tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-258064012024-03-07T23:05:06.659+01:00living in a second languageNicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.comBlogger616125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-50501021121815668402024-02-19T17:38:00.001+01:002024-02-19T18:11:26.544+01:00Behind the I<p>I see you and then ask that me who sees you, who's seeing you? And her? I find an endless well of I.<br /></p><p>A well, even an endless one, has a bottom, even if the current I isn't blind enough to find it. <br /></p><p>What lies beneath the well? A river blacker than the darkest night. Home to everything that becomes nothing because it cannot be seen, it's too dark. Or just dark enough. </p><p>Perhaps all of this, or each part of this, is about extinguishing the lights, one at a time, to arrive in this inky blackness where each thing disappears and becomes both everything and nothing. </p><p>Perhaps that is also true for you, in this life. Unraveling the tangle of power cords to turn off all the artificial lights, the ones that show the parts you think you like, the parts you think make you likeable. Acceptable. <br /></p><p>Does the tree next to the streetlight forget it's part of the forest? Does it sing in sweet relief when that light goes out and it is absorbed back into the blackness that is its origin, its creation, and its home? <br /></p><p>In my own sweet and brief moments of relief, when the shining light of an I-am-this is put out, may I sink into the ink beneath the well and let myself be written into the darkness, free from a light that would define or identify. May I find my true sight in the deepest darkness where I can identify nothing, not even parts of me, in a vast forest where my roots touch yours. <br /></p>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-69123668679871630662024-02-14T11:00:00.000+01:002024-02-14T11:24:22.180+01:00What was<p>What did I lose when they took you? It felt like it was more than just you. A wise one spoke your voice to me and shared your love for me, your facet of our parting. You told me we were more together, but not less apart. May I learn this math of love and loss. May I know that I am not less me because you are no longer here in form. May I remember that your essence is scribed deep inside me and cannot be removed.</p><p>The path to losing you was not linear, it was both my losing something and them taking something. No ceremony, no ritual, no honoring of what was, no one to treasure or even use what was taken. For a time, I lost access to parts of me, although maybe that was the plan all along.</p><p>This entire lifetime I have danced with form and content. It’s better said in French, <i>forme et fond. Fond</i> as the deepest part, the depths. Form to my south, depths to my north, that is what was written for me. </p><p>A friend offered me a gift recently, the idea that form can be the depths expressing all the way to the surface, rising up to meet the outside world in form. May I honor your absence by embracing my wholeness and enoughness without you here to make it unquestionable. May I free the she in me who questions it. May our parting be the invitation to allow the depths of completeness to rise to the surface and express as form in movement, not the perfect picture it once was. </p><p>Even if you are with me differently now, I will miss you forever. The more we were together. </p><p>May I offer the honoring that never was, may I find a different kind of more in the loss of you.</p>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-88848343147776429162024-02-10T15:51:00.000+01:002024-02-10T15:51:36.901+01:00I am here for you<p>The ground vibrates, plates of land slide and crumble, everyone moves, shifted to a new place.</p><p>In this land reconfigured, I watch you stand and wonder, confused and still. You ask, “Then who am I if I am not that one?” You know there is no answer to that question, only ideas that will never be true. Or maybe they’ll be true for a moment, but never accurate. You ask it anyway, we all do. </p><p>I have no more answers than you, but I do have something to offer. My deepest devotion to what you bring to each moment, forever. </p><p>So let the tears fall and I will drink them all, for they are homeopathic remedies. My tongue welcomes the salt of your struggles. </p><p>And show me your rage and I will let it burn me, for those flames cleanse and forge. My skin marvels as it burns and blisters and heals. </p><p>Give me your angst and anguish and I will lap them up, for sour and bitter flavors bring balance and contrast. My mouth waters for your twists and turns. </p><p>Play your drama and theatrics, I delight in the spectacular spectacle they create, for they whisper to parts within. I have season tickets for all your shows. </p><p>Amplify your deepest pleasure, your most ecstatic jouissance, for your ecstasy is nectar. I could live on its nourishment alone.</p><p>More, more, give me more. I will be your greatest lover, I will love it all.