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About Deviant Laurie CorzettUnited States Group :iconvisionaryartists: visionaryartists
state-shifting myth shapers
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Deviant for 12 Years
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Newest Deviations

Literature
December
December Wine
Decant December wine
The best saved for end
of the year
held in fond anticipation
Traveling slick hills on sleigh rides
of old
Reliving the thrills over
fine age and spirit
A day we hold dear
it is worth far more than gold
I see a star pale and strong
hear glorious wind
made of song --
holy choirs singing
There is sacrament in desire
Wonders of will, of intensity
wild like the sweet breath
of winter
Drink in the joy of being alive
Betty dances
an instant choreography of our conversation.
Her familiar rhythmic motion seems to keep
flow of thought musically cohesive.
We play at soliloquies,
interweave of dialog,
tangential themes, dissonance in
effective counterpoint, comic relief.
Betty enhances assiduously.
Rarely do we hear her voice, or need it
for eloquence.  These gabfests include all
who are present.  From each according to
individual style.  Tonight, to welcome December,
we assemble to figure out this season of
stress and expectation.
Betty falls into
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Literature
time present and time past
time present and time past
(a metaphoric walkabout)
I.
The trees are full of bitter children,
weaned on spite, whipping branch against rigid
branch.
Skylight dimmed to their struggles,
doubt of Sun, of cloud, of Milky Way,
our eyes adjust to follow fortune.
why is it realism to believe in evil intents prevailing
why idealistic to seek power of unveiling to find
we were half blind, the half that grows through kindness
left unseen?
Not interested in listening to the colour
of the bluesman’s skin.
Inebriated with the power of music.
I am that music, not just while it’s playing.
Ordered vibrations, spinal awaken, hold like a
heart-bound twin.
Designations, sad biographies, personalities
grandiose or subdued?
Substitute equivalent qualities, sums
said to prove identity. Mere chatter, in the way,
day by coded day, matters profound or silly, are spread.
Sound thrust from will, music imbues momentum,
fuses with ethos, keeps us
who we become
and overcome.
infinitely adaptive
reshapi
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Literature
[evening dionysian]
working title: [evening dionysian]
Dancers dance
musicians play
Enchanting sylph narrates stories
while seductively moving to sinuous
back beat, tick of chimes.
Occasionally emphasizes subtle percussions
with intense expressions, leaps, cunning
stumbles, falling to crawl into spellbound speech.
Scheherazade myths, archetypal passion
escapades, poignant weeps, salient shouts
to power. Exquisite meditations on mystic
climes, spirit and form. Merry masks,
sparkly costumes, paint and glitter as
embellishment to the tellings.
Theater as intimate ritual.
Anything could manifest.
.
.
Pisces murky androgeny
Libra emits graceful beauty
Scorpio at home in passion
Deeply attractive
Complicated self-hatred urging service and demeaning.
At core strong self-belief expressed intuitively.
Stories from the collective well, mystic ether, imbued
in earth, exhaled by flames.
Centering, sense memory trances exhibits as
sinuous performance.
.
.
This world is ending …
.
.
Even happy families share diss
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Literature
Caela's Story #43
A strangely dressed, obviously old, yet regally postured woman appears on the balcony of the City Council Building, arms outstretched as if in benediction. Calmly, serenely, she faces the uproarious crowd surrounding from below.
Caela breathes deeply inward, accessing that bright core she has built from all the loving wisdom discovered throughout her life.
“You can be healed.” Her simple statement echoing, reverberating throughout the crowd. Everyone within range of her electronically enhanced and broadcast voice feels profound resonance.
Every one of them feels tender, loving presence reaching deeply into their secret, festering wounds, bathing their pain in beautiful soothing light.
Caela, smiling inwardly in joyful communion with the forest daughter entwining her consciousness, responds to each and every pause of wonder. She sends soothing musical visions with her words.
“There is no shame in pain. There is no cure to be found in blame, regardless of accuracy. Ther
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Literature
Caela's Story #42
Jorel has been enjoying getting caught up in Caela’s vision as she spins it out for him. He sees the potential of this fine university of healing arts, including the healing to be found through fine and performance expressive arts, touch, movement, meditations, creative play and experiments in communications, even more spiraling out beyond his imagining. A too good to be true fantasy, of course; but he allows himself a momentary luxury of getting caught up in the beauty.
“My dear Healer,” deciding it is well past time to inject reality back into their conversation, Jorel adopts a tone of impatient irony. “I am certain I would be glad to accede to your demands. Just tell me, how am I to spirit your charges away in the face of that?” With an angry flourish, he points to the mob, seemingly just shy of storming the barricade around the building and taking them all by force.
“Have we a deal, then?” Caela responds lightly, as if they’ve not a c
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Literature
Caela's Story #41
