By Dana Klein
By Dana Klein
by Dana Klein
By Dana Klein
These portraits were done by my favorite artist… my mother… Will be taking a short break… so I leave you with this art… hope you enjoy them, and visit my mothers site for more work
Klein Fine Arts Studio
“Love is like pi – natural, irrational, and very important.”
Gabrielle Bouliane (Austin Poetry Slam)
Gabrielle Bouliane: July 24, 1966 — January 29, 2010
(video recorded on December 5, 2009)
If only we could listen… truly listen to her… thank you ToBeMe for sharing this… and please I believe everyone should see this… pass the message on, as ToBeMe states…
“do it so that this message rings around the world.”
This was written about her by her family
The lovely and amazing performance poet Gabrielle Bouliane performs for the audience at the Austin Poetry Slam.
This would be her last public performance.
Gabrielle was diagnosed with Stage Four Cancer shortly before this video was filmed. Our dear sister fought hard, but she ended her fight January 29, 2010. She was surrounded by family and friends, and her passing was in a very quiet, peaceful room full of love and affection. She was so brave.
Please share this video with everyone you know. I am sure it would tickle her to no end to have this video get as viral as a video can be. Tell the world.
Enreal, let me start by asking you a question; (no need to answer if you don’t want to). What made you decide to start your blog?
I will be honest. It was two weeks after my father died. I was lost, confused, bursting with pain and had nowhere to turn. My family looked to me as the rock… it was only a matter of time before I crumbled. I needed an escape. I needed to detach from my life.
This is my beautiful detachment… this is my salvation… this is my escape… this is where I can express my dreams, my desires, my visions… this is my minds home, my hearts retreat, my souls property… this is who I could be without limitations…
If the people I have met along my virtual journey in my journals would see who I was in the real world, they would be surprised. I suppose this is true for most… we share the best of ourselves here, that is why it is such a beautiful instrument… I know I have learned so much from the people I have met here and am blessed they have journeyed along side with me…
AS for the surprise… it is not that I am not a bad person or different from the words I write. I am simply busy.I work too hard and yearn for more… so much more… and I am too afraid to live… I live for my limitations…
So J… this is why I blog, this is why I write here… in some way I gain my freedom through my readers. Thank you all for journeying with me
I was recently thinking… what was my first post about? So I looked and found Love
Ironic for someone who does not believe in “Love” in the conventional sense… I wonder…
What was your first post about? Did it forecast what your site became? What you wished to share? Who you are or what your message is to the world? If you read this post… Link me your “first post” I would love to read them… I leave you with Love…
Love. Does true love exist?
Does true love exist as depicted in countless stories, or innumerable actions or infinite works of art?
When the emotions that come forth under the perfect circumstances make you feel more alive than before, is that not a sign?
The perfect words, the perfect setting as if an uncontrollable force that is driving for true happiness and love is alive.
Alive and well.
That is love.
If the emptiness felt when I read these words or imagine the setting is a glimpse into the unlikelihood of it happening, and the reality that happiness like that can never come forth, then what reason is there to hope for true love?
Truth be told,
deep down in the pain,
there has always been hope,
it comes with the soul.
If hope comes with the soul,
how is it possible to feel that much pain and want?
The want for nothing other than the perfect love.
For the soul can have only one perfect love,
and that perfect love is unattainable.
Or is it?
The days begin to fold into one. Months, weeks, days, hours… or perhaps simply minutes. I can’t tell anymore. Staring at the second hand wondering, why I can’t cry. Why I can’t feel. Why I can’t see…
Then I turn away. I walk away, once more… tired… this too shall pass…
Sighing a heavy breath, one which never really alleviates anything, a breath which is part of my soul, never parting, never detaching from my chest, from my heart… it is a heavy breath…
Then I try once more to breathe, to feel, to see, to cry… I still can’t… for now.
This too shall pass