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Old 07-25-2006, 08:04 PM
whiteclouder whiteclouder is offline
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Default A thought to share with the Bard

Cloud's Credo

The end of the world stops at the horizon only for those who are content to sit and simply wonder what lies beyond. For a time, the horizon will be far enough, but the human spirit is meant to soar; and eventually, it will demand to be taken to new heights. This urge to fly presents a challenge—choosing that medium which will best lift us up for a better view of ourselves and the world. Be it paintings, literature, nature, spirituality, introspection—the list is open-ended—the choice may be a combination of two or more, and picking the means of flight has to be a careful and thoughtful process. Sometimes, the question asked is more important than the answer gained, and it follows that the more difficult the problem, the more significant may be the solution.

Literature, I discovered early in life, with its subtle twists of plot and circumstance, can give a reader answers to unasked questions, take them to places they never thought to go, and let them savor spices that will alter their palates forever. A painting can do much the same, as can a piece of sculpture, but both lack the boundless ability to lead the patron beyond the present. With the written word, a meaning can be suggested, supported, amplified, and clarified as the reader is led to a conclusion; what they see in the beginning is by no means what they get in the end. When I sought new perspectives, it was literature that lifted me, but little did I know how broad the horizons could be, and how introspective one can become in literature, until I started to write. And it was not until I started to put my thoughts on paper that I learned to appreciate a star-filled night.

”The eastern horizon glows yellow-orange as rays of light, like tethers tugging a reluctant sun out of bed, reach into the morning sky.” This single line from a book evokes for me the fascination so many poets and philosophers have shown for that night-to-day transition. Is it the awakening of the light, or the passing of darkness that inspires the lyrical? I think it depends on which one of Nature’s twin realms makes one feel most comfortable. For me, night is the time to reflect and ponder the depth of my horizons and to probe for what I know must lie beyond. It’s not that I’m uncomfortable in the full light of day; it’s more that I lament the loss of privacy guaranteed by my star-bright sanctuary, my moonlit minster. To me, the night sky is a cathedral with the ultimate vaulted ceiling—one that soars from the buttresses of the earth, arches through infinity, and curves back again, a personal place for private prayer. I am drawn to the awesome depth of a black, night sky, one perforated by countless points of light, yet preserving the mystery of darkness. It is only in this dominion of the unseen—the quiet kingdom—that I am free to wander where my thoughts will.

As each of us know our own truths; so too, do we need different answers to the same questions. Night is my time for such contemplation, leisurely and deliberate, and the questions I have, are counted as the stars—myriad. Such is eternity: as each quest for some truth ends, a point of light—a star—should appear in the firmament, until the gossamer veil is whole and complete. Alas, or maybe not, such a span is not allotted us. Instead, we are given time in a finite amount—to be sure, each in full measure—that is meant to be spent wisely and completely. The endless stream of unanswered questions is a test of our will. Mindful of my charter, I strive to understand what we’ve been given, and to fashion some sort of contribution, to pass some small legacy that will lift others up, and by reflection, elevate me. Toward this end, I pause, and think—at night.

Things unseen, as things spiritual, fill the space that we can only sense behind night’s curtain. This is the time for alertness, for even though invisible, the truth will—through other means—be recognized by a diligent seeker, and quiet is the hunter of the elusive. Silence is the wellspring of the imagination, the birthplace of what we never knew existed—the story whose end we know before the beginning is told. It is in that quiet time, when sleep is held in abeyance, that pent images are formed as real and laid out—ready for dreaming. And as we slip through that final shade of black, the complete chronicle is revealed, the last page magically turned to disclose the end: a mystery solved, another point of light emplaced.

To be alone with my thoughts, with none to satisfy but myself, can be both peaceful and inspiring. It is a time to dwell on the constructive, to see myself as I know I am, objectively and without fear of contradiction; to examine—with an eye to change—those features I find noisome. It is this person, the naked one, who decides what I will dream about. In reality, all the people in our dreams are us, or what we fear we could be—in different form to be sure, but ultimately, they represent who we truly are. These creatures of the night—intriguing glimpses inside—are the personalities who populate my stories. Can it be otherwise? I speak for them, I move them about my stage, and see them to prosperity or death. How else can I do this but that I know their hearts and minds as I know my own? They are me; their problems are mine, as are their delights—their search for truth is my own. It is toward enlightenment that I write, both to understand myself, and to show others some paths they may have crossed without knowing. This is my celestial incline, my ethereal elevator, my way to reach the heights needed to provide new vistas—my way of overcoming obstacles that can obscure new horizons.