“I believe you have recently closed and taken control of a school to the north and west, far enough beyond the centers of population to afford privacy. There is enough land for a buffering zone, gardens, basic self-sufficiency.”
Unsure where this might be going, Jorel concedes her information. “The Harmony Academy. Several of your people were shareholders in the enterprise. Some as well were prominent faculty. The people had been hearing unsavory rumors about goings on there. Some of your social experiments, group sex, occult ceremonies, dangerous ideas being spread. We arrested several of the major shareholder/instigators. The property is in the hands of the City Council until we auction it off.”
“Yes!” Caela seems almost glowing. “A dangerous idea – but danger can be a challenging doorway to glorious adventure, or the price of a longed for treasure. Sell me this school. I will pay whatever price you ask, over time from my profits. I wil
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Literature
Caela's Story #40
Her senses and contexts expanded by what she has learned, accepted, assimilated through her interchanges, gifts now shared with the forest, Caela feels the wounds these people carry, incubate, spread. “Here and now.” Her eyes move from the disturbance escalating outside, lock onto Jorel’s. “Those abilities within us that you fear, that you covet, keeping you caught up in the belief that we witchfolk are a superior enemy to be shunned and destroyed, that gift is already yours as well. You can learn to find it within you, to access, develop, use your own innate abilities. You can be set free of this mistaken need for hatred which drains your energies, takes from you what you could be.”
“But how? Even saying you might be right about some latent witch genetics in some of us, that would just be more divisive. Even those of us with the potential for this so-called gift would have no idea how to make use of it. If they did learn, they would just be more of
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Literature
Caela's Story #39
“Your people believe they want us gone. Whatever the reasons, these are palpable intentions. They are inflamed, and need careful tending lest they explode. This would harm them, and you, more than we would feel it in the situations we are already in.” Her voice and manner so sweetly calm. Images merely illustrative, not as inflammatory as what they represent.
This is merely prologue.
Sandwiches and energy drinks are brought in by an aide, for those in the antechamber and the two in the main room. Apparently energy will be needed both for waiting and for negotiations. The aide silently disappears, on to other duties, perhaps speculations.
“Yes, those festering people in the streets, living out their day to days, waiting impatiently for justice, if that is all they think they can get. They don’t know we’re here yet, do they? Under the auspices of their representative in chief, eating sandwiches and leisurely chatting or sitting quietly in an antechamber awai
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Literature
Caela's Story #38
The Chief Councilor was not a simple soldier. He was not a follower, but a leader practiced in the ways of power. He was a senior politician, used to tricks, manipulations, maneouverings, his opponents’ and his own. This was not a man easily trifled with or stared down. This was a man who could be persuaded, only if he could be made to clearly see his own advantage. Caela could do that. She could show him in clear imagery and well placed words exactly what he had to gain, and what losses he would no longer need to fear or calculate. Caela was not a politician, had never seen herself as a leader, or a follower. She knew the human mind. She understood the inner workings of will and desire. Power may think itself an irresistible force. When it meets calm acceptance, wrapped in well-reasoned, irrefutable logic, power can become a sheepish child happy to find common ground, if that power is backed by intelligence.
The Chief Councilor is an intelligent man. He can acknowledge Caela
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Literature
Caela's Story #37
Caela and Lukin touch hand into hand, facing each into shining open eyes, hug solemnly. The children feel as secure as any mother’s love could provide. Toriv as well feels that love, allowing himself the relief, the luxury of relinquishing a responsibility he had no idea how to fulfill. None doubted, assured in Caela’s confidence, that no harm would now befall them.
The knock at the door was no shock, no surprise. Neither were the officially uniformed pair of large brutes whose entrance their knocking barely preceded. They were the ones not so much shocked or surprised as amazed and disarmed by an old woman from the other side of the deep woods.
At Caela’s instigation, she, Toriv and the children were escorted to the official vehicle brought for their transport to an interrogation area.
“You mean to take these children, and the man who has harbored them, to someone with more authority than you for their questioning and incarceration, yes?” Caela had quietl
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Literature
Caela's Story #36
Out of the Woods
Under cover of storm, those who might have been about all secured in their dwellings, Caela walks across the fields in a straight line to her destination.
By the time she got to Toriv’s school, the storm was spent. Soggy ground, grey sky, wind and rain now but wistful breeze and mist. A dark wet day for a stranger’s sudden appearance. The main house was abuzz with speculation.
