Wednesday, January 30, 2013
NEW YEAR 2013
This Thursday I am reading a short story to a tough audience. I am scared. Alone. A good place to start. My story is a dialogue between my 86-year old Aunt Alene from Corinth, Mississippi and myself on her birthday this past February in 2012. I sent her yellow roses, not knowing that her deceased husband of sixty-six years had given her yellow roses on her birthday. Picked from his garden. Every year. He has been deceased for six years. And she has been home bound and confined to a wheelchair as a result of a broken neck early in her life and the ravages of that injury . It is from here we begin.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
BELATED BIRTHDAY FOR DAKOTA
Birthday Celebration for Kota. Twenty One. Gifted with a Fender Guitar. Natural Ear...One more year at Chapman College. Yeah! Then off to a movie-making career. 
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Where Do We Go...
Looking around the room, his mind no longer echoed music. The silent emptiness screamed at him. Fool.
Squeezing the palms of his hands on both ears, he screamed out loud, "fool."
Rising. He jerked up from his worn recliner chair and screamed ,"fool" once more. Picked up the TV remote control and tuned into the eleven o'clock news.
"Breaking news..." The Newscasters' voice was the last words he heard before his head began to spin. "Oh my God, no ... Not now ... Not until I say goodbye to her. Talk to her one more time..."
He fell to the floor. The volume button on the remote hit the edge of the coffee table on his way down and was blasting outrageously loud.
His mind stopped.
(To be continued...)
Squeezing the palms of his hands on both ears, he screamed out loud, "fool."
Rising. He jerked up from his worn recliner chair and screamed ,"fool" once more. Picked up the TV remote control and tuned into the eleven o'clock news.
"Breaking news..." The Newscasters' voice was the last words he heard before his head began to spin. "Oh my God, no ... Not now ... Not until I say goodbye to her. Talk to her one more time..."
He fell to the floor. The volume button on the remote hit the edge of the coffee table on his way down and was blasting outrageously loud.
His mind stopped.
(To be continued...)
Monday, September 24, 2012
Monday, September 17, 2012
FINALLY, THE TREASURE ...
This is what I look like from the outside. To some, the way you look on the outside is important. To some, who stick around to get to know me on the inside, which is rare, unless we have money, family or friends in common, we may never go there.
From this juncture, I want to invite you into my world. And with total abandonement.
To start with, I offer up a moving letter written by Ted Hughes on the Universal Inner Child, and specifically intended for his Son, Nicholas.
Presented by Maria Popova of Brain Pickings...
"The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated."
"The analogy between the artist and the child is that both live in a world of their own making." wrote Anais Nin in her diary in 1945. Four decades later, 23 years after Sylvia Plath took her own life at the age of 30, Ted Hughes, (1930-1998) wrote to their 24-year-old son, Nicholas. The letter, found in Letters of Ted Hughes (public library), is superb in its entirety and a worthy addition to history's finest fatherly advice, but this particular passage speaking to the beautiful vulnerability of our inner child and its longing to be seen, heard, let loose is an absolutely exquisite articulation of the human condition - don't let the length and density deter you from absorbing it, for once you do, it'll saturate every cell of your soul
"When I came to Lake Victoria, it was quite obvious to me that in some of the most important ways you are much more mature than I am ... But in many other ways obviously you are still childish - how could you not be, you alone among mankind? It's something people don't discuss, because it's something most people are aware of only as a general crisis of sense of inadequacy, or helpless dependence, or pointless loneliness, or a sense of not having a strong enough ego to meet and master inner storms that come from an unexpected angle. But not many people realize that it is, in fact, the suffering of the child inside them. Everybody tries to protect this vulnerable two three four five six seven eight year old inside, and to acquire skills and aptitudes for dealing with the situations that threaten to overwhelm it. So everybody develops a whole amour of secondary self, the artificially constructed being that deals with the outer world, and the crush of circumstances. And when we meet people this is what we usually meet. And if this is the only part of them we meet we're likely to get a rough time, and end up making 'no contact'. But when you develop a strong divining sense for the child behind the amour, and you make you dealings and negotiations only with that child, you find that everybody becomes, in a way, like your own child. It's an intangible thing. But the too sense when that is what you are appealing to, and they respond with an impulse of real life, you get a little flash of the essential person, which is the child. Usually, that child is a wretchedly isolated undeveloped little being. It's been protected by the efficient amour, it's never participated in life. It's never been exposed to living and to managing the person's affairs. It's never been given the responsibility for