Who Are You?

Note:  This is an exploration for a larger story project....

After working 18 hours a day 6 days a week for many years, when I was out of work, I found myself having to write down my likes and my dislikes - I had to shift out of automatic and learn how to drive in first gear again.  My mind was adrift searching for a safe-harbor, a new way of life, a new way to live it. 

I still go to bed ticking, and wake up erratically because the watch is no longer ticking but I am.  People say, that I should regulate my life through others movement - having them be my timepiece. 

Who are you?   

Are you the reflection in the mirror, a shard of glass, the store window, the handle of your bicycle?  Are they all you, the images caught of who you were in those moments?  Is it a magic mirror that distorts your image?  Is it you, who you are in all of those objects, defined with certainty, is it your true nature or the nature of the world - and were you in it?  Where is my point of reference?  A hand held guidebook showing you the path to walk on, do you stay on it, so you can get to where you're going?  Do you like what you see past your reflection, what is behind you in another room?    The past is not behind, because you left it in the front yard for all to see, for you, for them, a reminder for your 7 year cells.

Who are you? 

You can search for yourself online.  Is that who you are?  A google search away from finding out everything you need to know about yourself.  Perhaps Wiki-people has your dossier on it, you compartmentalized with blue italicized embedded links to your family, friends, spouse, ex-spouse(s), your resume, blog, portfolio, reel, facebook, myspace, linkedin and twitter pages, pictures from your high school yearbook, and your college paper, books you've read, movies and music you like and dislike, charity and group affiliations, your criminal record, your tax records, your age, birth date, blood type, medical records, and FICA scores, all just a scroll away.  The complete list includes: the heroes, celebrities, athletes, writers, poets, and villains that share your name.  All your information profiled so the ads appearing would correlate to the product displayed with each page view.  And, your dashboard tells you who viewed you by day, week, month, all time history, and what country it was trafficked from.  Is that what you were searching for?  Is that who you are?

Who Am I? 

Nicole  - means cold in German, and Victor or Leader of the people in Greek.

Gabriel - means war in German, and God's able bodied one - in Greek

So I could be a cold war, a leader of the people that God able bodied, a cold God abled body, or a leader of the war.   

-----

DeLeon - means of Lions according to Irish guides, and from Lyon according to a French reference.  That will come later.

Who Am I?
Am I a numercial value whose sum is actually the total, or just a component?



 

N	I	C	O	L	E		G	A	B	R	I	E	L
5	9	3	6	3	5		7	1	2	9	9	5	3

The Meaning of a name using Numerology
Numerology is an ancient science developed by Pythagoras. It is believed that numerology offers an insight into the personality by assigning numeric values to the letters contained in names.  Each letter contained in the name is assigned a number. Every number is associated with specific characteristics.
 

1	2	3	4	5	6	7	8	9
A	B	C	D	E	F	G	H	I
J	K	L	M	N	O	P	Q	R
S	T	U	V	W	X	Y	Z

Add together all the numbers of the name:

Nicole (5+9+3+6+3+5) = 31 and Gabriel (7+1+2+9+9+5+3) = 36
Then add together the values 31+36 = 67 
Then add together 6+7 = 13

Then add together 1+3 = 4

Adding my married name:

D	E	L	E	O	N
4	5	3	5	6	5

Add together all the numbers of the name:

Nicole (5+9+3+6+3+5) = 31, Gabriel (7+1+2+9+9+5+3) = 36, and DeLeon (4+5+3+5+6+5) = 28
Then add together the values 31+36 + 28 = 95 
Then add together 9+5 = 14

Then add together 1+4 = 5

So have I changed who I am just by changing my name when I got married?  Have I changed from a 4 to a 5? (interpretation chart below)  Have I strayed from the "Traditionalist" and become a "Free Spirited Creative".  Perhaps, perhaps not.  I wanted to transform my life, but did that happen before or after I changed my name, did it happen at all?  I cannot not tell you, I do not know.  If it did transpire, I didn't see it happening, yet I sit here writing.  Is this what they mean when people say someone has "completely changed after they got married"?  Are we the search engine, the image, the origin, the name, the numbers, or the nature?

