The post appeared first on Road to Avalon.

I was first introduced to genealogy back in the seventh grade when we had to make a family pedigree for science class. I found it rather boring. Because I am an only child with several other only children up the immediate line, my family tree looked rather sparse compared to everyone else’s, with nothing overtly exciting going on. I also didn’t have much interest in my own family, as I hated being an only child, hated being the only one I knew with no living grandparents, and had some pretty rocky relations with my parents off and on. To top it all off, I resented my New Orleans roots, as they were just yet another attribute that screamed, “I’m different!” and so I shunned that part of my background a great deal.

In my spare time, I attempted to re-do the pedigree assignment on a group of characters I’d created and would dictate stories about. It was a large, blended family that, in retrospect, was somewhat akin to the Brady Bunch, with the lead character named after my celebrity crush, Mike O’Malley. The female lead was named Moira Quirk, after his sidekick on Nickelodeon GUTS (Do… do… do you have it?! #1990sKids)

This indifferent attitude towards family history continued through high school. I explored the cultures of the Irish, the Australians, and the Canadian Cree, all because whichever (“C” or “D” list) celebrity I was into at the time bore some such extraction.

Along the way, I developed a strong affinity for Irish music, and was at one point told by several (now ex) friends how I had to make it across the pond to Ireland as it was “very much a part of me.”

Little did I know that my college experience would soon lead to what was really a part of me, and not in the way one would expect.

The post A Carnival of Ipseity: My Genealogy Journey appeared first on Road to Avalon.

To this day, seldom do I hear such a truthful refrain to any song:

Good girls/boys go to heaven, bad girls/boys go everywhere…

{{ Two }} People have told me in the past I could easily become the Siskel and Ebert of music. The truth is, however, that 1) I don’t write reviews, 2) never once have I been sold on any artistic work based on a review, and 3) I have such little regard for showbusiness, especially of the “mainstream” variety. Like another great renaissance man, Richard Harris, who preceded Meat Loaf in death almost 20 years ago once quipped, I am “a part of the business, but also apart from it.”

As such, to see a renegade in this trade has always been refreshing. Meat Loaf won me over with his personality in addition to his music when I discovered the following personal quote of his:

“I never fit in. I am a true alternative. And I love being the outcast. That’s my role in life, to be an outcast.”

No proof of this comment’s genuinity was necessary on his part. His signature sound — literally the Gesamtkunstwerk of the modern-day music industry — was all the proof I needed, as was this other quote that never failed to evoke sharp crescendos of laughter (in large part because of how much of myself I found in the statement):

“The day that I ever become hip,” he said, “please shoot me and put me outta my misery!”

{{ Three }} Though most fans cite I Would Do Anything For Love as his most powerful work, I’ve long maintained that only his signature sound could compellingly pull off a narrative so trite. Instead, my anima found immediate alliances with his numerous power ballads and rock opera epics delineating social isolation, personal insecurities, and a bellicose spirit. Many of my favorite verses come from his less-talked-about tracks:

On too many wasted years:
I’ve been whispering softly, trying to build a cry up to a scream
We let the past slip away, and put the future on hold
Now the present is nothing but a hollowed out dream
~ Read ‘Em And Weep

On rugged individualism:
There are winners and outlaws
And leaders and lovers
Behind every man in the news
And one thing I know is behind everyone
There’s a boy who had nothing to lose
Behind every man who has somethin’ to say
There’s a boy who had nothing to prove
Every hero was once
Every villain was once
Just a boy with a bad attitude
~ Bad Attitude

On misrepresented identity by “the system”:
What’s the meaning of life, what’s the meaning of it all?
You’ve gotta learn to dance before you learn to crawl!

