To You

‘I swoon to the words of a lover, marvel at the entangle dance of love. I whisper the promises through the words I write’.

Jane E Libeau

Goldie-Locks and the Three Trials of Communication.

When I think about communication and finding the quality that I want to exude, I think of the Goldie Locks story. Not necessarily the traditional Goldie-Locks and the three bears story we all know and love, however to me Goldie-Locks portrays the seeker of knowledge, how she searches for what is just right and how she wants to find her way to communicate.

Goldie-Locks wanders the forest of ‘herself’ until she comes to the house of her inner self. Her curiosity to what is inside draws her to open the door and enter.

Once inside Goldie-Locks finds upon a table three bowls of porridge. She samples the first bowl of porridge and it burns her lips, she samples the second bowl of porridge and it is cold. Reluctantly Goldie-Locks samples the third bowl of porridge and to her surprise it is just right.

The tasting of the three bowls of porridge reflect how Goldie-Locks wants to generate her communication. With tasting the third bowl she becomes aware that she will communicate with a warm and nourishing voice.

Goldie-Locks then peruses the room and sees three chairs. She sits on the first chair and finds it hard and rigid. She sits upon the second chair and sinks deeply as she folds into it. Then sitting upon the third chair she finds it comfortable, supporting and relaxing.

How she feels in the third chair represents her desired body language.

Goldie-Locks sits in the chair for a moment longer and ponders her new discovery of her self.

It wasn’t long before Goldie–Locks espies three beds. Of course it was time to test their qualities.

The first bed by the open window was too large, too hard and too exposed. The second bed under the eave was too soft and too sheltered. In the centre of the room was the third bed. Goldie-Locks wandered toward the bed, easily got upon it and relaxed with its natural covers enveloping her and sides slightly raised gave a feeling of comfortable containment. Goldie-Locks lay in the bed that represented her social boundaries and consciousness of conversational intent.

And time went by.

The three bears came home to see that their porridge has been nibbled at and that one bowl is all gone. Their chairs have been sat in and now there is someone lying in the little bear’s bed.

As they approach the bed Goldie Locks rises and smiles at the two larger bears then turns to the little bear. She looks into his left eye and says.

I entered this house and I did found

Three bowls of porridge up off the ground

I chose the one that was right for me

Now I generate my voice to thee

The warm nurturing bowl, sweet and true

Generates how I speak to you.

I sat on the chairs, and found that one

Supported my self and my new voice I have found.

From there I picked this bed of three

Is where I found you, and you hear me.

I speak to you from my true voice

I had three of three to make my choice

So,

I chose from which cot

To make MY bed

So now I say what I mean

And mean what I said.

With that Goldie Locks and the little bear

Saw the mirror of self

Of self aware

From her belly of knowledge she could generate

The power of truth and intention

From a sleepless state.

Both understood

What she came here for

They embraced for a moment

Then Goldie Locks walked out the door.

By

Jane E Libeau

I Will Love You

I will love you through the winter

I will love you through the spring

I will love you whether it’s sun or rain

I will love you through anything.

I will love you into the autumn

I will love you all summer long

I will love you until the end

I will love you after all is dead and gone.

I will love you for all seasons

I will love you through all time

I will love you because I love you

I will love you from a distance if you were never mine.

Jane E LIbeau

What stimulates the senses? What gives inspiration? I am stimulated by the forces of nature... the passion of people and the reflective view of myself... the 'who am I' quality merging with the 'knowing self'.  And it comes together with the explosive force of creativity... spilling from every pore aching till it is released into an orgasmic flow of words...

The Keeper of Lost Souls

“ I felt like breath at her feet. Like the icy cold mist that lingered in the valley, was I the cold breath of Death?”

The fog hadn’t lifted for days yet every day she stood alone in the valley and watched and waited.

What she waited for seemed a mystery. She was alone; she had always been alone. There was nobody there who was meant to know she was waiting. Like waiting for the train that never arrived at the station she stood there day after day on a frosty verge of the valleys lonely platform.

I know she was there, I would see her walk the track she had worn for what may have been years. I watch her through the mist and fog as her slow and deliberate walk cut through its thickness then closed back in around her with every precise step.

She waits as I watch... I am the keeper of lost souls.

My own journey began in the valley of lost hope. It was so long ago that I cannot put a precise time on it. The time has faded from memory but the experience still remains. Now, watching the waiter; that was my experience also. And I don’t recall what or who I waited for. Yet every day I would wait in the valley of hope.

The outside world stands still when the one who waits appears. The world as they know it appears gone, lost and there in its self is the answer to a question. The waiter has closed their eyes to the world, closed out the possibilities and focused upon a future. They have stopped being alive and enjoying every moment and look beyond for dreams to come true. The fog surrounds them, as they no longer have a future because they forgot to have a past. And every day as they walk that well trodden path to the edge of their existence they watch and wait for what cannot be, and will not be.

The lost soul is then watched over by the keeper of lost souls, like death that awaits the final breath. The keeper of the souls watches and acts as a scribe, registering the time spent remembering their own time spent lost with a sense of no time.

If summer ever came to the valley, if a hint of light penetrated the mist, if one moment of thought could change that perpetual day, she alone could make something happen.

It was not my role to make her see or stand in her way, I could only watch and wait.

In its own way I too stood alone in that valley. I was there when she was there and not there when she was not. To my conscious thought I did not know where I was, when I was not there and on that day I began to wonder. And in that wondering I questioned whether I was there at all, or even existed. I wondered if I was her mirror or her dream or an illusion in another’s mind.

I began to wonder what would happen if I changed my thought, my out look on the valley of hope. So, I changed my thoughts on the images I did see.

