was bad...it was just all part of the process when one decides to set sails up and go to sea. I was gonna be the mother fucking sea captain come hell or high water and my Mother was just gonna have to let it be. Ain't no doctor gonna shoot my bones up and try to prevent my growth but they did....they shot me up good....I don't know what it all means because it really doesn't matter but their shots did not do the trick. Mission not accomplished. 
You see when you're dealing with ones soul no one else is going to be able to take control. She nor the doctor could prevent this growth, spiritually but when I was out a sea a funny thing happened, I felt the need to come back, you know make a come back mainly because I was growing and my rose bones ached and yeah maybe being out there at sea really did something to me. I mean I died a thousand times out there, died alive. I got lost beyond words and when the words no longer made sense I knew it was time to hit the shore. And, just like the lover that I am I came back and I will die and die again.  
So when I came back, and just like some sorta passage outta a William Blake poem because I could never understand Nevermore but I do remember this passage that runs so deep, deep inside my endless eye "Some are born to sweep the light and some are born to endless night" and to that I say "Some may take the bone and lay down in the dirty cotton field with blood, when milk fed the grass and soul meets the flood, " but not me. NO. Not me. 
The slave inside of my Mother, that doctor or even the trees that tower outside of my window bay still be, they may not have grown, tried to prevent their growth with the alpha letters PhD but mine wont stop, my soul that is....in my world there are no slaves, we are all free.

Sneek Peek of Creation Stories by Alan John McGee

What a read!! Alan McGees new book Creation Stories will be out November 7th on Pan McMillian Press so I consider myself very lucky to have intercepted a copy of it from Alan before its release. I am currently on page 36 of 336 and cannot put it down. Creation Stories is not only inspiring and thoughtful it's an incredibly insightful account on what it was like for a young boy from a working class family to grow up in Glasgow and arrive by a strong hand of fate with a few good friends and foes into the music industry.

I'm currently packing to go on a trip to meet my press and lay out my own book so I'll be working 8 days a week from now on as my own book is about to birth into this life but one thing's for sure, this read is traveling with me. It's huge and inspiring, just what I needed as sometimes hearing someone else tell their stories really reaches you and feels like home. Alan often says 'keep the faith' and now I know why...whatever you may or may not believe in, life truly is just one big, beautiful, wild, flowing ride!

               The book Creation Stories is dedicated to Alan's Mother -- Pure Class Alan, pure class!!

Available hot off the Pan McMillian Press November 7th, 2013. 

WORDS © Wendy Rose Watson 

Church of the Victorian Cult: The Cream Blue Dawn

Church of the Victorian Cult: The Cream Blue Dawn: The strand of shadow in your eyes - to feel the history of your flesh beneath my skin - all of your pale colors stealing my breath - if i co...

American Spirit VS. Bleeding Vagina T

Dear American Apparel thanks so much for the invitation that popped up in my inbox with a menstruating vagina on the chest but next time you come up with such a clever idea you may wanna consider hiring me to do the design work as your designer obviously left out the teeth and come on, where's the proper companion shirt for the fellas? You know the one that showcases a giant erect penis across the chest? You have inspired me though as I now know what I'm purchasing for all of my family and female friends this X-mas. It is ,after all,right around the corner and you know that I love supporting businesses that once sexually harassed their employees AND has the highest paid immigrant rate in this great country we share. Furthermore, your team is clearly bursting with creativity -- if all else fails just put a bleeding vagina on it, this will surely boost sales in an economy that's cut throat busted -- gotta get your act together because the dollar is crashing and bleeding vaginas bring in the gold! Yeah. 

Meanwhile, after I make my early X-mas purchases you're emails are being deleted from my inbox. No, not because you are pushing the levels of so called creativity but because it's NOT creative and it stands for nothing except maybe the halt of child brides in other countries that die on their wedding nights from internal bleeding. Sorry, I can't think clearly because I'm currently bleeding, forgive me. I also forgot your line is made in America. So many happy good times indeed!

