Archive | March, 2014

polar plunge

28 Mar

 

the-art-of-belly-dance-tracey-harrington-simpson

With the dulling of the colors and light, I know we’ve slipped again.  There are kinks and knots like this morning, as I tried to start my car, the key melted in my hand.  There is no making sense of that;  I had to walk, 15 miles, and by the time I got to work, my shift had been over for a half an hour.  But with time a bit wonky, no one can be sure.  One more time and they will let me go, but i’ve heard that before.  I showed Larry, the car magician, the metallic stains on my palm  – he  shrugged and made his go to goggly face for every emotion he receives.

I want you to know where I am coming from – what time – what world.  I sense you are entering from an earlier time, for the looks of bliss  on your face can be overcome with confusion at times, and you slip out so often.  Our snatches of conversations are stolen phrases in a plunging elevator, short, intense;  you are hanging on here by a thread – Amazing you found your way in at all from where you must be traveling from.

The way things have gone for us will be your future, unless you can slip into the dream time early.  Or some other safe pocket.  Can I give you some impressions of how it has come to be?  Would that help, you think?  or confuse?

Last week, I think it was, the veil lifted and suddenly the whole world looked like an asian garden.  There were little blossoms lining up and down the once empty branches, pinks and whites.  I took out the garbage and suddenly there were stars, crisp, not a twinkle in sight – just solid brilliant points of light.  I could see my breath, feel a chill, but not a shiver.  It was blessed.  It was velvet.  I drank the absinthe of the sky; my stomach warmed and soothed me from within.

Now this week, the veil slammed down again.  Most around here forget from day to day what was before.  I used to be like that – but now I remember the forgetting,  now I can’t get that day and night of embrace out of my head.

I used to live alone, but now they’ve given me two roommates, who say it’s all on me, so I continue to do not only the work of one, but I’m also picking up their slack, washing up their spills.   I cannot help but serve those in my field.  The green girl hardly speaks, but she does have the room with no heat.  The other one talks, but her words are foreign and she reverts to grunts.  I know the content of their thoughts regardless.  We make the best of it – I lock my door at night.

The polarity increase has thrown such odd groupings together here at the end.  The axis would shift entirely if you got too many pluses on one side without balancing it out.  Some same we will meet in the middle, but I think the negs. are staying the same and I am shifting down, but just a bit.  No one really knows – they seem to be making it up by the day.  They have the old books from Giza some say, and of course they are not sharing any knowledge with us.

Funny that they think that what they have is the only source.  We never let on that just biding our time for now, and staying in our shared dreaming spaces for longer and longer, will shift us more than they can imagine.  They are not in the dreaming spot, they cannot access there, don’t even know it exists, until they give up the ghost selves that they let run the show of the body.

We had found each other and gathered into the actual same vicinity shortly before the shifts made it easy for them to stir confusion into the pot along with the Anomalies.  The name  Anomalies became a misnomer, little slips of time and space and material became more common, our bodies at times couldn’t keep up and with our sleeping most of the days away to cope, they were able to shift us around.  The tunnels we built to each other seemed solid, but I am now unable to see or hear the ones I knew – who were they?  All I can pull up is M, M, N, S, D, A, E, G.

I call to them from the shared space and I can feel them there – the sensation of that is like the back side of a cat as it pushes up against you to get warm while you are sleeping.  They register to me at different times.  I know they’ve probably stepped beyond the old ways – but  they are still able to give me that gentle body awareness, anyway, that they are still incarnate.  L and F and Sp were all pulled into a negative soup – and I don’t feel them anymore.

Keeping faith after all I have seen should be easy, but there are the wrist cutting weeks that drag on – and insomnia has visited, which leaves me desperate for other worlds, crying to be cut off so.  The work assigned to me was meant to bring me down, and I can certainly see why they would imagine that would work, but luckily, I remember a bit more each day that what I see is not really what is there.  When I can really know that, the fog clears and the people coming in to get slurp pies, hostess cupcakes, the rare banana sale,  suddenly are transparently radiant.  I see through and then the love lifts me up.  I can see the plasma love flowing through me to the spaces around me, and suddenly a gas station is the holy temple that it was meant to be.  In these high times, I could drink pure poison and be refreshed – It is true.