There was already much concern about the troop of children Toriv had mysteriously taken in. Some kin of Merin’s, a dear teacher to many of them, but still unsettling. These are people who spook easily, do not trust strangers. They are not even on easy terms with their neighbors. They have chosen to live this more primitive style of life, as they see it, in order to be left alone, away from prying eyes and possible recrimination.
“That was why we had to. We had to protect ourselves. We couldn’t appear to be dangerous, harboring undesirables, enemies of the state.
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Literature
Caela's Story #35
There is still a distance, more than several days worth of traversing, between here and there. Caela prepares for sleep, for potent dreaming. There is something within her in need of awakening. It feels, yes, just ready to be released, to claim its power. Is this a spirit child of Caela, of the forest mind, ready to be born as Caela’s sacred internal daughter, a part of (not apart from) herself?
“I see the cruelty, the stupidity. A tight fist. Harsh measures. Petty meanness because we dare not weaken, dare not show a chink of kindness, dare not relax. Nowhere that deep relaxation, every cell of life open to receive, to exchange expiration for inspiration. Tight disciplined cognitions, never too alive, never to allow dangerous chinks of doubt, unsettling openings to chaos. Fear is palpable, but more. It is gripping. Addictive. You need more and more to even feel, to not go numb with the senselessness, with the constancy. I feel it all. Where? How? I am moving through a fores
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Literature
Caela's Story #34
Opening that sharing place in her mind to full sensitivity, Caela feels bathed in totality of loving joy, bliss. All the busy interplay of forest life flutters through her senses. Not so much walking as dancing in that interplay, she partakes of life’s daily rituals. It is a brief, though eternal, idyll.
A human voice not her own, but one now well recognized, falls like thunder into her peaceful reverie in forest time. It is the boy who called her here, his own mind, not the forest’s allegory. He is somehow physically nearer, though still at some distance. Perhaps she has been moving with purpose, closer to his situation. It is not her mind he set out to link to. She is an accidental recipient, along with the intended ones. The story he relays tells her that in the greater scheme this accidental receiver is exactly the person required by that situation. Currents are crossing, lives in the balance.
The boy, Lukin, his story, sifted out from what he relays from his grandfathe
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Literature
Caela's Story #33
So welcome to be undivided, safely within forest consciousness. Feeling every experiential frame falling into place, blending. Light, airy viscosity, like breathing bliss, in, out, all around, a solid-liquid-ethereal state in which thought, movement, awareness is fluid, unset in form, actively adapting, expecting only what is.
“I am actively adapting. I am whole as solution, dissolving while redefining, in all ways an accumulating summing, of perceptions, cognitions, interweavings.” Revelatory impressions rippling through, Caela walks in a foreground shaped by her background, steps interacting with ground, skin interacting with all the migratory molecules, movement as a whole system, within wider wholes, spiraling cycles, widening Caela’s range of perceptions. “I am; and I expand and am expanded, with every interchange of breath, every synchrony of symbol and response, every crystallized moment merging into the next.”
And the next
“I had to learn, to
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Literature
Caela's Story #32
Another mother appeared, ghostly drifting in sudden mist. “Did you grieve for me?” It is Letta’s spirit, a mother’s love Caela has not felt since she was almost too young to remember it’s sweet beauty.
“I grieved for you while you still stood before me in strange imitation of life. I tried so hard to reach you. You would not be reached, would not respond, would not know me.”
Caela felt that grief again, a scarred old wound that could still throb when disinterred, angry, red, infected, long controlled into quietude.
“You know I never meant to leave you. I never meant to betray our bond. As you say, my life ended long before my body died. I never knew it could happen that way. I never knew how to find my way back to you. It wasn’t that I loved her more, no longer needed you. All love, all feeling, was lost from me. I had nothing to give, no way to receive. But, look at you. You give and take in more than anyone I have ever known. I am
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Literature
Caela's Story #31
It was Singer. Really him. If this is a dream, it is a real dream, more real than the dreams of ordinary awake life. He had always loved this natural world. It was part of him; he part of it. Perhaps she was called because of that of Singer which was in her. Now he is here so I can touch him, even if in the way of dreams. Why is one significant touch so powerful, so deeply held in the realm of essential desire? Caela doesn’t question. She drinks in that essence so immediate, so necessary. She dreams so intensely, as if lives were in the balance. When the rain comes, it is warm and gentle enough to meld into her dream.
Here she was, a great-grandmother. Felicity’s oldest, Solia, had had her baby just a few seasons past. Still, her heart was that of a passionate young lover. This forest, so far from human, seemed to understand and take joy in her. She felt welcomed as long wandering kin, with so much to catch up on. As she walked again in the sunshine, she openly shared her m
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Favourites

