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.