soul magma

This Morning at West Meadow

Sun, 12 May 2013 09:46:00 -0400

This morning everyone else was still asleep and I awakened at six forty seven with some sort of fear inside me as to what to expect from this particular anniversary. It was raining and that soft green muted under the drizzles of cool falling from above. I decided to go to the beach, that is one mile away from me and which I have been to maybe a dozen times since moving here.

Everything there was quiet and as soon as I stepped from the car I took that deep nasal inhale, to feel the salt on the roof of my mouth, the flavors of ocean and wondered absently if this is what cunnilingus tastes like. The breeze is more persistent over the water and I moved towards it with my head bowed against the now sharp flecks of water smattering me from the heaven, scanning the ground beneath me for stones which are turned, and tumbled and made smooth with the washings and pushes and pulls of the mother scrubbing them, where we all came from. I walked all the way to the edge and left just my toes where gray water crashed and saw in the distance, the curvature of sand keening towards, being pulled towards the sea, and watched as someone else far away but visible sailed, a small speck of knowing they were there, having their own wrestling match with nature. I tried to listen. Just seagulls cawwing and shhhhhushhhhhhhing curls of foam tumbling steadily, sandpipers that ran along of the edge of the tide, pecking with fecklessness for anything that might provide nourishment, and i turned from the sea to walk back uphill and towards my car, when a stream of the sea stopped me and I stooped.

It wasn’t a tide pool so much as a tide river and within it were so many stones again smoothed by the sea, but also a few shells I’d wondered when I was going to see, still tiny and apparently occupied. I picked one up and turned it over to see the undulations of some sort of sea snail in a state of WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW so I returned it to the tide river, and looked from those tiny living things that live because that is what there is to do, is be alive, and to my left where the sea-stream widened, and a gull dropped into the water, hunting, and a sandpiper picked up and choked down some tiny piece of evolution, and further still the sea expanded and beyond that the ocean, and then the world, and just in front of me were only these tiny sea snails in pretty little shells and i lay just the tips of my hand into the water and breathed, and waited for a second, then walked back to my car, and came home.

me irl

Sat, 11 May 2013 09:45:03 -0400

me irl

explore-blog: The little-known art of beloved physicist Richard...

Sat, 11 May 2013 09:42:40 -0400

explore-blog:

The little-known art of beloved physicist Richard Feynman, born on May 11, 1918.

Photo

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 10:26:16 -0400

water

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 12:29:51 -0400

There is was who you were, who you are, and who you may become. And that is all.. You can live for the full and die for the fall; you can forget walking tall and carrying a big stick, because the gist of it all is how you see fit to move like you are called to be as cleansing as the sea, as bright as the light on the foam, the mist on the loam and as wet as the moan of a hungery beast ready to feast; as cold as the ice on the field, and as full of burn as it takes to discern how to turn glass to Hawaii … I defy that I don’t swim around you and confound you and collude with the very part of you that wishes to be true, that quietest whisper dripping with plea, ” remember me?” I’m here to splash you in the face, to stew with friends; to make the day more tolerable, more keeping in time with the turn of the clock, the shine on the rock in the stream … Of the dream you had … Before I woke you up

Love You More

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 12:28:59 -0400

I love you more than Kool Aid loves Red.
I love you more than Emos love Dead.

I love you more than chickens love corn.
I love you more than e-nerds love porn.

I love you more than Pens love Ink.
I love you more than Socrates thinks.

I love you more than Obama loves Change.
I love you more than the playa loves Strange.

I love you more than Grenadine loves Sprite.
I love you more than the stars love the Night.

I love you more than children love bubbles.
I love you more than teenagers love trouble.

I love you more than a bullet loves guns.
I love you more than Cyndi Lauper loves Fun.

I love you more than Bowie loves Fame.
I love you more than the first time I came.

I love you more than the sky loves the clouds.
I love you more than speakers love loud.

I love you more than sunshine loves daisies.
I love you more than Haldol loves crazies.

I love you more than Asians love rice.
I love you more than Vegas loves Vice.

I love you more than Doms love Leather.
I love you more than old folks love weather…

I cannot tell you, I am sure
All I know is I love you more.

