suffering










Someone was really mean to me....

to be seen.

Resolution?
Encouragement?
Begin on the X.
This is the win-
where you begin.




She came to the edge to do what? Unknown.
Even to herself these things were hidden.
Without aspect or feel, nothing had shown.
Beneath the bright lights, darkness was ridden.

(The piper was playing elusive tunes...)
She would dance as she practiced the first steps
And plainly, she executed the dance
Well placing each movement from deep depths;
Nothing haphazard, intending her stance,

She stood at the doorway, impending love,
Braving compassion like breathing the air,
And turned all the keys she acquired above
Until ALL the doors opened, in her there.

The piper now plays as she call the tune
And now they all dance her dance to the moon.

31OCT09.


EXPERIENCE PROFOUND GRATITUDE NOW.
No

All is right with the universe.

Let me tell you a little secret.

As I tap you gently on your shoulder,
I am quietly whispering these sounds,

"We are in Heaven. Thank you for joining me. If, in fact, you are not enjoying your Nirvana,
all of your suffering will be happily refunded. The door is open. You are welcome ANY TIME. I will wait without ceasing."




Let us examine oral bull-dozing.
Let us examine how we disempower others by giving the answer, or at the opposite end of the spectrum of offense, how we disempower others by withholding data.
Let us examine the plans that keep us from moving forward;i.e. inaction due to deliberate indecisiveness justified for flexibility.
Let us examine our secret pride.
Let us gain acute insight to and compassion for the suffering of widows and their attachment to the material trail of the deceased.
Let us examine our intolerance of intolerant people.



The little girl smiled
When the little boy got what
The Nailman left him.

All My Love,
Andrea


TYAI!

how to delegate her unconditional love.




She stood on the ledge
On the cornice above the
Table where he lay.

The bed was quite snug
For the cozy little bug,
Rolling in the hay.




@240wpm-the allegory of the pilgrims, besides all the neglected edits (ex.p81) is fascinating and enlightening; however, it does not change a thing. Great job! I am very proud of you. Congratulations. Sweet.

MOW THE LAWN, BABY!

In the graveyard, where the babies are buried, I studied the water spraying from the sprinklers, and how the wind and the lights from passing vehicles projected shadows on the greens and stones.

Tripped on a root, didja?




Rosen the beau and play the fiddle.
There's more to know up through the middle.
Beautiful intelligence forgot
He pipes the play's wind while she cannot.




I love not being in the picture. It is the true definition of behind the scenes.



What did I do today? Part of it was spent hiking up the fishnets. Really. Now, THAT was funny.



Considerably lighter than when I arrived, I am an avatard now.


koan:
Then what happened?

Give me a labio-dental fricative. What rhymes with "fricative"?





Delta your perspective until you become conscious of your omniscience.
Remember, the more precisely the position is determined, the less precisely the momentum is known.


I feel a contraction coming on. Bedtime for Bonzo. I'm gonna' go give compassion to the insides of my eyelids now. Ciao!


"And on the Fourth Day, she rested."



okokokokokookokokok. The dissonance in Consonants is due to this: Language not requzred.
The band, you silly. THE BAND called "The Cure". Goober.

Sonnet #24 Sunday's Insanity

Oh me! Oh my! He said he loved her, too.
The words flew fast over radio waves.
He grabbed her by her hair before she knew;
They were both drowning and now nothing saves.

She swooned in the grossest apprehension.
Swallowed by insanity, she lost face
And mooned in wet puddles of prevention,
Hallowed by none but invisible wraiths.

He frightened her so when he said her name.
It drove her deep into insanity.
She tried to run; Her hair tangled with blame
Between fingers, he stroked her vanity.

Contagious and blind, she felt him roll
And gap divides he thought had made her whole.
11OCTOBER2009


Sonnet #25 Rhymes With Marching

Come here my love, encircle me with you.
There is no time but now, though you should know
I will fade quite fast if no light shines through
And all my flowers will refuse to grow.