So, I just thought you should know that I'm not angry with you. However, since I'm an American woman I feel the need to exercise my fingertips (not my voice) a little and tell you that I have NO desire to wear an advert that greets the general public with a warm hello and a bunch of wiccan period blood. Sure, I may bleed and then draw down the moon from time to time but obviously whatever old sod created this is lacking the real muse, which IS The American Woman -- sure we bleed and yeah American Apparel as the song goes....stay (the fuck) away from me! 

Leaning Into the Afternoon

I know it's slightly premature as Picassos' birthday isn't for a few weeks but there's no better time for art that you identify with than when it calls to you. I've always associated with The Blue Period and Picassos angular, alien, melancholic images and this one in particular was in my mind when my eyes kissed the sky today. I remembered having this postcard taped on my dressing mirror alongside other precious images that spoke to me, tibetan incense, a bottle of my favorite fragrance called Bluebelle from Penhaligons (though I only wore it in the cruelest months of Spring) I remember having a collection of golden skeleton keys on my dressing table, a notebook to record my prayers for the day and other talismans that still remain very close to my heart. Anyhow, here's my favorite leaning Harlequin for no reason at all other than maybe sometimes you just come across visuals in your mind, images that still speak to you, that the silence cannot break... an image that can still go the miles and stir something up in you because you haven't lost that feeling and your limbs are still awake and alive and yes it's still one of my rituals to stop, to listen, to notice as each moment is holy, sacred and shining...each moment is just a leaning into the afternoon.

A Mother of Gold - A Mother of Stories

I Just found out that my Mother stole a pair of shoes for me when I was a wee girl going into pre-school and she was finger-printed and booked. Those were some very challenging  times for sure. I promised to her that she'd never have to live that way again as it touched me to think of her in that position, the struggle she went through to try to provide for me, the way she wanted people to know she cared, the way she wanted good things for me. I'm good with my old pair of boots right now - they are worn and cracked maybe but they have so many stories alive in them waiting to break through and just wanna say that I have so much respect for the people who I learn from - My mom, for one who is here this weekend with me- My Mother Rose in all her glory - I'm just the illuminated apprentice, I learn so much from others all the time. I have had lucky and unlucky accidents in this life  but I know that I am blessed in every way so it's a huge honor the I've been asked by RE/Searchs' very own Mother Meme to do a piece on Motherhood soon. I truly believe that every woman is a Mother of gold and a Mother with stories, and that we can all birth something beautiful when we look and listen inside. Honored when this sorta light takes my hand. Blessed to be a part of this higher plan. 

The Cream Blue Dawn

The strand of shadow in your eyes - to feel the history of your flesh beneath my skin - all of your pale colors stealing my breath - if i could attach our blood vessels right now i would - to open up your body and slip into your skin so i could see outside your eyes and know where to begin - I want you in the middle of the dead end street screaming to the high heavens in waves - The angels cannot help now as my body which is full of flowers breaking like glass is breaking and it breaks again like midnight when the time always passes like stone  yet breaks again like the stone into waves - your voice fuels the beauty inside like terror and I shiver as I float silently just like the stars connected and standing alone-- I am the daughter of smoke, star and bone. I am the cream on the tip of a fox's tongue that glides backwards making the throat soft, the lips red and the thighs pale and all the better because of you -- Hope is not dead, it is alive with monstrous twilight flowers and a hoarse, gentle voice -- This thing called hope and its evils that slay me with its shadowed double edge- This hope and its burning fire  which kisses the words that I cannot utter and its promises that leave more than scars, more than bright shaking leaves --And when I thought of what had passed time doesn't heal and walls have not hidden things --at least from me because when things get that deep inside of you there isn't anyone that can change them. No- Not even you and your cream blue dawn, calendars and five thousand miles of mountains...not even your teeth that will surely sink into my fleshy parts but oh how I crave your beautiful melodies telling me and telling me again terrible things like we should never part. 

