Saturday, December 31, 2011

ahhhh, so it works....

back when i was first a blogger, i'd wake up and want to say something into the blog.  it's a saying of something more than it will ever be a formal writing of something.  i'm too lazy to capitalize.  ee made it possible, and i carry on with his example of just letting the little letters speak.  the big ones are toooo grand, too self-important, to bold to begin the beginning of my sentences.  the grand ones.  the all caps ones.  the yelling through the virtual world ones.  i leave those offfffffff.  and i am here now, even before i pee, alive in the now of this moment.  i am writing words again.  i am lonely enough to write the words down.  it's true--in the days when i had an every day best friend--i didn't write the words down because i was up, living the content of that life--and i wasn't lonely.  and i didn't have need for the virtual page as much--because there was someone to tell the things to or make them up with and there was no real need for words.  in the wording, there is always some ear that is not close enough to hear things.  and i talk, in this way, to the page--the virtual page--so there will be, might be, could be eyes that are willing to hear this meandering of mind.  meandering mind. spiral thinking.  writing in the way the nautilus unfolds.  ahhhhhhhhh, i took the trash out last night.  and when i did, on my way to the dumpsters, i stepped on a snail.  crushed him, heartlessly. it might have been a her snail.  are there her snails? i don't know how to tell who is who.  and anyway, this one is crushed beyond repair under the weight of my body, still upright, standing in the way of the moonlight and all the electric lights that come on as i move through the various courtyards on the way to the trash in the dark.  i love taking the trash out.  i love the expanse of the escape.  i love looking up to pure sky and quiet stars burning their gaseous rest of life out there in the deeep drippy darkness that coats the skin of my skin with its blanket of home.  it is the dark night of the sweet soul that makes the star inside shine its way out of all the rest of it.  angst and longing--these are a poets dearest friends, anyway.  and there is no bigger place for them to live than inside the sweet darkness of a deep night of crisp air in a california edge of january.  but it is not yet janus' month.  it is still the december of the last day of this 2011 year.  i am here, alive in this, on hiatus from the best friendness that used to wake me up each gorgeous six-thirty morning and tell me what dreams had come.  i am here, alone with my own dreams and selecting, the way a reader selects the cards from her practiced deck, selecting mine.  what will unfold in the coming end of another world of days and nights alive? what kind of lotus is this flower that keeps opening, opening, opening beyond whatever courage i thought it took, once, to come to the end of what can be seen.  there are no prophetic moments anymore--in my seeing.  i am here, on this precipice of now, living and breathing and typing again.  typing out the world of words.  typing the joy that will bubble up from the ground of my being and into the deep well of my heart and out the bitter wisdom of my fingertips never once having circled the trap of my mind until first they appear--and i can hear them in the head of my head after knowing they have traveled freely through the heart of my heart.  i hear them after they are spoken.  i have absolutely no thinking thought out before my heart speaks.  i have trained my fingers to capture first what pumps out of there--and then--some time after that--to whirl with the wind of the mind some.  these missives to no one--these love letters to love itself--that seems a worthy use of language.  romantic narcissism? this love that never gets to be embodied? spiritual love? my spirit's love? of language? and fingertips? and typing out that dance of keyboard and sweet padded sound spilling forth?

i do love this moment in this life.
i miss what's missing, as all whole things do when some part of their heart walks, alive and upright, casting shadows far away from the reflected refractions of together--but in the air, in the dark container of night, in the atmosphere of all that is, we have just wandered to some other part of the web, attending to the mending of that part of the great her alive here in this beating now.

there is love.  it keeps coursing through the many courses of this magnificent meal of the on-going eating that makes for some series of celebrations of life.


ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, life.

standing in the way of the light

i've wanted to do this project for years--whatever year it was when i first started taking pictures of shadows.  it's been a decade now? or more? of shadow portraits? and i wrote something way back in 2006 when i first started blogging--a poem about shadows.  i suppose i'll have to find it so i can put it here.  but later.  now, i am blogging.  i am starting again, again, at the beginning of another end of another new year.  i suppose i should be grateful--and i am.  i am actually recommitting to learning to love being alive.  i do love it, of course.  i love breathing.  i love the deep in and out of inhale and exhale.  i love the waking up to see where the light is coming from and the rich joy of feeling the air caress the insides and the outsides of my body container as i move through it--cut through it--like something slicing open the whole deep breath of the glorious expanse of breathing beings.  i love noticing all i can notice--finding and celebrating the deep beauty of the juxtaposition of time and color and balance and possibility--and then knowing that even in what i am seeing there is so much more that i can not see--that i am not seeing.  i love dashes and dots.  i use them to stitch the words together--to stitch the worlds together--such that the words can, in some way, sew the imagery of what i am imagining as somewhere in time.  it is now, of course.  now, at 2:35 am on the last day of 2011 in the comfort of the cave i have created in the jinglefruit studios of this here and now.  ford street studios here and now.  live work spaces in time and possibility, and again, the air is charged with creativity and buzz and hummmmmmmm and i am tooooooooo far awake to let go into dreams.  there is just this one day left in this whole expanse of unfolded year.  it is a grand red carpet of what can not be walked in anything but old shoes.  old shoes and stories and time and travel and possibility and improbability and what happened? exactly? in the what of it all? and the when of it? and the why? i am here now.  i am here in this little room under the stairs staring at all that is left of what can still cast a shadow.  i can still cast a shadow.  and a shadow is the most important thing a wendy can sew back on the end of any peter pan.  and this shadow--it is the thing that gets long and lean ahead of a person--travelling tall and lanky on the road ahead.  standing in the way of the light, the longshadow can fortell the coming of what will come.  and it can, in it's incredible way, accumulate the knowing of what can not otherwise be known.  and it is here, in this casting of shadows that my magick lives.  and that of course, is very different than the casting of spells. 

i live to stand in the way of the light--and to love that thing that still accompanies me as friend and contains me as body.  shadow, breath, light, being.  ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.  here we go!