As a writer, I use the theme, the plot, the scene, the character, the tempo; all those parts that constitute the craft, to lead another to share the experience of overcoming a challenge. All that which makes us human is revealed in what we write, because we can bare our souls without recrimination. When we trouble a character in a story with a problem, we must also help them resolve it. To do this, we must, of necessity, examine it, and them, in minute detail. And, with each problem solved, each dilemma overcome, we can place another star in the night sky. Imagine a world where everyone could take such care. Is it, then, that writing is self-serving? I think so. That is what writing does for me; it is my way of understanding myself, my means to lighting the night sky.
Using words, I paint pictures in all the colors that exist where people interact. I use the soft pastels to tell of a mother’s devotion or a young person’s first knowledge of love. I render the vivid red and yellow of conflict; and layer the cool, shaded grays of deceit as it shifts to the cold blackness of betrayal. And in my search for that narrow way to a personal truth, I may, perchance, show another a path less arduous or painful than the one they currently travel—and add another point of light to my darkness. This, my quest, will continue so long as I have just one of my handful of stars to place.

Cloud..

Last edited by whiteclouder; 07-26-2006 at 07:18 AM. Reason: Double post.
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  #2  
Old 07-25-2006, 08:42 PM
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Default Re: A though to share with the Bard

Quote:
Originally Posted by whiteclouder
Cloud's Credo

The end of the world stops at the horizon only for those who are content to sit and simply wonder what lies beyond. For a time, the horizon will be far enough, but the human spirit is meant to soar; and eventually, it will demand to be taken to new heights. This urge to fly presents a challenge—choosing that medium which will best lift us up for a better view of ourselves and the world. Be it paintings, literature, nature, spirituality, introspection—the list is open-ended—the choice may be a combination of two or more, and picking the means of flight has to be a careful and thoughtful process. Sometimes, the question asked is more important than the answer gained, and it follows that the more difficult the problem, the more significant may be the solution.

Literature, I discovered early in life, with its subtle twists of plot and circumstance, can give a reader answers to unasked questions, take them to places they never thought to go, and let them savor spices that will alter their palates forever. A painting can do much the same, as can a piece of sculpture, but both lack the boundless ability to lead the patron beyond the present. With the written word, a meaning can be suggested, supported, amplified, and clarified as the reader is led to a conclusion; what they see in the beginning is by no means what they get in the end. When I sought new perspectives, it was literature that lifted me, but little did I know how broad the horizons could be, and how introspective one can become in literature, until I started to write. And it was not until I started to put my thoughts on paper that I learned to appreciate a star-filled night.

”The eastern horizon glows yellow-orange as rays of light, like tethers tugging a reluctant sun out of bed, reach into the morning sky.” This single line from a book evokes for me the fascination so many poets and philosophers have shown for that night-to-day transition. Is it the awakening of the light, or the passing of darkness that inspires the lyrical? I think it depends on which one of Nature’s twin realms makes one feel most comfortable. For me, night is the time to reflect and ponder the depth of my horizons and to probe for what I know must lie beyond. It’s not that I’m uncomfortable in the full light of day; it’s more that I lament the loss of privacy guaranteed by my star-bright sanctuary, my moonlit minster. To me, the night sky is a cathedral with the ultimate vaulted ceiling—one that soars from the buttresses of the earth, arches through infinity, and curves back again, a personal place for private prayer. I am drawn to the awesome depth of a black, night sky, one perforated by countless points of light, yet preserving the mystery of darkness. It is only in this dominion of the unseen—the quiet kingdom—that I am free to wander where my thoughts will.