Words©Wendy Rose Watson 

Never Let Spirit Die Inside

Leon-Francois Comerre "Le Manteau Legendaire"

I just purchased the first few frocks for my online store -- a moment in hell -- there are so many beautiful things I wish to touch and give life to, how can one choose just a few? So I go slowly, softly into the spring of 2014. There are so many treasures I have seen, like the scent of the sap and the flowers from the garden near the coast that I used bring, these things intoxicate me. Offerings from a place when I burrowed my fingers into the dark burning earth. That was the place and I remain haunted by all of that treasure hunting as I had hunted for so many years. Did you think I'd give up while you were looking down? Guess again. I've pledged to myself to do it again...do it in a place where I could roam and try to remember faces and all the inspiration that first drew me in -And now I sit here trying to recall the perfume of the body and its expression that captured me in all of my willingness and I can but this time it will be even better as it took me so long to dig my way to now - to recapture that essence with all that kneeling to the ground. I have found a way back up to breathe more air as I never stopped stretching my arms out in the air even when I was suffocating this vision was there. To touch as much as possible in the sunlight that has shown me the electric moonlight -- To grow when even the ground is stone cold -- To sit with thieves, lunatics and try to keep sane in the scar --to realize we were all sick, twisted and drowning in our own way ---this is how I came back to life and to wrap myself in gauze back into the stars. My shop will arrive in 2014, meanwhile I have a book coming as well that will tell parts of my tale. Word to the wise -- NEVER LET SPIRT DIE INSIDE. 

Egon Schiele notebook drawings

File The Knife

File the knives like the high reef of the human dawn, I can hear you breathing inside of me, awakening deeper source. Voices singing and slashing tones trailing and arousing the night sky as I sit here under the dust of green stars --stars that trample the mineral serpent that was once flung to earth. I'm struck by feathers of flight and fire burns on the gold and within it. White turquoise upon my skin called illusion. The spell has been broken and a soft rose carved stone levitates. Above. Below. And I dive and I dive and I dive into the silver waves through this direction I once called time. Water-bearer of Andean tears -- I come to speak through your dead mouth.

Words © Wendy Rose Watson 

I Have Undressed For You - We're not dead

I was just a kings daughter and the moon explained.
She moved the rain, danced for me  how strange.
We're floating again.
She's such a daydreamer caught up in scene, my friend
She was a friend of the wind.
She's caught up ..she's so caught up again.

The lies that are stolen and told to our hearts we can never be apart so this is you, she said..this is you...

"Your truth your dirty little deeds breaking through -- living on the left path you're not dead. You and I together" she said --"it's true"--  'it's true" --"we're not dead!""we're not dead!"it's true, it's true we're not dead, we're not dead we're with you.

And you ---you will never break me apart cause I come not that wanted but this line, this line for the suns' daughter s heart -- the song of the sun; it's for you and what you do. we're not dead, the suns daughters heart.

So whose gonna sigh now? Whose gonna rise now? Whose singing these dirty little lies now? N-O it's not you, not you I'm not dead. I'm alive. The sun's daughter.

So all you want is a tune and I see and I see and I see and I see your eyes. We're floating again...and you know what's true. No lies. It's true. I'm alive. Not dead. Not you.
Take me home. Take me home I hear you crying, whailng at my door ,wipe the tears there will be no more and it's true. I'm the suns daughter.  I long to give you embraces, I-eye long to give embraces but you know who you  arejust like me. Alive. The Sun. The stars. The Moon. Everyones daughter.

So here I am - hanging high, I have undressed for you.
I have  confessed and done everything you asked me to, alive.
But if it weren't for them, then it wasn't for you.
Undress, you undress for me ..undress like the sun, the sun and the moon.
Your reflection always lights the truth...how still I don't see now being so open  to your door...see behind being, it's true I want more. I see you. I see me but do these people believe, they want more.  I can't stop can't celebrate, I can't stop so I carry the weight in you. in you , it's true . it's true.  Like the sun and the moons and the stars. It's true. Will I ever get on my knees, it's true..it's YOU -- so far.

Never on my knees, never on my knees it's still the way it was before you met me and you know it -- you know that it's true.The stars.So far. The stars do far.

