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.
Life as Improv 
beautiful art design……….
Thank you; you helped me remember to link back to the artist!
Exactly…..
takes one to know one, doesn’t it? so strange, that!
Love the power in the picture.
Thank you, Kimberly. Fun to get back in touch with certain aspects!
Loved this! The shared dreaming spaces, the movement from here to there, the strange groupings and tribal recoveries, the appearance of others and the desire to hold them there, the loss of others once known. There are so many wonderful seeds (though not, obviously, in the scuppernongs) and images in this walking tour of imagination, loss and desire. And now, faced with the arduous task of placing that particular tickle of resonant knowing this evoked into some sort of written reply, I can only say I hope there’s more where this came from.
Michael
So grateful for your willingness to take the plunge into the polar soup. The wheels may be a bit rusty, but thank you for helping me jump on the wagon for a spin into the spooky worlds within. Hope the ceramic studio intensity has been easing up at bit in your corner.
If the wheels are rusty it is the kind of rust I expect John McEnroe to display on his neighborhood court. One shot winged over the high fence, followed by a vigorous word or two. The next one a flash of Wimbledon genius. A shot no one else could have hit in ten years of trying. There are so many great images and textures and leaping-off points in those few paragraphs… it was like stumbling upon a tract of very fertile soil.
Michael
It was blessed
It was velvet.
I drank the absinthe of the sky.
Remembering
then
Forgetting
then
REMEMBERING OF THE FORGETTING!!! (shhhh…were on to it, hee hee hee)
Memories are just dreams I had once…a pinpoint of pure radiance as they go.
I am growing less and less…(as I grow!)
– – – –
YES YES YES. Such depth. Such joy of truth encoded in words. The poetresses’ art of breaking and mending and breaking and finally loosing even the need for heart.
I have met my self in such dreams, cloaked in the habit of such words as the nuns we were. Grey stone and potager gardens and the keeping of bees. M & M waking and walking together for Matins, keeping the deeper vigils alive and with a glance across the table, having to stifle the ensuing light of laughter held down (during the required silent meditation at many monastic meals you know). !
You are brilliant M. Simply bloody brilliant. -x.M
Our time together of keeping habits, vigils, potage gardens and delight alive explains the wordless overlapping and laughter in the seeming NOW. I am sensing this morning that sister Emily may have joined us in this bee keeping drunkenness as well.
I taste a liquor never brewed
by Emily Dickinson
“I taste a liquor never brewed –
From Tankards scooped in Pearl –
Not all the Frankfort Berries
Yield such an Alcohol!
Inebriate of air – am I –
And Debauchee of Dew –
Reeling – thro’ endless summer days –
From inns of molten Blue –
When “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove’s door –
When Butterflies – renounce their “drams” –
I shall but drink the more!
Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats –
And Saints – to windows run –
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the – Sun!”
The overlaps are coming fast and furious this morning, as I am headed back to your amazing peek into your turtle pad – and you and M’s merging with the Sun!
Heart overwhelmed by the plunge you are willing to take into this subconscious soup. As I hit publish on this, I imagined patience waning by the 2nd paragraph 🙂
I join you today in the silent treatment of your M loving corner. xo! m
I don’t know what to say. I just journeyed while staring at the words on my phone, and my body still tingles with the best of the drums. Today you are Shamaness.
BEAT of the drums. Or, the best. Either way works really. 🙂
You are there, lovely lady, in our tribal gatherings – I’ve been meaning to tell you how gifted you are on those best beat drums! I never imagined slipping through the eye of the needle would be so much fun. big hugs to you today! xo! m
“The axis would shift entirely if you got too many pluses on one side without balancing it out.” Absolutely love. Interesting piece. Thanks for sharing!