Sunday, August 31, 2008


Words often inspire images...

If she danced, in earth colored dresses, hair wildly parting the sky in millions of thick lines and circles
if she spoke, in languages of those around her, words splattering against the trees like dozens of blackbirds dotting the lines of her dresses
if she slapped you with the open nakedness of her hands, like splattered paint, covering you with her wild colors and stories of where she may have been
and left you tied up in language,
left you tied up in senseless multi coloured words
the smell of oranges and patchoulie
the scent of fingers against your mouth
if she heard you, calling her name in the senseless night...
wrapped you in distorted notes
strung out and tied to the strings of her guitar
voices lost inside the depth of the hollow carving
plucking you out like grains of sand between her thighs
If she spoke in nothing but rhythm
would the blackbirds tremble,
would the words fall from your lips,
would her dress be ripped off from a hurricane of blistered words


the painting is called INDIAN HOPE TREE. this was done in 2006-07 during Transition...
I am Indian. French. Bohemian Soulish..:) enjoy the art. the music. the Writing. The insight....just enjoy.

this i do not know. Sara is someone i often wrote about, but it was so many years ago...perhaps a reflection of my own soul at that time, perhaps someone who wore so much pain on their outside, i somehow felt compelled to put pen to paper.....

She is strong-almost too strong. It can be hard to be around her when she is scared. She comes on so strong, almost lashes out on me more then I can take.
Sometimes I say nothing and sometimes I respond.
I prefer not to...her defensive mood makes so little sense.
Sara has a way of striking, that I prefer her not to do alone. No use in 'biting back' she's usually only biting her own tail and for me to respond would only encourage her to spin in circles more, like me, Sara is also sensitive.
She's Bullheaded (good thing) and likes to do things on her own, even if she asks advice she often turns around and it doesn't matter if you said it before or not...she said it now...another good thing.
I respect that about Sara. She is strong
But until she realizes that she needs to soften up on herself, she will never soften up to anyone else.
I know she cares about me, as I do her...
but she'll end up maybe, more scared if she doesn't learn
the gift of Softness.

1994 Posting

...Sept. 22, 1994...
Some poetry I wrote, from many years ago...

the writings during this period of my life are the power of hearing what is given, from the Universe.
I read some of them from time to time, and often can see 'writing patterns' that began long ago..certain phrases...I'm sure eventually you may see the pattern too...for those of you who know my songs...these are the early roots of such things.

Near the water
I pray
hands folded, eyes closed
head bowed. I pray.
Hold on while the wind still blows
be strong
like the light that shows
in the darkest dark.
rise early
hold your dream through that storm.
Don't Let it Go
just because of stillness
it is
just before the storm
you will survive
you will be Trusted to do great things
you must hold on
now rest.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008


she had something in her hand
she didn't understand...what i was thinking
the rain kept pouring down
people all around...and she was sinking

there were candles all around
and i could hear the quiet sounds, of a mother
water dripping down my back
the sky was turning black, like a feather

strokes upon my arm
from a feather soft and warm, beneath me
there is where i find
that thing they say is mine, in the center, breathing
4 27 2008

This is Great! My mom and I were talking on the phone as we usually do...and she was talking about my Sister's Latte, apparently when my sister had taken a sip of her latte it was MUCH too sweet and the words my mother used were: that it was so sweet
she felt the sugar clung and wrapped around her tongue.
It was a Great Line...the visual of sugar clinging and wrapping around your tongue. The very thought of that inspired this song.
Funny how something so 'every day' the things people say, the way they describe experiences can trigger the surfacing of our own all with something Unrelated.

3 Pennies

You're every emotion, of a jigsaw dream
6 wheels in motion, your engines all scream.

You're pieces of leather, and hands full of lace
you're words of a wish, like wind in my face.

You sit in my room, and walk to the moon
can't cry to your mother, she left you too soon.

Beat On My Drum. Pound On My Brain.
I'll give you Thunder, if you bring me some Rain.

I cannot stand, anymore of your pain
Give me 3 wishes, I'll whisper your name.

This was a song, many years ago...perhaps one day I'll revive it again, give it some life, a voice.
At the time I wrote this song, I was living in Minneapolis, in a lil apartment. One of my closest friends (at that moment in time) was a disturbed man by the name of Chris. I say "Disturbed" Because of the Chemical Imbalance that Bipolar brings to those of us who have such a gift. With Chris, he was like a feather in the wind, wherever it blew..mud, rain, sun...he went. By my Side and far away, one day there was forgiveness, the next there was distance and hostility. This was Before I understood all the beauty of bipolar and the Chaos as well...looking back, he was like a jigsaw puzzle, I just couldn't understand the moods, even though I lived them was unfamiliar to me. As the song states...I can not stand any more of your pain...give me 3 wishes, I'll whisper your name...
I believe we have the power to 'exclude' those things in our lives, which we have no more use for. They come....they go, we learn.
Whispering your name as a wish, is a beautiful release...and goodbye.