I'm the kings daughter.
The peasants daughters gone to rest.
I'm me...not a kings daughter and the peasants moons never rests .
Let the light shine through - blur into you.
Let the light shine through burn into you -- the kings daughter.

Words © Wendy Rose Watson

Autumn Winds

The tip of my tongue ---however you spell it - is on the tip of my tongue. Tasting the electric sparks of your... your words. My words with yours oh how the fuck they just morph into ONE. We are ONE.  You and I. No resolution. Every resolve. A resolution.  Hanging onto this wild vocabulary that sees no place home away from the mermaids nest - no place to come home to because I will not rescue you and you will be still with wings that never really tasted fire, refuge.  I have my solitude and my voice which stretches out for miles that lands you, oh my solitude.  I wish for this great big warm hot war to be gone and I wish for this bottle of red to keep strong. To wish is nothing though...we must dream it up. Live it up. There is no drinking, no wishing no time for thinking but there is. There is the leg here of thinking and of existing - so do you exist and think with me? If so then carry me home.  Where in the god fuck of it all have we landed? When have I ever asked a brother or sister to carry me?  Where in the god fuck of this all is it? What is it? Does it end?  Where are we
now?I haven't.

I thought I saw you laying next to me the other day naked, pure and so soft gold in your laces...obstructed....and now that you are clothed with your own words, "what have you become?" So different from me. Become. The fools tarot to you. And so what have you not become? So different from me. Become. You never understood this breeze or did you? Your mask begs me to enter and I  hear the wild drifting autumn winds arrive..I hear the wild autumn winds arrive because I too am a part of that arrival. I am part of this arrival...I am a a part of the end of the summer breeze. Lace me up, deconstruct. This bird song has me on my knees. We must search for truth, we must..we must still  listen straight into the trees! DOG please. GOD please!

† Let Me Love You Baby †

Faith is nothing so I keep the faith. I know it's more of the backbone of my soul being synchronized with that  intensity of knowing, so I keep it. The faith. There is no correct way or time really then again there is...the correct way will appear at the correct time, and it will always be different than I would have ever expected.  

Our paths run through darkness to meet the light because the light is not enough to bear us so we all reach such discern in lasting results. There will be flashes of perception that are telling of the truth towards which direction. Whomever walks with you together in the name not of the ONE is still always responsible for their own legacy, their own entire being.  This could be the time to rethink Thomas Young's double-slit experiment, and I think it is. † Let me love you † Let me love you baby†
This is just how it works. 

We all must remain open for the new, the call of the now and the call of the coming. Day by day this thought is birthing in us from plentitude. Stay close to your loved ones and validate them in their walk and nurse the great thunder as even the clouds have their veils --- they never cast their pearls forth to swine. 
Words © Wendy Rose Watson ˙

Into the Trees

We see ourselves as often maneuvering to maintain mobility ~ For many of us it's always contingent on getting a sound, the sound always suggests what kind of melody it should be, what kind of mobility. You know, if you're in the deep woods, the quality of that sorta echo is beyond Lynchian as it really echoes back off so many surfaces of all the trees. You truly get this strange itchy ricochet effect which we must say is coming deeper into focus for it is and for whatever reason may be. Yes. Do. Lick your legs, please.

SYLVIA

 

"What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.... If I sit still and don't do anything, the world goes on beating like a slack drum, without meaning. We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine."

Sylvia

GLOW

Glow like some sort of red tide ocean that awaits the soul, diving down into electric waters2 float back into the light of what awaits the fall of autums eyes. 

if you could sit out here with me in this wilderness tonight ..if you could just be next to me the rains wouldn't have such heavy, wild, red eyes.

