Beatitude Point


There is a dream , found in the attic of a memory . It is of my brother . The memory is vague like the weak signal on a radio dial . The days previous , listening in on two separate conversations , one from his daughter at a family party  and the other from my sisters ‘ husband at the Leelanau coffee shop , these conversations become the rope that knotted the year 1972 to 2014 and tightened my consciousness to the mystery of the boats ” point of sail “.


They name her ” Venture “, a 28 foot Larsen sloop built in 1958 , and the small dinghy floating behind , ” the orange peel “. The orange fruit an ancient symbol of the sun , a symbol too of ” good luck “. Two names of paradox , one meaning to go somewhere unknown and dangerous with risk involved  and the other ” good fortune “. It was to become a poignant paradox and one that would loosen that rope from the sail boats safety of the suns’ warmth , into the depths of death.


Chris , Dale , Buzz and my brother Dave , each being 19 or 20 years old then , boarded their shared vessel on Lake Michigan , after waiting for Chris who was usually late . It was just past noon on September 16 , 1972 , Venture bobbing gently in Holland Harbor under the protection of ” Big Red ” lighthouse . The sounds of  Deep Purple could be heard rockin in the background with ” Smoke on the Water “, as a large Bon voyage group of family , including cousins and many friends cheered them on . The mood was festive and some there would return to find their destiny together 40 years later with two of them embracing the long return of young love that had its beginnings that blue grey sky autumn day , a momentous day after the beginning of the biggest political scandal in modern times broke , Watergate , with Grand Jury indictments .


To be continued …

photograph of girl in water by Lara Zarkoul Photography

Poetry Love Crown


Photo by Joanna Pallaris



by meg dickerson


it is not an easy beauty

but it is beautiful



still within me .


it is not an easy beauty

but it is so beautiful

his lost love loud


and shocking still .



“It is true that the people we meet shape us . But the people we don’t meet shape us also , often more because we have imagined them so vividly . There are people we yearn for but never seem to meet . Every adult yearns for some stranger , but it is really childhood we miss . We are yearning for that which has been stolen from us by what we have become “.

Simon Van Booy.


Dedicated to the stranger I met and loved once ….






Perplexings : P. J. Poet


Guest blogger – B.B. Samsonite ( a k a … P.J.Poet )

Baby Blue Samsonite ( Sammy for short ) , dreams she has a real face , a pleasant face , a recognizable face , a face rather like Meg’s .

” It is not a good thing you have done to me ! I’m confused as to what story I’m in and I’m beginning to get lost and tired of going back and forth between all your quirky characters … Who exactly am I anyway “?

Meg has a lot of thinking to do .

After days without food or water , alone , between a novel , a screenplay , reality interludes , the weary suitcase receives a communication from the Wakan Tanka ( the Great Mystery ) . The vision is not hazy or ill-defined . It is real . It hits Baby Blue sharp and clear like an electric shock . She is wide awake and suddenly there is a person standing next to her who she knows can’t be there at all , yet she is not dreaming , her eyes are wide open ! The vision speaks to her .


Photo : Ellen Rogers

” One must die lovable ( if one can ) . There is no greater achievement than to be totally lovable at the end . You can not predict what will happen when the day comes for you to crawl into bed for the last time , but if you are not taken suddenly , you want to be lovable ( if you can ) “.

I hope Meg clears up this dilemma before then ! Especially since she’s left me in such a limbo . Look , look , here is my imagined face … I’m nearly human after all !


Further Perplexings :

When she

transformed into a

butterfly , the

caterpillars spoke

not of her beauty .

but of her

weirdness . They

wanted her to

change back into

what she always

had been .


but she had wings .

poem by Dean Jackson


P.s.   I hope Meg let’s me be a quest blogger again ! Please put in a good word for me as I’m not sure she always hears me !




Letters Home from Bulgaria …


Finnish photographer : Kai Fagerstrom

I wait ( not knowing for what ) under blankets all day long and into the nights , like an abandoned house with broken windows and strange creatures roaming about . I am depressed . ( first time in my life )  Our Lady of Perpetual Tears stands over in the corner where my  unfinished paintings hang …” Live and die on this day , live and die “. I think of my dad . There was a huge and mighty earthquake near here in Chirpan the very day and year he was born . The day he died he gazed at the sky , ” Isn’t it beautiful ” ! He asked for water and I ponder now that this was the first word Helen Keller spoke …water .


Aela Labbe photography

Struggling to climb from underneath feelings of loneliness , regret and fear ,I am in a cave underneath the dull sound of cars moving nonstop above on a city street … like the pale little vagrant soul of Emperor Hadrians tale who ” dwells below in pallid places stark and bare ” . Fables and myths of lore sink in my mind with no creative expression like a heavy anchor weighing down the colors of my paintbox and the sketch book remains blank .  I doubt my purpose and wonder why I am even here in this foreign land . What have I done… I don’t know what can come of it ? I don’t know why this has happened .


Ellen Rogers photography

Back home my basement is under 5 inches of water with no flood insurance . I am a mess over it and stay motionless under a hooded cloak . I hear my name being called at the gate and don’t want to go out …. but it doesn’t stop, only becomes louder . There stands a mother , her daughter with toes sticking out from worn out shoes , and a baby . Like a plant that slumbers in the night , I can feel light luring here , but it is dim . And then … looking at their tired faces and shabby clothing , I know they have been sent here as a gift from heavens throne room . How foolish and filled with ego I am…thinking I won’t have enough money and feeling sorry for myself this whole week over a basement !  The teenage mothers face appears , a smile , a miracle smile that can bring the taste of honey to a stale and dry slice of wheat toast . How is it that we smile , what is it ? It is everything to me at that moment … it scares the depression away .


That afternoon , finally feeling hungry , I walk to the weekly pazar in my village . Choosing fruits and vegetables  and ready to pay I realize my coin purse is not in my pocket . With a chorus of crescendo and worry on their faces everyone in line begins searching on the ground with me . Down the path a little girl comes running with a spark of bright color in her hands … My dropped little bag of money . Smiles , smiles from everyone , a language beyond any borders . My ego , let it go on it’s way now …love ….live and die on this day, live and die .


Four months of not speaking or hearing English has brought about an evolution as in hearing other things now and speaking secret words to myself . ( I wonder if the loneliness from this began my fall into depression ) . Sigur Ros is one of the worlds shyest and least understood bands linked intimately to the glacial majesty, fire and ice of their homeland , Iceland . It is the most beautiful , emotional music I have ever found with Jonsi playing the guitar with a violin bow and singing with falsetto vocals . Many songs are sung in Icelandic  and many in a strange non literal language , a made-up language that focuses entirely on sounds of language with no grammar or meaning or even distinct words . The music is atmospheric reflecting their country .


Bulgaria … The Sheepherder


what a beautiful mess

a place

where music

comes from the mud .

a place

where sun collects bones ,

stark white .

a place


by legends luring .



sticks to his feet .

he won’t abandon .

the music singing

an ethereal voice

to the newborn lambs

one black

one white .

this place , this land .