…

They’ve got a file on me and it’s a mile long
And they say that they’ve got all of the proof
That I’m just another case of arrested development
And just another wasted youth
They say that I’m in need of some irradical discipline
They say I’ve got to face the truth
That I’m just another case of arrested development
And just another wasted youth

They say I’m wild and I’m reckless
I should be acting my age
I’m in impressionable child in a tumultuous world
And they say I’m at a difficult stage

But it seems to me to the contrary
Of all the crap they’re gonna put on the page
That a wasted youth is better by far than a wise and productive old age…
~ Everything Louder Than Everything Else

On the wounded inner child:
It’s not enough to make the nightmares go away
It’s not enough to make the tears run dry
It’s not enough to live a little better everyday
Everything that they taught us was nothing but lies
~ Original Sin

On Revenge:
I’ve walked a slippery road
With revenge in my soul
Through the wind and the cold
With no protection
Just one direction
Destruction

I’ve paid for all my mistakes
Taking all I can take
Until I’m ready to break
Life can be vicious
And so outrageous
It breaks us

I’m bleeding
Still breathing
I’m tearing through these chains

The monster’s loose
And as you know the truth…
~ The Monster Is Loose

On big government (from big gov’s perspective):
How do they sleep?
Their lives are so tawdry
We’re the trash collectors
‘Cause they’re nothing but trash

What do you expect?
They’ve got no standards
So we lower the bar
‘Cause they’re perfect for us

We’ll open up Pandora’s Box
Pandora gave her keys and locks

They’re the victims waiting for their mugger
Come to the confessional
So I can tell you all that bugger off
~ In the Land of the Pig, The Butcher Is King

On the strain of not feeling a part of society:
Everybody’s got someone they don’t want to be
You don’t want to be you, I don’t want to be me
Everybody’s got a plan, everybody’s got a dream
I ain’t got nothing, I just want to be free
~ Prize Fight Lover

On betrayal:
Next time you stab me in the back, you better do it to my face
~ Love Is Not Real

Of course, the subject matter I have assigned to each verse is not absolute. Meat Loaf himself never divulged any personal ponderings as to what his songs were really about. He maintained to his audience that each album was your album, and that each individual was free to apply each word to their own lives as they felt right.

{{ Four }} There have been phases, and there have been one-offs. As very few things can maintain an image of authenticity and relatability over a period of many years, much of my entertainment ingestion never makes it past the “phase” stage. Any pneuma that remains on the same wavelength as my own — through all the ebbs and flows, droughts and storms — is something I treasure and guard with an almost possessive attention. It is mine and always will be mine.

{{ Five }} Normally, anyone who shows the slightest sign that they fancy themselves a fan of the same caliber would be met with unforgiving recoil. Today, however, that chain has been cut, unraveled, and cast aside in favor of a verse I know “Meat” would much sooner approve:

We’re crusaders of the heart
And going all the way is just of the start

Say a prayer
Say a prayer

Going all the way is just the start
Make us braver than we are…
~ Going All The Way Is Just The Start (A Song In 6 Movements)

{{ Six }} Cyclonic tenderness,
Steel-textured back beats
Inside an unforgiving ether
Symphonic thunder
And bombastic tides

A raw passion whose intensity mirrored my own… that alone is an impossible feat, but apparently not for Michael Lee Aday, affectionately known as Meat Loaf… a delivery of sound and aura… that understood my chronically tormented soul.

Until we meet again, myself a “sinner before the gates of Heaven,” and you among the angels with guitars even before they had wings, Godspeed, Meat Loaf… or should I say hang cool, teddy bear?! You will be missed!

The post Like A Sinner Before the Gates of Heaven: A Tribute In 6 Movements appeared first on Road to Avalon.

— Alfred Lord Tennyson, Exerpt From The Splendor Falls, 1848

Dear Avalon,

I have attempted repeatedly to illustrate my state of mind at this year’s genesis. I have concluded, however, that it is simply impossible to put into words — honestly — without coming off as a raging psychopath to a substantial percentage of the population. In my past, my sporadic-but-still-recurring role as a mad wordslinger has fulminated in such a way that some particularly dense individuals at a certain institution failed to differentiate between grandiloquence and making threats… no matter how impossible the ideas and images expressed would have been to act upon. I still hold a lot of resentment over that ordeal… almost as much resentment as I hold towards handling (by both parties) of the 2020 elections and abnormalities that followed. As a result, I try to lay low(er)… on public postings, anyway.

My current state of mind is probably best illustrated, not by my own verse, but by that of the great bard Tennyson (above). Much of Tennyson’s work features an underlying somber theme subtly (and sometimes not-so-subtly) resonating through line after line of elegant lyrcism. The Splendor Falls is no different. I remember first being introduced to it in English class senior year of high school, which I am embarrassed to say, will be twenty years ago come spring of 2022.