taking the brunt. And it's never properly lived. That's how it is in almost everybody. And that little creature is sitting there, behind the amour, peering through the slits. And in its own self, it is still unprotected, incapable, inexperienced. Every single person is vulnerable to unexpected defeat in this inmost emotional self. At every moment, behind the most efficient seeming adult exterior, the whole world of the person's childhood is being held like a glass of water bulging above the brim. And in fact, that child is the only real thing in them. It's their humanity, their real individuality, the one that can't understand why it was born and that it knows it will have to die, In no matter how crowded a place, quite on its own. That's the carrier of all the living qualities. It's the centre of all the possible magic and revelation. What doesn't come out of that creature isn't worth having, or it's worth having only as a tool - for that creature to use and turn to account and make meaningful. So there it is. And the sense of itself, in that little being, at it's core, is what it always was. But since that artificial secondary self took over the control of life around the age of eight, and relegated the real, vulnerable, supersensitive, suffering self back into its nursery, it has lacked training, this inner prisoner. And so, wherever life takes it by surprise, and suddenly the artificial self of adaptations proves inadequate, and fails to ward off the invasion of raw experience, that inner self is thrown into the front line - unprepared, with all its childhood terrors round its ears. And yet, that's the moment it wants. That 's where it comes alive- even if only to be overwhelmed and bewildered and hurt. And that's where it calls up its own resources - not artificial aids, picked up outside, but real inner resources , real biological ability to cope, and to turn to account, and to enjoy. That's the paradox: the only time most people feel alive is when they're suffering, when something overwhelms their ordinary, careful amour, and the naked child is flung out into the world. That's why the things that are worst to undergo are the best to remember. But when that child gets buried away under their adaptive and protective shells -he becomes one of the walking dead, a monster. So when you realize you've gone some weeks and haven't felt that awful struggle of your childish self - struggling to lift itself out of its inadequacy and incompetence - you'll know you've gone some weeks towards losing touch with yourself. The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated. And the only thing people regret is that they didn't live boldly enough, that they didn't invest enough heart, didn't love enough. Nothing else really counts at all
In 2009. 47-year-old Nicholas hanged himself in his home in Alaska.
I want this blog to be raw. To begin at the beginning. Today. To ask you to stick around to get to know me, or go back to your life without me.
From this juncture, I want to invite you into my world. And with total abandonement.
To start with, I offer up a moving letter written by Ted Hughes on the Universal Inner Child, and specifically intended for his Son, Nicholas.
Presented by Maria Popova of Brain Pickings...
"The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated."
"The analogy between the artist and the child is that both live in a world of their own making." wrote Anais Nin in her diary in 1945. Four decades later, 23 years after Sylvia Plath took her own life at the age of 30, Ted Hughes, (1930-1998) wrote to their 24-year-old son, Nicholas. The letter, found in Letters of Ted Hughes (public library), is superb in its entirety and a worthy addition to history's finest fatherly advice, but this particular passage speaking to the beautiful vulnerability of our inner child and its longing to be seen, heard, let loose is an absolutely exquisite articulation of the human condition - don't let the length and density deter you from absorbing it, for once you do, it'll saturate every cell of your soul
"When I came to Lake Victoria, it was quite obvious to me that in some of the most important ways you are much more mature than I am ... But in many other ways obviously you are still childish - how could you not be, you alone among mankind? It's something people don't discuss, because it's something most people are aware of only as a general crisis of sense of inadequacy, or helpless dependence, or pointless loneliness, or a sense of not having a strong enough ego to meet and master inner storms that come from an unexpected angle. But not many people realize that it is, in fact, the suffering of the child inside them. Everybody tries to protect this vulnerable two three four five six seven eight year old inside, and to acquire skills and aptitudes for dealing with the situations that threaten to overwhelm it. So everybody develops a whole amour of secondary self, the artificially constructed being that deals with the outer world, and the crush of circumstances. And when we meet people this is what we usually meet. And if this is the only part of them we meet we're likely to get a rough time, and end up making 'no contact'. But when you develop a strong divining sense for the child behind the amour, and you make you dealings and negotiations only with that child, you find that everybody becomes, in a way, like your own child. It's an intangible thing. But the too sense when that is what