As each of us know our own truths; so too, do we need different answers to the same questions. Night is my time for such contemplation, leisurely and deliberate, and the questions I have, are counted as the stars—myriad. Such is eternity: as each quest for some truth ends, a point of light—a star—should appear in the firmament, until the gossamer veil is whole and complete. Alas, or maybe not, such a span is not allotted us. Instead, we are given time in a finite amount—to be sure, each in full measure—that is meant to be spent wisely and completely. The endless stream of unanswered questions is a test of our will. Mindful of my charter, I strive to understand what we’ve been given, and to fashion some sort of contribution, to pass some small legacy that will lift others up, and by reflection, elevate me. Toward this end, I pause, and think—at night.

Things unseen, as things spiritual, fill the space that we can only sense behind night’s curtain. This is the time for alertness, for even though invisible, the truth will—through other means—be recognized by a diligent seeker, and quiet is the hunter of the elusive. Silence is the wellspring of the imagination, the birthplace of what we never knew existed—the story whose end we know before the beginning is told. It is in that quiet time, when sleep is held in abeyance, that pent images are formed as real and laid out—ready for dreaming. And as we slip through that final shade of black, the complete chronicle is revealed, the last page magically turned to disclose the end: a mystery solved, another point of light emplaced.

To be alone with my thoughts, with none to satisfy but myself, can be both peaceful and inspiring. It is a time to dwell on the constructive, to see myself as I know I am, objectively and without fear of contradiction; to examine—with an eye to change—those features I find noisome. It is this person, the naked one, who decides what I will dream about. In reality, all the people in our dreams are us, or what we fear we could be—in different form to be sure, but ultimately, they represent who we truly are. These creatures of the night—intriguing glimpses inside—are the personalities who populate my stories. Can it be otherwise? I speak for them, I move them about my stage, and see them to prosperity or death. How else can I do this but that I know their hearts and minds as I know my own? They are me; their problems are mine, as are their delights—their search for truth is my own. It is toward enlightenment that I write, both to understand myself, and to show others some paths they may have crossed without knowing. This is my celestial incline, my ethereal elevator, my way to reach the heights needed to provide new vistas—my way of overcoming obstacles that can obscure new horizons.

As a writer, I use the theme, the plot, the scene, the character, the tempo; all those parts that constitute the craft, to lead another to share the experience of overcoming a challenge. All that which makes us human is revealed in what we write, because we can bare our souls without recrimination. When we trouble a character in a story with a problem, we must also help them resolve it. To do this, we must, of necessity, examine it, and them, in minute detail. And, with each problem solved, each dilemma overcome, we can place another star in the night sky. Imagine a world where everyone could take such care. Is it, then, that writing is self-serving? I think so. That is what writing does for me; it is my way of understanding myself, my means to lighting the night sky.
Using words, I paint pictures in all the colors that exist where people interact. I use the soft pastels to tell of a mother’s devotion or a young person’s first knowledge of love. I render the vivid red and yellow of conflict; and layer the cool, shaded grays of deceit as it shifts to the cold blackness of betrayal. And in my search for that narrow way to a personal truth, I may, perchance, show another a path less arduous or painful than the one they currently travel—and add another point of light to my darkness. This, my quest, will continue so long as I have just one of my handful of stars to place.
The end of the world stops at the horizon only for those who are content to sit and simply wonder what lies beyond. For a time, the horizon will be far enough, but the human spirit is meant to soar; and eventually, it will demand to be taken to new heights. This urge to fly presents a challenge—choosing that medium which will best lift us up for a better view of ourselves and the world. Be it paintings, literature, nature, spirituality, introspection—the list is open-ended—the choice may be a combination of two or more, and picking the means of flight has to be a careful and thoughtful process. Sometimes, the question asked is more important than the answer gained, and it follows that the more difficult the problem, the more significant may be the solution.

Literature, I discovered early in life, with its subtle twists of plot and circumstance, can give a reader answers to unasked questions, take them to places they never thought to go, and let them savor spices that will alter their palates forever. A painting can do much the same, as can a piece of sculpture, but both lack the boundless ability to lead the patron beyond the present. With the written word, a meaning can be suggested, supported, amplified, and clarified as the reader is led to a conclusion; what they see in the beginning is by no means what they get in the end. When I sought new perspectives, it was literature that lifted me, but little did I know how broad the horizons could be, and how introspective one can become in literature, until I started to write. And it was not until I started to put my thoughts on paper that I learned to appreciate a star-filled night.