Tennyson speaks of memories, like these past two decades, that are left behind when someone leaves, moves on, or dies, and how some things are passed from person to person, as are echoes bouncing off ledges of mountains. Sometimes, however, these memories are lost, just as these same echoes can eventually wane into silence. Curiously, though, by the last stanza (which appears atop this post), the echoes do the opposite — growing “forever and forever.” That they “roll from soul to soul” suggests a different type of echo than those of the bugles that are “flying” in earlier lines — these echoes evince (perhaps) a message or story, passed down from generation to generation. This makes the ending, culminating in the refrain of “dying, dying, dying…” almost paradoxical.

His sentiment seems strangely relevant today, perhaps with a new and twisted meaning. “Cancel culture,” and the numerous wars being waged on information and misinformation come to mind. I could speak at great lengths on that subject, but instead have found greater meaning — at this time, anyway — in the preservation of echoes rolling “from soul to soul,” beginning with those of my own existence.

At my core, the things I always wanted, valued, and believed in have been steadfastly the same since infancy. Though if I had to point to a time when all of who I was first started to come together into one (albeit somewhat neurotic) package, it would be around my sophomore year of high school. I’d started taking creative writing (mostly because I was upset that I couldn’t write descriptively, only straightforwardly), I’d been able to join the pre-company ballet at my studio, and I’d launched my first website after years of experimenting with the idea on Print Shop and Netscape Composer (shout out to anyone who remembers those programs!), thanks to finally having what I perceived a wide enough array of content ideas to fill it with. I’d also created my first alter-ego named “Jane Bond” (she’s exactly what you think she is). My biggest fears included: never being allowed to go en pointe in ballet (I started “late”), getting bad grades, and the Y2K computer glitch that was supposed to ensue at the turn of the new year and bring forth — or so the news would have you believe — a dystopian state of affairs. Cassandra Harris was, of course, my role model, and her image was inserted into all my school binders as a reminder to keep my head up, come what may.

The thing I remember most about Christmas break that year, oddly enough, is the enfolding sense of serenity in the air as the clock ticked down to 12:00 am, January 1, 2000. I’d been expecting more of a foreboding and panic-inducing drag. But something told me the end of the 1900’s would bring about a new year just like any other. Sure enough, nothing happened… not even a power flicker.

The following afternoon, I passed by the family room where my parents had left the TV on. On the screen was a news segment chronicling the Y2K celebrations from around the world. The first to celebrate, it turned out, was Sydney, Australia (which I, of course, immediately recognized as Cassandra’s hometown).

The scene was so breathtaking that I clipped the image of it out of our local newspaper (which I still have to this day) and used the spectacle as the backdrop for the beginning of the first (and last) installment of my “Jane Bond” saga that I would spend the following semester writing.

Standing there, frozen solid, she [Jane] sort of swayed as if she didn’t know what to think, her eyes stuck wide open under the brilliant luminescence atop the bridge leering off into the distance; it appeared to be on fire. And when the smoke had finally cleared the distant avenue, there it was — perfectly spelled out in gold lights — a cursive, flowing script that read, “eternity.” Her face lit up at her first guiding light to form a new year…
Written Spring, 2000

What was missing in my soul for what seemed my entire life, however, was pride in my own heritage. I’d always shunned — and even expressed a great abhorrence for — my New Orleans origins because I was sick of being the only one regarding every detail about myself (everything from vanilla-over-chocolate-type preferences to a lifestyle in which creative energies flowed more freely than a frequently-running TV). To be forced to add “only one born in a different state” to that always-expanding list was too much, especially amid the abundant culture shock I’d endure with everywhere and everyone I would visit outside of my own household.

That abruptly changed during my college years. Perhaps these are the years during which you find yourself for most, but the sojourn through “higher learning” had the exact opposite effect on me. I entered college with a profound sense of identity, which the whole experience led me to lose… piece by piece. I began soul searching one particularly distressing night. In the past I’d heard my parents mention the name “Louis Grunewald” — my 3rd great-grandfather, famous Crescent City mover and shaker in his day — so I Googled his name. Retrospective of that impulse was the realization that I had sought something forever intact that no one could take away. My maiden years as an amateur genealogist of sorts began as the scholar of Louis’ beloved hotel on Baronne Street, originally opened just before Christmas in 1893. Louis had announced he wanted to have it “in full readiness for the Carnival of 1894” (Mardi Gras).

