C. JoyBell C.'s Blog, page 56

Release




I let it go

I let it go

I let it go

I let it go

I let it go




All of it







Copyright 2011 C. JoyBell C. All rights reserved.

Funny how it's the people living under rocks who actually believe that their rock is the whole world and they are the shell and the rock is their oyster; they can be very expressive and speak confidently of their convictions as if everyone and everything they don't understand is deserving of their judgement and ridicule. I stand nearby and I am laughing, marveling at these people who celebrate their "oyster" not knowing that it is not an oyster at all but merely a rock, and a rock that they live under as a matter of fact!



– C. JoyBell C.

I once had a friend, I call him butterfly boy. We talked about many things and though I hadn't known him for too long, he spoke to me freely. Butterfly boy didn't believe in God. He said if there were a God, nobody would be poor and nobody would be sick. He also didn't believe in love, and his eyes blinked against the sunlight rebelliously as if he didn't want to believe in sunlight, either. "Love is the opposite of freedom" he said. I once asked him why he didn't believe in love, and it was nighttime so his face grimaced against the moonlight in anarchy, as if he didn't want to believe in the moonlight, either; "I don't believe because I can't understand it, how did the first man and woman in the cave know that they loved each other?" "Well do you believe that fire exists?" I asked him. He said yes. "Then if you believe that fire exists, why can't you believe that love exists? The first man and woman in their cave somehow came to know fire and what to do with it! And we use fire today!" He laughed at himself and said: "I know, I am a strange man."



I thought a man like butterfly boy would only be interested in sex, since he didn't believe in love and God and possibly not even fire. But it was a beautiful morning when we spoke and he said to me "Sex is only for love, and holding hands and hugging and touching is only for magic! There must be magic, a true magic first!" So here was a boy who did not believe in love, in God, in fire, but believed that true magic and true love must be waited for before sex could happen. This boy confused me as I never was confused before! He colored the sky a dark and wet color, he cast the tulips in an ugly light, and everything wonderful like sunlight and moonlight could not penetrate his own discontent and confusion, and yet he looked out into the world as if it was continually something new and ripe for the picking. A case of someone lying to himself in the most bitter form that lies themselves could even handle! Imagine a lie tasting a lie! That bitterness...that is what he did to himself, that is how he existed.



"Turn the t.v. off" he said. "Why?" I asked. "Because I hate looking at rich people." He didn't believe in money, either! And money angered him. Money angered him as love angered him, as sex frightened him, as crossing one's arms over one's chest surprised him! Everything to him was a cause for some form of alarm.



I used to think that atheists believed in money, but butterfly boy didn't. I used to think that people who didn't believe in love only wanted sex, but this boy believed that sex belongs to love and magic. A man who does not believe in God, but waits for magic? I think one never meets a person like this in one's life! I am not sure if I ought to feel unfortunate about meeting such a person, or if I ought to feel that this person does not really even exist! Because anyone existing in such a state of loss, is not really existing at all, is he? We say only few truly live and all else only exist. But I have met a boy who was born into this world and who is alive but doesn't even exist!



"Because of you, I have seen and done things I have never dreamed of seeing and doing before! I feel like I have lived more than a decade, just in one day! And I feel as though I have known you for forever! We are crazy!" said my friend. "Well yes, we are crazy," said I. "But don't come too close to me as we walk, because people may think we are in love and we are not!" this he said to me. Here was a man who didn't even exist, but who cared so much about what other people thought! And he would rather die than have people think that he was in love with anyone!



I cannot imagine what butterfly boy can possibly do with his life. He cannot have anything, because he believes in nothing, but the things that he does believe in– he gives to the things that he doesn't believe in! Has anyone else met such a boy like this, before? ...I call him "butterfly boy" because his wings are fragile, too fragile for this world, and too fragile for the other worlds, and the ones before this one! How can a butterfly last in a water fountain? In a subway station? In a hot and brewing kitchen? How can a butterfly survive in the snow? In the rain?



I think of the meaning as to why I ever knew such a person, why I ever had met such a friend before! And I can think of none! What meaning can come of something that does not even exist? Perhaps there is one possible reason– perhaps it is a rare thing to meet a butterfly person, maybe it is like seeing a dinosaur alive and well and breathing! And so, I have actually seen one!



xx

No, this is not the beginning of a new chapter in my life; this is the beginning of a new book! That first book is already closed, ended, and tossed into the seas; this new book is newly opened, has just begun! Look, it is the first page! And it is a beautiful one!



– C. JoyBell C.

It's easy to make me laugh, you can make me laugh, anyone can make me laugh, but that certainly does not mean you can make me do anything.



– C. JoyBell C.

