I’ve worked hard the last couple of years to get some books published, I’m thinking of them as there were “the first five,” and now there is “the magnificent seven.” I also have stories in three print anthologies, and I’m going to get those linked up with cover pictures, as well as having been published thirteen times various places online during the last six years. In the spring of 2018, I hope to release another collection of poetry, tentatively titled “Thelxiepeia”. After that, well I wouldn’t say what was next even if I had figured that out. I am a prolific writer, and that has always been the case. Even when I think I’m not really writing much, I’m always really writing something. I had a tremendous back catalogue of manuscripts, books, to publish. “Thelxiepeia” is work that was composed from 2011 to 2012 or thereabouts, so I’m getting closer to being caught up.
The books I’ve released in the last week, “Gold Mine” and “Maybelline Raven and The Wolf”, both came out of a nervous breakdown that began in 2008. Fact is, I’ve gotten a lot of writing, stories, out of that breakdown though I’d just as soon not got through anything like that again. “Gold Mine” is really, I think, something that was written, compiled, jammed together, like a panic attack during a panic attack in 2009. That book was very much the moment at the beginning of an avalanche. The title “Gold Mine” came out of some remembered fragment that life experiences are a writer’s gold mine, to which I thought “go mine your own business,” and then thinking that I might have thrown a gold mine worth of writing into a fire. “Maybelline Raven and The Wolf” was written during the first months of 2014, when I was recovering from the worst of it all and really at the beginning of sorting things out. Most people cannot put their house back in order in the middle of the storm. I’ve said before that much of my work is catharsis in that it is something of a coping mechanism, as much as it is a way to dream, it is also a way to understand things, to reason things out in some way, and sometimes, it’s very much a way to get rid of the poison. I’ve written some horror stories that aren’t anything I want to read, writing horror was way outside of my comfort zone as a writer, so if someone tells me they don’t like horror, I can respond honestly that I understand that completely. I’ve also used the “input/output” analogy on that one, the world isn’t always a nice place, all my experiences in this life haven’t been good, sometimes the writing is way to git rid of bad emotions or baggage, we’ve all got stuff. I’ve written some super hopeful, sappy, in love and in love with life stuff too. We learn to appreciate the balance between the “good” and the “bad,” to understand that sometimes those things change, and to sift the wheat from the chaff.
“Maybelline Raven and The Wolf” began as I started to sort out my own ancestry, to research my own family tree. One of the biggest lessons to come out of that has been not to jump the gun. I started out with family stories, finally got to the 100% bottom of some things, researched the actual genealogy and family tree, did a DNA test only to then further read that such a test might not tell you what you want to know or even reveal the truth of your lineage because with each generation the bloodline thins, so to speak, and people migrated and mixed and so on. I learned that the descendants a person can verify and trace are generally the best indicator. I am of English, Irish, and Cherokee descent. It was ultimately easier for me than some as my parents are no mystery to me and I did grow up with a grandparents who were interested in the family history though there were discrepancies and oddities to be sorted out. For example, I grew up with a story that we were related to George Washington, as well as to an “Indian Princess,” to which my grandfather would say, “She wasn’t a princess. That wasn’t her real name.” When you hear stories like that as a kid, it’s ridiculous. Yeah right, sure. In researching the family tree, I found a George Washington, not thee George Washington, but a George Washington. From there I thought, “Okay, what other of these stories are true, and what have I had wrong?”
