Tag Archives: thadd presley

Stewed Thoughts

 

Today’s Special

Stewed Thoughts,
with Over-Ripe Opinions
Home-Grown Philosophies 

While They Last!!

Sweat Drenched,
Steaming.
The long, hot Nights slowly melting into Tomorrows
Safely,
Quietly, within my Dreams
Nothing between me and everything

As I evaporated
ever closer
to the abyss of sleep,
It suddenly dawned on me
The how
and the why,
and the reason
things change.

How all the things I need
simply come to me.
Miraculously,
completely,
And it was just like that.
A dawning of a new era.
Like the Sun rising above the horizon
beautifully, at first,
breaking the darkness,
subdued and diffused.
Then, bursting out,
burning with fully intensity,
Drying up all aspects of doubt.
Beyond any reasonable explanation of coincidence
it turned to stone the Oasis of Skepticism
and bleached the bones of disbelievers.

Like a reverse mystery
it went from completion to conception.
So effortlessly, it was,
if not quick,
always,
obviously eventual.
At least, tit was o me.

As I bubbled from grateful wonder on the inside,
I broiled from soaring humidity on the outside.
I suddenly knew
the exact moment,
down to the thought,
when it became clear
when I curiously, cautiously
willingly
connected to the most abundant, inexhaustible,
ever-knowing
and over-flowing
family from an unknown origin

I was adopted,
brought in,
and became heir
to a most powerful
and timeless
creator 
of not only my
body, mind and soul
but of everything between.

Automatic Drawing

Out of the flesh of our mothers come dreams and memories of God.

 

Of other kind than the normal inducement of interest and increasing skill, there exists a continual pressure upon the artist of which he is sometimes partially conscious but rarely entirely aware. he learns early or late in his career that power of literal reproduction (such as that of the photographic apparatus) is not more than slightly useful to him. He is compelled to find out from his artist predecessors the existence, in representation of real form, of supersessions of immediate accuracies; he discovers within himself a selective conscience and he is satisfied, normally, in large measure by the extensive field afforded by this broadened and simplified consciousness. Yet beyond this is a region and that a much greater one, for exploration. The objective understanding, as we see, has to be attacked by the artist and a subconscious method, for correction of conscious visual accuracy, must be used. No amount of visual skill and consciousness of error will produce a good drawing. A recent book on drawing by a well-known painter is a case in point; there the examples of masters of draughtsmanship may be compared with the painter-author’s own, side by side, and the futility of mere skill and interest examined. Therefore to proceed further, it is neccesary to dispose of the “subject” in art also (that is to say the subject in the illustrative or complex sense). Thus to clear the mind of inessentials permits through a clear and transparent medium, without prepossessions of any kind, the most definite and simple forms and ideas to attain expression.

 

Notes about Automatic Drawing

An “automatic” scribble of twisting and interlacing lines permits the germ of an idea in the subconscious mind to express, or at least suggest itself to the consciousness. From this mass of procreative shapes, full of fallacy, a feeble embryo of idea may be selected and trained by the artist to full growth and power. By these means, may the profoundest depths of memory be drawn upon and the springs of instinct tapped.

Yet, let it not be thought that a person not an artist may by these means not become one: but those artists who are hampered in expression, who feel limited by the hard conventions of the day and wish for freedom but have not attained to it, these may find in it a power and a liberty elsewhere undiscoverable. thus writes Leonardo da Vinci:-“Among other things, I shall not scruple to discover a new method of assisting the invention; which though trifling in appearance, may yet be of considerable service in opening the mind and putting it upon the scent of new thoughts, and it is this: if you look at some old wall covered with dirt, or the odd appearance of some streaked stones, you may discover several things like landskips (sic), battles, clouds, uncommon attitude, draperies, etc. Out of this confused mass of objects the mind will be furnished with abundance of designs and subjects, perfectly new.”

