Wednesday, November 13, 2019

The end of opposites

Shimmering and sinuous, wrapping up around your spine, a snake you do not fear - the only one you do not fear.

And speaking of fear, how is it that you have always been the hunted, never the hunter?

But back to that snake, what is she doing here?  She calls for parts of you to be danced, now.  How odd to be dancing when the music is screeching and you are alone.  You feel your way beneath the screeching, seek a pulse to follow.  All you need is a pulse.

You find the answer in that quiet space between breaths, the one that waits and listens.

Are you flying or falling?  Can you be both?  Not do both, be both.  Be star and soil.

Saturday, November 09, 2019

In you


Black earth so old and deep its minerals sparkle in the dark night, their nourishment the only light to be seen here.  Only perceptible out of the corner of your eye, it disappears if you look straight at it.

No permission or access granted, not to this place.  Sacred and solitary, this terrain welcomes none but you.  An invader then, ruthless and cold, merciless and relentless.  You choke on shock, your own claws grown feral rip and shred at the very essence of you for hope of a breath.  It does not come.

Revived but not renewed, you review the dénouement of your own expiration.  You find a note written with the blood of your wounds.

This season is one of violence and brutality, you feel their echo still, their bruises and gashes landmarks on you.  An echo so strong, your teeth rattle with resonance.

Alive still, you can believe the intent was not malicious.  This violence and brutality are just a stage, the place where this ballad will be sung.  You let them whisper to you in the fading echo, you listen.

Ever in character, they ask brutal questions.  What would it take for you to soften your edges around my brutality?  To sink back and down into your darkness and your silence when faced with my violence?  To surrender to the harsh tones of my echo? To cherish the relief you feel when I am gone knowing you only get to feel it because I was here? 

Thursday, November 07, 2019

Bluebeard

Draping, sweeping branches hanging low to create a hushed canopy of safety and secrecy just for you. Only dirt on this ground, no grass - the shade is too permanent, too effective.  But you like it here anyway.

Inside that house though, the one behind the tree, you've seen the door to the locked room and you've seen the key bleed on more than one occasion.  There is no safety there.

Cartoons on tv, an open cereal box, a stack of napkins, a dainty teacup that can't be put in the dishwasher because the flowers were painted by a skilled hand. You see these on the counter next to clenched fists holding a rage you cannot fathom.  Your neck could be inside those fists, he wants it there.  You know this just like you know that teacup can't go in the dishwasher.  Black shadowed eyes on a face that seems to heave.  Angry spittle flying, those eyes drill a lifetime of hate right into you.

What do you do when you meet Bluebeard in real life?  Just a child, you run for the hills, you have the good sense to be terrified of the void you see in those black eyes.  You saw the skeletons stacked behind the door the minute you walked into the house.  The whip of darkness in that void reaches for you, you feel the blood before see it, but still you run.  You're still running.

Tuesday, November 05, 2019

Hunt this

The napkin goes here, the wine glass there.  Proper ways of doing things.  Pretty is as pretty does.  If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.  You are what you do, not who you are.

Cobwebs that have collected more than dust line the walls of this cave.  Grime and filth have covered anything worth anything, masked it all.

A hum of pleasure, yes pleasure, seeps out from your throat as you put that mask on.  Wearing it for a ball is very different from having it on your face and thinking it was you. You take out your favorite dress, the one that makes you want to dance, and you wear it with the mask.  You feel the snake in you rise and unfurl, black as night with silver eyes, moving you, dancing you.  You are art in this mask, and not the tragic kind.

You've stumbled upon a treasure hunt.  A bold and bloody trail of wicked and wild gems awaits.

Sunday, October 27, 2019

If there's only one thing

Twisting, seething, breathing darkness fills unfamiliar skies.  No landmarks, no signs, no friendly strangers who might offer directions.  The only light is the lantern someone's friend's sister swears is here but that you can't see yet.

Standing still seems like asking for trouble so you move, you imagine there's music and you dance in the darkness.  Serpentine, swirling, swaying as you feel the darkness whisper its secrets to you.

You realize you've been here before.  You know this place, even though you don't.  Where time is on a vertical axis and everything exists at once.  When you existed before you existed and after you're gone.

You also realize you know nothing about what you can do, no idea what you are capable of.  Your hands are instruments you don't know how to play yet. 

Monday, May 01, 2017

Watch this

You've done the deep breathing.  You've meditated twice a day for years.  You've yoga-ed and chi-ed and been aware beyond what should be expected.  Right?  Shouldn't that count for something?  Anything?

