(Source: nevver)
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012
Firefly
Picture Source: untitled by eleanor rask on Flickr Pic Reblog: only-existing
When she was little, and could not communicate, she did not know
That one day when she was 18 and nearly free, sitting in a car infront of a friends’ house, she would feel like she always had, and be overcome by it, the need to break out of her skin, to fly, be free, locked and held captive inside these cold walls, her body housed some sort of prison in this strange bizarre world, where she could not get out
Further, she did not know, that the one thing that would set her free was years in the future, she’d find herself dancing on a stage, mesmerized by the intensity of following the muse, lit up like a firelight, she was free within the flame, the fire of the art which had set her soul ablaze, and so she danced freely expressing herself within this soul energy, it engulfed her, she breathed
Encapsulated and captured by their desires, her beauty had it’s admirers, still, but
Walking down the street she was always in danger, on alert, learned, for they were watching her
Everywhere she went, they all wanted a piece of her
If they could steal her clothing, her money, a piece of jewelery, or anything at all,
If they could steal her time
Useless they thought of her
But beautiful like a prism
Something that they owned to look at
But that had no heart
She was not given the same thought, the same passionate reply, that other girls were, no
Because she was plastic, and did not matter in their eyes
And so when the day came that she ruthlessly broke out of her shell
And became fat, ever so very fat
She found the love that she had always envisioned that they would have for her, if only they knew
That she wasn’t a plastic doll, no
That she wasn’t less than human, no
She also became free, for she could walk down the street without dangerous eyes following her
Without being trapped
Without being hunted everywhere she went
Without hearing the whispers from everyone’s lips, no
For she was just finally she
But less empowered still
For she found what she always knew
She needed the beauty back
For it was the key
To unlocking the land of the free
Dichotomy
Copyright Kat Lyons
Picture Source: Norman Rockwell Picture Reblog: penseesduchoeur
April 25, 2012
An unidentified woman. Photographed by Wingate Paine, c. 1964-65.
(Source: historiful, via lonelypearl)
April 24, 2012
The Train
Picture Source: weheartit.com Picture Reblog: dakokopuff
We were young and foolish. We had are sights set on the horizon. Smoking and drinking, telling a tale or two. We’d talk until the wee hours of the morning, kicking up the dust outside the cabin down by the railroad tracks. Looking up at the stars, we’d revel in the night. Sharing our dreams and aspirations, laughing and joking, we’d wittle ourselves into each other’s hearts. The fun we had. Making history in our lives with each other, we smiled. Driving down inbetween the corn stalks on the old country road, there couldn’t have been a better spot. We walked down that road time and time again looking over the horizon. Dreaming of tomorrow and living our dream, youthful bodies, full of luster and energy galore. I danced until twilight under the stars. Taking a full drink of the breadth of our friendships entertwined. Walking by the canal, and down the dirt road, we found each other. All of us, making a name for each other, with our own lips, our own hips, the way we dressed in our smug levis, and the way we talked with such passion for life. It seemed like tomorrow was the best yet to come. We didn’t know yet to value every moment, nor how to see the beauty in our comaraderie, how lucky we were!
Copyright Kat Lyons
Picture Reblog: girlinlondon
April 14, 2012
My third blog is http://simplicityamongchaos.tumblr.com/
I post there often. It is casual.
My second blog is http://girlfromthebay.tumblr.com/
I don’t post there often. It is my favorite photos from the internet.
(Source: delinquentdoll)
April 7, 2012
April 7, 2012
Torrent
Pic Source: mademoiselle-roses Pic Reblog: princesses-only
Coming around the corner of the hallway, peering gently into the room, cautiously, he had just tried to convince her, with his hand softly on her shoulder, in almost a calm, steady, whisper, “tell it, let it out,” he said. Looking out over the veranda, in this country so beautiful, everything in white. The homes and the centerpieces and even the benches all were encassed in white. The pathway, it ambled like rolling hills to the side and down.
She wondered if the time had come, to open up and let the butterfly out. The energy was so pent up inside, that when she allowed herself to feel it, it exploded with so much intensity, that the room was full of sound. She let herself get caught up in it’s moment, and was taken aback by how strong the tidal waves came. With a rush, beams, colors of light flashed out of her being, and an orchestra played. The music crescendoed and danced in the air as if it were alive. Feeling as the center of a movie or a piece of action with so much heart, it whipped past her and through her and all around. It filled up the sky for miles around. It was so beautiful and so strong she felt things that she had felt many times before, but never in a rush like that, not so condensed. It told it’s own story as she let it shine. The storm of music and her heart wringing with tears, explaining things she kept wrapped up inside; after time had gone by, it quieted down.