On my mother’s side of the family, I am able to trace back to the 1500’s in England, to Scotland and to 1800’s Ireland and a young man named Joseph Creighton, aged thirteen years, traveling alone, who arrived in New Orleans in 1847 aboard The Berlin, to Reverend David Caldwell and the Revolutionary War, and to Civil War soldiers who fought on both sides of the conflict. On my father’s side of the family, I am able to trace my ancestry to 1500’s England to Sir Robert Bell, Speaker of the House of Commons, to 1600’s Colonial England to Thomas Burgess whose affair with Lydia Gaunt led to the first ever divorce in Plymouth and to Cherokee Chief Doublehead ( a sixth great-grand-father), whose daughter, Cornblossum (Princess) Doublehead married Big Jake Troxell and their daughter, Margaret Troxell married James Bell in 1809, whose great-grandson, William, a great-grandfather, who married Lena Burgess, one of my great-grandmothers, and the sixth great-grandaughter of Thomas Burgess and Lydia Gaunt. There were also family stories of a relation to The Younger Brothers, of the James- Younger Gang by the marriage of a cousin, connected through the Carson family, though I was unable to verify those stories.
I went on my first cross-country trip to Mississippi and Louisiana before I was quite two years old, and I remember the highlights, including getting bit by a dog. These stories were swimming around in my head as I wrote the story of Maybelline. Maybelline Raven is a woman who has witnessed and experienced something horrific. As a result, her mind has found a way to compartmentalize and deal with the trauma as she remains terrified and trying to protect her children. Set in 1762 in a fictional village along the banks of the Mississippi River, this story was an important turning point for me, it is a story about courage, about strength, about the incredible power of the mind and the heart to heal, it is a story about resilience, survival, and love. Maybelline Raven is also a story that I believed in so much that I was will to roll the dice on publishing my own books, though it wasn’t the first book that I published. Creating “Maybelline” helped me understand my own processes of coping and healing.
I’m going to be taking a bit of a rest ( I already am, caught a bug, needed to sleep, etc.) and hopefully enjoying the holidays, sober,while trying to avoid eating too many delicious baked goods. I’ll probably be working on something. I’ll probably post again before the year is out, or not. Until then, “Gold Mine” and “Maybelline Raven and The Wolf”are available on Amazon. The paperback of Maybelline should be available any day now.
During the fall months of 2008 and on into 2009, and on for a while, reality slipped away from me. Amid the avalanche of dissipating solidity descending into complete confusion and chaos of thought, I threw more than twenty years of writing, of work, into a cauldron of flames. Two file boxes of poems, stories, notes, one completed novel, and two poetry manuscripts, went into the fire. One of those manuscripts was for a book of poems titled “Winsome Vein”, that I thought was darker than anything I’d ever written, so much so that I was afraid of the direction my writing seemed to be taking. The truth is that I’ve always written darker words, as much as I’ve written hopeful ones. However, having filed that copyright on “Winsome Vein”, saved that work as I had set fire to all other copies. ( Some might say that was the right thing to do.)
Within days of having burned so much of my work, I experienced a moment of clarity, and panic. I became terrified that I might destroy more of my own work. I gathered the bits and pieces of what remained, jamming them together one after another in whatever way they seemed to make sense to me, along with other fragments that my mind had latched onto in the unraveling. Those salvaged bits became this book, “Gold Mine”. I filed my copyright on it as soon as it was finished, thinking that I was filing a copyright on a pile of scraps, of bits and pieces of salvage. I was trying to protect my work from my own want to destroy it. I later found an old notebook with many pages missing that I remembered rifling through one night in a fit of what I was thinking of as “editing”, as though all sentimentality and heart had taken leave of me along with my senses. The poems still intact in that notebook remain something of a godsend to me. I destroyed twenty years of work, of scraps, of notes, of stories, early rejection letters received when I was in my teens and twenties, journals, it all went, as I tried to deny myself, to say, “I am not this.” I looked at what remained and thought, These are the words I managed to save.
Coming out of that time I didn’t know if I would ever write anything again. For nearly two years, I didn’t. It is the only time in the last thirty-three years that I’ve ever ceased writing.
All my words are not always the best words, they are, however, the encapsulation of the moment in which they were written. The merit of a thing is sometimes the moment. I’ve learned as much from the bad poems and stories that I’ve written as I have from the good ones. Whether they are all worth publishing isn’t the point, they are all worth keeping and learning from.