Saturday, August 23, 2008

Butterfly Blue- The Story

In 1994 I knew and loved a very Charismatic Soul. Eric wrote, played guitar like some abstract dream, he was a freelance artist as well, painted and drew amazing pieces of art, was the father to a lil girl named Cheyanne, and one of my best friends...he was loved by a whole community of people that were drawn to him like he was the light in the darkness.
I remember it was raining out, and it was late at night, I was walking to my reg. gig at a local cafe in Minneapolis, and stopped by one of my favorite cafe's on the way "Laughing Cup" was the name of it. My friend Rob walked toward me...he was much quieter than usual, and he said "Suzen? heard that Eric is dead right?" Of course I thought he was kidding, I tried to laugh but tears filled my eyes, my guitar dropped to the floor... "He took his own life last night....."
I walked to the cafe, and asked the owner if I could put a candle on each table and we dimmed the lights as I dedicated that night to Eric.
A few months later, he was in a brief dream, and within a day or two of the dream...he wrote through me ( i don't even understand this myself)...
My pen touched the paper, my hand moved, the words came out that I didn't understand...until I realized this song was writen Thru HIS eyes.

Butterfly Blue *December 1994, in memory of Eric Erickson*

Standpoint beside me, I'm in my bed
and sleeping beside me, I'm deep in my head
I can't tell you, how I am today
lookin outside of me, it all seems so grey
----this verse is the depression, 'standpoint beside me' means be near me when i go'----

Now everything is in black and white
everything is grey, nothing lasts for very long
when we throw away the pain.
----how he sees the world at this point as is dark...realizing once he ends the pain....nothing lasts any longer.---

What happened to me, it can happen to you
paint my whole picture a Butterfly B lue
Like the end of hte summer, the beginning of the cold
wrap me up in heaven, outside of this snow.
----what eric did, and felt can happen to anyone, life ending is like the end of summer, the beginning of the cold...death is cold----

Colors change and go away
it's something we can't explain
the body dies and the spirit flies, into the cold grey rain.
---taking ones own life may be one of the saddest coldest things we can experience, however it is we experience it..rain is also cleansing----

Between goodness, and illusions, I thought I saw a light
I put a needle in a pinhole, and gave up on my fight
Between heaven and insanity, Somewhere I am
I just lost my whole world when I gave up on my pain.
---This is from eric....putting a needle in a pinhole is *Shooting up* enough of that and it led to how he actually left this planet.....Being btwn heaven and insanity, visually to me is one scarey place, but yet a place some feel very familiar represents change and darkness and sadness all at once.----

Now people come and people go, it happens all the time
ending your life with a Silverstone, leaves me hanging on to mine
colors change and when we close our eyes, nothing is ever the same
the body dies and the spirit tries to get on thru the rain....
----this is writen from My point o view..."Silverstone" represents a bullet.----

Put out the candles...put out the light....hush them with your lullabye....
---that is our song to him......that is us letting go.----

Much Love and Light, Warmth and Peace to Eric.

Friday, August 22, 2008

Pretty Stars and Talk to the Moon

Pretty Stars

why you fallin in love with a girl that's gone
she puts her face against your lips, then she's gone
why you givin it all to the stars when you know they fall
you put your hands in her hair, you know you're gonna have it all

and there you are
fallin in love with the pretty stars
you know better she'll be gone
and there you are

why when you kiss her mouth
stars fall from the sky
put your thoughts all in her head
words fall from her eyes

*** Written when I re-joined Second Life in 2005. The New Wonder of the Virtual Community had me in awe...I was caught up in the Flying from place to place, the beautiful stars, the amazing conversations on old rooftops with old's a virtual world...don't fall in love with goes away when you log off...
but there is a certain beauty in the innocence of new experiences, we often have those memories forever, and they usually end up just that...only memories***

All songs are truly left up to the listeners interpretation...remember, everything is So very Symbolic!

** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

June 3 2008

I used to pretend that i could... talk to the moon
i'de whisper deep in the night...from my mamas room
and I Can't Feel That Voice Anymore
and I Just Want To Spill Right Out that the Moon

I used to hold his the center of my land
walk with the Indian Man, as he Held my Hand
But I can't Feel His Skin, Anymore
And I can't hear his voice, like I talk to the moon

I used to depend on the rain, I would wait all night
to see that black sky feel that light
and I can't find my way anymore....
and every Breath I take, just spills to the floor....i talk to the i feel you
I used to fall asleep, to my mamas songs
sing about the girl in the moon, how life had done her wrong
But I can't Find that Dress that she wore
and she keeps leavin her old shoes by my door...she misses the moon

i used to watch him paint, colors filled the room
and i would watch him play that guitar under the moon
but I can't Feel the Way I once did
Wrap me up in my papa's soul, like when I was a kid...
..and I can't see that light in this room
cuz i can't feel that Prayer comin thru....I"ll talk to the moon
that's how i feel you

My Mother, Her father *my papa Jule* both musicians, artists writers. My Papa Jule passed away from Alzheimers...I miss him dearly. Looking at the full moon reminds me of him, reminds me of everything I am. My papa Jule painted, he played all kinds of instruments, we would all sing til the later hours of the night when I was a kid.
I can't feel his hand in mine anymore.
When I was a little girl, my mother would sing to me as I dozed off in hte backseat of the car while we were traveling here or there,
"Poor Little Moon Girl.....' and the words would always change just a little...but she had no shoes to wear, I would wonder why she had no shoes....
Things come in songs, lyrics...symbols, they just come out of nowhere, and after I wrote this....
it was looking back that I realized it had deep roots in my family.

Self Portrait

Self Portrait
This is Not a Drawing