Upon my findings, I came to unearth a bountiful wealth of information that even the citizenry of New Orleans, by and large, doesn’t know. One rather intriguing tidbit is that the Roosevelt Way construction, now the main building, was originally an annex to the much smaller original hotel and was completed in 1907. It was unveiled to the public at the flash of midnight in 1908, and its 400+ rooms were open to guests shortly thereafter.

The events are chronicled in such publications as the old Music Trade Review magazine (music was the Grunewalds’ original trade), and the book “Huey Long Invades New Orleans.”

Among the first of pictures I saw of the family Hotel was an early photo taken of the grand lobby. I could have sworn I’d traipsed through there in a past life. Or perhaps it was a repressed memory from my earliest years, spent in the sub-tropical metropolis.

Years later, I was fortunate enough to make my own memory, traipsing again through the gilded entryway, fully caressed by the spirits of my provenance. Though I am not a “big city” breed, and floods and hurricanes have always made me recoil frenziedly, I’ve never felt more at home than I have here.

This opulent edifice has seen the birth of jazz, floodwaters abound, the German-American oppression of two world wars, and over 125 years of carnivals of myth and fantasy… the evolution of king cake and the creation of sno-balls to beat the summer sweatbaths… echoes rolling from soul to soul.

And just as they grow forever and forever… this reflection of heart and mind may never fully end. But for now, it will fade right here… as fireworks thunder.

Happy New Year, everyone! Here’s to eternity…

The post The Year’s End: Our Echoes Roll From Soul To Soul, Sydney Fireworks And Grunewald Hotel Revisited appeared first on Road to Avalon.

The first money I made off of my artistic endeavors was on a now-defunct social networking site called Gather.Com. I was an active member from around 2007 to 2009(ish). Basically, I posted my various ponderings, both written and visual, and received points for views, which could then be redeemed for PayPal cash. I very much preferred it to the more popular (among my generation) havens of MySpace and Facebook simply because there was a distinct purpose behind what I was doing, as well as behind the endeavors of other members. I would be lying if I said I didn’t still miss it tremendously — the camaraderie as well as the pay. It is a feeling intensified by the fact that there has been no other site like it since.

Since Gather dissolved I have gone through at least three different computers; much of my work there has been lost, possibly forever. I could have gone out of my way to preserve it, but I didn’t think I’d ever have the burning desire to go back to it.

Luckily, however, much of my Photoshop work from this era was also uploaded to my barely-used DeviantArt profile. One such project, embarked upon solely for the fun of it, was a small collection featuring stills of Cassandra Harris from For Your Eyes Only, which from a sentimental standpoint, remains my favorite movie.

This is the first I remember of the series. It is from the scene in which Lisl (Cassandra) and Bond spend the night at her house over champagne and oysters, just before her nightgown (and her accent) start to slip. For reference, here is the original screen still:

Here is the altered version:

I called it “Good Morning Darkness.” I believe it was somewhat a nod to the fact that my imagination and creative energies are most active at night. I also relished the tranquility and seclusion of night. In the film, just before the scene this image derived from, Lisl confesses to Bond that she, herself, is a “night person.” Though interesting how that tidbit aligns, I remember well that it never crossed my mind in the making of this work.

At times I also wondered if the color scheme was too dark. Last minute filtering and brightness adjustments therefore produced these two variations.

This next one in the succession sat unfinished on my hard drive for months. Then I got an idea when I decided to extract Lisl/Cassandra from the scene in which she was run over by the beach buggy. Simon and Garfunkel provided the background music, which also provided the title — “Restless Dreams.”

Here is the original image:

And here is the Photoshop alteration. As you can see, I inverted it to its mirror image.

From the same beach scene, this still was somewhere around the timing of the compulsory cry of “Oh James!” just before meeting her demise (above). I took the backdrop far away from an impending death scene to one of my own making. I entitled it, “Prisoner Of Her Secret,” simply because I liked dramatic the ring of it.

