Have I changed or grown?

Dear World It’s Me: Tilly

I would like to think I am a good writer, a master weaver of tales that transports the reader to another place, an escape from the everyday and the pressures this thing called ‘life’ deals out. I have written this year- a lot- I have about 10 stories / possible books on the go, but as of yet haven’t finished any of them.  Will I finish them I ask myself- and the simple truth is, I just don’t know, but in the meantime I haven’t stayed still, I’ve grown creatively, or have I changed?

It’s tempting to use “changed” and “growth” in the same way, but in fact, they’re quite different concepts…aren’t they?

Change means to become different. I don’t think I’m different, I am still ‘me’ with the same spiritual beliefs, values and essence.  While personal growth is improving awareness and developing deeper talents. Now that’s more like it!

I have discovered that I am a pretty good painter- and as I explore this creative outlet, I get painting_tillyrivers.jpgbetter and better; I have discovered clay, making sculptures and fun faces; I have discovered fabric and sewing; I have discovered colouring and shading and the stress relief it gives me; I have discovered cooking…yes…you heard that right- ME-COOKING ~giggles~

Guess what? I have discovered that by exploring these new things I have also grown as a writer! Isn’t life amazing? That by feeding your soul you grow and bloom and become ‘more!’

And yes, I still take pictures and even that talent has grown, for I see things differently and have discovered that all of these new talents, or hobbies, or whatever you want to call them are connected and enhance the other.

S0…have I changed or have I grown?  ~shrugs shoulders~ Either way I’m liking it, I’m liking it alot!

“Dance first, think later” ~Samuel Beckett

 

 

Should the past stay in the past?

Dear World, it’s me- Tilly.

How many times have I heard- “the past is the past and that is where it should stay” or how about “stop dwelling on the past,” cliches and off-the-cuff comments; but what do they really mean? That we should just pretend that something didn’t happen when it did?

I’m not saying your focus should be on the person you use to be, change is good, normal and healthy but mistakes, and even traumatic events can turn out to be good for us. Personally I believe we should reflect on the past; like watching an old movie in black in white, no longer does it hold the power to hurt, but it does hold the power to teach.

Some will try and say tears are useless, that no matter how hard you cry you can’t change what happened, but is that the true purpose of crying?  Were you trying to reverse time? I don’t think so.   Crying is cathartic. It lets your inner demons free, it creates a portal of healing, and just like tears, learning from what happened in the past can create a healing future.

There is also a saying that goes something like: “If it happens once, shame on you, but if happens twice, shame on me.” Is this not a contraindication to the past is the past? Is this not saying we learn from our mistakes, and that in order to truly understand we first need to experience it?

Here is my thought for today, I truly think in order to move forward in a healthy manner we need to look closely at our past and find out if there are patterns.  Think of the movie Groundhog Day, Bill Murray  had to find ways to fix things that went wrong in the past, and not only did he learn to fix them, from his errors he was taught compassion and sympathy which resulted in an overall better version of himself.

More often than not, patterns are recognized  when the situation has ended, or changed {the past}. “Hindsight is 20/20” and that is okay, but if we never look at the past, how can we recognize the obstacles in order to move forward?

I would rather analyze the past, learn from my mistakes than repeat them.

 

 

Thanks for the reminder Gord Dowie.

Many Canadians either watched, or went to a Tragically Hip concert this summer. Why? Because we knew we wanted to be part of something wonderful. Each of us had a personal view of what that wonderment would be and why we wanted to  take part in the manic energy that swept the country.

Perhaps the reason was being part of history in the making, where Canadians could say, “I was there,” or “I was brought to tears,” and I was, brought to tears, shameless tears of pure love as I watched the emotionally performance.

What was my motive for wanting to be part? Life. Not because we all assume that this will be the last concert ever because Gord Downie, lead singer and lyricist  of The Tragically Hip has terminal brain cancer, but LIFE.

You see Gord did something amazing, he refused to let Cancer define him.  He showed the world that he wasn’t the dying singer with cancer- he was who he was- singer for the same musically adventurous, eclectic and wonderfully weird band that he always was.