Come here my love, embarking on the rail.
Gather ye yer underwear and toilet.
Forget the plumber and let love prevail.
No one will hold to what you won't admit.

Come hear, my love, resistance is long gone.
Kingdom has come with all the saints marching.
Break out the bob! Get in line with the throng!
Your absence dry drives the desert parching.

No, rain is insufficient. So is dew.
Nothing will quench thirst save the well of you.
11-31oct09




IT IS TIME FOR BUSINESS.
You know, that he-man goat-ropin' sword rattlin' swingin' dick serious let-me-protect-myself bull malarky?
Shall we wade heavily through penguins or tap that paper cunt you call a lawyer? Hmmm. Hmmmm.
I have killed all the rats the piper brought. There is a mouse in the corner of the kitchen.
Intuit? Intuit?
Is that some sort of indian tribe?
Intuit my ass.
I need an introduction.
Billy C. would do it if your head shrinker thinks you're too big of a weenie.
Just remember, analysis causes paralysis.
Ollieollieoxenfree....
You're enslaved by your liberty.


NOW IS THE TIME FOR A CLASSLESS BUSINESS MEETING.
HOWZATFERRAMBLIN?`
(cackle.)

She wrung her hand around her heart in waves to give him bob.
She waited patiently for the cheese he would with romance lob.
Let me hear a story of a cemetery and of pining.



The weather has turned here. The autumn breeze has been blowing since last night, and I believe the trees will soon be gently coaxed into undressing out of their leaves.
The pink snapping turtle is taking longer naps under the sand, and the days roll by like the steady turning of a riverboat paddle wheel. It all came so quickly.
Now, here we are, right in the middle of it. Saturated in school days, reams of paper, and one hundred thirty-eight years of combined accumulated material goods, I marvel that I made it thus far and I am completely amazed how quickly it came to fruition. It genuinely blows me away. The sheer enormity of it all is enough to give one pause.
When you peer into the vast possibilities contained in the void, enlightenment occurs. It is like an oil painting that draws you in and makes you wish you had intimate contact with the subject. It is enjoying spring time on Venus and you want everyone to join you in this experience, but you know it is an elusive thing if pursued and cannot be shown or taught. It must be fully felt by the individual. Without this, there is no conviction , belief, or knowing.
Perhaps it is a fail safe way in consciousness, insuring a true reality. The continuity gels as we wait in service to ones yet there. Common recognition occurs when they arrive as well.
You have to pee to know how to take a piss. And then it is not unlike musical rain, is it not?

Much Love,
Andrea

I WANT TO HEAR PATTY LOVELESS SING "CRAZY". Thank you.

I am waiting.

The absence feeds a dusty blue mold, a secondary symptom of you, my velvet blue virus. Insanity feels normal when the nothingness gapes like an open wound to show you are alive. You are a shadow, a suede indigo sstain on the air. Invisible now, Gig I doubt you exist. Show yourself. I am unable to withstand this.It is too much to bear.

Oh my god, your swing
Is covered in fresh flowers
And you are not home.

Come, come my lovely,
Come home and sit on your swing
With me and flowers.

Come home, my dear boy,
Please mow your evergreen lawn
And swing on your swing.

Tonight a full moon
Hangs in the clabber lit sky
Above my porch swing.

I know the moon hangs,
Wherever you are swinging,
Lighting your head too.

So allow me now
To slip away on my swing
While I wait for you.

by Andrea R. Campbell COPYRIGHT 2009

I wait for my frog
As I sit on my lilly
That is my green seat.

there was lightning.








give her what she wants
you will not lose anything
but the mind you use

what are you doing
rifling through my french lace?
do you feel it fits?

i am hung up now,
standing still on the platform-
and forlorn for track.......

She douses and showers in tenderness.
Steeped in this gentle sop to fuel the flame,
She will self-immolate in selflessness.
Consumed, the burning soul remains the same.