 

The curious expression of character given by handwriting is due to the automatic or subconscious nature that it acquires by habit. So Automatic drawing, one of the simplest of psychic phenomena, is a means of characteristic expression, and if used with courage and honesty, of recording supconscious activities in the mind. The mental mechanisms used are those common in dreams, which create quick perception of relations in the unexpected, as wit, and psycho-neurotic symptoms. Hence it appears that single or non-consciousness is an essential condition and as in all inspiration the product of involution not invention.

Automatism being the manifestation of latent desires (or wishes) the significance of the forms (the ideas) obtained represent the previously unrecorded obsessions.

Art becomes, by this illuminism or ecstatic power, a functional activity expressing in a symbolical language the desire towards joy unmodified-the sense of the Mother of all things-not of experience

 

This means of vital expression releases the fundamental static truths which are repressed by education and customary habit and lie dormant in the mind. It is the means of becoming courageously individual; it implies spontaneity and disperses the cause of unrest and ennui.

The dangers of this form of expression come from prejudice and personal bias of such nature as fixed intellectual conviction or personal religion (intolerance). These produce ideas of threat, displeasure or fear, and become obsessions.

In the ecstatic condition of revelation from the subconscious, the mind elevates the sexual or inherited powers (this has no reference to moral theory or practise) and depresses the intellectual qualities. So a new atavistic responsibility is attained by daring to believe-to possess one’s own beliefs-without attempting to rationalize spurious ideas from prejudiced and tainted intellectual sources.

Automatic drawings can be obtained by such methods as concentrating on a *Sigil-by any means of exhausting mind and body pleasantly in order to obtain a condition of non-consciousness-by wishing in opposition to the real desire after acquiring an organic impulse towards drawing.
The Hand must be trained to work freely and without control, by practise in making simple forms with a continuous involved line without afterthought, i.e. its intention should just escape consciousness.

Drawings should be made by allowing the hand to run freely with the least possible deliberation. In time shapes will be found to evolve, suggesting conceptions, forms and ultimately having personal or individual style.

the mind in a state of oblivion, without desire towards reflection or pursuit of materialistic intellectual suggestions, is in a condition to produce successful drawings of one’s personal ideas, symbolic in meaning and wisdom.

By this means sensation may be visualized.

Haiku Twenty Twenty-Two

From Page Number One
Haiku: Number: Two Zero Two Two
Thaddeus Maximus
__________________________________________


Whoa! And Wow Wee Wow
We’re all Willing Witnesses
To our Promises

 

We Are Constructs
Painful wrecks carefully chiseled
From God’s Own Image

 

Ring Ring Tinnitus
Musical Gift That Keeps Giving
I hear you, clearly

 

Click, Pop, Magic Knees
You are amazing, thank you
for everything

 

Patience, I see you
Growing, silently, But True
The things we will do

 

Gratification
The Great I… Always Me… Me!!
Get A Grip!! Grow Up!!

 

Elusive Story
My American Novel
I know you’re in there

 

Instability
Mental Chain Reaction
Chemical Spirit

 

Our Lives Read Quickly
‘Though Your Character Lives
Your Fable Will Fade

 

Great Shepard, My Lord
I am your littlest sheep
Please remember me.
________________________________
First Words Written in
the year 2022
Thank you for Reading

Thousand Acre Garden

That Garden, That Knowledge,

And Why We Keep Coming Back to the Table

For the first time, possibly the first time ever, we are all faced with a thriving 1000 acre garden of knowledge, topped to the brim, overflowing with information and teeming with teachers from countless colleges, and online classes. Any hobby, any subject, career or past time can be studied from anywhere in the world by anyone at anytime, at whatever pace suits best.

Any endeavor can be explored through pictures, books, and a myriad of multi-media. Lectures held either in person or remotely from over 70 years of archives can be attended immediately; language and location is no longer of any consequence.

Files of dedicated data are constantly compiled and stored outside of the normal channels of learning, the reasons for this ranges from professional, to corporate, to amateur. Every step breaking down every facet of any imagined interest into bite sized easily digestible portions ready to deliver. There is no limit to what a person can learn or where they can apply that knowledge after is is attained.