Interpretation Meaning and Characteristics using Numerology and the Name Number

Number	Meaning & Characteristics
1	Competitive - a leader, independent, strength, creative and original
2	Diplomatic - friendly, tactful, peaceful, gentle and sensitive
3	Optimistic - Easygoing, sociable, spontaneous and humorous
4	Traditionalist - Determined, reliable, conservative, activist and organized
5	Creative - Free spirited, artistic, enquiring, innovative and influential
6	Contributor - Responsible, careful, conventional and reliable
7	Inventive - Imaginative, resourceful, eccentric, quiet and thoughtful
8	Organizer - Leadership skills, planner, strong, high achiever and sound judgment
9	Humanitarian - Compassionate, caring, charitable and civilized

COMMENT & TELL ME WHO YOU ARE.......

Invention vs. Fabrication

Fabricating is certainly not inventing. Truth or the image of truth? Actual life or imaginative  life? Invent:  The word has altered in meaning.  Strickly, from the Latin Invenire, Inventum, it means "To come upon. In = upon. Venire = to come.  Invent.  Not to devise or contrive or fabricate but to find that which exists.  Perhaps everything that can exist does exist, as Plato would say, in pure form, but perhaps those forms with which we become the most familiar now pass for what we call actual life.  The world of everyday experience is a world of redundant form.  Form coarsened, cheapened, made easy and comfortable, the hackneyed and the cliched, not what is found but what is lost.  Invention then would return to us, forms not killed through too much use.  Art does it.  But if what can exist does exist, is memory invention or is invention memory?

Rogue Wave

Knowing is first.  Or is it?  Not believing, hoping, not faith, or wanting.  Knowing is based in fact not fantasy.  Need is fact - an absolute, want is fantasy - a perception.  There's the beginning, or is it the end?

The experience of the flighty high.  A potent, maniac, limbic chemical, the alluring concoction of overt behavior and consciousness.  A heady drug imprinting on the malleable mind.  Conquering it's devastation, with everything, with nothing, circling like a predator, waiting, making its indelible mark.  The pitch-black headache, buried under the rubble of grief.

Snapshots of page impressions on the mind, pictures, dreams, incarnations of the persona you invented, who you wish to be.  Who will you be today?  This frame in time, that's all there is.  A kidnapper, stealing your guile, but leaving the wrapping we know as the body.  His empathetic plight.   You captured in his bond - refusing to leave your tormentor.  Bound by your unspoken agreement, a promise given in a glance. 

A rogue wave engulfs you, you trustingly do not thrash for air.  The white crests boil and retreat.  The eddy pulls you under the current beneath the surface.  Above the water and light - a halo, a cloaked Aepyornis borne from Etherus's miraculous malaiaic temple.  The mystical facets fractional light, seducing your soul.  Behind the falling water and rock, a cavern, the dark place you have hidden,  a gravitational implosion you need, not want to fill.  In the crow's nest of your mind's eye, you willingly welcome the stranger, trusting.  The kidnapper, no longer an alien, the interloper is your countrymen.  

Chits neatly stacked like casino chips, easy come, easy go, let it ride.  Printed ticker-tape promises folded and tucked away, love notes from a Lothario.  The villainous pact of a better life.  A life without worry.  You slipping into the cool unspoiled togs, starched and smooth, they lure you, fleetingly embracing your psyche, your heart, your hands.  David's secret chord whispering Hallelujah. 

Your old rags aged, torn, spent, marked by history, frayed with experience, much like your life.  Unearthing regret in the most sensible part of your heart, betraying your empirical being. These worn bits make them yours, they have seen your life, these hand me downs.  Wanting to start over, reinventing oneself, looking the part.  Out with the old, in with the new -  You.

The world breaks everyone, when healed you are stronger in the broken places.  Bringing you back to the place you were borne - the silence, the breath, the life.  It is all stitched into who you are, not who you will be.