Softest breath, most delicate while burning,
A searing wind will reach the ear waiting.
The yarn twines while the spindle is turning.
Plush the roving, smooth the tongue is baiting.

Pliant vibes will feather out in smoke trails.
A fog of cinders, the scintilla flies.
Fiery wind pushes the pyre's sails,
And the jealous Sun hangs his head and cries.

No flame so fixed and constant could compare
How fed with soft sweet tinder tended there.

1538HRS EDST
COPYRIGHT 2009 ARC

SONNET#17 THE LONGING 26MAY09

When you cradle me in warmth unseen,
When you ladle me from your empty cup,
When you hold me more than close enough,
So very tight, I slip through in-between.

The grasping of thin straws flung on the air,
The way you come through hung-over in blue,
Deeply ingrained, walnut stained, tried and true,
A blasphemy assumed without a care-

You ruin all I thought I could define.
Accuse you I will and blame you for naught
A dalliance here- you inside my thought-
Everything I have and nothing is mine.

You may not see me or ever get me,
Yet as I breathe, you will not forget me.

0208HRS EDST
COPYRIGHT 2009 ARC


SONNET#18 POKER FACE 26MAY09
By Andrea R. Campbell

Eighteen divided once by two is nine.
This is a number and not an answer.
Nine divided by three is three in kind.
Observe closely and see what he hands her.

It is not a rock, yet thrown like a stone.
It will skip, or throb, or weigh heavily.
It will be a lump in his throat alone.
Broken or fixed, she will let it be.

The closer he comes, the farther she goes.
What she found, she fully denied it was.
The nonsense she reasons with what she knows.
If he hands her effect, she will take cause.

Observe closely and see what he hands her.
Passing yes, she'll take nine for an answer.


0323HRSEDST copyright2009

27 MAY 2009 Going to Grandma’s

We are going to grandmother’s house for the purpose of undoing everything we have established as parents. For two splendid weeks in June, my mother will irrevocably change my children through careful application of techniques designed to systematically spoil children. The three year old will escape this fate.
The Mother Superior, at 71, has said she will take only the elder four children, ages 11, 9, 7, and 5. This is no small favor. The baby will attend the ocean with his mother and I will derive great joy from spoiling him, however briefly, as an only child. This allows equality for everyone concerned.
My 95 year old grandmother will give them all a little pocket change. My mother will directly take them to spend these funds on absolute junk from the dollar store. Since it was produced under duress of quota , they will bring it home in parts and pieces, and little sharp pointy memories of “Our Visit with Grandma” will be scattered throughout the house. Impaled through the foot on a dark night, I will have a little memory all my own.
There will be Spode tea parties, an all inclusive birthday party, dog walking “Moe”, and gardening. It will be grandmothers’ B&B paradise. An unknown commodity of media and culture, consumed shortly after all the homemade food eaten from sterling, will further warp their young, impressionable minds. The children will return home damaged. There may be water activities in the hose outside involving a water sprinkler. Possibly candy. Ich habe angst.
Of course, I will be at the ocean on Rehoboth Beach in denial. The damage will not be evident until later when they request truffles in Beluga caviar. I am sure of this. While at the ocean, I will be grateful for the time alone with the three-year-old, Little Lord Fauntleroy.
We will build sand castles and live in them. We will jump the waves together. Certainly, I have turned the corner. The enormous hunter green umbrella I will schlep to the beach will provide our lovely shade. We will eat steamed crabs and drink golden margaritas. People will see me and assume I am spoiling my grandchild. I will let them think this.
We will seriously consider moving to the ocean. Beautiful winters on the ocean are full of solitude when all the tourists leave. When it is time to leave, I am always torn. We are lovers; the ocean and I belong together. The ocean holds my soul and the heart is somewhere in the middle of the Pacific. I am an island girl. The Ocean is my home.
We are now living in South Central Georgia only three hours to sea and five hours to the Gulf of Mexico. There is a deep satisfaction knowing one may run to beach at will.
Born on the Chesapeake Bay, water IS the necessary element. In fact, the greatest gift of friendship would be bringing one to a large body of water with a beach. Great Lake. Ocean. Sea. The Med. Anywhere. The gift of sand and sea completes everything.
I am buying a lighthouse with a graveyard. I will charge an exorbitant fee for paranormal tours. We will eat from Rosenthal. It will be the rage. When the real ghostly moaning and groaning begins, we will leave and then write a book about our experience. Like cherry pie.
Meanwhile, I will churn five children through college, publish four books and sell the screenplay to Hollywood. Somewhere in there, I will breathe and bathe. Oh, and let us not forget the manicure. One of the tomes will address the irrevocable damage done by relatives on perfectly good children.
Come up to my lighthouse and see me sometime, big boy.