<3

Elemental

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 12:24:38 -0400

I am the ignition
I am the spark
that starts
the motor of your mind,
what you find in
the whistle of the tune in the trees,
in the bees’ knees….
And the hum in your throat
and the reason hope floats
and the exchange
across your cell membranes
I’m air; do you dare
to exist without me
to doubt the need of me and
the patient gulping greedily
at their last chance with me?
I’m the chill of the winter,
the gloom of December
and the warmth and the rush
of August’s flush
and the tide of the scent
of Spring
and things meant to be.
You forgot you needed
the breezes,
the laughter of a child
the skies run wild,
the leaf lollygagging
on the sagging boughs of Autumn…
I can leave you numb.
I can warm your heart and your hearth
and eviscerate,
And carry the messages of Hate
and Love and shove you into
being alive and thriving.
When you are sighing, you are with me.
And my purpose is to share, without care
Love from above,

Air

What Reading Writings By the Dalai Lama Makes Me Think

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 12:20:51 -0400

All of anything tangible, including ourselves, is the emptiness within spinning electrons,and the quantity of energy created within each atomic structure. The magic, or divinity, is in both the emptiness of space comprising the real tactile objects in the world, and whatever tipping point throws those electrons into motion.

So this is also true that because what we think is firm and solid around us is truly a quivering bundle of molecular nothingness, then so are we nothing. Being that all is nothing, then it holds true that being nothing is being everything as well. If then, emptiness is everything, then spirituality is the magic, it is the underground entangled roots that we each thrust into the universe, and by which we are all connected to one another. We all share this singular thread, and whether the faith is in the certainty of atomic physics, or in the sacrifices of millenia old martyrs, or in the comfort in rites performed from the dawn of time to celebrate the turn of the wheel, or even yes, even the belief that there is No Greater Thing, even that is an expression of what I know as connectivity of souls, both to all those I know, and all that I do not. It is also being connected to the earth and wind in the wisteria, the limb of a branch of a tree, the lapping of the sea against a stretch of shore.

Yes. God is merely the //belief in// something, and therefore, in believing that what you sit upon, what you breath with, are all manifestations of the emptiness of space with the wild whirling of molecules and matter, then god is everything you know to be true for yourself. It is even, as someone once said, the atheist’s atheism, for that is what they believe in, and hold to for strength.

My Perspective

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 12:16:02 -0400

So, you think you know Sorrow…
How bout you borrow the time
Of the daughter of mine
Wrestling with the tatters in her 7 year old world.
How bout quietly sitting and knitting
with your mother lying dying next to you,
with the best of you and your potential
Yellowing in her jaundiced stretched flesh,
Wilting like some forgotten novel in
The dustiest corner of the library of life.
So you think you know Strife?
You could put a knife between the
Mattresses of rest to cut in two
The blue, the cyan, the aquamarine
And make sense of this bizarre scene to
Enjoy the me. In you.
And you in I.
And live your life.
And know you sigh, and people may lie
and mothers will die
But we return to the burn of the globe
in the sky
So you think. You know me
Hell, I don’t even know me,
I don’t know how to be
what they say I’m supposed to
What I’ve proposed to
Achieve, except to bleed out my thoughts
in black and white, if life had
that strict a game book the nook
would be easier to navigate and
I couldn’t hate any single part of it.
And I can’t. It’s the directive from somewhere…
It’s my Perspective from there…
It is. What it is, and you just. Marinade in that,
Let your mind get fat with
Loss. And Gain.
And Hope and pain and EHVEREE THANG…
That’s all we have, all we are, all we will ever be.
How we perceive.

Roots Down

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 12:12:46 -0400

In my brain again, in the pain,
and playing the blame game and it’s become
a shame and I guess I COULD complain?

But what would that do?