</p><p>You are not everyone’s medicine, but you are mine. </p>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-1580356922541375662024-01-23T13:11:00.002+01:002024-01-23T13:11:33.669+01:00The Songs of Grandmothers<p>No fairy tales or ballads even. Just the music that suits the truth of the words you have to share. </p><p>What don’t we know? Please tell us everything. Not to justify or explain, this is not about those things. This is about showing us who you have been, the picture of each moment. Not through the lens of a make-it-pretty retelling, but through the voice of the reliable witness. She who sees who she was when it happened and can honor what was, no matter how ugly or beautiful any of it was. </p><p>Grandmothers, who were you when you baked pies and canned vegetables, when you held grand-babies with reverence, when you soothed the tears that others couldn’t? And then also tell us who were you when you married the predator, when your child died, when you gave your firstborn up, when you beat your child’s thighs with a switch, when you stayed silent to be good, when you taught your daughters how to castrate and flay the men in their lives just as your own grandmother had, when you swallowed your anger and held your tongue, when you lost the ability to stand straight on your own two feet and began to bend like an orchid? Sing us the song of those women that you were. Strong, weak, lost, terrified, wronged, bitter, angry, joyful, free, afraid, alone, relieved, caring, loving, nurturing, harsh, judgmental, condemning, welcoming. </p><p>Sing us the song of the steps on your path so we can remember that we came from somewhere. We came from a path you were part of. Show us so we can know what we are made of. </p><p>Tell us the truth, tell us everything. We want to know all of it.</p><p>If you have already passed and didn’t sing us your song, sing it to us from beyond. We will hear you. We are listening. </p><p>Please sing us your songs, Grandmothers.</p><p>Tell us who you were. </p>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-39087131029628863702023-12-20T22:02:00.003+01:002023-12-20T22:05:12.136+01:00Come to Life<p>Let this be the end of fine. </p><p><span style="font-size: 1rem;">I told you I went through something hard. I saw the fear in your eyes, it was once in my own. You quickly ask me if I’m okay now. </span></p><p data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 1rem;">I ask us both silently, when was I not okay? Was it when I had cancer? What about when I walked far from the edge of the bridge, lest I be tempted to jump, but still went to work and bought groceries? When I was outside-okay and inside-miserable? When I was spread so thin, between the rock of my internal pressure to perform and find value in the eyes of others and the hard place of a world reflecting that back to me? We did not wonder about my okay-ness then. </p><p data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 1rem;">What did the not-okay-ness of having cancer mean to you? What did it mean to me? That I will die? That’s always been true and is still true. That you will die? That has always been true and is still true.</p><p data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 1rem;">What does it mean when I reply that I am okay now? That we can forget it ever happened? Pretend that my death, or yours, is any less certain?</p><p data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 1rem;">All the landscapes of my experience, all the seasons inside of it. I don’t live there anymore, but the time I spent there changed me and wanting or needing me to be okay feels like a desire to build condos on a cemetery and pretend like nothing is buried there. </p><p data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 1rem;">Things were laid to rest in that cemetery, parts of me. A breast, a layer of innocence, a dysfunctional relationship with work, habitual self-sacrifice, powering through, chronic overriding of my body’s request to stop, to rest, to be, to feel. Echoes remain but they’re just echoes. </p><p data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 1rem;">Before I had cancer, I survived, nothing more. Now I live, or at least try to. These past four years have been about coming to life. </p><p data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 1rem;">So I will not build condos on that cemetery, no one should live there, including me. Nor will I build a monument there. May I let it be a resting place for the past, the remains at peace, undisturbed and left to slowly return to ash. </p><p data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 1rem;">May I remember that fine and okay are just words, not promises.</p><p data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 1rem;">May I honor the dead and remember that I am alive. May I honor what has been and embrace what is. May I allow that tome of my life to be closed and placed upon a shelf while I turn to the next tome with a beginner’s mind. </p>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-88529425644931948352023-12-16T21:36:00.004+01:002023-12-16T21:39:54.063+01:00Magicienne<p>Your footfalls silenced by the soft forest floor, you move towards the meeting place where you never meet. Closer still, greeted only by silence and a heavy wooden door.