She sat still and the tears fell. She cried and she cried, silently. Remembering again the scene that replays in her mind every day recently. Again she saw as she stood there, in silence watching them around her. Observing as she spoke to her, as she watched her comb her wig. Reluctantly stoic as she left her side and chose the shadow of another for the moment in safety. Not knowing what had happened or was happening at that, all but assuming for what she had been told.
Her friend, she came to the center of the room and as she was looking up to her, she spoke of her new transition, her new body, and again about the appointments. She wanted to wrap her arms around her and cry, to scream to the roof tops why? Her body was no longer her own but only a plastic shell. Because her emotion was so deep she finally understood. As she was in the center of the room silent, the storm inside her raged on. She thought for safety she must not say, for life she must not speak, for breath she must not tell. But the storm it froze inside her. The one that needed to come in a torrent, the one that needed to explode.
Copyright Kat Lyons
Pic Source: dyingofcute Pic Reblog: flaneur-etrange
April 6, 2012
(Source: fuckyeahkimbra, via penseesduchoeur)
April 5, 2012
Rant
Pic Reblog: dontbeafraidoftomorrow
Stereotypes are cruel, and ruin lives. Why do so many people hate each other? Everyone has a soul, and a heart beating inside their chest. Everyone lives only one life. To spend it encumbered by others beliefs, can eat away inside, always concerned how this will come across or that. To be limited in one’s choices simply due to others not comprehending the true self behind the face, position, size, job status, income relatively, or what not. It all is so stifling, crushing, insinuating, and based on lies and deceit. Deceit of those who see without seeing, who lie to their very soul about who it is that they are looking at. Based in fear, or mistrust, ego, vanity, or the like, it all leads to distortion, never seeing what their attitude has done to another, or who that other really is inside.
There are so many stereotypes, that one may find the need to build a life around half truths, just to get by. Yet they can’t speak their very soul, for fear of saying something, that might be taken in such a way, that it could misconstrue their very being, and put them in jeopardy of being misunderstood.
We are not our jobs; or one mistake or two, or three or four for that matter, if it is corrected, if one has changed. We are not what we look like, or what we wear, what we drive, where we live, the color of our skin, how much money we make, or any of this other nonsense that is the basis upon so many other assumptions. Don’t put people in a box, or yourself for that matter either. We are what is inside.
Not everyone is given the same opportunities. And that’s okay. Count yourself lucky if you were born on the right side of the tracks. But do not look down on those less fortunate. For you do not know what it takes to claw your way up out of that black hole.
Fat people are not always fat because they are gluttons. Sometimes it is an illness, or an injury, or lack of knowledge in time.
Beautiful ladies are lovely, not necessarily dumb, or lucky for that matter. Maybe they worked hard to look that way. You never know. It could be an accomplishment.
Several actresses got their start in a strip bar. They are the same person now that they were then. But who’s worshipping them now, everyone.
Gay people are born that way. This world is so full of hate. Imagine having feelings that you didn’t ask for and you can not change. What one decides to do or not do about it is their business. It wasn’t a choice for them. They are different. Imagine if you were different than you presently are. Imagine if you were inside a body that looked and felt differently than you. Would this be your fault? Of course not. And if you could choose, why would anyone choose a life where so many would hate them for what they are? They wouldn’t, and that’s the point. They did not choose to be that way. It was thrust upon them, a gift for being born.
And race, where do I begin? Prejudice is color blind. It does not matter what color your skin is or where you came from, prejudice is free for all to find, be or experience. But why? Why? There are bad people of every color. It has nothing to do with race. It’s only on the inside that is the truth of it all. A book can not be judged by it’s cover.
And the propaganda, people eating it up, consuming it like candy. Please don’t feed the machine. Not until it decides to play fair and square. When someone makes money off of belittling someone else, this is not a game to be watched, it’s hypocrisy, America land of the free.
It’s all about the heart and looking past all of that. You say it’s not me? Well maybe not. But it’s all around, as far as the eye can see. All of the jokes, the laughter, the comments everywhere….It’s sad. It’s such a sad thing to see. And it’s frightening me.
Copyright Kat Lyons
Pic Source: chanelbagsandcigarettedrags Pic Reblog: princesses-only
March 22, 2012
(via nomadic-artist)
March 21, 2012
Naked Truth
Picture Source: kevindart
Trying to develop a life, and feeling all of the moments inbetween. Life has taken on a new tone. No longer in fear that each day will be my last, I alternate between loving that after each day there is another and another still, or fearing am I doing too much of this or not enough of that? Worrying that the list which has grown very long, that even as I check them off one by one, that deadlines will come and go. Am I ever good enough? What does it take to get over my own ineptitude? Or rather disability…Fighting with something inside me that no one else can see, taking small steps like a child and I can look back and see the miles that I’ve crossed. And yet somehow I stumble and I fall. Each step forward is met with criticism inside of me, of what I have yet to be done.