Piecing it together myself these days has left me unsure when I verbalize.  I feel sure their methods are not  going to stop it, but they can make it uncomfortable for a little while.  What is discomfort?  When I am in my knowing, there is no such thing.  All flows according to the moment and memories are just dreams I had once.

There are cursed objects all around, stolen, damned by the envy, greed, witness to the raw and brutal sex that started occurring in full view of the innocent.  These things, seem normal, like cups and books and pens, domestic material items, but around them sits a fuzz of grey or black.  I’ve come to see the energy – but also, just as this sight came in came also the ease of blessing.  I enjoy watching the dark pieces gather and swirl into upside down tornado – a pinpoint of pure radiance as they go.  So many objects to turn these days.

The shared dream seems progressive.  Each night the structures are shifting, coloring in.  It has gone from an Escher-like environment to an Bedouin tent full of colorful silk and lavish interiors – my hips have grown into a wide and saucy shape for the shows I’ve been giving, twirling and shimmying.  My body shifts with each scene; I enjoy the creation of such flesh.

You have come in since we have been spinning out a dance in the scarves which turn into liquid that we splash within at the end – you watch as we eat scuppernongs without those dreaded seeds, as we write poetry with the end of our fingers on each other’s backs, and hear the voices of the singing serpents reciting those words right back to us.

You sit among the pillows, enraptured, and fading in and out, trying to learn how to hold yourself here.  We are so new that we cannot do it for you as we wish we could.

You see how we all cannot stop smiling and shining the light of our eyes into each others’ so much that the warm glow of my chest oven has me returning in the morning to my solid having thrown off blankets in the frightful chill – I think I am not in either place for sure, but back and forth, invisibly so – nightly, I am growing less and less dense.

I do not know how the negs. keep going.  What is there to look forward to for them?  They are sleeping like the dead, dreaming of forgotten deadlines, thieves getting their grains, but they are supplied their vices for free, and many think this has made the world a better place.  Their bodies are showing the wear faster.  Or perhaps the days are spinning them into cocoons, to be sucked dry by the shadows, lurking still, afraid of the sun’s growing girth.

I’m not sure what is real, but sleep pulls me now.  Stop by our table and we will dance for you, while you scoop your hummus on warmed pita bread; we’ll drop scuppernongs in your open mouth.  It won’t be long now.

 

skylights in my mind

27 Mar

vulva-and-her-devoted-pepooh-having-an-epiphany-in-the-villa-gardens

Art by Steve Arnold

 

There are one-story intellects, two-story intellects, and three-story intellects with skylights. All fact collectors with no aim beyond their facts are one-story men. Two-story men compare reason and generalize, using labors of the fact collectors as well as their own. Three-story men idealize, imagine, and predict. Their best illuminations come from above through the skylight.
Oliver Wendell Holmes
US author & physician (1809 – 1894)

I use this quote in class to describe good essays, but actually I can relate plenty to one and two story thinking.  I can be a good fact collector, but in many ways, I’m learning to step outside of what I see.  The facts around me are not where it’s at.  These days,  it is all about the skylights.

The word intellect seems so academic, so mind driven, status oriented,  but what OWH is seeing, I imagine,  is the powerful force of the human being – our ability to generate change by allowing the light from above to illuminate.

When I allow the light in, when I take the illumination from above,  everything is bathed in an organic light that shows what was can now be something new.

We can choose to remain in the dark, artificially lit rooms on the ground floor or we can walk up the stairs, no matter what, and choose to flood our world with the power of the sun and the energy from above, which always far exceeds what is.  The light from the skylights actually helps materialize something new.  And then, what is comes to be what we saw before it was. (oooh,  my phrasing is crazy!)

Am I the last one on this train?

The caboose is still a good ride. 🙂

 

“Less conventional thoughts, breaking into more creative mind, expanding into vast new realms, leading into a whole new struggle-less melting and architecturing -leaving behind doctrines ever so absolute in all forms of expression – soaring up and into unexplored kingdoms.”