One day we will ALL die, death shouldn’t define us, life should. Leaving this world in a better place should be our mission and our passion, it doesn’t have to be huge, it doesn’t have to be noticed, it just needs to happen.

Not only did Gord not let his sickness hold him back he reminded us that life, kindness and unity is what matters most.

On the 20th of August, 2016 in Kingston Ontario-{concert} Gord Downie said: “It’s maybe worse than it’s ever been, {in reference to our country & native people} so it’s not on the improve. (But) we’re going to get it fixed and we got the guy to do it, to start, to help.” While he was referring to Justin Trudeau, our Prime Minister, this message should apply to each of us, after all if it takes a village to raise a child than it only makes since it takes a nation to build a great county, and a caring, loving society to build a world we can be proud of.

 

 

 

Wisteria Robe

18202Copyright ©2006 Rain Publishing Inc. From the book: Wisteria Moon, Author: Tilly Rivers

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

ISBN 10: 1-897381-07-7
ISBN 13: 978-1-897381-07-6

Cover Design and layout by
Kara Elsberry

Printed in Canada

CAUTION: Please be advised that Wisteria Moon is an erotica genre.  There is explicit sexual content as well as descriptive scenes and language involving sexual practices as part of the storyline and plot.

Dedication

To the one that is capable of dancing with my mind as well as my body.  The Key.   To lady moon and the mystic sun.  To the realms of beyond and under, over and around, for here is where you will find me.

WISTERIA ROBE

He went to the altar, laid his hand upon the stone and closed his eyes, calling the Wisteria Witch….

He watched the group of men and women gathered around the stone altar and breathed in the singing air of anticipation of what was to come.

The blanket of night and fog billowed around them like a mystic covering from the outside world.

The mist-formed shapes left impressions of embracing lovers. The ebony sky glimmered with an aura of power and waited for her presence.

The legend of the Wisteria Witch and her robe ceremony was deeply embedded in her homeland.

The tale of the sexual ritual of a witch, a high priestess with profound powers, was whispered among the natives in equal parts of fear and awe.
Few truly witnessed the sacred ceremony.

The ones that did witness kept its secrets.

The whispered chants of her name floated in the air. The goddess they all sought and feared. She was pure, raw sexuality manifested.

The willow and rowan swayed softly in unison with their partner zephyr. Leaf, branch, and wind merged under the moon performing nature’s own sexual rite.

He was uncertain of what to expect within the folds of the wisteria robe ceremony. He only knew that he was meant to be here. He felt the calling; the pull that tonight would alter his life and he welcomed the change.

He stood with pride and confidence under the soft velvet folds of the wisteria robe. The material stimulated your naked flesh; tiny life-like sparks caressed you everywhere at once, molding to your frame, worshipping you.

Naked glimpses of bodies teased the senses everywhere you looked. Hard nipples of women pushed enticingly against the caressing robes. Secret shadows and soft moans were hints of urgent passion flaring.

The hoods of the robes covered the guests’ faces adding to the aura of secrecy and sensual mystery unlike any other.

He was part of the semicircle around the back of the altar, yet felt apart. Tonight he would be the chosen one to touch her. He knew it because he felt the call and waited.

The mist flared higher, changing their frantic pose, colors mixed with the transparent miasma.

She was close. Her presence was felt before her form appeared. Currents of sweetness bred. His body tingled with sensation as the robe altered from light touches to excited petting motions, opening the full breadth and beauty of the sensual.

His body eased with joyful sensation, letting the robe and his surroundings touch him in ecstasy. From his inner core, an inside flame ignited to an overwhelming energy of linked spiritual lust.

Each body became combined to one. A current of pure lust, massage of heat, a force, as desire and passion expanded from the inside to the outside covering of flesh. Power. Raw hunger of each thought, each caress, each sensation of the group now one.

Cardinal desire fused heightened feelings of need until they no longer were a mass but one sensation of savage sexual essence.

Soft blue flickers of breath formed a ring of fire around her ankles. Worshipping, feeding.

Her gown was transparent, violet threads of glimmered nothing, touching her curves like a waterfall of desire. The garment split down the front of her being, drawing your attention to each secret tease of her body.