I’d only get blue in the face with all this disgrace and keep
swallowing the bitter taste of bile and defiling
what was once so sweet and felt so complete

So I guess I’ve got to turn away from strife
and dig into life, into birth, into the Earth
and the Strangest Ground is where I’ll push
my Roots Down, pressing deep, pulsing heartbeat,
Spreading wide, taking my stance
so that at a first glance you’ll see I’m
Firm and the Storms and the Gloom can’t
Stop me from Grooming this tree,

Deadheading the dried blooms of the used
and the he said she said bruises

The end says I stand alone and with new
Shoots shouting out and sprouting about
in all directions, pruning back the overgrowth
will stop the Choke.
And let me
Breathe.
So I can be a hardy tree.

memo to my best friend

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 12:11:01 -0400

You are my anchor in the universe. I have known you through institutions, bulimia, virginities lost, cross country expeditions, through abusive men and fistfights with one another, and we’ve always come back to our friendship…. Together we’ve faced the challenges of motherhood, and marital life, and body images,and no one will ever love me like I love you; we found ourselves without one another on more than one occasion, but we will always fiercely protect one another. You were there when my first daughter was born, you noticed her dimples before I did, even. You were there when I was lost in a world that didn’t represent who I really am. You were there to feed me, and comfort me, and you are my sister soul mate. I believe we have known each other through lifetimes, that we are the structure and the foundation that all friendship is based on. I cannot have your absence in my world. Your spirit feeds mine. Our kinship is boundless, not obligatory like blood, not superficial like “well, I’ve known her forever, so I have to keep it up”. Our lives are firmly grounded in the same soil. We share the same structure at the base of us. You are ever, my rock, my tree, the green and spring and hope and joy that comes in life and I love you more than you will ever know. As a small child I always wanted a sister, and I was granted you as a young adult, and I will always be grateful for your infinite spirit and ability to forgive and encompass a person as a whole, and nurture. My dear, I love you, and there are no fonts or formats, or songs, or words to express it. Thank you for balancing me and being beautiful and hilarious and present and wise and giving and forgiving. I’d never have made it this far without you.

Photo

Tue, 09 Apr 2013 17:00:47 -0400

absolute-ridiculosity: Color of the sky

Sat, 06 Apr 2013 21:51:01 -0400

absolute-ridiculosity:

Color of the sky

saccstry: I’m boredd

Sat, 06 Apr 2013 21:33:02 -0400

saccstry:

I’m boredd

plauge of writer's block

Sat, 23 Mar 2013 14:50:59 -0400

It’s there. It’s just at the tip of my pen which I can feel in the grasp of some ancient scribe; poised, full of life, full of need, full of darkness, hope, sorrow, ready to speak with the scritch scracth of a feather tip quill across an ocean of white, a sleek silver orb exuding the everything pulsating from my palm, through my tendons, coursing it’s way through my cuticles, yearning for the hammer of my grandfather’s typewriter, blooming with the depths of me, swollen balloon beckoning an explosion, a cacophany of all my emotion, worry, tears, laughter, fears, hope, hype, and over exultant, the deepest, brimming, unspoken desire, unknown, unintelligable even to myself, that dark dank place that says I need you, I want you, but more I am afraid, of myself, of my heart, my mind, and my what may come….

Speak through me, tell yourself, Story. You are there. You are on the tip of my tongue and the top of my heart, waiting to be heard, to be spoken, to be released. Release me! Let me go! Speak your words, your tale of contrition, your kudzu laden sticky stinky summers, your wintry gusts, let me tell of the hills which roll with green and sing with beauty, blooms with rare gorgeous flowers, and dies a cold grey death, and the horrible festering stink that populates this cesspool, and the joy, and the growth, and the loss, say it all and let me go from this need, this pulsating sense of unfinishedness.

weather or not

Sat, 23 Mar 2013 14:03:09 -0400

It’s a different kind of cold. Dry. It doesn’t get in your bones. You remain nonplussed by Plummeting Mercury. There’s no reason to cover up, even. It only moves you when some gust bellows down from continental heights, or some Front comes through Heavy. Then you take refuge from wandering winds, waiting for it to pass while you remain by hearth, whittling wonders willfully, restless but selfless, Not sure of the carvings, but knowing without caution and creativity all that remains of what once was alive, and then beautiful, could carefully curl into a pile of pretty, hard shavings and Kindling for some fire in some future you haven’t yet got a fix on, what-with the storm being so thick.

But mostly, It’s a dry chill. Nothing sticks within, leaving you aching with hope that it’ll soon carry on, and give you a sight of the end. A damp cold can do you in. Climactic suffering without control without reciprocity, or even an agreement An understanding. An awakening from inclement winds too intimate for comfort, no matter what the Whether Man says.