Words by Wendy Rose Watson 

Bringing out the Dead

i'm the barren of this daughter so burn me on this fire and i understand why. the suburbs and soft airplanes make me cry. my friend or foe or my mind might not stand the test of time because this will destroy you to go, lay down and die.  not me yeah you and so i ask why as only the glaciers know.  don't take everything, be spoiled like an ice pelican because she flies and so beautiful sometimes everything dies. go ask yourselves. put faith into yourselves...base your life on nothing and figure it out. draw the lines. ask why.

okay then don't figure it out...i'm not so arrogant, what do I know about?
i still ask why.i know why she flies.

old foagies with bitter attitudes, stop failing humanity....get over it, stop killing people, stop shunning others and summoning them to die. she flies! we are all in this mess of a human club together --- don't be blinded by your bitterness and yeah do try to come together because  we can, miagrate, we fly! we can still be honest, come together and those that  do not  believe this should lay their breathe down and die. fly to that other world....and fly.

if we all find one good friend that will give good advice and then take them in, rely on your never think twice none of us would really ever die.  the ones that says that sucks and the one that denies  and the ones that says make art you and i reading this  nonsense will alway fly is good. what do i mean by good. nothing! just that you should not worry about anything as glaciers are in fact just a part of your ice upon the train tracks -- keep on doing it, whatever your it is...finding your voice, the gold in your heart and from your heart ..a vision, a choice...don't lay down and die.

To Dream Things Alive

Woke up and got out of bed this morning with the big amnesia and paranoia of indulgence staring at an array of notebooks smudged with ashes and afterthoughts of red wine.  Other people wake up after a night or long weekend on the lash having somehow gained a pocket full of diamonds that might include phone numbers on napkins, strange business cards, a new set of keys or maybe they even wake up next to a person. I emerged with writings that are faint and seem unknown and looking closer I almost recognize the handwriting, it sort of looks like mine - a ghost from the past - One things for sure...the past is alive and well and will be going into my book soon as I have recently found a home with a thoughtful, new press that believes in my writing.

I'd also like to say that I had no idea that these last four years of writing would be shape shifting into a book but I did have a vision of it stirring inside a few moths after I left Los Angeles last September and somehow ended up in Ireland . It was as if all my thoughts were clouded then yet still somehow still made great sense...following your intuition is a tremendous key in the song of creation, being in my  ancestors homeland, Ireland, stirred my soul as well.

Breaking from my 15 years of residency in Los Angeles was very key for me as my identity was wrapped up in my store that closed in 2009. I wasn't looking to leave Los Angeles life just sort of called me to other places so I went. I can attest that the uninhibited vision of the mind and the ability to see beyond the limitations of the human self is beyond imaginable when you live in the moment. It's as though all of the sudden when you are aware of who you are, where you are, what you are doing, what you want, what you don’t and make informed choices on a moment-to-moment basis more light has the opportunity to arrive -- it's that ability of living in the present that lets you live your life without regrets, especially when your in the process of creating something  that comes from your spirit, a work that has no preconceived mission or statement...it's an offering, something you've nurtured, something that you know you're going to leave behind even if you don't know how you'll do it, you do it. It's a body of work, a mariposa that you birth not for financial gain but in order to keep going forward, in order to stay alive. I do the work because it's my birth right. There has been too much death. Too much struggle. Too much heartache and yes, a lot of joy as well but over the last five years there has been all this diving, diving, diving and corruption everywhere, not just in my life but here on our big blue planet. It's been happening way longer than five years but that's when a lot of us living in America were hugely impacted. A lot of loss for many and that's okay as it helped many of us open our eyes and wake up. So  yeah, we are all living in these strange times and for many in other lands life has greatly changed too. It's my thought that  in order to move through the inevitable suffering and to attain more peace it just makes sense, at least to me, to give more offerings - to leave something behind...to keep dreaming things alive.

There are still miles to go but with more dedication my mission, my book that I will birth with this new press will be available in early 2014. Please stay tuned. I thank all of you from the bottom of my heart as it truly means so much to have your support.