Her hair flowed loose, tickling the back of her neck and shoulders. The soft blue flames of luminous light flowed as she walked. Each step of pure blue flame floated around her, disappearing only to reappear again as each step glided closer to the altar and the gathered pagans that had come.

This night.
The night of the wisteria robe.
This witch.
The night of the wisteria witch.

No one moved as the ring of blue circled behind his or her body. No one moved, as the flames grew higher, alive. The flame ring crackled with vitality, forming a complete circle around them.

He thought about the flame and that there was no heat.

She turned to him with a tiny wisp of a smile. Her voiceless words echoed softly in his mind. “No heat?”

His body instantly withered with intense desire, need, and cravings of sexual release. “No earthly heat,” he corrected instantly and her smile widened before reducing the erotic torture.

Pausing at the stone altar she slowly slid her fingers under the violet strands of her gown. Instantly, hands of creatures not seen before, were there to remove the garment. He watched the small creatures, her slaves, with fascinated interest.

Small, almost troll-like beings swarmed her. Here, gone instantly. Conjured images.

Hundreds burst into the circle surrounding her naked form, fingers caressing and pulling at her body. She pet them with tenderness as one would a beloved dog or cat.

One was braver, or the leader. He placed his hand on her smooth mound. His finger rammed inside her folds. Her head snapped back. The wind carried the scream of her moan to every watching pagan. The jolt of sensation she was feeling quivered in each of them.

Moans filled the air, echoing her gasps. Her body twisted in shared ecstasy.

He stood transfixed as he watched the creatures touch her. He felt his skin tingle, indents of invisible fingers moved along his burning body. Every touch, every burning caress upon her flesh was transcended onto each of the worshippers.

Standing within the ring of fire he watched as the creatures lifted her reverently unto the altar. She waved her fingers to them and smiled.

Each creature went to the guests, removing the robes. Her commands rolled silently, a melody of desire calling to her pets. She spoke to them as to whom she would be choosing this night.

The chant of “me” rang out. Silent pleads in their minds. Linked thoughts.

“Me. Let the wisteria witch choose me.”

Each had a deep-rooted appetite to be the one. “Me.” The voices grew louder, more urgent and he heard his own voice mingled with the others. “Me,” he begged, “Please me.”

The creature came closer to him and he smiled. Yes. Yes.

The imp looked up and smiled back only to take the hand of the female next to him. A shudder went through the crowd, equal parts disappointment at not being the chosen one mixed with excitement.

They all knew that with each sensation that the wisteria witch felt, they too would feel. Each touch, each soft gasp would vibrate to their very core and burn inside their flesh.

He watched as the eager chosen one ran to the altar to worship the witch lying there. He watched and felt the chosen one’s lips kiss the sole of the witch’s feet, waiting for permission to touch her.

The crowd waited in awe as the witch gave a small nod of her head giving the chosen female permission to continue.

His flesh quivered as the chosen one’s tongue licked up the witch’s calf to her inner thigh and finally to her pulsating wet pussy.

They all tasted her as the chosen one was, like the nectar of heaven.

Bodies around him began to merge, partners, groups, touching. Lying upon the earth, they copied the actions of the chosen one worshipping the witch.

He resisted the need to be one in the group, standing, feeling, and watching the two women on the altar, the goddess and the chosen one feeding from the flesh of the witch.

The creatures joined the withering bodies on the ground, partaking in the offerings, licking the women’s heated pussies, playing with their sensitive breasts, biting nipples from one to the other, taking them to the edge of release only to pause. Sensual torture.

Control broke; men rammed their aching cocks in wet holes of pussy, mouth, and ass. Hands grasped, pulled and pushed.

Harder movements, deep thrusts, release. Cocks being mouth fucked. Couples were on all fours, beasts and beauty fusing to one.

He stood and watched her, felt the sensations of the crowd, of the wisteria witch and nearly screamed with the need to be inside her. The witch lifted her head. “Forward,” she beckoned him. His steps were quick, eager and he too kissed the sole of her feet, waiting for her commands.

