What revelations are to come...?

...red spots develop under my cheeks, and as I powder them they become raised wheels, one on each side, which the thick powder whitens, six spokes, a central hub and an outer wheel, a relief scultpure of perhaps a millimeter depth, like something from myth, an archetypal drama of the ancients, which the attempt to hide with powder only accenuates. I feel no horror, or pain, but awe as I brush the powder on skin that has become wheels and spokes. Sculpted like Alchemical wheels of time, or Tarot wheels of Fortune, the configurations are mysterious, almost reverential, an embodied reference to the Wheels of Ezekiel, but also to the powdered faces of highly-stylized Oriental performance, and somehow the magnificent coiled antlers of Bighorn sheep...

_____________
probably unecessary note: ...yes, it was a dream, the one I woke with today, but I have decided to treat dreams as real and as poetry in themselves... hence I've cut away the narratorial voice of the daytime ego that we use when relating dreams, as well as any analysis. There is resonance with the Symbolist and Surrealist poets, I know that...

technorati profile. technorati tags: dreams, symbolist poetry, surrealism, prose poetry, wheels in myth and symbolism, mandalas, mystics, writing.

Painting Time

Let go of the stability of knowing how to see, the molecules are dancing, big bundles of energy like rivers of colour and the jostling of air, where you can see wind currents by watching the way they move, and how the air sweeps back from the leaves and branches and the knotted woody bark of the tree that is a current too, one thicker than the other, both humming with motion.

What does a still world look like?

Always the humming, buzzing, jostling from inside things; I've never seen it flat still like a photograph.

Everything is singing, transforming at different rates with different densities, and I don't know what separates anything from anything else.

Spiritus Mundi, perhaps. It's all animated all the time: vibrating; singing.

Our words mapping the design of ourselves
in the world in frail gaps.

I reach for you
without
solidity.

---

with thanks to Robert Preuss for his ekphrastic writing on Van Gogh

Technorati Profile/ technorati tags: molecules, perception, creation singing, prose poetry, vibrating.

In the time it takes to write a paragraph...

Sipping coffee, slowly, flicking from site to site, reading here and there, fat Summer rain falling on the open windows behind me spraying a little inside, checking the books on the windowsill, Life of Pi, Only What Is, Rocking the Cradle, they're fine, fluffy dog at my feet who stands every now and then and looks into my eyes to see if I can hear the loud drizzling and noisy plonking drops, and gets her ears rubbed. This rain so heavy, it would redden the skin if you were out uncovered. A cloud burst that's poured and already spent, the thunder god disappearing over the city skyline, leaving fast running rivulets on the streets, in the drainpipes, ecstatic drenched leaves, mud wherever it can be, flocks of flowers, and a brightness everywhere that is visionary in the time its taken to write this paragraph.

technorati tags: rain, writing, fertility, thunder god, visionary earth.

The Magic of Mantra...

In the transformation from caterpillar to butterfly, deep in the cocoon of sound I've woven tightly around myself, if I become a slush of nutrients as the waves of colour begin radiating through me, making iridescent wings, then that's today, where I've meditated most of the day, chanted my silent mantra endlessly until I've forgotten who I am until my life is unrecognizable until I'm bliss floating through the air rather than a woman walking her dog in the summer-scented warmth of the late evening air.

technorati tags: mantra, meditation, caterpillar, butterfly, bliss.

An Empty Wallet

I've had a nothing day, exhausted kind of, but not, just in limbo. Feeling oddly drained. In deep meditation it came that it's because I'm broke, that money is a form of energy and that's why I'm listlessly floating through today. My daughter is away, thankfully. I'm out of dog food & coffee cream & fruit & vegetables, though there's canned dog food my mother gave me, and I've powdered milk that I can use, and multigrain bread and cheese and butter and eggs and sausages and mushrooms and onion and lamb souvlaki in the freezer, as well as rice and oats and raisons if I need more. The cheque from tutoring I did last month for an agency didn't arrive last Friday as it was meant to and that was to be my grocery money this week, and when I emailed Monday I was told the family I tutor for hadn't paid their bill. But this company takes half of what I make, they charge $40./hr, give me $20., and have made hundreds off me this year. You'd think they'd have some reserve to pay their tutors on time! Yes, I paid off over three grand in debts last week, and not a cent left over, but then I was getting a tutoring cheque... Friday there'll be more tax refund deposited, and I'm working next week, but sheesh. Where'd my energy go? Why does it always go when my wallet is empty? Even though I know it's just a temporary state, and really I'm fine, there's good food, I even have a little Merlot to sip later. The dog's happier with the canned stuff anyhow- she thinks it's a treat. And surely I can do without coffee cream for a day. But that's not what I'm learning here. Why can't I just not be affected by an empty wallet? I want to achieve a state of being where I completely trust that what is needed will come so I won't care when this happens and it won't affect my energy levels in any way.

As to why I don't have steady employment, that's somewhat of a mystery. My record with I don't know how many employment agencies is exemplary, if I am to believe the feedback I receive. Yet I don't get full time jobs. Or even permanent part-time ones. At this point, I think my employment situation is a result of my art. My newest tactic is not to look for work that will take me away from it so much as work to support it, and me and my kids, of course.

Believe it or not, this is a brand new way of thinking for me.

And I am resisting the little voice that says, oh call the bank, have a small overdraft put on your account for weeks like these...

Ah, defiance against 'the system' helps, I'm perking up, and also the chorizo and mushrooms are ready, maybe wrapped in a toasted multigrain crust with some chopped onion and mayonnaise and a little mustard...

Ecdysis

Ecdysis ("the shedding of an outer integument or layer of skin, as by insects, crustaceans, and snakes; molting"), a poem, technorati tag poem (mostly composed of lines edited out of the original version of the poem & spoofing technorati, just a little), and painting of mine published by qarrtsiluni in their short short current issue (100 words or less). Go check it out; submit a piece yourself if you haven't yet and feel so inclined.

Hope you're enjoying the bounty of the Summer!

If the direct link didn't work, copy & paste the url: http://ahappening.typepad.com/qarrtsiluni/2006/07/ecdysis.html

And the painting is actually an older one (perhaps *molting* is a theme in my life :grins:); the photograph taken of it with a prism's light shining on goes back a ways too. The photograph, which is the one I wanted, literally a needle in a hatstack of 200 boxes that we moved, fell out of a stack of papers in a box I was looking through on the weekend into my hand. I was able to submit it because my newly refound refurbished scanner worked (the second time, at first it just crackled and groaned)!

If you wish to, can I ask that you comment there? And I will respond to your comments, so do check back.

Rewoven Space

The attractiveness of non attachment. But when your attachments re-attach themselves, the philosophy needs revising. Shedding encumbrances sounds ideal, easy. Most of the rest of us have to fit things in; we're here to stay, and our collections come with us. No aphasic amnesia for the amassment of a lifetime. Back on the Wheel of Samsara, burdened with unopened boxes in spaces too small to encompass the return. My entire library crammed into a bedroom without the bookcases that wouldn't fit down the stairs. Accessible through a list of contents; but inaccessible. The abode that was found, that fit, the one for unencumbered living, too small for what fills it now. A burgeoning life, cast aside, that returns to take up where it left off. The hexagram of the return displaying its full force of bounty. A thesis to be finished, heirlooms of words, the library from which I referenced, homeschooled, taught, gifts to the future. Space must be rewoven for this amplitude, its largesse.