Words © Wendy Rose Watson

And She Rides

I got my Kryptonite guard and I got my feminine sensitivity and I'm  in the process of it all right now - in fact I've been in that process my whole life but I never doubted myself unless it was time to pull back as there are, most certainly times for the reigns. I see so many voices that do not speak to others or the kids freely and when they do they speak to them with fear and I wonder why. So much segregation of the masculine and feminine and we could all learn so much from each other if we'd just open our eyes. I am grateful for the mentors that have been in my life, even if they aren't here now their voice and spirit do continue ride. I live in America and right now I'm here wondering where do all the American tough angels ride? Horses lunge with raw urgency and this album today speaks another language than when I was just 16 but I still ride. Reverting back to this classic, great causes me to realize that yeah I ride and I am also just a mammal, just like you and you and YOU so where are all the women with strong voices today? Fact is that It's just as much of a process of learning to "become" a "woman" as it is for men wrestling with all this ballyhooed "manhood" business so get up girls...I mean girls because I don't know many women...it's time to walk a Bo Diddley and ride.  What's the point of keeping your passions low....let your great passion out and just ride. and if you're really out of sorts and cannot hear this greatness again just imagine biting Cherrie Curries nippels off..that should do it, let's ride!

The Story of the Flowers

and sometimes the chains of love and the plenty, the old pig and meeting that pig in the river enslaves us..ah! the dream...the death of the father. the weapon of woman. the portrait of man. dear boyscouts, now be pleased to be seated. sphinx, image maker... this is your wedding and only your memories will remain.

AND THE SOUL LEAVES THE BODY 

Photos Saudek

I am in the midst of unpacking a few treasured books I have managed to carry from LA to the deep South with me. I spent every last penny I had shipping these books. Unemployment pennies may I add. I found my Saudek book...it is a lofty treasure and I knew I couldn't part without it. It was like Sophies choice during that time of leaving for me, that was when I became a warrior of the Gods and my lamp took bright light again. I parted with 2 little lives (one of my cats - 19 year old  was put down as she was ill and the other that  I found a new loving home for) I will try to refrain from the past and keep in the present but this book still brings up so much for me. I'm not sure I can even speak of it now that I've started except to say it, in all of its glorious splendour was worth the weight, tales of love and ruination. I come closer today but then again visions disappear in the west...and then I chase back to recollect all that old tart vanishes over. It's been a very long day into night, no sleep. This book out of darkness arrives from a card-board shipping box that was lost in the depths of the closet I let it rest in for the last 9 months...it takes me by the hand,  leads me home back to this thought:  I don't think I need another violin teacher, as a child, I undderstood nothing of that appauling theatre of love. I never did. Then the fire. The burn. The loving of myself. And now that I know even less than before I know more.  What's it all mean? This. This reunion between my east and my west and then I know.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY KATE BUSH

This ain't no Teenage Jesus & the Jerks. 

This ain't no John Coltrane.

I'm glad Kate is still with us....50 Years of Snow (((+)))) Jeff Hiatt treated that piano with such depth, polish and air that sometimes when it's hard to select the 'great' from Kate I revert back to this one as the whole album remains so unsettling and yet still so comforting to me.

 It's as though I can still smell the homecookin' 

 Happy Birthday Kate

You helped me shape much of my artistic vision

 in this crazy, madhouse of a beautiful life. 

This womans' work -- YES. 

A vision that's true and founded is really all any of us need!

THE DOOR

I was in deep meditation when I found myself in a very large and very old southern style mansion -- The kind found in the deep South of the US, where I was born. It had hundreds of doors that were chalk white with lead crystal door knobs. I then saw the SUN opening and closing doors. Some doors opened very fast and closed very fast and some doors slammed fast and hard. The SUN then spoke to me and said in a feminine voice: Tell my people that I am closing doors in their life and opening new doors for them to go through do not be afraid as I am closing doors in their lives and I will open new doors for them to go through. Then that same SUN said to me, I know your works and I have set before you an open door, and no one can shut it; for you have strength, have kept the word with me , to yourself, and have not denied the GOD LIGHT in you. Whatever this means resonated in me and immediately reminded me of a passage from many books I've read which the themes are based on the door and knocking the open and the close. YES - I stand at the door and I knock. If anyone hears this voice and opens the door, I will come in to her/him and dine with thiem, and she/he with me. I came to the conclusion after thinking about this meditation that time is up and yet there is still time, but there is no time.