</p><p>Shelves of wood carved from knowing trees, lined with bottles and vials, potions and elixirs. Reminders that deep work is done here - transformations, macerations, alchemy. That work is not your mystery to hold, it belongs to another, the one from the north who works in the shadows. </p><p>The forest surrounds, grown so tall that daylight is subtle and soft, and the dark is never far. </p><p>In this place, past, present, and future are now. </p><p>In this place, you are the night sky. </p><p>Moon held softly in your hands, you whisper into the wind. The wind that knows that past, present and future are now. </p><p>It is to that wind that you make your offerings, that is the mystery you hold. Discernment, knowing which spell to take off the shelf and speak into the wind. Faith, believing it will be heard and received. </p><p>One more offering as you leave this place, a gift to the keeper of this space, honoring the devotion to her craft. You walk away, honoring your devotion to your own. </p>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-77380703514410903322023-12-11T22:01:00.001+01:002023-12-12T11:37:22.846+01:00Be Witched <div>What if I took my own sword, heirloom and legacy, down from its place above the mantel and made it the sacred blood-letting tool for this rite?</div><div><br /></div><div>And what if the shining blade of each scalpel that carved into me, was, in fact, the tip of that very sword? Shape shifted for precision work, cloaked and disguised for your hand so you could play high priest, lay me on your altar and slice me open again and again? </div><div><br /></div><div>That would mean it was always and ever only my ritual, not yours. </div><div><br /></div><div>That would mean I am Sorceress.</div><div><br /></div><div>And what if each slice transformed me into a stained glass window, lit from behind by the moon? </div><div><br /></div><div>That would mean the reflection in the mirror that tells the story of deep cuts is a codex that speaks of a cauldron in my belly. </div><div><br /></div><div>That would mean the traces on my body are runes, crafted by me, for me. Spells that etched themselves into my flesh, guided by the whispered invocations of my cells. </div><div><br /></div><div>That would mean my craft resides in my very flesh, the strongest spells from my grimoire scribed on my skin. </div><div><br /></div><div>What if those runes speak of pleasure, desire? What if they invoke power, presence? </div><div><br /></div><div>That would mean I am Witch.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-43132575172419554852023-10-14T13:19:00.001+02:002023-10-14T21:38:08.823+02:00A Prayer to a Season<p>Autumn calls me forth to honor and release. Harvest and grieve. </p><p>Wise Willow, I found you here, the living breath of your growth and survival an invitation to find you in me. Sacred Birch, forever starry in my eyes, I found myself in your sky space for the first time. Trees of my childhood who held me and offered me shelter and solace, mystery and magic, silent witnesses to the homeless ones within me. </p><p>May I know you are here even when I cannot see you. May I release myths of rootlessness and isolation, abandonment and rejection. May I relinquish the refugee and embrace the sovereign. May I know I am as much a part of this forest as you. Nourished, safe, connected, home where I stand. May I know my roots intertwine with yours no matter how far I travel. May I know I am always home, for I am here. </p><p>Waters. Temple tears, a call to dance, flow, feel, remember. No drop of water is ever wasted, there is no such thing. May I know this of my own waters. </p><p>Dragonflies. Little books, tales of adventure and journeys beyond the illusions of limitations. </p><p>May I hope, change, and love life as you do. May I accept transformation and let it bring me into my fullest expression of beauty as you do, acceptance based on nothing but faith that it will be so. </p><p>Weave, in and out, over and under. </p><p>May I remember all this as the same artistry that also created me. May I see life through the stained glass window of your beauty. May I cherish my breath as a cool autumn breeze. May I revere my tears as wild ocean waves. May I worship my flesh as magnificent landscapes. May I glorify my blood as hearth fire. </p><p>That was out, now comes in. </p><p>So far in that I find emptiness. The ribbons of others left to fall and furl back into their source. </p><p>Channel or container, may I remember that here, I am no thing, no one. </p><p>May I remember that I am the promise of elements responding to the breath of the moment. </p><p>Shimmery and reflective. Water at night on a full moon, let me show you to you. </p><p>May I dance us back home, sing us awake. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-70482982738100145942023-09-28T14:57:00.000+02:002023-09-28T14:57:32.930+02:00It is done<p>She blinks, awakening to the harsh brush of rough stone beneath her fingertips, surprised to be standing. Images flood, not fall, into her eyes as they blink and pull her out of the trance only the deepest of art-making can bring. Her nose just a breath away from that same stone, she cannot see the art that must be there. The smeared paint on her fingertips tell her it is there and that she has made it. Or been a part of its making.