I hadn’t looked at, read, much of this work since that time. In writing and editing this now, I’ve realized that I was leaving a message for myself for the future, for whenever I would get back to this. A message to not give up, not to quit. I found my guts again with this book.
I am a writer. ~ Teri Skultety, September 12, 2017, from “Gold Mine”.
Paperback coming soon!
A Sampling from the seventy-eight pieces of poetry and prose that make-up, “Gold Mine”, now available on Amazon.
I hope you buy this collection of my salvaged scribbles, I hope you read it and enjoy it. I hope it rocks your socks. Thank you so much for stopping by. Sincerely, Teri Skultety
Where is this hero
Who is so oft spoke of?
Where it this mythological man,
Who saves the day,
Who mends the heart
And lights the way?
Where is the hero
Who wasn’t fucked up
by his mother?
Who melts the bitterness of betrayal?
Who elevates all men
By the virtue of his stature,
And the stature of his virtue?
Who is truly decent?
Whose mistakes are honest?
Whose motives are care and concern and
Is he real?
They show us all those films in our girlhood,
They give us Barbie dolls,
That we can never look like,
And read us fairy tales…
If life is bad,
If there are wicked people,
And, or, relations,
If you are too beautiful for words,
Loved by dwarfs and forest animals,
Trapped in a tower,
Got hold of a bad apple,
Or slept for a thousand years – without aging-
Have they got a man for you!
Just dial 1-555-bulshit.
Press 1 for English,
2 for Princess, and 3,
For peasant girl who can’t get a break,
And listen closely,
As his options may have changed.
Would he arrive in an orange Corvette?
With a solo Manolo,
That no mortal woman could ever afford the mate to?
I’m not bitter,
I just wonder,
If any of it is real,
The fairy tales,
The propaganda films that prime us
And is that disappointment
The ultimate control?
Leaving us too devastated
To kiss another toad,
Attend another dance,
Or even manage to get out of bed?
Is that why she slept so long?
She didn’t think he was coming?
Who is Prince Charming?
What did he say?
Stay alive, no matter what,
With your Jay Googly Goo Expectations –
And I will find you —
And compare thee to horrible fictional women,
Who had the full benefit of knowing,
Exactly what the hell was going on,
I will harass thee and insult thee,
Oh, my darling,
For a change of pace,
And call thee a whore,
Because that’s never been done before.
That Prince Charming?
Stay awake for him?
Why does a woman have to wait?
Why is the woman made to guess?
Why is the woman left to watch the movie again,
And rely on her dreams,
Why didn’t the Women’s Libbers
Burn all of the Prince Charming stories
With their bras?
That is the true crime,
That is the beginning of the brainwashing.
When they first convince us
That Snow White
Is really a porno flick?
They begin trying
To take it away
Of some clean romance,
Of being swept off one’s feet,
Before the deed.
They never say
That Romeo will come
And lie to us,
To lie with us.
They never say that he will not be
Forthright in his dealings,
Or explain himself at all.
Doesn’t he know that a thousand years of sleep,
Leaves a modern chic with a low tolerance
Why does the woman always have to figure everything out?
Put the puzzle back together,
With half the pieces missing and a box of silly putty?
Why is the woman held accountable,
For wanting the very thing
They promised her in Technicolor cartoon animal musical numbers,
Since her birth?
It’s a sad day in the kingdom,
When Cinderella has to save herself,
Or starve to death waiting,
Is it for her own good?
Or just the kind of line
When they don’t intend to make good
On their end of things —
“We know you signed up for the deluxe rescue package,
But in today’s economy,
We’ve cut funding to peasant girl bail outs.”
With no formal education,
No decoder ring,
A gal can’t make out the fine print.
The old days were better,
When all a girl had to do,
Was drop that shoe.
And the right thing?
Well that’s what every girl is waiting for.
How much faith is a woman required to have?
For how long?
How many betrayals does it take,
To get to the chewy center
Of a true believer?