I found this piece of writing here, while looking for a copy of the "Europa Regina" map. This writing grabbed my attention, as I've always been very interested, actually most interested, in poetry and prose from the 14'th, 15'th, 16'th, 17'th, 18'th centuries. So I just wanted to share this with all of you since it echoes the soul in some of my recent writings:











No man is an Iland, intire of itselfe; every man
is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine;
if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe
is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as
well as if a Manor of thy friends or of thine
owne were; any mans death diminishes me,
because I am involved in Mankinde;
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.
(John Donne, Meditation XVII, Devotions upon Emergent Occasions, 1623)

Do not yearn to be popular; be exquisite. Do not desire to be famous; be loved. Do not take pride in being expected; be palpable, unmistakable.



– C. JoyBell C.

The Truth About Poison




For a few of us, love and madness are the first things on our minds. Love is like a veil that lightly cascades over everything, and madness is a state of mind. We are the differents, and for the differents, no ordinary methods will do; no standard procedures are acceptable! Only a wild, otherworldly escapade of the soul will serve sufficient and anything less is simply unacceptable!




And so how do we thrive in a world filled with those who don't even have a peripheral vision? They are all mundane and predictable, not overcome by any great thing! And look at us! We walk with Destiny, we think like madness, and we see through the eyes of a smoldering love! We watch people play in puddles while we rule the deepest oceans and seas.




We are an existence all our own; undiscovered and independent of the rest of the earth. We thrive only with the ones who are also like us. And it is a journey to find another different, another one like us.




There be many people who seek out love, who want to have love, who think that they are meant for love, but they live on the margins of the page; he who is not born a lover, will never really be a lover. You may find a romance, but if you are not born a lover, you will never know that great love they speak of. Lovers are born and reborn to one another, if you are not one of these, you will never have this. Yet you will have something else, something like a drunken stupor, something like a sweetened illusion. And if you really knew what it means to be born a lover, you would shut your mouth and drink of your own cup, contented, having quit wishing to be one.



We all think that we wish to have what is secret and what is truth in magic but the reality is, secrets are revealed to those who are able to speak with dragons, and truth in magic is given to those whose blood washes away poisons.






Copyright 2011 C. JoyBell C. All rights reserved.

I wrote this poem some 2 months ago, then I passed it to a poetry magazine for consideration to be included in their magazine circulation. I didn't get to share it here with you, because literary magazines, agencies, and the like, will only accept writings that have never been previously shared even in the most personal of ways (yes I don't agree with that either, but, that's their rules because they want to have control and ownership, exclusivity.) So, I submitted this piece to them instead, even if I wanted to share it immediately at the time I wrote it. Well, the magazine rejected this poem so now I finally get to share it with all of you. I'm really not sure if submitting pieces to literary authorities is worth it, because all that time while this writing of mine was sitting on their desk, could have been time given to many people around the world reading it and enjoying it. Please feel free to frolic and swim in my words...







Mermaid's Heart




Must I be concerned with you and those of your likeness?

That I am to care about your downfall?


Did you not already know that I would drown you and then eat you alive?



So why did you still cross my waters?



You did! You did know that it is my kind who drown those like you



Who dare cross my seas



Evidently, you have still sailed



And perish



Is this to be of any concern of mine?



I fear not. I do not take responsibility and apologize



For the fate of you and your crew



When you knew plainly well where you were going



And what you were doing



When you crossed my waters



Destiny has dealt with you



I only dwell with Destiny; Venus has formed me



Have I sinned? I doubt so.



Is it a sin to exist inside Destiny and with God?



Of course not



But only a fool sails a sea he knows will take him



Is it a fault of mine that I am placed within these waters?



Not so.



But it is your lack of understanding that brought you here



No I will not apologize for your fate







Copyright 2011 C. JoyBell C. All rights reserved.

I think I am more of a poet than a novelist. Yes, I have two hundred stories in my soul and in my head that wait to be written down onto paper, but I'm just too excited about living my own life and being the ink on my own paper, that I don't want to give too much time to sitting away somewhere, writing out the lives of other characters. I want to live. I want to be my number one main character, I want every day to be a fresh page that I can dance around on, I want the pages of my life to be the tabletops that I dance on! But poetry...poetry is like dance! Every poem is like a memory or a belief, a dream or an unexpected snowflake! Poems are breaths that you exhale as you live your own life; the visions that you see while you step into all the realities of you! You can't exhale unless you inhale; you can't be a meaningful poet unless you are living and bleeding and loving and laughing and seeing and being surprised! And so, I am a poet. But I wonder if I am more of a philosopher than a poet, or if I am equal in both things!?Philosophers in history were often poets; poetry is an exhale of life while philosophy is the love of wisdom (from the Greek φιλοσοφία, which literally means "love of wisdom"). Or maybe I am simply visionary. People say that vision is unreal. Then if vision is unreal, what are you? A useless sponge floating in the ocean, that's a person with no vision! A predictable golem.



Yes, I have a novella, a novella which sounds to me like a long song, which feels to me as if I am part of a long dance! A novella which is like a very long ray of light, like a long poem!



Do I think that I will find myself to be a failure if I don't write down all of the stories I know, onto paper one day? If I don't make all of my stories into many, many books? No. I won't think myself a failure. I will only think of myself as one who knows very many stories, and knows them all by heart.



xx