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Activity


December Wine


Decant December wine
The best saved for end
of the year
held in fond anticipation
Traveling slick hills on sleigh rides
of old
Reliving the thrills over
fine age and spirit
A day we hold dear
it is worth far more than gold
I see a star pale and strong
hear glorious wind
made of song --
holy choirs singing
There is sacrament in desire
Wonders of will, of intensity
wild like the sweet breath
of winter
Drink in the joy of being alive




Betty dances
an instant choreography of our conversation.
Her familiar rhythmic motion seems to keep
flow of thought musically cohesive.
We play at soliloquies,
interweave of dialog,
tangential themes, dissonance in
effective counterpoint, comic relief.
Betty enhances assiduously.
Rarely do we hear her voice, or need it
for eloquence.  These gabfests include all
who are present.  From each according to
individual style.  Tonight, to welcome December,
we assemble to figure out this season of
stress and expectation.

Betty falls into slump as if exhausted.  
A mischievous grin peeks from between
tumbled hair.
Her fingers float, mime symbols rising
on bare air.  She crawls into upward pose,
awaits our inspiration.

Marcus sarcastically Ho-Ho-Hos.
She bows, lifts his right arm to her
left shoulder, then deftly pirouettes
across the room.



skidilee scadilee
A man who remembers
A maid whose Decembers
Have wintered away

Dew of the Morn gone to
Desert in sentences
Wick of moisture cools skin
He begs her to stay

Remember, remember, love is the ember.
Catch fire to your mind, to your brutal December,
to your losses cast upon a lotus sea.
Hold for your life, upon this memory;
into this lonely Moon of sad reflection send those longing nights
when no one remembered you.
Can you recall, reanimate, reconnect?
Can you forestall, hold so close there can never be bisection?
Can a silent echo fill so completely, instill ever enriching,
radiate that instant, that bond?
Is the memory of a song,
the distant weep of times so long bereft of sweet release,
a mantra moving mind
beyond self-imprisonment
for a crime of passion?




Winter Warmth


On the longest night
How do you celebrate, commemorate
our nature? Living world dependent on
a circled star for light and warmth, for energy
to fuel our fate.
We bring our forests inward.
Ceremonies carry epic myth to shape
consciousness.

Night walks for reflection.
Touches contours of Earth.
Cuddles dervish bevies of stars.
Night desires primal connection.
Eternity compressed, expressive spirits
too subtle to survive Sunlight.
Longer nights, stronger ties to sky lore.
Siren songs run along aspirant spine, instruct
your mind to widen, become open
to awe.

December days go fast.
Light returns slow through
white horizons.  Darkening tones
feel appropriate companions.
Sparkling peace, alone in vastness,
at one with gladness.
Cold, gallant partner, urges closeness.

Calm before pent up congregation.
Ready to pop Hallelujahs, surge
ecstatically.  World wide exultation.
Electronic connection.
Virtual warmth.
Past fantasies’ achievement.
We weave into future beliefs,
reach forward.
Accept and demand:
We are all in this together.




Capricorn at December’s End


Quiescent  summit of hero’s mountain
soothed by view of waves, of distant heights.
Currents lift to flow, falling
to rise.
Symbols,
wisdom releasing
over transits of Time.

What year has this been?
Wishes obtained, sustained, begun.  Deep inspirations.
Races run, sunsets framed, scintillating proclamations.
Bold, flirtatious masks; goal enhancing tasks;
reflection of cascading plans in sheltered flames.
Relaxing fun, happy laughter, expansive games.
Holding the best to memory; the rest let fade away.

Increments of transitions, long, steep,
often discovered in critical obsessions,stored in
popular modern messages.  Hard to keep
up, in touch, aware of cards in play.
Unable to resist insistent caring.  Still weak, wary.
Yet, need to lean on panic’s crutch a bit less each day.

Taking steps, stands, giving attention.
Over months and moments projects start, fit, flow.
Unknown unknowns less like monstrous black holes.
Mystery, magic, sage co-creators in ecstatic circle.
Familiar woes, stories of want, of work without
reparation, strangely dispel.

When we all begin again
to resolve to evolve, to make a
better trade, more alive, less afraid
ready to dig in and build for blessing.
No prohibition, requirement of mission
denies desire’s essentiality to feed our greatest visions.