And, although this beautiful garden is a delicately designed, thoroughly thought out arrangement, perfectly planned with each lesson being it’s own individual intellectual treasure just waiting to be uncovered, this could not be further from the truth.

This garden is wild. The fruits it offers us is old and has appeared many times throughout past ages.

It is unkempt.

The fact that all this knowledge lies at the top layer, mostly exposed, or atleast easily accessible by anyone who is interested is enough to look must prove that this garden of knowledge is a natural phenomenon, like oxygen or sunlight. It’s certainly not something a human civilization or culture would created and hand out completely free for people to enjoy.

 

The seeds of this garden of knowledge were sown deep into the soil eons and ages ago by something set on the pursuit of educating and evolving a people and planet. This didn’t have to be planned by an alien race or an all-powereful deity.

This explosion of knowledge could just be part of a very simple primitive system.  Even the fundamental system that brought subatomic matter together, is the same that produced gigantic organic factories able to manufacture and pump out megatons of complex molecules into the universe.

Time and Gravity started with electrons and protons and grew into galaxies filled with stars and nebulae and planets, which in our case became a world filled with animals and cultures and who knows what else is to come.

All it takes is Time and Gravity and boom, you get everything we see, hear, taste, and think.

So, after eons, and ages, and ages of eons, Time and Gravity could be responsible for some very delicate and highly sophisticated factories that are able to pump out some very surprising results.

Maybe elements we call Language and Knowledge and Technology.

We know that many Mysteries and Secrets existed in the past and even still today.

At one time, not long ago, the formation of elements and the forces inside of stars was beyond the horizons of our imagination. However, we can now look in at atomic structures and out at astronomical structure and see science as just a fact of life.

 

Our history is just as elaborate and extensive as it seems to be. From the things Egyptians did to the things modern civilizations can not do, we are overwhelmed by the things we have forgotten. Just the magnitude of ancient truths we see, yet have no explanation for, should be enough to convince us that we are returning to a level of knowledge we once had.

Sea of Love

As We Cast Ourselves Onto The Sea of Love

Thadd Presley

Anyone who talked to, or knew anything about, those who went out onto the sea and over the horizon in search of the elusive dream, must imagine crossing that strange ocean and how it will feel when first they set their feet and plant their flag somewhere in the pristine sands. Stories told of warm beaches and  hinted about the many ways it changes a person’s life.  No one knew for sure what lied out in the depths nor could they name the island.  No one ever dared a guess as to what it would be to go there and no one thought to ask the best way.

It was enough, only, to have hope and strength enough to set off alone into the vast ocean with nothing but a small boat and excited expectation. Arriving alive upon one of the sandy islands with a face full of sun during the day and eyes filled with countless stars at night was more than most would ever acheive.

“I’m going to that place lovers go,” one young man burned into a small piece of leather and that was enough, that was just the way of it.  All the directions around the compass and all the destinations on the world map meant nothing if love didn’t set the wheel and drive the vessel.

No one took provisions or asked for a map, no first mate ever boarded with the explorer.  It was a lone voyage.  On occasion, there were a few words quietly spoken by some who cared to announce their departure, but it rarely surpassed: “Bon voyage.  If I don’t return just know I am happy and I did as I knew best.”

An endless blue sky sat above a never ending ocean, indistinguishable except for sliding wave or a floating cloud. Then, with a pull of anchor, onto the sea of love they went.  Just a hope and a prayer.