STEVEN ARNOLD

 

 

swab

25 Mar


creating the sea

 alltelleringet

There is no higher spot than this:

manning the decks.

Forget your name

and paint yourself an ocean.

But don’t get carried away and forget to

guard the hatches below for intruding,

morose slouchers

still wearing chains and

bearing the old stink of comparison,

the need for belonging,

doubt,

and doom.

Or better yet, let them out.

A little sun will do them good when you

take your vessel out to see.

The bags of rice stowed for famine

and guns in the crows nest for war

are worlds you need not enter.

But do

study the content of your water,

talk to the sea birds upon rising,

scan the horizon for land –

release your feet from shoes,

admire the fray of your pirate pants,

snort heartily through your nose to clear your head of cobwebs,

meet your forgetting with bear hugs and get back to the

business of no thing

in the now now nownownow

of the open sea.

limbo

21 Mar

limbo450

Remember those years of telling yourself stories in the shower.  I used to hear a voice in my head, as the water washed over me, telling me about what next big thing was going to change my life forever…a play, a date, college, graduate school, a mate, marriage, a house, a move, kids, enlightenment(grin)…that voice stuck around for years.

Now in the shower usually it is just me and the water.  I hear that same voice, the announcer voice of great change, but it is in a distant room and I can’t quite make out the words.

Even the small things have lost their gleam.

It is strange the way everything that I used to love and look forward to no longer holds much energy.  My taste in food, activity, excitement, pleasure in the material transient stuff is muted, in the next town already on a high speed train to nowhere.  Does another train pull in?  What time is it due?

I am learning now that the trains that pull in and out are coming to me when I call them.  I am not at the mercy of the transportation system in my life – I call the trains or stop the trains altogether.  What power!  Now, why do I sit here allowing trains to leave and not calling any more forth?

Life is good, right?  Isn’t that what the tshirt tells us?  What is here now feels so hollow; sometimes, I can’t quite figure out what all this spaciousness was created for.  I made this big arena here of space.   My embarrassing burp echoes round and round in this emptiness.  Pardon me, I say, to whom?

I am wearing new clothes that sometimes feel like they don’t fit right.  What  fills in and what is carved out, by my command, I wonder.

When I rest back into this limbo state, rounding the corner to the frozen food aisle,  I feel the whooshing in of the holy spirit, the nefesh, energy raw and pure, and I proceed to be drunk at the grocery store once again, dancing between pies and peas, feeling up the apples, grinning randomly enough to collect curious and concerned looks.  I am trying to fit in, but my body is a buzzing.  What is one to do?

There is a current flowing through, that never leaves.  I just think sometimes I’m alone.  I think I have climbed out of the stream and am wandering in a desert far from the babbling brook, but I am just dozing in the river still, dreaming of parched conditions.  When a bird on a high branch shits upon my head, I awaken, clean myself off, and feel the flow that never left.  The bird flies off, laughing.

Train stations, streams, public drunkenness, floating in a limbo soup – no boundaries or barriers between me and the matter.  The stream and I decide nothing, yet all happens according to my plan.

Tell the men in the white coats I’m on aisle 11; they may want to join me for a dance.

the blessing of playing hide and seek with a common cold

14 Mar

woman and dragonI think I am so clever.

I try to outsmart every cold.

I juice. I pop pills. I drink a fuzzy tablet dissolved in water.

A cold is a minor inconvenience, and a message from my body.

Yesterday, Eden felt a cold coming on, then

I heard her up in the night,

coughing, sneezing, not sleeping – and I could feel

my own throat and chest tightening as well,

in sympathy, in unison, I don’t know.

I sent her soothing love and support from my bed.

I said okay.

First, of course, I resisted, I fought a good fight,

then I said okay. Bring it.

The body is asking for rest and care.

The to do list is extended for another day, as putting

away the dishes  from the dishwasher feels taxing.