You go in deep, you watch silver and gold and stars and moons do things they're not supposed to do.  You accept it anyway.  You let vulnerability become the new cool and you are cool to the point of trendy.

You walk into a bar.  Seriously.  It's like a bad joke.  Someone is always walking into a bar.  Every single time.

He gives you his best look, and it is good one, You're sure it has worked on many others.
And then he whispers, "Take a ride with me."

You laugh.  I mean, seriously, what a line.  But you got on the bike anyway. No helmet.


Sunday, April 23, 2017

On the nature of lines

Solid concrete under your feet, you know you have stepped out of the train onto the platform. Hard tension is coiled in your gut and your throat is constricted by words never spoken. Muscles contract, heels and toes obey an unconscious demand to move forward. And so you do.

Your dread tells you who you will see and how you will feel about it. Eyes meet, yours and hers, blue and brown. In the split second before they do, you recognize the tug of it all – the betrayal, the hurt, the sadness, the anger, the disappointment, the bewilderment, and the wild storm of resentment you’ve been living in for years.

If you were a cartoonist, you would draw the two of you across that expanse of busy train station traffic, love and loss and greetings and goodbyes swirling around you both. There would be a long fishing line between you, a sharp and bloody fish hook nested in each, nowhere to go but to further wounding. Every attempt to pull away, to resist, to free yourself just yields more flesh to the hook. It would be a darkly satirical cartoon.

But in the moment that follows, when your eyes actually meet, you feel the hook in your hand. You’re holding it out in front of you. Love, miracle, magic and truth have somehow brought you here to this place where the hook is out and is literally in your hands. You feel that miraculous, magical, truthful love in you and around you as you simply let the hook go.

And just as quickly as the meeting of a glance, everything has changed. There are no hooks – one could not exist without the other. There is no storm, your skies are blue. The long list of painful feelings is like a grocery list you made months ago, you could guess what was on it but you don’t really remember. 

Body and soul seek balance and harmony and while you were not looking with your eyes, they got you where you needed to be. They brought you to a crossroads and eyes wide open, you made the brave choice. You chose to let go. And so you healed. It was your deepest soul voice calling out to be free. You listened. And so you healed.

Free and clear and overflowing with gratitude and love, you spend another second trying to map out how you got here. How this could have happened when those feelings were so strong, when the hurt was as much a part of you as any vital organ. You see the map in a flash, steps you were talking all along that brought you gently, lovingly back home. Every time you were kind to yourself, every time you sought support, every time you examined an outdated belief, every time you chose love instead of fear, every time you closed your eyes and gifted your mind with silence, every time you opened your heart to your intuition, and every time you nourished the seed of hope was a step leading you to this perfect moment. A timeless moment in which you know in a way you have never known before that healing is available to you. Always.

Saturday, April 15, 2017

Where you stand

Grace at your left.  Mercy at your right.  Guard rails for dangerous times.

You've been silent by choice, resting.  All of you curled and coiled, nested in the safest, darkest place.

Harsh blows smoothed only by time and distance repeat themselves without permission.  A call from home to remember.  The forged metal in you feels the strike of each one.  A call to arms.

You rise, feeling her weave up your spine as you do so.  Do you know what she is here to do, the serpent at your feet?  Is your world ready for what she brings now that she is awake?

You've seen this woman before, this woman who accepts the snake that cycles through her.  I'm sure you have. Although it's not certain you've noticed her.

She cares deeply and absolutely doesn't care. All at once. And it's not even a contradiction. She makes it look like the most nature thing in the world.  She carries both annihilation and possibility and makes them look weightless.

Be afraid when you see her.  But not fearful.

Wednesday, January 25, 2017

Ruby at your feet

Rugged and dark, timeless walls of stone carved by waters long gone whisper around the fire.  Words of power are spoken here, murmured in low tones that tighten the air with blackened threads.  The weaving has begun.

Initiation.

And there you are, how long have you been there standing in that river bed?  Waist high in the mud, what kind of a river has only mud and no water?

What you seek is there, you can feel it at your feet.  You stand, you struggle, your arms will not leave your side.  They are useless to you here, bound by shackles made of iron forged by the relentless hammer of longing and the blistering fire of pain.

Betray yourself or betray what is yours alone to do?

Surrender.

And with that your toes dig into the mud, dark loving earth giving you the welcome you did not know you wanted.

Arms still bound, any obvious power you might have has long left.  So what is left?  Feet in the mud, you dig, you feel, you find.  The stone meets you half-way, you will always believe that.  It nestles into you just as you curl around it.  Who knows if you're strong but you've always been flexible and so your foot rises above the mud and your hand finds what your heart has always been looking for.