Yet looking out across the hillside blue, I can also breath a sense of tension. Because I’m building a life, a new life, a chapter or two. Building what I saw years ago, and it’s here now, waiting to happen. Yet it does not just come, it sits and waits, like a child that reaches out it’s hand to me.
So much progress in music, yet I falter across the board in other things that matter. And so I worked on it, one piece at a time. It has changed and improved. But not enough to be where I need to be. So I went to the doctor. He gave me these pills, to change my sleeping pattern. It got better. It still needs improvement. It is not over. But I’m close, so close, that it seems strange. Almost like a new world that I’ve stepped into. Yet there are more, more things to work on, more things about myself to change. And while I reach out, I am also reaching in, healing from within.
I thought it was over. I had forgiven and moved on. But instead I found anger, so readily to pounce, at anything new. It is hard to have tolerance for those who simply do not understand. To be blamed for being someone I’m not, is a hard pill to swallow, to have to forgive again and again at each new afront. But the point is that they do not know me. Those who do love me, or hate me for what it is that I have that they do not have. Which baffles me. But I have let those go their way by the side. And breathing in each new gasp of air, finally able to fill my lungs completely, and looking out over the green….I see each little thing that I do positively, for I decided yesterday. That if I can not seem to do these things that need to be done, then why worry so much over the expanse of it all. Why not just do one thing at a time. And so I did.
My heart screamed for it wanted more. It wanted out of this self imposed cage I have put it in years ago. And yet as I consider my first steps out the door, self doubt, joy, excitement, and beauty in the stillness, all pervade.
Copyright Kat Lyons
Picture Source: lepetitbrioche.blogspot.com Picture Reblog: bkfst:
March 19, 2012
March 19, 2012
Animated Short Film
She wants a place where she can say what’s on her mind. Whether that be what kind of milk she’d like to buy, or to tell a story of years ago. She wants a place to fly free to be whatever it is she minds to be, perhaps an activist with a penchant for peace, an opinion or two, a list that’s very long of pieces on stories that really do matter. And yet at any place inbetween to simply state simplicity as a matter of fact, never mind if it is art or something not worth looking to. She wishes that her bar wasn’t so high. To live up to her own expectations is a little dry. A hop a skip and a jump, or just a thought or two, might make life more enjoyable, no? A piece of art, a piece of work, an opinion or two, a litany of what really matters and no mention of she, and yet to pause whenever she feels like it and to take a drag on an imaginary cigarrette, a moment to just breathe. Wishing that those with opinions against she were not looking over her shoulder and pointing down. They loom so large their shadow so high, the bottom of the darkness is sharp by contrast to their large large head, as in a cartoon, with faces not to be seen. They point down at her so small, like a mouse she ran away, instead of facing up to the fact that they are not she. Their voices should not matter, but they do. For she has never given up hope that one day they might understand. And so she shared her gem. Something not meant for them, but important you see. For she was creating something for me. But they laugh and they taunt, and throw the pages along with her heart out the window, so that no one could see, what they had done, or not done, and what they fail to see. And so she fights this internal conflict, between what she sees in the glass looking back, and running from their shadows in the alley by the tall tall buildings with no personality. For even she can not live up to, or doesn’t know if she does, live up to what she herself has put under her pillow, for all the world to see. Yet she knows secretly, that something has been given to her that she must share with the world. And for this she has to stand up and fight those who taunt her. She must go to that street where they loom and they point. And she must look around the corner to see, that they are just as small as she. Walking away, she looks back wistfully. They will never know what it is that she tried to give them. For they are tyrants in their own hypocrisy. A tear falls because she understands to a degree. For it is themselves that stand in their own way, from feeling the glow of love that was once freely offered, because of their inner tyranny.
Copyright Kat Lyons
Pic Source:a-l-ancien-regime: Jean-Jacques Pothier Pic Reblog: girlinlondon
March 7, 2012
I read his name a few days ago. I didn’t know who he was. Now I do. I saw footage of a problem a few years ago. I did not know that it was still happening, nor how widespread it is.
I have read that there are various opinions about this information. There is always more to a story then what is shown. But I would rather know then not. If there is to be a dialogue of sides to an issue, then one needs to know what it is about.
February 13, 2012
(Source: mademoisellebardot, via girlinlondon)
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