“Suck him,” she commanded the female slave. “Suck his hard cock for me.” The chosen one eagerly did the witch’s bidding; placing her lips still coated in her pussy juice over the head of his cock.

His eyes locked with that of the goddess as the slave sucked his cock.

“What do you want?”

“To bury my cock so fucking deep inside your pussy that you scream; to fuck you so hard that we no longer know dark from light, or sin from good. I want to be the beast that feeds and is fed from you until I scream.”

“Let me watch you fuck her. Fuck her like you want to fuck me.”

The chosen one crawled on the altar beside the goddess, lifting her ass in the air for him. Her tongue snaked out to the waiting pussy of the witch. Placing her hands behind her back, arching her body forward, the witch positioned herself so she was capable of watching him slide his cock inside the other and still be able to see the slave lick her pussy.

The crowd moaned and gyrated around them. Pagan slaves in sensual hunger. Feeding, being fed the gifts from the wisteria witch. The creatures lapped up the flesh of the bodies and they moved as one entity upon the earth around the three on the altar above them.

His cock rammed inside the chosen one’s pussy folds. With each thrust he thought of the goddess. Bucking his body harder and deeper into the woman who was moaning under him as she continued to lick and suck the sweet pussy of the witch.

Her tongue jutted in and out of the witch’s wet heat, until the witch placed her hand on the woman’s head and commanded her to move.

The three changed positions, as he knelt in front of her and placed his hands under the witch’s ass. The witch placed her feet on the stone plank on either side of him, lifted her pelvis and met his urgent trust.

So wet. So hot.

Her pussy met his, thrust after urgent thrust. The female slave, licked, caressed and touched each of them as they took from the other until they both screamed into the night under the power of the moon and the blessing of the willow and the rowan trees.

Took until the night blanket became the break of dawn, the blue flames became morning haze. They took until the echo of the wisteria witch’s cry of ecstasy ran over the homeland.

He watched the group of men and women depart. Breathing in the singing air of what they experienced; the ritual of the Wisteria Robe. The secrets buried within.

Once more he went back to the altar. Laid his hand upon the stone and closed his eyes. Calling the wisteria witch….

Slow Leak

77b8c4c3f3629d3cca5986af9f5e3859I’ve been here before, lost

Illness the only consistently  in my life, stealing everything within

A slow leak- poisoning me

I see you- you can no longer escape

I recognize you now for what you are

You were sneaky- a slow leak, almost had me

Extra dark; heavy; unfriendly energy

I see you & you aren’t invited, it’s time for you to go

You’re not welcome in me, you’re not welcome around me

I now release anything that does not serve me.

 

cropped-creative_wallpaper_fear_of_the_dark_015627_.jpg

That Tilly Girl

Dear World It’s me Tilly- Welcome 2016

It is nearing the end of February and this is my first entry for 2016- those in whom know me well-know that ‘inconsistency’ is part of my DNA. ~smiles~

Truthfully though, I am a firm believer of writing in my blog when the time is right for me, not on a clock or a schedule, and those that read my blog get that- and those that don’t want to read my blog because they think I don’t post enough ~insert shrugging shoulders here~ sorry, but I would rather not waste your time ‘typing words on a page’ verses writing something….well….if not interesting, at least…funny….witty….cute? ~giggles~

Well damn that has put me on the spot hasn’t it? Now you will be expecting something amazing every time you read my blog, – yeah- that’s not going to happen- I write random shit- just this and that- things my brain comes up with- some will be pretty fucking profound, some will be funny, some will be boring as hell- but all of it- every single word- will be brutally honest, and 100% me.

I find that when I write my stories and books that I write in the same fashion, a mish-mash of stuff that somehow turns out to be a pretty damn good read. W. Somerset Maugham (playwright, novelist and short story writer) once said “There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.”

I would be in trouble if that was the case- rules I mean- I generally go right when the crowd is going left; that could be because I’m a rebel like that- or it could just be because I am directionally challenged. ~smiles~ or it could be that I am not one that thinks that you should conform—just because.