And the truth?
Can a woman tell a truth she doesn’t know?
All the cloak and dagger get out of the dance by midnight shit—
Has worn thin.
After a thousand years,
Who would blame Sleeping Beauty,
If she was afraid that Prince Charming
We’re only another hoax?
That’s who would blame her,
Call Leonard Nimoy, call Muldar and Scully,
Call Kolchak, Kojack and Huggy Bear,
Put out an APB,
Re-Examine the Zapruder film,
And that clip of Sasquatch looking over her shoulder,
Find the man who fits the description given by women the world over…
“I saw something, I’m just not sure what it was.”
Extra, extra, read all about it,
Cinderella, The Dumb Blonde,
Despite having been,
By unidentified mythological man-like creature,
Alias, “Prince Charming”,
And a wicked bout with PMS.
She was missing a shoe,
Had cold feet,
She got her PhD. In Philosophy,
And decided, who needs this bullshit anyway?
Her singles ad says,
She hates propaganda films.
from Gold Mine, copyright 2009, Teri Skultety, all rights reserved
( Written for someone close to me who was going through a bitter divorce. Writers are not always everything they write. Latitude. )
How much work is involved in making a book, bringing a book to market, yourself?
I’d say that depends on the author. First you’ve got to write the thing and come up with, or out of it with, a final draft. I write it. I edit it. I format it. That is all me. I proofread it, again, and again, and probably again. I just finished the fifth page by page check of “Gold Mine”. I found a place in one of the pieces where “understand” needed to be changed to “understanding”. Spellcheck doesn’t catch that kind of thing, nor does it catch homophones, and sometimes a grammar check won’t catch those either. Editing poetry is far more tedious than editing stories or editing a novel. Editing a novel there is the forward motion of the story itself to keep you going, with poetry, each piece may be different, require different formatting. I also occasionally invent words and of course spellcheck doesn’t recognize those. I’m currently editing and publishing work from years ago, trying to get caught up. This is important, it doesn’t matter when a piece was written if it is good. No one looks at a Renoir and says, “That old thing?” Same goes for music and film, if something is good, then it’s good. Timelessness.
Making books this way is very much rebel book making. I’m not anti-establishment in that I wouldn’t ever say that I definitely wouldn’t seek to publish along traditional lines again. But, I am a person who believes in thinking for myself. I believe that my work is good, and I want to publish it in the way that I want to publish it, and in a timely manner. I’ve already vented my feelings about how I arrived at the decision to become an indie author. At this point I would say that it completely suits me. It allows for complete creative freedom and control. It allows for me to work at my own pace, or not work if I’m in too much pain. With my arthritis, I admit that I do always feel as though the clock is ticking on the longevity of my hands, I’ve got back and neck problems too ( as many writers do). Honestly, the physicality of my particular situation, I don’t know that I could do this any other way, it would have to be an unheard of super sweet deal of, “Sure, whenever, you want!” As yet, I am enjoying being an independent author.
I am also then in charge of getting my work our there, that’s the part that really isn’t my favorite because I’m not a natural salesperson. I’m a writer. I don’t have a team of anyone standing behind me, or as yet, an established fan base, or a publicist. Keeping in mind that each part of the process is time and effort. If you’re a writer who is handing things off to an editor or an agent, if you have an established fan base, then you’re not wearing quite as many hats as someone who is doing everything themselves.
I can tell you that having made the decision, I’m calmer, less emotionally invested in the b.s., hypocrisy, and politics, of any given situation, because I don’t have to be. And yes, that is a luxury, one that I’ve gifted myself with by opting out of the usual route. It is also a grace, something that I’m lucky to be able to do and I don’t take it for granted, I’m happy for it for however long it lasts. I’m incredibly grateful for my husband in that, he’s been supporting my work in one way or another for a very long time. I do not regret opting out of, for the most part, the fray. Quite honestly, recent situations within the entertainment industry only reaffirmed my decision to go rogue, to go rebel, and do this myself on my own terms.
