Journal Entries
The Penguin Rhyming Dictionary
Posted Jan 5, 2006
hey folks -
Yesterday I became the proud owner of The Penguin Rhyming Dictionary - I need to share this moment with you all.
This is not a commercial break. More like the song of a recently diagnosed rhyme-addict.
Where does someone like me go when I have nothing left to say? To the Penguin Rhyming Dictionary.
See, those nights when I awaken with a fever, with insect-hallucinations crawling over the ceiling - instead of sweating it out till dawn, I can go to my desk, take out my PRD and there see the immortal words 'insect, unchecked, defect, inject, infect.'
open at random, I get 'hyacinth, absinthe, labyrinth' --- there are worlds here. I am an explorer.
Expect no sense from me. I now reside in my PRD.
My 2006 be the best year of your lives - - -
Helen
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Latest reply: Jan 5, 2006
Candystripe
Posted Nov 19, 2005
19th November 05
At the moment, dear journal, or anyone reading this, I have broken out in rhyme. It could be worse. Nevertheless, I must find medicine.
Candystripe 
(footprints)
I am walking so proud in my candystripe shirt ~
My footprints are mystery-tracks in the dirt.
I am thinking of visions and flowers and hurt.
Soul is aching.
So I go to a cafe to watch the light fade ~
There's a candystripe straw in my sweet lemonade.
I'm a statue of Buddha in copper and jade!
I am faking.
My footprints look strange in the flickering street.
They are pink, they are blue - I have candystripe feet!
I'm a clown in the meltdown of carnival heat -
Senses waking.
I dreamed of a meadow with candystripe flowers,
And a temple-of-time built with gold shining towers.
Sweet wonder-seeds falling in pepperdust showers -
For our taking.
Helen Nov 05
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Latest reply: Nov 19, 2005
Cryptic Sunflash Love Poem
Posted Nov 13, 2005
13 november 05
I really appreciate h2g2. I know I keep saying it, but its worth repeating.
Today I drew pencil patterns which looked like fishes, and eyes, and strange calligraphic entities. My drawings may not make it to the art show, but they are surely mine.
Something is happening to me. I just wrote a love poem. OK, like my drawings, it may not make it to the art show, but it is surely mine.
Could this be the springtime of a person? The creation of their own signature, for better for worse, till death do them part? I have decided to create a magazine, with my jottings and some friends' jottings, and the pawprints of passing alley cats. Wish you guys could contribute. Perhaps you can. Its on paper though. We could work it out. Can't pay though - unless the alley cats make good.
This is the love poem. Its called Cryptic Sunflash Love Poem, but then it would be. I never said my own signature would make sense. The knife-slash represents the pain of loving, but the poem is intending to show that love is stronger than it all - - -etc etc 
Neon nerve-lines run through sunflash!
Picnic in the dog-eared park.
Love endures the silver knife-slash -
Kiss you in the secret dark.
Painted visions in the alley -
Hearts and hymns in cryptic rhyme.
Walk with you through hope and valley -
Love endures the kiss of time.
Neon nerve-lines run through knife-slash.
Hearts and hymns in secret dark.
Walk with you through silver sunflash -
Kiss you in the dog-eared park.
Love you in the dark of alley -
Visions painted there in rhyme.
Kiss you in the picnic-valley -
Walk with you through hope and time.
amen. (work in progress) helen.
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Latest reply: Nov 13, 2005
New light ! (new patterns) purple crow flies free
Posted Nov 8, 2005
8 November 05
Do you ever hit those times when all the loose ends of your life just come together to form a pattern that you know and understand?
This happened to me yesterday. I was sitting in a coffee shop, considering some personal matters, which in the last week or two have been a little testing to say the least. Beside me was this magnificent mural - swirling colours, and words - and I thought thankyou artist, thankyou for this mural, right here beside me on the wall of the coffeeshop.
And then a voice said 'Do it Helen, do it Helen!' - put your own mural on the paper! Be the word-painter that you are! Don't try to be other than what you are! Just be it, live it, breathe it, speak it! This way the world is yours, whatever the circumstances!
So I wrote this -
Pink dots and yellow spirals are the music of the rain.
Is the fragrance of the sunrise just a pattern of the brain?
Delusion in my coffee cup! Strange beauty through mine eyes!
And fiction is a shiny crow that flies through purple skies.
And danger prowls the avenue with echo-howl of hate -
while the starving unforgiven are rattling the gate.
And angel-paramedics swoop ghostly through the fight
to wrap the wounded spirit in a bandage of new light.
The fractured dark, the fizzing spark, the diamonds and the aces
The winking eye of Love itself, that shines through cracks and spaces.
My mind is just a painter, and my words are but designs -
small fragments of the mystery - just curling shapes and lines.
Helen 
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Latest reply: Nov 8, 2005
Strange Atmosphere
Posted Oct 25, 2005
25 October 05
you know, the AWW is a tough school for me, but the best school ...I am learning to sharpen my focus, and sharpen my pencils ..
thanks to the writing-advice of a friend or two, I have finally ventured into the story I have been trying to write my whole life - this is the first draft. I anticipate that this story will take me 30 more years to write.
However, as a first draft I feel I have satisfied that irksome story-spirit that sits on my notebook and spits peanuts at me until I pick up my pen -
Its a bit long - I would like this story to be reduced to maybe two paragraphs, but you know, there are editors out there... I know there are ... I have met them ..
here's the story - its called The Strange Atmosphere:
A strange atmosphere surrounds the presence of my mother. Many people have experienced it.
Some describe this atmosphere as shadowplay. Others say it has the texture of translucent beauty, or the fragrance of spring. There have been accounts of unnerving auditory hallucinations, and the taste of bitter mint chocolate.
The atmosphere holds many secrets and I am weary of its fictional mystique. I become shivery and uneasy. I experience intense despair, and try to project laser rays of love through the thickening mist. Every now and then something extraordinary shines through, and I remember the pattern of sunlight on fountains.
And yet, even as I write, I am aware of a curious sensation - a pathos, a haunted mystery, a magnetic pull towards new light. Perhaps this is just illusion. Perhaps it is the nervous embrace of the wounded atmosphere that surrounds the presence of my mother.
Amen (for now)
Helen
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Latest reply: Oct 25, 2005
cactuscafe
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