”The eastern horizon glows yellow-orange as rays of light, like tethers tugging a reluctant sun out of bed, reach into the morning sky.” This single line from a book evokes for me the fascination so many poets and philosophers have shown for that night-to-day transition. Is it the awakening of the light, or the passing of darkness that inspires the lyrical? I think it depends on which one of Nature’s twin realms makes one feel most comfortable. For me, night is the time to reflect and ponder the depth of my horizons and to probe for what I know must lie beyond. It’s not that I’m uncomfortable in the full light of day; it’s more that I lament the loss of privacy guaranteed by my star-bright sanctuary, my moonlit minster. To me, the night sky is a cathedral with the ultimate vaulted ceiling—one that soars from the buttresses of the earth, arches through infinity, and curves back again, a personal place for private prayer. I am drawn to the awesome depth of a black, night sky, one perforated by countless points of light, yet preserving the mystery of darkness. It is only in this dominion of the unseen—the quiet kingdom—that I am free to wander where my thoughts will.

As each of us know our own truths; so too, do we need different answers to the same questions. Night is my time for such contemplation, leisurely and deliberate, and the questions I have, are counted as the stars—myriad. Such is eternity: as each quest for some truth ends, a point of light—a star—should appear in the firmament, until the gossamer veil is whole and complete. Alas, or maybe not, such a span is not allotted us. Instead, we are given time in a finite amount—to be sure, each in full measure—that is meant to be spent wisely and completely. The endless stream of unanswered questions is a test of our will. Mindful of my charter, I strive to understand what we’ve been given, and to fashion some sort of contribution, to pass some small legacy that will lift others up, and by reflection, elevate me. Toward this end, I pause, and think—at night.

Things unseen, as things spiritual, fill the space that we can only sense behind night’s curtain. This is the time for alertness, for even though invisible, the truth will—through other means—be recognized by a diligent seeker, and quiet is the hunter of the elusive. Silence is the wellspring of the imagination, the birthplace of what we never knew existed—the story whose end we know before the beginning is told. It is in that quiet time, when sleep is held in abeyance, that pent images are formed as real and laid out—ready for dreaming. And as we slip through that final shade of black, the complete chronicle is revealed, the last page magically turned to disclose the end: a mystery solved, another point of light emplaced.

To be alone with my thoughts, with none to satisfy but myself, can be both peaceful and inspiring. It is a time to dwell on the constructive, to see myself as I know I am, objectively and without fear of contradiction; to examine—with an eye to change—those features I find noisome. It is this person, the naked one, who decides what I will dream about. In reality, all the people in our dreams are us, or what we fear we could be—in different form to be sure, but ultimately, they represent who we truly are. These creatures of the night—intriguing glimpses inside—are the personalities who populate my stories. Can it be otherwise? I speak for them, I move them about my stage, and see them to prosperity or death. How else can I do this but that I know their hearts and minds as I know my own? They are me; their problems are mine, as are their delights—their search for truth is my own. It is toward enlightenment that I write, both to understand myself, and to show others some paths they may have crossed without knowing. This is my celestial incline, my ethereal elevator, my way to reach the heights needed to provide new vistas—my way of overcoming obstacles that can obscure new horizons.

As a writer, I use the theme, the plot, the scene, the character, the tempo; all those parts that constitute the craft, to lead another to share the experience of overcoming a challenge. All that which makes us human is revealed in what we write, because we can bare our souls without recrimination. When we trouble a character in a story with a problem, we must also help them resolve it. To do this, we must, of necessity, examine it, and them, in minute detail. And, with each problem solved, each dilemma overcome, we can place another star in the night sky. Imagine a world where everyone could take such care. Is it, then, that writing is self-serving? I think so. That is what writing does for me; it is my way of understanding myself, my means to lighting the night sky.
Using words, I paint pictures in all the colors that exist where people interact. I use the soft pastels to tell of a mother’s devotion or a young person’s first knowledge of love. I render the vivid red and yellow of conflict; and layer the cool, shaded grays of deceit as it shifts to the cold blackness of betrayal. And in my search for that narrow way to a personal truth, I may, perchance, show another a path less arduous or painful than the one they currently travel—and add another point of light to my darkness. This, my quest, will continue so long as I have just one of my handful of stars to place.