All of this is a learn as you go process. How much work?
Like I said, this is the fifth time I’ve gone through this manuscript page by page. That’s after having written it in the first place. So write it, then edit it, then spellcheck it, then grammar check it, then proofread it, (when you’ve got your final draft, or close to it, I say file your copyright,) then format it, then check your formatting to make sure everything looks as it should on each page, again, check your acknowledgments, your credits, your permissions if needed and you’ll be teaching yourself all of that too. Then you’re going to design your cover, or have someone do that for you. My philosophy about that is not to over think it, I’m a writer, yes I want the covers to look good/decent, ultimately that’s the wrapping paper, but I’m not an artist or graphic designer and I can’t afford to hire one as yet. I’ll get better at the covers as I go, ultimately, I am a writer and it’s the words that matter the most to me. ( It’s who you are inside that counts right?) But, you’re going to do that too, design your covers. Etc. Etc. Etc. It can all take anywhere from months to a few years. ( From what I’ve read around, going the traditional route to publishing a book, providing you get a book deal, is an average time of about two years from idea and pitch to finished manuscript and publication.)
It isn’t the way to go for everyone, or even most, perhaps, but it is working for me. Am I a selling millions of books? Well, not quite yet. There are no guarantees along those lines regardless of the publishing route you choose.
The cover of “Gold Mine” is a picture of an x-ray of the fused bones of my right hand and wrist, the cause arthritis ( Still’s Disease), from several years ago now, that’s it. I often wear a brace. The clock is ticking. “Gold Mine” is a collection of poetry and prose the last piece of which was written in 2009. Collections, whether it be poetry or stories, take longer to accumulate.
Each writer has their own goals in my mind for what they want to do and how they want to do it when it comes to their work. For now, this is working for me. “Gold Mine” should be available for purchase sometime in early November. There are several pieces from the book available to read for free here on this webpage, just type Gold Mine, into the search box, though I will list the links when the book is ready.
Currently editing and proofreading “Gold Mine” for publication sometime before the end of the year.
Let it Ride
Let’s blur the edges,
Break the rules,
Drink coffee at midnight,
Rye at dawn,
Let’s stay awake to solve some mystery,
Or write one.
Paint a picture,
Throw stones at the moon,
Listen to the crickets sing to June bugs,
Make that our favorite tune,
Take off our shoes on the wet grass,
Dress like gypsies,
Carry tambourines and peace offerings,
Dig for fossils in the creek,
The language of the breeze,
Quietly steal the day,
Take the night,
Build a fire so bright,
The stars will be jealous of the light,
Let’s be over-zealous,
Impassioned and compelled,
Let’s take chances when the tell us,
We are too old for this.
Put our money where our mouth is,
And let it ride…
Give ourselves permission,
To be the joyful people we are on the inside,
On the outside,
In case this is,
All there is.
from ‘Gold Mine’
_____this true heart______________
I will write your name on every breath from now until forever, forget you never, know that I have not let go of this true heart. Forgiving you and him and them and everyone, everything, sing ever louder, stronger, taking claim of every wind and every rain, rising up out of every flame until my name escapes your lips in your sleep. And you know that I loved you and I loved him and them and everyone I could and everyone who would take it from me and I have no regrets about that. I have no shame. I am seeds in clouds and dreams about to be born again and I am wishes in the fountain and I am the highest mountain and I am Winter sleeping, teardrops weeping for every soul who never knows what I am talking about. Saints and Sinners, fabulous beginners, I am the echoed call to everyone who has ever fallen, praying, saying, in the deepest dark, get up, get up, get up.