You know it’s good to be gone when all that wetness insulates you in a wilderness with no compass of quivering arrows Hungrily polar, reaching anxiously for the attainment of some source of magnetism, Or else pushed rapidly away, affronted by the cardinal urgencies pushing towards it.

It’s a different kind of cold. Dry. You adjust to it, the thin air puffery and you learn how to steel yourself against what wanderlustful Windstorms Wreak havoc and leave you wondering, What the fuck just happened.

Warrants a Name

Sat, 23 Mar 2013 14:01:37 -0400

I heard it said that secrets warrant a name. To give me a name is to invoke me, and all that comes with me.

First, I am Alva. I am Hebrew for Brightness. The Alva River is a Portuguese tributary that feeds the seas, and thus Everything.

Then I am Vanessa. There is some academic debate over my origin— was it Jonathan Swift who coined me as a pet name for his long term lover and correspondent? Did he use me to entitle an epic poem of he and her where he is the teacher, and she glad to be the student? Was it a primeval Grecian deity born of a cosmic egg the one to bring to light, to revere for procreation and new life? Was it a silly scientist merely ascribing a pretty word to a pretty thing and thus an entire genus of butterflies came to bear my identification, flighty, colorful, temporary?

I am those and I am more. I am Kali- the Redeemer of the Universe, the Goddess of Time and Change. I am the handmaiden of he who, when he puts his foot down, the world will end. I will put it together again. I am worshipped for my kundalini. I am revered as a mother.

I am Shakti- the Divine Feminine Creative Power. I am dependent on no one but am interdependent with the Universe. The child born of me rides around on the back of a rat and brings good fortune to those who honor him.

I am Ma’at- the Goddess of Truth, Balance, and Order. The sun cannot rise without me. I am the fabric of my children’s reality. Hearts are lain in my Scales and I pluck an ostrich feather from my tresses and weigh your spirit against it. It is not personal. It just is.

I am Juliana, the saint of Chronic Illness,
I am Dymphna, the Patron of the Insane.
I am Hestia- guarder of the hearth and keeper of the flame.

I am all of this:
Creator, destroyer
Brightness, colorful flightiness,
Coined in a poem
Redeemer and judge,
Feeder of seas
Home, Chaos, Stability

You cannot entreat upon my ME
Or my MINE.
Once you have invoked me.

Photo

Sun, 17 Mar 2013 21:12:44 -0400

You can tell a lot about a person by their shoes.

Tue, 05 Mar 2013 18:58:21 -0500

You can tell a lot about a person by their shoes.

Observations on the 7th Avenue Broadway Local

Tue, 26 Feb 2013 06:21:29 -0500

Yesterday on the subway I sat down and a cheerful blonde young woman about my age sort of cocked her head in my direction. She wore a rich sapphire jewel toned well made wool pea coat and grey leggings and a pair of the palest gold sequined ballet flats. She had a pink set of headphones and a stack of papers in a Manila folder on her lap. I’m wont to half smile when I accidentally make eye contact with strangers in the city, which she returned, smiling with the apples of her cheeks but not showing teeth. Essentially the same way I smile.

I sat down and began my fuss budget ritualism on long train rides, digging in my backpack, trying to choose between 3 books and a sketchbook, finally settling on Joyce Carol Oates’ Gravedigger’s Daughter. When I pulled it through the mouth of my bag, the girl in the blue coat actually leaned forward, I could see a spark of interest and curiosity. It was plainly spelled in her features, “Oh! What is she reading?” And I smiled inside and she caught my eye and actually flushed peony pink and looked away hastily and my heart was like, “augh! It’s ok! We are the same person!” Because, it’s nerve wracking, being in this behemoth underbelly of a city I used to fantasize about from my tiny little Mississippi town with no real belief that I was adventurous or savvy enough to live near or tackle with any regularity or skill, and police officers standing at the sliding doors imperiously and impatiently on the sane train a Vietnam vet was stabbed to death earlier this month over an iPhone, and to see, definitely, that there are other people walking here, breathing my same air, with blushing curiosity about what we’re reading, or listening to, thinking about, well. It’s good knowing them that have your same kind of earnestly awkward.

But I opened my book, and she opened her Manila folder, and the chemistry notes she began correcting absorbed her, and the cops got off the train, and whole crowds shuffled in to replace them, and we didn’t make eye contact or smile again.