The ruby is yours forever now, shaped for its seeker.  Transformation of liquids and stone by pressure and heat.  It will not break.  It is not in its nature.


Monday, October 24, 2016

Hymn

Small and young, hiding beneath the branches of the willow tree.  Wistful leaves sheltering, holding my fear at bay.  Branches that showed me what surrender looked like.  That was you.

Sought out by wolves, scented out.  I have felt their fur on my bare legs.  Predators always nearby but somehow always just brushing past. That was you.

Blood, the most reliable witness, telling the stories I could not.  I searched for wounds and found honey where I was certain blood would be.  Scars, upon inspection, revealed to be delicate fingerprints left on my softest parts.  That was you.
 
Dark and dank, the cave.  Weapons in my hands, men down.  Softness grazed my ear, whispers called me to a home I did not yet know.  Metal rang out, a bell, as both dagger and sword dropped to the ground.  That was you.

Blood drops on sand, an endless field of poppies, flowers of the dead, my dead.  They stood behind me, soldiers of the past who fought so hard to bring me here.  They waved as I looked ahead and we sang a song of mourning for their sacrifices together.  Honor bound, the blood ink of those generations tattooed on my insides, I stepped humbly and gratefully where they could not.  That was you.

Bluest of skies, matching an ocean limitless before me.  Grounded on a cliff made only by water and time.  Grace upon me, in me, for me, of me.  More infinite than all I could see.  That was you.

The glittery sky, sun flashing through glass, one moment frozen but only so it could be framed, I was whole, never broken.  That was you.

Those moments, rare, justesse holding my hand.  Justness is as close as we can get.  The murmured song of a sigh at the center of it all. That was you.

Called down to the basement with the shadows that cannot be named.  Every fear, every horror woven into a tapestry that hangs in the darkness, protected from light so it will never fade.  Waiting in silence for my other senses to take over so I could find my way upstairs.  And they did.  That was you.

An ancient and intricate pattern to make the finest lace, a pattern I have no reason to know.  I did not know I was making a veil until it was finished.  I became a seamstress while I was not looking.  That was you.

Forged to endure, sharp and brilliant, these blades in my life.  Every sword I have wielded, and it has been many, cut through more with its reflection than its edge.  That was you.

Offerings to the forest, a cross I no longer needed to bear, a skin I no longer needed to wear and a sword I  no longer needed to wield.  The hush of reverence, a sweet fingertip to my lips to bless giving up without knowing what you will get.  That was you.

I did not know.  I never knew.

Beneath the river, under the stones polished by waters that never stop, under that not knowing, that was you.

Saturday, August 08, 2015

on making it this far


A circular saw is your tool, rip cuts your specialty.   Along the grain but deeper than is reparable. 

Time and time again, ravaging beyond recognition.  Steel and permanence.  A reflex, not an instinct.

Fingerprint of the hand that made you, five senses deep, sixth sense wide.

On a good day though, from the side, I see a water wheel, not a blade.  Power quietly generated.

Rippling between your fingers, remembering the webs you no longer have.  Resistance, however slight, is pleasurable.  It highlights what has been surrendered. 


Friday, May 01, 2015

pace yourself

Quiet lines, whispering ivy, silent tendrils black and silky.

I thought I knew you.

I've paced my life upon you.  An impartial metronome, pulsing, beating, defining, reminding.

Beliefs carved into ancient marble, patterns immortalized into timeless sound, stories told with forever paint on the walls of caves unexposed to the elements.

In my darkest moments, you are everything.  And in my purest, you are nothing.


Black earth, rich with minerals and gems worn to sparkling dust by time.


Friday, February 13, 2015

on the nature of art

For years you've searched for it.  Overturned stones, peeled back fading wallpaper.  You found it once, or so you thought, scratches on vinyl when vinyl was still the only thing.  A song that skipped your favorite part.

Where the sun usually shines the brightest and longest, this was not where you expected it to be.  Swirls of soot-filled tar smeared artfully, tendrils extending to the very ends of you.  Post modern enough to deserve its own show.  You asked for a name, why wouldn't you?  Once someone is already in, you may as well be civilized.

The whispered reply, "I am your oldest friend."

Anything but that.  And yet.  It's all coming back, remember whens and moments as pictures.  Someone else was there.

It is a time for rituals, words that carry more than their sounds could possibly create and reverence that only silence can convey. Once complete, nothing remains.  Nothing that you can see unless you can see a promise in a seed.


Sunday, November 30, 2014

the space between

The familiar of yesterday.  A constellation you've spent thousands of nights gazing at.  Familiar patterns, lights that guide reliably and silently.  Leather-bound and treasured, that is what you have always been here.  Reined. 