Love is not a withered vine, love is not petals fallen, and longing unfulfilled, and love is not what men have willed, love is everlasting understanding divine and mine, oh mine, love is mine, to keep. Rainbows, unicorns, candy cane and fairy tales, artifice too soon to fail. They tell you that you have to sacrifice all to scale the castle wall and I say to you that all you have to do is be true, be true. Let go of all the hatred in your heart, let go of all ill wishes, let go of vengeance, you cannot kill Angels with it. Gossamer is fireproof and Angels own the ceiling that is the sky and everything beyond the dawn and everything you wonder on and everything you think is gone they carry with them in the folds of feathers blue and they do remember you, they do.
I will write your name on every page and wash away your hurt and rage and wash away your ache and heal the scars on your heart you thought were permanent and the ones even you had forgotten in the burden of flesh, until you believe again, in everything you let go of to leave me.
You think you want to hear my battle cry, that it will crack the Heavens, flash like lightning, pound like thunder, but I tell you that my battle cry sounds like children laughing and wedding vows, those kept, and those broken, and waterfalls, and crowds cheering at a home run, my battle cry is every Spring, every green thing that makes it through the snow, my battle cry is the song that makes you sing even though you don’t want to and the Hallmark commercial that makes you call your mother, my battle cry is the smell of roses on the breeze and fireflies in the night, racing to the stars, my battle cry is everything we are and trade for things that do not matter. My battle cry is restoration, resurrection and everlasting, surging out into the farthest reaches of the Universe, there is life here.
I will write your name on every breath from now until forever, because if all of this suffering was somehow right, to anyone, then there can be no end to the love that is needed to heal and it will start with me. And someday, maybe, we can talk about bravery and change and freedom. Freedom, that I’ve paid for in some way every time I’ve exercised it. I will love you in every word, every ache, in every break, in every breath and everything that I can, and hope and pray someday, you understand me, and you.
Lead us into hands
That will care for us and keep us safe
Onto paths that know the way,
When we are lost and cannot find it on our own,
Keep us in the light,
Or light the dark we wander in
Enough to see,
Save our souls from lingering
Too long in places where we shouldn’t be,
If it were possible to be such places,
bring us back
From edges we’ve been lured to
From lies we hoped too long were true,
Open up our eyes that we might see the beauty
Of the heart
Broken down the middle clean
Stripped of artifice, laid bare and lean,
Exposed in sentience for a world to better know
The soul that dwells within
Lend us the courage to grasp
Whatever threads are left to us,
Of gossamer, of silver fine, quick spun,
A life of shadow finally in the sun,
Each of us a part of One,
Returning to the source,
Let us hope and hope to find,
The bitter root can still be sweet,
In memories of better dreams to keep.
If you’ve got the tiger by the tail, then doesn’t the tiger have you as well?
I thought something was hanging onto me, that I couldn’t shake loose. That could be, but it could also be that I was holding onto whatever it was. So, I’m going to let go of it, and see what happens. That sounds vague, though really the specifics of it only matter to me. Suffice it to say that it seemed like the same thing kept happening over and over again and it finally occurred to me to ask myself what my part in that was. Authors, writers, can fall into repeating a plot, different story, same plot, which is why I ultimately gave myself permission not to write a sequel to the vampire novel, at least not anytime soon. Sometimes, too, it can be a case of there’s a story to tell there, but it just isn’t quite time to tell it. Whatever the metaphor, sometimes we think we’ve got the tiger by the tail and really, it’s taking us for a ride.
I finished the first draft of “All the Bright Young Things at the Last Picture Show.” I’m working on “Gold Mine.” I’ve started a couple of other projects. I wrote a post earlier and I wasn’t happy with it. It wasn’t what I wanted to say. What I wanted to say was that I’m tired. I’m feeling not a little world weary. I’m sure I’m not the only person feeling that way these days or lately. That got me to thinking, when was the last time that I was feeling really good? It was when we were on our way home from several days on the coast. I was tired when we got home and, I’m still tired. Some of my activities this Summer resulted in minor injuries. I’m taking my vitamins. I’ve published five books in the last year, that’s a lot. I’ve a tendency to push myself too hard because I don’t take for granted being able to do things. I have to remind myself to really rest, so I don’t burn out, and before I don’t have a choice about it. Balance. That being said, I decided to do something artsy with this picture of an old X-ray of my hand and the fused bones in my wrist, because I thought it would look cool.