Okay, arms, okay eye lids you may take a day – you’ve

earned it.  What is so bloody important it cannot wait?

Everything gets done in time.

When the energy is

needed – the energy comes.

And often, when I relax into the first symptoms

and love them like a long, forgotten friend,

they ease and loosen and disappear.

I didn’t love the symptoms with the purpose

in mind to make them go away,

but the side bonus of being okay either way,

with a full blown cold or a body healing,

is often you get the easier path.

The putting off of chores allowed me a nap,

and a certain cat, while I was sleeping,

curled his back up to the arch of my feet,

without me even feeling it until I awoke.

I became aware of the soft fur

breathing into my soles as I also

became aware of a symptom free body.

Cat Purr energy work!

I am suddenly energetic and well!

I love loving what is.

I give myself this gift,

and I give this gift to every one =

all of us sharing this 3d space in the world as it is now:

May you know in this moment that you are love

and that you are loved.

May you feel the flame within;

may you learn to warm yourself from its heat.

May you learn to manage the flame up and down according to the circumstance.

May you feel truly at home in your self.

May you know  how precious you are.

May you live your life truly seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting.

May you gift those around you with your presence.

Death as a Hacker

9 Mar

I am compelled to share the words of my friend, Andrea, as she is giving voice to the ultimate Hacker and finding rich nuggets from her courage in the journey, such as this: “If we can master ourselves, then we will find ourselves. We will command our highest magic…” Much love to Andrea and her  clan.

solrevel

hacker

This post has eluded me for weeks, mostly because of the raw intensity and discomfort of the experience. I now realize I might never mold the words quite right.  But, I will write it anyway. I also struggle with the sympathy this post will evoke from the reader, which is not my intention.  While I do appreciate the compassion and kind-heartedness of you, my friends, I ask you to put that aside for now.  Please know that my son is now home, healthy and happy.

“You have little time left, and none of it for crap. A fine state. I would say that the best of us always comes out when we are against the wall, when we feel the sword dangling overhead. Personally, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” – Carlos Castaneda, Tales of Power

We are humans.  Little bioelectrical systems, twinkling among a mass of ecosystems, floating…

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hallo you sun, above the thick, grey mattress pad wrapped around each corner of the sky…

6 Mar

rainy day trees

I lived in a house made largely of windows.  A choice was made to do away with most of the curtains and blinds so that even under a canopy of  leaves, bright sunlight filled each room.  At night, the house was lit from within.

What do people call a house like this, a fishbowl?    I was on the stage in a house full of windows.  I showered more; I dressed for breakfast;  I moved through the house, making entrances and exits,  an actress playing a role.

Today, I am shrouded behind curtains, or so I think,  here on my bed, lounging on a quilt full of giraffes and monkeys with a live napping cat.    This is not a show house, but a house for the moment, full of comfort and warmth.  My dishes are functional, my blankets warm and worn.

I think we are all creatures in a zoo, in boxes of every sort, observing and being observed.  There are routines and patterns and a measuring to our days counted in such small, expansive joys;  scripts move us daily to sweep, to wipe up, to turn appliances on, to purchase food,  to wash our bodies, to answer our emails.

The keys out  are  metal and cartoonishly large – rattling around the waist of the guard.  He is stopping by your cage now, peering in the back gate, seeing what you are up to…what are you up to?  Are you  counting your food pellets,  or making your bed from the soft underbrush, or are you frozen in space staring?

I, too, am frozen at a window, but not the windows of yesterday.  I am in a window full of condensation.  I am faceless, standing still and staring out at rain.

What holds me here?  Only my one job, to parent.  It is a job so important I can hardly face it,  yet it is a job on shifting sand.

I start some doing and stop and think about doing again, but instead, I sit here, drinking tea, looking at messes.  I’m fixin’ to and startin’ to all day, turning on music, joy goes all the way down to my socked feet as the rain dots my roof  just like my thousand, shivery goose pimples.

The only way out is up;  there is no fence on the sky.  The cage is comfortable, the food is adequate – but above is open.  Swimming through miles of goosedown, I imagine the sun still there.

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