Through the gray fog I began to visualise her with colour and as every day passed I reformed the image of this lost soul, adding animation to her gait. At first she would speed her journey, then run, skip or dance.

The surrounds I did change to colours of nature, yellows, reds and blues.

Earthy tones on the worn path dusted with verges of green. Her expressions became audible as she called out to the birds that fluttered above with springful joy. Yet every day she would stop at the edge of the valley somewhat forlorn that she was there and still waiting until one day when I had painted all the possibilities of light and life she took one step past the edge of the valley. One step that lead into another. Within a few steps more the woman stopped and she and I were standing facing one another.

As the woman’s face drifted into a memory I found myself walking. No path way there to guide my way, no fog or mist to blur my view. I walked on through the colours and sound and never looked back to the valley edge and never knew if I would see the woman again.

I was not the keeper of souls or watcher of waiters or death waiting on ominous decay. But, was I that woman who waited and watched for the self that simply reflected back.

If I had to think of that more, well, maybe the watcher will tell me more; if there is more to tell.

By Jane E Libeau

Thoughts on why I write

Writing! I ask myself why I can write so easily to the sound of heavy metal... I listen to jazz for instance and I write in the reflective sense... and with heavy metal or anything loud... I write in the now for the now... What qualities are lurking within the psyche?  In psychology what does this all mean?

Feminine Rose

Sappho, I cannot hear your words

And I would not know your face

Oh! But to live in your world 

Your words of love to embrace,

To sit at your feet in wonder

To trace the curves of your beautiful face.

The sculpturing of erogenous words

Cultivating sensations within the hand

To speak with reverence of the footprint

Of feminine-blood soaked into the land.

I see you with vivid colour; I am heady from 

Sensual perfumes that linger down the stairs

The flowering of erotic life

The sweet seduction of civic lovers

Where women work and women care.

Your lips part with anticipating insight

And your honeydew voice reverberates 

‘She has the power to seed her own wisdom’

And your arms open with a matriarch’s welcoming embrace.

Sappho! If ever I had heard you

Willfully I would have swooned to my muse

For believing not in your Lesbos devotion

Is desecration to the feminine rose.

Jane E Libeau

The Dyslexic Eclectic Litterateur

The Dyslexic Eclectic Litterateur
by Jane E Libeau

“A voyeur of social interactions sups her coffee while jazz plays melodically in the background. Her thoughts pouring out and emanating onto what was once a blank piece of paper. Her hand dances across the page as her head lifts to take in the subtle commotion of a busy café. Her hand struggles to keep up with her racing thoughts. She hungers for words to express the emotion of that moment..”

A struggling writer? Nay! There is no struggle in writing, only making a living from it. Although finding a niche in a literary career is what I seek and a healthy remuneration for the effort would be welcomed, undeniably there are personal rewards.
My own writing opens up the personal thought realm to expand and develop more, not only in exploring techniques in writing but opens the over all view of the world and all the angles it can be viewed from. Writing is a catalyst for thought, giving an opinion in hope that it invokes others to think, respond and share an opinion. I am the thinker; I write my thoughts in order to stimulate your thinking.

“.. Graphically she describes what her aural and visual senses perceive. Her coffee now cold, discarded, as her thoughts take precedence over cafeinated sustenance..”

The dyslexic writer has some advantages, although some would think it would be near impossible to achieve such a line of work knowing that letters, words and even lines can be void to the dyslexic eye. Although this is true, I have discovered the positive side to being a latent dyslexic writer. I have spent my life watching, listening, touching, tasting and smelling my surroundings, which I feel has given me more of an advantage at being a creative writer.
Brilliance is not based on how much you have written or how many books one has sold, but on the quality of content in that book. Simplicity in conveying an image to an audience and for their imagination to eagerly anticipate the next line. For the writer her self to be in awe of her line of thought or an inspired twist to the story allowing the reader and her self to hunger for what may come next.

“.. She lights her scantily rolled cigarette, ritualistically twists the soft unfiltered end between her lips, flicks the zippo lid shut, and slowly draws back the addictive nicotine she has become accustomed to..”

The eclectic writer, a prolific writer squeezing out every drop of thought onto reams lovingly or frustratingly scattered over table and floor. Poetry, stories, screenplays, articles. Any form, any subject, just so long as the writer expresses herself in the most articulate, artistic and creative way she can. Mounds of thoughts mingling together anticipating regimented composition.

“.. Revisiting past passages from her book she forfeits her previous writing and begins to jot down her most recent thoughts. A new insight to her surrounds are born, her line of thought wandering off into new avenues, points of view, a new story is being conceived..”

The litterateur, sensitive and a tad temperamental of those self-proclaimed critics. These so called scholars of the literary world fear that their own literary nuance is lacking soul so may feel attacking fellow writers gives them a sense of empowerment and a status above the rest of us. Get over it!
Self-expression in a time when the English language is ever changing is refreshing to say the least. Bring on the new breed of writer, bring on the bending of definition and bend the mind. Grafting idea onto idea, technique interwoven with a new style, creating an unclassified genre.
Bending the sights and sounds of the real world, a writer can transform reality into fictional, digestible, heart stopping yarns. What we need is nourishment for our thoughts, opening ourselves to creative conversation of interest and intrigue.
I regard my self as a visual critic of my own work, not an expert or a literary anthologist, I enjoy words and creativity and self-expression on many levels. To be a writer even a dyslexic eclectic litterateur is an exciting road to walk. The challenges never ceasing. Sometimes a phoenix writer. Discarded work. Calculating a time when it rises from the ashes and forms its self into a palatable story.

“.. Packing up her work and stubbing out a well-smoked cigarette she nudges past the table and silently walks into the street. Her senses alert to the change of environment as she ambles through the crowd and in her mind the pen on paper still prolifically takes notes.”