This year has flown by, and this month seemed to evaporate in a blink. We had a big Summer, generally good, but I am looking forward to the Fall season. It was one hundred and six degrees here today. I will enjoy what is left of the Summer, but I am always looking forward to cooler weather, the crunch of leaves, cinnamon spiced cider, the rain, all those kinds of things. I’m looking forward to the Fall and Winter holidays. Something feels different, as in, changed, and I haven’t quite put my finger on what it is yet. I think the only thing I really miss at the end of each Summer, is those extra hours of daylight.
I’m hoping to get another book out the door and into your hands before this year is over, we’ll see how it goes.
From Mythica to Ithaca and all points in between,
they told their tales about her,
as if she were a dream,
as if she had no feelings,
as if she had no heart,
they told their tales about her,
this Lady Scarlet.
He is Midnight
His sword is Moonlight,
his breath a cold air,
his eyes a black stare,
his footsteps falling,
his memory calling,
his heartbeat hollow,
only an echo,
of the one he means to take,
before she is awake.
You are salvation,
waiting only to be claimed,
by the shamed, gamed, framed,
you are true love lasting,
From “Gold Mine”
In the midst of writing the new novel and working on a collection of poems from the last few years, I started editing and rewriting a third book, a collection of poetry, prose, and flash fiction, GOLD MINE, that I hope to have available by the end of this year. Work on the new novel is still going well. It might seem a strange thing to some to be working on three books at once, I’m really enjoying working this way, I don’t know that I would always want to be working on three books at the same time, but for right now, it is working for me.
Let Them Eat Cake
February 21, 2008
The words are on the tip of my tongue, I can’t quite feel them to spit them out, numb. What I want to say is more profound than I can comprehend in any way I could present in colorfully turned phrases or wanton metaphor, metaphor is an awful whore anyway. I want to tell you a story that will change your life for the better, make every rotten day a priceless gift, lift you up so can see beyond the superficiality of this flesh and bone, of this ache and moan, to know that you were meant to be and we, are of the ever after. Stardust settled onto Earth, there is no measure of the worth of your soul, no price high enough to represent the value of an hour spent with one you love or a moment lost to chance. I want to tell you that there is chance in everything that is destined, and destiny in everything that is chance. I want to shore you up in moments weak, help you lift your head to see the strength in your fragility, the hope in your despair, the beauty of your breaking, the necessity of your scars that provide a thicker skin in those places. All your hopes and dreams and wants that never came to be, that fell like only memories, are out there, hanging in some high thin air, suspended on a dare, sustaining you in ways you never know, when you think that you are empty. I want to touch your hand, or look into your eyes, and send a shock right through you so that you will see the moon and the stars for the first time and know, that this is Eden. So that you might find some peace of mind and feel and be free of all your preconceived notions. Understand that no matter what we say and do to each other to survive here, no matter what happens to us, what others do, we all remain, One. Sprung forth and returning to the same well that is the life breath of God Almighty, whatever that means to you, it is the place from whence I came, however different we are the same, in moments so fleeting we’re left to wonder what we saw at all, lingering, with us, leaving us questioning what is real here.
I wish I had the words to tell you, everything I know.
~ Teri Skultety
from, Gold Mine
The title of this piece was meant to be ironic, incongruous, not to imply that I was as out of touch as Ms. Antoinette when I wrote it, but rather to imply the opposite. I know how difficult it can be to continue to see the world, to recognize the Earth, as Edenic, as Eden. If you can still take in the view of the stars, if you can still wonder at the moon, and marvel at the vastness of the ocean, perhaps you can find it again. Perhaps such appreciation is something one must actively cultivate. It’s a beautiful thought to wonder on.