Again, the original image:

And this was the final product of the altered version:

Apparently, for quite a while, I also liked elaborating on said dramatic ring:

Undated, Written Between 2008 and 2011, Never Finished
Emaciated figures glare two and two
As I bound from the wreckage I’d cleared years ago
The horde of glimpses through their mirrors accrues
By this cobblestone street where the flood waters rose

Night is my day, for my foes are in slumber
The sky sends a black spell to see they won’t rise
I fall when fateful light of morning’s sword blunders
My thin skin of porcelain never bleeds nor cries

Tarnished in smoke fumes since the night I escaped
He took my hand and led me where the flames wouldn’t fly
Before making me surrender to the mirror’s deceitful shape
How does it feel to know you’ve let me die?

Into purgatory’s walls, I trembled fast…

The post For Sagacious Eyes Only (aka Bond Girl Cassandra as Photoshop Subject) appeared first on Road to Avalon.

Dear Avalon,

Muse. Noun. A person or personified force who is the source of inspiration for a creative artist.

So, there was that crush on actor/TV personality Mike O’Malley, some would argue. And indeed, that was a phase that lasted roughly from second grade through sophomore year in high school. In retrospect, however, it never really spawned anything of note, not even any fantasy romance scenarios, just lots of laughs. Nonetheless, he remains the only true crush I ever had (meaning the only one that went beyond simply finding someone “cute”).

One could also point to the fact that I have been a Garth Brooks fan since long before it was “cool” — almost since his debut, in fact. But there again, I never read much more into his work or his persona than its role as pure enjoyment (or comfort on those occasions I detected parallel emotions in his lyrics, personified by the raw passion of his sharp motions and perfervid vocals…) I remain a huge — almost possessive — fan to this day.

Cassandra, on the other hand, was an enigma — an Australian beauty whose visage was pure as the Triassic rock formations and ultramarine beaches that shaped its essence upon the cessation of the second World War. She was a “Bond Girl,” and her best known role was probably that of “Mrs. Pierce Brosnan,” but that wasn’t important to me. There was a resonant depth to her, laced with a classic elegance and a sultry accent whose origins Down Under were tough to place following some years in London.

Among the adjectives I’d seen attributed to her, the most recurring were: beautiful, talented, delightful, strong, fighter…

For Christmas of 1998, I asked for the unauthorized biography of Pierce Brosnan that had just come out, solely because I’d heard much of its contents featured Cassandra. I wasn’t sure what to expect — from the book itself or how it would shape my impressions of this woman. I only sought to tame some of the mystery surrounding who she was. At that point, I’d only seen her as the ill-fated Countess Lisl in For Your Eyes Only, after all; I knew little otherwise. And true to form, it wasn’t the pop culture phenomenons like Titanic that intrigued me; it was those lesser knowns whose lack of exposure was enough for others to render them not worth caring about.

I’ve gotten many questions over the years regarding Cassandra Harris — everything from, “Who is she?” to “What attracted you to her?”, with the latter inquiry curious as to whether it had something to do with “the struggle” (referring to her battle with cancer, which tragically took her life in 1991).

I’ve had many years to think about it now, and I can honestly conclude that the fact that she was a fighter in that respect was lagniappe. I am loath to say that was the main reason, as it implies that my enchantment with Cassandra may not have materialized had she perfect health through the duration of her life. And I know that isn’t true.

Firstly, Cassandra was human. And yes, this aura was probably aided greatly by the fact that she was never a household name. But she was not this glossy Hollywood figure whose image felt largely manufactured by the industry for the purpose of perpetuating a public narrative concerning who and what I was “supposed” to like.

Instead, she was a heroine of her own making whose life story was prefaced in the aforementioned Brosnan book by her husband revering her as “a woman who had re-invented herself.” What followed was the journey of Sandra Colleen Waites, a (roughly) seventh-generation Australian born just eight days after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor in the land’s “Big Smoke” (Sydney), and growing up in the nearby seaside village of Avalon before eventually moving to London where she became “Cassandra.”