you are appealing to, and they respond with an impulse of real life, you get a little flash of the essential person, which is the child. Usually, that child is a wretchedly isolated undeveloped little being. It's been protected by the efficient amour, it's never participated in life. It's never been exposed to living and to managing the person's affairs. It's never been given the responsibility for taking the brunt. And it's never properly lived. That's how it is in almost everybody. And that little creature is sitting there, behind the amour, peering through the slits. And in its own self, it is still unprotected, incapable, inexperienced. Every single person is vulnerable to unexpected defeat in this inmost emotional self. At every moment, behind the most efficient seeming adult exterior, the whole world of the person's childhood is being held like a glass of water bulging above the brim. And in fact, that child is the only real thing in them. It's their humanity, their real individuality, the one that can't understand why it was born and that it knows it will have to die, In no matter how crowded a place, quite on its own. That's the carrier of all the living qualities. It's the centre of all the possible magic and revelation. What doesn't come out of that creature isn't worth having, or it's worth having only as a tool - for that creature to use and turn to account and make meaningful. So there it is. And the sense of itself, in that little being, at it's core, is what it always was. But since that artificial secondary self took over the control of life around the age of eight, and relegated the real, vulnerable, supersensitive, suffering self back into its nursery, it has lacked training, this inner prisoner. And so, wherever life takes it by surprise, and suddenly the artificial self of adaptations proves inadequate, and fails to ward off the invasion of raw experience, that inner self is thrown into the front line - unprepared, with all its childhood terrors round its ears. And yet, that's the moment it wants. That 's where it comes alive- even if only to be overwhelmed and bewildered and hurt. And that's where it calls up its own resources - not artificial aids, picked up outside, but real inner resources , real biological ability to cope, and to turn to account, and to enjoy. That's the paradox: the only time most people feel alive is when they're suffering, when something overwhelms their ordinary, careful amour, and the naked child is flung out into the world. That's why the things that are worst to undergo are the best to remember. But when that child gets buried away under their adaptive and protective shells -he becomes one of the walking dead, a monster. So when you realize you've gone some weeks and haven't felt that awful struggle of your childish self - struggling to lift itself out of its inadequacy and incompetence - you'll know you've gone some weeks towards losing touch with yourself. The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated. And the only thing people regret is that they didn't live boldly enough, that they didn't invest enough heart, didn't love enough. Nothing else really counts at all
In 2009. 47-year-old Nicholas hanged himself in his home in Alaska.
I want this blog to be raw. To begin at the beginning. Today. To ask you to stick around to get to know me, or go back to your life without me.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
ALL LIFE IS SORROWFUL...BUDDHIST SAYING
..loss, loss, loss. Say yes to life while you live. And live it unconditionally.
The little boy below is my brother Robert. Bobby. the fifth child of six. The youngest brother. Passed away on Good Friday, Aprill 2012. He is in peace now. He suffered for the last 14 years from stokes, and was in a wheelchair for the last five years. He suffered a heart attack and pass without pain. In peace.
This is Robert and his beloved Carol on their wedding day.
This is Robert, Carol and Christopher (Chris) their only child. A son to carry on the Newcomb name.
Carol and Chris cared and loved Robert all these years. It was not easy, but Carol made a beautiful home in Vista, Ca, for their little family. A garden, a home with homemade goodies, and homemade quilts, blankets, and paintings. Make with love and patience.
Goodbye to my younger brother. I will miss him. I will always love him. I still have the Swiss Army Knife, a green and red foil candy cane, and a large cross he wore when he was in the hospital. All these gifts for one Christmas when he was in a Montrose Home. A Hospital. For five years. He told of an Angel he stole from a store when he was with me and I did not even know he did it. It was a gift for his beloved...Carol. He put in in the pouch in his wheelchair when we went out to Pizza one day. He was so proud of that angel and that he could give it to here that Christmas. A really lovely soul.
I will remember that little boy in the fire truck. And my baby brother. God rest his soul. And I know he is with our Mother, Violet. Playing poker and laughing. Yes, always laughter. A family trait. And music. Playing his guitar. And without the shackles and pain.
I love you Bobby. You will be missed.
Love Sis Toni
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Listen ..
Family of things...Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -- over and over announcing your place in the family of things. --Mary Oliver
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