Andrea R. Campbell 2244HRS
Copyright 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

17 MAY 2009, A Sunday Afternoon
The Trouble with Being Left-Handed

The difficulty with being left-handed leaves the writer with a black hand picking up the graphite dust of the #2 as you brush your hand against the paper. A keyboard connected to a computer would be most convenient, but I surrendered my dedicated Samsung humongous monitor to a laptop for the pleasure of movie viewing.
Due to the deliberate incapacitation of understanding all things computer related, I am hence relegated to write this with a number two, neon green six-inch pencil that says, “HAWKINSVILLE DENTAL ASSOCIATES KEEPING YOUR SMILE BRIGHT (number deleted).”
This is perfectly acceptable as it reminds me I have a cleaning due soon. The jam-packed schedule I keep is primarily tallied on the biophysical memo-pad of my cranial cavity. Convenient. On board. Self-contained. Super filing system.
Everything else, written in purple crayon in capital letters, is posted in the window above the sink. “BREATHE.” “HAVE A PEDICURE SO PEOPLE WILL BELIEVE YOU TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF.”
The purity remains preserved by avoiding most, if not all, contrived media. Discover unnecessary preoccupation and any fixed attention to read newspapers, listen to spun news reports, check e-mail, or watch television completely removed. No cable. No tv. No easily accessible computer on-line. No fax. No U-Tube. No Twitter. No one misses them. Imagine.
There is a nice creative space where all these things would fill my head. People desiring contact may call. The mountain comes for me. Feel the solitude.
It is a peaceful existence. The world goes on with its economic upheavals, man’s inhumanity to man, and all manner of reasons to peruse obituaries, or some story about the state forcing a major highway to be constructed fifteen feet from the easement of your hitching post. Participation is optional.
The writing began when I was six and there is a permanent writing bump on the first distal joint of the middle finger of the left hand. The forty-five year old bone has grown into a place to rest a writing instrument. The hand writes for hours without cramping and my supply of subjects, all nonfiction, is unlimited.
From the time I have been very small, I have been fascinated with words. When assigned to write out definitions of words in school, I would always be the last child to complete my work. With the first definition written, I would get completely lost in the definitions on both pages surrounding the original word. A ten- word assignment for definitions only could take as much as thirty minutes. This was always maddening, not only to my parents, but my teachers as well. Today, I would tell them it was well worth it.
The other area of consistent concern for the authority in question was the size of my particularly miniature script as compared to the standard. These people would not leave me alone to write my tiny little letters. I assume it had to do with their failing eyesight.
By sixth grade, I had earned the right to print or scroll in the microscopic script for which I was so fond. People ask me why, still today, I write so small, and I tell them I am conserving paper. Less ink is wasted and it is an efficient way to lay print to paper with a manual hand tool. It has its academic advantaged as well. Smaller print fools the mind into believing there is less information to absorb. Time is precious. Less stroking quickens production.
The beauty of writing today remains a stolen pleasure and still feels like a source of self-entertainment. My mother took great lengths to brag of my endless ability and talent to occupy myself quite patiently alone. (However, I have always suspected this inclination a form of congenital autism that lay undetected.)
It affords time alone to myself and allows me a flowing state of uninterrupted contemplation. Even when interrupted by one of life’s regular demands, the rhythm quickly resumes. For this I am eternally grateful, and do not concern myself with how long it will last. Born free, and hung up in the lathe of heaven, this is where I will stay.
The fewer things with which I occupy my mind make the application of thought easier. Many ideas are fertile soil for creation and development. I am a nonfiction snob that tolerates poetry. Fantasy is a complete waste of time unless it is allegorical.
The treatment of the recent past has been enthusiastic, and I have been in observance and recognition of connection and relatedness between seemingly unrelated things, conditions, and circumstances. In the search for cohesion and definition, especially during times of acute and concentrated chaos, in a world where the fragile human heart barely lacks the ability to survive catastrophic and haphazard events, identification of cause and effect has always served human nature when sense derives from senselessness.
Conditioned to ride the waves rushing in and out, the connection of the unrelated provides order and a sense of oneness when everything appears out of order. The realization comes clean when one realizes we have minimal control over anything, and it is all illusory. Perhaps the continuity of change and our perseverance to order are the bare bones of the illusion itself. So then, it is not how hard the tides crash upon us, but how lightly we fall in cooperation with the wave experienced.
Each, caught up in their creation of time, limits and expands accordingly. In times of resistance, we should find allowance. In times of utter balance, we should gather our momentum and appreciate the ability to continue. Building stamina during a perceived difficult period supports an improved handle of greater finesse and grace would we find acceptance in the here and now.
There is something valued in the repetition of chopping wood and carrying water. Even in the darkest night, the deepest snow, the most hopeless of situations, we intuitively know how to march forward. Staying even in the waves and staying even out of the waves. They are only waves. Even is the way.
The crux of the issue is this: the more information I attempt to process in my futile search for relevant data, the less I resolve, and resolution takes a lot longer. Most often process hinders solution. When we cease doing and start being, we already have arrived at our answer. There is no problem. We are living and experiencing the oneness of the flow and the connection to all that is.
So, I pick up lead and ink on the hand along the way. Nothing a little soap and water will not remedy. Life is good even when it is bad. They are only waves. Ride them.