WORDS copyrite Wendy Rose Watson 

53 Miles West of Venus

A soundtrack. My favorite pen. A No. 2 pencil. A Notebook. A digital connection. A non-red planet. A personal assistant named Olive. A plymouth satellite. A dress that's been bleached by the moon for my meeting with the sun and a good ole rusty axe that I found in a shed in my fathers back yard. YEP. CHECK PLEASE.

Church of the Victorian Cult: Milk

Church of the Victorian Cult: Milk: I sit on this drowned porch with a light shining above...my diluted glass of red milk wont conjure you, nor do I want it to. Milk from my b...

Milk

I sit on this drowned porch with a light shining above...my diluted glass of red milk wont conjure you, nor do I want it to. Milk from my breast, baby. And L is for Love baby...I know what you do and I do what I do too. Bells are crawling along for you on your floor, too. I won't and don't wait for you . Dirty. I stand. I'll say it again ..no, I don't stand for you. I am a devil (wo)man to hell with you and so be it -- to hell with me. Lipstick -- beyond my writing -- to the naked into and above you.

Words copywrite-Wendy Rose Watson

THE DANCE CLASS

 

I am beyond tired of getting messages in my inbox that tell me to communicate, connect dots, clue the reader in and don't fall for that shit about 'oh the artist is not responsible for readers not getting it', what? I was told fish and bird...s can write and that is what it appears that I am doing. That being a WRITER means to rewrite/edit/complete pieces/ publish/compile....that that* is writing. Messages telling me that I'm not suppose to tell people I'm writing, that that* guff only goes over w/the art damaged fringe and I am more talented than that? To even consider my writing is damaged is your loss and YOU can fuck right off, shove that PhD up your bloody ass. Don't like that I use swear words from time to time...oh well, I am a force that you cannot control and I refuse to control my writing. Go ahead and think that I am a damaged writer if you like. I'm not here to please you, serve you, feed you or bring the box office home. This is my life and I will continue to create and project what resonates within and without me.

I am fed up with the ears and eyes of old men trying to dig graves and dream up wars for the inspired to die in. Unlike you, I do not expect anyone to read my writing, I'm simply writing because it's a way out of myself and also into myself. It's a channel I tune into and an expression I use as a medium. Edgar Degas was born today on July 19 in 1834 so I will reflect on what he once said that stood out to me about creating - "Only when he no longer knows what he is doing does the painter do good things" and as a painter of words I do not give a fuck about what you think I need to do, should do or not do. You're not living my life, you don't know how to take chances and YOU don't know me. YOU don't write with fever and soul like I do so how would you know, you have not lived through this. What gives you the right? I'm not a goddamn news reporter, frozen inside whose here to deliver the subject matter in a stone cold voice nor am I writing Breakfast at Tiffany's. Don't try to figure me out -- you can't -- you may try but you will never be there, inside of me. I write to communicate the deeper seed that lives inside, I write for many reasons -- one is so that I will not end up like YOU -- dead, frozen, lifeless and seemingly chained inside. If people get lost with my words or in my words and cannot focus (like you also said) then that isn't my concern, they are just not people who connect with my creations. I'm not trying to gain public appreciation and YOU have lost the plot.

YOU who sends me messages at all hours I appreciate the fire you drum up in me but I do not strive to be like YOU. I have human respect for all but I don't need to see your way as this is my road, my dance and I am the driver, I am the dancer of my own words and yes, by the way, and in case you didn't know I know what's good for me. Don't think twice. Fever, passion and channeling words are just a natural part of my way...stick to your methods and I'll stick to my intuition and birth right. My voice is a strong song and you will not be able to teach it or calm it. It is none of my business if you hear me or not but whatever you are hearing so be it. Your life must be spinning out of control to spend so much time reading my entries -- do yourself a favor and go write about that and then maybe you won't have such an incessant need to try to sway me your way and then, instead you'll be able to offer up a ripe slice of words for your reader. Truly, we are a different breed. I haven't lived this long to sink down and let rules and regulations and voices like you try to guide or enforce your ways onto me. I am a woman, not a girl like you also called me. There is no wrong or right, especially when one writes from the soul. The writer I am suppose to be and am is one who is free, writes with abandon and refuses to live in caged thoughts. YOU who send me messages and lays your writings and rules on me can't stand that I am free with my pen and burn the box. No, your world is just NOT for me...and no we don't have to share it. We may breathe the same air but your world is not the air that I wish to breathe, I prefer my own, thanks. Labeling me as feminist because I have my own ideas is also insane. It's true for you though, whatever you dream up about me, as you just can't handle it, you can't handle me.  I'm a force who refuses to be a slave -- a slave to your slavery; A place where many recognize themselves in their commodities and find their soul in their automobile, their degrees, their split-level homes and kitchen equipment. NO. THAT'S JUST NOT ME.