A Low-Life at High Tide

 

A Low-Life at High Tide

by Thadd Presley

 

Breakwater Town
Out on the prowl
A million waves crash with one sound
To a short, fat light house

East-End friend
Best of the best of times then
Out on the point
Just more of my kind
That chick was way out of joint
I was a low-life at high tide

The battery at dawn
A quick shot across the bow
Is this soul for sale
or is it a pawn?
For cryin out loud
It’s far too late for that now

Sudden movement of the crowd
Left with no soul of my own
Everything, not lost, is for a sale
For crying out loud
It’s too late to save me now
A low-life from a small town

No fool like an old fool
Super cool dude from the old school
I’ve been like this a long time
Lived my entire life at high tide

In Shades of Red

 

The focus of “In Shades of Red” lies solely on the words of Jesus Christ.

It serves to only highlight what Jesus said. You will find the books, chapters, and verse numbers of the Holy Bible have not been included. My hope is that the reader will have a greater a chance to hear what Jesus taught and to see what His life meant for the rest of the world.

 

In Shades of Red – paperback

To Learn Something about Anything

 

“The Willingness to Learn Something about Anything”

 

“Life comes down to our willingness to wonder about something and having the courage to know anything.” —  quoted from the Universe to Thadd Presley

When I contemplate original ideas and create art, I feel invincible. Absolutely nothing can measure up to the things I dream and bring into reality. Nothing can take away the emotions I release into the world as long as they truly come from my heart and mind. I’m not just another creative power of the universe. I know it comes off as weak and unimportant sometimes, but my power comes directly from the source of all things. The Creator entrusted me with certain creative powers and I use them to create my world and the worlds of those closest to me. What I create is both a gift from me to the universe and a gift from the universe to me, working in unison with powers and beings with no true description in our dimension. A gift from a society completely incorruptible and eternal granting the ability to bring forth lifetimes of timelines and fill them with beautiful experiences and powerful revelations that are only understood by those who have witnessed the unlimited capacity to love and receive love. It’s easy to love those who loved you first. It is all about love.

Then, there comes upon me a darkness, such times I begin to doubt my origins and I start to think that I’m not from a special part of the inner sanctum. I think that I’m just another sheep standing in the field and this field is just one field with many fields. I’m just here and no one cares. A field within many fields, a fold amongst many folds, just a sheep standing alone that sounds ad looks no different than the others. I think that I’m nothing but an animal. And if that’s not damning enough, I begin to imagine I’m are tagged, tracked, and controlled — not by a great Shepard, but – by a group of sheep who have put themselves in charge and guide me from birth to the grave. Nothing I do is a surprise to anybody or anything. Especially to those I have somehow landed in the higher positions of power concerning this world. Nothing I have ever thought is original or inspired by a higher reality. Every idea I’ve had has either been had by many, perhaps by all, who have come before me or has been planted in my head by other sheep. The greatest act of creation I could ever produce is nothing but an outcome from a watered down classroom process or a spasm of unrealized dreams and incomplete thoughts. Generations of manic and depressed men and women who lived and died never knowing anything concrete about reality or the true nature of life have had these same ideas, thoughts, and dreams and just like them I’m going to do nothing with them and if I did no one would care because they are busy trying not to starve or freeze to death. I begin to think: there is truly no new thing under the sun. There are no revelations left to be had by anyone. The best I can ever do is reproduce in some dramatic way the failures of those who came before me.

The only difference I can see, if any, that separate the sheep like me from the other sheep is this egotistical, vanity-driven, self-serving act of writing down my thoughts and ideas. Why do I do it? It’s vanity in its grandest state directed from a place of fear. I’m afraid of being forgotten, afraid of dying, and besides the fact that somewhere deep inside I must truly think that I am somehow different and my thoughts are in some way important enough to be remembered.  I am so afraid of being just like everyone else, I do my best to be different in just a way as to not be singled out, but to be looked upon for a moment and hopefully understood.

So, I continue to try and capture the beautiful ideas with elegant word play. If I can introduce a clever character with an interesting story to a reader than it must that I am different and can possibly make a difference in a life. If I can create intelligent story lines and bring pleasure to people, I believe I can offer them reasons to exist beside just being alive and miserable. If I can make the lives of the people in my head produce answers to the hard questions so often asked by the people in real world situations than perhaps I will deserve to be remembered by those who are interested in knowing the secrets of life and the world in which we live.