Andrea R. Campbell Copyright 2009 All Rights Reserved

SONNET #8, Garden Show by Andrea Campbell


The lip of the petal has much to say.
The flower will express itself with pause.
The petal’s dew would not be in the way.
In silence, the bloom will give beauty cause.

Nectar’s pistils drip, waiting for the bee.
Stamens’ pollen flies away on back legs.
The petal’s lip-royal apiary
Decorated to tempt what the bee begs.

Bee’s sister will dance on the flower’s floor.
Her bee navigator alerts others.
She, impressed at Pollen’s party, wants more.
Soon petal serves thoroughfare for brothers.

Beauty was wise when designing the stage,
For petal’s brief voice lasts a flower’s age.

0950HRS 14MAY09



In order to learn how to swim, I have found water generally conducive, however not necessary, to the experience. Often though, even after the most thorough training, the hydraulic adept may discover the greatest lesson in the collective pool of sorrow created by the tears of humankind. This is precisely what occurred. Pay attention carefully, and the sun will rise in your eyes.
Given my tendency to profane the sacred while simultaneously appreciating the sacred nature of all that is, it is with a peculiar mindfulness to weighted respect and pure intention that I relate the following. Know I am fully responsible for my gross irreverence as well as my deliberate seriousness.
Translating this communication falters even now in the light of my keen inadequacies. Full of false starts and in danger of tripping over the tongue of the monkey mind, to the best of my feeble abilities and in spite of myself, I will attempt plain transmission of the facts. For the benefit of all concerned, I will get out of your way by getting out of mine. Once euthanized, may the monkey peacefully give up the ghost.
After four years of assimilating this, intuitively I feel the timing is appropriate. It is now or never. Willingly, I surrender this tender body. May you exploit it to your benefit. If you are dissonant with distaste, I offer you the door. Do not allow the latch to catch you in your hinder as you leave.
What happened to me, then, is as real today as if it was happening right now. In fact, it is happening right now, the only difference is that I have been conscious of it for a brief span in this apparent, if not illusory, mortal existence.
It was not as if I was not aware prior to this experience, but I was completely ignorant of the scope and gravity of the reality of the experience. Who I am is of little to no importance save the value of my heart as it is loved. In no way did I seek out or expect what happened in the early afternoon of that day on my best friend’s lanai in Holualoa, Hawaii.
Prior to returning to the macadamia nut farm and coffee fields located on the Kona side of Big Island, the morning of the event was unusually spent swimming with dolphins and their still wrinkled, brand-spanking newborns in Kealakekua Bay. Appearing like an overgrown adult chimera, human yet puffer fish, and nine months pregnant and armed with an unwieldy lime green extra-large water noodle for safety’s sake, in order to relish fully the interaction of the seven hundred pound mammals echolocating off my protruding abdomen, I submersed myself entirely in the turquoise depths of the Pacific. Every place I swam, there were puffer fish following closely within arm’s reach and eyeing me with intense curiosity. Even though my face appeared human, surely the familiar shape of my form drew them.