The unknown of tomorrow.  Treasures unwrapped. You watch it unravel, unfurl, untwist.  Unwrapped and open, a gift.

A love knot.  Made from the ribbons of the past, who you were, and strands of the future, who you will be.  You do not let go of one to become another.  You look at them, clearly for once, and bind them together.  You let the strength of the past stabilize the now and beyond, but mindfully so. 

Nothing binds you here, there are only sparkling bracelets at your wrists.  Adornments that remind you that everything that once held now only decorates. 

Saturday, November 15, 2014

time of death

Another day, another sword.  Battle ready and poised to strike.  Rubies and sapphires in the hilt, their color drawn from blood sought and shed, truth sought and found.  The shine of this sword is no accident, nothing is.  A mirror image, so nothing can be hidden.  Remember that. 

Do you know what it means to carry blood and truth in your hands?


You have no power here.  Pretty is as pretty does so I'll whisper it.  A whisper is the pearl necklace of truth.  And whispered, it is still true. 

You have no power here. 

Saturday, November 08, 2014

legacy

Rainbows of a different sort.  All the right colors, ribbons grounded below your feet, circling up, wrapped around you just tight enough to be confusing. 

Security or constraint?

Bound yes, but with softness and beauty.  Colored silk, smooth and watery, no knots to be found. 

You assumed it was to keep you prisoner.  You learn it was to keep you safe from harm.  You understand the only risk of harm comes from within.

I am the sum of all daughters before me.  I carry our history with me, silent tattoos etched from within - a map of those things you cannot trust to memory. 

Thursday, October 23, 2014

for you

People come of course.  They bring flashlights, light matches, turn on cell phones, nothing helps.

Not really.  Which is not to say they aren't helpful or kind, truly they are.  But not in the way they think. 

This is a secret darkness no one else understands, their light does not work here.  They worry though.  As they should.


Polarities at play, this is miles away from the ocean you once saw in your teardrop.  Illusions, achingly real ones, left you gasping for air there. 

Not here.  This is the opposite of making something out of nothing.


You've been here before.  It's familiar, like camp.

There's even a campfire here, just for you.  Only for you.  You get close, it's good to feel warm.  You sing the camp songs, tell the stories, relive the memories.  It's a little bit different every time you come.  Different and familiar all at once.

In the end you stomp out the fire.  Kick dirt on the embers. 

All that remains is darkness and one ember that will not cool. 

Do you know what you don't know?  Do you know that fire can purify, forge, refine?

A bonfire lives within that ember, just for you.  A smoldering place, always, forever, as much a part of you as the color of your eyes. 

Saturday, October 11, 2014

on the nature of being a hybrid

Or we could call this something about plateaux.  See, it should be plateaus with an "s" in English but that just sounds wrong because it is a French word and its plural is with an "x".

And that's my whole point.

You have been here before, done this before.  This should not be so hard.  You should not feel like you're walking among strangers. Or you should, but you should be able to maintain the proper distance to this particular tableau and see illusion from fact.  You should know that feeling foreign is just part of the painting you have to back up to see.  You should know that any separation you feel is a lie.

But most of all, you should be able to see how damaging shoulds are.

You do not know if this is the place, the one whose cobblestones will welcome you.  Either way, you still need to walk on them. 

Saturday, October 04, 2014

Silent Witness

The one who sees the secrets hidden in sound.

Phonemes, syntax, embedded and unspoken structure that rule everything without a single sign of force.  Things that can be counted on.  And you surely did.  You remembered the words, the sounds, the sighs and gestures.  Categorized and filed away, diamonds that engraved the coolest marble.

Hidden away, a weeping willow to protect you, you build a palace out of all that marble.  Cold perhaps, but very sturdy.  Swirls decorate the columns, grooves line the walls, breathtaking carvings everywhere.  From the outside.  From within, brush your fingertips over any surface and you feel what each word held.  Nothing is forgotten here.

A universe of reference at your fingertips.  Use it wisely.


Friday, September 19, 2014

La salle des sceaux

Four walls, no windows - light is not allowed here.  Only a door.  Made of iron black with age and wood that no longer knows it was ever alive.  The brightest tapestries do not fade here, an incomprehensible blend of vibrant colors against a backdrop of fabric that ages silently with no real reason to do so and certainly no witnesses.

This is a room where a line means something.  Where the boundaries are etched in marble with diamonds and the lines are drawn with the blood ink of generations and honored forever.

This is a room where forever means something.  Where the walls whisper, "You are infinite."