In many ways, I am a sheep looking to my shepherd for direction and safety. But, sometimes, I look down at my own hoof-prints and think they are somehow different from the countless others. Simultaneously, I realize that believing I’m different, and even better in some ways, than all the other sheep is maniacal and delusional by any measure. Yet, it seems true. I hope my vain-maniacal delusion is harmless. Perhaps, if I’m very lucky, my insanity might somehow be helpful to someone, somewhere. It is, after all, the only way I know of being part of the fold.

Sometimes, I think everyone wants to believe, or at least should believe, that their hoof prints are some majestic, cosmic Morse code that can only be deciphered by other genius sheep who believe in the latest prophecy. On the outside we are the same, but, on the inside, we all feel we are special creatures captured and forced to live this current life as a sheep. There must be something that drives us and connects us to others who create and live with a similar burst of zealous understanding. We look alike, we talk alike, we all cry alike, and most of us don’t like the fact that we are all going to die alike.

To all the others in the fold, I tell you:

If you want to think that you are special and that someone, someday might come across an ancient hoof-prints you left in the mud and try to decipher it? Then, maybe you are!  Ad maybe there is a secret code embedded in all of our hoof-prints, and maybe there is not, but the only way to know is to document every step with honesty and precision. For is every life is trying to teach us the importance of being alive and now to enjoy life, then we must live as if we believe that life comes from somewhere and we will one day return to that place with the stories we have to tell. The only thing we can do today is have a willingness to wonder about everything and courage to push through the towering inferno of ignorance burning around us and dare to learn anything about something.

Medicine People


Medicine People
by Thadd Presley

 

The man pushed the needle under her flesh and smiled when blood spurted into the chamber. He whispered into her ear, as he pulled the plunger back. “Drugs aren’t good or bad, you know?” Her blood mixed with the thick, brown liquid, delighting the man. “You’re like a medicine man,” he mused. “You’ve heard of medicine men haven’t you?”

“Yeah,” she mumbled. Already able to feel the strong concoction. “They’re like Indians…”

“Yeah, well kind of, but many cultures have them. They’re the people who had the guts to try things the others were too afraid to do.”
She nodded. “Like shaman?” She pronounced it slowly: “Shay-men.”

“Exactly. They’d go into the spirit world and come back with knowledge that can only come from the other side.”

She liked the idea of that. It made her smile. “Like wisdom.”
“That’s right! And it changed everyone’s life? The medicine people found out things from the ancestors and from the angels. Things that never made sense to the people at that time. The ideas were decades and centuries ahead of the time. Thousands of years, sometimes.

“Yeah.” She was mumbling, her eyes were only pin-pricks between a sliver of eyelids.

“Are you afraid?”

She laughed. “Not even.”

He pushed the plunger and the liquid slid effortlessly into her vein. Numbness flowed up her left arm and across her chest. As it slowly crept up her neck, her eyelids closed out the world. Then, peace engulfed her. All the stress and worry stopped as she slipped from this world and entered the spirit world.



Copyright Thadd Presley — All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Thadd Presley’s Songwriter Handbook

I have written a songwriter’s companion. It’s a short, comprehensive collection of modes and how they come together for each note. I uncovered — I daren’t say discovered — what I call a Musical Matrix while writing out the modes for each Note. I was designing an easy go-to chart of parallel modes, so I could create better chords using modal interchange.

I’m excited to share the musical collection because I’m sure it will help other’s like me, at a similar level, begin to write with chords they had yet realized would work. Not only does it make new chords possible, but it makes finding a lead scale easy to find as well.

I haven’t got a fancy name for the book and I’m not charging anything for it because I’m sure this “Musical Matrix” I have uncovered is not new. However, it is very helpful. If I must create a title it could be:

“Notes, Their Modes, and the Matrix of Music”

or, even better

“Notes, Their Modes, and The Sigils of Music Unsealed”