Once we had our lovely, morning swim, we dried off at the heiau; then Laura and I returned to her coffee/mac nut farm. She is the Director of the Nature Conservancy on the Big Island. Born at Midway Island in a U.S. Navy clan named Nelson, it seemed appropriate she would eventually steward the land of her archipelago.
As a strict vegetarian and advocate for non-violence, her primary concern with the conservancy was once wild pig eradication. That day she was on her very way to murder some of God’s own creatures when she left me to myself on that early afternoon in the beautiful Hawaiian breeze.
After she left for work, I settled down to enjoy a farm fresh avocado and mango lunch. The lanai called to me. The lanai was off the second story of a house set on stilts and sunk into the volcanic rock. Power was solar, and water collected in catchment tanks. Laura had a magnificent plant and stone garden around the house. And yes, thank you, Jesus, hot running water.
The lanai ran the length of the house. There were chimes and hanging plants. Your standard obligatory bamboo furniture with cornflower blue and white garden cushions surrounded a glass table. Around two p.m. that day, I took a seat facing the ocean.
As I began to relax meditatively into the comfortable chair, with an enormous blue body of water spread before me less than a mile away, a sound like the deep tone of a didgeridoo began to tone. It was comprehensive in its depth and vibrato. Surrounding me, it went through and around me.
The vibration began to echo loudly and it was so strong, the sound waves made one feel as if they were a sock toy shaken by a rambunctious Labrador retriever. At that very moment, the sky over the water opened up from left to right. The clouds were scrolling and there, in the heavens, I witnessed every human that ever existed. The entire World’s current populace lay in front of my visual field. Cognition of the view coincided with immediate compassion for their evident sufferings. I could feel them. At once, a tremendous gratitude arrived and, growing in me, overwhelmed me.
I felt their sufferings. All of them. All the people and what they had felt in their human condition. The sound went on with same effect and the scene before me suspended in the sky for a good ten minutes. Still today, I humbly carry all of this inside of me.
The scene never changes. It is always the same. I can hear the ever-present tone inside of my heart, and I can feel the world today as if I am still on the lanai. All those sentient beings and all their stunning suffering. Compassion for others is simple and heals the world. It does not take a vision after swimming with dolphins to figure this out. Pass it along.
1551HRS EDST 13MAY09 Scintilla Fly


Oh, why not? Steal it.



Be well. See you in the funny papers. Love, Andrea