<br /></p><p>The echo of a whispered possibility of a somewhere else that might have been or might be floats down, soft as rose incense into the cave. How does she know this place is down? Because nowhere this dark could exist anywhere else.</p><p>Rose calls to her, she follows. </p><p>She moves through worlds, free. Memories of a someone who might have been her a lifetime ago float in as scents change and light becomes a possibility. Those memories dance and flow around her, brightly painted scarves she doesn't need to wear. She feels no chill in this air.</p><p>Steady footsteps, her own, land and ground on each step as they appear before her. She climbs, breath strong, steady, and sure. No rush, no effort. She does not wonder about what comes next, there is no next, only now.</p><p>Exiting what was and what has been, seven staircases later, her feet are met by the caress of morning dew, soft medicine like the tears she has wept, a promise of a sun that will rise. She casts a final glance to the steps she has climbed, the unseen spiral they formed. It is done. She sits in the grass wet with the promise of morning and becomes part of that promise.<br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-15722053804823012592022-09-03T20:05:00.002+02:002022-09-04T15:53:57.567+02:00First Ground of Creation <p>Two inhales, one exhale. Fast enough and long enough to make my body tingle and my hands cramp into claws, my primal hands held before me as you appear to watch me weep and breathe. We started at twilight and the sky is dark now. </p><p>Flying or falling, only those two with us, never the sacred third - free. </p><p>Your soul’s patience, kind and tender, meets me through the mirror. It whispers sweet somethings to me. My beloved, it says, that thing you think I have and won’t give you? I don’t have it, I never did. That thing you think I am and won’t be for you? I’m not that, I never was.</p><p>You show me, with such gentleness, the rugged terrain of us. You show me that the treasure was in my hands all along, whole and complete.</p><p>Time shifts then, past, present, and future stack up and are all now.</p><p>The creation of all our us-ness is now, this moment, here on this ropy blanket in this very darkness. </p><p>The woven shawl of time has wrapped itself around my life and brought me onto your path then, all those years ago, so you could be this for me today. The one who whispers through the mirror. The one who said yes. I will be this lie for you so you can find truth. </p><p>Free.</p><p>I do not know, I may never, what I have agreed to be for you. But I pray it is a gift, or will be someday. I hope you'll have a moment, maybe while you're waiting for the darkness to envelope you, when you realize that everything you thought you could find in me, is already there in you. </p>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-34006594616378187592022-02-13T15:47:00.003+01:002023-04-17T14:16:32.566+02:00She who welcomes <p>Not loud, just persistent. Repeated, rhythmic even. Knocking at the door for months or maybe even years, they all feel the same now. I don’t believe in time anymore, other than to meet a friend for coffee. We agree on a moment and call it a time. But using it to pace and measure moments of my life? Befores and afters and whens seem like dangerous concepts meant to keep me on a track that doesn’t exist unless I play along. </p><p>Back to the knocking of the uninvited intruder outside. What will I find, weariness, when I let you in as a welcomed traveler deserving of minimally civilized hospitality? As opposed to ignoring your pleas for food and water at my door? </p><p>Your stay is more brief than I expected, you breeze through like a draft when I thought surely you would be the worst kind of squatter, impossible to dislodge. I feel the change in decor though, even as you leave. This is a home where weariness can find shelter, however brief. There’s now a new painting in my living room I’ve never seen before but now love. It is deep blues and night skies and a calm I thought impossible if you were in my life. I felt my bones give in while you were here, I thought it meant I would collapse. It did not. It meant I could stop wearing the heavy coat of she-who-shall-never-be-weary. Instead, those bones remembered they’re a living, responsive system of collagen and mineral crystals that adapt to context and load. They adapted to the relief of one less retaining wall to hold up. </p><p><br /></p>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-22676750560806667422020-10-25T22:11:00.004+01:002020-10-25T22:13:45.855+01:00Dissolution<p>That which you spent years, decades, building from the outside falls away; you remember that concrete is made of sand. Another consequence of no longer running from water. The water runs you instead, it has sought out the hidden places and made its quiet path to the deep down darkness. Without you even knowing it, it has dissolved the structure from the inside, all your engineering prowess now muddy depths you must walk through. </p><p>Like the first time things shattered, you did not see this coming. You dress up for the ballet and end up in a mosh pit. And while - obviously - some part of you must have wanted this, your own sneakiness comes as a surprise. Again. </p><p>What you always worked so hard to have, to be, those are now only ideas of what might be. And what has been left behind, a trace of what never was.