She was resilient — blacklisted from acting roles in her native land for filming an (albeit artistically silhouetted) nude scene… a survivor of open heart surgery and a tumultuous romance with Richard Harris’ younger brother… an ambitious protean of an actress on the brink of success when she decided to put it all on the back burner to become the architect of her new husband’s career… It commenced with rehearsals of the Manions of America script while filming For Your Eyes Only, followed by a crafty finagling of a trip to the New World they could not afford, but for Cassandra “finding a way” — as she insisted she would — through an ad concerning a second mortgage on central heating. Brosnan himself has maintained for years that he owes all of his success to her, and how her last words to him, “Always an actor…”, were an exhortation to carry on the dream they built side by side.

She was a creative soul, drawing from life experiences while holding tight to her unique heritage. Following her heart surgery in the spring of 1976, she spent her six week convalescence at Richard Harris’ Bahamas retreat writing a book, play, and TV series inspired by her experience, all of the “tragicomedy” variety. Later on, not too long before being hit with ovarian cancer, she’d conceived another project envisioned as a film or miniseries. This one was based on the diaries of a distant relative with whom she’d been enamored her entire life — a novelist and artist who’d married German Baron and was smuggled out to fatherland Australia during the first World War. (To me it’s already lightyears ahead of that magnum opus of the 90’s known as Titanic, the Daniel Craig ego trip people have the nerve to still call “Bond,” and everything Tina Fey has ever produced combined, even if it may never meet the public eye).

She was exquisite. Her countenance resembled something half-drawn from a Tennyson poem, half-carved from a Roman goddess… a statuesque and regal mien, yet always down to earth. In a nutshell, perhaps “timeless” would be the most fitting label to place on her appearance. Though selection as a “Bond Girl” may be the most well-cited validation of her classic allure, her other credits included that of Sammy Davis Jr’s “Ideal Woman” and one of Lord Lichfield’s subjects for his book The World’s Most Beautiful Women.

As I acknowledge each of her qualities, it occurs to me that her appeal was not much different from that of the other people I’ve admired through the course of my life. Some are quick to point to “facing adversity,” but I don’t think that’s such a recurring theme as that of identity — particularly the exploration, finding, and cultivation thereof. That is the thing I strive most to emulate in my own life. Complimenting the journey towards identity was a certain degree of charm and character you just don’t see anymore among today’s “stars” (and which I’ll probably never have either).

I do attest, however, to asking the perennial question of “What would Cassandra do?” all throughout high school when adversity hit… to which my mother, whenever attempting to answer, would always begin with, “Oh, DAHLING!!!”

As I think back on college, one of my biggest regrets is loosening my grip on the influence I’d derived from Cassandra. I was prompted to revisit my “fangirling” campaign in her honor upon the beginning of a purge of my childhood bedroom and bonus room this past August. It is a project still ongoing. Through it all, she’s proven to have yet another distinction grossly scarce among most celebrity “obsessions.” That is staying power.

And as she “reinvented” herself, in the same spirit I begin to draw out my ideal life, and how to make it possible and achievable.

Happy heavenly birthday, Cassandra! Godspeed!

The post My Original Muse, In Creativity and In Life appeared first on Road to Avalon.

A little over two decades ago, this used to be my digital playground. It could be the pure white beaches of the Australian seaside village that was the hometown of one of my idols (from which this blog originally took its name). It could be a tribute to a Huey Lewis music video from the 1980’s. It could even be some random Photoshop musing that seemed to fall out of the sky to the sound of a favorite Garth Brooks song. Basically, it could morph into anything. These evolutions were usually conceived during sleepless weekend nights when I wasn’t likely to have too much homework (though weekend dance rehearsals were pretty commonplace).

What various people in my life never understood was that it was just that: a playground… and nothing else. Self expression was its sole purpose, but many saw the potential of a career in web design for me, and spent hours telling me about all the doors that plus a degree in computers could open up. What they failed to realize was that, first of all, there is little correlation between computer programming and web design (and I know this as the daughter of a retired programmer who grew up around programmers). Secondly, I don’t know what in the devil gave them the idea that I would take so well to doing something that I did only for self expression for every purpose but self expression!

