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 Everyone has a hero or someone that they look up to. Maybe it is someone who gave you some good advice or was there to listen when no one else would. Someone who showed you that you can conquer the world, and you can do it alone. For California trial lawyer, David Boies, that person was his father.

Mr. Boies father moved his family to California from Illinois over 50 years ago. Neither parent had a job or home awaiting them. However, Mr.Boies says the best way to teach someone to make right choices is to lead through example.

Mr. Boies claims his father was always hard working and doing the right thing. David Boies father was a high school history teacher but always had many second jobs, (not only to add to the income but in search of a challenge as well). These second jobs include: selling World Book Encyclopedias, working at Sears and driving a bakery truck.

David Boies, after 40 years of practice, now has his own law firm in a Los Angeles loft, and he credits all of his success to the lessons his father instilled in him during his youth.

However, my hero, my light in the darkness hasn't gone out to conquer the world yet. In fact, she hasn't even graduated middle school yet. My hero is of a smaller proportion with a giant heart.

My 12 year old sister has shown me the way I need to be when no one else could, when she didn't even realize that she had. I've made mistakes, everyone has, but there's nothing worse than the look on her face and the sadness in her eyes when she's disappointed in me. She's the only person in the world it seems, sometimes that I have enough respect for, not to do things I know I shouldn't, just as a slap in the face.

My sister looks up to me, I'm her role model! It even says so on her myspace. If there's one thing I shouldn't be, it's a role model, but there's no one else I'd be prouder of to have look up to me.

Sometimes when I see her or when I talk to her and we have a real conversation, about something other than Hannah Montana, I catch a glimpse of that innocence in her. The same kind all of us used to have and it makes me happy to know that there is still good in the world, and that it's in her.

I've also realized how brave she is. I mean, anyone can walk out the door in the morning with a scowl on and an "I hate the world" attitude. But it takes something more than that to be happy and friendly and kind. I'm not always great at that, but she gives me hope that it'll happen.

I realize she won't be a child forever, but the crazy thing is, she has the power and the mind set of bringing her child-like wonder and happiness into her adolescence and probably the rest of her life. Even at 12, I had already made horrible mistakes and choices. I wish I could take them back, but then I think of how she would never do the things I've done and it's not so bad.

The last straw, the mistake that she witnessed first hand and what brought me back from everything hurt her so badly. She wouldn't speak to me for days and at the time I didn't care. Now, if I had one chance to do something over, that would be it.

She makes me want to live life better, the way it's supposed to be, not only for myself but other people as well. It sometimes amazes me that with everything I've done, I'm still
her light in the dark. Ironically enough, she's my hero because I'm hers. (written by Caitlyn for Hannah)

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What visions haunt my waking dreams

Where nothings as it truly seems.

An angels smile may be a mask

To disguise the betrayers brutal task.

How is it that you can really know,

Who is friend and who is foe?

So much confusion in my head,

Is it a wonder the soul is dead?

Stumbling along a darkened path

Assailed by demons that scoff and laugh.

Dragging the chains of bondage's shame

Knowing there is no one else to blame.

How do I escape this nightmare state

And start anew with a brand new slate?

How does one still the voices of pain

And when they're gone what will remain?

An empty casket with a painted smile

Hollowly echoing all the while.

A gruesome mannequin with a human face

Looking for that final resting place.

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Would you consider bagging up the rottenest, stinkingest, most repulsive garbage that you can think of, store it in the rooms of your house and occasionally rummage through it, meticulously going over each putrid item in the bag? Neither would I, but most of us do it with our inner homes. Why do we do this to ourselves mentally and emotionally? Why do we psychologically shift through the remnants of our past, dredging up refuse that should have been left untouched long ago?

Why in the world would we even consider placing these in our way to be road blocks keeping us from attaining the things that we dream of and desire in our lives? My best guess is that the root causes are fear, pride and control issues. It is easier to deny oneself of our wants and needs rather than leaving them in the hands of fate, karma or others.

Protecting a fragile ego is paramount to self preservation.

I question the choices that I make everyday. This is not a dress rehearsal, we have only one shot at getting it right. Whatever it is that we deem right to be, whether that be finding success, a career, a home, a partner, happiness, ect.

We find our road blocks there as well. In jobs, partners, homes, children, ect. All those things falling under the umbrella of 'responsibilities'. Responsibilities are much less road blocks as they are Masters that we become enslaved by. That doesn't have to be a negative thing. It can mean committing to service for fulfillment, gratification on all dimensions, serving a greater purpose. It is when we become shackled to a vicious and/or demanding taskmaster that life becomes misery.

The thing that has kept me grounded so long has been my duty to the responsibilities in my life. I have sacrificed much on that alter. More than likely they will be empty sacrifices. So many of the things I have sacrificed have already turned out to be so much useless ash blown away by indifferent winds. They meant nothing.

It has been a long cold season that has been devoted to all my responsibilities. As the Earth herself lies mostly dormant during this time she is preparing the way for the spring. Most people would consider me entering my fall, I don't.

I look forward to this new season. It is not quite here yet but will be soon. I want fun, romance, passion, adventure. I want to be with someone that is as curious and creative as I am. I want to be able to talk to them for hours about everything or nothing at all. I want someone that pretends to be shocked with my political incorrectness and then is just as politically incorrect as I am.