</p>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-20381895170591146022020-10-18T20:29:00.003+02:002020-10-18T20:51:34.890+02:00Nature of liesHe tells you to strip. Or maybe he asks. The distinction, while important to you, is not to him. His delivery of the word allows it to be either and most certainly permits him to believe it was a request when he retells the story for his most wrapt audience.<div><div><br /></div><div>And so you strip. Not particularly slowly or even carefully, this is not a striptease - this is a revealing, an unveiling. Seven layers down, clothes off, what will meet your skin? Not the warmth you expect.</div><div><br /></div><div>Scrutiny, assessment, evaluation, appraisal. </div><div><br /></div><div>You can only stop what starts in you.</div><div><br /></div><div>You learned this once, on a platform in a train station. You felt the fish hook perforating your gut and with calm precision, you unhooked it, held it up to the light and let it go. Such a simple task and yet so difficult, it took years to get to that train station.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is no fishhook, it is a web of lies, grooves on tracing paper from so many reproductions. His signature on it, amongst so many others, surprises you. He would not like to know it’s there. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>This natural thing, used unnaturally. You remind yourself it is wood pulp and charcoal, this web, these lies. They willingly yield to the flames you light to burn them. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-6291924027473325172020-10-15T20:54:00.003+02:002020-10-15T20:54:00.126+02:00The only thing we know<div>A pointed look that groped and grabbed, despite, or maybe even because of the crowd around the playing field. Home field advantage and this is not your home. This is a math class. Do you remember that day? The day when that math teacher, or was he a wrestling coach, taught the whole class that you were the sum of your parts. He was the math teacher, how could we question a formula he taught us?</div><div><br /></div><div>Decades later, when the sum of your parts has been altered, all the accounts of the past have to be recounted, ledgers balanced, coupons redeemed. </div><div><br /></div><div>Mull this over. With tea maybe, probably an oolong because this is a time to recognize the subtle gifts of oxidation and fermentation. Of exposing things to air and waiting. Of letting things go off a little bit. </div><div><br /></div><div>Air is your element now, with a flick of your wrist the axis shifts again, linear time becoming vertical, just long enough for the scales of justice to balance out. You leave that class again, but this time the mistress of a different kind of math. </div>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-18109177579883371852020-10-13T13:10:00.001+02:002020-10-13T13:10:06.399+02:00My new lover<p>A coffeeshop artist, you have found so many creative ways to state and restate your suffering as art, your victimization breathtaking nudes of you on the walls and everything done to you as living theater, played out again and again, encore performances for rapt audiences. A subtle shift, but not really, in the music they play here has made you rethink the basis of your performance art. You’ve seen others spin softer tales to match the times, think maybe you should.</p><p>This is not that.</p><p>This is scrubbing through the plaque on the arteries of what beats beneath all of that art. </p><p>A different kind of detective you’ll be, no longer looking for art in the stories, but rather sleuthing for beauty and meaning in the blackest sky of the darkest night of the deepest descent. Not to deny the night sky. There is no pretending a descent is anything other than what it is. Not to sprinkle artificial sweetener on poison. Nor even to create homeopathic doses of it to trigger immune responses. </p><p>This is not that either.</p><p>This is a wild dance with darkness. Facing, an embrace. You feel his grip on your nape, his lips on your neck, his other hand on your hip, leading this dance. You’ll still bleed, it’s still a dance with darkness. But this embrace, this wicked dance, it is where the honey comes from. Just enough to staunch the bleeding and save your life. </p><p>Dangerous lover, barely a lover at all. But a lover nonetheless.