I subsequently lost interest in web design (and ps. I would still be lousy in that line of work). I lost interest in writing for a similar reason. Any time anyone conjured up an image of what Ehren Elizabeth Grunewald, the professional, would be like, they seemed to always arrive at the same two “skills,” writing and computers… writing and computers… writing and computers… with nary a mention of dance and/or movement and fitness of some sort, regardless of how vehemently I insisted that was my calling. Writing and computers were always the two “talents” for which I would have been least suited in terms of vocation. There was little to no money to be made – realistically speaking – in the creative realms, and the non-creative parts were boring and tedious and didn’t fit who I was on even the most basic of levels.

The annoyance was compounded by the fact that these people seemed to think I hadn’t a clear sense of direction as per what I wanted my future and my career to look like due to the fact that all my peers had moved on in their lives and I was still stuck. But that had nothing to do with not knowing what I wanted to do in my life, however — I always knew movement would be the essence of that since I was very small — and everything to do with the fact that my college experience was quite traumatic and I never truly got over it. I have spent more years than I care to admit trying to get back to that person I was before (albeit a better version thereof), which is what I’d wanted all along. Yet it always seemed to end like the Hotel California — “you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave…”

I am somewhat better now, re-born on July 23, 2018. It was a date that was chosen for no particular reason, though it turned out to have a couple of synchronicities… the last time I competed back home (in New Orleans), my last arrival at our cherished family hotel there, and the untimely death of Sally Ride. It seems all the more appropriate when you consider that prior to moving to North Carolina, my family had been in New Orleans for six generations. My parents met when both worked at Stennis Space Center (then known as NSTL). My father was a mechanical engineer during my earliest years and prior to our move was working at Michoud (pro tip: it’s MEE-shoo) on the space shuttle fuel tank; one of these tanks would be flown on mission STS-41G, the crew of which included Sally Ride.

This year, that rebirth has been met with re-invention of self. In all probability, it is an endeavor that will be far easier said than done, but now that certain outside toxicities no longer can take hold, the first steps have proven far easier than they would have been, even if far from effortless. If nothing else comes of this, a metamorphosis of my creative works has brought a degree of fulfillment I’ve not felt in a while.

The following are fragments of what I’ve become:

I am not ready to share the inspiration for this verse (which is part of a much larger work, I am hoping). I am, however, ready to offer the verse itself as a sampler. Though please keep in mind that it is very rough.

Stieglitz Im Grünewald

Goldfinch sings atop the tallest tree
In the vast green forest where the hidden key
To the path towards deliverance and restoration resides
And will uncouple my soul from this hijacked ride
A dead reckoning through winds of unauthorized change
In dense jubilation of pillaged reigns
Boasting gelid, cacophonous, hollow-eyed pride
Oh, uncouple my soul from this hijacked ride

And an excerpt from another… This one is also part of a larger work — the “theme song” for what I would ideally want to be the first installment in the saga of the re-creation of my “Jane Bond” character.

Just some basic info:

Her name is now Dustin “Dusty” Bayer (yes, Dustin is actually a female name in German; it means “valiant fighter” or “dark stone.”) She drives a Lotus (or a Porshe will do), and she is a member of the fictitious “Enforcer Elite” for the Secret Service of the Common Defense, whose motto is beneficia libertatis secure (“secure blessings of liberty”). Her call sign (tentatively) is EE5. The first story deals with the rigging of a national election via satellite (and for the record, I am not convinced that was the culprit for all the chaos surrounding the 2020 election; sometimes such “conspiracy theories” just make for an interesting storyline in this genre. Also for the record, I don’t do far left/”woke”). Any of these details could change at any time.

Advance compassion fair
Across the scapes of 50 stars
Cast your arms into our care
At last we’ll heal our scars

A victory divine
Inside a heartbeat halted cold
Though the numbers don’t align
A blue wave, we’ll uphold

History strangled by chains linked in lies
Repudiate eidolons for which our fathers died
Oh crisis! The words of nobility feigned
Through unheeded truth
Cassandra skies reign

I should also note that there are two Cassandra’s that resonate with me. The first is Cassandra Harris, and the other, the Greek prophetess whose warnings went unheeded because although she spoke the truth, she was cursed not to be believed. The above verse refers to the latter.

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