I was told that there is usually a difference between nature and demeanor. Someone that displays a dominant demeanor usually has a submissive nature and vice versa. People that know me know my dominant demeanor, they have no idea what my true nature is. I was told I was a sexist oxymoron. I couldn't argue with that.

I don't know that I will find those things or that someone, but just in case I do I am trying to take out the trash and reconcile my demeanor with my nature. If I never find these things in another human being I will at least have found them in myself. Who knows, there may actually be someone out there thinking the same things. And they will want to be with me as much as I want to be with them. Only time will tell.

My muse has been kind to me of late. He has made himself known in a variety of ways. Sometimes in a song, sometimes in casual conversation, sometimes in quiet moments of reflection. Right now he is showing me the pitfalls of some of my writers blocks. Some of this I already knew, some are divine epiphanies.

I have always known that I write more creatively when I suffer from depression or angst. Not unusual for poets. That doesn't mean that they are great works of art or that others find my work appealing. They are usually pieces that are more personally satisfying to me, which is the main objective anyway. Personal gratification. We all suffer from narcissism to some degree.

My greatest stumbling blocks are when I go through periods of confusion, self doubt or conflict with people that I love dearly. It immerses me in negativity and my muse abhors drama. Especially senseless drama. As was so eloquently stated by the infamous Rodney King, "can't we all just get along"?

Long ago I saw my world in black and white. Over the years these have burred into a million hues of grey. My time lines were different as well. My visions and goals were always long term. The fairy tales always ended in 'happily ever after'. Now my days are narrowed down to brief segments. One moment at a time.

I have learned to let go of the expected and just accept each moment as it comes. If someone says 'I love you' even once and you believe it even for a second, is it less important than being loved for a lifetime? And even if they aren't sincere about it, is it less real if you allowed yourself to feel like it was?

Is the passion and fire that lies deep within a soul less precious if it remains untouched and unshared as long as you know it is there along with the depth of emotion that you know you are capable of? Just as the sun, moon and stars need to shine in their appointed time, so does the human soul. Some are like seasons; predictable, dependable. Others are like glorious comets, brilliantly illuminating a dark world for only a brief moment, but the beauty of that moment stays with you for a lifetime.

In a world that has become cold and cynical, where does the poet find a home? How does one find the catalyst that ignites those passions and fires and restores the hopes and dreams?

I have also come to suspect that my Muse is allied with the demons that I battle. My Muse strokes my psyche, offering outward expression of the inner battles, torments and turmoil that rage within. During these periods come the revelations into self and others. It is a torturous process that usually ends with a brief season of inner calm and peace. A season where clarity reigns supreme and there is a time of tranquil self reconciliation.

Unfortunately the cycles are a bit unbalanced, but I am learning to listen to the voices that speak to me in kinder gentler ways. No one can beat me up better than I can beat myself. Some see me as deep, others shallow, some see me as intelligent and witty, others as humorless and dim. Regardless as to how I am viewed by others at the end of the day I am only accountable to myself and God. And I pray He be merciful.

Til next time,

Love, sassy v

let it go,
let it roll right off your shoulder
don't you know
the hardest part is over
let it in,
let your clarity define you
in the end
we will only just remember how it feels

our lives are made
in these small hours
these little wonders,
these twists & turns of fate
time falls away,
but these small hours,
these small hours still remain

let it slide,
let your troubles fall behind you
let it shine
until you feel it all around you
and i don't mind
if it's me you need to turn to
we'll get by,
it's the heart that really matters in the end

our lives are made
in these small hours
these little wonders,
these twists & turns of fate
time falls away,
but these small hours,
these small hours still remain

all of my regret
will wash away some how
but i can not forget
the way i feel right now

in these small hours
these little wonders
these twists & turns of fate
these twists & turns of fate
time falls away but these small hours
these small hours, still remain,
still remain
these little wonders
these twists & turns of fate
time falls away
but these small hours
these little wonders still remain

The Dark Muse

Leanan Sídhe
Manx: Lhiannon-Shee
Ir.: "fairy sweetheart" or "fairy mistress"

A spirit--male or female--who is the lover of a mortal. Usually, the spirit is depicted as a woman. In Manx folklore, she (or he) is a vampiric spirit, sucking the lifeforce out of her (or his) lovers.

In Irish folklore, she is a muse of poetry, but a dangerous one--those who devote themselves to her live a short but glorious life. William Butler Yeats saw the leanan sidhe as the Dark Muse, an artistic succubus, giving creative gifts in exchange for the artist's life:

This, of course, is a well-known concept of the artist who dies young, often tragically: John Keats, Kurt Cobain; or who goes mad later in life (not unlike Yeats).

Yeats' definition may have been just a bit influenced by his real-life muse, Maude Gonne.

The idea of the dangerous fairy lover is also seen in later ballads such as "Tam Lin" or "Thomas the Rhymer." Particularly relevant is the story of Thomas the Rhymer, who reportedly gained his gift of prophecy from being the lover of the Queen of Elfland.

May the muse of your destiny be kinder and more merciful.

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