</p>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-61469145129393152652020-10-11T14:50:00.001+02:002020-10-11T14:51:46.362+02:00Redemption <p>The whole point of tapestry is to capture the story, weaving in colors of time and context. To be hung on a wall, maybe inside a museum, seen by many. If the sources of light are managed, the colors can last for thousands of years, preserving the tales it tells. </p><p>A lifelong patron of the arts, you’ve made unique contributions. As you sit on the floor unraveling a priceless piece of art, you’re forced to reconsider that particular commitment to the arts. Security guards run in, you nearly get tasered. They settle for a fine, but it’s a hefty one. </p><p>Best purchase you’ve made in a long time, maybe ever. </p><p>As the tapestry unraveled in your hands, the past was not undone, the events remain as they ever were. But the tales told now, the colors used here, they are colors that didn’t exist then. They are the deep shades, gem colors of mercy, witnessing, and compassion. Not the blind kind. The seeing kind. </p><p>The hand that once covered your mouth so you could not scream, the other that choked you so you could not breathe, the knife held to your gut to keep you compliant and in place, the ropes that tied your hands and feet so you could not fight back or run. They are all reunited with the other side of their coin. </p><p>The rivers of blood and truth run together and you dance on its banks.</p>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-47432738907796992322020-10-03T16:35:00.000+02:002020-10-03T16:35:29.494+02:00Hell and high water<p>Engineering runs in that family, usually the more well known kind, their lives filled with structures they’ve designed and built. Civil, but not really, the father built dams and locks, worked on rivers his whole life. No mistake there, a man of water himself, he never concerned himself with what holds the rivers in, but rather trying to control and manipulate their power, flow, and force. </p><p>At the mercy on the inside, we work on the outside. </p><p>One generation down, another one, a linguist this time. Analyzing the slippery intent mapped into structure, sound, and meaning. Decomposing, composing. Years spent reading the braille of depth, feeling and energy in clumsy stick figures. Feeling the lies and making an artful science out of studying them.</p><p>Another generation down, the structure of connection and connectivity. The central column he’s named science for now is a quest to identify, create, and modify links. He feels too much, holds too many so he’ll spend his life understanding how they work, trying to make them work for him. </p><p>In the space where time is vertical, these three live at once, their lives spent running from water, while calling it something else. </p><p>In traditional time, one Sunday this month, one door closed. No more dams, no more locks. Just a river and its banks. Free.</p><p>One day soon, the quest to understand the lies, make them somehow true, make their utterance somehow acceptable, will end. Another kind of freedom.</p><p>Someday maybe the scientist of links will uncover what he doesn’t want to know. He was always free. </p><p><br /></p>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-68867574146101154022020-09-22T00:00:00.143+02:002020-09-22T00:00:00.405+02:00And so we dance<p>Smooth, refined. Hands that don’t exactly match the whole, you’ve contemplated them many times. Now you know why. They are hands you know.</p><p>What are hands if not extensions of the heart, worldly instruments for the otherworldly? Those hands have reached out to you thousands of times. </p><p>As they brush past you this time around, you wonder at the music playing in the background. Its tone is deep, saturated with something strong and ancient. A song that was composed forever ago and that is textured and layered each time it plays for us. Another unclosed loop, we hear it and in response, our pulses, our blood reach out to it, caress it, leave traces. The moment of its creation and our listening forever on a vertical axis existing all at once and weaving us into the music itself. It does not end.</p><p>Thick and heavy, nostalgia and regret were the first couple to make it onto the dance floor this time. Why exactly have you invited them to this life? Their haze is thick, we can barely see each other.</p><p>But there it is, as it has always been, home and belonging in the scent of smoke and earth that is you. </p><p>Heart and lungs full, yes. But we know life is in the exhale, not the inhale. Would you hold your breath if you thought it were your last?</p>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-67248832325709502682020-09-20T12:23:00.003+02:002020-09-20T12:24:27.710+02:00XVI<p>Dressed in your Sunday best, you’re surprised to feel snowflakes landing on your bare skin, it’s not the season for this. Friends have taken pictures of you and one of them didn’t frame it so well, or maybe framed it exceedingly well. You’re standing inside a snow globe. A whole life along with you.</p><p>And what a pretty snow globe it is, red base, decorated for the holidays, just waiting for someone to walk by and shake things up comment on how pretty it is.