Monday, May 25, 2015

A Soldier and His Beloved Labrador

During the funeral service for a beloved fallen soldier, his black lab, who was sitting in the crowd, got up, walked down the aisle and laid down underneath his daddy's casket, where he remained for the entire service.
When we lose our soldiers to war, we are not the only ones affected by their loss. When they leave, out the door, their dogs instinctively believe they will be returning shortly, as they usually do, their masters returning within hours with a treat, a toy, some food, Sometimes, however, they don't come back. They are missing their people every day. This photo is proof that that love never dies. Our soldiers miss their dogs every day, as well, but they choose to stand up and be stronger than most of us will ever be.
In honor of Memorial Day, my blessings/prayers go out to those left behind...
-Deannalynn Arzola

Deannalynn Arzola

12 hrs ·

Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please...

Don't ever remain around people who hurt you. Environment is the leading cause of mental illness. If you're losing your self, or losing your mind, if you're losing your identity, you have to reconcile that while you love them, you will be better off without them. It's the meanest jab life has to offer. It takes a hell of allot of strength to pull this off, but once you do it,you immediately feel the relief of freedom and the courage of your decision. You will begin to heal from the heartbreak of your disappointment in the unveiling of the illusion and you'll be giddy enough to socialize and life will go on. The pride you feel in yourself for being that strong is better than all the passion ancillary to your previous relationship. Just breathe...

Sunday, May 24, 2015

The Scorpion and the Sea Goat Posted by Nathaniel Samuel April 2009

The Scorpion and the Sea Goat

There was once a sea goat.

There was once a high mountain.

There was once an occasion.

There was once a reason to climb.

There was once a scorpion.

There was once a mountain.

There was once an occasion.

There was once a reason to be there.

So the sea goat had fallen off a cliff.

The scorpion was minding its own business.

The sea goat landed next to the scorpion.

The scorpion somehow did not sting.

So the sea goat said 'hi'.

The scorpion reluctantly replied.

The sea goat was bruised.

The scorpion nursed its wounds.

The mountain was a high one.

The mountain was a steep one.

The sea goat needed to reach the top.

The scorpion wanted to look around.

The sea goat enjoyed having a stinging companion.

The scorpion was not used to the warmth of the fluffy, furry goat.

Space did not bother the sea goat.

Space was what the scorpion wanted.

The sea goat wanted the hard shelled scorpion to trust its soft furriness.

The scorpion's shell and sting tried to warned the sea goat away.

The sea goat was adamant.

The scorpion was adamant.

The sea goat did not giving up.

The scorpion wondered what makes a goat want to keep a stinging creature by its side.

The sea goat thinks scorpions are extraordinary.

The scorpion thinks it is ordinary.

The sea goat tried to convince the scorpion.

The scorpion disbelieved the sea goat.

The story of the sea goat and the scorpion sure is a complicated one.

Posted 21st April 2009 by Nathaniel Samuel

Monday, May 18, 2015

The Neverending Story by Deannalynn Arzola

The Neverending Story~
By Deannalynn Arzola

Stories. We've all heard them, read them, told them. Stories take the beauty of language and paint a picture. Stories take us out of our own reality forcing us to pay attention to them instead of our own drama. Stories are magic, the illusionary kind. Stories are the words we write in novels and biographies and tell around campfires. Some stories are told better by some than others. They are usually authors, the paid kind.
I have books that tell one story from cover to cover and I have books that consist of several separate stories. I have found that it is good to have both kinds of books on my shelf, depending on my mood, or my time. Many a fine story has been told in a tavern that only lasted forty-five seconds, as if any second longer would guarantee certain doom. And many a classic has taken eight months to read.
When telling my own stories (and I choose to use the plural), I have wondered if the way we write our book is as subjective as the way a story is told, or heard. The book I speak of in this context is our book, our own personal biography. Most biographies tell one story in three acts. One of my favorite biographies, however,"Profiles in Courage" by Senator John Kennedy, comprises several different biographical stories into one Pulitzer prize winning book. I think I like it because this is the way I would write my biography.
It seems I have always lived my life in spurts. The people in my biography are more like temporary players that appear, affect, then exit stage left. From the very beginning of my life, people have come and gone this way. My mother was only in my life for nine years. My father for only about thirteen or so. There is a monster in my book, but, she, too was only around for a few years. Once I left high school, my best friends fell to the wayside, as well. To this day, I have no old college pals I still chat up. I even made certain this pattern would continue with the father of my child. Once our story ended, I scooped her up and, poof, just like magic, made him disappear. I was married for a majority of my biography, however, when we said goodbye, the husband and I, it was for good. I was the one who walked my daughter down the aisle. I haven't spoken to any of these aforementioned "characters" in years.
I find myself, yet again, at the precipice of the third act. In the first act, we find our protagonist, a woman freshly untethered to much of anything, including her home. New in town, she garners most of her friends from her place of work. She is happy and clear and free. She has made a pact with herself and her gods that she will first learn to love and live with herself, before looking for someone to share herself with, her freshly untethered self. This is a promise she intends to keep. Enter our antagonist. He is familiar. He appears strong, intelligent, confident. He is both put upon and unencumbered. He is both calm and frantic. He is both charming and tragic. And now, their paths have crossed.
Ms. Protagonist is a confident, intelligent woman. She has experienced both the best and worst in people and has deduced all of her rules to just one; trust actions, not words. She is a perpetual student of human behaviour. Mr. Antagonist is a perpetual manipulator of it. His behaviour was perplexing to her from their very first encounter. He was risky. He was passionate. His desire dripped desperation from his fingertips. Ms. P was duplicitously swept away in blind faith and cautious in ambivalence. Mr. A was beguiling and Machiavellian; aspects of their personalities that would lead them both through unchartered territory.
(Act II) The next year would be quite a life changing experience for Mr. A and Ms. P. These changes would bring them to another level of understanding in regards to life and love and magic. Sobering change. The kind of change that literally changes your personality, thus your behaviour. Wicked, noticeable change. Ms. P blossomed like a December annual, opening wide, petals extended to the Universe, bursting through the cold, winter's ice, seeking light in the darkness. Mr. A's aforementioned bilateral practice of being both put upon and unencumbered, concurrently, and it's subsequence, was only exponentialized. Ms. P burgeoned in the face of reality stripping her illusions away like a too-soon-removed band-aid. She learned that illusions, just like anything that gives you temporary respite from pain, are addictive. As, so, she let go of a few of hers. In doing so, she found that the love was more than enough. Even better than the illusion. Mr. A reconciled actual love for the first time in his life. In his awe, he was able to understand why so many people espoused an emotion he had previously seen as weak as a strength, a gift. They had both certainly grown...
And they were both the same two people they had always been. They still are, only enlightened. Ms. P would do as she always had, enlightened or not, and while she felt she knew Mr. A better, her knowing him better only made her question his behaviour more. So she would move on, as she had done, so many times before, and thusly close the third act. Mr. A would do as he had done before, too; his reticence being his go to tool. Was he angry that she was leaving, or did Prince Machiavelli simply not care?
How does a writer tell the end of a story she doesn't want to end? What if it's a story with a promise, a neverending story? I can't simply write this chapter in three acts and the third being, well, I'm finished telling this story. The End...
I almost feel as if there's a biographical thread running through every chapter that includes my antagonist. It seems like he's always been there, and it seems like he's never there, as well.
Well, this I know, as an author, the as of yet unpaid kind; I know that when I sit down to write a story, I see the basic outline in my head, but the story unfolds as I write it. Perhaps this writer should learn from her writing style rather than simply writing what she knows...