What bright star might foretell
future resolution, fears openly quelled,
goals of hope in sight?
Beacons, blessings of a night, cold
yet comforting.  Season of projected light,
of ice and fire.

deviantID

libramoon
Laurie Corzett
United States
Favourite genre of music: jazz
Interests
Emerging Visions visionary art 'zine #22

emergingvisions.blogspot.com


On Earth Day (April 22) 2012, our Gifting Gaea has emerged.
Share our Gift; Enjoy our Earth; Blessed Be



  


Sense caressing meadow
Green grain and brilliant petals
Lovely buzzing, lively hopping
Warm, yellow light at play
Luscious wash of pleasure
Fragrant, rolling, mellow
Miles of flowering moments
Celebrate today

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconbishop-of-balance:
Bishop-Of-Balance Featured By Owner Dec 18, 2015  Professional Digital Artist
Thanks for that =D
Reply
:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Feb 25, 2015
metafiction, working title: Something Sacred.

I am thinking about publishing this.  Any suggestions about appropriate publishers would be appreciated.
Reply
:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Sep 29, 2014
 

imaginary workshop for re-creation

New project on Wordpress

 

windsongmyths.wordpress.com/

 

myths new and revisioned

 

 

 

 

and continuing  om2317.wordpress.com/
OPERATOR'S MANUAL notes playing to a theme
 
libra's child
 
 
What is this "love" that pulls me to you?
A gauze of hope, desire, imagination
woven with faery dust, tied by good strong cord.
Pulse arousing, clinging, anchoring and ringing,
those siren bells of joyous meeting.
I am beguiled by those bells, ringing in the clouds
while rain weeps down
gently on my fingertips.
You have kissed these hands, quickened by surprise.
Enchanted interludes, moments between time,
so that time drags now, drags me down
harshly weighted.
It was but theater of
aspired visions weaving.
Would that I could gaily entertain,
remain curious and blithely
naive child.
Would that it be enough
to trip veils’ ecstatic trance,
loving intricacies
of intimacy.
 
 
 
Fall from Innocence
 
 
You found out that things can't always be
just neat and clean and bright.
You found out that sometimes right ain't strong
and wrong is right.
You found out a lot that Ma and Pa'd 
never want you to know.
You're found out in the streets in the snow 
    with nowhere to go.
Ain't it a bitch, what you've found out.
Ain't you a bitch when you're found out.
You ain't so sweet and true anymore
The world ain't pink and blue anymore
And you're living in a world that
wasn't just made for you.
Reply
:iconrattyredemption:
rattyredemption Featured By Owner Dec 6, 2013
hi, i would still very much appreciate clarification when you have a moment, so please do reply to my last question in the deviation submission, if you haven't yet noticed it.
Reply
:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Nov 7, 2013
~sharing(secret)water~ EV13  
emergingvisions.blogspot.com/2…
Reply
:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Oct 17, 2013
website update


night's pages

{patchwork narrative} a flash fiction serial following the story of a child vampire, the eternal child monster working out that existence

 

 
OPERATOR'S MANUAL
notes playing to a theme
nightly poetry posts
 

emergingvisions.blogspot.com/

Emerging Visions visionary art zine

 

caelastory.blogspot.com/?zx=78…

caelastory.blogspot.com/
Something Sacred – metafiction
 
 
 
PostApocalypse blog includes original patchwork narrative flash fiction serial
 

dreamsjourneys.blogspot.com/

Selected Works 1968-2005

 

yearprophecies.blogspot.com/

Year of Prophecies as a page

 
 
 
Year of Prophecies as blog posts  and posts beyond the project
 
 
 
Samhainic Verse
 
 
beginning soon, posts about healing through dance
 
 
Reply
:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Oct 16, 2013
 
October 17, 2003
8:52 pm EDT
Boston, MA
 
 
Reply
:iconlibramoon:
libramoon Featured By Owner Oct 10, 2013
 
This is the "patchwork narrative" flash fiction serial story of a child vampire (the eternal child monster working out that existence),
originally featured (and still appearing) on my PostApocalypse tumblr site:  postapocalypse13.tumblr.com/ 
now appearing on this Blogger spot for easy editing and viewing. 
The last entry, which is what you see on the home page, is the first “patch” of the story. Go backwards, down through the previous posts to see the whole story, or as much as you like, or some now, some later ...
The narrative will most likely continue, someday. Meanwhile, I will work with this version on Blogger.
I intend to reformat online as a paginated book when I find the appropriate platform and have it ready. 
Reply
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