</p><p>You hear notes of a Peter Gabriel song on your breath and feel the weight of the tool in your hand. You almost said weapon, but no, it’s just a tool. You feel more than see the globe shatter, hopefully no harm done to the contents, just the container. </p><p>Seven rounds of this, cycling in, below the bottom of the ocean floor where everything that lives has no name. Each time, a pulse that becomes the sound of hands clapping together, inciting, supporting, calling to action. The tower falls again and again, by your own hand, and from the outside of your inside.</p><p>Given the fact that you chose tool and not weapon, we’ll call this one a breakdown to break through.</p>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-61886657993182874902020-08-12T14:51:00.001+02:002020-08-12T14:51:21.564+02:00I feel you <p>First and last breath here.</p><p>Less entertaining than a hamster wheel, this is more like a wagon wheel, wooden spokes crafted with care to withstand time and distance. Your limbs are entwined within the pattern of spokes, immobilized by entanglement and stiffness. One Russian nesting doll out, you can see the veins on your arms as they grip the spokes, see the wood scrape and bruise the skin of your thighs. Another doll out, you can see your own horrified and helpless observing. Seven layers out now. Anger, grief, sadness, hopelessness, acceptance, surrender.</p><p>Tears and blood, which washes and which carries away? Tears as you find a sacred place on the wall for the sword you’ve always carried, sadness and joy at once. Blood as you turn it on yourself one last time to slice off the ribbons holding you and get a bit cut up in the process.</p><p>This story will only exist in the old war room now. You’ll paint a sigil on the wall, purple. You’ve finger painted purple before, deep mixes of blood and truth. You’ll cover it with the shellac of tears and honey.</p><p>Why honey?</p><p>Honey is what you’ve found in every wound where you thought there could only be blood.</p>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-79831525261826439952020-07-20T00:50:00.002+02:002020-07-20T10:56:03.545+02:00Forest walk with me<div>Permission slip signed, you packed lunch for this field trip, this walk in the forest. You imagine it will be like the time when you walked along a rushing river and slid down a slippery bank, saved by the root of a nearby tree. Lovely sights, small adventure, memories scented with sweet flower water. </div><div><br /></div><div>This is not like that.</div><div><br /></div><div>First of all, you’re alone and you weren’t supposed to be. Darkness heaves and in such darkness, it is impossible to see where anything begins or ends. Your hands gently touch each other even as they are touched by everything here. Do you know where you end?</div><div><br /></div><div>Soft pine needles cushion and call. Come to me. Crawl. You follow the hunger of your hips, heed the snake sliding up your spine.</div><div><br /></div><div>Breath in, ribs open. Fragrant nectar drips from within, beckoned forth by a pulse that is not your own. Womb, belly, and heart bleeding out onto the forest floor. Offering. Becoming.</div><div><br /></div><div>A lioness called you to a cave once, swiped at your hand to get you closer to the ground. While this is not her natural habitat, you feel her again in this darkness, calling you back. </div>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-72100995331192338362020-07-17T00:46:00.004+02:002020-07-17T11:28:55.452+02:00More than the artistUnclothed, not really nude though, seated, spread, reclining, contorted, or stretched. You’ve participated in art before. Rooms full of people, seeing you but not seeing you, as it should be. You’ve seen what goes into their creations. You’ve seen them create. You’ve felt their tight hold on your throat, fist punching through a canvas to strike you, grip you.<div><br /></div><div>This is not like that.</div><div><br /></div><div>You hear the wave before you see it, big, the kind that would be fun to run from if you were dressed for it. A chorus, which is weird because you’re here to see a soloist. Silence, no sound at all, which is also weird because this is one place that cannot be silent. Stillness, air captured and held for just a moment. You think everything is suspended but maybe it’s just you. The coin has been flipped and is neither heads nor tails, you’re in the slice between them both. Or you are both heads and tails at once.</div><div><br /></div><div>This art isn’t finished, won’t ever be finished. This artist left the paint and brushes out for others. Forty pairs of hands reach out and bruise you without doing any harm.<br /><div><br /></div><div>Days later, but only moments, the tickle of soft grass on the back of your legs, ashes swirling at a pace too slow for your eyes to perceive. Legs folded, your thighs seek the caress of another and do not find it. Untouched, solitary, but not alone.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>Ribbons, always ribbons, this time black and smooth and silky. Deep below, they rise to meet you. Riding the wave of what pulses inside of you - blood, lymph, life - they whisper up, like fingers walking, to a path you do not know. </div><div><br /></div><div>Vessel. Only the memory of silk remains. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-80262402858078033552020-05-15T16:46:00.002+02:002020-05-15T16:46:41.472+02:00I will know you<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Ever the prey, capture is a different kind of death you learn. </div>