Cloud..
Cloud..

I bow deeply in appreciation and thanks...

I shall revisit this well of words, and drink again..

Rodney
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  #3  
Old 07-26-2006, 07:22 AM
whiteclouder whiteclouder is offline
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Default Re: A though to share with the Bard

A few will understand what we know, most will not. A few might even care that we ponder such things, most won't. From your book, I get the sense that you will know exactly what I mean.

Peace be yours, brother.

Cloud..
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  #4  
Old 07-26-2006, 04:06 PM
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Default Re: A though to share with the Bard

Quote:
Sometimes, the question asked is more important than the answer gained,
I found this jumping up at me Cloud...

Oh, there are numerous excerpts from your piece that spoke to me, and in time I would like to address many of these.

Yet the profound nature of this one sentence, consoled me somehow.

As well as finding such familiarity, in your piece, that I had never found, other, than my own roughly hewn tomes.

Similarity not in style so much, but in essence of spirit.....

You are one of a few, who I feel convinced, read me, (Carlas) thereby know a part of me few ever will.

For reading me, I mean truly reading me, I thank you, it means my meanderings upon parchment did have, some worth, to others perhaps, and certainly to me.

Your piece seemed so similar to my ponderings of heart, it actually scared me a bit, so few understand so little I write, nor my sketchy barnyard philisophical wanderings,

Yet, they are me, deeply, through and through.

I am expressing myself poorly I feel, but am hoping you understand.

Few men have ever captured my interest in a deep respect Cloud, in my entire lifetime,

For what it is worth, you are one of these...
Happy birthday by the way..

Rodney
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  #5  
Old 08-16-2006, 03:00 PM
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Default Re: A though to share with the Bard

Quote:
let them savor spices that will alter their palates forever
Quote:
I move them about my stage, and see them to prosperity or death

Enjoyed mucho mas hope you dont mind me reading this thought to share with the bard

cloud's credo
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  #6  
Old 08-16-2006, 09:25 PM
whiteclouder whiteclouder is offline
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Default Re: A though to share with the Bard

To share is to breath, brother.

Cloud..
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  #7  
Old 09-06-2006, 09:54 PM
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Default Re: A though to share with the Bard

Cloud


Quote:
As each of us know our own truths; so too, do we need different answers to the same questions. Night is my time for such contemplation, leisurely and deliberate, and the questions I have, are counted as the stars—myriad. Such is eternity: as each quest for some truth ends, a point of light—a star—should appear in the firmament, until the gossamer veil is whole and complete. Alas, or maybe not, such a span is not allotted us. Instead, we are given time in a finite amount—to be sure, each in full measure—that is meant to be spent wisely and completely. The endless stream of unanswered questions is a test of our will. Mindful of my charter, I strive to understand what we’ve been given, and to fashion some sort of contribution, to pass some small legacy that will lift others up, and by reflection, elevate me. Toward this end, I pause, and think—at night.
Ah yes, the night, grips and strips me in it's silence, as the muse, a penny past midnight takes hold of my silent hushed soul.

Contribution ripped from my heart as if against my will, yet I do pen, due to the toll paid if I should decline

The midnight muse alerts me to the damger of desertion to her call to duty.

What I pen at daylight, is as different, as the midnight sky verses day

Yet, with all the demons encounter, and the heart running fast

My legacy if ever revered, will be the words penned a penny past twelve.
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  #8  
Old 09-07-2006, 11:07 AM
whiteclouder whiteclouder is offline
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Default Re: A though to share with the Bard

Alone, on the very edge of night, our souls are fed by that which we sense is beyond---intangable. And as we grope for truth, we learn there are as many shades of black as we need.

Peace is ours, brother.

Cloud..
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  #9  
Old 01-25-2008, 06:37 PM
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Default Re: A thought to share with the Bard

Bump, in order to return it to the front page.
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Old 05-12-2009, 07:36 PM
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Default Re: A though to share with the Bard

Quote:
Originally Posted by Bard
Cloud..

I bow deeply in appreciation and thanks...

I shall revisit this well of words, and drink again..

Rodney
Visiting that well once again, in thanks & appreciation extended.
__________________
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Last edited by Bard; 05-12-2009 at 07:37 PM.
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