I certainly know the difference between being radical and trying things differently, I’m not advocating radical behavior, I simple saying, that for me, sometimes rules need to be questioned, and by questioning the rules of writing (Ditching that formula!) I am free to be creative, and stop focusing on the do’s and don’ts ‘rules.’

There is a saying that goes “If it’s not broken don’t fix it.”-I say- fuck that- if you can redesign, improve, create, and ‘fly into the mist’ why would you deny yourself that pleasure?

Write the way that feels correct to you – I don’t hold back I just let my writing take me where it wants to take me, and before I know it “people” are formed (not characters in a story); worlds are built (not settings described); Adventures are created (not a plot); and before I know it, I have a kick-ass amazing piece of writing on my hands!

Sounds like fun right? Go ahead- dare to be YOU!!

The Tilly Rivers Story- Part # 3

Dear World It’s me Tilly

Continued from part 2

Me- The Poet: I currently have four published poetry books, (I have other books published as well, and have been blessed with several best sellers); I have, however written probably a million poems.

I am thankful to be able to express how I feel in a poem, and grateful that my poems  have touched and are loved by others. I’m not sure if you truly know how much that means to me; poetry in itself is a hard sell, and sadly I believe it is becoming a lost art, less people write poetry, and less people read it.

My poetry collection “Just the Way It Is“ was written in 2004 after my father passed away. The poem “floating” has been reprinted over 5 million times, and translated in five different languages. My father is my life, and I miss him beyond measure!
As I am writing this, I feel as if I am betraying my mother, forgive me Mom, as I do not love you less, and do not miss you less. The truth is, as I write this, I realize, that it is not that Dad was my life, you both were, it is just that he left first…he left me…but he left you too didn’t he Mom? And you had a greater claim then I did. And once a selfish brat…always a selfish brat…God if I could reverse time, I would of been a better daughter Mom, I would of been there for you more. I am so, so sorry. I was so caught up in my loss that I didn’t support you in yours.

Just the Way It Is, was my way of grieving, and I am thankful and touched that others took comfort in my words, and that they too found a healing path after losing someone close to them. Was that my purpose in writing Just the Way It Is? I don’t know maybe for I am a believer that everything happens for a reason but at the time I wrote it because I just needed to write; I needed to find a way to express my pain.

I’m not a traditional poet by any means, and the truth is I am not a big fan of ‘formula’ driven works no matter the genre, I believe that you need to write from your heart, full of passion and emotion and that is the difference between ‘words-on-a-page’ and a story.  My poetry is free form, which means it doesn’t t rhyme, you will find no–Jack and Jill went up the hill…I do not write according to plan; the should ‘s or should not’s- not ever, not here, not in my books; not in my magazine articles, and NEVER in my poetry.

I no longer write poetry to sell, I don’t promote or advertise, I write for me and because I truly love poetry.  I could tell you that I have won many awards, I could tell you that by some standards I would be considered successful but that is not why I write, I write because it is me- I am it- words, stories, prose…it just is, it is who I am.

So….what shall I write about next?

Fuck it…I just can’t do it. I can’t write in sections. I mean come on, whose life is cut into nice neat sections anyway? The lines cross, jumble and tumble and are one and none. Nice sections, slots and categories seem pretty boring to me, and I am many things, but boring isn’t one of them. It is like trying to fit a square peg in a round hole, sure you can do it- after all there is always a way- but does it belong? NO WAY- so you sanded down the fucking corners and made it fit, but why did you? What the hell was wrong with being a square peg? ~giggles~

Is that what I am I wonder, a square peg? I am – just me and you know what, that is okay with me- perfect in fact, as that is what I was meant to be! Does that make me unique? Hardly-each one of us is one of a kind, my life experiences are different from yours hence, I am different, you’re different, we share similarities sure, every person does, but each of us has the ability to dare to be different.

Cecil Beaton said- “Be daring, be different, be impractical, be anything that will assert integrity of purpose and imaginative vision against the play-it-safers, the creatures of the commonplace, the slaves of the ordinary.”

I believe that if you don’t become true to yourself and stop the formula driven nonsense you stifle your potential; but hey- who am I? ….~giggles~ well that’s why you’re reading this right? To discover more about who I am.

To be continued…