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Shame, panic, terror. Crimson drops of blood make art on the ground, your blood, but the art is co-signed. </div>
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Gone in a breath, carried away in the ash remaining after the light has stopped shining through a window you swear this cell didn’t have before. Pull up, legs through, you’re free, or at least out. You don’t run though, they would expect that. You stop without freezing, just a pause. You gather your ribbons and stones and allow the path to be revealed. Bloodshed is never for nothing. </div>
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Eyes closed in reverence now, your footsteps sink into the earth hallowed by your sacrifice, your blood, the pulse it carried seeps deep. Beats in time with the dark beneath it all. </div>
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Your fingertips reach of their own volition to the ground and swirl the new color that has been made here. It looks like burgundy but not quite. Red and brown, yes, but also the black of shadows. It will need a new name. </div>
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Finger painting down your body, it seeps back in, yours but different. Pulse of your life, infinite depths of earth, darkest shadows from your time below. You are safe to be wild.</div>
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Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-47985363895697820562020-05-11T13:37:00.000+02:002020-05-11T13:37:41.051+02:00Be here<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Less air than needed, constricted breath from that gentle squeeze, soft pressure that grips your neck. Your body goes to the panic it knows well, that hand has been around your throat longer than your memories. Palms scrape against the wet stone, your back body intimate with the porous grooves that do not yield. What kind of predator plays with its prey? It would be helpful to know what you’re up against. While your days have always been numbered, your life is not in danger here.<br />
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Infinite darkness, breathtaking in its expanse and confidence. As if you had the breath to spare. When you asked to walk the labyrinth, to be shown, this is not what you meant. This descent has teeth.<br />
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Full gasping breath. You’re awake now. When did the hand at your throat become your own?<br />
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You look at the darkness again and see it is within, not without. You feel its pulse and see that it is just the sky of night. Surrender to me, it whispers to you. Let me be you lover, surrender and let me take you where you could not go alone.<br />
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Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25806401.post-39193002800505650592020-01-17T17:59:00.000+01:002020-01-17T17:59:02.090+01:00Angles morts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Four directions, four elements. Four ways, you discover, that you’ve been hiding from yourself. Blind spots are dead angles in French. Where have you been dead?<br />
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To the East, where a field of red flowers should grow to brighten and enliven, there is only barren earth. Nothing can be felt here.<br />
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To the South, where lightening should strike and restore balance, numbing grey mist has covered the land. Nothing can be known here.<br />
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To the West, where rivers should meet lakes, a dam has been built. Nothing can connect here.<br />
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To the North, where a circle of stones should mark territory, there is only gravel scattered by careless visitors. Nothing can be held here.<br />
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At the center of it all, you seek the source. The deep well holding the secrets hiding in those four corners. Instead you find a river, wild and strong, currents that can only be felt not seen, the water looks safe from the banks. You follow it upstream, a long walk. <br />
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You find its source seven generations’ away from where you stand now. A treacherous climb to the top of a mountain both beautiful and brutal. As you return, you follow its path to you.<br />
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You are the end. You are the cliff over which the river will fall and cease to be a river at all. </div>
Nicolehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13306228378745291912noreply@blogger.com0