E.S.B. 9/12

Turning at the curve of the path I see the Empire State Building against the periwinkle sky, outlined in the tears of mist, obnubilate in gray mourning.    The spire, extending to where harmony lives, a dreamland, Zion, piercing the gradient sky.  The syringe valiantly standing, diagnostically spanning the lineation, healing the city of past malevolence.  Bandaging the wounds of tomorrow.

Identity

May the sun splinter through the clouds and break the light in shards upon your head. Feel the warm golden rays embrace you, gather strength and wisdom of this aged light. Sun aged light. Light is energy, feel it unabashedly pour into your mind and soul. The mind is free. If the body is personal the mind is trans-personal. Its range is not limited by action or desire. It's range is not limited by identity.

The Cliffs

The light fell out of the seamed sky in halos and cloaks. Squares and circles of light that dropped through the cut clouds and made single sense of all the broken pieces... the land, the sea, man. Your past, your life, not fragments, not fragmented now, but a long curve of movement that you begin to recognize.

Still the light. The light in marvelous fabric, wrapping you, a Quattro cento angel in unwoven cloth. The spear-light unfettered. You begin to sing. You sing from the place that had been marked; the book, the body, the heart. The place where grief had hid, not once, but many times. Your voice now strong and light. The sun under your tongue. A woman of infinite space.

From the cliff, standing with your family you look out, or do you look in? Held in the frame of light, was not the world, nor its likeness, but a strange equivalence, where what was thought to be revealed, and where what could not be known, kept its mystery but lost its terror. You can all see the sea in gold leaf and the purple and pearl of the cliffs. It is not too late.

The majority of things in the world are such, that one would not believe them, if one were told about them. Only those who experience it, believe, but do not know how.....

Writing A Screenplay: In The Break Of A Wave

The Beginning: Playing With Ideas


This is not a love story, but love is in it.  That is, love is just outside it, looking for a way to break in.


We're here, there, not here, not there, swirling like specks of dust, claiming for ourselves the rights of the universe. Being important, being nothing, being caught in lives of our own making that we never wanted. Breaking out, trying again, wondering why the past comes with us, wondering how to talk about the past at all.

There's a booth in Grand Central Station where you can go and record your life. You talk. It tapes. It's the the modern day confessional - no priest, just your voice in the silence. What you were in that moment, digitally saved for the future.

Forty minutes is yours.

So what would you say in forty minutes - what would be your death-bed decisions? What of your life will sink under the waves, and what will be like a lighthouse, calling you home?

All stories must be told. Well, maybe that's true, maybe all stories are worth hearing , but not all stories are worth telling.

When I look back across the span of water I call my life, I can see me there finding fossils that turned out to be other people's lives. My life. Their life. All of us bound together, tidal, moon-drawn, future, present, and past in the break of a wave.

There I am, edging along the rim of growing up, then the wind came and blew me away, and it was too late to shout. I would have to grow up on my own.

And I did, and the stories I want to tell you will light up part of my life, and leave the rest in darkness. You don't need to know everything. There is no everything. The stories themselves make the meaning.

The continuous narrative of existence is a lie. There is no continuous narrative, there are lit-up moments, and the rest is dark.

When you look closely, the twenty-four hour day is framed into a moment; the still-life of the jerky amphetamine world. That woman - a pieta. Those men, rough angels with an unknown message. The children holding hands, spanning time. And in every still-life, there is a story, the story that tells you everything you need to know.

There it is; the light across the water. Your story. Mine. Theirs. It has to be seen to be believed. And it has to be heard. In the endless babble of narrative, in spite of the daily noise, the story waits to be heard.

Some people say that the best stories have no words. It is true that words drop away, and that the important things are often left unsaid. The important things are learned in faces, in gestures, not in our locked tongues. The true things are too big or too small, or in any case always the wrong size to fit the template called language.

I know that. But I know something else too. Turn down the daily noise and at first there is the relief of silence. And then, very quietly, as quiet as light, meaning returns. Words are the part of silence that can be spoken.