The Dance Class (La Classe de Danse) born July 19th 1873 - Edgar DegasSee More

 

The Eye

When that fierce tornado strikes your house you will know it - there will be no place you can run for cover and you won't be able to escape...you will beg to be let go and you will be called to make your way into the light, you will crawl out of the darkness, if you are fortunate. Some are hit with that kiss but not blinded - suppose you could say that I am fortunate that EYE wasn't blinded.

I now have 3 eyes -- one in each hand and one in-between above and below.

L O V E



Words Copywrite - Wendy Rose Watson

 

We Don't Care: The Moon Is On Fire (and we once called it the sun)

You don't need to understand our process and posts - that's up to us...not you.

Close your eyes and imagine it.

Though you may have joined the cult , we know none of you.

It would be ludicrous to say that we do,we only know of you as

not all those whom are called friends will be able to come to this line of thinking, some have to go fishing in order to understand the catch. Maybe that is why you are here, reading this.
That statement in itself may or may not make any sense to you but what do we care? 

We are not here to "make sense" of your world. We make sense of ours and those that connect will connect and join forces with us because they have been down a path that is similar to ours. 

This is not a paid advertisement, tt's free, just like you should be.

The moon is on fire and we once thought it was the sun was, too.

Words - Wendy Rose Watson on behalf of the CVC

INDEPENDANCE DAY

 

Happy Independence Day! 

 

 May you all have work that inspires you 'cause getting down to real living is what it's all about.

Workin for the (wo)man ain't no good thing but sometimes

you gotta pay your dues in order to break free.

 

A high salute to all that continue to find a means to an end

&

YES

 Break free

 

No Bullshit, Inc.

 

I Am Not That Place Called Midnight

 

I left that old, ancient ghost hotel.  The one I often refer to as my ivory tower, today. I left it almost 9 months ago. Yeah, that's right. The term of a pregnancy.  I abandoned my room and those four walls and I shook his dust off my coat and never looked back.  I walked down the streets and heard the hum and rattle that was draped against my black - drenched heart as if I was on some sorta  mission to resurrect thoughts, thoughts on a razor and on that razor.... that razor... it was still logged deep inside of my womb holding me to bleed. That place where only that echoing voice can be heard, his voice.  Nobody knows what's going on in my head except you and I. Wired thoughts just like fiction that grain against my skin in that place where I summon the words that ache like Achilles in the desert.. That place that aches when I conjure and create, to birth no matter how painful, heals. No more self mutilation or devastation as I'm not midnight. He is. It's just that your eyes can never hold me to the light so I create from that place that's deeply embedded and razor sharp. I am your wife standing in the beating sun. I'm standing in that place where everything is glued  and tightly undone. That place where  no one else is allowed to see, no one but you, you and me.Metal fragments reflect wild dreams in postcards and again no reply as you steal away.  Metal post cards still arrive on my hidden driveway. Those pale streets did it to me and I just sat there broken, tattered and torn, cut up by the darkness with three wings, a crown of sun, moon and thorns. You,  circling my head today, everyday so  I unleash my bats watching them ride home, free and the very thought of you remains glowing in my mind just like the drifting fragrance of flowers. I am not that place called midnight.

“I am the sunrise of sunsets, and I make love like noon at midnight.” 

  Jarod Kintz, from This Book Has No Title

 

 

 

Words copywrite ~ Wendy Rose Watson